#yandere lost canvas

[cherie-doll]

I said "do you think you'll kill for me one day?"

(Yes, of course I will, my darling)

― yandere!cod men x reader ― ε price, ghost, soap, gaz, roach, makarov, alejandro, rudy, phillip graves, keegan, könig, horangi, nikto з suggestive?

꒰ ͜ ‿ ͜ ♡ ͜ ‿ ͜ ꒱

ଘ You're no plaything for Price. He doesn't just like you, he adores you. Cups your pretty face in his hands; delicately. His rugged and rough hands become gentle as soon as he comes into contact with your skin, treating it as if it were finely-grained porcelain. He treats you the exact opposite of how he treats anyone else. Whilst he leaves everyone else covered from head to toe in blood for coming near you, you're covered from head to toe in the most expensive items you wish for. But, he doesn't want you to forget that his money doesn't represent his love for you, it does not begin to cover not even half of what it should. He'll be sure to remind you not to be spoiled rotten. He's fond of you and while he's interested in you, you should listen and obey to what he advices you. He is more experienced after all.

ଘ Compare what Simon's scars and bruises are to your unscathed body. Let his hands roam over your body, taking in all he works for. Let them wander and familiarize with what he's toying with. His breath on your skin as it quickens, losing his train of thoughts as he fondles you. He's convinced you're meant only for him. No one else should touch you this way, no one could do it like he does. And please return it! Cradle his head in your lap, so the sizzling subsides and he feels alive. Let him know he's the best, the one. Let him lean in and capture those soft, plump lips in a passionate kiss. Don't pull away, don't deny him his heaven. And don't you dare let anyone else trail your body with their eyes like he does. Why, he'll feel as if they're already doing what their mind desires. He's screwed up in his mind but he'll move heaven and earth for those thighs to wrap around his waist at night spilling the warmth between them. Make him feel warm and welcome, give him the world he burns everyone else for. He sacrifices others at the feet of your altar.

ଘ Johnny's smug smile can fade rather quickly with one sensual move from you, watch him get lost as his breath is winded and his body is overtaken with an all-consuming fire of passion. Oh, he can't even fathom the idea of anyone before or after him experiencing such things. He'll be paralyzed the moment you sit on his lap and putting your hand to his chest, let it trail over his heart which at the moment beats wildly. It's a sensation he experiences when plunging a knife deep within someone else's chest, he reckons the feeling is almost the same. He thinks his victims rather lucky they die this way. How many other people can experience that fleeting, overwhelming feeling?

ଘ Kyle's hand kisses are done with such reverent trembling and respect that he'll have your skin tingling with warm sensations as if the late evening sun was seeping into your skin. Let his and your body blend together like the watercolors on an artist's canvas does. Bask in his affection like you'll sunbathe on the beach. Take in all the good he brings you, accept every touch of his that starts with a secure embrace and ends with the colliding of your bodies. The cold with which he lashes out for others has no place with the gentleness he entreats you with. Keep your eyes on his, locked in his steady gaze immerses himself in fantasies. He feels dizzy as if his world was spinning, losing himself in the sensations. And after the elation, let him shower you in praises, caresses and gifts. Let him buy you two rings for each finger, how many could you want to show off having a caring partner when you slide his card at the register? Make your hands look pretty whilst his are leaving a trail of crimson blood after him.

ଘ Roach couldn't ever hurt anyone else, he didn't know what he was capable of until the importance of you came all too clear. You're something that shouldn't belong to anyone else in the world. It's a quick descent down the spiral of violent devotion. His soft gaze usually filled with admiration and sentiment for you hardens, his pupils dilating as fear takes over. He's only acting on behalf of all his anguish, you haven't the heart to condemn him. He's shown you what your heart is worth, couldn't you give him some sort of heaven? He will do very well at whatever it is you ask of him, just wait while he shows you. There isn't anyone else like him he says over and over as if a prayer or spell he could make come true.

ଘ Makarov does not care whether he deserves you or not. Unlike the others who will commit unspeakable acts out of guilt and use their "pure" intentions to purify their actions, Makarov is selfish and relentless in what he wants. He does not flinch at your attempts of control, it's lost the moment he takes you in. He's determined to taste everything you have to offer, whether it's willingly or not. But he does like things to be served on a platter for him, he also has no problem taking it himself. Let the hand on the back of your neck guide you in the direction you are to walk, be docile and you'll surely receive tenderness. He can never deny that he loves the way your lashes flutter as you look through them up at him as he pats your head for being so good. Overtime you might notice small details showing his exterior cracking and revealing the soft, white underbelly of affection. He feels as if his chest caves in from your actions, the subtle red at the tip of his ears. Keep pulling at his neck collar, he'll like that fake sense of control you have.

ଘ You wouldn't ever catch a glimpse of Alejandro's manipulative strategies until he finds someone threatening. Is it wrong you're not seeing enough of other people? His biggest fear is you falling for someone else, the danger of you getting too close to someone is palpable for him. The intimacy you two share is from the harvest he's worked so hard for. He's been slaving away for so long to just let someone else lay a hand on you. He kneads you into what he desires, anything to feel the beating heart in your chest which pumps only for him. He'll keep polishing you until he gets down to the bare essence of you, which he can only dream to capture. The rhythm he wants to feel rushing through his veins, circling throughout his body.

ଘ Rudy's tenderness blinds you as he takes you to what you can only describe to be paradise. With the shining of luxury, all new and just for you he says. He'll press a million sweet kisses on your face before dropping that a most bothersome person will no longer be graced by your presence ever again. To him it's like a quiet act of love, to you, it's unimaginable. Don't worry your head will all the details, isn't it better to have no worries? He's all smooth indulgence telling you to keep looking at the adorned future he has ahead for you, telling you not to pay attention to the blood that stains the walls of the hallways you walk. He would lay out a new, fancy red carpet over the corpses for you to step over and continue in this fabricated dream.

ଘ Phillip knows exactly how to get the best out of you. Can you blame a man for knowing how to get what he wants from you? Let him tease and tug for he knows what every maneuver of his does. The hands that massage your skin don't get dirty, he'll always have others ready and willing to carry out whatever order he gives. It's what he's accustomed to and how he intends to keep it. But the droplets of blood that splatter do not miss his skin. The stain is still there, still under the skin of the thumb he pushes inside of you, feeling around for that bliss. Let his protectiveness clothe your body, he's already blurring the lines between obsessiveness and possessiveness.

ଘ Keegan's eyes will have you coming to a stumbling halt. Asking for something only you know how to give so good. Those erratic eyes that are unpredictable as they are deep, representing the deep dive you have to be holding your breath for. Are you ready to indulge? Because the impact will have you gasping for air, and when you try to take one you'll only swallow a mouthful of carnal desire. He ignites such a heat it's scalding to the touch, you don't know what's happening it's like you lose control. It happens so fast that when it's all over you'll let his lips, from which hot breaths slip through, kiss all over your sweat glistened body. His eyes might be softer and hold it for a while until he's back to the merciless, cold gaze which freezes everyone's else blood, feeling it lump within their veins.

ଘ Let König go on his fast rampages. They're over quick anyways. And afterwards, when he comes back, cradle his head between your thighs his tongue tangling as he stutters out promises to buy you what you wish if only you let him lap at your sweetness until his thoughts are left to reckless abandonment. Let him get what he can't get anywhere else. Call him handsome as your bury your fingers into his hair, your fingertips trailing his jaw and down his neck to where his adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard. Place kisses on his cheek until he turns his head in one swift motion and captures your lips in a desperate kiss. He wants it all, wants all of you all at once it makes him messy, shaky and weak. But he just wants someone to hold him, rubbing his ears and whispering words of affirmation in his ear.

ଘ Horangi could care less what other's want from him. You're in his viewpoint and he's determined to apply as much pressure as possible to make you bend. The reason he justifies himself with is the lullaby he's lulled to sleep with. Everyone else wants something from him, why shouldn't you? Everyone else is just in the way, he says over and over again, trying to make you focus on his lips instead of the bodies on the floor. With what he's done, he expects a standing ovation from you, nothing but complete adoration and servitude. He's a man who chases after impulses, who knows how long until this candle runs out. For now, ignore the brusque hand and acknowledge the underlying intents. He'll keep this lecherous momentum going until you're feeling faint from the mere touch of his hand.

ଘ Resignation is a trait Nikto works hard to work out of you. Surely, you ought to trust him after all he's done for you. In his mind, he's dedicated such gentle caring to you, you should be grateful. Don't be afraid to take directly out of his hand, he prefers you lose that skepticism. And when you do start to gentle, oh he can never get enough of it. His fingers grazing and gliding over your body at any and every chance he can get. Let him delve deeper into you, it's only natural for him to want to know you better. Every quiver of yours, he feels through the epidermis of his skin. He just knows you that well. His jerking movements shouldn't startle you by now. Maybe if you were more open, you would be telling him what you want. Give him some sort of sign before that spark ignites an unyielding fire. Because to him, that trembling is a sign of a smoldering fierceness waiting to break through.

:¨ ·.· ¨: `· . ꔫ

[fangdokja]

They’re not heroes. They’re your tormentors, and you’ll love every second of it.

❤︎ Synopsis. Four men, each consumed by a darkness that binds them to you, will stop at nothing to claim your soul. In their world, love is a twisted cage, and you’re the captive—lost in a nightmare where escape is impossible and desire is the cruelest torment.

♡ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Mr. Reca x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Mydei x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Anaxa x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Phainon x Fem. Reader

♡ Headcanons. The Game of Surrender - Part 2

♡ Word Count. 4,326

♡ TW. dom + top + older + slightly sadistic yandere, general non-con + manipulation, suggestive themes, psychological + mental conditioning, fear play, emotional manipulation and abuse, hints at rough play and sex, psychological + emotional trauma, isolation, monitoring, lack of boundaries, non-con kissing and/or touching, forced relationship, BDSM, manipulation of circumstances, threats, Stockholm Syndrome

♡ Note. This was made before the official releases of characters, so be warned that some information may be inaccurate once additional lore comes out.

♡ Mr. Reca.

"Every thought you have, every breath you take, is a scene in my film—my masterpiece. And don't worry, darling, I'll make sure you never forget your lines. Not even when you're screaming them in your sleep."

The universe had always been a canvas to him—a vast, writhing tapestry of chaos and order, the kind of unpredictable beauty that Mr. Reca found utterly magnetic. He had always been a collector of moments, a Memokeeper who consumed emotions, gestures, and unguarded thoughts with the same fervor a drowning man gulps air.

But you—oh, you—you were not just another fleeting spark in the vast night of existence.

You were an anomaly, a glitch in the dreamscape, a hauntingly real smear of imperfection across his perfectly constructed illusions. And so, he watched you, studied you, devoured the fragile lines of your every expression. It wasn’t obsession, not at first. It was curiosity, a scientist’s hunger for understanding. But curiosity, as it often does, rotted into something far darker.

It began subtly. At first, you didn’t even realize you were his subject. The assistant frog—so innocuous, its mechanical chirps like a child’s toy—hovered too long in your presence. That thing recorded the barest twitch of your lips, the dilation of your pupils when you dreamt, the cadence of your breath when you were lost in thought.

He played those recordings back again and again, crafting you into the centerpiece of his mind’s latest film, a work of art that no audience but him would ever see. Each flicker of your gaze, each half-whispered syllable, was dissected with a surgeon’s precision and woven into the dream bubble of his fantasies.

You had not agreed to this, of course. You would not have, had you known. But consent had never mattered much to Mr. Reca, not when reality itself could be edited, overwritten, and reshaped to suit his narrative.

He didn’t fall in love with you in the way mortals understood love.

No, it was something far more grotesque. You were not his equal. You were not even human, not to him.

You were a role to be perfected, an actress bound to his script. And he—he was the director, the puppeteer pulling the strings of your existence with a touch so light, so surgical, that you didn’t notice your autonomy dissolving until it was too late.

He didn’t approach you like an ordinary man. Ordinary men didn’t cloak their words in riddles, their intentions in shadows.

“Your dreams are fascinating,” he said once, his tone light but his eyes dark, predatory. “I could make a masterpiece from them. Would you let me?”

His gaze burned into you, not with affection, but with hunger—the kind of hunger that consumes, destroys, leaves nothing but ash in its wake.

When you hesitated, when you stammered out a polite refusal, his smile curved sharp and cruel. “Ah, but do you really have a choice?”

You didn’t, of course.

The dream bubbles began soon after. Vivid, horrifyingly real landscapes where you were no longer yourself but a marionette dancing to his whims.

The first time you woke screaming, trembling from the phantom pain of dream wounds, he was there. He shouldn’t have been—your door had been locked—but there he was, sitting on the edge of your bed with his head tilted and that damned frog-camera clutched in his gloved hands.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, as if you were a specimen under glass. “You feel it, don’t you? The fear, the thrill, the pain. Tell me, how does it taste?”

In bed, he is not a lover. He is a creator, and you are his medium.

His touch is clinical at first, cold and calculated, his gloved fingers trailing down your spine as if mapping the curve of your body for a sculpture he plans to carve later.

But there is heat beneath that coldness, a violent, consuming fire that erupts when he lets himself indulge. He does not make love. He takes. He presses you into the mattress as if trying to merge you with it, his weight oppressive, suffocating. His hands grip your wrists too tightly, leaving bruises like the ink stains of his artistry. His breath is hot against your ear, his voice a low murmur that mixes poetry with threats, promises with lies.

“Do you feel it?” he whispers, his tone too calm for the frenzy of his movements. “The way your body betrays you? The way it obeys me, even when your mind doesn’t want to?”

His teeth graze the shell of your ear, and the sharp pain that follows is not accidental. “I could keep you here forever,” he says, his voice thick with sadistic delight. “Inside the dream, inside me. Would you even know the difference? Would you even care?”

You would care, of course.

You fight him, or at least you try. But he’s relentless, unyielding, a force of nature that smothers your resistance with sheer willpower. He doesn’t let you hide from him, not even in the sanctuary of your own mind.

His powers as a Memokeeper ensure that every thought, every secret, every fleeting desire you’ve ever tried to bury is laid bare before him. He uses them against you, weaving them into the narrative of his control.

“You want this,” he says, his voice a velvet knife. “You want me. Your body knows it, even if your mind refuses to admit it.”

His lips trail down your throat, his teeth leaving marks that will linger for days, physical proof of his dominance. “And when I’m done with you, when there’s nothing left of you but what I’ve created, you’ll thank me. You’ll beg me to keep you.”

The horror of it all is that he doesn’t just break you physically. He breaks your mind, piece by fragile piece, until you can no longer tell where the dream ends and reality begins. His dream bubbles seep into your waking hours, twisting your perception until even the memories of your resistance feel like fabrications.

He tells you that you’re his muse, his masterpiece, his greatest work. And despite the revulsion, the terror, some part of you begins to believe him.

Because how could someone so brilliant, so meticulous, be wrong?

And yet, in the darkest corners of your mind, you know the truth.

You are not his muse.

You are his victim, a living doll trapped in the nightmare of his creation.

But no one will ever hear your screams.

He’s made sure of that.

After all, reality itself is just another film to him, and he’s already written your final scene.

♡ Mydei.

"You belong to me, just as I am bound to this blood-soaked fate. No one will ever take you from me, not in this life, not in the next. I’ll carve my name into your soul, and you’ll learn to love it, even if it takes a thousand deaths."

It begins as a hum in the back of his throat, a low vibration that settles into his chest like the resonance of a beast stirring in its lair. He watches you, not from afar, but from the corner of your vision, where his shadow seems to stretch and curve unnaturally—always larger, always darker than the dim light allows. His gaze is not mere sight; it’s weight, pressure, suffocation. He sees the tremor in your fingers as you pour water into a glass. He catalogues the way your breaths hitch when his footsteps echo closer, closer still.

And when he speaks, his voice is a razor dragged slowly, deliberately, across raw nerves. “You’re trembling,” he says, though there’s no concern in his tone.

It’s an observation, clinical yet laced with something sharper, something akin to hunger.

He doesn’t touch you yet, but the proximity is suffocating—his presence a noose tightening with every passing second. His breath brushes your ear as he leans closer. “Are you afraid of me?”

You flinch but say nothing, and he chuckles. It’s low and guttural, almost amused, but there’s an edge of cruelty there, a promise that he’ll savor every inch of your fear.

He feeds on it, you realize, and the thought sends a chill racing down your spine. “You should be,” he murmurs, the words dripping like venom. “Fear keeps you alive… but not from me. Never from me.”

He lies, of course.

The predator in him is far too obvious, a wolf cloaked in something barely resembling humanity. He doesn’t see you as prey to consume in haste.

No, he sees you as a possession—a rare, precious thing to break slowly, to shatter and rebuild in his image. He thrives on control, on the knowledge that every shiver, every gasp, every cry is something he owns, something he’s dragged out of you inch by agonizing inch.

When he finally touches you, it’s with the precision of a surgeon dissecting his subject. Fingers glide over your skin like scalpels, drawing phantom lines where his teeth will follow, where his hands will linger. There’s no tenderness in the way he grips your wrist, the bruising force of his palm a warning, a declaration.

He doesn’t need to speak for you to understand: you’re his.

The room is suffused with a kind of tension that seems alive, thrumming in the air like an electrical charge waiting to snap. His lips curl into something that might resemble a smile if not for the sheer malice in it.

“You can fight,” he says, voice as smooth and cold as glass, “but we both know how this ends.”

And then he moves, swift as a predator pouncing, pinning you against the unyielding surface of the wall.

The impact drives the air from your lungs, and before you can catch your breath, he’s there—everywhere. The heat of his body seeps into yours, the solidity of him a cage that leaves no room for escape. His hands are firm, unrelenting, roaming with a kind of obsessive thoroughness that feels both maddening and humiliating. He maps every inch of your body as if it’s a territory to be conquered, claimed.

The words he whispers into your ear are sharp, biting things, designed to slice through your defenses. “Do you know how easy it would be?” he breathes, his voice a silken thread woven with danger.

“To tear you apart. To ruin you so thoroughly you wouldn’t even recognize yourself. And you’d thank me for it, wouldn’t you? By the time I’m done, you won’t want to remember what it felt like to be whole without me.”

His grip tightens, and you can feel the latent strength in his hands, the power that could snap bone without effort.

And yet he doesn’t.

Not yet.

He revels in the anticipation, in the way your body reacts—fear mingled with something darker, something you refuse to name. The way your breath catches, the way your pulse races beneath his fingers… it’s a symphony to him, a melody of submission he’s determined to conduct to its crescendo.

When he finally takes you, it’s not an act of love—it’s an act of dominance, of ownership.

His movements are deliberate, almost cruel in their precision, each thrust a reminder of who holds the reins. He doesn’t allow you to close your eyes, doesn’t let you escape into the safety of darkness.

No, he demands your gaze, demands that you see him, that you acknowledge the monster who has reduced you to this trembling, gasping wreck. And when you do—when your eyes meet his, wide and glassy with tears—he smiles. Not with joy, but with triumph, with the satisfaction of a hunter who has cornered his prey.

His words during these moments are a mix of degradation and adoration, a twisted litany that leaves no doubt of his intentions. “You’re mine,” he growls against your skin, the heat of his breath searing like a brand. “Every breath, every scream, every drop of blood in your veins—it all belongs to me.”

And yet, even as he tears you apart, there’s an undeniable allure in his madness, a magnetic pull that keeps you rooted to the spot even as every instinct screams at you to run.

Because beneath the cruelty, beneath the overwhelming force of his obsession, there’s a flicker of something more—a need so desperate it borders on pathetic, a craving for connection that he can’t voice but demands nonetheless.

When it’s over, he doesn’t release you.

His arms remain locked around you, a vice that refuses to loosen. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath ragged, his body still trembling with the aftermath.

And in that moment, you realize the truth of it: he doesn’t break you because he hates you. He breaks you because he loves you, because the thought of you existing without him is unbearable.

But love, for him, is not soft or kind. It is a blade, honed to a deadly edge, and he wields it without mercy.

“You’ll stay,” he whispers, and it’s not a question.

It’s a command, a promise, a threat.

“You’ll stay because there’s nowhere else for you to go. No one else who could ever understand you the way I do. And if you try to leave…” His voice trails off, but the unspoken consequence hangs heavy in the air, a silent vow etched in blood.

You nod, because what else can you do?

And as he tightens his hold on you, his lips brushing against your temple in a mockery of a kiss, you feel the full weight of your reality settle over you.

There is no escape. There never was.

And in the dark recesses of your mind, a small, terrified part of you wonders if you’ll ever want to leave at all.

♡ Anaxa.

"You think you can escape my mind, but you're already tangled in my thoughts—your every breath, every movement, is an echo of me. You belong to me, and I will never let you forget that."

The air around him was always cold, as if reality itself recoiled in his presence, drawing its warmth into the void of his indifference. Anaxa moved like an unfinished thought, fragmented, deliberate, yet ever disquieting.

You felt his shadow linger before you saw him, a chilling weight that settled on your skin like frost, sinking into the marrow of your bones. His eyes—one bared to the world, the other concealed beneath the eyepatch—were an unforgiving tapestry of contradictions: icy intellect simmering beneath the calm veneer, an endless labyrinth of thoughts that spiraled toward madness.

He whispered your name like a sacrament and a curse. Each syllable, spoken in that low, velvety cadence of his, seemed to unravel you, a knife peeling back every layer of resolve.

"You think knowledge can shield you," he murmured one night, his breath as cold and intimate as the edge of a scalpel. "But even wisdom has limits. I’ve seen them. I’ve transcended them." He would circle you like a predator savoring the hunt, his movements calculated, his proximity suffocating.

Anaxa was not a man who shattered the soul through brute force.

No, his torment was subtle—a slow dismantling, piece by piece, until you became something unrecognizable to even yourself.

You didn’t notice how he had claimed your life until it was too late. The quiet manipulation seeped in like poison—so gradual, so insidious, you mistook it for safety. Every book you touched, every whisper of thought you dared to express, every step you took outside the prison he called your sanctuary…all of it traced back to him. You'd look up from a page of text only to find him leaning in the doorway, a slight smile curling his lips, the sort that spoke of secrets too profound and too damning to voice.

"You have such a beautiful mind," he'd say, his gloved fingers brushing the side of your neck in a touch that was almost reverent.

"It’s wasted on anyone else. They’ll never understand you—not like I do." The words were honeyed, dripping with a sincerity so intoxicating you almost believed it.

Almost.

Until you noticed the way his gaze lingered on your trembling hands, on the ink smudges on your skin, on the way you recoiled yet stayed rooted in place. He liked the way fear made you fragile, and though you hated him for it, you hated yourself more for the flicker of thrill that bloomed in your chest.

Anaxa didn’t need chains to hold you down; his words alone were shackles. His intelligence was a web, intricate and all-encompassing, and you were the fly ensnared at its center.

"I don’t want to hurt you," he whispered once, late into the night when the room was too quiet and his voice was too close. "But I will, if it’s the only way to make you stay."

And you knew he meant it—not as a threat, but as a promise, a truth spoken with the same certainty as an immutable law of the universe.

The moments of intimacy—if one could call them that—were no less haunting.

His touch was clinical, precise, like a scientist studying a fragile specimen. He knew where to press, where to hold, where to carve into your soul with a calculated cruelty that left you yearning and dreading in equal measure.

His lips on your skin felt like frostbite, burning cold yet addictively sharp. His hands, those hands that wielded intellect like a blade, seemed to map every inch of you with the precision of a scholar dissecting sacred scripture.

"You’re beautiful," he would say, the words an oxymoron of tenderness and possession.

"Beautiful because you’re broken. Broken because you’re mine." He traced the curve of your throat with a gloved fingertip, lingering on the places where your pulse betrayed your terror.

His gaze bore into you, unrelenting, as though he could peel back the layers of flesh and bone to reach the essence of you. "Do you know what the Titans whispered to me in my dreams?" he asked once, his voice a mix of wonder and madness.

"They said I’d find divinity in ruin. And here you are."

The nights were the worst.

In the darkness, you felt him even when you didn’t see him.

The weight of his presence pressed against you, suffocating, inescapable. His words would echo in your mind, winding through your thoughts like a parasite. He’d appear at your bedside, his figure shrouded in the dim glow of moonlight.

"You should sleep," he’d murmur, though his tone carried no warmth. "You’ll need your strength. Tomorrow, we’ll unravel the secrets of the cosmos. Together."

And though you tried to resist, you found yourself clinging to the edges of his words, desperate for the clarity he promised, even as it led you deeper into his labyrinth.

When he finally claimed you, it was an act of calculated brutality disguised as love.

Every kiss felt like a conquest, every caress a branding. He whispered to you like a poet reciting his magnum opus, his voice soft yet unyielding, every syllable carrying the weight of his obsession.

"You belong to me," he said, his lips brushing against your ear as his hands pinned you beneath him. "Not just your body. Your mind. Your soul. Everything. No one else is worthy—not even you."

And as his touch became more demanding, more consuming, you realized that he wasn’t just unraveling you. He was recreating you, piece by piece, reshaping you into something that existed solely for him.

And though every fiber of your being screamed in defiance, a small, treacherous part of you wondered if this was love—or if it was something far darker, something that transcended the bounds of human understanding.

"You’ll never leave me," he said, his voice a blend of certainty and desperation as his lips ghosted over your trembling skin.

"Even if you try, even if you run…I’ll always find you. You’re the only constant in my chaos, the only light in my darkness. And I will burn the stars themselves before I let that light fade."

And so, you lay there in the cold embrace of his obsession, trapped between terror and desire, caught in the orbit of a man who would dismantle the heavens just to keep you by his side.

♡ Phainon.

"Every strike I make, every victory I win—it’s all for you. So don't be afraid when you see the blood. It's just a little sacrifice to remind you: you're mine, and I will burn this world to the ground before I let you go."

The moments he craves most are the quiet ones when the two of you are entirely alone, but tonight, silence isn’t kind.

It’s oppressive, weighted by the looming presence of the man before you—the Deliverer, the Nameless Hero, a man who wears the name Phainon like an armor of light.

Yet beneath that golden radiance, a storm of obsession churns, relentless and unyielding.

He stands over you, the faint luminescence of his ichor-stained veins pulsing faintly in the dim, cold air of the temple chamber. You can feel his gaze before you see it—heavy, glinting with something raw and unspeakable.

His voice, when it finally breaks the silence, is soft but unshakable, carrying the weight of a promise that makes your blood run cold.

“You don’t understand, do you? You’ve never understood.” A smile curls at the edge of his lips, serene yet terrifying. “I don’t want to save the world, not anymore. I want to save you. Every step I’ve taken, every blow I’ve struck, has always been for you.”

His claymore rests at his side, its edge gleaming faintly with an unsettling crimson, dried remnants of the battle from earlier still clinging to the blade.

He hasn’t cleaned it.

He hasn’t even sheathed it.

The weapon is as much a part of him as the air he breathes.

You can’t help but wonder if the blood that stains it belongs to someone you knew, someone who once stood too close to you for his liking.

He takes a step closer, the sound of his boots against the stone floor echoing like the toll of a funeral bell.

You back away instinctively, but there’s no escape.

His pace is slow, deliberate. He knows exactly how far he needs to push you before your resolve shatters.

“Run if you want to,” he murmurs, his tone almost gentle. “I won’t stop you. But you’ll come back. You always do.”

There’s no malice in his words, only certainty—a chilling, inescapable truth that wraps around your throat like a noose.

His hands are stained too.

Not visibly, not this time, but you can feel it in the way he reaches for you.

Fingers meant for wielding destruction now hover over your cheek, trembling slightly with restraint.

You flinch, and the flicker of hurt that crosses his face is almost human—almost.

“You’re afraid of me,” he whispers, his breath brushing against your ear as he leans closer.

“And I... I hate that. I hate that you make me this way. But I hate it even more when you’re far from me.”

When his lips press against yours, it isn’t a kiss—it’s a conquest.

His desperation seeps into you like venom, intoxicating and suffocating all at once. He tastes like metal and fury, his ichor burning faintly where his tongue grazes yours. His touch isn’t tender; it’s possessive, frantic, like he’s trying to carve his existence into your very bones.

His hand tangles in your hair, tugging hard enough to make you gasp, and the sound only seems to spur him on. “You’re mine,” he growls against your lips, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous timbre. “Say it.”

You don’t.

You can’t.

And that’s when his patience snaps.

His grip tightens, dragging you against him until there’s no space left between your bodies. The heat of him is overwhelming, a furnace of ichor and madness that threatens to consume you whole. His other hand presses against the small of your back, forcing you to arch into him as he lowers his head to your neck.

His breath is hot against your skin, and when he speaks again, it’s a guttural rasp that makes your stomach twist. “You don’t understand how far I’d go for you. What I’d destroy. Who I’d become.”

He sinks his teeth into the curve of your shoulder, not enough to break the skin but enough to leave a mark—a brand, a reminder of his claim. You cry out, and he exhales sharply, almost like he’s savoring the sound.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “That’s the truth of it, isn’t it? You’ll scream for me, cry for me... but you’ll never leave.”

And he’s right, isn’t he?

Because even now, as fear and anger coil in your chest like a viper, you can’t bring yourself to push him away.

His presence is suffocating, his obsession terrifying—but there’s something about the way he looks at you, like you’re the sun in a world of endless night, that makes it impossible to resist him entirely.

It’s sick.

It’s wrong.

But it’s real.

Phainon knows it too.

He knows you better than you know yourself, and that knowledge is his greatest weapon.

He wields it with precision, unraveling you piece by piece until there’s nothing left but the parts of you that belong to him.

“You’ll stay,” he whispers, his lips ghosting over your collarbone. “You’ll always stay. Because no one else can have you. Not the Titans, not the Trailblazer... not even yourself.”

When he finally pulls away, his eyes lock onto yours, glowing faintly with the golden ichor that courses through his veins. There’s something hauntingly beautiful about him in this moment, a tragic god draped in shadows. He tilts his head, studying you like a puzzle he’s just solved.

“You’re mine,” he says again, softer this time. “And I’m yours. Whether you like it or not.”

And you believe him.

♡ A/N. Not me not knowing fully who these characters are. So... not sure if I did this right hahaha. It's too early to judge the unreleased characters but oh well. And, I did put this into my usual style... idk adjskaskd Take this like a brief hypothesis, I suppose. I am thinking on getting back to Genshin and HSR... maybe. Probably not though. Idk. Anyways, I personally thought I cooked with this. Just not sure with personalities askadsdakldsm

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Forbidden Fruits”: @uniquecutie-puffs , @belovedoftheanemoarchon , @tnsophiaonly , @mokingbrd78k , @cooldeermagazine , @mimitk , @xileonaaaa , @acacia-koi , @purple-obsidian , @waterfal-ling , @jjune-07 , @jsprien213 , @crimson-kisses , @tinandabin , @sashakittycloud , @songbirdgardensworld , @monamuskay

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ For Reader-Inserts. I only write Male Yandere x Female (Fem.) Reader (heterosexual couple). No LGBTQ+:

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Book 2 [you are here]. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World.

♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

♡ Library MASTERPOST 1. The Librarian’s Ledger: A Map to The Library of Forbidden Texts.

♡ Notice #1. Not all stories are included in the masterpost due to Tumblr’s link limitations. However, most long-form stories can be found here. If you're searching for a specific yandere or theme, this guide will help you navigate The Library of Forbidden Texts. Proceed with caution

♡ Book 6. The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood.

♡ Notice #2. This masterlist is strictly for non-con smut and serves as an exercise in refining erotic horror writing. Comments that reduce my work to mere sexual gratification, thirst, or casual simping will not be tolerated. If your response is primarily thirst-driven, keep it to yourself—repeated violations may result in blocking. Read the RULES before engaging. The tag list is reserved for followers I trust to respect my boundaries; being included is a privilege, not a right. You may request to be added, but I will decide based on trust and adherence to my guidelines. I also reserve the right to remove anyone at any time if their engagement becomes inappropriate.

[vyunyaa]

His Secret

Warning: Obsession; yandere, hint at masturbation (but not said directly) 

Song: MASSIVE ATTACK- ANGEL 

Maneskin- valentine

There may be errors in the text

—————————————

Imagine Mr. Scarletella’s room…

I imagine it as a huge hall in a red hue (in the style of its owner) with huge walls and high ceilings. There is absolutely nothing there, no bed, no chairs. Nothing at all.

The most interesting thing is that compared to other rooms in this world, this room looks absolutely clean! There is not an ounce of mold, not a drop of blood.

But the most important thing why Scarletella considers this room hers is this portrait of you covering this entire huge wall.

God, this fucking stalker is literally obsessed with this portrait. When he's not wandering like a maniac through these endless corridors looking for you, he spends hours in this room looking at the canvas of you. And he literally gets lost in his fantasies of you looking at him with those terribly beautiful doe eyes; where he can finally keep you under his umbrella; where you are literally connected to each other. These fucking fantasies simply cannot leave his heart to rise..

Scarletella stands in the center of this huge hall and burns your face with her bottomless gaze, his knees begin to tremble in pain, but he doesn’t care, even when his body gives in under her pressure, he will continue to kneel and look at you. Slowly rubbing the handle of his red umbrella.

[obsessive-valentine]

Yandere Artist x GN!Maid-Reader

Julian (or Jules as you nickname him), an esteemed artist in Victorian society, becomes captivated by a forgotten maid who moves through life unnoticed by others. Obsessed with finding ways to capture the adoration he has for you on canvas.

You’d been a maid at the gallery Julian visited, and the reason he returned over and over. He, a man of great status, an esteemed artist too, became drawn to you beyond his own understanding.

On one of Julian’s many visits, he found the courage to speak to you. "You work so hard, yet make it look as graceful as a dance", he murmured, his voice soft but sincere. You were startled—maids weren't meant to be noticed by men of his status. But Julian wasn’t like the others.

It was only after weeks of shared glances, whispered conversation and quiet sketches that Julian dared to ask you for more.

Losing sleep over the way you made him feel, emotions so deep and unexplainable he began going mad over trying to express it. His current models and pieces of art just weren't good enough compared to you and the way you make him feel.

A type of suffocating love he never thought could exist.

“Forgive me for being so forward,” he said, his voice gentle and earnest. “I understand this may come as a shock, but if you’d allow me, I would be honoured if you would be my muse."

Though you were hesitant to overstep and cause a scandal, he promised you everything you could want if you were to only be his muse, he’d give you a place to stay and all you could ask for, you wouldn’t have to be a maid anymore. But then being his muse, turned into friendship, then lovers.

He fell in love with how you so effortlessly inspired his work -but fell harder for how you grounded him as a person. Smitten by the little things- your soft laughter, the gentle way you spoke. He loved the small gestures you made without thinking, the way you’d hum as you worked. He'd notice it all.

While initially hesitant from the intensity of not being spared a glance to having a man tripping over himself at the sight of you -you grew to enjoy his presence. The idea of being someone who inspires him, someone who is at the centre of his world. After living your whole life in the shadows.

...

Many hours a week are sat in his study as he paints you, his work taking on a new life, new meaning that only makes it so much more beautiful.

Julian loves to draw you absentmindedly—it’s almost like an instinct, something that he can't stop even when he's lost in thought. He has many books filled with fast sketches that are almost abstract that he scribbles without even looking at the page, to incredibly detailed sketches that almost look like photos.

Parts of your day are recorded in those books like his own form of videoing you. Some are so attentive they could be made into a seamless stop motion.

Sometimes he even finds himself sitting on the bathroom floor as you bathe, talking to you as he once again absent-mindedly draws. finding inspiration for his next piece.

He’s obsessed with the little details. He gets lost in those details, and every sketch is a desperate attempt to capture your essence. But not necessarily just when he’s drawing either.

When he’s not drawing, Julian traces his fingers over your skin studying every part of you.

His love language is physical touch, though it’s always gentle and respectful. Gently running his fingers through your hair or resting a hand possessively on your waist.

But that doesn't mean he lacks in the other 4 departments. Like how he loves to whisper to you just how much you mean to him.

His feelings for you are intense, to the point of worship, though he doesn’t fully realise how deep his obsession runs, he doesn't do anything to correct it either.

Sometimes that can be overwhelming for you, especially going from such an ignored life to one in a lovely house, a handsome gentleman of a husband and the title of being a muse.

But you can't bring yourself to make him stop, he’s Prince Charming in your eyes.

You don’t see the way he glares or scowls at men who dare talk to you when you accompany him to town or an event. Or how he makes borderline cruel verbal jabs to women who try to take his attention from you even for a moment.

[aphroditelovesu]

In the middle of the night

❝commission: in the spirit of kinktober, I'd like to make an NSFW request that gives some insight into the intimate relationship between Alexander and y/n (pre kidnapping). In other words, something that shows what happens when Alexander spends the night in her tent. — requested by 💻 anon.

❝ 📜 — lady l: It's been a while since I did something with a touch of smut and this one was more romantic, so I can't say lol, but I liked it. I hope you like it and forgive me for any mistakes! ❤️

❝tw: smut, oral sex (female receiving) and praise kink (?).

❝📜pairing: soft yandere!alexander the great x female!reader.

❝word count: 2,238.

Your tent was silent, shrouded in a blanket of darkness that seemed to weigh down on your shoulders. Outside, the wind whistled, whispering between the ropes and the openings of the canvas, a constant and melancholic sound. It was an almost comforting noise, as if the night outside was trying to lull your restless thoughts. Even the soldiers who normally talked loudly and made jokes were now deep in sleep, their grumbling and snoring just a distant murmur.

The night had already gone on longer than it should have, and you knew that staying awake until that hour would be a problem. However, the feeling of discomfort that weighed on your chest did not allow you to rest. For hours, you rolled from one side to the other, trying to surrender to sleep, but each attempt seemed to worsen the restlessness, and the darkness of the tent became a kind of prison. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, you decided to get up and move away from the crumpled cot that only increased your frustration. As you lit a candle to illuminate the tent, you were finally able to see properly.

Near a small trunk of belongings, in which your kitty pajamas were carefully stored, there was a chair that had been arranged with care. You settled into it, adjusting your posture, and picked up a book that was nearby: a copy of the Iliad, a gift from Alexander. The worn cover showed signs of use, as if it had passed through several hands before reaching yours. You slid your fingers over the surface of the book, feeling the relief and texture of the leather. The familiarity of the gesture brought a kind of momentary relief, an anchor in the midst of the chaos that was your mind.

As you opened the book, the complexity of ancient Greek leapt out at you, a language you had never even thought of learning, but which was now strangely accessible to you. It wasn’t just the understanding of the words, but the cadence, the melody of the sentences, everything seemed to echo naturally in your mind, as if a subtle spell or an unknown power was guiding you through that story. For a brief moment, you reflected on the strangeness of it all — being able to understand a language so distant and from ages past. Perhaps it was a stroke of luck, or the design of a greater force. Either way, you knew you would be lucky to be able to communicate at this time; total isolation would be a much crueler fate.

Your eyes read each word with anticipation, a smile adorning your lips as the story of the Trojan War was told in the most original and truthful way possible. The Iliad was truly something worth reading, no matter what Age you were in.

You were so immersed in the words of the Iliad, so lost in the distant universe of epic battles and ancient heroes, that the world around you seemed to disappear. Time and space within the tent became irrelevant, and all you heard were the imaginary sounds of swords and shields, the Greek lines echoing in your mind.

It was then that a soft but unexpected sound brought you back to reality. A discreet, almost restrained clearing of your throat. Your heart skipped a beat, and you almost let the book slip from your hands. The shock you felt was immediate, and for a moment, even your gaze took a while to adjust to the figure that materialized at the entrance to the tent, half hidden by the soft shadows cast by the light of the lantern.

Alexander, arms crossed and a half smile on his lips, watched your reaction. He seemed to be trying hard not to laugh, which only intensified that amused glint in his eyes. ''Sorry. I didn’t plan to scare you,'' he said, his voice low, but with a hint of amusement that he couldn’t completely hide.

You felt your cheeks heat up, a little embarrassed by the reaction, and still trying to regain your composure after the scare.

''No... I...'' You took a deep breath and forced a shaky smile, ''It’s okay.''

Alexander just nodded, his different colored eyes shining when he noticed the Iliad in your hands. Oh, you had forgotten.

The Iliad was his favorite book. Especially the story of Achilles and Patroclus.

''I didn’t want to interrupt your reading.'' Alexander murmured, approaching you. He stopped next to your chair, his attentive eyes watching you and you couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable under his gaze.

You couldn’t say anything, just nodded.

''But I saw a light on and I got curious.'' Alexander continued, placing his clumsy hands on your shoulders. ''Can’t sleep?''

''I... I’m not sleepy...'' You murmured, looking at him, observing his features. Alexander was an attractive man, his features were strong and marked and the way his lips, full but small, were slightly parted, made him even more charming. Although not that tall, Alexander was strong and that made him even more attractive.

''I can’t sleep either.'' Alexander said and smiled at you, noticing that you were watching him. You felt your cheeks heat up and looked away to the book in your hands. There was nothing wrong with finding your husband attractive, right?

''Why? Did something happen?'' You found yourself asking, curious.

Alexander shrugged. ''My body refuses to rest.''

You nodded, knowing exactly how he felt, because you felt the same way. Your body refused to rest, no matter that you felt tiredness hitting you hard these past few weeks.

Your heart suddenly raced, but this time for a completely different reason. As you tried to formulate a response, something to break the awkward silence, you felt Alexander's unexpected touch. He approached you, with a delicate and almost reverent gesture, and you held your breath as he reached out, his fingers gently touching your face.

He brushed a strand of your hair away, carefully tucking it behind your ear. His fingers, warm and gentle, slid lightly over your skin, leaving a trail of heat. Each second seemed to stretch on, and you found yourself unable to look away from Alexander's eyes, which watched you with an intensity that made your face heat up even more.

"You are beautiful." Alexander whispered, staring at you as if he could read your soul.

You felt your mouth suddenly go dry, at the same time your body warmed with his words.

''Simply gorgeous.'' He said, bringing his face closer to yours. You stood still, barely breathing, when he finally captured your lips in a soft, delicate kiss. His lips touched yours with an unexpected tenderness, as if he were being careful not to scare you.

The kiss was sweet, almost hesitant, but deep in its simplicity. And, little by little, you felt your own tension disappear, as if the world had become a lighter, safer place, and you finally found the courage to close your eyes and allow yourself to feel, to allow yourself to reciprocate.

Alexander's hands slid gently to your head, his fingers intertwining in your hair as he tilted your face slightly, deepening the kiss with increasing intensity. The gesture, at once tender and passionate, dissolved any trace of discomfort or hesitation that might have remained. Without thinking, you brought your own hands to his shoulders, feeling the firmness of his muscles beneath his clothes, and returned the kiss with equal fervor.

Alexander’s hands slid down your arms, gently pulling you out of the chair as your lips parted. He kept his gaze fixed on yours, his eyes burning with a desire and tenderness that stole your breath. Unhurriedly, his strong arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer, your warm body pressed against his. Each movement was careful, as if he wanted to enjoy every second of that moment that seemed eternal.

There were few times when you lay together after your wedding night.

With a light touch, he guided you to the cot, the room enveloped in soft shadows and flickering lamplight, making the moment even more intimate. His hands, marked by calluses and scars from years of battle, moved with surprisingly delicate skill as he untied the knot of the white chiton that wrapped you. The fabric slid smoothly, abandoning your body and falling in a soft murmur to the floor.

As the cold night air touched your skin, Alexander's eyes explored you with silent reverence, his gaze as intense as the touch of his hands.

"Beautiful." Alexander whispered, his hands caressing your bare waist, squeezing the flesh lightly. Your breathing became heavy as he attacked your neck, his lips leaving bite marks on your skin, marks that you knew could not be hidden so easily.

Your head lolled to the side, giving his conqueror more access to your neck. Your eyes closed in delight as Alexander's hands rose to your breasts, squeezing them with a strength that would not hurt.

You gasped as his fingers squeezed your nipples, the cold and the touch making them perk up. Alexander squeezed, massaged until he finally stopped kissing your neck and pulled away a little, watching you for a few minutes like a hungry lion. He smiled and carefully pushed you onto the cot, making you sit up. Alexander quickly and conveniently removed the chiton and you held your breath when you saw his visible excitement.

You couldn’t help but feel yourself getting more aroused at the sight, your insides heating up and your most intimate parts naturally lubricating. Despite the scars that covered Alexander’s body, he was a sight to behold. His muscles, years of hard training, were palpable and you found yourself wanting to touch them, to enjoy them.

Alexander smiled broadly at you. There was no more embarrassment, just a husband and wife enjoying each other’s looks.

"Lie down." Alexander ordered, his voice husky and authoritative, leaving no room for questioning. You wisely obeyed him and lay down on the cot.

Alexander sat on the edge and his hands moved up your legs, parting them enough for him to slip his upper body between them. You sighed, a little confused but excited at the same time. His eyes were fixed on your pussy, on your arousal.

You expected him to get straight to the point, that he would just fuck you. Foreplay wasn't something common back then, it wasn't something that would please a woman at least.

But Alexander's next action surprised you.

He brought his face closer to your center and, without warning, his tongue touched your pussy, tasting you for the first time. Your body shivered at the sudden touch, at the texture of his tongue.

"Alexander... W-What?" You tried to question him but, perhaps to shut you up, Alexander sucked your clit, really sucked it, his mouth sucking the sensitive skin and his tongue making circular movements that left you breathless.

Alexander pulled back a little and you could see his chin glistening slightly with your slick in the dim, flickering light of the chandelier.

"I heard some soldiers talking about it..." Alexander murmured, smiling at you as his fingers found their way to your pussy and he slid two of them inside your heat, feeling your inner walls immediately tighten around his fingers. "And I decided to give it a try. Curiosity, perhaps. By the way, my Queen, you taste excellent."

You could have sworn you were going to cum when you heard him call you Queen. Maybe it was a new kink you had acquired, but by the gods, it was something really nice to hear, to be praised. And, the best part, you really are a Queen.

Alexander kissed the inside of your thigh, feeling how hot you were. He sniffed the air and you had to suppress a moan at the sight you were seeing and, perhaps, because he still had two fingers inside you.

Alexander brought his face closer to your pussy again and licked it greedily, his tongue lingering on your clit, on that spot on your body that he knew would leave your legs trembling. He was a quick learner and Alexander knew that that spot between your legs left you breathless. Your head fell back, your sighs and moans of pleasure leaving your lips without any shame.

Alexander squeezed your thighs as he devoured you and his fingers fucked you in a fast and pleasurable rhythm. His tongue pressed against your clit, bringing you closer and closer to your release. Your legs trembled slightly, your hands gripping Alexander's dirty blonde hair as you finally reached your climax. You came in his mouth, clenching his hair, your body releasing your juices as you finally felt yourself relax. The orgasm relieved all the tension that was plaguing you.

Your breathing slowly returned to normal, and you looked up at Alexander, who pulled away slightly and smiled broadly at you. After removing his fingers from your pussy, Alexander brought them to his mouth, tasting more of your taste.

You felt like you could attack him right then and there.

Alexander chuckled as he saw your expression, the pleasure, excitement, and desire taking over your features. It was a sight to behold and one he planned to worship for as long as he could.

You were his Queen and should be worshipped as such.

[banj0possum]

Alistair x (platonically) Teen Reader

In the fic he is like oh my god a bride, he walks in and instead of an adult..or a bride-

They find a teen, who literally threw a pebble at him, an angsty teen💀

I’m very happy to read ur fics and usually pair them with teen/child mc because I find it funny because they expect the love of their life

and teen mc standing there :🧍‍♂️

anyways sorry for the long request, luv ur writing, and ur art :D

Yandere! Evil King x Teen! GN! Reader

CW: platonic relationship, Alistair is a bit of a DILF so do with it as you will, Dads are hot you guys!! READER IS A MINOR.

👑 Who is this sassy lost child?

👑 His minions kidnapped you while you were on a carriage ride back to your kingdom.

👑 He was hoping for like a princess or something to marry and take over the kingdom with or whatever so like...what tf he gonna do with you???

👑 Clearly you were too young to be in a situation like this, but theres no way he's giving you back without a reward, so yes he still holds you for ransom.

👑 "Child, I am Alistair, King of-ACk!"

👑 Did...did you throw a pillow at him?!

👑 "How dare yo- AHK! Stop it!" another one..

👑 You refuse to listen to anything he says, you just wanted to go home

👑 You two had a bit of rivalry for a bit. He hated you and you hated him.

👑 He promised not to show any affection or care towards you since in his eyes, your actions didn't deserve it. How can someone be so rude to a king !?

👑 But he starts to notice you don't eat much. He never sees you in the dining hall and has only seen quick moments of you nibbling on some bread or pastries the servants gave you.

👑 He scoffed, so irresponsible! You must eat a proper meal right this second or you'll starve!

👑 You're surprised to see a meal prepared for you during your routine trip to get a snack from the pantry with a note on the plate.

👑 "Next time, ask for a proper meal. I don't want your parents to think I've been starving you. -Alistair P.S. go to bed early."

👑 Huh...

👑 Alistair smiled from the doorway of the dining hall, watching you eat up with a smile on your face. You might have been too scared of him to ask for food so you've been sneaking snacks while he wasn't looking.

👑 Of course he wasn't doing it because he cared about you, he just didn't want royalty like you to resort to such pathetic means to eat!

👑 Why are you still sad? Perhaps he should get you some things to keep your attention..

👑 He asks (threateningly may I add) about your hobbies or interests.

👑 The next morning your cell (which has been upgraded to a lovely room in the castle because he didn't want you to be filthy and gross in a dungeon) was filled with anything he could find that he thought you'd enjoy.

👑 Don't think he wants you to be happy! He's just tired of seeing you sulk everywhere!

👑 He denies everything, but you swear you could see a tiny smile on his face when you hugged him happily.

👑 You start being a little more open to him, showing him anything you've made or done with pride and he'd receive it gratefully, but he won't show it of course.

👑 "I made you this friendship bracelet!"

👑 "I've seen better jewelry."

👑 "Oh I'll take it back then I guess.."

👑 "No, it's mine now, back off."

👑 Drawings and the like that he said would be thrown out as soon as you left would be seen framed in his room

👑 It would be a..waste of good canvas..

👑 And of course he buys a few books of your choice for you to read, he'd be damned if your brain turns to mush.

👑 Bro bro he'd be the type to let you swing around while holding onto his bicep.

👑 If you ever have any problems, or come to him in a bad mood, he'd have no idea how to help other than to sit down and listen to your troubles.

👑 He's not the most physical when it comes to affection, but you bet your ass he's gonna do everything he can to cheer you up.

👑 At this point he's rewriting his demands for the ransom. Either your kingdom lets him sign some adoption papers or he's starting a war.

[mitfloya]

𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒: 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐘 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄

pairings. Yandere Rafayel x gn!reader

wc. 2k

synopsis. You find yourself lost searching for answers that slip through your grasp. There is a mysterious force that lures you back to the vast depths of the sea, a pull that you can't quite comprehend, a strange connection. It haunts your thoughts, you wanted to find out why does your soul keeps guiding you to ocean.

Only to find the truth that you wish to never uncover.

warnings. The following content contains elements of obsessive behavior, yandere thoughts, stalking, possessive behavior, and may include poorly written narratives. Reader is referred to as 'you'. Proceed with caution, as this writing may be unsettling or uncomfortable for some individuals.

a/n. Hiii, I'm back from the dead, I hope it's good (be gentle with me this is my first fic I've created) or evoke some kind of emotions, whatever it may be. I may have gone a little overboard with everything. This will be a small series, maybe there will be 3 parts or up to 5 parts, depends on my mood. Also, this is my thank you gift for the celebration of hitting another milestone on my c.ai acc ♡

The waves, like gentle giants, rolled towards the shore, their white foamy crests crashing against the rocks with a resounding roar. The sound echoed in your ears. With each surge, the water created intricate patterns, as if painting an ever-changing masterpiece upon the canvas of the beach.

Some crashed against the rocks with a powerful force, while others gently caressed the sand, their touch as gentle as a lover's whisper. 

Standing there, your feet were gently lapped by the waves near the shore, your eyes fixated on the vast expanse of the sea, you felt an inexplicable pull, as if there was a profound bond between you and the ocean.

Yet, you couldn't quite comprehend why.

Lost in contemplation, you imagined how the cool waters of the sea would embrace you, enveloping you in their refreshing embrace. It was in these moments that you found solace and tranquility in the presence of nature.

The ebb and flow of the waves became a soothing rhythm that seemed to wash away any worries or troubles that burdened your mind.

Yet, amidst the serenity, there was a sense of familiarity, as if there were fragments of a forgotten memory lurking within your subconscious. Every time you found yourself by the sea or on a sandy beach, a whisper of a memory danced at the edge of your thoughts, just out of reach.

Lost in your thoughts, distant calls of your name went unheard as you drifted into a daze, completely captivated by the sea, you didn't noticed the water has gone up to your knees level. It was only when a familiar hand gripped your wrist, pulling you back from the water, that you snapped out of your daze.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing?" His voice rang out, a mix of concern and annoyance. "You were about to walk straight into the deep sea! Do you have any idea how dangerous that could have been?" he exclaimed, gently pulling you back to the safety of the shore.

Startled, your gaze locked with his eyes, a blend of deep purple with delicate speckles of pink. In that moment, you found yourself drowning in the vastness of his gaze, unable to tear your eyes away.

His eyes held a mix of emotions, like a tumultuous sea that you couldn't quite decipher. You couldn't help but wonder if your encounter was more than just a coincidence, if there was a greater significance to the intertwining of your paths. The depths of his gaze seemed to hold the answers, yet they also posed more questions, leaving you both intrigued and captivated.

There was something undeniable about the connection you shared, a magnetic pull that transcended mere concern. In that moment, you realized that his eyes held more than just worry for your safety—they held a glimpse of a deeper connection, an unspoken understanding that seemed to bind you together.

The depth of his concern in the eyes are as clear as day, it momentarily puts you lost at words.

The situation slowly sank in, you realized that you had been so absorbed in your thoughts that you had unconsciously ventured into dangerous waters. The level of danger had escalated beyond what you initially thought, as the water had gradually risen without your awareness.

You blinked, your voice betraying a tinge of guilt as you stammered out. "I… I didn't even realize," you admitted, your words laden with a sense of remorse,. "The ocean… it just pulls me in. I can't explain it." Your eyes darted around, avoiding contact with Rafayel.

He sees the way you looked at the sea, sensing that you were searching for something, perhaps a connection or understanding.

In that fleeting moment, a glimmer of hope momentarily danced across Rafayel's face, as if he believed you had finally recollected something significant to him.

…But as he searched your eyes, that tiny glimmer faded, replaced by a mix of disappointment and frustration.

A deep sigh escaped Rafayel's lips, his eyes rolling with visible exasperation. "Oh, please," he scoffed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "As if the ocean has some deep, personal connection to you," he muttered dismissively.

The atmosphere grew heavy with an unspoken tension, as Rafayel's words hung in the air. It was clear that he felt let down, hoping for a shared understanding that seemed to elude him once again.

Rafayel's frustration grew evident as he let out an exasperated huff, pushing away his bangs with an irritated sweep of his hand. "Look, we've got enough problems trying to win this damn classroom competition. We don't need you drowning yourself in the process." His head shook slightly, a clear expression of annoyance etched upon his face.

You felt a pang of regret wash over you, seeing the frustration etched on Rafayel's face. "Thanks for being worried, I guess," you mumbled, your tone tinged with a touch of bitterness. He could've said it nicely at the very least, you thought.

Feeling a wave of embarrassment wash over you for nearly getting yourself drowned, you quickly shifted your gaze to the expanse of the ocean stretched out before you.

The colors of the sea danced before your eyes, shifting seamlessly from the vibrant hues of turquoise to the deeper shades of indigo, as if an artist's brush had painted a masterpiece on the water's surface.

You couldn't help but wonder if there was a hidden world beneath the surface. Little did you know, you had been conversing with one of those hidden beings all along.

You noticed Rafayel's hands waving in front of your face, interrupting your oceanic reverie.

"I've heard the locals said that there is a mythical creature who roamed around this water, can you guess what it is?" His voice took on an eerie cadence. His head tilted slightly, as if he was assessing your reaction.

"Legend has it that those who make a pact with this sea creature are granted a special favor," he weave the tale as his gaze were penetrating your skin. "However," he paused, his words dripping with anticipation. "If one were to forget or break their oath, the consequences would be nothing short of catastrophic."

Drawing near, he leaned in, his voice a mere whisper in your ear. "They would face a fate far more harrowing than their most dreadful nightmares could ever conjure." His breath made your skin crawl, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

The tale he spoke of leave you with an eerie sense that there was more to this tale than met the eye. It was as if the threads of the story resonated with a deeper part of your being, stirring emotions and images that had long been dormant.

Yet, you shook off the discomfort, determined not to let Rafayel's words unravel your sense of reality, even as they lingered in your mind, leaving behind a lingering sense of unease.

With a light-hearted push, you nudge him away with your elbow, mustering a witty retort to maintain the casual banter. "Nice try, but I'm not one to fall victim to the legends of mermaids."

Unfazed, Rafayel continues to weave his tale, his voice dripping with a seductive charm. "How so? Don't their enchanting melodies and mysterious allure at least pique your curiosity?"

The weight of his words settled upon you, causing a shiver to ripple through your body. Yet, you maintain your composure, "Well, Rafayel," you taunt, "if mermaids are truly as captivating as you claim, perhaps I should take my chances. Who knows? Maybe I'll be the one to befriend a mermaid."

Oh, you already did and it was more than that.

Your soul remembers him, resonating with a familiarity that defies logic, while your conscious mind grapples with the mystery of who he truly is and where your paths have crossed before.

It's like your souls hold a hidden story, a shared history that teases the edges of your awareness, just beyond your grasp. The unspoken bond that lingers between you cannot be denied, as if your paths are intricately woven together, waiting to be unraveled.

In his presence, you find yourself both anchored and adrift, caught between the intangible and the tangible. The ties that bind you are not of this physical realm, but of a deeper dimension where emotions and memories intertwine like the ebb and flow of the tide.

There is a profound bond between you that goes beyond mere attraction, as if you have shared lifetimes together before.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden hue over the water, you and Rafayel became entranced by the moment, surrendering to the breathtaking beauty of the sea.

The scenery sparked a creative fire within you, the gentle dance of the waves mirrored the rhythm of your thoughts, as if the ocean had bestowed upon you the ideal theme for the upcoming classroom decoration competition. It was as if the universe had handed you a vibrant palette, ready to bring your ideas to life.

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips as an idea began to take shape in your mind. "Hey, what if we choose the ocean as our theme? We could create an underwater wonderland, wouldn't that be cool?" you suggested, your voice filled with enthusiasm.

Rafayel eyes widened with surprise, he took a moment to consider the suggestion. "That's actually not bad," he shrugged, his tone casual yet intrigued. "We could use blue and turquoise hues to mimic the ocean's colors, and hang paper jellyfish and other sea creatures from the ceiling. It'll be like stepping into an enchanting underwater realm."

The two of you continued to brainstorm all the way home, ideas flowing like a current, as you imagined transforming your classroom into a captivating oceanic paradise.

As the sounds of crashing waves slowly faded into the distance, replaced by the comforting rhythm of your footsteps, a familiar banter and laughter filled the air. The easy camaraderie between you and Rafayel created a warm and comfortable atmosphere, where the worries of the day seemed to melt away.

Minutes passed by, as if time had lost its grip on the endless conversations and moments of solace shared with Rafayel. He was like a soothing balm for your weary soul, a safe haven where your restless mind could find peace. His presence was like a sanctuary, where the weight of your worries seemed to dissipate into thin air.

Regrettably, the front gate of your house loomed before you, signaling the end of this cherished connection. With a warm smile, you waved goodbye to Rafayel, a bittersweet farewell that left an ache in your heart. "We'll talk more later, see you at school tomorrow!" you called out, hoping to preserve the thread of conversation that had woven its way into your shared journey.

He reciprocated with a smile and a wave, his eyes following you until you disappeared behind the closed door. As the facade he wore crumbled, a torrent of emotions flooded Rafayel's mind the moment you were safely inside. Frustration tightened its grip, as he struggled to understand how something so vital between the two of you could slip from your memory.

However, a twisted sense of satisfaction settled within him, as he relished in the knowledge of your home, a piece of your personal life that he now possessed, fueling a dangerous determination to claim you as his own.

This was never your home, and it would never be, for he had vowed to create a sanctuary where only he could offer you peace and happiness you deserved.

He knew that he had to do more, to make you realize the depth of his feelings. With unwavering resolve, Rafayel promised himself that he would build a world for you, free from any disturbances or distractions.

No one else would have access to this sacred space; it would be an intimate domain that existed solely for him and you.

"Wait for me, my love. I'll show you how much I adore you."

© mitfloya 2024. Kindly refrain from altering, translating, or reposting my works on any platform without obtaining my consent.

[theinnerunderrain]

Love Me Dead [Yan!Boyfriend x Fem!Reader]

Warnings: Yandere themes, manipulative behaviors, heavily dialogue bc it's just mostly talking and gaslighting, college life, may be somewhat confusing but it's that story that is up to your interpretation!

+

"[First Name]."

A sizable and gentle hand enfolds your wrist, eliciting a startled leap at the unexpected touch. Casting a curious glance over your shoulder, you discern the hand's owner—a figure with a tousle of rich brown locks. The air on campus carries a lingering blend of pumpkin spice and damp rain, while vibrant leaves in hues of red, yellow, and orange blanket the cement walkway, creating a tapestry beneath your feet.

It was none other than your boyfriend, Asuka.

"Why do you keep ignoring me?"

In a hushed plea, etched with concern and confusion, he inquires, his pallid complexion a canvas for the anxious query. A delicate flush graces his cheeks and ears, a subtle scarlet trace, suggesting an earlier pursuit in an attempt to bridge the distance between you.

"Did I do something wrong..? If I did, then just tell me..."

A dance of confusion painted upon your countenance, a pirouette of bewilderment as you gracefully turned, aligning yourself to face him fully. Brows knitted in contemplation, coral lips drawn into a slender seam, your expression spoke the eloquence of perplexity.

"I'm not ignoring you though..?"

"You are..! You barely text me anymore and avoid me around the campus like I'm some sort of infectious disease.."

He spoke anew, his voice ascending to a higher pitch, an accusatory gaze fixated upon you as though your uttered words were mere echoes of deceit. His other hand delicately enveloped your wrist, creating a symmetrical hold that left you suspended in a still, unsettling equilibrium.

"No I'm not..? Asuka, we both have been busy and I can't spend all day messaging you."

In the chill of the season, you grapple with an awkward attempt at reasoning, noticing the warmth and clamminess of his hands. The contrast, his heated touch against your soft skin, sends an uncomfortable shiver down your spine. Asuka, momentarily lost in contemplation, lets his lips curve into a frown. In that moment, he resembles a kicked puppy, the weight of his next words settling heavily in the air.

"..Are you mad at me..?"

In a suspended breath, he momentarily halted, drawing nearer to you. Amidst the bustling backdrop of students hurrying to their classes, you couldn't help but wonder if curious gazes were directed your way, recognizing the peculiarity of your shared moment beneath the open sky.

"Are you still hung up about last time..? If that's the issue then I'm really sorry, and I've already apologized before...!"

As Asuka continued to speak, words flowed incessantly from his lips, a torrent of increasing urgency evident in the rapid cadence of his cherry-toned voice. A palpable hysteria seeped through his every syllable, mirroring the rising heat radiating from his fervent body. It was as though he embodied a ticking bomb, gradually approaching the brink of overheating, poised to unleash an explosive torrent of emotions.

"Hung up on what?"

Inquiring, you sought release, gently weaving your fingers to disentangle from his grasp, a delicate dance to temper the heat that enveloped. Yet, his clasp remained unyielding, an unspoken embrace refusing to relent.

"Hung up on that time when I was being unreasonable and it made both of us late to our classes."

"No..? Why would I be mad about something like that?"

In the labyrinth of his spoken thoughts, you weave a delicate tapestry, attempting to decipher the cryptic echoes of his mention of unreasonableness. Despite the elusive nature of clarity, you gracefully surrender to the intrigue, deciding to waltz within the enigmatic dance of his words, a willing participant in the artful play of understanding.

"No, there's something wrong but you just won't say it...."

Persistently, Asuka insists, and a subtle irritation blooms within you, despite your inner plea for calm. Yet, his next words delicately wound your heart with a touch of sorrow.

"Do you not love me anymore..?"

"What..?"

In incredulity, you queried, gazing at the young man whose eyes teetered on the brink of cascading tears. The threat lingered in the wells of his eyes, poised to spill over and trace the contours of his fevered cheeks. Yet he continues to rambled.

"Ha! Everything makes sense now. All that cold attitude, and you avoiding me everyday. You lost feelings for me, didn't you?"

His voice crescendoed, rising in both volume and pitch as he advanced, closing the distance until his face hovered mere inches from yours. In this intimate proximity, you couldn't help but sense the burgeoning awareness among fellow students, as they subtly turned their attention toward his unfolding, hysterical unraveling.

"Asuka, how can you say something like that?"

You try to calm him down, speaking in a much softer and calmer tone compared to the man, as if you were a mother trying to calm down a crying child.In the hushed cadence of your voice, a gentle river of reassurance flows, seeking to temper the tempest within him. Your words, soft and serene, weave through the tumult like a mother's lullaby, an attempt to pacify a sobbing child.

"You know...If you had just told me normally that you didn't like me anymore then I would have just accepted that as it is."

Yet, like whispers through the air, your words glide past him. Though a subtle calm embraces him, his voice, now a gentle breeze, unveils a softer cadence, a stark departure from the turbulent tone that had echoed before.

"But why'd you have to go ahead and treat me like that?"

He inquires, guiding your hand to caress the contours of his cheek, gently pressing it against the tender warmth of your palm as if seeking solace in its soft embrace.

"Asuka...I understand you're frustrated but I do love you, and I haven't stopped loving you.."

In hushed tones, your words tenderly caressed the air, coaxing him to nestle against your palm. With a gentle touch, you traced the padded side of your fingers across his cheeks, a soothing rhythm to quell the tempest within him. A graceful guidance led you both to a tranquil refuge, where a brown bench cradled the quietude. There were no other students in sight.

"It's just that, everything has been so stressful with finals and stuff....I swear, I'm not trying to ignore you."

You painted on a smile, and Asuka, with an intent ear, absorbed your words, as though orchestrating a delicate symphony of comprehension within the corridors of his mind.

"But how can I be so sure?"

Once you convince yourself of soothing the man's agitation, his voice resurfaces, posing a question that resonates within your chest, setting a subtle cadence to the rhythm of your heartbeat.

"That you're not just saying that, and that you actually mean it? That you still love me?"

In the quiet expanse of a moment, you pondered his words, delicately crafting a response to safeguard the delicate balance of his emotions. At last, your voice returned, accompanied by the gentle caress of your other hand, tracing a tender path beneath the canvas of his eyes.

"I do love you and you should already know that, Asuka."

Your words, like a subtle elixir, lingered momentarily before gracefully permeating his being. He surrendered to your touch, a gentle immersion into the warmth of your embrace, his grasp on your essence unwittingly tightening. Closer he drew, until the shared touch of both your knees wove a delicate closeness, an unspoken harmony.

"I do...?"

"Yes, you do."

In a graceful motion, you extended your arm, inviting the young man into an embrace willingly embraced. He leaned into your touch, his hand delicately finding its place on the small of your back, creating a tender connection. His body emanated warmth, reminiscent of an oven preheated for hours, yearning for the moment when it could be tenderly turned off. In that intimate embrace, moments stretched like delicate strands of time. His hands held firm against your waist, and his chin found solace upon your shoulders, a subtle dance of closeness. The air bore the comforting aroma of cinnamon and coffee, a fragrant reminder of his presence. As the embrace gently loosened, you parted, a reassuring smile gracing your lips.

"Then, it's settled? I promise to make more time for you, so don't go around thinking I don't love you anymore, alright?"

His countenance eased, a gentle nod painting the canvas of his expression. Where tears once traced delicate paths on his visage, they now evaporated, leaving behind a softened countenance. His lips, once adorned with the weight of sorrow, now curved into a tender smile.

"You promise?"

Once more, you inquire, drawing him into a tender embrace. Your hands cradle the back of his head, granting him the sanctuary to bury his face in the crook of your neck. Unmindful of the ticklish dance of his warm breath upon your skin, you remain oblivious to the subtle curvature of his lips into a contented grin. Nor do you discern the palpable brightening of his eyes, responding softly to your words.

"I promise."

[chezzywezzy]

Yandere Birdbox (3/5)

Word count; 3.8k

For the first time, Y/n had the concious thought about whether they could use their ability to see their surroundings. They always thought their blindness was a curse, but in the apolcolypse, it had come in usefully. Whether this was only an ability in their sleep, Y/n had yet to determine, but they hoped it wasn’t — Y/n didn’t see any other way to survive.

Y/n laid their head against the counter. They plugged their phone in, dreading the day when electricity was no longer available and Siri — Y/n’s only friend — was silenced. And then came the issue of food. They were stuck. Y’n couldn’t help but ponder death. They were aware of how generally awful they were as a person, and that kept Y/n with a will to live and a will to die.

Y/n was selfish, rude, and a coward. They were bitter at the world for being unfair and punished the people around them the same. Too selfish and afraid to die, but too hateful toward the world to live. It was a conundrum. Y/n figured, though, that their general confusion would be the death of them, as they were too confused on what to do. Y/n had their talents in a paintbrush, not a weapon. Y/n couldn’t see. Y/n hardly knew the area because their father often shipped groceries to their doorstep so Y/n only left the house for exhibitions, interviews, and art supplies. 

Their father. Y/n sat up, grabbing the phone. 

“Hey, Siri. Call dad.”

The phone began ringing. The screen was slightly cracked, but its not as though Y/n cared. The phone rang. And rang. And rang.

“The person you are trying to reach is unavailable. After the tone, please leave a message.”

A wave of sadness and worry washed over Y/n. They recognized that their father was the most important person in their life. Perhaps his phone was dead. Perhaps it was lost. Perhaps he was asleep.

Or perhaps he was dead.

For the first time since hell had descended on earth, Y/n began to cry. They wandered over to the couch to lay down, curling on their side. For the first time in a while, they thought of ‘Last Look’s dreadful day.

“Doctor, why can’t my child see? How can they get their sight back?” their father pleaded.

“Sir, I’m sory, We’ve ran several tests, but sometimes, things like this happen. A hidden gene. A faulty switch in the occipital lobe. Although there is still no noticable differences in their brain development, nerves, or blood work, cases like this happen. It’s unfortunate, and unfair. Sometimes, the eyes shut down entirely overnight from unknown causes. And, currently, we don’t have the technology to do anything about it.”

Their father’s eyebrows furrowed. Although Y/n couldn’t see it, he was losing hope. He wondered if he had somehow failed his only child. 

“I… I did some research. They somehow made a young boy see again —“

“That was a scientific anomaly, sir,” the doctor argued desperately. “And anyway, this clinic is incapable of giving that kind of treatment.”

Y/n’s father began to sob. They are crying, too. The doctor’s words scared them. They clawed and rubbed at their eyes, but their father grabbed their hands, squeezing tightly. He comforted them, whispering sweet words that everything would be alright. That they would make due. That there was nothing wrong with being blind. That it wasn’t the end of the world.

But Y/n was only a child. Their entire future had been robbed. Y/n didn’t know of any blind heros. Anyone out there that made a living or lived independently. Y/n was uneducated. All they knew was that their world had ended, and that they wanted to see again.

And see they now did. Y/n shot up. It was but a blink, but they saw. It was like they physically transcended their body and walked to the door, going right through it. They reached for a canvas, their fingers tracing it like a memory. A man. Middle-aged, beer-bellied, straggling jawline, balding. Pale eyes with a daze. Pounding, over and over. His knuckles bleeding. His clothes torn and bloody. The woman’s corpse beside him, eyes torn open and from her skull, as though his fingers had dug into them to remove them personally. In the woman’s chest, there was an iron rod.

Y/n could still see it clearly. The man was really there, still pounding ruthlessly. Y/n had blocked out the knocking, but with sudden focus, their ears returned to the sound.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

They dropped the brush and went over to the kitchen. They pulled a knife from the drawe, removing the blade cover. The wind was still howling outside, pounding at the windows. They went over to the door.

Y/n suddenly found courage and a voice.

“How are you alive? Why are you here? How did you know I was here?”

The knocking stopped suddenly. With its absense, an eerie silence followed. Y/n suddenly regretted speaking up.

A gruff voice, enchanted yet ery, very dry and cracked, answered. “They showed me true beuty. They want me to show you. Let me give you my eyes, Y/n. I want to give you my eyes —“

“Why is everyone else dead but you? What’s doing all this?” Y/n’s voice was shaky yet steady. 

“…Sinners. All of them. They did not want to see. But I do. You do. They want me to show you it all. Open the door, Y/n. Let me give you my eyes.”

“That’s impossible. I am blind. Please, leave me alone —“

“But you have the sight!” the man suddenly boomed. “They gave it to you a long, long time ago. And now, they will show you everything great and beautiful. Open the door. Open the door. Let me give you my eyes.”

Y/n only grew more confused with every sentence. Nothing made sense. 

“How will you give me your eyes?”

Manic, cracked laughter ensued. “I will tear them from my skull and hand them to you. You must see it, Y/n. It is beautiful! Beautiful, I tell you! Open the door!”

“Leave your eyes at the doorstep. I will take them that way.”

“I wish to see you myself. They speak so highly of you. You are the most beautiful landscape of all. I must see you, Y/n. I must see you and hand you my eyes —!”

Shivers rolled down their spine and they took a step away from the door. Y/n was left with more questions than answers. The whole endeavor was pointless. However, Y/n knew that they couldn’t stand the knocking anymore. And they didn’t trust that this man would just die. Something supernatural had consumed the world. The man’s eyes weren’t normal. Perhaps his biology wasn’t, either.

With that, Y/n didn’t let the fear take over. They unlocked the front door and swung it open. The voice was no longer muffled. They aimed to stab, but the man suddenly bellowed and collapsed to his knees. The man was far more vocally gruesome with a door no longer seperating them. The man bowed.

His scarred, bloody hands touched Y/n’s feet. He scrambled and panted. Y/n is left stunned, allowing the man to grovel at their feet. 

Sobs echoed the empty hallway.

And Y/n was shaking from head to toe.

“Oh, it’s beautiful!” he cried. “They were right! The most beautiful thing in creation!”

His praises fell on deaf ears. Rough hands squeezed Y/n’s feet and they felt overwhelming disgust, overpowering the fear. The hands clawe at their calves and then their thighs. Suddenly, he withdrew, falling silent. His face was drenched in sweat. He glistened with salt and oil. Tears continued to fall, and although Y/n did not know, his eyes were glued to their figure in awe.

And then, he began to claw. He dug his thumb and pointer finger into his eyelids. Y/n stumbled back, hearing the squelch. The man released painful gurgles. Slowly and painfully, he removed his eyes. The man sobbed desperately, and yet all he cried was blood.

Y/n felt a spray against their pants. Y/n had enough. Their selfish, angry side kicked in, adrenaline suddenly bursting through their veins. Gritting their teeth, they stabbed the man in the neck, somehow knowing exactly where to aim. The man gurgled out a cry, dropping his eyeballs and collapsing to the welcome mat. Y/n kicked the man away, feeling their socks get drenched with liquids. The man’s thud was the last sound he made. 

Y/n felt around the corpse for the knife, disgusted. They removed it. 

They slammed the door shut and locked it again.

The corpse sat there. The man lay there, decaying and wet. The eyeballs were completely seperated and long cords spun out from his eyes. Despite the pain he and Y/n had caused, the man was smiling.

Y/n was rattled to their core, turning and sliding down the door. Their hands had intense tremors. They knew damn well they couldn’t stay stuck. The wind was howling, harder and harder. The beast was near. And the insane missionary had found them once. Another one surely could. 

Y/n stayed frozen on the floor, cradling the moist knife like a child, for a very, very long time. It was slowly settling on them that they had commited murder. It didn’t feel like self-defense. The man had worshipped them, for christ’s sake. They couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened, had they taken the eyes? What would they have seen?

They decided to think it over in the shower; they knew they had to move while they had the resources. Siri wouldn’t live forever. Their food supply wouldn’t last. They needed to find a grocery store to camp in — one that wouldn’t be too populated with hypothetical looters.

They also needed resolution on what happened to their father.

When they hopped out of the shower, they began to pack the essentials: their charger, phone, cane, clothing, food, and paints. Everything they’d need to survive, but also live. 

Y/n’s first thought of where to go was the corner store down the block. It’s where they often went for an easy snack. Y/n took their cane and turned Siri on to the corner store. They shoved the phone in their pocket after plugging in earbuds. 

They felt their way toward the elevator. Their ears were keen, but the hallway was silent.Usually, their apatment building was full of hustle and bustle, especially at… god, Y/n didn’t even know what time it was. So, they asked while in the elevator.

“Seven-thirty-three.”

The elevator beeped and the doors opened. More silence. Siri repeated directions, but Y/n knew the way to the front entrance. 

They paused. The beast seemed to follow their every move; it was everywhere. It was the air Y/n was breathing. That much they knew. They hovered, afraid to leave. But Y/n’s will to survive and be selfish was the most important part.

And then they hear it: a screaming woman. Y/n dashed out the door, selfishly believing this was their chance. In Y/n’s mind, the wind would divert its attention, even if it was an entire entity. The screams echoed and grew louder. The wind was bustling and squealing in their ears. They could hardly use their cane, relying solely on Siri’s directions.

“Turn left to reach your destination.”

Y/n skidded to a stop, losing their footing. Y/n grunted loudly, knowing they would probably be left with a nasty bruise. They scrambled onto their knees. They dropped the cane, but as the wind whistled and bustled, the cane was the last thing on their mind. In their world of darkness, they crawled forward, finally feeling at a glass panel. Y/n scrambled to their feet, gripping the handle.

They pulled at it desperately, almost falling again as the door swung open. They felt papers adorn the inside, and a wave of relief washed over them as they pulled the door shut. Y/n was shaking in their boots as they held the position, feeling the wind beat against the door. 

Click.

Y/n tensed, turning wildly and reluctantly releasing the doorknob. Their voice came out as a squeak.

“Who’s there?”

“Don’t move. Hands up.”

A man’s voice echoed in the otherwise silent corner store. The man sounds gruff, and Y/n can tell that the man sounds rather redneck. And by the clicking, the man held a gun. Y/n complied.

The man emerged from behind a shelf, crouched slightly, and had a pistol aimed directly at them. Y/n panted, unaware of the man’s exact location. Their head turned every which way, attempting to locate the man. The man wore a dark leather jacket and was somewhat older. He had a peppered beard and a big bald spot on his head. He wore glasses and ripped jeans, giving off the general aesthetic of a retired biker. 

“Now, what’s it like out there? Have you seen it?”

“I - I don’t know. It’s quiet, sir,” Y/n stuttered. “I’m blind — I can’t see the monster —“

“Bullshit.”

“I dropped my cane right outside the door —“

“I know you’re just like the last guy. Trying to fool me, are you —“

“I’m blind! I’m Y/n L/n — I’m famous, haven’t you fucking heard of me, you fucking loser?” Y/n exclaimed, almost insulted. “Just look out, and you’ll see you fucking cane —“

While Y/n had been ranting and tossing insults at the man, he had progressed silently. Y/n stared out blankly, expression angry and unchanging as the man snuck up on them. Y/n paused, breathing heavily. All they saw was darkness, unaware of whether a gunshot would shoot them dead.

“Boo.”

Y/n jumped wildly, flailing to the ground. They burst into tears, which made the man laugh. He glanced out the paper, noticing the cane. “By golly, I guess you are blind. Or one hell of an actor. You don’t got the same eyes as them, either.”

“Jesus, fuck you —“

The man lowered his gun and chuckled gruffly. “Yeah, yeah. If you saw the world we were living in right now, you’d understand. Now, get away from the door and behind this here counter.”

Without asking, the man grabbed and pulled them. Y/n frowned firmly but allowed it to happen. Behind the counter was a small pile of wrapper trash and a torn up sleeping bag. The man beckoned to sit, but they gathered that once they felt the counter. Their movements were still skittery, untrusting of the man before them.

“So, let’s exchange stories.”

“Stories?”

“My name is Mark. I’m the owner of this establishment, although that doesn’t mean much these days,” he explained. “I followed the news religiously, waiting for something like this. Then, I noticed reports of mass hysteria starting in Italy. I shut down shop immediately, and not even an hour or so later, the news turned to shit, and so did the world outside. I learned that whatever’s out there cannot be seen and all that shit, so I’ve got my trusty blindfold around my neck just in case. And finally, I guess it’s safe here for now, but we sure as hell can’t stay here. It’s a fucking corner store. The supplies aren’t endless.”

Y/n listened intently to his ramblings and, deciding to suspend distrust, nodded and replied. “Yeah, okay. So, I’m blind. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of me. I’m the ‘blind painter.’ I had a gallery that day and was heading home when it all started. Uh, and I was fine until I started having… dreams. Seeing things that were there. Like this cult guy outside my door that wouldn’t leave me alone. I actually saw what he looked like in my head. I killed the guy and he was fucking worshiping me. Something about how he wanted me to see. God, he pulled out his eyes —“ Y/n stopped, replaying that moment in their head and shuddering. “Uh, and I came here… Oh. And I’m Y/n.”

“The fuck?”

“I guess this plague affects everyone differently, but if I’d known that, I sure as hell wouldn’t have let you in.”

“It’s a gift,” Y/n insisted anxiously. “A stupid one. But my father always told me god gave me eyes in my dreams. The truth is, I think I’ve seen the monster in my dreams. And when I focused, I could see the man outside my apartment. But only when asleep.”

“Prove it. Show me some of your drawings. You obviously brought the fucking supplies.”

“I haven’t used this notebook in years. It’s only old drafts,” Y/n answered, withdrawing the notebook from their bag. 

“Well, if you’re some fancy painter, it doesn’t really matter.”

Without warning, the man snatched the notebook from their grasp and started going through the pages. He slowly goes through them, ignoring Y/n’s angry expression from the invasion. Inside the notebook was several drafts of pretty locations. Some faces. The occasional animal.

Mark paused at a page, his brows crinkling. “This the monster you saw in your head?”

“What is it?”

Mark described it to them.

“Yes. Although that could have been my imagination.”

Mark continued to stare at the scribbles. It was somehow made of clean yet untidy scribbles. There was a large circle surrounding a large head that had long, spindly tendrils, leaving a cavernous mouth. The thing had slits for eyes, and there was a gleam to the flesh of the beast. It was like a halo over it, and Mark couldn’t help but admire the drawing. 

Then, he turned the page to find another one. He was suspicious, but the drawings were aged and marked with a date from several years ago. This drawing had a clearer face image, showing the tall, slimy forehead. The slits for eyes were open, bulbous, and consumed with black charcoal. The tendrils leaked down the paper like Y/n had switched to paint halfway through.

After that sketch, it returned to an image of a mountain waterfall.

“…Huh. So you’re telling me you saw this shit coming too?”

“Hardly. I thought they were nothing but recurring dreams until now.”

“Well, let me get some food. I think there’s a spare sleeping bag in the back, too.”

Mark rose and weaved around Y/n. Y/n remained still, grabbing their notebook back and getting lost in thought.

They thought about how long they would be able to stay, especially in the company of Mark. Another person meant the distribution of resources, but Mark could also see and shoot. Y/n figured their thoughts were selfish, but the world would probably be much prettier without fellow humans polluting it. Yn didn’t care much bout life, but cared enough that they refused to commit suicide. Y/n wondered if their father was alive —

Y/n heard a door open and assumed Mark was returning. Mark returned with a box of Frosted Flakes and a rolled-up, far newer sleeping bag. 

A sense of safety and exhaustion reached Y/n as they silently munched on Frosted Flakes. The taste was slightly stale, and despite their typical pickiness, there was a sense of comfort. They came to terms calmly with the fact that the apocalypse was upon them. That meant that stale cereal, a warm sleeping bag, and a man with a gun weren’t the worst things in the world at that moment.

“You sure you aren’t possessed?” Mark yawned, perking up and cradling his pistol.

“He said ‘they’’ wanted to give me my eyes back. To give me true sight. The ma worshipped me as a god,” Y/n recalled with a pause. “I wish I was possessed because whatever they are seeing… it must be incredible.”

~~~

Y/n was awoken from a deep, terrifying slumber with animated shaking. “Wake the fuck up!” Mark bellowed. “What are you seeing?”

Y/n scrambled, sleep in their eyes. Mark was on top of things, scrambling for their paint palette and notebook. Y/n felt at them. Some terrified tears escaped their eyes as they scribbled roughly on the notebook paper. Mark was silent and watched carefully as Y/n drew, their gaze staring up fearfully and unknowingly making direct eye contact with Mark.

Y/n suddenly dropped the paint brush and panted. “This. I saw this.”

Y/n handed the notebook over. Some time had passed; according to Mark, they had rationed well, and a week or so had passed. Trust had formed between the two of them. Sometimes, Y/n dreamt and they drew. But based on the violence in their head, Mark must have known something was especially wrong with this one. Y/n often woke up with the sun, according to Mark, but Y/n had the sense that the sun was not up yet.

“I… hope I drew it right. I saw many, many people. A mob. They were walking down a road, dazed and enchanted. They’ve seen it.”

Mak analyzed the work intensely. He was still amazed at his comrade's ability and figured it would be his demise. But at least it kept him on his toes. It made for conversation, too. 

The image depicted rocky, cold, and dying terrain with stale grass and swamplands in the distance. A few abandoned, rotting cars were on a large, spacious road, which was covered in oddly detailed figures. The mob was walking, dazed, just as Y/n had described. The mob was thick, and despite their harmless and dumb expressions, they yielded weapons — anything from crowbars to hammers to guns. 

“That’s Dale. My coworker,” Mark stated, pointing to one of the figures. “We worked at the same local construction company for a while.”

“Local?”

“Local.”

The realization dawned on the pair. Mark examined the road further. “That same road. It’s the main road leading into town.”

“Fuck.”

“Do you know what that means? Why are they coming here?” Mark inquired carefully, perturbed by the situation.

“They’re… coming for me, I think. It won’t take a genius to realize that I moved. Please, we have to go somewhere else —“

“Jesus, I get it. Let’s pack what we can. We can go out to back. And, Y/n, I want you to wear this blindfold. Just in case.”

[heliosunny]

Hello, can I request a yandere gojo x reader who is celebrating their birthday?

(I know it may be an absurd request but today is my birthday baby🎉🥳🎁🎂)

That's all folks (⁠⌐⁠■⁠-⁠■⁠)🎉

ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ,<)~✩‧₊HPBD! HPBD! HPBD!!!

Yandere!Gojo x Reader

The party was in full swing. Music thrummed through the air, laughter echoed in the small, dimly lit room, and the scent of cake and alcohol mixed with the faintest trace of sweat from dancing bodies. You sat among your friends, enjoying the warmth of the celebration despite the bittersweet reason behind it—Haru, your closest friend, was flying back to his home country tomorrow.

"Happy early birthday, Y/N!" someone called out, and another cheer erupted.

You laughed, taking a sip of your drink, but a strange sensation prickled at the back of your neck—like someone was watching you. You brushed it off. Probably just your imagination.

Then, the door creaked open.

A tall figure stepped inside, dressed in casual yet strangely elegant clothes. Silvery-white hair glowed under the soft lighting and ice-blue eyes that locked onto you.

"Oh? Wrong room—" he started, but then tilted his head, a smirk curling on his lips. "Oh wait… I’m in the right room."

At that moment, you didn't know he was the one whose presence you had felt for weeks—watching, lingering in the shadows, leaving small, unsettling "gifts" near your doorstep with a card always signed under the name Gojo Satoru.

Haru stood up sharply, stepping between you and him. "Who the hell are you?" he snapped, glaring. "Get lost."

"Oh? And who might you be?" he asked, stepping forward, hands casually in his pockets.

"None of your damn business." Haru shot back.

Your friends looked between each other, unsure of what was happening. The tension was suffocating.

Then, in a blink— Haru’s body hit the floor.

A collective scream ripped through the air as blood pooled beneath him, his eyes wide and empty.

"Oops." Gojo feigned surprise, bringing a bloodstained hand to his lips as if he had merely spilled a drink. "Ahh, I really didn’t like how he was talking to me." His gaze flickered to you, and his smile widened. "You don’t need him, do you, sweetheart? After all, I went through so much trouble to make today special for you."

He stepped closer, his fingers grazing your cheek, smearing a streak of red across your skin.

"Happy birthday, Y/N."

Your hands trembled as you pushed against Gojo’s chest, trying to shove him away, but it was like pressing against an immovable force.

"Get away from me!"

"Oh? But I just got here, sweetheart."

A few of your friends snapped out of their shock. One of them—a guy named Kenji—grabbed a half-full wine bottle from the table and swung it hard at Gojo’s head. The glass shattered on impact, spraying shards and red liquid everywhere.

Kenji staggered back in horror. "What the hell…"

No blood. No wound. Not even a scratch.

Gojo’s gaze flickered toward the others. "That’s not very polite" he murmured, taking a step forward. "Should I teach you some manners?"

His fingers twitched, and a sudden, suffocating pressure filled the air.

"STOP!"

Your voice cracked as you screamed, stepping between Gojo and your terrified friends.

"I’ll do whatever you say—just don’t hurt them."

"Now that’s more like it."

Before you could continue, his fingers curled around your wrist. In an instant, the entire world blurred. Your vision warped, colors streaking past like paint smeared across a canvas.

The scent of blood was gone. The sound of panicked screams had vanished.

A luxurious apartment stretched before you—elegant, modern, and eerily quiet. The furniture was pristine, as if no one truly lived here. The city skyline sparkled beyond massive glass windows, the view breathtakingly high.

Gojo let go of your wrist, stretching lazily. "There. Much better, right?"

Your body refused to move, still trapped in shock. "Where… where are we?"

"My place," he said simply, then smirked. "Well, your place too now."

"Why are you doing this?"

Gojo turned to face you fully.

"Because," he said, stepping closer, "I’ve been watching you for a while now, Y/N."

"And I decided…" His voice dipped into something softer, "You belong to me."

The air felt suffocating, heavy with an unsettling sweetness. You sat at an extravagant dining table, its surface decorated with candles, balloons, and an elegantly crafted birthday cake—one that you knew you hadn’t ordered.

Gojo sat across from you, grinning ear to ear, holding a golden paper crown between his fingers.

"Can’t have a birthday party without the birthday royalty, right?" he mused. Before you could avoid his presence, he reached forward and placed the crown on your head.

You forced a tight-lipped smile, though every fiber of your being was screaming.

Haru’s lifeless eyes flashed in your mind. The shattered wine bottle. The suffocating power that pressed down on your friends like they were nothing.

You had no choice.

Gojo clapped his hands together, eyes practically sparkling. "Alright! Time for the best part." He struck a match, lighting the candles one by one, the small flames flickering in the dimly lit room.

"Happy birthday to you~"

His voice was smooth, playful, but the way his eyes never left yours made the simple song feel like a curse.

"Happy birthday, dear Y/N~"

You swallowed hard, fingers clenching in your lap.

"Happy birthday to you."

Gojo leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm. "Go on, sweetheart. Make a wish."

A wish? The only thing you wanted right now was to get out of here—to be anywhere but in this suffocating, twisted version of a celebration.

But you knew better.

Taking a slow breath, you shut your eyes and pretended to make a wish before blowing out the candles. The flames flickered before vanishing, leaving behind only the scent of melting wax.

"Perfect!" He picked up a knife, effortlessly cutting into the cake. "You know, I really went all out for this," he rambled, carefully placing a slice onto a pristine plate. "I mean, it’s not easy planning a party when your special someone decides to have their own little get-together without you."

The knife pressed down harder, the blade sinking too deep into the cake, almost as if he was imagining something—or someone—else beneath it.

"But that’s okay," he continued, "I mean, misunderstandings happen, right? We just need to communicate more. Spend time together."

He set the plate in front of you, tilting his head with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"Don’t you think so, Y/N?"

There was only one right answer.

"...Yes."

"That’s what I love about you," he said, sliding his own slice onto a plate before handing you a fork. "You’re so understanding."

As you forced yourself to take a bite, the sweetness of the cake felt like poison on your tongue.

The cake was soft, fluffy, and undoubtedly made with the finest ingredients. And yet, each bite felt like swallowing sand.

You forced yourself to chew, to keep your face neutral as Gojo continued to ramble—his words a mix of delusion and genuine adoration.

"See? Isn’t this nice?" he mused, twirling his fork between his fingers. "Just the two of us. No unnecessary distractions. No one getting in the way."

He was talking about Haru. About your friends. About anyone who dared to stand between you and him.

You had to try.

"You know," you started, carefully setting your fork down, "this… isn’t normal."

His brows lifted in amusement. "Oh?"

"You can’t just… take people like this. Kill people..." you said, your voice shaking slightly despite trying to stay calm. "This isn’t love. It’s obsession."

Gojo hummed, "Obsession… love… aren’t they kind of the same thing?"

"No," you said firmly. "They’re not."

For a moment, he said nothing, simply tilting his head as if pondering your words. Then, he chuckled. "You’re adorable when you try to sound logical, you know that?"

"But sweetheart…" His fingers brushed against yours, making you flinch. "If you really thought I was a monster, you wouldn’t still be sitting here with me."

"W-Well, what choice do I have?"

Gojo grinned, tapping a finger against his temple. "See? You do get it."

Carefully, you pushed your chair back, giving him an apologetic look. "I need to use the restroom."

Gojo pouted but waved you off. "Don’t take too long, okay?"

You nodded, making your way to the hallway. The moment you were out of sight, your mind raced.

Where even were you?

You had no idea what building this was, what floor you were on, or if there was even a way out. The windows had looked thick, possibly reinforced. Your phone was gone. No one knew where you were.

You needed to buy yourself time. If he suspected you were planning to escape, he’d make sure you never had the chance again.

Your eyes darted around the room—then landed on the mirror.

Desperate, you grabbed the edge of a small glass perfume bottle sitting on the counter and smashed it against the sink. A sharp shard clattered into your palm, and before you could second-guess yourself, you dragged it across your fingers.

Pain seared through your hand, crimson dripping onto the sink.

You clenched your teeth, steadying your breath.

Footsteps.

He was coming.

Quickly, you dropped the glass and stumbled against the counter just as the door creaked open.

Gojo stood in the doorway, "You sure took your time," he said, stepping closer. Then, his sharp gaze flickered to your hand.

"Y/N…"

"I-It was an accident. I—there was a glass bottle, and I—"

He grabbed your wrist, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the way his fingers trembled. He stared at the wound, his gaze flickering between suspicion and something… else that terrified you more than ever.

Silently, he pulled out a small first-aid kit from a drawer and began wrapping your fingers with careful precision.

"You're so clumsy"

When he finished, he lifted your bandaged hand to his lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against your fingertips.

His gaze lifted, piercing blue eyes locking onto yours.

"...You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, sweetheart?"

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears as Gojo’s lips lingered against your bandaged fingers. His question hung heavy in the air.

"O-Of course not. It was just an accident."

Gojo hummed, tilting his head slightly, as if deciding whether to believe you. Then, he smiled—a lazy, lopsided grin, but something about it felt sharper than before.

"Good." He finally released your hand and straightened up. "You should be more careful. I’d hate to see you hurt… At least, by anything other than me."

How do you escape?

You swallowed hard, keeping your face neutral as you followed him back into the main room. If you made one wrong move, one hint that you were planning something… you wouldn’t even get the chance to try.

You played along for the next hour, letting him talk, laughing softly at his jokes—even pretending to eat more cake. But as he kept talking, you subtly observed the apartment, noting every possible exit.

Your eyes flickered to the balcony.

It was high up—probably way too high to jump—but maybe there was a way down. A ledge, a fire escape, anything.

You just had to get to it.

The opportunity came when Gojo stretched his arms with a lazy yawn. "Man, all this talking is making me thirsty." He glanced toward the kitchen. "Want something to drink?"

You hesitated, then nodded. "Water, please."

Gojo smirked, ruffling your hair. "So polite~" He disappeared into the kitchen.

The moment he was out of sight, you darted toward the balcony, your heartbeat slamming against your ribs. Your fingers fumbled with the lock before finally yanking the door open. Cold air rushed against your skin as you stepped out.

No fire escape. No ledge. Just a sheer drop.

No. No, there had to be something—

"Sweetheart."

Slowly, you turned your head.

Gojo stood in the doorway, a glass of water in one hand. His blindfold was back on, but you could still feel the weight of his gaze.

For the first time since you met him, his smile was gone.

"…What exactly do you think you’re doing?"

Your mouth went dry.

Your body screamed at you to run, but where? There was nowhere to go. If you stepped off this balcony, you'd fall to your death. But if you stayed—

Gojo sighed, stepping closer, setting the glass down on a table. "You know, I really thought we were making progress"

In a blink, he was in front of you.

"Are you scared of me, Y/N?" he asked softly.

Your throat tightened. "Shouldn’t I be?"

Gojo was silent for a moment. Then, he exhaled, pulling you closer until your forehead almost touched his chest.

"That hurts."

"But it’s okay," he continued, stroking your hair as if to soothe you. "I can be patient. You’ll learn to love me eventually."

You squeezed your eyes shut.

"Let’s go back inside," he whispered. "You must be cold."

No.

If you went back in, you knew you’d never get another chance.

Your body moved before your mind could catch up.

With every ounce of strength you had, you jerked out of his grip and threw yourself over the balcony railing.

The wind roared in your ears.

For a brief, terrifying moment, you were falling.

And then—

Everything stopped.

You didn’t hit the ground.

You didn’t even get the chance to scream.

Because the moment gravity tried to take you, he took you back.

You were back on the balcony, your body hanging limply in his arms.

Gojo sighed, pressing your trembling form against him. "Wow," he mused, voice eerily light. "You really were gonna do it, huh?"

You couldn’t speak.

Your entire body shook violently, still trapped in the lingering horror of the fall that never happened.

"That wasn’t very nice, sweetheart," he murmured. "You scared me."

You knew he wasn’t scared. If anything, he seemed amused—disappointed, even, like a parent watching their child throw a tantrum.

His arms tightened around you. "Guess I’ll have to be a little stricter now, huh?"

The last thing you remembered from that night was his line

"I’ll fix this, don’t worry."

A dull ache throbbed at the back of your head as you crouched up from your position.

You blinked slowly, your vision swimming as the ceiling above you came into focus.

You tried to move—only to hear the unmistakable clank of metal.

The door soon opened and Gojo stepped inside.

"Good morning, sweetheart." His tone was too bright—too cheerful for someone who had just chained you up like an animal.

You trembled, trying to pull at the restraints. "Let me go—"

"Let you go?" he repeated. Then, in a heartbeat, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand gripping your chin, tilting your face up to meet his.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, "After what you just pulled?"

His thumb brushed against your lower lip.

"You belong to me now."

Gojo smiled, "And don’t worry~" His lips brushed against your forehead, making you freeze.

"I have all the time in the world to make sure you understand that."

[coveofsecrets]

@kiyoahdiy requested: “Platonic yandere Shanks as the father of the reader, but the reader is a marine and serves in the Navy, the complete opposite of her father.”

─── ✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

“𝙵𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍”

-> Platonic!yandere!Shanks x reader

-> Warnings: small descriptions of violence, kidnapping, possible ooc-ness, this is written with daughter reader in mind for the request but no pronouns were used across the fic.

-> Word count: 2.4k

-> Yipppeeee my first request!!! Wehehehe thank you for requesting <3. Ngl considering Shanks MINIMAL FUCKING SCREEN TIME, this was a bit difficult, but I’m proud of it nontheless! I think?? Idk. Tbh, I’m not too proud of this??? Not a huge fan of it, but here we go!!! Augh

─── ✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

There are clouds over your head.

Drifting about the overhead stream, they are much like plankton, not using any energy to defy where the currents take them.

Lazy, but at the same time, beautiful.

The thin, spread-out clouds, providing drops of paint to the canvas of blue up above; the white mists barely count as brushstrokes, moreso faint dabs along the board.

Despite their little abundance, they're a wonderful addition to the painting.

“There you are!”

The warmth of a much bigger person appears next to you; warmth that's plentiful, unlike what’s above.

“Been awhile since I last saw you- I was starting to get worried! Turns out you were here all along.” A bark of laughter comes from the bigger person. “Whatcha out here, for? See something interesting?”

A heavy hand patting your head, your attention is ripped away from the clouds, to the one behind you.

…huh.

Red hair gently flying with the wind; similar to the plankton-like clouds high up.

“Pretty.”

A simple answer from you, unknown if it’s about the mist or the person’s hair, but it’s one your dad takes.

The man hums, “Yeah?”

“Mhm. It looks… It looks like one of those paintings. Like the one we saw in, uh…”

What was that island called again?

A small groan from you, head tilting to the side as you try your best to remember the name of that place.

Hm…

Suddenly, as if a sharp rock has hit the back of your head, the name comes to you.

“Pomerine!”

Shanks laughs.

No warning given, he laughs.

Not just a small chuckle- no, that’s not how he laughs. It’s always a loud, boisterous guffaw that bursts from his stomach; the kind of laugh you’d hear at a party, a gathering for him, his crew, and anybody who wants to join.

Instead of joining in, you bristle, shoulders tensing as you shout “Stop laughing! Isn’t that the name?!”

To your question, there is no answer.

He just continues to cackle endlessly, the sound echoing across the ship, his joy reaching to touch the world.

Yet, despite its spread, the clouds do not care. They just continue to drift along the sky, lazily drifting past the both of you.

Free, unbothered, unshackled.

Much like you, now.

“Cadet?”

A voice; soft fall of the snow, gentle cracking of a fireplace; fills your ear.

Turning to look at the one in a higher position than you, pink glasses reflecting the sun, white coat draped over broad shoulders; you salute.

“Yes, commander?” You hum.

Sea-touched eyebrows furrow, a look of concern washing over her face. “A- are you alright? You’ve been standing here f- for a while now….” Her concern quietly brought up, as if afraid to express her opinion.

A while?

In turn, your own eyebrows furrow.

Didn’t I just get here?

“Really?” Your tongue too slow for your mind, you practically drawl, “Sorry commander, must’ve…” a yawn, “must’ve lost track of time.”

“A- are you sure? You weren’t even here for lunch…”

Lunch?

Aw, man.

Being able to indulge as much as you want, tasting cooking that’s not your own- lunch is your favorite time of the day, and you didn’t even get to indulge in that?

An “Oh.” is all that leaves you, but the disappointment is evident.

“I- it’s okay, though!” To contrast your own sorrow, Tashigi’s tone lifts up. “I saved you some food!” Gloved hands reaching up, a bowl of soup comes into view.

Oh.

Daisies bloom inside your chest.

How kind.

“…thank you, Commander.” You take the bowl, bringing it to your lips.

As usual, it’s delicious.

No matter how the dish may vary- less spices, more water, a bit raw- whoever the chef may be always cooks the signature soup beautifully. In fact, these differences, these imperfections, are what make it yummy.

To your thanks, Tashigi smiles.

Soft socks against cold feet, cool rags against sweaty foreheads.

Her smile’s nice.

To be honest, the entirety of G5’s smiles are nice.

Lips pulled back to show a sneer, lips pulling up to a shy grin, lips pulling down to hide their joy; they’re all so, so different, but so, so enjoyable.

Here, in the Marines, everything’s different. Every day is different, and that’s truly enjoyable.

One day, you could be going about your regular cadet drills, and then another, you could be engaged in a bloody battle with the enemy.

Like right now.

Wait, what?

In a blink, everything’s changed.

All around you, your cremates are running, shouting orders, loading cannons- blasts of those are too close to your ears, sound akin to thunder in a storm.

How did it-?

In your hands, there is a cannon ball, and you find yourself placing it into its holder, lighting the fuel, and covering your ears.

Another strike of lighting, to the enemy ship.

That ship is like any other; big, brown, and with people standing at the end, scrambling around and shouting things at one another.

Oh…

You zoned out again.

God, why do you zone out so much?

It’s been a problem for… awhile, now. Even on the previous ship you boarded, you’d always space off to god knows where. No matter what’s happening- no matter how fun, new, or interesting- you will always find a way to detach yourself from the world.

Well.

Not like it matters, now.

Right now, you have a job to do, and that is loading the cannons to fire at the enemy.

“Vice Admiral-!” A Petty Officer, Gal, calls out, “The Red Hair Pirates’-”

Red Hair Pirates?

Ice-cold nails graze your brain.

“-sails are bowsing! I think they’re planning to engage!”

Bowsing?

The Red Hair Pirates?

Engage?

The crew of an Emperor?

Your father’s crew?

That-

No.

That doesn’t seem right.

That doesn’t seem right at all-

They’re not a type to engage unless necessary, or if they want to talk with the other ship, and as far as you know, there’s nothing to talk about with Marines, so to intend engagement…

Those ice-cold nails against your cerebellum start to stab into the flesh.

“That right?”

The quiet rumble of sea emperors, the loud cry of shoebills.

It’s Vice Admiral Smoker.

Standing in front of the captain’s cabin, facing his underlings, what he says is easily heard by everyone on deck.

What he says easily throws ice-cold water over your head.

“All men, get ready for an on-deck battle!”

Bile rushes up your throat.

“This is not your average pirate we’re facing, but an Emperor! Be on guard, and take them down at all costs!”

They don’t know what they’re up against!

”No matter what, do not let them gain the upper hand. This might be the chance to take down an Emperor of the Sea!”

They’re going to die-!

Compared to your own thoughts, though, the bloodthirsty cries make them feel as if they are nothing.

Swords raised, guns held high; your crew is excited.

Such is the nature of g5.

Violent, crude, and disgusting; all of those traits are combined into one lovable group, the sect more than any average pirate can handle.

But the Red Hair pirates aren’t average.

Whereas every other pirate crew is a fly, the billion-bounty crew is the stars themselves.

Unreachable, only able to be seen at rare moments- and when they are, it’s best hoped they haven’t incurred the fire’s wrath, else a person will be incinerated by them.

It’s too much for G5 to handle.

The meat they drool for will only devour them, their much longer fangs and talons digging into G5’s flesh, forcing them to regret the stupid decision they have made.

They will keel.

Keel, to the might of the Red-Hair pirates.

Keel, to the might of Shanks.

Keel, to the might of your dad.

You don’t want that to happen.

After finally escaping his clutches, hopping from ship to ship, and finding people you love, you can’t let all of it be torn from your hands.

You can’t let them be torn from your hands.

Just like that.

Like an adult stealing candy from a baby, like a bird feeding its young, like a mosquito sucking out blood.

Easily.

I don’t-

Your lungs start to shrivel up.

I can’t-

Your vision becomes blurry.

I- I-!

Your hands start to go numb.

I-!

You can’t do anything.

As much as you want to stop them, to somehow talk them into not picking a fight they cannot win, you know you won’t be able to.

You know you’re powerless in this situation.

So all you can do, in this situation, is help.

Try to help, because in a fight, in a democracy, in any sort of situation, the more numbers, the better.

Even if it’s one, even if it’s a number that is ultimately useless, maybe, just maybe, your small addition could do something.

Maybe it can turn the tide.

It’s a small chance- a chance that not even a gambling addict would take- but it’s a chance.

For any opportunity to keep your freedom, you’ll take anything.

Forcing your lungs to expand, fighting past the blurry vision, hesitant hands grab at the sword strapped on your hip, unsheathing it to hold it up with the rest of your crew.

The weapon points towards the clouds, unbound and unshackled.

Maybe… like I’ll continue to be, if we win this.

Or maybe not.

In the end, your number was useless.

The tens of numbers were useless.

The numbers, known for being relentless, were useless.

You’ve all lost.

Against the desert of the Red Hair Pirates, they were nothing but a speck of sand in the crew’s domain.

Bradycardia in a dog, carbon dioxide in a human.

Even Vice-Admiral Smoker and Tashigi, the strongest people in your sect, are out.

It wasn’t even to the might of the entire crew; it was just one person.

One singular piece, one molecule, which was the head.

Emperor of the Sea, Red-Haired Shanks, your father.

Your father.

At the end of this carnage, he stands; red hair sticking out amongst the brown flooring underneath him, cape blacking out the people on the floor, expression grossly contrasting against the scene.

Shanks is smiling.

Smiling.

Loose and careless, eyes crinkled, he has the face of nothing more than a cocky bastard who knows he’s won.

A cocky bastard that, with one ant left out of the whole colony, can kick his feet up and savor a cold beer, relaxing with the bulk of the threat gone.

A lax giant, facing a terrified ant.

Back painfully pressed against the railing, shallow breaths puffed through your throat, hands shaking around the hilt of your sword…

You’re scared.

You’re so, so scared.

You could practically die of fright, of your heart beating too fast please stop please just stop it stop beating so fast it HURTS-

He speaks.

“Hey, bud-” his voice is a soft murmur against the raging sea- “Been awhile since I last saw you, huh?” He sounds… tired.

A man who has gone through the worst, braving cold and heat, fighting friend and foe, trudging through declining sanity; all that, to find who he holds dear to him.

You don’t know why, but that thought scares you even more.

Something about that man never stopping, never letting himself be swayed by his own bodily needs to the point of being driven to a state that’s barely alive…

You were never going to be out of his grasp for long.

A wheeze is brought out of your mouth, expanding your throat far more than it needs to; a bad response, unclear on what exactly you feel, but it’s a response he takes.

“I-” you start, only to be interrupted by Shanks.

“I’ve missed you, y’know?” Hairy hands come up to you, and for some odd reason, despite how much you want to, you can’t stop it.

It’s as if those nails from before have moved past your skull, spreading its icy wrath across your body, starting by freezing your bones.

For that, you can’t move.

No matter how much you will yourself to, all your body can do for you, is stay still.

Stay still, until the threat passes; still, until the predator leaves the area; still, because running or fighting will be pointless.

His hands caress the skin of your face.

The contact made, red eyes widen, dark bags underneath highlighted, before the organs of sight are forced to relax.

“Aw, cmon,” Shanks chuckles, “There’s no need to look at me like that…” His voice is now… shaky.

Afraid.

“I just wanted to make sure you’re safe.”

His hands feel so warm.

So secure.

So tight.

You want to get away from it, you need to get away from it, you can’t take it anymore-!

However, your muscles won’t respond, the bones holding them together stuck in place- locked into each other, preventing anything from moving.

The smile of your father widens, reaching so far up that his eyes crinkle.

Something’s wrong.

When Shanks smiles- genuinely smiles- his face glows. Gums exposed, teeth bared together, eyebrows high up his forehead and eye crinkles reaching across his face.

This one… this one, though… his teeth aren’t anywhere to be seen, his eyebrows almost cover his eyes, and those crinkles are nowhere to be seen. His face is no longer the sun you once knew, but a version that’s hidden behind the clouds; dark and unknown.

“Let’s go back home, yeah?”

Those words.

That phrase.

The tone.

Finally, you’ve snapped out of your petrification, bones shattering the wall of ice around it, and-

“Wait-”

A pathetic whimper, so small and meek, comes out of you as you step back; shuffle back, really.

That small shuffle is met with a wide step, multiple more following soon after.

The panic in his voice does not match his walking. The Emperor moves slow, steady.

Orca to squid, human to rabbit.

“Please-”

But how much can begging do, when they fall on willfully closed ears?

Nothing.

Thus, the strong arms of Red-Haired Shanks pick you up, bringing you close to his chest.

Away from liberty, closer to isolation.

Once more, you’ll go back to how it was.

Once more, you won’t be able to see the clouds as you please.

Once more, you’ll be safe.

After so long, your dear old daddy has you back, and this time, he’ll never let go.

[neuvilette-tea-party]

(Do ignore my ask if this makes you uncomfortable)

I'm OBSESSED with your Steb fics 💜 I already request for another author to make this scenario but Idk how this works and how long it will take sooo - Imagine this, reader is a selkie and was found beached near Steb's patrol area, he used his medical knowledge to aid them.

Now the fun part is, this fishman is a Yandere - he heard of selkies and hid their seal skin and used the excuse of "sorry it was hard to patch you up with it in my way" (I'm thinking of Steb who speaks sign language and reader automatically understands him). Since he's the quiet type no one, not even Caitlyn suspects him or his crimes. You can do whatever you want with the ending if you're comfortable to take my ask 💜

How did you know I wrote Yandere? Can people smell it on me or what 🤣? Sorry for the delay, here's your Yandere Steb anon!

▪──── ⚔ Steb x Gn!reader ⚔ ────▪

Tags : Yandere behavior and tendencies

Steb wipes his hands, turning back to you, sleeping peacefully under the drug influence. He silently observes, entranced by the vision. 

You are magnificent... Simply magnificent... 

He found you on the shore of Piltover, passed out on the sand, at everyone’s mercy... As a medic, he immediately jumped into action, jumping over the guardrails and sliding down the sand dune to reach you.  

No life was yet lost under his care, and he did not intend to start losing some now! He just wished Maddie was here to help, depending on your state he could have needed a second pair of hands for assistance. He kneeled next to your still form, searching for open wounds on your flanks and back before gently rolling you, revealing your face to his gaze. 

And that he should not have... 

The second he laid eyes on your face he went still like electrocuted, shocked beyond belief. 

Was it possible?  

Was such perfection truly of this world? 

Could so many wonderful features melt into the perfect face? Bringing to life what artists pained to illustrate on canvas and carve into stone? Centuries of artistic research for the most pleasing face are now useless and dated for he found the most beautiful being on Runeterra 

In his daze, Steb managed to get a hold of himself and check the rest of your body for possible wounds, leading him to take a weird layer of fur off your hips and legs that he intently detailed, a murmur in his head prompting him that it was important. 

And it was... 

Memories of old stories flooded back into his mind, his grandpa narrating to him stories of lost sailors to sea succubs... 

A Selkie 

A seducer from the seas. 

Trembling in fear and excitement, he brought the fur to his face and buried his nose in the hair to inhale deeply, letting the notes of salted water and musk invade his lungs so deeply, making his head spin with pure pleasure. 

A well-adjusted person would kick you back into the sea or strangle you on the spot. But any person laying eyes on a selkie’s face ceases to be well adjusted, for their will is now bent by the sea creature. 

And Steb laid eyes on your face, bringing doom upon himself... 

He smiled to himself, a wonder of the sea washed on the shore to grace his life... To illuminate his days and flavor his years. 

What miracle, what bliss, what- 

“Steb? Are you all right down there?” Maddie’s voice resonated, calling him back brutally to reality. 

He looked over his shoulder to see Maddie and Caitlyn, back from their own patrol and ready to finish their shift in their usual cafe. 

“Do you need help? Are they okay?” Caitly asked, already hoping over the guardrail to join him. 

Steb hastily and modestly covered your naked body with his blue jacket and hid your face with your fur. 

He... He cannot let them see! Let them see his pearl, his treasure! They would try to separate you two! To tear you both apart! 

They would lie and say it is for your good but they would keep you for themself! He... He must protect you! At all costs! From everyone! Anyone! 

He snaked his arm under you and lifted you up bridal style with ease and climbed the dune back under Maddie’s and Caitlyn’s attentive gazes. They rushed to him, already craving you for themself and ready to steal you from him! 

He had to maintain his self-control to not sprint away with you secured in his embrace, they would have definitely known what precious package he had. 

“Dear gods, are they... dead?” Caitlyn demanded discovering your limp form. 

Steb was about to hiss at her to make her back down, but... 

He gravely nodded to his superior, stopping her from taking the jacket off your face. 

“Oh... That’s why you covered their face... What a tragedy... I am sorry you had to discover them Steb, it is never a nice experience...” She let her hand fall back to her side with a pained expression, “Those waters are so treacherous...” 

Steb nodded once again before clearing his throat. 

“Of course, Steb. Take them away, you know what to do. I hope we will find their family quickly, the news will not be easy to bring.” 

He felt his cheek fins waving uncontrollably before forcing them still. He slightly bowed to his two partners and turned away from them, walking away with his heart in a frenzy. 

He did it! 

He protected you! 

But now he has the entire city to cross and as many dangers...  

He will protect you! Until his dying breath! 

Steb takes a deep breath and sits down next to you, observing you with delight. Behind him the open fire burns bright, illuminating the room and offering a nice warmth. He immediately locked the door of his house and locked all the shutters. He laid you down on his own bed... 

Well, your bed now! You will share it from now on.  

He puts his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees, and just... observes, looks, details, takes in all the magnificence of your appearance, feeling his mouth stretching into a satisfied smile. 

Oh, you are just so beautiful... And also so fragile, he will need to watch over you all the time! To keep you safe and sound. So many people rotted to the core run across the city, he cannot let your purity get soiled by evil and ill people! 

You must be protected at all costs!  

For now, you need to heal! He checked your entire body with great application, he saw no wounds and detected no internal bleeding.  

Somehow, someway, you lost consciousness. 

Maybe a blood disease? He will run some tests later. 

He spins his head toward his door when a soft purr starts to close until... He almost burst out laughing! HE is purring! He is so overjoyed to have met you he forgot himself! But it is also so pleasant to purr without restraint, especially after meeting his true love. 

He is sure now, that you are made to be together! Two forever, against everyone else! You will be his treasure and he your shield. 

He gently takes your hand and brings it to his lips and tenderly kisses your fingertips reverently. Oh you are so cold, mon amour! You will warm up soon enough! He intertwines your fingers together and admires your two hands locked together. 

So simple, so beautiful, a promise... A vow. 

His fins wave as you let out a moan, slowly awaking. He tenderly caresses a strand of hair behind your ear as you frown in discomfort, blinking your eyes. 

He pushes his chair closer, his heart pumping like a machine, you’re about to lock eyes for the very first time! He... He is not ready! He needs to...! He has to...! 

His heart skips several beats when you pour your gaze into his ocean eyes. What a wonderful color... He never saw such a shade in someone’s eyes before, you are incredible! Simply wonderful! 

You gasp as you discover Steb, looking at you like a lovebird, your hand locked with his. You harshly take it off in a desperate attempt to protect yourself. Instead of getting mad, Steb keeps smiling, his fins waving like crazy, prey of an intense inner turmoil. He immediately starts signing, explaining how he found you lying on the beach, unconscious and defenseless, and how he immediately rushed to you to help and... 

You lose interest in his gibberish and look around the room, illuminated only by the fire, and you... Wince 

It smells horrible in here! Like... burnt hair! Like...! 

You immediately lift the covers off yourself, searching frantically until Steb grabs your face between his two hands, with a gentle smile and sparkly eyes. You gulp as his third eyelids blink, he appears so pleased. 

He gently turns your head toward the fire... And you cannot refrain the scream escaping you. 

Your fur! Your fur! Your liberty! Your freedom! Your... 

Steb immediately presses you against his tall body in a soothing manner, caressing your hair and kissing the top of your head as he feels your sharp nails digging into the flesh of his arms to let you go. 

You struggle in his embrace with sobs and fury, but he doesn’t let go, welcoming your scratches and bites as many delicate and soft caress that he will forever hold close to his heart... 

Oh mon coeur... Jamais je ne te laisserais partir, c'est toi et moi jusqu'à la fin...

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 31 all chapters

WARNING: NSFW, SEXUAL CONTENT, YANDERE SH!T. Plz take care. I luv u all. 😘

 Maybe it’s silly, but you feel as though you have a new lease on life, in the days that follow.

John is still undeniably clingy, but so very sweet. It is a much easier form of obsession to bear.

You are still a prisoner, but at least you feel loved.

Perhaps even more precious, you begin to feel safe.

Whatever possessive madness gripped him before seems to have receded for now, and maybe you’re a fool, but you dare hope in time he might make a full recovery.

Now that you’ve reached a sort of understanding, John seems bent on making up for lost time. There is no doubt that you are still his prey, but now he ambushes you with the express intention of making you cum—whether you like it or not.

Again, you find yourself begging him for reprieve, though this time through laughter rather than tears. He swallows your protests with devouring kisses, eating your cries whole as he slides his long fingers inside you and works your clit masterfully with his thumb.

When you complain of your difficulty sitting down, a gift of a hemorrhoids donut pillow appears. You think he meant it as a joke.

John likes to give gifts, you find.

When one day you walk into your studio to find a bejeweled set of headphones bedecked like a crown, you cannot help but grin like an idiot. It is ridiculous what those fucking things cost, and you’d thought you’d been clever about concealing your enchantment with them in Italy, but nothing escapes John Wick’s sharp eye.

When he finds you later wearing your new coronet, singing out of tune while you put paint down on canvas, he presses you into the worktable with his hips and his kisses, going down on his knees before you with a murmur of, “My beautiful queen.” His words make your knees weak, as does his insatiable tongue in your slit. It’s all so much, and when you beg him to take you there on the table he is all too happy to oblige, scattering your pastels in a rainbow of projectiles with a sweep of his arm before driving himself inside you. With legs wrapped around his waist in a desperate effort to hold on, you take the fury of his adoration with a cock-drunk smile.

If you learned anything in the darker times before, it is that this man is a predator to the bone, and no matter what his mood, he loves a good chase. It becomes your favorite game, and it starts one evening when you splash him while doing the dishes. The look of surprise on his face is priceless, and with a screech you run for the stairs.

You only get so far as the living room before he catches you, his arm like a band of iron around your waist hauling you from your feet entirely. It happens too fast to register, but by some form of ninja magic you are suddenly on the floor, the lean length of his body on top of you. On the plush oriental rug with his thick cock inside you, this man makes you see God. 

It feels alarmingly, magnificently, terrifyingly, like truly making love.

“Has anyone ever loved you, the way I do?” he demands desperately, filling you impossibly to the brim.  

“Never,” you barely manage to answer, the force of his thrust stealing your breath away. 

The next question is much more vulnerable. 

“Have you ever loved anyone, the way you love me?”

“Never.”

It’s true, and in the softening of his gaze you dare to hope that someday he will believe you enough.

It is surprising, how quickly the time passes. Despite the circumstances, it is not terribly hard to live with John Wick, like this. He is sweet, and loving, and he spoils you rotten. You could almost mistake your relationship for normal—if one didn’t look too hard at the locks on all the doors. 

Soon summer is fading, giving way to the golden hours of early fall. You see it out the window, but since your little car ride, you still have not been allowed outside. You’re an outdoorsy girl, and frankly, it’s starting to drive you a little crazy. You find yourself clawing at the impenetrable windows with a sigh.

John’s mood has been steady, but your heart is still in your throat when you dare ask, “John, can we go out?”

He looks up from his book, the fall of his dark hair covering half his face as he cants his head in thought. They say familiarity breeds contempt, but even after all this close proximity, you still find him beautiful. You do not think that will ever change.

“Why?” he finally asks, and you detect the shadow of suspicion in his tone.  

“Because I miss it.”

You used to hike every day off you had. Being indoors this long…is doing things to your brain.

You watch as his nostrils flare, his chest rising and falling as he considers this request. You can tell he doesn’t like the thought at all, but you force yourself to stand your ground. He won’t punish you for this, surely? Just for asking?

Of course, he might punish you for what you’ll do later, if the answer is no.

In the end he nods, though more to himself than to you. “I’ll think about it.”

“Think about it fast? The weather will be turning soon.”

The look he pays you then is less kind, his eyes sharp as glittering obsidian. “I said. I’ll think about it.”

You sigh, assuming the answer is no, and retreat to sulk in your studio. You are painting the view from your favorite outlook on the mountain trail nearby from memory when you start to hear an odd, rhythmic toque…toque sound, over and over.

You go downstairs, searching for the source. No dice in the living room or the kitchen. You follow your ears to the bank of windows off the living room. There’s another door (locked, of course) that leads to a patio. You see John outside…chopping wood? Watching the pine rounds explode under the sharp blade of an axe in his hands shouldn’t be this fascinating, but you find yourself pressed to the window, transfixed. The definition in the muscles of his forearms as he swings down are a sight to behold.

You’re not sure he can see you, the way the glass is mirrored on the outside, but you knock on the widow anyway. He looks up at you with narrowed eyes at first. Then, a small smile. It feels like a little gift, just for you, and it quickens your heart. Watching him do everyday things moves you, and you acknowledge to yourself uneasily for the umpteenth time that you’re in so deep.

As it turns out, the wood was for a little pit fire, which you sit together and watch with a glass of wine that evening out on the patio. The tall trees loom all around you, pitch black outside the ring of your little campfire. It feels so good to be out of the house, but it’s not quite what you wanted. As though he senses that you’re not exactly satisfied with his offering, John tries to distract you with his kisses, laying you down on the outdoor couch to wreck you with his mouth. You make love with your skin bared to the great outdoors, but no one to really see you in your seclusion. Later you snuggle under a soft blanket together.

Sated, you let it go, for now.  

-But John doesn’t forget, and one morning he wakes you early with kisses on your ear. “If you want to hike, we have to go now,” he tells you. You have become spoiled in your captivity, no longer at the mercy of coffee house hours, now used to sleeping through the morning after John keeps you up late with his kisses and his beautiful cock, but the offer of getting to really go outdoors has you up and at ‘em in minutes.

You find your old pair of broken-in Merrel hikers in the walk-in closet, and realize John must have accessed your possessions from your previous life at some point. It’s so strange to see them—you realize in the suspended reality of your current situation, you’ve almost written off everything that came before.

There is a distinct mental separation in your personal timeline—BW, and AW; Before Wick, and After Wick.

You have a quick breakfast and coffee before stepping outside, the sun just peeking over the horizon.

You can hardly describe the elation you feel, at last being allowed to walk out that front door like you are almost normal. You are so happy just to feel the morning air on your skin. You stand in the driveway like a simpleton, your face lifted to the sky, soaking in the sun. There is a cool breeze that smells of pine, and it is the sweetest thing you have inhaled in a long time.

John watches your reaction intensely, and you do not think you invent it, when you see a glimmer of guilt in his expressive mocha eyes. Intent on assuring him, you stand on tiptoe, pressing a kiss to his bearded chin with your front flush to his.

“Thank you,” you say, and he relaxes slightly against you, resting his forehead against yours.

You are practically skipping as you hit the trail in his woods that connects to the bigger loop. You cannot help but think about that day in the snow, when you met him, alone, on that very path. How easily he could have had you then. It is another clue that tells you he hadn’t decided yet—or he had not yet cracked.

This early, in the middle of the week, it isn’t likely you’ll meet anyone in the woods. You feel a trill of nervousness, as you wonder what would happen if you did. You have been kept to yourself for so long, the thought of contact with other people out in the world feels strange, a little frightening, even.

As you walk an exuberance overtakes you, fills you head to toe. It almost feels like you’re…free. The only contradiction to that is the tall man in black walking by your side. He has let you have free reign, not insisting on holding on to you. He doesn’t have to, you know. He could just run you down with those delectably long legs of his any time he wanted, surely.

That doesn’t mean the thought of it isn’t titillating, even if you absolutely know you would be destined to lose. Perhaps he truly has broken you at last, but you have come to love the game of chase too. It is your most exciting distraction in your world that is limited to the confines of the Wick cabin.

You are going to be sore the next day, you know. It’s been…forever, since you’ve been able to walk like this. The most exercise you’ve really gotten has been engaging in your sexcapades with John—as much of a workout as that is—it’s a different group of muscles.

Perhaps he does not insist on holding you, but it doesn’t stop you from reaching for him. You squeeze John’s hand in thank you.

Despite everything…it feels like a perfect day.

“Maybe this is far enough for today,” he says as you approach the junction with the main trail, the line of his private property and the park that adjoins it.

Disappointment spears through you. You are not ready to go back into your prison. It’s turning into a beautiful day, and you have so much energy to burn.

You make a pouty face, playing cute while you are flirting with rebellion inside.

“But the overlook is so pretty this time of year,” you insist, batting your lashes. Lately, that’s been enough to get your way on little things in the house. Today you feel like you can’t lose. Everything is too good.

He narrows his eyes down at you, as though he senses your internal mutiny, but in all your elation you feel strangely impervious. You realize you feel high, the kind of mood lift usually people have to ingest pills to get.  

“Y/n…” He reaches for you, and without thinking you step just out of reach. You’ve played this game a dozen times now in the house. A game you’ve never, to this day, won, but you’ve found it’s the thrill of a lifetime, to be chased down by this man, trusting he won’t really hurt you. It always leads to mind-blowing sex, and maybe you are thinking a bit too much with a lust-addled brain alongside your elation for the great outdoors.

There is a very pregnant moment between you, and you smile when his intense eyes meet yours, your lips curling in what you know is a shit-eating little grin. What happens next is pure reflex; an extension of a thing you’ve done repeatedly together, with a dash of that age-old ingrained instinct of prey in the presence of a predator. But now you’re outside, and your jubilation is magnified times a hundred.

You run.

“Y/n!”

He lunges for you, his fingertips just brushing your arm, but in the end he’s–amazingly–too slow.

You are a human missile, rocketing down the hill, fueled by gravity and the knowledge of how to move in this environment you’ve trained for since you were just a child. You may as well be a wood sprite, for this is your element. This is your mountain, and no matter how many wealthy interlopers buy it up and carve it into parcels and drive up the price of everything so that locals like you can barely live—this will always be your home.

It feels so good to run.

Your feet fly over the needle-strewn forest floor, jumping over rocks and dodging trees. You laugh like a madwoman, the sweet sweet mountain air filling your lungs. You run like a wild thing of the woods, the way you used to when you were a child, before your parents decided to break the oath they'd made to each other and split your happy world to pieces. While your parents fought you would flee to the trees to be free, and you feel that desperate euphoria again. That feeling like you can fly, jumping over rocks and launching from boulders.

You sense more than hear John behind you, your own ears filled with the rushing of your blood and your racing heartbeat. His fingertips brush your back before you juke him around a tree. You hear him curse and you laugh—you do sound mad.

“Have to do better than that, old man!” you crow. 

You realize with another rush that you are far more agile than John is. The trees are your friend, the way you dart around them and power yourself down a new line of retreat. You hear him curse after grazing one, and you realize you might break the poor man’s neck, making him pursue you like this. 

In a pine-needle carpeted clearing you make yourself slow down, and you are so high on adrenaline it doesn’t even hurt when he finally tackles you to the ground, your grin like a baring of teeth, giddy from the chase. He pins your hands above your head, sharp pebbles digging into your skin as you laugh.

“What the fuck—” You interrupt him mid tirade with your mouth on his, a hungry kiss that swallows his fury, but does not quench it. Already anticipating the passion of your (and his) reward with his delicious weight pressed down into you, your legs are wrapped around his waist, pulling him close.

“You think you’re cute?” he snarls above you when at last you separate.

“I am very cute,” you assert, still giggling to yourself. “Don’t be mad. You love this game.”,

“Maybe I’d love to spank that cute ass of yours raw?”

“Nuh-uh. No hitting.”

You’d made a deal, after all.

He narrows his eyes down at you, and this is when you finally start to sense that maybe he is not half as amused as you are. Your blood runs cold, and before you can blink he has you flipped over on your belly, your pants down around your thighs.

“No—”

You try to squirm away, but his inexorable hand is in your hair—it makes for a damn good handle, the bastard. His big hand digging into the globe of your ass makes you quiver under his fingers. 

Your heart plummets into freefall, as you realize he’s serious. And you can tell he’s not talking about the playful little smacks he sometimes gifts you in the middle of riding his cock to completion. He means to punish you, and the knowledge takes you from the highest high to the blackest despair. You can barely hear past the sound of your heartbeat in your ears, the familiar fear and uncertainty from before creeping in. Not again. Life was so good. Please don’t go back to this shit again. You can’t go back to the way things were. You can’t live like that again. 

A revelation settles over you with irrefutable clarity. You accept it as truth with every cell of your being, and you know there will be no going back after this. 

“If you hit me we’re done.”

There’s no hint of playfulness in your tone either now. Just…resolve. You mean what you say, to the very marrow of your bones.

“I think I must have confused you, y/n. You are not in charge here.”

“Maybe not. But I’ll tell you this. If you hit me, I’ll fight you to my dying breath. I mean it.”

Like watching yourself from the outside, you almost find it interesting that this is the true limit of your generosity with him. This is the cliff’s edge. The point of no return. Your resolve is unmoving, even if it fills you with absolute misery. You could lose him now, today, this very minute. This man who keeps you prisoner, yet with whom you have lived happily the past months. This complicated, broken man, who you love with all your heart. 

In this insane moment you realize with soul-shaking clarity…you don’t want to leave him. What would you do with your life? Go back to your stupid little existence at the coffee shop, working your fingers to the bone, doodling on the chalkboard, waiting? You’ve spent most of your life just fucking waiting. Waiting to travel. Waiting for something good to happen. Waiting…for this man to come through the door, so you could pester him for five minutes, knowing it would be the highlight of your day.

Could you possibly go back to looking up at the mountain, knowing your Beast in his castle resides there? That a man who loved you like no other is there pining for you?

But if he crosses this line—you will have to leave, somehow. Or die trying. That is your heartfelt resolution. That is the promise you make to yourself. You’ve made too many compromises as of late, and this is a battle for your very soul. 

You feel him like a malevolent storm cloud behind you, trembling in his fury, but for once, torn as to what to do. You realize this is the only time you’ve seen him doubt himself, when he’s contemplating teaching you a lesson. 

You dare to try to talk him down, your voice calmer, or perhaps more distant. You don’t know how you muster the courage; perhaps only in the knowledge that this could truly be it for the two of you. No more we’ll see how it goes or maybe it will be better tomorrow. There is only now.

“This thing we’ve somehow built together, despite everything…” You shake your head, trembling as much out of fear as despair. “It will be destroyed, and you’re the one who will have broken it.”

“You’re the one who ran from me!”

You can tell from the hushed fury in his voice that he is hanging on by a thread. You realize now, what a stupid thing that had been to do. That despite the games you’ve been playing in the house, out here, he just couldn’t handle it. Even just the slightest possibility of you leaving is enough to drive this man off the edge.  

“I let you catch me.” You will him to believe you. You even half believe it yourself.

“The hell you did.”

“It’s true. I know these woods better than you. I’m smaller. I’m faster. I let you.”

“Bullshit.”

Before you can hardly think about what to do you lower your face to the dirt, offering your ass in the air. You know he can see your puffy slit, your glistening opening just begging for him. This is how he has warped you; or maybe you were a twisted little thing all along, just waiting for him to show you the way to your ruin. Either way—you want him, and you will him to see it for himself.

“I let you catch me,” you insist again. “So give me my reward.”

You feel the tremor run through him, from his fingertips to his core.

You realize that he wants to believe you. That maybe punishing you was never really the fun for him at all, in this deadly game you’ve been playing.

You feel him shift his position behind you, his merciless hold moving to your hip. When his long fingers slide into your wet folds you mewl like a cat; half relieved, and half just needing him. He makes you buck by circling your bud, before delving inside your weeping channel with two of his fingers. It makes you moan, and if someone walks up the trail my god will they get an eyeful, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Does that feel like someone who’s afraid of you?” you bluff. Because wanting this man has never really stopped you from fearing him. Fearing what, exactly, has shifted over time. In the end though, maybe just that he would be the absolute ruin of you.

He only grunts in answer, spreading your juices around your aching pussy. When his fingers withdraw you whine in protest, but you hear him rifle with his clothing, the zzzip of his fly jerked downwards. When his thick tip kisses your entrance you could weep, offering your ass even higher in the air.

“You are a very bad girl,” he tells you as he slides home, making you writhe with a mixture of pleasure and pain. 

“I’m your bad girl,” you correct him, and he growls behind you, thrusting again. He’s not treating you with the usual care he pays this position, but you take it anyway. Gladly, if this will mend the thing between you, you’ll take it all.

“I would have found you, you know,” he pants as he thrusts, his hand weaving in your hair. “Even if you made it down the mountain…there’s nowhere in the world you can hide from me.”

You absolutely believe him.

“I know,” you tell him, your face in the dirt, yet somehow still loving the feeling of him behind you, filling you absolutely and completely. “You don’t–have to–lock me up, John,” you pant, interrupted by the violence of his thrusts. “Because I know I can’t escape you.”

This makes him growl again, that primal, possessive sound that touches the darkest recesses of your cavewoman brain. It is as though there is no part of you, inside or out, that this man cannot touch. He drapes his long body over yours, engulfing you in the shelter of his warmth. Even now, you cannot stop yourself from leaning back into him, pressing your smooth cheek to his soft beard. His tone is pure gravel, but you know him well enough now to sense the vulnerability in his words too. “But do you want to escape now?” he asks.

“No,” you tell him, and you know in your heart this isn’t manipulation, or vying for a better chance to run somewhere down the line. It’s just the truth, and you even surprise yourself as you say, “No, I don’t want to leave you.”  

He goes still behind you as he evaluates this heartfelt confession, his harsh breathing and the pulsing of his cock buried inside you his only movement. 

“I want to believe you.” You only enjoy a moment of relief, before he rears again behind you, driving himself into you to the hilt. “But I can’t.”

Your heart plummets as you realize he still cannot bring himself to trust your word, to have the faith to walk out into thin air, the way normal people do when they dare to fall in love. He cannot leave anything to chance with you, and now you are not sure he ever will.  

He really might keep you locked up forever. 

You feel the earth beneath you, hyper aware of the pine needles in your clenched hands, the wonderful smell of the dirt and ancient rocks below. The cool breeze on your bared skin, and the dappled light filtering through the pines. What if this really is the last time you are ever allowed outside? 

There was always a glimmer of hope on the distant horizon for you, that little light of optimism that never quite managed to extinguish, despite everything he put you through. But now you feel it leave you, stealing the integrity from your very bones. You go limp beneath him, only his iron-grip on your hips holding your ass in the air as he uses you. When he reaches down to find your slippery bud you are no longer in the mood, and perhaps foolishly, you try to shake him off. 

“Just get it over with.” 

You already know it’s the absolute worst thing you can say, but now you don’t care. 

“But I thought my darling wanted to enjoy the great outdoors?” He doesn’t sound half as angry as you expected him to, but there is still something sharp in his tone that puts you on edge. Like glimpsing a dorsal fin parting still waters, you know something dangerous swims underneath. 

He slows his thrusts behind you, so that his magnificent length stretches you just right without hurting you. He uses his now expert knowledge against you, weaponizing the hours you’ve spent in bed together making up for lost time. You can’t stop yourself from arching into him, canting your hips to intensify the sensation, and now you bow your head so you don’t have to see his smug smile. “Goddamn you.”

He huffs with laughter, though there’s no real humor in it. “You’re too late, I’m sure.”

This time when he touches you, you are desperate for it, your aching walls squeezing him in search of release. It tears a groan from deep in his throat, a sound you know so well by now, and you realize you can use your own knowledge of this man against him too. You squeeze him again, almost in challenge, and it becomes a contest between you, who can bring the other to pieces first. You have to admit that his blunt fingers on your clit are heaven, and your heart pounds too fast in your chest, your head light as you very nearly forget to breathe in your concentration. He tries to hold himself off as you move to take him deeper. He cannot control your body as well as he would like, like this, with his fingers buried in your slit, and you almost smile at his grunt of frustration at you. 

In the end you both lose. 

You cum so hard on his cock you see stars, a ringing in your ears as a merciless pleasure breaks and explodes through you. He fares no better, filling you with ropes of hot seed as he moans, loud enough to echo across the mountains. 

Maybe you do feel a little better, panting in the soft leaf litter with his body draped over yours again, his heavy breathing and soft lips upon your neck. As usual, you feel bereft when he withdraws, wishing you could hold him inside you longer. You didn’t bring anything to clean up with, and you anticipate a soggy walk home back up the hill. 

In fact, after sprinting, then fucking like animals on the ground, you’re not even sure you can walk. 

It’s John who rises first, groaning with the effort. He glares down at you, as though daring you to make another old man jab. For the moment, however, you are out of quips, out of jokes, and out of clever repartee. Even though you know it shouldn’t be so easy for him to tame you, you snuggle under his chin anyway, kissing the swell of his Adam’s apple. For a moment he sags against you, savoring this sweetness, before brusquely leading you back up the trail.  

He is not cruel, or strangely, even outwardly angry now, but somehow you just know you are in so much fucking trouble.

[linos-luna]

Hi gorgeous 💞

I hope you're doing well (I was worried af)

If it's not too much to ask but my birthday is on 14th March so can you write a yandere hyunjin x f reader smut where the reader who is already held hostage is given a gift by hyunjin (just surprise me with your writing girl)?

I would seriously appreciate it from my heart ❤️

Wanna see a manipulative, toxic and delusional hyunjin in love with me 😩

Bye 👋

Sorry it’s late! I’ve been so busy! 😭

Happy late birthday 🎊

———————————————————

Work of Art 🔪

Yandere!Hyunjin x Reader

Warnings: Yandere!, 18+, slight Stockholm Syndrome?, Slapping, Hair pulling, Emotional manipulation

—————————————— 💞

It’s been two months. Two months since you lost your freedom. Hyunjin was obsessed. He wants you to keep you in his home forever. If he goes out, he handcuffed you to the bed frame. Although lately he hasn’t done that. Probably because now you don’t move. You seemed to have given up on trying.

The days blended together so you didn’t even realize that today was your birthday. You stayed in bed until noon, only waking when some light from the window hit your face. You sat up, only to see Hyunjin standing at the door. Watching.

“Good morning, my love.” He said with a soft smile. “Today is a special day!”

“What….?” You mumbled.

“How could you forget?! It’s your birthday, silly!” He chuckled while going to you and leaning in to kiss you.

You were silent, actually surprised that you forgot your own birthday.

The man stroked your hair as he waited for your kiss although you didn’t budge. This seemed to frustrate him and he pulled your hair so your lips touch his. “Y/n!” He whined.

Reluctantly, you kiss him. He bit your lip and kissed you with lots of passion.

Sure you kissed back but not with as much vigor as him. This only hurts his heart.

“Y/n! I don’t understand…” he whined. “why…? Why won’t you love me like I love you!”

“Hyunjin, you kidnapped me!”

“Because I love you!”

“This isn’t love!!” You interrupted. “This… this is hell!”

“No no no… i-I’m sorry! It shouldn’t be!” Hyunjin frowned and dropped to his knees while holding your hand. “I only wanted to show you love and cherish you. I want to spoil you!”

“Hyunjin—”

“I’m sorry, y/n…” He pouts, giving you sad eyes, “I-i never meant to hurt you…”

“Hyunjin… you—!”

“No no I'm awful!” He interrupted while starting to cry. “I-I just want someone to love… I-I’ve never had someone love and care like you do. You’re so genuine and kind…”

He continued rambling. From his rough upbringing to his desire for love. He’s all alone in this world and it had your heart breaking for him.

“I-I have a gift for you…” he said softly. “Please. I worked so hard on it.”

“O-okay…” you nodded reluctantly.

Joy lit up his face and he quickly left the room. As soon as he left, the tears were gone. It was as if he flipped off the emotion like a light switch. Instead, he smiled to himself.

Hyunjin came back in the bedroom with a canvas. You were a bit confused until he turned it around. It was you. A painted picture of you sleeping. The style made you look angelic.

It was beautiful but also unnerving. When did he paint this? Was he watching you while sleeping? Every minuet detail of your features was there. Every mole and blemish was painted in great detail.

“Wow, Hyunjin… it’s very nice.” You said slowly while studying it. You couldn’t lie, it really was an amazing painting.

“Oh, my love. I’m glad you love it!” He smiled. “I worked so hard to capture your essence! You truly are a work of art!”

You couldn’t help blushing. You’ve never had a compliment like that and it was giving you butterflies in your stomach.

“Thank you, Hyunjin… I-I really do love it…”

“Oh good!” He was excited as he leaned in close. “Please, my love. May I kiss you?”

There was a moment of silence before you nod.

———— 💞

Dinner was a bit awkward. You sat in silence as he fed you.

“Do you like it?” He said suddenly.

“I do but… Hyunjin I can feed myself.”

“No darling. Don’t worry about that.” He said while putting more meat on the fork.

“No really—…” you grab the fork from him, about to raise it to your mouth before he suddenly slapped it away.

“Hyunjin—!”

Before you could finish, there was a swift slap to your face.

“No! Only I can feed you!” Hyunjin yelled suddenly.

You held your cheek in shock, too stunned to speak.

“Oh I’m so sorry!! My love, I'm sorry!!” He suddenly switched up and got to his knees, dropping the bowl of food to the ground, but he didn’t seem to care.

“No! Don’t cry! Don’t be mad!” He begged while grabbing into each side of your hair and pulling you close. “Please forgive me! I love you!”

“A-agh! Hyunjin!” You whimpered as he tugged harder.

“My darling. My sweet girl, please!”

He pulled harder, making you drop from your seat to the floor.

“J-Jinnie! You’re hurting me!!”

“W-what?!” He paused, still holding onto your hair. “No! No im not!!”

“Jinnie stop!”

“No you stop!” He yelled. “I love you! I’m just trying to love you!!” His voice broke as tears formed and it made you stop dead in your tracks.

“Hyunjin…”

“No! You don’t love me!” He sobbed. “I-I thought I finally found my soulmate… one that will love me as much as I love her!” Hyunjin wiped some tears while looking at you. “I-I’ve never had that kind of love. My M-mother left! A-And father would beat me! I-I only wish you give the love I never received!”

Whether this story was true or not -it’s not-, you wouldn’t be able to tell. But his vulnerability and tears tugged at your heartstrings.

“Hyunjin….”

“No! Just go!” He cried. “Just leave me! Leave me all alone! I’m used to it!” He pulled some keys from his pocket and threw them in front of you.

You were frozen in place. You felt awful. Pure guilt. How could you hurt him like this?? All he wanted was love. You felt like a monster.

Without much thinking, you hugged him tight. “I-I’m sorry, Jinnie.”

Hyunjin leaned into your hug, making himself look as small and vulnerable as possible while continuing to weep.

“It’s okay… it’s okay…” you whispered while rubbing his back.

“C-can I… can I give you a bath?” He asked softly. “I-I wanted to spoil you with a little… at home spa…”

You pulled away and looked at him. Here he was crying and expressing his deepest emotions and traumas, and yet he was still thinking of you. He was still wanting to spoil and shower you with love.

You only nodded and Hyunjin smiles before kissing your forehead and leaving to the restroom, getting some of the soaps and candles ready.

It made you feel guilty. Perhaps you have this all wrong. He really does have a good heart. Perhaps you’ve never experienced real love. Maybe… this is what true love is.

Hyunjin had no more tears. This face had cleared up so fast as soon as he entered the restroom. In fact he had a smile. A satisfied one, like a spoiled child that got his way. It was just too easy.

Hyunjin walked to the bedroom, grabbing a robe for you, stopping by the painting. He took a deep breath while running his fingers along your painted nude body.

He turned back to the restroom, mustering up some tears red cheeks before calling out to you.

"Come on, my love! The bath is ready!'

[sunflowersandsapphires]

No Moon, No Stars

When Skies Are Gray, Chapter 8

Series Masterlist             Next Chapter

pairing: Frank Castle x fem!reader 

summary: Frank’s life has reached a crossroads: he can either continue to seclude himself and pursue a dark, lonely future, or he can open himself up to connecting with someone again and maybe achieve happiness. Being the grump that he is, Frank has already committed to the lonely path, but his curious new neighbor might just turn that around. 

warnings: swearing, non-graphic descriptions of wounds and violence, heavy drinking, descriptions of making out, men being gross and controlling (nothing happens), slightly yandere!Frank if you squint, sunshine FINALLY standing up for herself

a/n: Hopefully this chapter is at least a little gratifying even though they haven't made up yet. You're halfway through the angst arc now, everyone. Resolution is coming! As always, please reply and reblog with your reactions/feedback!!

w/c: 4.5k

Jerking awake to the sounds of nonexistent screaming, Frank's eyes flew open, his limbs flailing to stabilize him as he nearly toppled out of bed. Gripping the headboard with one fist, he hauled himself upright, tugging at his sweaty hair with his other hand. His body was taught with stress and guilt, the images of your crumpling face and his wife's smile clashing in his brain relentlessly.

Something warm and slick trickled over his side. Absentmindedly swiping at what he thought was sweat, his thumb collided with a fresh set of stitches—sending a shock of pain through his skin.

Right. He'd been shot last night. Somewhere in a jumble of exhaustion and blind rage he'd neglected to protect his exposed waist while dismantling a trafficking operation.

After stumbling home with a palm pressed to the wound, he'd fished the bullet out and crudely stitched the gash before collapsing into bed for a mere 3 hours of unconsciousness. Apparently in the midst of a tumultuous sleep, he'd popped a few of the crappy sutures. Studying the blood that had coated his fingertips, he blew out a frustrated sigh, knowing this set of sheets and his shirt would need to be washed now.

Shoving that thought to the back of his mind, he slid off the bed, shuffling into the bathroom as every muscle in his body ached in protest. Despite his best intentions, his eyes landed on his reflection as the pallid bathroom light flickered on. His face was a mottled canvas of bruises—all in various stages of healing. His eyes were glassy and bloodshot, accentuated by the parallel dark circles that had blossomed underneath them from his continuous loss of sleep.

He looked miserable. Pathetic. Broken. All of which were accurate descriptions and apt punishments for the hell he'd put his family through, put you through.

Gaze falling from the mirror, he scanned the various medical supplies still littering the bathroom counter, pulling out a fresh needle and thread from the mess. It took far too long to thread the damn thing, his hands trembling violently as he tried over and over to prep it. Gritting his teeth, he finally managed to pull the filament through the eye.

Frank was no stranger to pain. In fact, he craved it. Pain was reliable, grounding. A focal point amidst life’s vile chaos. A reminder that he was alive, of what he had accomplished, what he'd been through. It was what he had left of his family, of Billy, of his past. Which is why he didn't regret it, or shy away from it. Not normally.

Until you'd come into his life, and everything had changed.

You were patient, sweet, and funny; You didn't judge him for his habits and quirks, you accepted him as he was. You treated him as if he was fragile, not out of pity, but out of kindness. You saw the pain he put himself through and made it your job to alleviate as much as you could. To help him bear the burden of everything he'd lost.

He had no idea what had compelled you to look twice at him, to treat him with respect and compassion so immediately. As far as he could tell, that's just who you were. The world continued to spew its current of cruelty and misfortune, and you'd smile through it–helping as many people remain afloat as you could.

It made no sense to him. You made no sense to him–which is why he found you fascinating. He was drawn to you in a way he hadn't expected to experience ever again. Every glance, every smile, every touch you'd given him...he had cherished them all. He still did.

Which is why each prick of the needle in and out of his skin was so agonizing. Every strike of the sliver of steel against his flesh was a reminder of what he'd given up when he broke off your friendship. The tenderness that he’d never feel again.

He regretted forcing you away, but it was necessary. If he didn't create distance...well, he had vague ideas of what would have happened given how far gone he already was for you. He couldn’t risk falling in love again. Not when Maria’s death still felt new to him or when he was still struggling to properly grieve. He couldn’t move one, didn’t want to move on–and it wouldn’t be fair to you or his family for him to try. So, he chose to distance himself.

The distance would help in time, but right now he was still weak.

It took every fiber of his resolve to keep from giving in to his deepest desires. To let Maria and Lisa and Frankie fade into oblivion for his own comfort. To crawl over to your place and beg for your forgiveness. To let you caress him and hold him and care for him in a way he didn't deserve.

But that wasn't an option for him anymore. He'd ruined that too.

Tearing his stained shirt over his head by the collar, he tossed it aside before tying off the new line of sutures. Breathing heavily, he held the needle in a white-knuckle grip before dropping it in the overflowing trash can. His vision blurred as he continued to stare wearily at the sink basin, tinged pink with remnants of his blood.

Cranking the sink on, he leaned forwards—resting his elbows on the grimy porcelain as he stuck his hands under the frigid stream. Bringing his face closer to the faucet, he threw a handful of water into his face, then another, using his fingers to rub it around and rid his skin of the leftover dirt and sweat he'd ignored last night.

Ripping the damp hand towel from its ring, he scrubbed at his face. With the evidence of his nightly activities washed off his hands and face, he stepped out the bathroom and returned to his mattress, tumbling onto the blood-streaked sheets with a shaky exhale.

Rocking your hips to the beat of the altered pop song, your lips parted with a grin as your hazy brain spun with the movement. You were pleasantly inebriated, limbs warmed from the inside by the few drinks you’d consumed moments ago. As you danced, the fabric of your short dress whisked over your thighs, letting the thick air of the club wrap around your exposed skin.

The atmosphere was stifling. Or, rather, should have been stifling. Given the alcohol in your system and your primal need to be held by someone, the closeness of the people around you was more comforting than bothersome. Linking your little finger with Stacy’s, your cheeks ached as your smile grew impossibly wider–the joy bubbling in your chest only encouraged by Stacy’s own enjoyment of the evening.

As the beat to a new song started playing, the small woman gasped, turning towards Leo who had been abandoned at the bar to fetch another round. “It’s our song, Leo!” She crowed, letting go of your pinky and shoving through the crowd towards your tall friend.

Swaying alone on the sticky floor, you wrinkled your nose as the bass blared wonkily for a moment. Once it had righted itself and the volume evened out, you hummed appreciatively, adjusting your movement to the tempo of the music.

The lack of a body leaning into yours allowed cooler air to surround you, making you shiver. Running a hand over your arms as they prickled, you exhaled in relief as you felt someone step in closer to you once again. “Thank god. I thought maybe you got lo–”

Turning to face them, the words retreated suddenly as you realized it was not Stacy returning with Leo in tow. Instead, an incredibly handsome, broad-shouldered man stood before you. His deep green eyes glinted in the flickering colored lights, as did his dangerously charming smile. Chuckling softly, he studied you with an expression all too similar to pity. “Expecting me, were you?”

Surprise wearing off, you found yourself unusually comfortable with the newcomer. Your biological desires were quickly taking a seat at the helm, overriding your critical thinking skills as you sidled towards the beautiful stranger.

“And what if I was?” You chirped seductively, hoping he could hear you over the music. His eyes widened and you tilted your head innocently.

“Then I’m sorry to have kept a beautiful thing like you waiting.” He apologized, holding out a hand to you. “I’m Blake, and you are?”

Shoving down the brief burst of displeasure at his comment, you introduced yourself. He chose to forego a handshake, instead bringing your hand to his mouth and kissing it delicately–making you giggle awkwardly.

A small voice in the back of your head pinged, trying to spark any persistent feelings of disgust over his demeanor, but your tequila-soaked brain wasn't listening. Curtsying clumsily in response, you beamed up at the man–the feeling of his five o’ clock shadow scratching against your clammy skin causing a shudder to roll down your spine. You couldn’t possibly be that touch starved, could you?

“So tell me,” Blake drawled, your name tumbling off his lips. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a shithole like this?”

Scoffing a laugh at his apt description of the run-down bar, you let him press in closer until he was practically on top of you. “Getting drunk, mostly. What brings you here?”

“Oh you know, mending a newly broken heart and all that.” He pouted, hanging his head dramatically as you brought your fingers up to run through his hair. Playing into what was likely a complete lie, your brow furrowed.

“Poor thing.” You cooed, tugging gently at his hair which was overly saturated with product. “Who would ever dare to break your heart?”

“Not you, would you sweetheart?” He asks raspily, scratching one finger on the underside of your jaw.

You shook your head, your dangling earrings chiming gently as they were swung back and forth. Cupping your chin, he pulled your face towards his. “Care to have some fun?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” You grinned at him, your flirtatious remark breaking off into a hitch of breath as he dove towards your neck. 

Tugging at the hem of his nondescript hoodie, Frank grit his teeth against the wave of annoyance that hit him. This bar was by no means his cup of tea. It was muggy and loud, packed to the brim with 30 year olds who were desperate to be 20 again. People trying too hard to be young, to be cool, to be liked. Assholes, the lot of them.

Taking a swig of his watered down beer, he clenched his hand around the glass as some preppy douchebag stumbled into him from behind.

“Woah, sorry man.” The kid chuckled, sending a sneer to his two friends as he held up a hand in faux apology.

Frank ignored him–turning back to his glass and the scantily clad employees behind the bar. The men laughed to themselves, wading into the crowd. As he felt himself bristle with annoyance, a familiar voice caught his attention.

“Another round of tequila shots, please!”

Sliding his gaze towards the speaker as innocuously as he could, he felt a wave of nausea when he spotted you. You were glistening from the heat of the bar, and probably the alcohol in your system, wearing a version of the beautiful smile that had haunted him all week.

His stomach twisted with a revolting combination of guilt and relief. After your awkward run-in when he took Max for a walk, he'd spiraled thinking about the sheer amount of alcohol you'd been carrying. Reason and conscience be damned, he wanted you to be safe. He needed you to be safe. So, when the hour of his evening had rolled around where his demons became unbearable without the help of liquor, he ventured down the street to this shithole rather than wasting away on his couch for the third night in a row.

He wasn't stupid. He knew why he ended up in the bar you'd repeatedly told him about–and it wasn't for a decently priced beer, of that much he was certain. He'd followed you here. Not literally–he'd just anticipated your plans accurately enough to be seated at the bar when you ordered your next drink.

And that was where the sparks of residual guilt over his blow-up had ignited a searing brand of shame deep in his gut. It was wrong to allow himself to close the distance between you after he’d demanded it so harshly. It was wrong to use his tactical knowledge to see your happiness again without your permission. More than anything it was still wrong to let himself crave your company even though he wasn’t over his wife–but he was helpless. Regardless of what he'd said and done, you were still firmly embedded under his skin.

Flagging down the bartender, Frank ordered a stiffer drink. Once the double pour of whiskey was in his grasp, he threw it back, stifling a grimace as it burned his tongue and throat. Nodding his thanks, he passed over a few bills to cover his tab, turning to stand from the stool and retreat to his apartment to atone for his decisions.

As he planted his feet on the wobbly floor boards, the aggressively fluorescent lights flashed over the crowd. His eyes were immediately drawn to the pair of yuppies on the dance floor whose mouths were interlocked. Another flare from the strobe illuminated the woman as she broke the kiss, and his heart sank.

Watching you bashfully blink your doe eyes at the asshole who'd nearly bowled him over 20 minutes ago was enough for him to spin back towards the bar. Yanking another handful of bills from his pocket, he ordered another double.

A pleased noise escaped you as lips touched your pulse point, locking onto the spot with fervor. Knees buckling, you let Blake tug you flush against his body as he drew back with a hefty exhale. “Liked that, huh? You’re a proper little slut. Out looking for a man in that skimpy dress.”

His chuckle turned almost sinister, your heart clenching as he insulted you. Smile weakening, you grit your teeth. He’s just trying to turn you on. You reminded yourself. You aren’t going home with him. It doesn’t matter if he’s nice.

Gripping your nape between his fingers, he yanked you upwards, locking his lips around yours when you parted them to allow his tongue entry. The kiss was sloppy. His nose mashed against yours with bruising force, his teeth clashing with yours as he asserted dominance. Your tongue slid against his, tasting the dry whiskey he’d apparently chugged before trying to devour you.

It wasn’t enjoyable, necessarily, but at least you knew what he was looking for. Sadly, it once again seemed that your interests didn't align. What was with you recently? A man was literally throwing himself at you and suddenly you weren't desperate for male attention? Mood souring, your heart sank into your stomach like a rock through water. The moment was over, and you needed to make your escape.

Unlatching his mouth from yours as you gave his chest a small shove, you laughed quietly. “Sorry handsome, need to catch my breath.”

Grinning deviously, he shrugged. “I don’t mind, sweetheart.” Diving back towards your neck, he licked a stripe under your jaw before beginning to drop nips and open-mouthed pecks in a line towards your clavicle.

Across the room, you caught a glimpse of your friends’ amused looks, a particularly bright beam from a nearby strobe light illuminating them in the distance. Sending an annoyed look back, their perception was the nail in the coffin. As Blake started to grind his pelvis towards your hips, you tried to untangle yourself from his hold.

“I’m so sorry, handsome. My friends are looking for me. Can we put a pin in this?” You asked, brushing a strand of hair from his eyes in an attempt to lessen his suspicions about your abrupt exit.

“Sure,” The guy was definitely miffed, the smile he flashed you nowhere close to reaching his eyes. “I'll just...grab another drink while I wait.“

Shoving down the guilt that blossomed in your chest as you lied to him, you waved goodbye and slid through the crowd towards your friends.

They were already on the edge of laughter when you reached them. You felt heat flood your cheeks as they gave you pitying looks.

”Time to eject?“ Leo asked, seemingly ok with the idea as they offered up your belongings that they'd been holding on to for safe keeping.

Nodding sheepishly, you took your purse from their outstretched hand. ”I thought it would help. It didn't. Can we go?“

”Ugh, already? We just got here!“ Stacy whined, her normal indifference relinquished about three shots ago.

”Stace–“ Leo patted her shoulder, sending a pointed nod towards you.

”It's ok, you two can stay, I'll just take a cab.” You assured, slinging your purse strap over your shoulder.

“Absolutely not, princess. You're stuck with us.” Stacy sighed, tossing the remainder of Leo's drink into her mouth before hopping down from her high-top seat.

“You owe me three dollars for that, missy.” Leo shook their head following the two of you as you maneuvered towards the door.

Given the size of the crowd, you weren't too worried about Blake spotting you. The lights were dim and strobing in random directions, your dress was cute but not particularly flashy. One variable you'd neglected to consider, however, was your ability to attract the worst case scenario at every opportunity.

As you and your friends wove through the crowd, your path was suddenly blocked by a sturdy man. The alcohol on his breath carried as he spoke. “Leaving so soon?”

Blake, backed by two men who could've been football players, frowned at you, eyes glowing with a barely concealed threat.

“Sorry, handsome!” You tried for a calm tone, but your voice and posture both wavered. Shrinking back ever so slightly, you turned your lips up in an attempt to explain. “Family emergency, I couldn't see you anywhere and thought–”

“Cut the crap.” Blake hissed, any charm he'd been using before was long forgotten.

“Ok fine. I recently got out of a...relationship of sorts and bit off more than I could chew. I'm sorry to have led you on, but I'm not ready to do anything tonight.” You reasoned, feeling Leo's hand rest on your shoulder in a display of support.

“And you think that's your decision to make?” The man to Blake's left snorted.

Disbelief and rage building in your chest, you crossed your arms. “Uh yah. I do, actually.”

The three men widened their stance, clearly trying to prevent you from leaving. Realization slowly dawned on you, your limbs going stiff as adrenaline flooded your body.

Leo wormed his way in between you and the aggressors, using their body as a barricade. ”Look, I get that this night isn't going how you imagined, but she doesn't owe you anything. Move aside and let us through.“

”Or what, pretty boy?“ The goon on the right side asked with a cocky smirk.

“They said get out of our fucking way, asshat.“ Stacy called, shoving her way between you and Leo and attempting to get past the human blockade.

You must've blinked at the exact moment the movement started, because you opened your eyes and everything had gone to shit. As Stacy pushed forward, she was thrown back into you. You both crashed to the ground, your head clanking against a chair leg in the process. Though the impact wasn't that hard, you were already slightly dizzy because of the alcohol you'd consumed, making the collision incredibly unpleasant.

Clambering back to your feet, you felt a pair of rough hands land on your shoulders. Your vision was swimming in all the commotion, the flashing lights behind you making the effect much worse, so the sensation of distinctly male hands against your bare skin made you screech.

Flailing away from him, you attempted to grapple your way to freedom. ”Let me go. Blake, I swear. Let me go or I'll scream.”

Whipping your head around to look for a way out, a familiar voice caught you off guard. “It's just me, sunshine. Just me.”

Your breath shook as your heart pounded in your throat. tilting your head to face forward, your clouded vision centered around a face you had been trying to forget.

Frank Castle was clad in his usual dark attire, surely dying of heat under his sweatshirt and beanie in the humidity of the bar. His face held a stony mix of fury and concern, his eyes scanning your face for any sign of injury.

For a moment, it seemed like time had stopped. You were frozen in place, staring incredulously at your rescuer. Apparently you'd been on the ground for longer than you thought, given that your friends were currently being escorted out by bouncers around the three vengeful men who were writhing in pain on the ground.

Mouth slightly ajar, you stared at Frank as your brain frantically tried to corral the myriad of emotions pinging around in your mind. Amazement and relief, then awe–quickly followed by hurt and pure anger.

Yanking yourself out of his grip, you shut your mouth forcefully as rage began to consume you. Before you could say anything, an irritated bouncer pointed a finger at you.

“You two, out. Now.”

Nodding in resignation, Frank reached for you again. “A'right, a'right. We're leavin'.”

“The fuck we are.” You bit out, glaring at him. “I'm not going anywhere with you, Frank.”

“Lady, don't make me haul your ass outta here.” Groaned the bouncer, not giving a single shit about your emotional distress.

“Give me a minute,” You grumbled, bending down to pick up your purse before you instigated anything else. As your gaze left Frank's face, you were left unguarded, his massive hands engulfing your waist and scooping you up to carry you out. “Christ! Frank, put me down!”

The large man ignored you, letting you meekly pummel him with your fists and hurl expletives at him as he carted you out of the bar. Eventually, crisp air wafted over your bare skin and Frank set you down on the concrete outside of the establishment.

The jarring shift from being draped over his shoulder to standing on your own two feet wasn't one your constitution could handle at the moment. Stumbling over the sidewalk, you splayed your hands out to regain your balance. Righting yourself, you saw Frank go to steady you and your bitter wrath boiled over.

“Absolutely not. Don't fucking touch me, Frank.” Arms crossing over your stomach, you curled in on yourself, backing away from him. His eyes widened, face stiffening into a grim expression.

“Ok, ok. I won't touch ya.” He withdrew his hands, intentionally exaggerating the movement to calm you down.

“Don’t touch me.” You murmured, huddling in your own embrace as your throat constricted. 

“Would ya rather I let you get thrown out yourself? Worse, you want me to let you get arrested?” Frank's scowl transitioned into a cocky smirk at the idea.

“Why?” You asked with a huff.

“Why..what?” He snorted, eyes sparkling with far too much pride for what he’d done. 

“Why do you care?” You threw your arms in the air. “I mean I’m sure you’re very busy taking care of people who actually matter to you.”

With a scoff, Frank's eyes flashed with displeasure–a reflection of the resentment in your tone. “Oh so that’s how it is?”

“Yeah that’s how it is, Frank. I didn’t need your help.” You pouted, arms wrapping back around yourself as your throat constricted.

“Sure. Next time I’ll let you stay on the floor like a piece of fuckin' furniture. Would that make ya happy?”

“I had it handled.” You groused, avoiding his eyes, though he saw right through your lie anyway.

Laughing sardonically at your childish argument, he nodded. “Sure you did, sunshine. Next time I’ll let you ‘handle it” ok?”

“Next time? What, like I’m some damsel in distress that needs a big man to come save her because she’s too helpless to take care of herself?” You were yelling now, attracting gazes from bystanders around the club.

“I wasn’t sayin’ that.” His jaw was set, an indication that he wasn't in the mood to listen to you. But you weren't about to let this slide after what he'd put you through.

“Then what were you saying, Frank? Because it sounds like you suddenly care if a man forces himself on me.” Tears were blurring your vision against your will. Hastily wiping them aside, you bit your tongue to avoid choking out a sob at the memory of leaving the construction site.

“Suddenly? What–” Anger momentarily vanishing, his face fell at the notion.

“Don’t play dumb, Frank, you’re  a man, you know how men think. How they act. How they... Don’t try to pretend that you give a shit now.” You glowered, keeping your eyes trained to the ground so he couldn't see them shining with your frustrated tears.

“I’m not–who forced themself on you?” Changing his focus mid-sentence, he stepped forward, as if to cradle you to his chest but you shuffled away stubbornly.

Despite your futile attempts to keep your face from betraying you, droplets of saline trailed down your cheeks as you laughed bitterly. “Who do you fucking think? You think those douchebags at your work only whale on you? No, a humiliated little girl is a lot less of a challenge.”

“Fuck, honey, I didn’t–” Tugging his hair, Frank growled

“I know you didn't. Because I'm not your wife, Frank.” Your voice broke as you voiced the words. “I’m not your ‘anything’ am I? Just another mistake to regret later, right?”

“Another mistake?” Frank called your name mournfully, his eyes locked on your crumpled face as you sobbed quietly just out of his reach.

 “Just… go home, Frank. I'll handle my own shit ‘next time’. Wouldn’t want someone to get the wrong idea.”

Digging the heel of your hand into your glassy eyes, you saw Leo and Stacy jogging towards the pair of you, elbowing people out of the way. Striding past Frank, you didn't bother to look back before running to your friends.

”Are you ok?“ Leo, who was sporting a split lip, tilted your face up with two fingers, examining it while Stacy wrapped you in a one-armed hug.

”Yah.“ You exhaled shakily, your body tense from recent events and unused adrenaline. ”Can we get out of here?”

Pressing a kiss to your head, Leo nodded. “Of course. C'mon, you two are staying at mine tonight.”

As you were waiting for a taxi, you snuck a glance over your shoulder, but the man you'd chewed out was nowhere to be found.

Taglist: @cheshirecat484 @xxdrixx @smhnxdiii @mattmurdocksstarlight @danzer8705 @mjsvinyl @softieekayy @sweetpov @dreamtofus @zomtart @mjsvinyl @senjoritanana @marytheweefrenchie @siampie @gracethyomen @pone21 @ignore-mp3 @screechingphantommaker @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @paradox-brody-chase @msjb2002

[twistedheartsclub]

Yandere Boxer X Fem Reader PT 1

⚠️ Warnings: psychological manipulation • obsessive love • stalking • parental betrayal • gaslighting • grooming • non-consensual drug use • emotional abuse • toxic family dynamics • physical violence (mentioned) • slow burn dread • dark romance themes

PART TWO HERE

Y/N didn’t belong there.

Not in the crowd. Not under the blinding lights. Not in a seat that smelled like beer and popcorn.

But her mother had practically shoved her out the front door.

“You’re not going to rot in this house all summer, Y/N. You’re going. That’s final.”

And her father had grinned, tossing her a spare ticket. Her older brother hooted from the hallway, already wearing the boxer’s branded hoodie.

“You’re gonna love it! Silas Vega’s a beast.”

She didn’t know who Silas Vega was.

Her world was books. Soft blankets. A quiet room with a cracked window and a constant cup of tea. The only rings she knew were in fantasy novels.

And yet here she was—wedged between her brother and father in a packed stadium—her knees pulled together, hands clutching her canvas tote like it could shield her from the world.

The crowd was a living thing. Drums pounded. Fans screamed. Giant screens flickered with promo clips—slow-motion punches, blood-slick gloves, victories.

Y/N kept her head down.

Her wire-frame glasses slid down her nose again as she tried to quietly open her book—an old worn copy of Wuthering Heights. She didn’t care if it was dramatic or out of place. She needed something to hold onto.

“Seriously?” her brother hissed. “You’re gonna read at a fight?”

She didn’t answer.

She just pushed her glasses up again and stared hard at the words, trying not to jump every time the speaker blared.

Then the lights dimmed.

The bass throbbed.

And a voice roared through the stadium.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN—THE UNDEFEATED, THE UNTOUCHABLE—SILAS VEGA!”

The crowd erupted. A wave of bodies stood.

She looked up.

And the world slowed.

From the far end of the tunnel, a figure emerged beneath flickering lights. Shirtless. Skin glistening with oil. Muscles rippling with every step. Ink curled down his chest, across his stomach, his arms—a full sleeve on the right, fragmented designs on the left. His shorts bore his name in sharp, silver stitching.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t wave. He looked straight ahead—face calm, unreadable, focused. Like a storm brewing under skin.

Y/N had never seen someone like that in her life.

He climbed into the ring. Jumped once to loosen his limbs. Raised a single fist.

The crowd lost their minds.

She could barely breathe.

She told herself to look away. Told herself to read. But her fingers curled tighter around the pages instead, as if holding the book could tether her to who she was before this moment.

And that’s when it happened.

He looked at her.

Just for a second.

Among thousands of people. Thousands of screams.

His eyes—dark, heavy-lidded, intense—landed on hers.

Her breath caught. Her pulse stumbled.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t nod.

Just looked.

Like he recognized her.

And then the bell rang.

Fifteen minutes later

Silas Vega won, of course. The man barely broke a sweat. His opponent went down hard in the third round, and the crowd roared with adoration.

But Silas wasn’t listening.

He was staring at the third row.

The seat where the quiet girl had sat.

But she was gone.

Y/N

The fight was over.

Thank God.

Y/N pushed her glasses up for what felt like the hundredth time and ducked through the crowd, one hand gripping her tote bag, the other fiddling with her long, thick hair to keep it from getting caught in someone’s shoulder.

“Was that insane or what?” her brother shouted over the noise. “Third round knockout. Silas is a monster.”

Her dad laughed, clapping a stranger on the back. “Told you he’d win. He’s unstoppable.”

Y/N didn’t say anything. She just kept walking, stepping around discarded popcorn bags and sticky beer patches on the concrete. Her book was still in her bag, untouched. The lights had been too much. The noise. The heat of the crowd. She hated every second of it.

She hadn’t even meant to look at him.

Silas Vega. Whatever.

For a moment, she thought he looked at her. Dead in the eyes, like he knew her. But that was impossible. It was a fluke. Her seat was front and center. Maybe he was just scanning the rows.

She pulled her hair over one shoulder and rolled her eyes.

It didn’t matter. She didn’t care.

He was a fighter. A celebrity. Not her type. Not her world. Not someone she’d ever think about again.

“Y/N, did you see that hit?” her brother asked, jogging to catch up. “That combo? Guy dropped like a sack of bricks.”

“I wasn’t really watching,” she replied simply.

“You were there. How were you not watching?”

“I don’t like watching people get hurt,” she muttered. “It’s not entertaining to me.”

He blinked. “You’re weird.”

She shrugged. “You’ve known that since birth.”

Her mother was waiting by the car with bottled water and a smile. The ride home was full of chatter—her dad analyzing footwork, her brother pulling up replays on his phone, her mom humming along to old radio songs.

And Y/N just sat in the backseat, staring out the window. The world blurred past in soft yellow light.

She was already forgetting about the ring. The fighter. The noise.

She had a quiz on Monday. That was what mattered.

Back at the stadium…

Silas stood under the fluorescent lights of the locker room, taping up fresh bandages.

“She left,” he said to no one in particular.

“Who?” his brother asked.

“The girl.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink.

He just kept wrapping, slower now, like he was thinking about the way her glasses slid down, the way she didn’t scream or smile or react.

“She didn’t even look impressed,” he murmured.

Then, quieter, darker:

“I like that.”

Y/N – Quiet Life

The weekend passed the way most did in Y/N’s house—slow and warm, like sunlight filtering through lace curtains.

Saturday morning was pancakes. Her mom’s recipe, perfectly golden with crispy edges, served with fresh strawberries. Her dad read the paper out loud between bites, occasionally pausing to explain the comics like it was still 2007.

Y/N sat at the table with her long hair in a loose braid over her shoulder, oversized sweatshirt falling off one arm. Her glasses slid again. She pushed them up without thinking, flipping the page of her novel.

“You’re gonna wear your eyes out,” her mom teased, sipping her tea.

“I’m nearsighted. It’s already too late.”

Her dad chuckled. “What are you reading now?”

“Historical fiction. Set in 1840s England. There’s a horse farm and emotional repression.”

“So, exactly your kind of thing.”

Her brother stumbled into the kitchen wearing a hoodie and mismatched socks. “Silas Vega looked at Y/N at the fight.”

Y/N froze.

Her mother raised a brow.

Her father snorted.

“What?”

“No, he didn’t,” she muttered.

“He totally did,” her brother insisted. “Dead-on. Like, full eye contact. Didn’t look at anyone else like that.”

“I wasn’t even looking at him,” she said. “He probably just scans the crowd like a showman. It’s his job.”

“Whatever. You could marry him and become a rich housewife.”

“I’d rather marry a librarian,” she said flatly.

Later That Day

Y/N met her two closest friends, Mara and Jules, at the little café near the bookstore. The bell chimed when she entered, and Jules waved her over with a grin.

“Hey, celebrity.”

Y/N groaned. “You too?”

Mara leaned forward, excited. “He definitely looked at you. My brother said he’s never seen Silas stare at anyone like that. You broke the internet.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Exactly,” Jules said. “That’s why it’s hot.”

Y/N sipped her tea. “I’m not interested. I don’t care about muscles and violence. He probably doesn’t even read.”

“You don’t know that,” Mara smirked. “Maybe he reads poetry between punches.”

Y/N laughed. “Yeah, sure. Blood-stained Shakespeare.”

She didn’t tell them about the way his eyes made her freeze. Or how her heart thumped in her ears. Because she didn’t want to think about it.

Meanwhile

Silas – After the Fight

Silas sat in the back of his town car, knuckles bruised, hoodie pulled low. His phone buzzed with notifications—sponsors, fan edits, interview requests. He ignored them all.

His eyes were on a grainy screenshot someone sent him.

A still from the broadcast.

Her.

Y/N, sitting in the third row, arms crossed over a book, glasses falling, a bored look on her face.

She looked soft. Untouched. Like the world hadn’t ruined her yet.

She didn’t cheer. Didn’t worship him like the rest.

And she was perfect.

“Find out who she is,” he said to his manager, already knowing he would.

“Why?”

“Because she belongs to me.”

The front door slams open like a storm. Y/N barely glances up from her book as her little brother barrels into the living room, waving his phone like he just won the lottery.

“Y/N! Oh my god—you’re not gonna believe this!”

She blinks behind her glasses, adjusting her blanket. “What?”

“I won. I actually freaking won.” His eyes are wide, face glowing. “Two backstage passes to meet Silas Vegas—after his next fight!”

She frowns. “Who?”

“Who? Y/N, he’s only the most undefeated fighter in the league. The guy’s a legend. A beast. A literal god. And I get to meet him. I get to stand in the same room as Silas Vegas—Silas freaking Vegas!”

She smiles a little, amused at his excitement. “That’s cool.”

“Cool?” he gasps. “No—this is fate. You’re coming with me.”

She shakes her head instantly. “No way. Loud arenas? Drunk crowds? Sweaty guys punching each other? That’s your thing, not mine.”

He groans dramatically. “C’mon, you have to! It’ll be fun. Just one night.”

She looks back at her book. “You’ll have a better time without me.”

Later that Night:

Her brother’s at the fight, surrounded by flashing lights, deafening cheers, and roaring energy. But he’s not watching the match—he’s watching for her. Hoping she changed her mind.

She didn’t.

Backstage, he stands in awe as the towering figure of Silas Vegas enters, blood on his knuckles, his chest rising slow and heavy. He looks around… and pauses.

The girl isn’t here.

His eyes flick down to the boy. Same nose. Same last name printed on the email invite.

“You her brother?” Silas asks, voice smooth but dark.

The kid blinks. “Huh? Wait—yeah! That’s my sister. She didn’t come. Not really her scene.”

Silas stares at him for a moment too long.

“Pity,” he murmurs. “She looked like she belonged to me.”

Then, with a friendly smile, he claps a heavy hand on the kid’s shoulder.

“You ever think about training?”

And just like that… he’s in.

Scene: Family Dinner – Thursday Night

The kitchen smells like garlic bread and roasted chicken, laughter echoing off the walls. Y/N sits between her mom and her brother’s best friend, trying to follow the conversation, but the boys are talking a mile a minute.

Her brother is practically vibrating in his seat.

“And then he came out, shirt off, towel around his neck—and I swear, he looked right at me.”

“Who?” their dad asks, loosening his tie as he sits down, tired but trying to catch up.

“Silas Vegas, Dad! You should’ve seen him. He said I had potential. Me! I’m going to his gym on Sunday—private training.”

Their dad smiles, proud but with a hint of regret.

“Wish I could’ve come. Damn job got in the way.”

“It was insane,” the brother says, turning to his best friend. “Even you would’ve freaked out.”

The best friend, a soccer kid through and through, grins.

“Dude, you know I don’t get the whole fight scene, but that’s still badass. Maybe you’ll get famous and I’ll switch sports.”

Y/N just blinks, pushing peas around her plate.

“What’s a southpaw?” she asks, dead serious.

Everyone laughs.

“It’s when a fighter leads with their right hand,” her brother explains, half proud, half exasperated. “C’mon, Y/N, I’ve told you that before!”

“I forgot,” she mutters, cheeks warm.

Their mom chuckles softly and nudges Y/N’s arm.

“Speaking of forgetting…” Her voice turns playful. “Somebody’s birthday is this Saturday. My baby girl’s turning eighteen.”

Y/N groans. “Can we not talk about that?”

“Why not?” her dad says with a warm smile. “Eighteen’s a big deal.”

“Exactly,” her mom adds, already pulling out her mental Pinterest board. “I was thinking a small dinner. Something sweet. Maybe you can wear that dress I bought—the blue one?”

Y/N shrinks a little in her seat, suddenly aware of how fast everything is moving.

“We don’t have to make it a thing…”

“Oh, we’re making it a thing,” her brother chimes in, mouth full. “Eighteen, Y/N. You can vote. You can finally drive after years of avoiding your learner’s permit—”

“Thanks,” she deadpans.

“We’ll keep it lowkey,” her mom says gently. “Just us and maybe a few friends.”

Across the table, her brother’s best friend gives a little wave.

“I better be invited,” he says.

Y/N smiles. “Of course.”

But beneath the table, her phone buzzes in her pocket. An unknown number. No message. No call.

She doesn’t check it.

Not yet.

Saturday Morning – 

Sunlight filters through the curtains. The smell of pancakes and cinnamon floats up the stairs. Y/N blinks awake to the sound of soft knocking.

“Sweetheart?” her mom’s voice is gentle. “Can we come in?”

Before she can answer, the door creaks open and in come her parents—with her brother right behind them, holding a sad balloon he clearly bought last minute.

“Happy birthday!” they all say in unison.

Y/N sits up, sleepy but smiling. Her dad places a kiss on her forehead.

“Eighteen, huh? Our baby girl’s all grown up.”

Her mom hands her a tray with breakfast and a little wrapped box on the side.

“Your favorite. And something small to start the day.”

Her brother flops onto the foot of her bed. “I had to convince Mom not to put eighteen candles on your pancakes.”

“You’re so annoying,” Y/N mutters—but she’s still smiling.

He grins. “Wanna hear something wild though?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Silas Vegas—yes, THE Silas Vegas—texted me this morning.”

Y/N freezes, fork halfway to her mouth.

“He wanted to hang out,” her brother continues, completely unaware. “Said he had some free time today and asked if I wanted to drop by the gym. Just chill.”

Her mom gives him a look. “Didn’t you tell him it’s your sister’s birthday?”

“Of course I did.” He shrugs. “Told him no way, it’s family time. He said it was cool. That we’d reschedule.”

Y/N lowers her fork. Her chest feels… strange.

“He has your number?” she asks softly.

Her brother laughs. “Yeah! Gave it to him after training last night. Thought he might wanna talk fight stuff.”

Their dad raises a brow. “Pretty generous of him.”

“I know, right? He’s actually super chill. Not like I expected.”

Y/N nods slowly, but something inside her is already twisting. She stares at her untouched pancake, suddenly not hungry.

Later That Day

A knock at the door. Her brother goes to open it, expecting a neighbor, maybe a delivery.

Instead: Silas Vegas, standing on their porch with a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Hey,” he says smoothly. “Just thought I’d drop off a little birthday something—for your sister.”

The brother blinks. “How’d you—?”

“You mentioned it this morning,” Silas interrupts, handing him a soft white box tied in navy ribbon. “Don’t worry. Nothing crazy.”

But his eyes are already scanning the house behind him. Listening. Looking.

Waiting.

Saturday Evening –

The house is bustling as everyone gets ready. Her mom finishes curling Y/N’s hair while humming softly. Her father shaves, her brother’s trying to fix his tie in the hallway mirror. They’re planning to go to Bella Vita, the “fancy” place in town—white tablecloths, dim lighting, decent food.

Y/N stands in front of her mirror, slipping on nude heels. Her dress is simple but fitted—a soft champagne tone that makes her skin glow. Her glasses are off for once, replaced with contacts. Her hair falls in loose curls over her shoulders.

She feels… exposed.

From behind, her door creaks open.

“Hey, you almost ready?” her brother calls, but another voice answers.

Silas.

Low. Smooth. Intimate.

“She’s perfect.”

Y/N freezes.

He steps just inside the doorway, closing it behind him with a click. He’s in a sleek black button-down, dark slacks. The gold on his watch gleams. He doesn’t touch her—he doesn’t need to.

“Happy birthday, angel.”

His voice is like smoke, curling around her, sliding beneath her skin.

“You clean up nice. Contacts suit you… but I liked the glasses.” His eyes drop—just once, slow and deliberate—then rise again. “Everything else though? I already imagined it.”

She steps back instinctively, brushing against her dresser. Her heart thunders. She tries to speak, but—

Knock-knock. Her brother barges in, holding a box. “Oh, hey—Silas, you made it! Mom said we’re about ready to leave.”

He holds out the box to Y/N.

“Here. I know it’s kinda girly, but the lady at the store said it was classy. Figured you’d like it.”

Y/N opens it—and stills.

Inside is a delicate, thin gold necklace with a tiny charm… a lock.

Not a heart. Not a name. Not an initial. A lock.

It matches the tattoo on Silas’s neck.

Her eyes flick to Silas.

He’s already watching her. Expression unreadable, but the corner of his mouth lifts slightly.

“Put it on!” her brother says, grinning. “Let’s see it!”

Y/N hesitates. Her fingers tremble.

Silas steps forward, breaking the tension with a casual tone. “I can help, if you want.”

“No!” she says too fast, then softens. “I—I got it.”

She turns toward the mirror, clipping the necklace in place. Her fingers brush the charm, cold against her skin. Her brother grins.

“Looks good. Kinda fancy. You could be in a movie or something.”

Silas says nothing—but when their eyes meet in the mirror, it’s like he’s already claimed her.

As the family gathers by the door, ready to head to Bella Vita, Silas casually speaks up:

“Actually… I’ve made other arrangements.”

They all turn.

“A friend of mine owns a place in the city. Real five-star stuff. Private dining room. I thought I’d treat the birthday girl and her family.”

Her father hesitates. “That’s very generous, but you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Silas says firmly. Then, softer: “She deserves it.”

Everyone murmurs thanks, impressed by the gesture.

Y/N stays quiet, her hand touching the little lock charm, the air in her lungs feeling heavier than it should.

The moment the front door opens, the difference is impossible to miss.

Not the family’s old, slightly dented minivan. No—the vehicle parked in front is long, sleek, and obsidian black, with chrome rims that shine even in the twilight. The engine hums like it’s alive.

“Whoa…” her brother whispers. “This your ride, Silas?”

Silas smiles. “One of them.”

The back doors open automatically. Y/N’s mom gasps softly. Her dad hesitates, running a hand through his hair like he’s underdressed. Y/N follows behind them slowly, her heels clicking lightly on the concrete.

She expects her brother to slide in beside Silas—but he takes the far back, dragging his best friend with him. Her mom and dad sit up front with the driver.

Which means Y/N is left… in the middle row. Next to him.

Trapped.

The leather seats are cool against her thighs. The smell inside is sharp, expensive—like dark spice and polished wood. Silas doesn’t speak right away, and neither does she.

Then her family starts in.

“So what do you eat to stay that fit?” her dad asks.

“What kind of training do you do?” her brother pipes up.

“Is it true you broke someone’s nose in six seconds?” his friend blurts out.

Silas laughs softly, smooth and controlled, answering each question like he’s been prepped for press his entire life. But while he talks…

His fingers move.

Slowly, he shifts closer. His knee brushes hers. His hand settles near her thigh—too near. Then it moves again, casually brushing the side of her leg.

Y/N presses closer to the door, trying to stay in the shadows, heart thudding. Her fingers grip her clutch like a lifeline.

Her family laughs at something he says—she doesn’t hear it. All she hears is the soft drag of his knuckles near the hem of her dress.

She squeezes her thighs together. The necklace feels heavy against her chest.

Don't react. Don't let them notice.

The car rolls to a stop in front of a place none of them have ever been.

The entrance is a tall arch of black glass and stone, glowing softly from within. No name. No flashing signs. Just a small gold plate by the door: Maison D’Or.

“Is this it?” her mom whispers. “It’s gorgeous…”

Inside, the air is cool, lightly perfumed with sandalwood and rose. The lighting is low and golden, casting everything in a soft glow. Rich velvet curtains, crystal glassware, white-gloved waitstaff.

A live string trio plays in the corner, the music delicate and rich like honey over silk.

At the table—already set and waiting—sits another gift box. A bouquet of dark red roses rests beside it, thorns clipped clean.

Silas gestures for Y/N to sit first. She hesitates.

“Go ahead, angel,” he says low, just for her. “It’s your night.”

She lowers herself slowly into the seat. Her brother rushes to grab the gift.

“Another one? Damn, you’re getting spoiled.”

He passes it to her, eyes gleaming. “C’mon, open it.”

Y/N glances at Silas, who smiles that slow, careful smile.

She lifts the lid—and finds a silk hair ribbon, deep wine-red. Simple. Soft. Expensive. Embroidered in tiny golden thread with her name.

Just her name.

No one comments on how intimate it is. No one notices the way she grips the table under her dress.

Silas leans close.

“For when you put your hair up,” he murmurs, brushing a finger behind her ear. “Next time I see you, I expect you to wear it.”

The server pours wine into crystal glasses. The family is buzzing, dazzled by the elegance. Y/N sits stiffly, her body turned ever so slightly away from Silas—even though he’s right next to her.

He doesn’t let her forget it.

“She’ll have the salmon,” Silas says smoothly, before Y/N can speak.

The server nods.

Y/N opens her mouth—she was going to order something else—but her mother interrupts, beaming.

“That sounds perfect. You’re always so picky, sweetheart. He’s a gentleman for deciding.”

Her stomach coils.

Silas leans in.

“Told you,” he murmurs near her ear, “I know what’s good for you.”

His hand brushes her bare thigh under the table.

At first, it’s light. A slow stroke with the back of his fingers. She shifts away. His hand returns, bolder. Fingertips sliding higher beneath the silky hem of her dress.

Her fork clinks against her plate as she stiffens.

Her dad doesn’t notice—he’s mid-laugh at one of Silas’s perfectly placed stories.

Y/N’s breathing starts to falter. She forces herself to smile. But the hand won’t stop. Now it’s pressing, gliding along the sensitive inside of her thigh.

Higher.

She jerks in her seat.

“Are you okay?” her brother asks.

“I—I need to use the bathroom,” she blurts, pushing her chair back.

Her napkin drops to the floor. Her legs wobble as she walks away, heels clicking too fast on marble. She bursts into the lavish bathroom, heart hammering, tears threatening.

Her hands clutch the edge of the sink. Her reflection looks wrong—flushed, shaking, helpless.

She thinks about telling her mom. About crying in her arms like when she was little. But—

Would she believe her? Would anyone?

A soft click interrupts her spiraling thoughts.

The bathroom door shuts behind her.

Locks.

Silas.

He’s already inside.

She spins, her back hitting the counter.

“W-What are you doing?” she whispers.

He steps forward slowly, every movement deliberate, wolfish. The music outside is still playing—something elegant, something light.

“You didn’t say thank you,” he says, eyes sweeping over her. “For the necklace. For the ribbon. For dinner.”

His voice is soft. Velvet wrapped around a knife.

“So I figured you needed reminding.”

He closes the space between them.

Y/N’s breath shudders. Her lips part to speak—but nothing comes out.

Y/N’s back presses against the cool marble countertop, her breath caught somewhere between a sob and a scream.

“Stop,” she says, voice trembling. “Get out—get the hell away from me.”

Silas tilts his head, mock-hurt in his eyes.

“That’s no way to speak to someone who gave you such a beautiful night.”

He steps closer. One hand rests beside her on the counter—blocking her in. The other reaches, slow and deliberate, brushing a strand of curled hair from her cheek. She jerks her head away.

“You’re insane,” she hisses. “You’re—fucking crazy.”

His smile doesn’t move. It only sharpens.

“You didn’t seem to mind earlier… letting me touch you at the table. Didn’t stop me.” His hand glides down again—this time, not stopping at her thigh. “You squeezed your legs together, baby. That wasn’t fear. That was need.”

“Stop it!” she chokes, twisting away—but he grabs her wrist and turns her toward the mirror.

Her reflection stares back—eyes wide, cheeks blotched with shame and panic.

“Look at yourself,” he whispers against her ear. “You’re mine already. You just don’t know it yet.”

She trembles. Tears well up. Her mouth parts again to scream—when—

Knock knock knock.

Her mother’s voice outside the door.

“Sweetheart? Are you okay? You’ve been in there a while.”

Y/N freezes.

Silas meets her eyes in the mirror, still holding her tight.

Then slowly, he lets her go.

His fingers brush her cheek, gentle now. He wipes the tear that escaped, smearing it away like it never happened. He leans in, lips grazing the shell of her ear.

“Go out there and smile,” he says softly. “Tell her everything’s fine. Or I’ll start with your little brother next.”

Her stomach lurches.

Then—smack.

His hand lands sharply on her backside.

“Go on, birthday girl.”

She flinches but obeys, body numb.

With trembling hands, she unlocks the door and steps out. Her mother stands there, concern fading into relief as she sees her.

“There you are! Are you okay?”

Y/N forces a smile.

“Y-Yeah. I’m okay. Just needed a minute.”

Her mom wraps an arm around her and leads her back toward the table.

Neither of them turns around. Neither sees Silas still inside—his reflection grinning in the mirror, dark eyes burning.

By the time Y/N returns to the table, Silas is already seated, laughing with her father like nothing happened.

“Your girl’s got quiet strength,” he’s saying. “Rare in someone so young.”

Her dad chuckles. “You’ve got no idea. She’s always been the stubborn one.”

Y/N’s legs feel like lead as she sits down again—but not in the seat next to Silas. She moves her chair a few inches away, pretending to adjust her dress.

He notices. Of course he does.

But he says nothing.

Instead, he lifts his wine glass in a silent toast, watching her over the rim with those cold, hungry eyes.

She forces a smile. Tries to eat. Tries to breathe.

Her mother and father keep chatting. Her brother is still raving about training. But it’s his best friend—seated across from her—who seems to notice something's off.

“Hey,” he says softly, leaning in a bit. “You okay? You’ve been kinda quiet tonight.”

Y/N blinks at him. For a second, the tension in her chest cracks.

“I’m fine,” she whispers. “Just overwhelmed, I guess.”

He grins. “Can’t blame you. This place is like a movie. Honestly, I keep expecting a celebrity to walk in and ask for your autograph.”

She laughs—actually laughs, just a small, quiet sound—but real. It slips out before she can stop it.

And Silas hears it.

He doesn’t react.

Not with words. Not with his face.

But his jaw tightens ever so slightly. His fingers curl around the stem of his glass.

Under the table, he moves his leg again—slowly pressing his knee against hers.

She flinches and shifts away, smile fading.

But the moment has already happened. She laughed. At someone else.

And he didn’t like that.

Not at all.

The lights dim, and the server brings out a small, elegant cake topped with gold dust and spun sugar. A single candle flickers on top.

“Make a wish, baby,” her mom says softly.

Y/N leans forward, her face glowing in the candlelight.

She looks around—at her parents, her brother, his goofy best friend. And then… at him.

Silas.

Watching her like she’s the prize at the center of the table.

She closes her eyes, blows out the candle, and wishes to be invisible.

For just a moment.

The family cheers. Her brother claps, teasing her about growing up. Her dad kisses her temple.

Y/N smiles—a real smile this time. For them. She pushes everything aside. For a few minutes, she eats cake and pretends she’s just a normal girl with a normal birthday.

But she doesn’t notice Silas texting under the table.

A message already sent. Something waiting at home. A gift he picked out just for her.

Home – After the Dinner

The drive home is quieter.

Her family chatters softly—still glowing from the fancy dinner, still singing Silas’s praises like he’s some golden god. Her dad goes on about how polite he was. Her mom’s already talking about inviting him over for Sunday dinner sometime.

Y/N says nothing.

She sits pressed against the car door again, her heels pinching, her shoulders aching. The necklace feels tighter now. Heavy. Like a chain instead of an accessory.

Her stomach churns every time she thinks of the bathroom.

You didn’t say thank you…

They pull into the driveway. Everyone stumbles out with full bellies and sleepy smiles. Her brother gives her a big side-hug, practically dragging his best friend inside to raid the fridge.

“Night, birthday girl!”

Y/N forces a smile, waves, and slips off her shoes the second she’s inside the door. Her toes ache. Her curls are falling. Her makeup feels heavy.

She just wants to crawl into bed, wash it all off, be alone.

But when she gets to her room, she stops cold.

It’s there.

Another box.

Smaller. Sleeker. Matte black with a blood-red ribbon tied in a bow.

No note.

No name.

But she knows.

He’s been here. Or someone has… for him.

Her breath catches. She shuts the door behind her and locks it, heart thudding.

Slowly, like it might bite her, she unties the ribbon.

Inside the box: a pair of black silk panties.

Delicate. Laced. Embroidered at the hip in gold thread:

“Mine.”

Y/N stares down at them, her throat tight, bile rising. Her chest heaves.

She drops the box like it burned her.

And under the tissue paper at the bottom, something else slides free—a polaroid.

It’s her.

Sitting at the restaurant. That moment she laughed with the best friend.

She didn’t even know a photo was taken.

On the back, in clean, all-caps letters:

“I LIKE YOUR SMILE. DON’T GIVE IT AWAY AGAIN.”

That Night

Y/N stares at the box, the panties, the photo. Her heart is pounding so hard it drowns out everything else.

“No. No. No,” she whispers.

She grabs the photo and box and storms out of her room, barefoot, still in her dress, her hair messy from the night.

Downstairs, her mom is in the kitchen finishing dishes. Humming softly.

“Mom—” Y/N’s voice cracks.

Her mother turns, startled. “Sweetheart, what is it?”

Y/N holds out the photo with shaking hands. “He—he was in my room. He left this. And these—” she can’t even say the word. “He’s crazy, Mom. He’s not okay.”

Her mom takes the photo, frowning. She flips it over, reads the message… and then chuckles.

“Y/N… you’re overthinking. It’s probably just a joke. A flirty little thing—men like that, they’re intense.”

Y/N’s breath stops. “What?”

“He’s clearly taken with you. Can you blame him?”

Her mother places the photo back in her hand.

“Don’t ruin a good opportunity because you’re scared of a little attention.”

Y/N’s lips part in horror.

“He followed me into a bathroom. He touched me. I didn’t want—”

Her mother’s smile tightens.

“You didn’t stop him.”

Silence.

Crushing silence.

“You’re tired,” her mom says, turning away to dry her hands. “Sleep on it. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

Y/N doesn’t remember going back to her room. She curls up under the covers, heartbroken, terrified, and completely alone.

Scene: The Next Morning – Sunday

Sunlight slices through her blinds. The smell of breakfast is downstairs, but her stomach turns.

Then—

“Y/N! C’mon, we’re gonna be late!” Her brother barges into her room, full of energy. “We’re going to the gym to watch me train with Silas!”

Y/N sits up slowly. Her eyes are puffy. She barely slept.

“He asked if you were coming. He said—oh yeah—he mentioned something about… a white dress?”

Her blood goes cold.

“What?”

Her brother shrugs. “I don’t know. He just said, ‘Tell her to wear the white one.’ I figured he meant that flowy one you wore to Easter or something?”

Y/N stares at him.

“You coming or what? Mom said we’re leaving in twenty.”

He disappears down the hall, yelling about protein shakes and wrapping his hands.

Y/N doesn’t move.

Her gaze drifts to the closet… to the white dress.

Waiting.

Sunday Morning –

Y/N moves like a ghost.

She pulls the white dress from her closet with trembling hands. It's soft and delicate—flowy, with a lace-trimmed neckline and little flutter sleeves. It used to make her feel pretty.

Today, it feels like a uniform.

She puts it on in silence. No makeup. Bare-faced. She stares at her reflection with dead eyes.

"Tell her to wear the white one."

She grabs her flat sandals, hoping to feel just a little bit grounded. But as she steps into the kitchen, her mother looks up from packing fruit into a cooler and frowns.

“Sandals?” she says gently. “No, no, baby. Not with that dress.”

Y/N pauses, blinking.

“Go put on your nude heels—the ones we bought for Easter. You’ll look so much more polished.”

“I don’t really want—”

Her mother kisses her cheek, smoothing her hair.

“Trust me. You’ll look beautiful. He’ll love it.”

He already saw me break, Y/N wants to scream. He saw me cry. He touched me. He left underwear in my room.

But instead… she nods.

“Okay.”

She goes back upstairs, hands shaking as she straps on the heels. Her feet already ache in anticipation.

She’s not walking into a gym.

She’s walking into his hands.

The car ride is quieter than last night—no fancy car this time, just their regular van. Her brother and his best friend talk nonstop in the back. Her father drives. Her mother hums along to the radio, glancing over now and then with soft smiles.

“You look radiant, sweetheart,” she says, resting her hand over Y/N’s. “You’ll turn heads today.”

Y/N forces a tiny smile and looks out the window.

Every turn takes her closer.

The gym is loud with the rhythmic thud of gloves hitting bags, the clang of weights, and the distant sound of a jump rope whipping against the floor. But when Y/N steps inside, all of it dulls.

Her white dress flutters around her knees. Her heels click against concrete. She looks like a misplaced angel in a cage of wolves.

Her family enters behind her—chattering, laughing, comfortable. They’d already met Silas Vegas at dinner. They liked him.

They trust him.

And he’s already waiting.

Standing near the ring, wrapped hands resting on the ropes, sweat clinging to his chest, Silas’s eyes lock onto her like a predator recognizing its scent.

His manager, Rey, stands beside him, clipboard in hand. He glances up, sees the family, and smiles politely.

“There’s the birthday girl,” Rey says. “Back again already.”

He leans closer to Silas, keeping his voice low.

“That the dress you picked?”

Silas’s mouth curves—just slightly.

“Fits her better than I imagined.”

Rey chuckles under his breath, but then his eyes catch on her again. He’s been around long enough to know when something’s off.

“She’s pretty young, Silas.”

Silas doesn’t break his gaze from Y/N. His voice drops.

“She’s mine.” Then: “And I’m always good to what’s mine.”

Rey looks away.

He’s not going to interfere.

Y/N’s brother bounds toward Silas, throwing a few fake punches.

“You ready for me today or what?”

Silas chuckles, clapping him on the back. “Let’s find out.”

Her father thanks him again for the private lessons. Her mom smiles, complimenting the gym. It’s all smooth, easy, familiar now.

No one notices how Y/N doesn’t say a word.

No one sees how she inches subtly away, heels wobbling slightly on the gritty floor.

But Silas?

He notices everything.

He turns toward her slowly.

“You wore it,” he says softly, so only she hears. “Good girl.”

Her stomach knots.

She says nothing.

His hand brushes her lower back when he passes by—not too long, not too obvious. But just enough to make her flinch.

“Enjoy the show,” he adds with a smirk. “It’s all for you anyway.”

The training begins.

Her brother is glowing, already on the mat with gloves on, listening to Silas bark instructions with charm and power. Their parents sit in folding chairs by the ring, sipping complimentary water, chatting politely with Rey.

And Y/N?

She slips away.

The heat, the sound, his eyes—it’s too much. She pretends she needs the restroom, wanders past racks of towels, down a hallway with dim lighting and cold walls. There’s a storage room with a cracked door, and she slips inside.

A moment. That’s all she wants. Just one breath without Silas watching.

She leans against the shelf of gear, head bowed, the cold air a relief against her flushed skin. Her fingers toy with the little lock charm on her necklace.

I’m not safe. Even here… I’m not safe.

Then—

Click.

The door closes behind her.

Locks.

She spins around.

Silas stands just inside, chest heaving lightly from the workout, hands still taped. He doesn’t speak at first. He just stares.

“You ran,” he says quietly.

Her voice shakes. “I didn’t— I just needed—”

“You left the room.” His voice sharpens. “While I was performing for you.”

Y/N tries to take a step back, but the shelves are already behind her.

He stalks forward, slow and lethal. His taped fingers reach out and brush her wrist, trailing up her arm, wrapping around the base of her neck.

Not squeezing. Not yet.

“I don’t like chasing,” he murmurs. “But I will. Every time.”

Y/N’s breath hitches. “Silas, please—don’t do this. Not here.”

He leans down, lips nearly grazing hers.

“This is the perfect place, angel. You’re surrounded by men who’d kill to be near you—but they can’t. Because you’re already owned.”

He pulls something from his pocket and dangles it in front of her.

A small, gold padlock key on a delicate chain.

“This matches your necklace,” he says with a wicked grin. “But only I get to use it.”

He hooks the chain around her neck, layering it beneath the lock.

“Two pieces. One game.”

Then, softer, colder:

“If you take either off… I’ll come for someone else in your house.”

He pulls away, smooths her dress like nothing happened.

“Now smile. Fix your lipstick. And come watch me train your brother.”

Y/N walks back out.

Composed. Silent. Shaken.

No one notices the second chain around her neck. No one notices the bruise forming beneath her jaw where his thumb pressed too hard. But he sees it. And he smiles like he just won.

Her brother is practically glowing in the backseat, still sweaty from training but grinning like a kid on Christmas.

“He said I’m a natural!” he beams. “Did you hear that, Dad? He said I had power in my stance.”

Their dad chuckles, proud. “He’s not wrong, son.”

In the passenger seat, their mom is scrolling through photos she took of the session. "I got one of Silas showing you how to block—look how intense your face is!"

Y/N sits in the back, crushed against the door again. The necklace with the lock feels heavier now. The key chain underneath it rubs against her collarbone like a secret no one else can see.

Her thighs are pressed tight together. Her hands shake in her lap.

Silas, up front beside her father, turns slightly to glance back at her. His smile is calm. Polite. Too calm.

“You alright, sweetheart?” he asks smoothly, the word twisting in her stomach.

Her mother glances back too. “You’ve been so quiet all day.”

Y/N nods quickly. “Just tired.”

Her voice is flat, too soft.

Silas’s fingers rest on the center console—close enough for her to see them twitch.

Instead of going straight home, Silas insists on treating them to something small—frozen yogurt, of all things.

They go.

Because everyone trusts him now.

He pays for everyone. Even picks out her flavor without asking.

“Vanilla with raspberries,” he murmurs to the cashier. “It’s her favorite.”

Y/N doesn’t correct him. Her throat’s too tight.

Her brother and his friend sit outside, laughing over toppings. Their mom and dad share a bench, enjoying the quiet.

Silas stands beside Y/N as she stares into her melting cup.

“You don’t get to run from me,” he whispers, voice low enough no one else hears. “And you definitely don’t get to hide.”

The Next Day

The sun is warm. They sit on a picnic blanket in the park, iced drinks in hand. Her friends are talking about summer, boys, music.

Y/N hasn’t said much—until she finally breaks.

“He touched me in the bathroom. On my birthday. He followed me in. Locked the door.”

Her voice is quiet, but it shakes.

One of her friends blinks. “Silas? Silas Vegas? Are you serious?”

Y/N nods.

“He left underwear in my room. A photo of me. He… he put his hand on me yesterday. I didn’t want him to.”

Another girl bites her straw. “Okay, that’s… intense.”

“Creepy,” another mutters. “But like… are you sure? He seems kind of… protective.”

“I’m sure,” Y/N snaps, eyes wide, tears building. “He threatened me.”

A silence falls.

It’s awkward. Heavy. They don’t know what to say. No one gets up. No one rushes to hug her.

Finally, one of them shifts the subject.

“Hey,” says the one with the sunglasses, “you should come with us to the summer camp pits.”

Y/N blinks.

“Camp?”

“Yeah. The annual one. You know—two weeks of hiking, swimming, taking care of little kids. It’ll be a break. You’d be a counselor this time.”

“And Silas can’t follow you there,” one of them adds, more gently. “He won’t even know where you are.”

That thought nearly makes Y/N sob.

She nods, clinging to the idea like a raft in the storm.

“I want to go. I’ll go.”

That Night – 

She stands in the kitchen with her hands folded, her voice practiced.

“There’s this camp. I’d be a counselor. Two weeks. Just girls and kids. No phones allowed.”

Her mother frowns. “Two weeks? Alone?”

“You won’t be alone,” her dad says gently. “But you just turned eighteen…”

“Which is why I want to do this,” Y/N says quickly. “I need some space. Some clarity.”

Her mom hesitates.

“It’s just—it feels sudden. You’ve been spending time with Silas. And now you’re rushing off?”

Y/N feels her heart drop into her stomach.

“He doesn’t need to know,” she whispers.

Her dad tilts his head. “Is something going on, Y/N?”

She almost says it.

Almost.

“No,” she lies. “I just want to be around people my own age.”

That Night – 

Y/N stands quietly as her parents talk in the kitchen. She can hear the concern in her mom’s voice—but it’s her dad who finally ends it.

“She’s eighteen. And she’s been… off lately. Let her go.”

Her mother sighs. “I just… it feels sudden.”

Her father glances toward the hallway—where Y/N stands just out of sight—and softens.

“She needs time with people her age. With girls. Camp’ll be good for her.”

Her mother doesn’t argue again.

Y/N barely makes it to her room before her legs give out. She sinks onto her bed and stares at the ceiling.

For the first time in weeks… she feels a sliver of hope.

[Time Skip: One Week Later]

The days pass quietly, almost too quietly.

Y/N barely speaks to Silas. She avoids his texts. Ignores the necklace. She’s careful. Cautious. Every step closer to leaving feels like a stolen breath.

She’s packed her bag in secret. Folded clothes, tucked in sunscreen, worn-out sneakers. No white dresses. No heels.

Just comfort. And escape.

Her friends pull into the driveway in a beat-up car, all piled with duffels and sleeping bags. The windows are down. Music’s playing low.

Y/N walks out with her bag slung over her shoulder. Her father steps out onto the porch and gives her a hug.

“Be safe, kiddo.”

She nods. “Thank you, Dad. Really.”

Her mom lingers by the door, arms crossed but silent.

Her brother stumbles out, yawning. “Wait—where are you going?”

Y/N hesitates. “Camp. I’m going to be a counselor.”

“Since when?”

“Since now,” she says softly. “It’s just two weeks.”

He shrugs, not thinking much of it. “Okay, cool. Send pics.”

She climbs into the car.

As they drive off, the necklace with the lock bumps lightly against her chest. She tucks it deep into her hoodie.

Later That Day –

The gym is humid, alive with energy. Her brother is sweating through drills, gloves pounding against the pads.

Silas watches from across the mat, still and unreadable.

“Keep your chin down,” he says. “Don’t leave your right hand hanging.”

“Yeah, yeah,” her brother pants. “You’re really uptight today.”

Silas doesn’t answer. His mind is elsewhere.

That’s when the brother says it, totally casual.

“Y/N left for camp this morning, by the way.”

Silas’s world goes still.

“What?”

“Yeah. Like two weeks. All-girls camp. She’s a counselor or whatever. She packed last night and just dipped.”

Silas stares at him.

“She didn’t tell me.”

The boy blinks, confused. “Uh… she said it was kind of last-minute. Guess she didn’t think you’d care.”

Silas doesn’t speak.

He simply turns, walks toward the back office, and shuts the door behind him with a quiet, final click.

The door locks.

He paces. Breathing sharp. Controlled.

She ran.

Not far. But far enough to think he wouldn’t follow.

He opens his phone.

No texts. No updates. No location ping.

He closes his eyes.

Good girls don’t run. Good girls don’t hide.

He opens a drawer. Pulls out something small.

The second key. The matching padlock.

He runs his thumb along the gold edge.

“Two weeks,” he whispers. “She thinks that’s enough time to forget who she belongs to.”