#noirscript

[noirscript]

cursed covenant

pairing: yandere lesser god x reader

warnings: YANDERE. dubcon. noncon (implied). manipulation. gaslighting. captivity. failed escape attempt.

note/s: let me hear your thoughts about this one. its been stuck in my drafts for more than a year now 😂

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The lanterns bobbed like fireflies in the distance, their golden glow flickering through the dense canopy of the forest. Laughter and music from the village festival still echoed faintly, but the path behind you had long since dissolved into the shadows. The trees loomed taller, the scent of damp earth and moss filling your nose as you clutched the hem of your festival clothes.

You hadn’t meant to wander this far.

One moment, you were chasing after the sound of a bell—a clear, delicate chime just beyond the treeline. And now, the familiar voices of your family were gone, replaced by the rustling of unseen creatures in the underbrush. The festival had felt so warm, so full of life. Here, the air was thick, the silence stretched too long between every chirp and whisper.

Then, the sound of running water reached you.

Relief flooded your tiny chest. The villagers always said the river led back to town. If you followed it, surely you’d find your way home. You hurried toward the sound, stepping over gnarled roots and ducking under low branches.

But when you emerged into the clearing, the river was not the first thing you noticed.

A man sat by the water’s edge.

He was beautiful. Even as a child, you understood that much. His hair, darker than the night sky, spilled over his shoulders, and his silver eyes caught the moonlight like trapped stardust. He reclined against the smooth stones, long fingers trailing in the water, as if unbothered by the presence of a small, lost girl staring at him with wide eyes.

And then, he smiled.

“You’re quite far from the festival, little one.” His voice was smooth, rich like the hum of the earth before a storm.

You hesitated, fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeves. "I was… I was following a bell."

His expression didn’t change, but something in his gaze sharpened. "A bell?" He chuckled, low and knowing. "How strange. There are no bells in this forest."

A small frown tugged at your lips. But you had heard it. You knew you had.

The man tilted his head, watching you with quiet amusement. “Tell me, little one, are you afraid?”

You blinked up at him. It was an odd question. Should you be? The village elders always spoke of gods and spirits that dwelled in these woods, warning children never to stray too far. But as you stood before this man—this strange, beautiful man with silver eyes—fear was the furthest thing from your mind.

You shook your head.

He laughed softly. “Good.” Then, he reached out a hand. “Come. Let’s get you home.”

You hesitated for only a moment before slipping your small fingers into his. His touch was warm, his grip firm as he led you along the riverbank. He moved without hesitation, as if the forest itself bent to his will, parting the way before him.

As you walked, he asked you questions. Simple ones. Your name. Your age. If you liked the festival. If you enjoyed sweets. You answered eagerly, the nervous edge in your voice fading as you spoke.

He listened.

No one had ever listened to you like that before. Not the other children, who only wanted to play rough games. Not the adults, who often brush you aside with distracted nods. But he—he made you feel important. As if every word you said mattered.

When the village lights finally flickered through the trees, disappointment stirred in your chest. You didn’t want to say goodbye just yet.

The man knelt before you, his silver gaze holding yours as he brushed a stray leaf from your hair. “I will ask something of you, little one.”

You tilted your head. “What is it?”

His fingers ghosted over your cheek. “Promise me.”

“Promise what?”

“That you’ll always return to me.” His voice was gentle, but something deep beneath it coiled tight. “That you’ll be mine, forever.”

You blinked at him, puzzled but unafraid. It sounded like a game, like when your friends made pinky promises by the river.

So, you nodded. “I promise.”

For the first time, his smile reached his eyes. But the glint in them was something you wouldn’t understand until years later.

“Good girl.”

Then, the festival bells rang, and the world blurred.

When you turned to thank him, he was gone.

The festival was already in full swing when you stepped back into the village. Lanterns swayed gently in the evening breeze, casting flickering patterns across the packed earth. The scent of roasted chestnuts and sweet rice cakes filled the air, and the laughter of children rang out as they ran through the crowded streets. It should have been comforting, familiar.

But something felt… different.

Your hand was still warm from where he had held it.

You glanced back at the darkened forest, half-expecting to see those silver eyes watching from the treeline. But there was nothing—just the rustling of leaves, the whisper of wind through the branches.

“Where have you been?” Your grandmother’s sharp voice snapped you back to reality. She appeared through the throng of people, worry etched deep into her face. “I told you not to wander off. Do you know how dangerous it is to go near the mountains alone?”

You opened your mouth to tell her about the man by the river, about how he had brought you home safely. But the moment you tried to form the words, something stopped you. A strange pressure, a weight on your tongue, as if speaking of him would break something fragile and sacred.

So instead, you shook your head and muttered a quiet apology.

Your grandmother’s fingers gripped your wrist tighter than necessary as she pulled you back toward the festival. “You must never go there again,” she warned. “No matter what.”

But you had already made a promise.

And deep in the woods, under the silver glow of the moon, a god smiled.

The years passed.

The seasons changed, the festivals came and went, and the village continued to thrive. But something about you was… different. The boys in your village avoided you. Not out of cruelty, but something deeper, something instinctual. Even those who once played alongside you as children now hesitated to meet your gaze, their hands twitching with nervous energy whenever you came too close. The few who dared to approach were quickly met with sickness, misfortune, or strange accidents.

The only exception was him.

He was always there, waiting in the woods just beyond the village. You weren’t supposed to go near the mountain, but somehow, your feet always found the path leading back to him.

It started with stolen afternoons. You would slip away after lessons, past the watchful eyes of the elders, and run to the river where he always waited. He never called for you, never beckoned you forward, but he didn’t need to. You always came.

He listened to your stories, his silver eyes never straying from your face. When you laughed, his lips would curl into something unreadable. When you cried, he would touch your cheek, his fingers cool against your warm skin. He never asked for anything in return.

Not yet.

But his presence was intoxicating. Comforting.

Yours.

Until the day they took you away.

It happened quickly. One moment, you were walking home from the woods, your heart still racing from your latest meeting with him. The next, your grandmother was gripping your shoulders, her nails digging into your skin as she whispered hurried prayers under her breath. Your parents were there, too, their faces tight with something you didn’t understand. There were no explanations, no time to argue. Just hurried steps, packed belongings, and a carriage waiting at the village gates.

The other elders stood in the distance, their gazes cast downward, their hands gripping charms and talismans. They wouldn’t look at you.

You struggled. You cried. You begged them to tell you why.

But it wasn’t until you saw the thick paper talismans plastered across the door to your home that realization set in.

They knew.

And they were taking you away from him.

Your screams echoed through the village as they forced you into the carriage, your nails clawing at the wooden frame. You didn’t care about the strange looks from the other villagers, the hushed whispers behind their hands. All you knew was that you had made a promise, and they were breaking it.

The last thing you saw before the doors shut was the treeline. The shadows between the trees shifted, moved, as if something—someone—was watching.

And then, the silver of his eyes, gleaming with something dark and terrible.

And then—nothing.

The city was loud. Too loud.

Even after years of living there, the endless noise of car horns, chatter, and the hum of electricity never settled right in your bones. The air was thick with something artificial, something lifeless. The sky never seemed as wide, the stars never as bright.

At first, you fought against it. You clung to the memories of your village, of the woods, of him. But time had a cruel way of dulling things. The face of the god by the river blurred at the edges, the warmth of his fingers against your skin faded to a ghostly sensation, the sound of his voice—once so clear—became harder to recall.

You moved on.

You made friends, explored the city, built a life that had nothing to do with the mountain. And for a while, it was enough.

Until the letters started coming.

At first, they were harmless. News from your uncle, brief mentions of the village, how things had been difficult but were getting better. You barely paid them any mind, offering polite responses in return.

Then, the tone changed.

The village was suffering. Crops withered before they could be harvested, livestock fell ill, and the number of stillborn children had risen to something unnatural. They needed you back—for the festival, for a ceremony only you could lead.

You ignored it.

But the letters kept coming, each one more desperate than the last. Until finally, your uncle arrived in the city himself, standing on your doorstep with weary eyes and hands that trembled as he held out the final letter.

You read it.

And the moment your fingers brushed against the parchment, something shifted in the air.

The scent of damp earth filled your nose. The faint, almost imperceptible sound of a bell chimed in the distance.

And suddenly, the city didn’t feel so safe anymore.

Returning to the village was like stepping into a memory that had been left out in the rain—warped, faded, wrong.

The streets were quiet, the colors muted. The children who had once been your playmates now peeked at you from behind their mother’s skirts, their eyes wide with something too solemn for their age. The elders barely acknowledged your presence, their hands clutching charms so tightly their knuckles turned white.

Your grandmother’s house was the same, but the moment she saw you standing at her doorstep, her expression twisted into something unreadable.

“You should not have come back.”

But it was too late. You were already here.

That night, you lay awake in your childhood bed, staring at the ceiling as the wind howled through the trees. The house creaked, the wooden beams groaning as if something pressed against them, waiting—watching.

And then, through the open window, a whisper.

"You promised."

Your breath caught in your throat.

You sat up sharply, heart pounding as you turned to the window. The forest loomed in the distance, dark and endless.

You told yourself it was your imagination.

But you knew better.

The next morning, before the sun had fully risen, you found yourself walking the familiar path to the mountain. The villagers didn’t stop you. They didn’t even look at you.

The forest welcomed you back like you had never left.

The trees were the same, the river still carved its path through the land, the scent of moss and damp earth filled your lungs. And at the heart of it all, standing just beyond the threshold of his temple, he was waiting.

He was different. The softness of his features had sharpened, the playful glint in his silver eyes replaced with something unreadable. His presence felt heavier, denser, as if the very air bent to accommodate him.

You hesitated.

And then, he spoke.

"Come back tomorrow morning."

You swallowed.

You should have refused. Should have turned back, should have walked away.

But you didn’t.

Because despite everything—despite the years, despite the distance, despite the way your stomach twisted in something dangerously close to anticipation—your feet remained planted in place.

And deep down, you already knew.

You would come back.

You returned the next morning.

And the morning after that.

It became a routine—waking before the village stirred, slipping away before anyone could stop you. Each day, you climbed the path to his temple, and each day, he was waiting.

At first, he only watched. Silent. Unmoving. His silver eyes followed your every step, his presence weighing on your skin like a second layer. You talked, filling the quiet with idle conversation—about the city, your life there, the people you met, the things you learned. He listened, never interrupting, never reacting.

Then, slowly, something shifted.

His silence gave way to words. He asked questions—about your time away, about the world beyond the village, about why you had taken so long to return. His voice, rich and low, wrapped around you like silk, threading through your thoughts, lingering long after you left.

And then, he touched you.

It was subtle at first. A brush of his fingers against yours when you handed him something, a fleeting touch against the small of your back when guiding you up the temple steps. But his hands were warm—too warm—and each time he touched you, something inside you tightened, curled, craved.

The forest changed, too.

The trees stood taller, their leaves greener. The river ran clearer, its waters shimmering under the sunlight. Even the village below seemed to breathe easier, as if your presence had soothed the unseen rage that had gripped it for so long.

But the biggest change was him.

He smiled more, spoke more, let his gaze linger too long. He was indulgent, affectionate in a way that made your skin flush. Yet beneath it all, beneath the warmth, the softness, was something else. Something hungry.

You should have been afraid.

But you weren’t.

You should have left.

But you didn’t.

Because each time you stood to go, his fingers would catch your wrist, his touch firm but unyielding. And though he never outright asked you to stay, his silver eyes always whispered the same thing.

"Don’t go."

The night before the festival, the storm came.

The winds howled through the village, rattling windows and tearing through rooftops. Rain poured in heavy sheets, drenching the earth, turning the roads into rivers of mud.

And when morning came, the mountain path was gone.

A landslide had blocked the only way out, cutting you off from the world beyond the village.

You barely heard your uncle’s reassurances. He claimed the roads would be cleared soon, that it was only a temporary delay. But you knew better.

This was no accident.

He wasn’t letting you leave.

And deep down, a part of you wasn’t sure you wanted to.

The festival began at sundown.

The village gathered at the foot of the mountain, their voices rising in an eerie, rhythmic chant. The firelight cast flickering shadows against their faces, turning them into something unfamiliar, something devout.

You stood at the center of it all, dressed in the traditional red attire they had prepared for you. The fabric clung to your skin, the intricate embroidery swirling around your body like flames. Your fingers tightened around the offering in your hands—the best produce the village could gather, though it paled in comparison to the ones you had tasted in the city.

None of it mattered.

Because as you climbed the mountain, as the torches lining the path flared brighter with every step you took, as the air thickened with something electric, something expectant—you knew.

This had never been about the village.

It had never been about the crops, or the prosperity, or the suffering they had endured.

This was about you.

And him.

The temple was waiting.

The offerings from dawn still sat upon the great stone table, untouched, pristine. But the only thing your eyes focused on was him.

He stood at the entrance, dressed in godly white, his ink-dark hair cascading over his shoulders like a river of night. The contrast was striking—too perfect—the divine purity of his robes only emphasizing the darkness in his gaze.

He was watching you.

Waiting.

You stepped forward, one foot in front of the other, your pulse hammering against your ribs. Every part of you screamed to stop, to turn back, to run.

But you didn’t.

Because the moment you met his gaze, a heat bloomed low in your stomach, spreading like wildfire through your veins. It was intoxicating, overwhelming—an ache so deep, so consuming, it left you trembling.

Your breath hitched.

And he knew.

The eerie smile that curved his lips was slow, knowing, filled with a satisfaction so deep it made your knees weak. He reached for you, his fingers brushing against your cheek, your jaw, tilting your face up toward him.

And then he whispered, voice rich with something dark and unshakable—

"You are mine."

The torches flared.

The wind howled.

And as his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into the depths of his temple, into the depths of him, you knew—

There was no escaping this.

There never had been.

The doors of the temple shut behind you, sealing out the world beyond. The air inside was thick—humid, charged with something unseen, something alive. The torches lining the walls flickered, their golden glow casting restless shadows against the stone.

His fingers trailed down your arm, slow, deliberate. His touch burned—not painfully, but with an intensity that made your breath come quicker, your skin hypersensitive to the smallest movement.

"You hesitated," he murmured, his voice impossibly smooth, impossibly deep. He stood close, too close, his presence consuming every inch of space around you.

Your lips parted, but no words came out. You had hesitated. For a single, fleeting moment, you had thought about turning back. But what use was hesitation now? What use was resistance when his very presence unraveled you, thread by thread?

He didn't need an answer. His silver eyes gleamed with something dark, something possessive, and you knew he had already decided your fate long before you ever stepped into his temple.

"You promised me." His thumb brushed against your lower lip, a touch so light it sent a shiver down your spine. "You belonged to me the moment those words left your lips."

You remembered it—the promise made in childish innocence, spoken in a voice too young to understand the weight of such words. And yet, even then, even in those fleeting moments, hadn't you felt it? That strange pull toward him, the way his presence had made the world feel smaller, as if nothing outside the forest had ever truly mattered?

"I waited." His voice was steady, but there was something dangerous beneath it, a tension so sharp it could cut. "I waited as you forgot me. As you let your thoughts be filled with others. As you tried to build a life that did not include me."

His fingers slid beneath your chin, tilting your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"Did you truly think I would let you go?"

The air felt thinner, your knees weak. The answer was already clear. You had known it the moment you stepped foot back in the village. Perhaps, deep down, you had known it all along.

His lips curved into a slow, cruel smile.

"You will never leave again."

His arms encircled you, his warmth engulfing you completely, and the last threads of resistance inside you snapped.

And as his power wrapped around you, seeping into your very bones, your thoughts blurred, twisted—desire intertwining with surrender, need overtaking reason.

The festival chants echoed in the distance, voices raised in worship, in offering.

But the only thing that mattered was him.

And the inescapable truth that you were his.

Now and forever.

—

The temple was silent, but the silence breathed.

It coiled around you, heavy and cloying, pressing against your skin like unseen hands. The torches along the walls dimmed, their flames shrinking as if bowing to his presence. The air itself felt thicker, charged with something oppressive—something hungry.

His arms were still wrapped around you, his grip firm but unyielding. You had always known he was strong, but now you felt it—the raw, unnatural power that lurked beneath his touch.

"You’re trembling." His voice was smooth, indulgent, but there was something dark beneath it, something that made your breath catch. "Is it fear?"

Your lips parted, but you had no answer. Because it wasn't fear, not exactly. It was something deeper, something more primal. A shudder ran through you as his fingers traced a slow path down your spine, and you swayed without meaning to—drawn in by the heat radiating from him, by the way his presence filled every empty space inside you.

He laughed.

A quiet, satisfied sound, as if he already knew.

"You still don’t understand, do you?" His fingers ghosted over your pulse, lingering at the delicate skin of your throat. "What it means to be mine?"

His grip tightened—not painful, but firm enough to remind you.

"Your body recognizes it before your mind does," he mused, tilting his head. "That pull. That ache. The way you want even when you don’t know why."

His lips brushed your temple, a mockery of tenderness, and a rush of warmth spread through your veins—too much, too fast, leaving you lightheaded.

"That’s my influence," he murmured. "My power inside you, working its way through every part of you. You can feel it, can’t you?"

You could. It was in the way your thoughts blurred, in the way your body burned, in the way your knees threatened to give out the longer he touched you. It was wrong—too much, too unnatural—and yet, you needed it.

The realization sent a ripple of dread through you.

He noticed.

His smile widened, his silver eyes gleaming with something almost fond. "Good. I want you to feel it."

His hand drifted lower, brushing against the curve of your waist, his touch featherlight but all-consuming. "I want you to understand."

The temple doors rattled, as if some unseen force was pressing against them. The air thickened further, the walls seeming to close in, and a strange, distant hum filled your ears—low and rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat.

No, not yours.

His.

"You are changing," he said, almost lazily, as if he had all the time in the world to watch it happen. "Every moment you spend here, every second you breathe this air—it binds you to me. More and more, until there’s nothing left of the person who thought she could leave."

Your stomach twisted. The weight of his words settled deep, and yet—you couldn’t move away.

Didn’t want to.

Your fingers curled against his chest, and he sighed, pleased.

"See?" His voice was almost gentle now, almost affectionate. "You’re already learning."

You should have fought.

But his warmth was sinking deeper, crawling beneath your skin, settling into the very core of you. His hands on you weren’t just touch—they were commands.

And you were listening.

"You think I will be merciful," he mused, running a hand through your hair. "That's because I have waited, I will take my time, let you adjust, let you resist just a little longer."

His fingers tightened in your hair, forcing your head back, and your breath hitched as you met his gaze.

He wasn’t smiling anymore.

"I won’t."

The temple groaned around you, the very foundations trembling beneath his will. A gust of wind rushed through the chamber, snuffing out the torches all at once, plunging the room into near darkness.

Only his eyes remained, gleaming silver in the dim light—predatory, absolute.

"You are mine," he whispered, his voice laced with something ancient, something terrifying.

And for the first time, you realized—

You had never truly been given a choice.

The ritual, the offering, the village’s desperate prayers—none of it had ever been for them.

It had always been for him.

To bring you back.

To keep you.

Forever.

And as the last of your resistance crumbled, as the god before you claimed what was his, the final thread of your past life snapped.

The girl who had left this village all those years ago was no more.

There was only you.

And him.

And the inescapable, cursed covenant that bound you together.

—

tbc.

—

noirscript © 2025

taglist: @violetvase @hopingtoclearmedschool

[noirscript]

dropped call.

Yandere Hotline: 2/?

featuring: nonchalant darling, implied kidnapping | src

note: i've added this series to my ko-fi commissions! Will try to post another one later. For my birthday! Anywayssss enjoy!

It started with a drizzle, but ended with heavy rains and flooding. Some of your workmates tried to leave, but working in a company that values their clients and their employees, the guards prohibited everyone from leaving the establishment.

"It's for everyone's safety" they said, but they didn't mention anything about staying on your floor, still accepting calls from your frequent clients beyond your work hours.

You glanced at your left while waiting for another phone call to come. They were one of the newbies who were probably swayed by the expected salary and benefits from the job posting.

Their eyes were already teary and their lips was quivering as they listen to one of their clients. They probably didn't know how to handle the client's fantasy. Perhaps it was too much for them. You'll never know.

Because before the call even ended, they bolted towards the door—sobbing while wiping their tears away.

From your seat, you could hear the loud voice of a yelling man from her headphones. You shook your head before turning your attention back to your own monitor.

For some reason, there was something eerie with your line being available for almost half an hour.

It wouldn't be odd for some of your frequent callers to pester your phone with their shittiest and weirdest fantasies.

So, you decided to check your work email and internal chat. Perhaps something came up and ended disrupting your telephone line. But why is it yours alone though?

You glanced at the headphone dangling next to you. You assumed that it's no longer running, but you felt it vibrate. You turned to the screen and saw the 15-minute long phone call that's still ongoing.

As much as you want to end the call with the client, the company prohibits stealing a client of a workmate. It would disrupt the "connection" established by the previous agent.

You wanted to call the attention of your supervisor, but they always disappear just when you need them.

Running out of options, you decided to attach the jack of your headphones in her splitter.

"DO NOT IGNORE ME!"

"Hell—" You paused when you heard an all too familiar threat and voice. Beads of sweat started to form on your forehead. Of all clients, why is it him? And why is he calling another agent? That's against the rules!

"How dare you allow them to sit near you?" He asked, making your forehead crease. "Haven't you learn any lesson, huh? Why do you think nobody ever sit next to you?"

You kept your lips sealed while watching the time turned 12:00 PM. You are suppoed to leave on the dot. But you can't simply leave him hanging. He's been on the line for almost an hour at that point.

"Yulian—" you sighed, trying to keep the storyline going. "They didn't do anything wrong. They're my friends, of course I gotta help them!"

"Tch. Have I been too lenient on you?" He sighed, or perhaps puffed a smoke. The sound a tin can hitting a hard surface echoed. "I'm done."

Your eyes widened. You can't lose him! He's one of the only clients you have who's been far too generous towards you.

"S-Sir! Please!" A loud thunderclap echoed in your floor followed by the entire building being swallowed by darkness.

That's awful. You lost another client because of a goddamn power outage!

Or at least, you thought.

Because not even a week later, nobody could even remember that once there's an agent called Y/N L/N.

Incuding the administrators.

[noirscript]

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

[noirscript]

twisted melody

pairing: yandere!idol x fan!reader

description: The world adored Amos, lost in his songs of love and devotion. But you knew the truth—those songs weren’t for them. They were for you, a warning wrapped in melody, a promise you’d never escape.

warning/s: yandere | kidnapping | captivity | non-consensual touching | obsession | psychological manipulation | implied forced pregnancy | emotional and physical distress.

note: this has been sitting in my drafts for months now. still a rough draft, but enjoy!

Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar

The flickering light of the television was the only thing illuminating the room, casting ghostly shadows against the walls.

The voices from the screen felt distant, their words barely registering through the ringing in your ears. Your breath came in shallow gasps as you sat curled on the floor, your arms wrapped around your trembling legs. The scent of him clung to your skin, suffocating, inescapable. It was always like this after he touched you. After he took what he believed was his.

“She was always so full of life,” your mother’s voice trembled from the television. “Always smiling. She’d light up a room just by being in it.”

Your stomach twisted. The sound of her broken sobs sent cracks through the fragile walls of your mind, the ones you built to survive. Your father was next, his voice thick with emotion. “We just want her to come home. Please, if anyone knows anything—”

Home. The word felt foreign now. The concept of freedom, of escaping this hell, had become a distant dream. But hearing them plead, seeing their pain, reignited something in you. A fire that had long since dimmed.

The creak of the door snapped you back to reality. You held your breath, your body going rigid as the maid stepped inside, head bowed. She never spoke, never made eye contact. Just did her job, an obedient little servant to the monster who owned you.

She set down the tray of food, but something was different this time. The door. It didn’t close all the way.

Your pulse pounded in your ears. Was this a mistake? A sliver of hope lodged itself in your throat, choking you. You didn’t think. You moved.

Every step was agony. Your legs trembled, weak from nights spent beneath him, from the weight of your misery. But you pushed forward, dragging yourself through the half-open door, into the darkness beyond.

The hallway was empty. No guards. No locked doors.

Run.

You staggered forward, ignoring the sharp pain in your knees as you stumbled. Your bare feet barely made a sound against the cold floor. The air smelled different out here. Less like him. More like possibility.

Then you heard it.

His voice.

It came from the television in the next room.

“Every song I write comes from something deeply personal,” Amos said, his voice smooth, practiced. “Love. Obsession. Devotion.”

You nearly collapsed. It was live. He was far away. This was your chance.

Your hands fumbled against the door leading outside. It was unlocked. A sob of relief bubbled in your throat. You pushed it open, stepping into the cool night air. The wind kissed your damp skin, and for the first time in forever, you felt like you could breathe.

Then a pair of arms wrapped around your waist, yanking you back.

A scream tore from your throat, raw and desperate. You kicked, thrashed, but he was stronger. He always was.

“Going somewhere, darling?” His voice was a whisper against your ear, amused, cruel. The same voice that had just been speaking on national television.

“No,” you whimpered, shaking your head, as if denial could rewrite reality. “No, you’re not—you were just—”

His chuckle sent ice through your veins. “Oh, sweetheart.” He turned you in his grasp, forcing you to look up at him. “Did you really think I’d ever leave you alone?”

The world tilted as he lifted you effortlessly, throwing you over his shoulder like a ragdoll. The house swallowed you whole once more, the door slamming shut behind you.

He carried you through the halls, back to your cage. Back to where you belonged.

“You never learn,” he mused, as if scolding a naughty child. “But that’s okay. We have all the time in the world.”

You sobbed against his back, fists pounding weakly against him. “Please, Amos. Please let me go.”

He set you down inside the bedroom, his hands firm on your shoulders. His eyes gleamed in the dim light, a predator savoring his prey. “Why would I do that,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles against your tear-streaked cheek, “when I’m so close to making sure you never try to leave me again?”

Your stomach dropped.

He smiled.

“Maybe a baby will finally teach you to stay.”

noirscript © 2025

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

[noirscript]

domestic bliss

Pairing: Nicholas Sterling III x reader Description: Seven months pregnant with Nicholas’ child, you should feel safe—but the walls are too close, the air too thick, and the doors never quite open. This is normal. This is love. But you know better. Warning/s: Yandere. That's it. Note: Another commission for @violetvase ! Thank you so much for your support. I hope you enjoy this! Parts: ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR

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The slow murmur of a saxophone spills from the gramophone in the corner, weaving itself between the soft clatter of silverware against the finest china you’ve ever touched. The weight of the utensils feels foreign in your grasp, as if they belong to someone else, someone meant to sit at this table without the quiet thrum of panic coiling beneath their skin.

Nicholas sits next to you, his gaze a constant, possessive thing, lingering even when he pretends to focus on slicing into his steak with meticulous care. Across you, his mother lifts her wine glass with an elegance that seems second nature, her smile warm but knowing, like she’s in on the secret of your existence here.

The music hums on, smooth and slow, a lover’s whisper against the walls. A mockery of peace.

“Eat, darling,” Nicholas urges, his voice gentle, coaxing, but beneath it—an edge, a command.

You pick up your fork, pressing it into the soft meat, feeling its tenderness yield beneath the tines. The motion is automatic, rehearsed. Just another performance in the fragile illusion of normalcy that drapes over this house like lace, delicate enough to tear if you breathe the wrong way.

The clink of silver against porcelain fades into the background as his mother sets down her glass, eyes gleaming with something both mischievous and wounded. The warm glow of the chandelier overhead does little to soften the accusation in her gaze as she looks between you and Nicholas.

“You know, I had to hear it from Nara,” she announces, her tone light, but her posture stiff, expectant.

Nicholas exhales through his nose, the smallest shift in his expression betraying his exasperation. “Mother—”

“No, no, don’t you ‘Mother’ me.” She leans forward, her manicured fingers curling against the edge of the table as if she’s physically reining herself in. “I was there for everything. I helped pick out the crib, the clothes, the bottles—I have been involved. And yet, the one detail I don’t know, the one surprise left, you keep from me?” She presses a hand to her chest, as if personally wounded. “You let me go shopping without knowing if I was buying for my grandson or granddaughter?”

There’s something almost childlike in the way she pouts, a stark contrast to the polished woman she presents herself as. It’s unsettling. Endearing, in a way. Dangerous, in another.

Nicholas sighs, setting his knife down with deliberate care. “It wasn’t intentional. We weren’t keeping it from you.”

His mother gasps, dramatic, pressing her hand over her heart as though he just struck her. “Oh, so I suppose I was just forgotten, then?”

You shift in your seat, pressing your palm over the swell of your stomach in an absentminded gesture. The weight of her attention flicks to you instantly, eyes softening. She reaches forward, fingers brushing your wrist as she squeezes gently, reassuringly. “And you let him do this to me?” she asked, though there’s no real malice in it. Just a sort of helpless fondness, the kind that worms its way into your ribs and makes you question whether you should be charmed or unsettled.

“I—I didn’t think—”

“Oh, darling, don’t you start.” She releases you with a huff, shaking her head. “Honestly, Nicholas. A boy. A grandson. And I had to hear it secondhand? You are impossible.”

Nicholas rubs his temple, the tension in his shoulders making it abundantly clear that this is not a new conversation between them. “It’s hardly life-altering news.”

“For you, maybe. But I’ve been waiting for this moment since you were in the womb.” She exhales, long-suffering, before fixing you with a smile, warm and indulgent. “At least tell me you’re excited. A little bit?”

Excited. The word rolls through you, foreign, unfamiliar, heavy. There are many things you feel—excitement is not among them. But her smile is expectant, and Nicholas’s stare unwavering, and so you force yourself to nod.

Her expression brightens instantly, eyes alight with something almost reverent as she reaches for your hand again. “Oh, we have so much to plan, don’t we? The nursery, the final touches—at least now I know which colors to lean into. Not that I mind terribly. He’ll be beautiful, I just know it.”

The weight of expectation settles around you, cloying and thick, wrapping itself around your throat like a velvet ribbon. You smile, small and polite, and Nicholas’s fingers brush against yours beneath the table, a silent warning, a quiet claim.

The music plays on, smooth and slow, curling through the air like smoke.

A mockery of peace.

His mother dabs at the corner of her lips with a linen napkin before setting it aside, fingers lacing together atop the table. Her eyes gleam with something more calculating now, a shift from playful grievance to something with sharper edges.

“There’s also the Thanksgiving party coming up,” she says, almost offhandedly. “It’s important, Nicholas. A celebration of everything you’ve built after…everything.”

Your stomach knots.

His mother doesn’t say it outright, but you hear it anyway. After everything. After you.

Nicholas’s grip tightens around his fork, just for a second, before he forces himself to relax. “I know.”

“And I think it’s time people saw her,” she continues, gesturing toward you with a knowing smile. “The world need to know who she is.”

Something flickers behind Nicholas’s eyes. A shadow of something cold, possessive. His lips press together. “That’s not necessary.”

His mother tilts her head, bemused. “Oh, but it is. People are curious, Nicholas. And you can’t just keep her locked away forever.

Can’t he?

The words hang unspoken between them, but you can feel the weight of them, thick and suffocating. Your pulse thrums against your skin.

Nicholas doesn’t respond right away. He studies his mother, his fingers curling, tapping once against the table. A silent war.

Then, his mother smiles, almost too brightly. “You know, I’ve been telling everyone in my circle how beautiful your story is. How you fell in love with her, Nicholas. How it wasn’t about the money, wasn’t about anything but her. It’s the perfect tale of destiny. The romance between the caretaker, who is so dedicated and selfless, and the patient, who fell for the one person who wasn’t just there for the inheritance.”

Your heart drops.

His mother’s gaze softens, as if she’s remembering some distant, sentimental moment. “How you looked at her the first time, knowing she wasn’t like the others. How she cried for you, Nicholas, when you missed a step and had to get stitches on your forehead. You never saw it, but she wept for you. She never confessed her feelings, not once. But I knew. I always knew.

Nicholas’s jaw tightens, but his eyes shift toward you, locking in place, dark and cold.

“I know how it looks, Mother.” His voice is quiet, but there’s a chill to it, something that cuts through the warmth of the room. “But this isn’t something we need to broadcast.”

His mother leans back, a knowing smile playing at her lips. “Oh, but it’s not just about what you need, Nicholas. It’s about what’s right. People should see the connection between you two. They’ll understand. They’ll see that this isn’t just some simple arrangement between patient and caretaker.”

Your stomach churns.

She turns her attention to you, her eyes soft and calculating as she smiles. “It’s time they knew you. Time they saw the bond that has been blossoming here. They’ll admire you, just as I do. A love story no one could ever forget.”

Nicholas’s hand clenches into a fist, the subtle tension in his posture thickening with every word his mother speaks. “I’m not hiding her, Mother. But this… this is too much.”

His mother shakes her head, dismissing his concerns. “Oh, it’s not too much. It’s necessary.”

Her gaze shifts to you again, her smile wide and almost too warm. “You’ve been part of this family for a while now, darling. You should be proud to stand by his side.”

The tension in the room thickens, and Nicholas’s words come out with a quiet but unmistakable fury. “Fine. You’ve had your say. I’ll agree, but on my terms.”

His mother beams, victorious. “Perfect. I’ll make the arrangements. And we’ll have a beautiful celebration.”

She stands, smooth and graceful, as if nothing had just shifted between the three of you. She walks toward Nicholas, kissing him on the cheek before moving to you, cupping your face with a delicate touch. “I’ll see you soon, darling,” she says, voice sweet but laced with something else.

Then, with a final glance, she’s gone, leaving behind only the scent of her perfume and the tension that suffocates the room.

The door clicks shut, and Nicholas moves without warning.

You barely have time to react before he’s on you, his arms crushing you against him with a force that steals your breath. It’s not a tender embrace—no, it’s a claim. A marking. His body presses you into the hard line of his chest, every inch of him seething with something dark, something urgent. His breath is hot against your temple, teeth grazing the soft curve of your ear as he speaks in a low, dangerous murmur.

“You won’t try again, will you?” His voice is a promise, low and silky, but underneath it—there’s an edge. A tremor of barely contained violence.

You swallowed hard, your throat tight with the weight of his words. You know exactly what he means. Not another escape. Not another attempt.

But there’s no need to answer. He already knows.

His hand slides down your arm, the touch almost too gentle, too calculating. He traces over the skin where the tracker resides—silent, invisible, but always there. A reminder. His fingers press against the spot, not gently, but with a purposeful intensity, as if marking his territory. As if claiming you even more thoroughly than before.

“Don’t you dare think you can run again,” he growls, his voice dropping to a whisper, sharp and venomous, like a blade pressed to your skin. “You think you can outsmart me? You’re not getting away. Not this time.”

His lips graze your jaw, brushing against your skin, before his teeth catch the edge of your earlobe, biting down just enough to make your breath catch. A small, cruel sound escapes you, and he groans low in his throat, the sound rough with restrained hunger.

“You’re mine. Always have been. And no matter how hard you try, you’ll never be free of me.” His grip on you tightens, his hands moving to frame your face, cupping your cheeks with a possessiveness that feels like it’s suffocating you. He brings you in closer, his forehead pressing against yours, and his eyes are dark pools of something that looks far too much like obsession. “You’ll never escape. Not from me. Not from this.”

His thumb traces over your bottom lip, slow, deliberate, as if he’s savoring the moment. His gaze never leaves your face, and the intensity of it makes your skin crawl. There’s nothing kind in that look. Only ownership. Only control.

“You don’t understand, do you?” he murmurs, almost tenderly, though the violence lurking in his tone is unmistakable. “You’re mine, and no one can take you from me. Not now, not ever.”

His fingers tighten again, pressing against your throat just enough to remind you of his power. You can barely breathe, but the air is thick with the tension between you, heavy and suffocating.

“Try to run again,” he whispers, lips curling into something that almost resembles a smile. “And I’ll make sure you regret it.”

He pulls back just enough to study your face, his gaze piercing, as if he’s waiting for some acknowledgment—some understanding that you’re his, fully, completely. The smile that creeps across his lips is soft, but it’s a predator’s smile. A cruel, possessive thing.

“You’ll be good for me, won’t you?” he asks, voice silky and lethal.

His hands fall to your waist, pulling you closer once more, as if there’s no space in the world for anyone else, least of all you.

The music plays on, but now it’s no longer a mockery of peace. It’s the sound of a predator circling its prey, the rhythm slow, steady, inevitable.

And you, like everything else in this house, belong to him.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The opulence of the evening drapes over you like the gown Nicholas selected himself—silken fabric gliding against your skin, hugging your form in a way that flatters but does not constrict. The deep, muted hue shimmers under the golden glow of chandeliers, reflecting the wealth and status of the people who fill the room.

Nicholas never leaves your side. His hand rests possessively at the small of your back, a constant, grounding pressure that reminds you of his claim. You move only when he moves, speak only when prompted, and even then, your voice is little more than an ornament to the conversation, unnecessary yet expected. His mother beams at you, at him, at the perfect picture she’s presenting to the world.

“She was never after the money,” she coos to the women gathered around. “And she never even confessed her feelings for him, you know? But the moment Nicholas got stitches—oh, she cried for him. That’s how I knew it was real.”

A delighted hum ripples through the circle of elegantly dressed women. They look at you with something warm, something approving. As if you’re the epitome of devotion, of a love story too good to be hidden away.

Nicholas answers for you when questions arise, his voice smooth and unwavering, crafting a narrative you have no say in. His mother basks in it, weaving you into her world with delicate precision, ensuring every guest understand just how deeply Nicholas loves you—and how deeply you love him.

A hand at your elbow startles you. Not Nicholas. Trevor, his assistant.

His voice is gentle, polite, carefully measured. “Forgive me for interrupting, sir,” he says, directing his words to Nicholas first before his gaze flickers to you. “But I believe she may need a moment to step away. Just for some air.”

Your breath stills. Nicholas’s fingers press into your waist, a barely perceptible squeeze. He doesn’t look at you, only at Trevor, assessing, calculating. Trevor’s tone remains respectful, non-confrontational, but he does not backdown.

“She hasn’t said a word about it,” he adds softly, “but I can tell.”

Nicholas exhales through his nose, the tension in his jaw visible, but before he can respond, his father’s voice cuts through the murmur of conversation.

“Nicholas.”

It isn’t just a summons—it’s an expectation, a command wrapped in the weight of authority. When Nicholas turns, his father is watching him from across the room, a hand raised in a subtle but unmistakable gesture. “Come. They’re waiting.”

The business partners. Nicholas cannot refuse, not without making a statement that would ripple through the evening.

His grip tightens briefly before he turns his attention back to Trevor. “Stay with her,” he commands, low and firm. “Not for long.”

Trevor inclines his head. “Of course, sir.”

Nicholas studies him for a moment longer, then his gaze drops to you. Dark. Unreadable. His thumb brushes over your wrist—a silent warning—before he finally steps away, striding toward his father with practiced ease.

The moment he’s out of earshot, Trevor exhales, lowering his voice. “Just a moment outside, if you’d like,” he offers, his tone light but kind. “I’ll stay with you.”

The weight of Nicholas’s absence is both a relief and a phantom pressure still lingering against your skin.

You nod. Trevor does not smile, but something in his expression softens.

He leads you away, and for the first time tonight, you breathe.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The night air is crisp against your skin, a welcome contrast to the stifling atmosphere of the party. The city sprawls beneath the balcony, lights twinkling like distant stars, but they feel as unreachable as freedom itself.

Trevor stands beside you, silent at first, his presence neither overwhelming nor intrusive. Just there. Allowing you the space to breathe.

“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. “For noticing.”

Trevor turns his head slightly, studying you with quiet curiosity. “Noticing?”

You exhale, fingers brushing against the smooth railing. “It’s been a while since someone did.”

His gaze lingers, patient, waiting for you to say more. You hesitate, warring with yourself before the words slip free, fragile yet firm. “I wasn’t supposed to be here. I wasn’t even supposed to meet him.”

Trevor says nothing, but his attention sharpens, an unspoken invitation for you to continue.

You swallow, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I applied for the job in place of my friend. She… she couldn’t make it, and I thought… just one day. Just enough to help her. But he wouldn’t let me go.”

Trevor’s brow furrows. He remains silent, but you can feel the weight of his concern.

“I tried to leave.” You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head. “Three times. And every time, I failed. I don’t even try anymore. I can’t. Not when—” Your hand drifts instinctively to your stomach, fingers ghosting over the fabric of your gown. “Not when my child deserves better than a mother who keeps running and failing.”

Trevor’s jaw tightens. “So, you stay. For your child.”

You nod. “If it means they grow up safe, with everything they need… I’ll play the part he wants.”

Trevor exhales slowly, his fingers curling into fists before he forces them to relax. Then, carefully, he reaches out, his hand grazing yours before settling against the back of it. A silent promise. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

You blink up at him, unsure if you misheard. “Trevor—”

“I’ll help you.” His grip tightens, his voice unwavering. “We’ll find a way. I swear it.”

A lump forms in your throat, emotions threatening to spill over, but before you can speak, before you can even process the gravity of his words, the hairs on the back of your neck prickle.

Something feels off.

Unbeknownst to either of you, hidden beneath the rich ruby of your ring, a tiny bug transmits every whispered confession. And standing just beyond the entrance to the balcony, in the shadows cast by the golden light of the ballroom, Nicholas listens.

Watching.

Waiting.

And the look on his face is anything but forgiving.

noirscript © 2025

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

[noirscript]

I love your writings so much they’re so good I’m not sure if you take requests for what to write but if you do please could you maybe do a yandere river god x reader?? Thank you so much ❤️

whispers in the water

Pairing: Aserion (River God) x Reader Description: You should’ve listened to the elders when they’ve warned you about the river. They said it protects, but it also takes. Now, you’re no longer sure which it’s doing to you. Warning/s: Yandere | Obsession | Stalking | Implied Noncon | Disturbing Dreams | Gaslighting | Possessive Behavior | Supernatural Manipulation | Psychological Horror Note: Thank you for sending this request~! I enjoyed writing it after work~! ^^ BTW! I've extended the pre-order period until end of this month. More details on the post below this one. Enjoy reading!

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You came to this place looking for peace.

A tiny, half-forgotten village pressed against the edge of an old river. No fast trains, no crowds, no constant stream of voices. Just you, your barely-furnished hut on the hill, and the sound of water flowing behind the trees. The kind of place where people whispered instead of shouted. Where cell service vanished as soon as you passed the cracked wooden sign at the outskirts.

It was supposed to be a new start. A way to clear your mind. You told yourself you were just tired of the city. You needed quiet.

But even in the beginning, you could feel it. Something watching from beyond the waterline.

The river isn’t wide—maybe ten feet at most across—but deep. Black-green and thick, like glass hiding something. There’s no fish that you can see. No ripples, unless you count the ones that form whenever you get too close. The air near it is cooler. The birds don’t sing near the bank.

The first time you dipped your fingers in, it felt too cold for summer. The second time, it wasn’t cold at all—it felt like a hand, cool and smooth, curling up to meet yours.

You told yourself you imagined it.

You started visiting every day. What began as short walks became hours on the bank. You sat, then lay. You stopped bringing your phone. Then, you started bathing.

The water welcomed you.

Each time you slipped in, you felt lighter. Your thoughts slowed. The ache in your chest—the one you didn’t even know was there—eased. You stayed until dusk turned the river silver. You came back as soon as the sun rose. The locals noticed.

They always do.

Oscar approached you first. He was young, maybe your age. Kind eyes, hands like he worked with wood. You saw him once or twice before—helping his father, walking the edge of the village trail. He didn’t speak until that evening, when he found you standing waist-deep in the river, staring at your own reflection like it wasn’t quite your face anymore.

“You shouldn’t be here so long,” he said, not unkindly. “Especially not after dark.”

You blinked at him. “Why?”

His jaw worked. He looked back toward the trees, as if afraid someone would hear. “It doesn’t like outsiders.”

It. Not they. Not the people.

You frowned. “The river?”

Oscar looked at you for a long time. “It takes care of its own. But when it chooses someone—” He hesitated. “It’s not just water. It’s been... centuries. But people here remember. Fog that clings to doors. Dreams you can’t wake up from.”

You laughed, too sharply. “Are you trying to scare me?”

“No,” he said. “I’m trying to warn you.”

That night, the fog crept beneath your window for the first time.

It curled around the edges like fingers. Mute. Clammy. When you breathed in, it smelled like stone and moss, but sweet underneath—like something rotting, but still alive. You tried to shut your window, but it didn’t budge. So you wrapped yourself in a blanket and told yourself it would burn off by morning.

It didn’t.

It thickened. Night after night. You stopped hearing crickets. The birds stopped coming to your feeder. And the dreams began.

They started softly. You were walking in the river again—only it wasn’t the river. The water was warmer. Your body didn’t resist the current. There were hands at your waist, pressing lightly, reverently, not letting go. A voice whispered words you couldn’t understand—but your bones knew them.

The second dream, you weren’t walking anymore.

You were lying on a smooth stone in the middle of the current. Your skin bare. Wet. And something was brushing hair from your face. A face leaned over you.

That was the first time you saw him.

Aserion.

He didn’t need to say it. You knew his name. The way you knew gravity would pull you down. His face was carved, not soft—sharper than it should’ve been. Like something sketched in another age. Cheekbones like flint. Jaw like the edge of a blade. His eyes… they were the color of the river just before rain. Not black. Not blue. Depthless. And they watched you like he’d always known you.

His hair floated around him, pale and heavy as drowned silk. Water clung to his skin but never dripped. And when he touched you—your throat, your lips, your hips—his fingers were neither cold nor warm. They simply were.

In the dream, you didn’t resist. You couldn’t.

“I have waited long,” he said. His voice sounded like it came from inside your chest. “You came back to me.”

You told yourself it was just a dream.

But the next morning, your thighs were sore.

• • — ✦ — • •

Oscar came again the following week.

He looked pale. His eyes sunken. “Did you see him?” he asked without preamble.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

“My grandparents told me about the last girl,” he said. “She was a traveler too. Came to the river every day. Just like you.”

“What happened to her?”

Oscar looked at your hands, as if trying to memorize them. “One morning, she was gone. Her clothes were folded by the riverbank. No body. Just water.”

You felt it then—the current shifting behind you. You weren’t near the river. You were in your hut. But you could feel it. Like something had turned its face toward you.

Oscar stepped forward, close enough for you to feel the heat of him. “Please,” he whispered, “stay away from the water. Just for one day. That’s all I’m asking.”

He was so close. He meant well. He cared. You saw it in the tightness of his brow, the twitch of his hand that wanted to touch you and didn’t.

And that night, Aserion came into your dream again.

But he was no longer gentle.

You were in the river—again. But this time, it pulled you under. You didn’t drown. You breathed water. The pressure against your ribs was a cradle, then a cage.

He was there. Beneath you. Above you. Around you. His voice was colder now.

“You let him touch you.”

It wasn’t a question.

You couldn’t speak. Your lips moved, but no sound came.

His eyes glowed faintly in the black. He cupped your face with both hands. “You were made for me. My bones knew you the moment you stepped into my waters.”

Something slick coiled around your ankle. His hair. Or a current. Or both.

“You are mine.”

You tried to wake up. You couldn’t.

He kissed you—not with tenderness. With claim. His mouth never opened, but you felt it in your spine. Your body responded, not with pleasure, but with surrender.

When you finally woke, the fog had pushed in through the walls. It filled your lungs like breath you didn’t remember taking.

Your reflection in the mirror shimmered. Your pupils were too large. Your lips too red. You reeked of river water. And something darker beneath it.

You didn’t visit the river that day.

But at night—you found wet footprints leading from the water to your door.

• • — ✦ — • •

You don't tell Oscar. You don’t tell anyone. What would you even say?

Instead, you sit inside with your curtains drawn. You sleep with the light on. You don’t dream.

Until you do.

• • — ✦ — • •

This dream isn’t like the others.

You’re not floating. You’re lying in your bed. But the walls are melting. The windows are underwater.

He stands at the edge of the room. Naked. Beautiful. Wrong. His body is too still. Too quiet. His mouth doesn’t move when he speaks.

“There’s nowhere you can run.”

You try to scream. He steps closer.

“I waited for you when your bones were ash. I will wait again, if I must.”

The fog fills your lungs. You fall back.

He climbs onto the bed like a lover. Like a shadow. Like death.

“You smell like him still,” he whispers into your neck. “That will change.”

And then—he places his palm over your heart. You feel it stop. Just for a moment. Just long enough.

• • — ✦ — • •

You wake up choking.

The floor is wet. Your sheets are soaked. Your door is open.

You hear footsteps walking back toward the trees. Slow. Certain.

You run to the door. You look—but there’s only the river. Still as a mirror.

And floating at its center—something pale. Smooth.

A stone. The exact size of a human heart.

Your name is carved into it.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

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

[noirscript]

lavender snow

pairing/s: yandere husband x f!reader description: You find the old tape by accident, tucked where no one should’ve known to look—yet somehow, Luca did. As her voice spills softly through the static, you realize you’re not listening to a memory… you’re remembering something you were never meant to forget. warning/s: yandere | hints of memory lost | implied past abuse note/s: I accidentally found out that my mic's fried af and got this idea. I might add this kind of content on my ko-fi for monthly subs? It'll come with complimentary fic of course. Also, I'll add the banner later. p.s. it's unedited audio so it's scuffed as hell.

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You don’t remember the tape.

Not where it came from, not how it ended up inside a box of out-of-season clothes, or why your name is written on the spine in your own handwriting—faint and fading, like it tried to disappear. The box had been buried deep in the attic, hidden beneath moth-eaten sweaters and the sagging ribs of a broken umbrella. You hadn’t even meant to find it. But now it sits in your lap like it’s been waiting for you to come back.

The cassette is warm in your hands. No label, no markings, just a faint impression where something had once been stuck to it. Your stomach tightens. You’re not sure why, but you dig out the old player from the back of a cupboard and feed the tape into its slot. The machine shudders to life with a soft whirr, then static, and then—your voice.

“Hi, sweetheart. If you’re remembering this... I guess that means he’s kept it safe. Just like he promised.”

Your breath catches. The words settle heavily in the space around you, too tender, too familiar. It’s your voice, no doubt about it, but there's something off in the cadence—like someone rehearsing affection through clenched teeth.

You sit still, your eyes fixed on the aging plastic player as your voice continues.

“I thought maybe one day, when the world feels quieter... you’d want to remember this. Us. The way the light used to fall through the window at 4PM. How the air smelled like sun-warmed sheets and cinnamon. He always made sure everything was just perfect, didn’t he?”

A strange pressure blooms in your chest. You don’t remember making this recording. You don’t remember any of it—the window light, the scent of cinnamon, or whoever he is.

You sound so… happy.

Too happy.

The you on the tape laughs lightly, but even that sounds rehearsed. It’s too round, too smooth, like a laugh meant to soothe someone else. Not you.

“I don’t even know how long it’s been now,” your voice says. “Days feel a little soft around the edges. But every one of them is filled with love. He tells me that all the time. That I’m loved. That I’m safe.”

That last word—safe—wraps around your spine and squeezes. You don’t know why. Maybe it’s the way you say it. Quietly. Soft as a secret. The kind of word you only whisper when the truth is something you’re not allowed to say.

A prickle crawls over the back of your neck.

“Sometimes I dream about the park. That little bench under the jacaranda tree? You remember. I said something silly about the petals looking like lavender snow. You laughed.”

You swallow. Your throat is dry.

“That was before I knew how loud the world could be when you don’t belong to it anymore.”

The air in the room turns cold. You don’t remember that bench. You don’t remember that moment. But your body responds to the sound of it—like it’s chasing something long buried. Your shoulders draw in. Your fingertips twitch. A faint headache blooms at your temples.

“But it’s okay now,” the voice continues. “He says I don’t have to worry about any of that. Not anymore. Not with him.”

The machine clicks faintly as the tape continues to roll. You hear the rustle of fabric in the background. Wood creaking. A low breath, not yours. You pause the tape.

The room is silent.

You press play again, hesitating just long enough to question whether you should.

“I should go. He doesn’t like it when I record too long without him.”

There’s a pause. Barely a second. But it’s there. You can hear your voice hover just a little too long over that sentence, like you're waiting to see if the walls will punish you for saying it aloud.

“But I hope, when you hear this… you smile. Just a little. Just enough to remember me the way he wants me to be remembered.”

Another pause. Your voice drops lower, almost reverent.

“Perfect. Quiet. Home.”

Then: a click. End of tape.

You sit frozen on the floor. The stillness around you is thick and wrong. You want to dismiss it as a prank. Maybe an old performance, an acting exercise, something you’d recorded and forgotten about. But something in your gut rebels at the thought. This wasn't a character. That was you.

You stand, rubbing your arms, suddenly cold despite the sunlight slanting through the blinds. Your feet move without you telling them to, carrying you to the kitchen where you run cold water over your hands. But when you glance down, something catches your eye.

Your left palm.

Faint black ink, faded by time and skin, clings to the lines of your hand like a warning:

don’t trust him

You blink, heart stuttering. The writing is old. Worn. You scrub at it, but it doesn’t fade. You don't remember writing it, don’t even remember seeing it before today. But it’s your handwriting. And the fear in your chest tells you you wrote it for a reason.

You rush back to the box in the attic, tearing through what’s left. Beneath the collapsed lid of a hollowed-out book, you find a crumpled scrap of paper. Another note, also written by you.

“If you find the tape, go to the basement. There’s more.”

The words don’t make sense. You’ve lived in this house for two years. There is no basement.

But your body moves before your thoughts catch up. Your steps lead you to the hallway where a locked door waits. One you’ve always assumed was just a closet. You’ve never had a key.

Today, it’s open.

The stairs beyond descend into shadow.

You hesitate, every part of you screaming to stop, to turn around. But your hand grips the railing and you descend slowly, your heartbeat loud in your ears. The air grows colder with every step. The smell down here is old. Musty. Earthy.

And faintly metallic.

The overhead light flickers to life when you tug the chain, bathing the room in weak, yellow glow. There’s a table against the far wall. And on it—a cassette deck. Surrounding it is a neat stack of tapes. Dozens of them. All unlabeled. All pristine.

You approach slowly, dread sinking like lead into your bones. The deck is already loaded. You press play.

The familiar whir clicks to life. Then:

“Hi, sweetheart. If you’re remembering this...”

Your knees nearly give. It’s the same recording. Or no—not the same. A different take. You’re talking about a different day. Different sunlight. Different cinnamon. Different bruises, maybe.

You grab the next tape. And the next. One by one, you feed them into the machine and listen.

Each time, your voice greets someone with warmth. Each time, you sound a little more distant. A little more tired. A little more robotic. In one, you sound as if you’re crying through a smile. In another, you start to say something else—“If anyone finds th—” before the tape cuts off with a harsh click.

You begin to shake.

And then you hear something you hadn’t before.

In the background, beneath your voice, there’s breathing.

Yours. But not just yours.

Heavier. Male.

Closer.

Footsteps.

Not on the tape. Behind you.

You turn sharply.

Someone is coming down the stairs.

Your stomach turns. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. The light above you flickers. A shadow moves across the wall.

Then a voice. Low. Warm. Familiar.

“You always forget, don’t you?”

You can’t breathe.

“That’s why I made the tapes. So you’d remember. So you’d always come back to me.”

He steps into the light. His expression is soft, fond. Too fond.

“Happy anniversary, sweetheart.”

The light buzzes overhead, then sputters out.

In the dark, the tape keeps playing.

And from it—your voice whispers one last thing:

“Perfect. Quiet. Home.”

tbc.

noirscript © 2025

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

[noirscript]

[masterlist] sovereign's reign

Pairing: King Callixto × Reader Description: No matter how far you run, Callixto’s shadow follows. Freedom was never yours—only a fleeting dream before he claims you again. Warnings: Yandere | Manipulation | Coercion | Power Imbalance | Stalking | Obsessive Behavior | Emotional Manipulation | Mild Threats | Intimidation Update Schedule: Almost everyday. GMT+8. Note: This series will be turned into an eBook once completed. Please look forward to it!

Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar | Dark Roast (eBook) | Sovereign's Reign (eBook) [coming soon!]

✧ Silent Servitude

You entered the palace as a servant, but Callixto had other plans. Beneath his grasp, you learn too late—your servitude was never to the crown, but to the king who refuses to let you go.

✧ In The Lion's Keep

You sought freedom, only to be trapped in Callixto’s grasp. Now, as the King hunts, you realize—you were never meant to escape.

✧ The Lion's Shadow

You built a quiet life, but Callixto’s shadow was never far behind. Now, a stranger’s gaze lingers too long, and you know—your past is closing in.

✧ The Lion's Claim | 01 • 02 • 03

After a fleeting taste of freedom, you are pulled back into a world where love is possession and power is a cage. Traded between kings, claimed but never freed—you were never meant to escape.

SIDE STORY

✾ Runes of Escape | one shot

Alicia swore to protect a missing queen-in-waiting, but now she’s hunted, caught in a kingdom’s tangled lies. With danger closing in, she must choose—fight for freedom or surrender to fate.

ONGOING SERIES | eBook COMING SOON

noirscript © 2025

[noirscript]

mine, oh mine

pairing/s: yandere!sugar daddy x f!stripper reader | warning/s: NONCON. oversimulation. illegal detention. dead dove: do not eat. MINORS DNI | src

You should've known better.

Alastair, the man who pulled you out of the rat race with his merciful proposal, would never have summoned you urgently for no reason.

You should've realized that something was amiss as soon as you start putting on an attire that he finds disgusting. That you wouldn't just perform in front of him like usual.

"I-It... It was just one dance. One... just one! I swear!" You cried, pleading with your sorrowful eyes, as he attached the metal cuffs to the chain attached to the wall. "I'm sorry... please... please don't do this..."

He grabbed a fistful of your hair and forced you to look up at him. "I've been tried to save you. To keep you out of that filthy gutter. But you kept on coming back," he said through his teeth.

"Al—"

Your skin stung and ear began to ring as soon as a hard slap landed on your right cheek.

"You wanted to be treated like a slut? So be it!"

He took one of your nipples in his mouth, nibbling it while roughly pinching and kneading the other.

You tried to get away by grabbing the metal chain above your head, but he immediately caught on and placed his hands on your hips.

"Do that again. I dare you."

You pleaded while trying to keep his tongue away from your overstimulated core, but he simply pushed your legs against your chest. Savoring your juices like a madman.

"M's...rry..." you slurred while looking at the painting hanging on the wall. Something you've never seen before. "No... more... no more..."

"Why?" he asked before chuckling. "Can you even do something about your situation?"

A sharp gasp came from your lips as soon as his girthy cock slid into your abused hole.

The sound of chain and the creaking of the bed created a deranged symphony—one that Alastair would listen to over and over.

Your sense of time became non-existent as he made you understand who owns you. Only when he became exhausted did Alastair stopped.

You tried to wiggle away, but one firm grip kept you in place. Followed by a swift thrust from him.

"Stay still."

"Let me... go..."

Alastair chuckled before whispering into your ear. "And where will you even go?"

He grab your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. "This is your home now."

Note: It's my birthday on Tuesday. I'll finalize the mini-event we'll do on that day. Commissions are open. Requests are also open (might take time due to irl work).

[noirscript]

masterlist —

find your next favorite yandere here. Each fic contains warnings so proceed with caution coz they are unhinged af.

Quick Links: Navigation | Ask | Commission | Tip Jar | Dark Roast 50% OFF

Nicholas Sterling III —

✾ Descent Into Madness | one shot

✾ Chasing The Light | mini-series

part one | part two | part three | part four

✾ Domestic Bliss | one shot | commission

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

King Callixto —

✾ Sovereign's Reign | Series Masterlist

No matter how far you run, Callixto is never far behind. Freedom was never yours to keep—only borrowed before the inevitable claim.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Xavier Veluxe —

✾ Eclipsed Affliction | one shot

✾ A-J | yandere alphabet

✾ Yandere Heir | headcannon

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Alastair Moreau —

✾ Mine, Oh Mine | one shot | sugar daddy

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Valentine Sinclair —

✾ My Valentine | one shot

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Harrison Velenzi —

✾ To Have and To Hold | one shot

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Unnamed God —

✾ Cursed Covenant | one shot

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Laurent Delacroix —

✾ Dark Roast | novel | grab your copy here!

You thought you were making your own choices. But Laurent was always there—watching, guiding, ensuring every step led you straight to him. And now, there’s no way out.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Cassian Veltre —

✾ Scripted Fate | one shot

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Isaiah Hartwell —

✾ Lavender and Powder | one shot

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Caelum Ashford —

✾ Curtain Call | one shot

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Malcolm Harroway —

✾ The Good Wife | one shot

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Dorian Shaw —

✾ His Silent Script | one shot

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

William Harrington —

✾ The Price of Legacy | one shot

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Anselm Faer —

✾ Glass Garden | one shot | Son's POV

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Zeiryn —

✾ Bride of the Abyss | one shot

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Seraphim D'Aronn —

✾ Where the Ivy Grows | one shot

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Elarion Vaelthir —

✾ Of Moss and Memory | one shot

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Zaeral —

✾ Serpent's Claim | one shot

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Luca —

✾ Lavender Snow | one shot

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Azraël —

✾ An Offering of Skin | one shot

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Rhett Valle —

✾ Made to be Seen | one shot

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Azriel —

✾ Heaven's Leash | one shot

Series

Yandere Hotline

You thought you've drawn the line hard enough for them to notice, but it seems like the concept of boundaries are far beyond their understanding.

Seven Days of Devotion | Holy Week Special

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

Sanctum | Holy Week Special Series

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

Braindump

Headcanon | LADS Caleb | Thirst post

[noirscript]

call avoidance.

Yandere Hotline: 3/?

featuring: implied drugging. implied tresspassing. lots of male masturbation. unsolicited phone sex (?). implied kidnapping. AFAB!Reader (yan calling reader mommy)

note: this is written while half-asleep. not edited. brain go brrr. i'll add the src some time.

Dealing with mad people can drive anyone insane. But if you're given a hefty sum to keep the insane ones company, you'll take. Life is tough, but you can choose your own hell.

"Got you some drink. Your favorite flavor," Heidi, your 'neighbor' in cubicle, said cheerfully as she placed the drink and sandwich on your spot.

"Well, who are we kidding." You shook your head before placing the plastic cup in your trash bin along with the tasty sandwich that came with it. "They're really persistent, you know?"

You smiled sheepishly as you arrange your cubicle to start a new day. Unlike your workmates, your place is quite neat and devoid of anything that would identify that spot as yours.

No personal images pinned on the corkboard. Not even a framed picture of whoever inspires you to get up and work hard without becoming insane yourself.

Upon accepting the job offer, you made sure to draw the most visible line to keep your personal life to yourself. You've heard some stories—some myths—about some agents disappearing without any trace overnight. Like they never existed in the first place.

"I hope they fuck off, you know?" You sighed before putting on your noise-cancelling headphones. "May we survive this shift," you grumbled as you wait for the first call with baited breath.

You have frequent customers. Most of them were pleasant to talk to. Let's just say that they're not exactly the dangerous type of callers. Those type clients were, most likely, drawn to the idea of being a 'yandere' as a fantasy. Sometimes, there's a hint of sexualization.

Almost every person on the floor are taking calls. Including you. However, your gut's been telling you to ignore the call. Maybe it's one of those unhinged callers who believes that you're theirs. Like they own you and all of your time.

You still have some available credits for call avoidance since you rarely used your credits. Surely, this one call will not affect your performance rating.

While waiting for the phone to stop ringing, you decided to clean up your work email. Being bombarded with useless newsletters about food and books on sale is the worse. Not only does it make your inbox crowded, it's also spammy.

You were fightung the urge to just select all and delete everything at once when you suddenly heard a notification. One after another.

One from your email, another one from your messaging app, and lastly—from the internal chatroom.

You opened the email with an attachment. It was a blank email but as soon as the preview for the attachment appeared, you almost gagged.

It was an image of a man's cock. There were translucent liquid splattered everywhere while the tip of his dick is on a cup—filled to the brim with iced coffee with foamy top. Your favorite.

Your hands were shaking as you exit the window of the website. You clicked the messaging app first. 'Perhaps it was just a promotional message from one of those companies.'

But no.

It was a message from a private number. You don't have any idea how they did it, but they kept sending you images. Most of them were blurry, but the ones with better quality almost made you vomit.

It was taken in a small room. At first, the room was dark, but eventually the image light up. His face was blurred, but you could clearly see what he was doing.

He was fucking your pillow. The one you've been using since you've moved in a better place with better security.

You were confused. And scared.

How could he easily enter your place? Your keys are with you and only the management has access to other duplicates.

"No way..." you whispered as you close the messaging app's window.

One bomb was dropped after another. And you knew something's off.

[NOTICE OF TERMINATION]

Due to multiple reports of call avoidance and drop calls, the management has decided to relieve you from your position as an agent effective immediately.

As we value your well-being, rest assured that you will be receiving your full payment for the next three months along with the other benefits that the company has sworn to provide you.

We sincerely appreciate your efforts for the last three years. We wish you all the best from this day forward.

You were devastated, yet relieved upon reading the letter. You've been wanting to receive this for months. It was the only way out of this place and this industry. You've also managed to save up a lot that you can start fresh somewhere. Far from this place.

Another phone call managed to bypass the automatic system of the place. You took a deep breath before accepting the call.

"Hello?"

"I can't... wait... haah..." the man on the line was clearly doing himself. By the eay he sounds, he's probably close. "We'll move to a big house... haah... hngg... a baby, a babyyy... nhnn... come home..."

Your eyes widened upon hearing your name. Not the screen name you gave them, but your legal full name.

"Let me... hngg... make you a mommy... d'you want that, huh?" You could a wet sloppy noises in the background. "Tiny baby... sucking on your tits... while I make a mess out of you?"

"Ap—"

"No need for... apologies..." he was breathing heavily. "I'll see you soon, okay?

"Heimdall."

He chuckled. "That's me, my princess... took you long enough to say my name."

"How did you get into my house?" you asked while gritting your teeth.

"Patience, my love. We could talk all about it once you're home. Should I get you something to eat? Chicken? Cake? Sandwich? Coffee?"

"I'm done with you."

You immediately pressed the end call button before gathering your things and left. Not even a farewell to your friends.

But there's something you should probably know.

Heidi can't wait to be an aunt and to be your sister-in-law!

[noirscript]

last call

pairing: Yandere!Artist x Reader

description: Adrien’s obsession isn’t just art—it’s a countdown to something far worse. As your friend disappears, the horrifying truth dawns: you’re already his next masterpiece.

warning/s: YANDERE | Stalking | Obsession | Implied Kidnapping | Implied Murder | Psychological Horror | Anxiety

note: i'd really appreciate your thoughts about this one (￣～￣；) also, i recently reached 700+ followers. uh, thank you for reading my works. ^^

Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar

The quiet hum of the call center is a familiar backdrop to your life now. The steady ringing of phones, the soft murmurs of your colleagues in their cubicles. You keep your head down, focus on your calls, your sweet, submissive voice filling the air. It’s what you do. It’s all you do. For the pay, the benefits, the security.

But there are days—like today—when you can’t ignore the gnawing unease crawling up your spine.

You glance over at Jake, your friend, who’s working on the other side of the room. He’s always been there, your rock, always nearby, always with a comforting word. The late-night shifts aren’t so bad when you’re together. But tonight, something feels off.

You can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.

When the last call ends, you decide to confide in him. You wait until the others are off their calls, the noise of the office muted by the hour. The two of you slip into a quiet corner, and your voice shakes when you speak.

"Jake," you whisper, "I think I’m being stalked."

He looks at you, his expression shifting from confusion to concern. "What do you mean? Stalked by who?"

You hesitate, then reach into your bag, pulling out a piece of paper—one of the sketches you found in your locker that morning. The sight of it still makes your heart race. A detailed drawing of you, sitting alone at your desk. A figure standing in the background, a shadowed presence just out of focus.

"Look," you say, voice trembling. "It’s not just this one. Every day there’s a new drawing, and the worst part? There's always someone standing near me. Always. But not anyone I know. Someone I don’t recognize."

Jake takes the sketch, his brows furrowed as he studies it. His face pales as he glances up at you, then back at the drawing.

"That’s… That’s creepy," he mutters, his voice barely audible. "Who’s doing this? Do you have any idea?"

You swallow, the knot in your throat growing tighter. "I don’t know. But it’s like he’s always watching me. I don’t know how he gets into my locker, but every day, there’s another sketch waiting for me."

You stop, your fingers gripping the edge of your seat as you watch him. He shifts uncomfortably, glancing around as if making sure no one else is paying attention.

"Something doesn’t feel right," you continue, voice barely above a whisper. "He’s watching me. Following me. I don’t know what to do anymore."

Jake sighs deeply, setting the sketch back down on the table. His eyes are tired, haunted. "Maybe you should talk to Leo about this," he suggests. "He might be able to help. Leo always knows what to do."

You nod, trying to ignore the creeping dread in your chest. But it doesn’t help. Nothing helps. And that night, things get worse.

You get home after another long shift, the familiar creak of the door echoing in the silence. Your breath catches in your throat when you notice something odd—Jake’s stuff is gone. The apartment feels emptier, the silence too thick.

You text him, but there’s no reply. That’s odd. Jake always answers. You pace around the apartment, staring at his empty room, the unmade bed, the absence of his things.

He’s never left without saying anything before.

You try to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach, but it grows as the days pass. His shifts no longer line up with yours. You come home to find his things still gone, and he doesn’t pick up his phone anymore.

You can't help but feel a gnawing sense of dread settling deep within you.

And then it happens.

You receive a package. A canvas, no return address. You open it cautiously, your heart pounding in your chest. The moment you see the painting, the room goes cold. It’s of Jake. His face twisted in a grotesque, disturbing way. His body painted with smears of red. His mouth open in a silent scream. It’s too realistic. Too graphic to be dismissed. Too vivid to be ignored.

A chill runs down your spine. What is this? The red… it’s too much. The detail is too real.

You don’t know what to do with it. You can't even look at it for too long, so you shove it into your drawer, hoping it’ll disappear, even though you know it never will.

The next night, you try to shake it off. But when Leo asks how things are going, you can’t hide the terror any longer. You tell him everything—the drawings, Jake’s disappearance, the painting. He listens quietly, his face unreadable, but you can see the concern in his eyes.

“I don’t know, Leo,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I don’t know what to do anymore. I can’t sleep. I can’t breathe. Every day is worse.”

Leo rubs his temples, his mind clearly racing. “You know the rules, right? We can’t flag him, not without proof. You’re stuck playing into his game.”

You nod, biting your lip. You’re fully aware of that. In this line of work, you play the role you're given. You pretend to be someone else, to be their darling. The job is lucrative, but it comes with a cost. You have to pretend, even when it feels like the walls are closing in.

Leo leans forward, his eyes softening with concern. “Do you suspect anyone, though? Anyone specific?”

The question catches you off guard. You hesitate, then—against your better judgment—you answer, your voice barely a whisper.

“Adrien,” you say, your heart pounding in your chest. "Adrien is the one who’s been sending the sketches. He called in through Yandere Hotline, said he was a wealthy artist. He told me his family owns a conglomerate, but he didn’t want to follow in his father’s footsteps. He wanted to be a real artist. But he had an art block. That’s when he found me. He said I inspired him."

You pause, taking a shaky breath, the weight of the past few weeks pressing down on you. "He said I was his muse. He wanted to create again, and I was the key. I played into it, Leo. I thought it was harmless at first. He just wanted me to talk to him, to make him feel heard, to give him some inspiration. But it… it got worse."

Leo watches you closely, his face unreadable. He doesn’t interrupt, but you see the flicker of recognition in his eyes.

“Then he started sending me the sketches. At first, it was just one, a drawing of me sitting at my desk. But after that… he started showing up more in the pictures. Always standing near me. And it wasn’t just the drawings. He started talking about how he couldn’t wait to draw me ‘up close.’ Like I was his next masterpiece. He said it so casually, Leo. Like it was something that was just going to happen.”

Your voice cracks as you recall the worst part. "And now Jake’s gone. His things disappeared. His shifts don’t match mine anymore. And I just… I don’t know what to do. I’m trapped, Leo. He’s everywhere. I feel him watching me."

Leo’s face tightens, a flicker of something darker passing through his expression. But then, his voice softens, as though he's trying to calm you. “You’re right. You’re stuck playing his game. You’ve got no choice but to follow it. We all do.”

But as the conversation lingers, there’s a tension in the air that neither of you can deny.

That night, as you walk back to your locker, your phone buzzes.

Unknown number.

You hesitate, the pit in your stomach widening. But something—something deep inside of you—makes you answer.

“Hello?”

The voice on the other end makes your blood run cold.

“You’re still pretending, sweetheart,” he says softly. "But I see you. I know you."

Your pulse quickens. It’s him. Adrien.

His voice slides through the phone like silk, sending a chill through your body.

“I’ve been watching,” he continues, his tone too calm, too familiar. “You think I don’t notice? The way you look at the others. The way you pretend they’re all you need.”

You try to steady your breath, your hands shaking. “I… I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’ve been waiting for this moment,” he whispers, his voice darkening. “Waiting for you to see me, to understand.”

You feel your skin crawl as he continues. “But it’s too late for that now. You’re already mine. And I’ll make sure you understand what it means.”

You shiver, every fiber of your being screaming to run.

But you can’t.

Your breath catches as you arrive at your locker. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up as you open it. And there they are—the sketches.

One of you and Leo.

The other... of you. Eyes wide with terror. A hand, not yours, gripping your jaw. Forcing you to look at yourself.

The sketch is too detailed, too real. You can’t breathe as you stare at it, the raw fear in your eyes captured in every stroke. The grip on your jaw, the force of it—the terror written all over your face.

You slam the locker shut, your heart racing. The call ends with Adrien’s final, chilling words.

“Run. I love it when you run.”

The phone drops from your hands, and you turn around—there’s no one there. But the air feels thick, the walls closing in on you. It’s not just the job anymore. It’s your life. It’s him. And there’s no way out.

You can feel his eyes on you even now, through the phone, through the sketches, through the very air you breathe. And no matter how many times you try to convince yourself that this is just a game, a twisted fantasy he’s playing—you know, deep in your gut, that it’s real. Every step you take, every breath you take, Adrien is right behind you, watching, waiting.

And the worst part? You’re trapped. You always have been.

You just didn’t know it until now.

noirscript © 2025

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

[noirscript]

Hii, I love your fics. Please may I request yandere demon who’s quite possessive and strict with reader but can also be quite coddling?

Hollow Haven

Description: You tried to escape, but Alastor’s grip is tighter than you think. In his haven, freedom is just an illusion. Warning/s: Yandere | Possession | Captivity | Psychological horror | Emotional Manipulation | Failed Escape | Yandere Demon Note: I will not be able to tag this fic below. Read the warnings before proceeding. I hope you like this anon! Join the 1.5k(+) celebration. Request is open (but will take time to be fulfilled due to irl).

You hadn’t expected the doorknob to turn.

For months, or maybe longer—time had no structure in that place—you had tried it at least once a day, if only to confirm that it remained locked. You had long accepted it was symbolic more than anything. A performance of hope to make the silence bearable.

But this time, it clicked.

The metal handle turned with a dry groan, and the heavy door creaked open by just a sliver. You stared at the small gap with disbelief, heart hammering so violently it almost hurt. For several seconds, you stood frozen, half-convinced it was another of Alastor’s games. An illusion. A hallucination. A taunt.

But there was a hallway on the other side. Dimly lit. Real.

You didn’t allow yourself more thought than that. You pushed it open fully and ran.

The floors were old and uneven, the walls crooked. Every sound echoed far too loudly—your frantic footsteps, your panicked breath. The air was dry, full of dust and decay, but it was different from the perfumed heaviness of his domain. There was no lingering scent of roses or sulfur. It smelled like neglect, like age.

You didn’t care. It was not him. That was enough.

You ran faster.

Corridors twisted in unnatural angles, as if the architecture had been scribbled by a madman. The hall stretched and shrank with no rhythm, yet you kept moving forward, convinced that somewhere in this maze, there would be a way out. It didn’t matter how the walls bent or how they whispered under your fingertips—you refused to stop.

At one point, you passed a mirror, and in the corner of your eye, you thought you saw him standing behind you. You didn’t look. Looking would give it power. Looking would make it real.

The hallway eventually ended at a door completely unlike the rest. Black, frostbitten, silent. There was no reason to trust it, but something told you it led out—truly out. You gripped the iron handle, wincing as it burned your skin, and pushed.

Cold air blasted you in the face.

It hit you so hard it stole your breath, but it was sharp and honest in a way that made your chest ache. Snow stretched out across a forest clearing, grey skies overhead and skeletal trees swaying against the wind. The colorless world was bleak, but freeing.

For the first time in ages, you remembered your name.

You stepped forward and didn’t look back. The door disappeared behind you, but you didn’t panic. That was fine. Doors weren’t meant to last here.

The snow stung your bare feet, but you kept moving. The icy wind bit at your exposed skin, and branches clawed at your arms and face. It all felt real. Tangible. Sharp. Everything the velvet-and-gold world he created had tried to numb out of you.

You didn’t know how long you walked. The trees blurred together, the cold numbing your legs, but you kept going until your knees buckled and you sank to the ground.

You were free.

Or you had been.

The voice came softly, as if drifting through the wind itself. “Pet?”

You froze. The pain in your legs vanished. Your ears rang.

“No,” you said automatically, as if denial alone would reverse time. “No, I made it out. I made it.”

You turned slowly, already feeling the weight of failure crash through you before your eyes even confirmed it.

Alastor stood just beyond the trees, leaning against one with casual grace. His crimson suit looked untouched by the elements. Not a flake of snow touched him. Not a single hair out of place. His long, dark red hair cascaded over his shoulders in elegant waves, brushing the waist of his coat. His smile was calm. Too calm.

“I should be angry,” he said, stepping forward slowly. “But I’m mostly hurt.”

You backed away, slipping slightly on the snow. He didn’t rush you. He didn’t need to.

“I’ve done everything I could to make you comfortable,” he continued, voice smooth and casual. “Shelter. Music. Meals. Company. Me. And yet, you snuck away like a thief.”

“I didn’t—” You tried to speak, your voice breaking. “I didn’t ask for any of that.”

He paused, tilting his head slightly. His eyes glinted with amusement—or something worse.

“No,” he agreed. “You didn’t. But I know what you need, little one. You’re just… confused. Sick, maybe. Tired. I don’t blame you for that.”

You took a step back.

He took two forward.

The snow beneath your feet turned to slush, then to liquid. It pulled. You gasped and stumbled, trying to lift your foot, but it stuck fast. The ground thickened into black tar, swallowing your ankles.

You screamed.

Alastor’s smile softened, and he crossed the distance between you effortlessly, reaching out as if to comfort a child.

“I forgive you,” he said, voice low. “Running away isn’t uncommon. Everyone tries it once.”

You twisted your body, trying to wrench free from the pull, but your limbs were sluggish. Your muscles refused to obey. The air thickened around you like glue.

“You tricked me,” you gasped, tears burning down your cheeks. “You let me think—let me think I got out.”

“Of course I did.” He crouched beside you, brushing your damp hair back from your face. “You need to understand what it feels like. The panic. The failure. That’s how you’ll learn never to do it again.”

Your breathing hitched violently. “Please.”

He leaned in, lips ghosting near your ear.

“There’s nowhere else for you. Nowhere safer. Nowhere that wants you.”

The snow melted entirely now, revealing a familiar velvet floor beneath you. The forest blurred and crumbled around the edges, giving way to the walls of your chamber—his chamber. Red drapes, soft lighting, incense curling in the corners. You sobbed as the illusion collapsed, dragging your broken hope down with it.

By the time the last traces of the outside world vanished, you were curled in his lap. His fingers moved gently through your hair, his other hand stroking your back.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “You’ll rest now. You’ll forget all about it.”

“I won’t,” you choked, shaking. “I’ll never forget.”

He smiled faintly, resting his cheek against yours.

“You will,” he said. “That’s the part you don’t understand yet. You will. And when you wake up tomorrow, you’ll thank me.”

You wanted to scream. But the room was too soft, too warm, too heavy. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t even cry anymore.

He kissed your temple and held you tighter.

“You’re mine,” he said, not asking this time. Just stating.

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t have to.

[noirscript]

call disconnected.

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"Why did you touch that man's hand?"

Alexei, one of your most frequent callers, asked while strained voice. "I've warned you! Multiple times! How could you do this to me?"

You decided to mute the mic on your end while listening to his rant. For some reason, he's starting to act weird around the third time he asked for your service.

"Speak while I'm still being nice," he demanded as he call your name. Your real name—the one he's not supposed to know. "Stop ignoring me!"

You took a deep breath before unmuting your mic. "Alexei..." you said with shaky voice.

"Do. NOT. Use. That. Tone. On. Me." Anyone in their right mind would've shivered upon hearing his stern warning; unless of course you're a seasoned 'darling' from a shady company like yours.

You tried speaking up once again, but you suddenly hear another man's cry for help from the other line. "Please... have mercy... have mercy..."

Your eyebrows scrunched in confusion. The other man's voice sounds familiar, but you can't tell where you've heard it before.

"Do you want to know what happens to stubborn darling like you, hm?" Alexei asked followed by other pained scream from the other man. "You'll cost them their lives."

You looked around, hoping that your immediate supervisor is available to support you at this point in time.

"Stop looking around."

You could almost hear your heart drop. Your company boast their 100% privacy rate. That they do not just value their clients but as well as their employees.

"How could you betray me like this? Why..." he let out an exasperated sigh. "Why are you trying to save this man so hard?"

"Alexei... what are you talking about? I've been following your instructions. Word by word."

You tried de-escalating the situation, hoping that it'll help you buy some time until your supervisor is near your area.

"I-I'm staying in my room, like you've instructed... I-I've no idea who—"

"—do you really think you can use that against me?" He cut-off your attempt to use the scenario he started during his second call.

He suddenly laughed before a loud bang echoed in the background. "You better watch your back, darling. If you don't want me to come and get you."

By the time your supervisor stood next to you, the call was already disconnected.

You asked for a one-on-one meeting to brief them about what happened during the phone call.

Your supervisor shook their head before spilling the beans that most people doesn't know.

None of the phone calls were recorded to ensure the privacy of the clients and the employees. But perhaps that rule only favors the clients.

[noirscript]

cw: random nsfw lads stuff

yandere caleb living rent-free in my mind rn.

like, he probably doesn't even use his hands to guide you as you ride him. he's just use his evo(l) (?)/ability to make you ride him as much as he want you to. oh you're whining because you're tired? dw babe, caleb got you. he'll even meet you halfway, thrusting upwards, imapling further than he already does. cumming inside you is just an added bonus at this point. he probably enjoys watching your juices spillijg out of you. creating a fucking mess or something.

this usually happens after he learns about your rekindled connection with a certain childhood friend of your who he can't seem to keep you away from.

[noirscript]

[masterlist] seven days of devotion

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

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✧ 01; the procession

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

✧ 02; the withering

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

✧ 03; the cleansing

You didn’t realize you were being sanctified until love felt like confession and every loss smelled faintly of lilies. To Desmond, you’re not a person—you’re a temple he’s cleansing, one sin at a time.

✧ 04; the forsaking

You gave up chasing the truth when no one cared to hear it—until Micah brought you a name you couldn’t ignore, and a company where people vanished behind glass walls and golden promises. Now the garden is locked, Micah is gone, and you understand far too late: you were never investigating him. You were chosen.

✧ 05; the washing

You are not his lover—you are his altar, his sacred ruin, the pulse beneath every prayer he’s ever whispered into bloodstained hands. To Enoch, devotion means worship through possession, and he would rather see the world burn than let anyone else touch what he believes is divinely his.

✧ 06; the becoming

You were never meant to be worshipped, but Kai Mercer saw divinity in your every breath. And now, as his devotion burns brighter than reason, you begin to understand what it means to be become someone's god.

✧ 07; the tomb

You survived the fire, but Magnus Wren won’t let the world know that. To him, you’re safest buried beneath his home—tucked in silk and candlelight, where no one can hurt you but him.

✧ 08; the ressurection

You’ve been paraded before the world as a miracle—reborn, beloved, and serene—while inside, you ache with the silent horror of knowing he’s not done with you yet. Beneath white silk and hollow smiles, you brace for the future he’s already decided: one where even your womb belongs to him.