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aluraveil · 2 months ago

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TIL LIES DO US PART / Yandere Anaxagoras from “Lipstick Mark” collection

Summary: After having discovered your husband’s revolting secret, you have decided to leave him. However, you didn’t realize that during his time with you, he had managed to become obsessed with you, and that he would drag you back to where you belong.

contents: gender neutral reader / manipulative and obsessive Anaxa / reader wears lipstick / forced kiss / angst / implied non-con. Word count: 4,4k. reposting this after it got deleted.

You’ve grown to hate your husband. No, you genuinely and wholeheartedly hated him; not as in “ugh, he’s so annoying”, but as in “he’s the most despicable, cruel and evil man I’ve ever had a chance to marry”. You were feeling disgusting at the prospect of having been telling him “I love you” until not so long ago. Such creature shouldn’t have earned the title of your spouse, being nothing but a snake that’s been using you the entire time, and pushing your affections for him to be another tool. If only you possessed more power than him, perhaps you would have killed him, deeming his actions as something above illegal.

Not that Anaxa was ever the most affectionate husband, deciding to show his “care” through acts and providing instead; but you still sensed there’s respect, love and loyalty between you two. You didn’t need him to be most loving, you just needed him.

As you packed your things, it was anger blocking your emotions from yet crying about what the dehumanizing truth you have found out. How could he have dared to commit himself to treating you like this, to using you, to lying to you, wasting your time, and leaving you in a state of madness?

Because marrying someone just to see what it’s like being in this relationship makes an unethical research if the subject could have never consented in the first place — of course he had never told you his intensions. You had to find out on your own, by an accident, meaning that you could have stayed living in oblivion if the fate didn’t allow you some mercy. An experiment on marriage, marriage hypothesis, you as his spouse in the center to do nothing but fill his curiosity.

The hurt aspect of course existed too, as after being told you’re loved and taken care of your hopes were utterly destroyed and left you with a gap in your heart, blocking you from ever trusting anyone else.

Anaxa didn’t love you. Anaxa didn’t care about you. Anaxa didn’t even want you. He went through all the trouble of marriage just out of scholar’s spirit of inquiry, not lowering himself to human emotion but to an elite genius mind that found research a human relationship. He could have done it any other way, such as find an actual married couple or at least ask for your consent — but you were sure he’d hit you with some excuse about it being an environment bringing results without a need for performance.

All of this was so overwhelming you didn’t even want to bother to wait for his return and take out your anger on him, calling it a discussion and exposing him. You realized you’d only waste your breath more than your time was, only for nothing to be resolved and for you to build up even more resentment to slowly ruin you.

The note will do. “I know. Our marriage is over. Do not seek me out.” Perhaps, you even felt cocky by that “I know”. You didn’t over-explain your feelings, you didn’t make it clear at what you mean, but these words should be enough to spiral some panic at the likely context behind them. “Look at me, I outsmarted you!”

You packed only most important items, deciding to retrieve the rest later — you just couldn’t stay in this forbidden house anymore, or pack with a knowledge he might return any moment.

What felt like a home to return to everyday, spending hours on talk and debates, while completing domestic chores together and not making them unbearable just because they were done with him, turned into a foreign space where you’d enter to meet the executioner.

“Curse this man,” you scoffed under your breath, and your hands shook from the rage you felt. You didn’t want to cry, so far. You wanted to ruin this man, expose him to the public and let everyone know their great professors is a double-faced man, except… you assumed many of the scholars wouldn’t care, their elite group caring only about themselves and what they could achieve. They weren’t even about improving others’ lives, but the power of glory a scholar was praised for on Amphoreus.

With your suitcase packed, you fantasized of turning around to leave the bedroom, then walking through the familiar hall, a little porch and out through the garden’s gates.

You still weren’t sure where to go. You couldn’t just disappear and ruin your current career; but you also couldn’t stay close to him. For now, you could only accommodate yourself in some tavern’s room, preferably on the outskirts of the city. Nonetheless, being lost wasn’t just about your location. The loss home was emptying your stability.

You didn’t expect him to chase you anyway. Since it was all an experiment and he didn’t love you, he had no need to go after you if you now knew and could no longer provide objective results. The ‘only’ struggle you’ll have is to get through a heartbreak he caused, traumatizing enough to be haunt you for the rest of your life.

It was insane, really, how drastically your life could change upon receiving just one of the news. How someone could hide such an important detail and hide it from you with ease, his act perfected and made to feel you attached, not at all caring about the painful crush onto the ground it would bring. Just how many people were lied to this way everyday?

Even more terrifying how someone can choose to do commit such cruelty, the Nousporist he was meant to improve and not destroy.

Before you’d head out, you sat on the edge of the bed, still not able to comprehend the situation fully. How one can, when suddenly being thrown into the pits of hell with a knowledge so tormenting. Your head ended up between your knees, with your hands pulling on your hair, ready to rip off your scalp from the agony.

Suddenly, you were standing up and reaching an item in the drawer of your nightstand you remember about — a nightstand placed on your side of the bed you eagerly shared and saw as a marriage union itself till yesterday. The item you looked for was nothing else but a lipstick you wore only once and never again, as it was the color you had picked for your wedding. An object worthy of worship was now meant only to be destroyed in fits of your anger.

It was thrown on tiles, before mercilessly crushed by your shoe, its color splashing everywhere like a rotting fruit, and staining the floor — hopefully permanently, in hope of your husband being reminded of his sins everytime he enters the bedroom.

You were gone from the place you once called home few screams later.

•

Few weeks have passed and you assumed your theory was proven right — Anaxa really has never cared about you. He used you for the sake of his research, not even in name of science but for his own interest. You knew he couldn’t have loved you yet being proven right left you awake at nights. You were a mess after your escape, catching yourself in moments of sudden disbelief, followed by anger and then sorrow you had nowhere to release.

You hoped for a day where the anger shifts into resignation; and resignation into acceptance, but not forgiveness. That peaceful thought was ruined when you received a package at your doorstep.

There was a confusion in you and even more wariness, as you remembered you didn’t order anything. You still didn’t retrieve your items from Anaxa, unable to face him, but the parcel could not be them if so small. Hearing rumors about a supposed conflict in youe marriage, with people having noticed you weren’t seen together for a while was already too much.

Opening the small wooden box, you were met with a heart-stopping sight. The lipstick, very much the same as the one you wore for your wedding, weeks later after you’ve destroyed it. Your mind errored and the makeup fell from your hands, unfortunately not shattering it like the first time. The only person that appeared in your mind, that could have send this to you was Anaxa; considering the fact your lipstick tone was created individually for you, not obtainable in some shop. To make it worse, the lipstick didn’t look brand new — more like fixed, as the container still had old micro-scratches and your initials engraved on the bottom.

Was he taunting you? Was he trying to hurt you with a reminder of what he has done to you, by reminding you of your fake wedding? Why would he go that far, as if he was secretly a sadist all along? That’s not the man you knew, regardless, you didn’t know him anymore anyhow.

The lipstick was destroyed, with an urge to quickly forget before you’d lose yourself in your despair too deeply. Thrown into your trashcan so no one can take it and fix it again.

•

To your horror, the same lipstick arrived at your house a week later. The dread came from the fact it would imply Anaxa have broken into your new place of living; as if expecting you’d break it and taking it before your trash would be recycled.

There were no signs of breaking in, not calming but adding to the creepy atmosphere of the situation. What if he’s been watching you for weeks, while you lived with no concerns to worry about of your safety?

Everything compelled you to send him the lipstick back to his home, demanding the answer and telling him to stop messing up with you. There was only little you could take before he had you at his feet like he wanted.

“What in the world are you trying to achieve, Anaxa? You have ruined years of my life already, playing an act of a husband while never meaning anything. What is the lipstick supposed to do, as if you aren’t done with abusing me?

Give yourself a permanent break of sending me those lipsticks. At this point of the Grove’s comedy, I will not hesitate to come and seek you out so I can shove that lipstick down your throat and see you suffocate with it down your trachea!

Your acts are so violent, you’re nothing but a shameless beast.”

The response you’ve received a day later was challenging, not even acknowledging your words and treating you like a desperate who flows out their emotions as if they’re overdramatic: “Do it.”

And you’d do it.

•

Just how much you’d be punished for killing a Chrysos Heir and a renowned scholar? Not that you’d be able to murder him, well aware of his strength being dominant to yours, which didn’t mean you couldn’t find comfort in this fantasy.

You were still ready to cause some harm, at least mental.

With a huge breath in, you knocked on his door, no longer yours too, with a force of multiple Titans. You were about to punch the door one more time, when the door finally opened, and your body suddenly started to drown in a cold dread. You’ve been so ready to put this man in his place, unleash the repentance he had to suffer; but seeing him in person, an object of your misery, made you a coward.

To your surprise, Anaxa didn't seem to hold any cruel or mocking expression you've expected to see after the separation, something a natural assumption after the tricks he’s played. If anything, he was smiling gently. “Ah, there you are. I'm glad you did visit me in the end. Come, come inside.” He then stepped aside to let you enter, which you didn't act on immediately.

Something was wrong, awfully wrong. He was acting as if he was happy to see you, as if you're some guest he has invited over for a tea, and you wondered if it's another game of his.

You didn't greet him back and on your unstable legs, you entered 'his' house.

"We have a lot to talk about, dear, don't we?" he mused as he walked through the corridor to the lounging room, expecting you to follow him behind.

You scoffed, your face shifting to express your anger, “That's a colossal understatement, Anaxa.”

You saw his hand twitch at the usage of his shortened name, fueling you with small rush of power over him, so satisfying to your need for revenge.

“Please, do not call me that, my dear,” he sighed, way too calm to your liking — you expected a stronger annoyance. After the suffering he's put you through, it was only right for him to be tormented too.

Soon, he seated himself on one of the rattan armchairs, and tilted his head when noticing you were still standing and not sitting across him. “What is it? Are you going to act like I'm a stranger?"”

“You shouldn't have the audacity to be judging my action. I'm here to say only one thing—stop harassing me. I don't want my eyes to see that lipstick ever again. I meant it when I said our marriage was over. It's just a matter of getting a divorce.”

Anaxa frowned, showing some displeasure at your words. “Except, you ignorant student, I wasn't harassing you. You mistake my actions and see them on the shallow level. The deliveries was only returning our memento to a person who should remember its significance.”

You looked at him in disbelief, unable to take in the fact he still played a loving husband role. “Stop playing with me, Anaxa!” you were shouting at this point. “You know what you did, you surely know about the abuse it was, and so this lipstick is nothing but some twisted game to further experiment on me!”

His face expression didn't change, but his hand tightened into a fist, as if bothered by what you had left behind when leaving this house. “Ah, your note. I'm sorry you must have found out some... unsavory information about me, but you're also lacking a certain context.”

Next thing you knew, you were charging at him, ready to slap him — because there's no way that any context would have justiified his actions, or at least make you feel better. But a man used to fighting, he swiftly maneveured you to be pinned under him before your hand would cut his cheek, and you found yourself to be the one sitting on the chair.

Your eyes were bulging out, you quickly frightened by the trap he put you in. His face was way too close to yours, and his hands rested on the armchair's armrests, his body triumphing over yours. Then, a fight urge kicked in, and you were trying to shove him away with your legs... all for nothing. Anaxa was like a boulder too heavy to move.

“I'm not letting you go until you listen to me first.” The words didn't reach your mind yet, with you still too emotional to be able to rest. But Anaxa let you tire yourself down — if anything, pushing you to release your anger on him would help you. He let you pull on his hair, he let you beat at his chest, and he let you kick his stomach; frustratingly with no reaction.

Once you had it out of your system, he finally spoke, “I will ask you a question first—how did you find out our marriage was a fraud... at least initially?”

'Initially', he said? His words confused you, yet you delievered the answer, “You sleep talked.”

You’d have laughed at his dumbfounded expression if it wasn’t for your anger. “What? How would that reveal my intensions? Even if I was to talk to my sleep, I’m sure it wouldn’t mention enough details.”

“You mentioned one thing that led to the branches of conclusions.”

“And what is that?”

“You’ve mentioned the phrase “marriage hypothesis”. I wasn’t sure why you’d think of that and assumed it to be a random dream, but then a few days later, I’ve found your research during a browsing in the local magazine for educated readers like you—signed anonymously, but the phrase was just the same. Then I had a feeling I should compare it to your works… and while you changed your style of writing, I noticed the person who was the subject was awfully behaving like me.”

As you revealed your deduction, Anaxa was suddenly smiling wide. “Well, aren’t you a smart thing? I’m so proud of you, dear. I’ve always known you have it in you!” he laughed in excitement, and you looked at him in repulsion.

“Why on Amphoreus are you happy about this?” You thought what a bastard he was, making the situation into something positive, changing the subject entirely.

“Oh, don’t be so tense. The reasoning is simple and yet understandable—I have always enjoyed your mind. You have a tendency to overthink everything, but in the end, it ends up with you being observant and coming to conclusions others wouldn’t reach without being told to start observing the connection. Your theories, and opinions, they were always so refreshing to me… you might be too sensitive sometimes, but you also can read between the lines and not be naive. Some would call you skeptical or overly pessimistic, yet, I like your rationality,” he blabbered and it moved your heart, to the logic’s displeasure. Despite the degrading event he put you through, your body and mind still carried reminiscences of what you once had, hence you felt something at the praise. Perhaps he didn’t hate you entirely, acknowledging something good about you… Still, you hated him.

You leaned back in chair, the discomfort at him holding you here against your will still not disappearing but amplified more when dragged on, and you shook your head. “That’s not relevant at the moment! You broke into my house, you kept sending me this lipstick fixed over and over, and you didn’t leave me alone when I told you to!” you protested.

His smile died and he turned his visage into serious, if not scarily stern. “I’ll be frank with you, dear. You are correct about me having entered a marriage with you to use you as a specimen for my experiment. However, it doesn’t mean I’ve always seen our marriage as something meaningless.”

“You’re not leaving or getting a divorce,” he added, not leaving any doubts about the honesty of his intensions.

This time, you tried to punch him, but he grabbed your hand and placed it over his chest. “Do you see how fast my heart runs? Isn’t this enough evidence for you, that you have an effect on me? I found it to be quite… dreadful, sometimes, yet I think I don’t mind the feeling that much.”

You tried to move it away, interpreting his heart rate differently. “It’s an excitement by the stress you’ve put me through. You can’t do all of this and then act as if it’s me who’s the problem here, walking away with no reason!” you said pitifully, an anxiety and overstimulation from not being heard all over your face.

“Nonsense,” he debunked everything you said with coldness. “I can tell apart the way heart goes depending on someone’s mood. It also doesn’t matter if I didn’t feel nothing for you in the begging, if you still were taken care of. You were more spoiled than a person should be. And seeing you reveal yourself to me, you’ve given me enough material to turn this marriage into a real union between two lovers.”

“You belong by my side, and nowhere else.”

You couldn’t believe your ears. Anaxa seriously acted as if material things would have been a replacement for the emotional damage and lies he’s committed, then hit you with the possessive energy. Being provided for wasn’t worth it when he has broken your heart. You could have lived on your own, and while it wouldn’t give you any bigger status or comfort, it’d hurt much less than this.

“I didn’t want money. I wanted you, Anaxagoras,” your voice finally cracked and you were sobbing like a baby.

Something cracked on his face too, being taken aback at your words, and you twisted a knife in his chest with the confession. While he still saw things more pragmatically, hearing about the extent of your adoration for him he put in you fed his obsession, albeit soothed his longing for you; and seeing you cry shook him.

“As I said, it doesn’t matter,” he repeated, but his voice accepted more softness to be expressed. “Since I started to see you as more, we can continue our marriage on these terms. I have no need to let you go, not when you stimulate my mind and make me feel alive each day, pondering about how I’ve found someone so marvelous.” His hand landed on your face, and his thumb not wiped but spread your tears under your eyes. He found himself entranced with the fact you spilled them for him, a sign of your heart’s devotion.

Yet, his words only shook you. The way he pronounced sounded more twisted than affectionate, with a man who was seeing you more as a test subject and not a spouse. “You’re lying,” you chocked out through hiccups. “You didn’t reach me after I’ve left. You ignored me for weeks.”

“That I did,” he said with a sigh. You trashed when he was lifting you up and placing you on his lap, the chair taken by him again. He kept you too tight to his chest to free yourself or distance yourself from the man that was scaring you. “But it wasn’t me being neglectful. My idea was to let you release your anger and resentment, so we can have this talk in less emotional way that would cause you to have irrational outbursts. Albeit… you still ended up rather emotional. Yet that is to be expected. Perhaps I’ve been focusing more on logic than the psychological aspect of going through such situation, considering my initial plan was research and not amorous affairs,” he spoke as he stroked your back, and the physical soothing didn’t match his methodical words. You didn’t feel like a person being scrutinized.

“You hurt me,” you accused. “I can tell you feel hurt.” The response drove you mad — it wasn’t “yes, I did”, but “yes, you appear that way” — not admitting his faults.

You gave up at this point, and when you stopped crying, it wasn’t because he consoled you. You only were left feeling wiped out, staring blankly ahead.

“There you are,” he muttered and pressed the kiss on top of your head, something your body still remembered. There was a part of you that wanted to forgive him, desperate for those warm gestures you were deprived of; if it wasn’t for the fact this “overthinking” aspect he’s mentioned was holding your back.

“Not that you’ve calmed down…” he announced a new intension, and reached for his pocket. You tensed up when seeing what he took from the space of his pants — that unfortunate lipstick. “… let me do something, darling.”

“W-what? Do what?”

“I think it’s time to renew our vows. I don’t want you to hold any doubts, and I’m afraid that break certainly put some differences and distance between us…” Your body trembled as he applied the color onto your lips for you, all careful to create perfect outlines. The product was a symbol of your marriage if you once worn it during ceremony, and once again, you were leashed to him — this time when you didn’t want it.

“Stop this ludicrous act, I don’t want you anymore…” you cried out.

“Then why are your pupils like this?” he teased with a knowing voice. Your stomach dropped, and you felt most vulnerable, your mind trying to deny the accusation. Were you really looking at him as if still in love?

“A… a heart wants what it wants. My mind still comes first,” you barked back, no bite at all when you were defeated by the renowned philosopher.

“I think I’m fine with someone’s heart deciding for once. You’ve made me realize that not everything can be worked with logic, my dear…” he whispered.

Next thing you knew, Anaxa was gripping your chin and forcing his lips on yours. The kiss was practiced and lovely, and familiar pressure shoved some butterflies into your stomach, until the mind was screaming to think and not feel. Your hands pushed at his chest but he only pressed his face harder to yours, tilting your head to be caged against the back of the chair and him as the result.

Anaxa didn’t mind your unwillingness. He didn’t even considered it to be unwillingness — just a hesitation he could push into a right direction, that’s meant to adjust you to the right sense of loving and wanting him, like a clock which hours’ you can set.

Withdrawing, he made you a promise with an adoring smile, “I, Anaxagoras, take you as my spouse, and promise to carry my duty until my breath cannot be taken anymore.” He didn’t expect you to return the vows today, but it was just the matter of time. Him cursing himself to use his full name was supposed to let you know he’s devoted, the same way he suspected you were.

“You’re… manipulating me again, just so you can restart your research…” you protested once more this day, but the twist of situation put you in delirious state where you couldn’t decide which is true and which is a blasphemy.

He chuckled, as if you were being a bit silly and assuming the worst — the overthinker he’s painted you to be.

“I do love you, if that’s what you still doubt, and I’ll let the time and my actions do the work to imprint that in your heart; not even head. Now, let's go to sleep. I’m sure the familiarity of our bed should land you a rest easily.”

When he held you in his arms squeezing out your soul that night, the curtains’ moonlight revealing you his hungry gaze, you realized you were no longer allowed to think for yourself.

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aluraveil · 2 months ago

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it's no secret to the public that itoshi sae is allegedly in a relationship

there has been speculations from media outlets that the soccer superstar, re al's famed midfielder has been seeing someone behind the public eyes. some sources say he is dating a famous model while some say he's seeing a local girl next door he met at some coffee shop in the streets of madrid

but who really knows?

recently though, a mystery woman (you) has been seen around sae's known manager. you were chatting along with the man that has been with sae since he was 14 when he first moved to madrid. knowing that sae doesn't really hang out with his peers that much, this was certainly a little odd to say the least

who are you to itoshi sae and why are you seemingly close with his team?

this caused an uproar with the media. for the next following weeks after your first appearance with his manager, all interviewees and reporters questions towards sae was "who was the mystery woman seen with your manager?"

sae simply brushes them off with his infamous blunt short ended answers but he manages to shake these media reporters off his back

for now.

however, one candid shot by his fan changed everything

it was just an innocent picture of sae walking along the boarding gates of madrid's international airport when you had accidentally walked into the frame mid picture, wearing what seems to be his tracksuit jacket that's typically reserved for players

so that could only mean one thing..

twitter and tiktok blew up overnight and re al's pr team (mostly sae's team) was in shambles

articles after articles being published left to right about speculations and insider scoops about who you are and your relationship with sae. luckily, you aren't in the spotlight and long before you even started seeing the famed midfielder, your social media accounts were always on private. you had little to no information about you on the internet much to sae's delight. this way his fans and the media that he hates so much can't say much about you since there was nothing to report about you

it's a win win situation

or so he thinks

sae tried. sae tried so hard to keep his relationship off the public's eye but since he was a high profile athlete, all eyes and cameras were almost (if not) always directed at him whether he likes it or not. it's hard to keep things like a whole relationship a secret

it didn't help that sae had managed to tick off a referee during an official game causing him to get suspended for the next 5 official games. something about vulgar language being thrown around. whatever, sae probably meant every single word he threw out in the field. referee or not, sae does not give a single fuck

maybe all this speculation of his profound relationship was getting to him the way he was ticked off by every little thing his team was telling him to do like "don't get caught again" or "try to lower the attitude" and the likes

and how does sae react to his suspension plus all the reprimanding from his pr team? he decides to metaphorically say 'fuck you, fuck this and fuck everything i'm going to expose myself and my relationship so you all could hop off our dicks' by showing up to the next official re al game with you

it was his first official game where he sits out of the match. there he was in all his glory, seated comfortably on the vip section of re al's home stadium all cozy with you, his long time partner

the very same partner that's been seen with his manager and the mystery woman on the infamous itoshi sae airport sighting photo that went viral on twitter a few weeks ago

sae fails to hold in his smirk when all the camera flashes were aimed at him instead of the ongoing game. even if he was off the field, he still manages to take control and lead the scene. talk about immense star power. literally and figuratively

sae leans back on the cushioned seats, lazily throwing an arm around you. pulling you plush against him after hearing whispers and gasps all around the stadium after arriving

he decides to take it up a notch by leaning towards your ear to whisper something, seeing that you were skittish and fidgeting with your hands with all the attention being directly onto you

"relax," sae murmurs in your ear, causing you to tense up as you were not used to all this. if you were being honest, you would've preferred to be kept away from the limelight

"i'm trying. it's just weird feeling all eyes are on us right now" you mumble, strictly keeping your hands on your lap

sae shrugs, turning around to look at all the cameras before he simply mouths, "enjoy the game" before turning back around to watch the game before him

though its looking like no one seems to care about the match anymore. not when the suspended soccer superstar itoshi sae just basically hard launched his relationship after getting suspended from official matches

even if you guys don't check, you all know that social media is going crazy right now. everyone is tweeting, posting about this one hell of a way to hard launch a relationship— unapologetic, direct and straight to the point, just like his passes

you glance at sae, expecting some kind of reaction. maybe a smirk, a knowing smile, the typical bitch face he makes when reporters are around but no. his face remains stoic and calm. not a single thought behind those teal eyes that's just watching the game below without a single care in the world

like the world isn't going crazy at what he just did

that's when you realize something. all these flashing lights, cameras, reporters and the like are nothing to him. it's not another misleading headlines for articles, it's not just a moment, this is him showing to everyone that if you mess with him, he's going to hit back harder in ways you don't expect him to

for what itoshi sae is, he once again proves that he is untouchable

after all, in itoshi sae's world and everyone (with the exception of you) is just living in it

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aluraveil · 2 months ago

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Halo! I've been waiting for years about the upcoming yandere pantalone.... please.⁠·⁠´⁠¯⁠`⁠(⁠>⁠▂⁠<⁠)⁠´⁠¯⁠`⁠·⁠. I'm not desperate but ive been waiting for so long dude.😔 I mean take your time in the world, but not when I die(⁠ ⁠≧⁠Д⁠≦⁠) I would understand if you are busy, take your time, but can you please soon post the upcoming pantalone?(⁠╥⁠﹏⁠╥⁠) Thank you!

DAMN YEARS??? You’re dedicated FRRR. I didn’t know I had fans bro 😭😭

I have made many posts over the years that I’ve been active and honestly I don’t know which upcoming yan Pantalone ur talking abt. If u could link a post that’d be great!

Tbh I lost motivation for writing in general and I’ve kinda given up on it 💀 im so sorry anon 🙏🏻

#lisa talks

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aluraveil · 3 months ago

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Persephone, Swept Away Into the Deep

Yandere! Wriothesley x GN! Reader

Summary: You’re a florist who catches the eye of the Duke, ruler of the underworld in Fontaine—and as the object of his affection, there’s nothing you can do to avoid your fate.

Warning(s): yandere, toxic behavior, possessive behavior, mention of blood, violence (Wriothesley beats someone up), stalking, obsessive behavior, unjust execution of the law, possessive behavior, corrupt official Wriothesley (?), drugging (needle injection), kidnapping, captivity, implied stalking, non-consensual touching, forced romantic relationship

A/N: I’m not sure if I did a good job at translating the themes ✨ of the hades and Persephone myth (however slight they may be in this particular fanfic) but I tried ;)

—————————

Every happy customer that came out of your shop would inevitably spread your business through tongue—that’s just the way things worked in Fontaine.

Of course, you weren’t complaining. You were running a thriving business and their lively conversations often brought you joy and pride. The little gardener on off of main street, the florist who sells the most beautiful bouquets you’ve ever seen, the flower shop tucked away like a hidden gem, they’d say, fondness in their tone and the echo of good memories in their minds.

You were proud of the lifestyle you had made for yourself and the reputation you had garnered. Your natural green thumb had made your shop quite popular among commoners and socialites alike, as anyone of any class could stroll inside to find something for a person precious to them; whether it was a child, a spouse, a friend, or an infatuation, you had helped mold their stories, crafting and shifting them around petals and bows.

Though some days, you let yourself dream. Of petals and bows, not meant for someone else, but meant for you. Though your business had seen many love stories, its owner had yet to find a love of their own.

On your worst days, you scoffed and thought to yourself about how ironic your life was.

But…some days, your aching romantic heart would have you sighing wistfully as you watched customer after customer buy carefully cultivated blooms to gift to their beloved. They would leave gleefully, only for you to remain in your shop, watching them walk out with a piece of you. A piece that you wanted to give to your own special someone.

Always watching, never experiencing.

And then suddenly, everything you had built was being torn down by the one thing you desired the most.

—————————

On a day that was insultingly ordinary considering the damning events that followed it, you were sitting in your shop, furiously pruning flowers and cutting stems and leaves. You were a little behind in work, so you had kept your shop open later than you usually would.

A festival was going to be thrown at the center of the city, and that meant you were busier than ever. Business was slow at the time, but it always picked up during events, as it was common for people to take advantage of the merry mood and ask out the apple of their eye, or propose, or buy a bouquet just to enjoy life.

And your bouquets were certainly beautiful, as you had heard from the many couples that walked into your shop, fawning over the arrangements and each other. You were sure you would see many lovers come into your shop once the joyous celebrations began.

You sighed, feeling the solitude of the your profession begin to seem depressing. It made you happy knowing your creations would be appreciated, yet, you knew the festival would end up torturing your heart with the same stale loneliness you often felt.

Friends had invited you to come with them to enjoy the festival together, so you weren’t all alone. Ultimately, you had declined.

Business would be booming.

…Plus, it wouldn’t be as special if you couldn’t go with someone special. It would only hurt to go out into the bustling streets and to see all those people holding hands, touching arms, carrying your bouquets, while your side was cold and your hands were empty…

You snipped at a rainbow rose a little too hard, hissing as the tip of the shears nicked your finger. You watched in mild panic and exasperation as the blood began to fill the small cut, feeling a sting form in your finger. Reaching for the medical kit you kept close by, you swiftly treated and bandaged yourself, watching the gauze go from white to a bright red.

Shaking your head, you waved away the pain and your nasty thoughts. You were sure your friends would be fine without you and, more than anything, you needed to be here to sell your flowers. It would be a waste to throw out your beautiful blooms because you let them wither, and soon customers would be grabbing for them…and who knows? Maybe you might meet someone.

Maybe you would even find someone to enjoy the festival with….

You heard the telltale ding of a bell and looked up, peaking out from behind the wall of floral remains you had constructed around yourself.

A man walked into the shop, and the first thing you noticed is that he was handsome. And big. Like, slightly intimidating big. A large, built stature, with broad shoulders and heavy boots on long legs. You pinched yourself, feeling your cheeks slightly heat up. Who were you to get flustered? And by a stranger? Pull it together.

“Hello!” You greeted cheerily, thankfully turning on your usual customer service voice without problem. “How can I help you today?”

“You’re still open?” The man asked, a note of surprise in his voice. The question sounded weirdly familiar for it to be spoken by a stranger, but you chose to ignore it. Plenty of people knew your hours, it wouldn’t be odd for one of them to send a new customer over.

You paused, taking him in. The stranger was tall, dark, and brooding, a person that looked strangely out of place in your little safe haven that was crammed to the brim with mosaics of colorful flora.

However, his eyes were the clearest color you had ever seen. They were like steel in their cool quickness, taking seconds to size you up. You unconsciously shrunk under the pressure of his gaze. Still, you smiled up at him.

“Yes, sir. We’re still open. What can I get for you?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I’m not exactly sure. I came here because of a recommendation; they say you’re the best in town, with the freshest flowers. I’m guessing you outsource from the country?”

“No, sir. I grow them myself.” You said, still smiling sweetly.

A flash of recognition behind those steel eyes. “Ah. You’re the owner then?”

“Yes, sir.”

He hummed, looking away in thought. “I’d like an all blue bouquet—something with an air of delicacy to it. Nothing too fancy, just something pretty and light.”

That sounded…really romantic. Delicate? Pretty? Those were words people used to describe bouquets with romantic intentions behind them. You had heard them time and time again, as you carefully put together arrangements and your customer fawned over the person it was for, tone sugary sweet. Those words never failed to clog up your chest with a bitter jealously.

A feeling of disappointment filled your chest and your heart sank. Of course, he was already going with someone. It seemed that everyone, except for you, had a date for the festival. Of course. That made sense. Anyone that good looking would most likely have a date—

You smiled, sweeping away the disappointment and putting back on a false merry face. You had just met this man, really. What was there to be sad about? You decided to fill the silence that was quickly making you want to curl up into a ball and hide.

“So you’ve got a date for the festival? I’m sure they’ll love it, since you seem to know what they’ll like. Can I get a name for the order?”

“Wriothesley. And, no. I haven’t got a date.”

Your brain short circuited.

“But you’re so good looking?” You blurted out, the thought in your head coming out of your mouth without warning.

Wriothesley looked momentarily stunned, and you wanted to scream. Of all the times to embarrass yourself in front of a cute guy, it had to be now—

“A-Ah!” You stuttered out. “I’m sorry! Sometimes my mouth moves faster than my brain! I just said what I was thinking, I hope you’re not insulted by it…or uncomfortable….not that I meant to insult you—“

He laughed, the sound startling you. When he looked at you again, he seemed less guarded, his eyes shining with mirth as he gazed at you with interest. Oh, and that smile. Oh wow. That. Wow.

“You know, people are usually too afraid to say stuff like that to my face. Or really, they’re too afraid to say anything to my face. Guess I was just lucky to meet you today, huh?” He grinned and let his voice drop as he spoke. The glint in his eyes turned bright, like a dancing flame. He leaned into your space, letting one arm rest on the counter.

You felt the smooth words roll down your back and over your skin, excitement or fear (or maybe a mix of both) running up your spine and through the rest of your body.

You laughed, trying to play off his words as if they were meant to be friendly. (At least, you thought they were meant to be friendly.) Maybe the naturally deep tone of his voice and his intimidating aura made your brain misinterpret harmless words as…predatory.

You grinned. “Well, I don’t know about luck, but everyone deserves a compliment every once in a while, right?”

He leaned back, that dangerous glint disappearing into his eyes as if it was never there. He crossed his arms, looking smug.

“Right.”

Silence filled the air again, and your curiosity got the best of you quickly.

“Goodness, I’m sorry but who is this for then?”

He chuckled and you were immediately relieved that he wasn’t annoyed with you. People didn’t like it when others pried into their business. The thought of Wriothesley with his leather boots, pretty face, and icy eyes glaring at you with disdain nearly sent you into shock.

“It’s for…a co-worker, you could say.” He continued. “She does a lot for me and I thought it might be nice to get her a gift to show my appreciation. Everyone’s in a good mood with the festival coming around, so I might as well, you know?” He smiled. “Sorry to disappoint you, though. No romantic feelings involved.”

You nodded, a weird feeling of relief filling your chest after finding out that a man you didn’t know and that you probably would never see again did not have a date for the festival.

Maybe you were just glad to know that you wouldn’t be the only person going without a partner.

You began to gather sample flowers, spreading them out between you fingers and taking comfort in the familiar weight of them in your hands.

“Not disappointed at all.” I’m also single, you thought, but thankfully didn’t say out loud. “I guess I’ve just gotten so used to lovebirds walking into my shop, I was surprised you weren’t one of them.”

“Because of my face?” He asked, amusement seeping into his tone. You wanted to smack that smile right off of his smug, beautiful face. Of course, you wouldn’t, because that would be a crime to everyone else who had eyes. You couldn’t mess up that piece of art.

You nodded, your face burning. “Because of your face.” You confirmed.

“Well, I’m flattered.” He said.

You thrusted the sample flowers out in front of you, mortified that he was making your already embarrassing situation worse with teasing.

“Pick out the ones you like.” You said, your face practically on fire.

He did, without further comment at that, but a smirk pulled at his lips the entire time. He looked at you, with that grin molded onto his perfect lips, more than he did the flowers in your hands.

He refrained from torturing you with teasing remarks for the rest of the conversation, and when you told him it would be ready for pick up in a few hours, he gently placed a bag of mora on the counter.

Only when he was walking out the door did you realize how much mora he had given you.

Your eyes bulged as you peeked into the bag, nearly fainting at the amount. Who carries this much on them?! What if he had gotten robbed?! Well, he would probably never get robbed looking like…that, but still.

“Hey!! Wait—Sir!! You gave me way too much!”

He waved as he closed the door behind him, the bell ringing cheerily as he ignored you protests without even turning around.

You stood gaping behind the counter. You turned to the bag, determinedly picking out the correct amount and putting the rest away so that you could throw it at him when he came back. Not his face, though. Never his face.

A few hours later, he came back, his face neutral and undisturbed, like nothing in the world could move him to react.

He saw you, and his expression twitched and changed, looking just as smug as when he left.

You wordlessly pushed his bouquet, which you had worked extra hard on out of spite, not because you wanted him to like it or anything, towards him. Again, without saying anything, you pushed the bag of mora back towards him.

He quirked an eyebrow but kept his mouth shut, also determined to win the quiet challenge that you had started. He (rather cheekily) slid the bag back towards you, a smile fighting to pull onto his face.

You, more forcefully this time, slid the bag back towards him, face betraying no emotion.

Eyes sparking with amusement, he held out his hand.

Oh my Archons. You thought. What does that mean? He doesn’t want to….does he? You hesitatingly raised your hand in response, suspicious of the man in front of you. He gently slid his hand under yours, making your heart pound in your rib cage. His gloves covered most of his hand, but the skin that did touch you was startlingly cold. Your skin downright tingled where his touched yours.

Whether it was from the temperature or just him, you didn’t know.

He placed the bag of mora in your hands, a graceless plop and a cheerily jingle sounding through the quiet room.

Okay. You take it back. This mora was going directly at his face.

“This mora is going right at your face.”

“What?”

“What?” You parroted. Inside, you were crying. The first time you’ve ever threatened a customer and it’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.

He chuckled, the sound low and deep and long and archons even his laugh sounded angelic.

“I could’ve sworn you just—“

“I didn’t.” You cut him off, panicking. You pushed the bouquet towards him, hiding behind it. “Enjoy your day. Thank you for your purchase. Have fun at the festival.”

“…Thanks.” He said, still amused, but following your lead and taking the flowers from your waiting hands. For a moment, maybe on purpose, his hands brushed yours, the touch sending a spark of electricity up and down your arms, making your heart beat faster….Must have been the cold from his skin, sending you into shock or something.

He left the shop (without the bag of mora) and you wistfully thought that you would never see that beautiful face again, kicking yourself for not asking him out. You were both single, right? Right??

Ultimately, you went home with the same familiar wistful feeling that soon turned to giddiness at having almost held hands with such a handsome man—his personality was odd but that could be overlooked.

Overall, it was a good day.

——————————

Except he was there the next day.

And the next.

….And the next.

Everyday he would order a bouquet of a different color. Once he ran out of colors, he began grilling you on what kinds of flower combinations you liked best. You would tell him, practically shaking while trying to prevent yourself from imploding, and that’s what he would order. He spent an enormous amount of money at your shop as the ridiculous mora bag battles continued (you were going to throw it at his face, you really were. You just needed to muster up the courage).

He would take the flowers home, and you would be left with a burning face and a quivering heart.

Then one day he asked you if you would like to go out. With him. Together. And you said yes, tying a bow around his order with trembling hands as a strangling giddiness filled up your entire chest.

So, you went to the festival with him right after work.

For the first time in weeks you were closing the shop and stepping out into the fresh air during the middle of the day.

You had an amazing time.

You found out that Wriothesley was extremely funny, and that his dry, sarcastic wit could have you doubling over and laughing in seconds. You found out that he liked tea like, a lot. Like a concerning amount. You found out that the co-worker he gave the first of many bouquets to is a melusine and a nurse. You found out that he talked to the Chief Justice regularly and somehow knew a lot of important people.

You explained to Wriothesley that you actually did have a life outside of flowers. You told him about your friends, your hobbies, and whatever else you could think of in the moment, feeling comfortable with him after just a few hours together.

He bought you food, somehow correctly guessing your tastes at every stall you visited. When you protested and offered to buy him something in return, he merely shook his head with a smile and said you could buy him lunch another day.

You walked together through the streets under golden lights, eating delicious food and buying trinkets. At the end of the night, you tentatively inched your hand toward his, and he interlaced your fingers together, holding your warm palm against his cold one tightly.

You felt yourself grinning like an idiot, thinking that absolutely nothing could change the way you were feeling.

Everything was going great until you got back to your shop, laughing and chatting idly with the man beside you.

Your heart stopped as you realized that something was wrong, and your hand left Wriothesley’s for the first time that night as you ran towards the open door.

The entire place had been ransacked. The money in the cash register was gone. Your precious flowers—countless blooms that you had taken the time to grow and cut had either been stolen or trampled on. One window had been smashed in with a brick. You lifted up your foot, feeling the shattered glass break into smaller shards under the pressure—Archons, it was everywhere. Luckily, the small vault you keep most of your savings in was still closed but dented in multiple places and on its side.

You nearly collapsed on the floor right then and there. It was only Wriothesley, who caught you as you were falling to the ground, that kept you from completely breaking down. You were mourning. All of your flowers. All of your hard work, ripped from your hands, without so much as a warning.

You felt rage and misery burn in your chest, resulting in hot tears running down your face as you pathetically picked up the ruined flowers scattered across the shop floor. Next to you, shadow cast Wriothesley’s face in darkness, hiding his expression from view. You heard him assure you that he would take care of it, that he would fix all of this for you, as he told you not to worry in that perpetually assertive tone of his. Your muddled and distressed mind immediately clung onto it like a life line, desperate for something to ground you.

Wriothesley would take care of it, you told yourself. If not him, then who would help you?

—————————

You found out soon after that the man who had robbed you was a rival store owner whose business had gone under ever since you had moved in. His storefront was situated on one of the more populated streets, streets that saw more foot traffic and that attracted customers of a higher class. Still, he had been losing to you, a small shop on some nowhere street, for months. In the end, arrogance and jealousy had driven him to attempt destroying your business.

Whether it be from fear and intimidation, or hopelessness from losing all the money you had made in the past couple months, he had hoped that you would chose to pack up and leave after he ruined the inside of your shop.

Fortunately, he was not a master criminal. A few shop owners on your street had seen his face and identified him to the guards. According to rumors you had heard from friends, he fought the guards during his arrest, shouting that he was not some lowly commoner to be pushed around. The guards and some mysteriously clothed people flooded around him, dragging him to the court house and sentencing him within the hour. He was allowed to go back to his shop, as his home was above it, but was put on house arrest for the time being and had guards stationed outside of every window to await further punishment.

It had happened so…quickly.

Wriothesley, during all of this, was very supportive.

—————————

It all came crashing down on the last night of the festival, a week after you had been robbed.

You were in the process of walking home before you realized that you had left your keys in your bag.

…Which was at the shop.

…That you would have to go back to.

Groaning, you made yourself turn around and trek back towards the storefront so that you could actually get into your house.

As you walked down the main strip of stalls and shops, you realized with a bitter heart that you would have to pass the shop of the man who made your life hell to get there and back quickly. You were glad that he had been caught and sentenced swiftly, but you were still incredibly angry about the damage that had been done to your business. The mental and emotional wounds left from the shock of seeing everything you had worked for destroyed were still fresh.

You fastened your pace as the night lamps began to turn on, the sky quickly turning dark as they became your only source of light. You knew the city was mostly a safe place to live, but that didn’t mean crime never happened, and it would be just your luck for you to get robbed a second time.

Then there was shouting.

You slowed your pace as you heard a voice echo off the tall buildings, only amplifying the panicked screams.

Uh oh. Had you walked right into a crime scene?

You looked around you, noticing that there were no guards in sight. Hopefully they had noticed the trouble and were taking care of it.

You sighed. You really needed to get into your house, as you weren’t too keen on sleeping on a bench for the night. Cursing whatever being had brought this upon you, you continued forward, walking in the shadows and hoping to avoid whatever drama was happening near the home of the man who had robbed you.

You turned a corner, freezing as you took in the sight of a group of men huddled together, seemingly trying to apprehend someone—

Wait. Was that—

You recognized that figure—those boots—that coat…

What was your boyfriend doing here in the middle of the night?

Swiftly, you moved back out of the light, eyes trained on the man you could now clearly recognize. You watched as Wriothesley raised his fist, his knuckles connecting harshly with someone’s jaw. You startled at the harsh noise of skin splitting skin.

You felt yourself flinch as blood splattered across the pavement. For a moment, you were grateful for the imposing figures blocking your view of the violent scene.

The victim was splayed across the stone due to the force of the blow, thrown right into the circle of people that had formed around him, pathetically whimpering as he tried to pick himself up.

You watched as he was dragged away, looking genuinely terrified, screaming bloodcurdling words as he went mad with fear. His pleas fell on deaf ears as those around him stood still, Wriothesley silently watching as he was picked up and thrown into the back of a carriage. The door squealed as he yelled that he didn’t deserve it, didn’t deserve to go to the Fortress of Meropide, please—doors slamming shut, cutting off his final sentence as the men and the carriage disappeared into the night.

Wriothesley stood under a street light, a short distance away from where you hid in the shadows. His body was tense, his back drawn tight as he gazed at the retreating carriage, with the man he had assaulted and doomed to a life in prison lying within.

You stumbled back, you feet scuffling against the pavement. The noise sounded like an explosion in the dead quiet of the street.

His entire body stilled. He turned around, almost in slow motion, his eyes widening in horror as your gazes met.

You spun on your heel and ran, heart pounding in your chest. Heavy footfalls followed you, leather hitting stone with threatening thumps that seemed to get closer to you with every passing second.

You got to your shop, flinging open the door and rushing to the back of the building, heading towards the closet where you kept all of your supplies. Hearing the bell above your door chime mockingly, signaling that Wriothesley was in your shop oh Archons, you slammed the door shut and locked it from the inside.

For some reason, you could have never imagined him being so violent. You were shocked and terrified, seeing your new boyfriend, who you had only ever thought of as safe, as anything but. Now you knew. He was dangerous. You were so stupid for trusting a complete stranger—

You heard him run towards your hiding place, calling out to you as the heavy foot falls slowed to a stop.

“Y/N.” He said, voice calm and level, betraying no emotion at all. It was like he was discussing the weather and hadn’t just chased you down the street.

Your breathe hitched in your throat. Somewhere, in your frayed mind, you hoped, prayed he would just go if you were quiet enough—

“I never meant for you to see that. I’m sorry. Let me explain.”

The doorknob began to turn. It stopped, hitting the lock.

You heard rustling and then a faint jangle as Wriothesley stepped away from the door.

You had left your keys in your bag.

The bag was on the counter, the keys were in your bag—

….He knew where you kept your keys?

You had never told him that.

The door knob began to turn. You grabbed onto the it with a white-knuckled grip, stopping it from the inside.

Your heart thrummed in your chest, beating rapidly as you desperately held onto the cool metal.

“Leave me alone!” Please was left unsaid. You shouted the words, terror making you shake and tremble.

Wriothesley fell silent. You heard him lean his weight against the door, his movements causing it to creak.

The doorknob stopped turning.

You prayed that he wouldn’t try to force it, or worse, break the door down. You didn’t know if it would hold, or if you could hold on, considering how strong he was.

You imagined his hulking figure standing outside, only a few mere inches of wood separating you, towering over you from your spot on the floor.

You were practically paralyzed with fear, and didn’t know what you would do if he actually managed to get in and get his hands on you—

“Damn it, I ruined it all, didn’t I?” Wriothesley murmured.

You jumped, not expecting the despairing admission amidst your racing thoughts that were trying to pinpoint where you had went wrong in life.

His usually playful voice was monotone, eerily flat for the self deprecating words he spoke.

You didn’t deign him with a response. You merely listened to the quiet that followed, feeling more scared than you would have been if he had been raging and banging on the door. There was something about the silence; something about it felt foreboding, like a threat was creeping up behind you and you couldn’t hear it no matter how hard you tried.

You heard him turn away a few minutes later, heavy footfalls walking towards the door, and finally the bell signaling his departure.

For a few minutes, you sat there and waited.

Eventually, you opened the closet just a sliver, looking out into the dim lighting with flickering eyes, checking every possible corner that he could be hiding in. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t in here.

You slid out of the closet and almost immediately ducked behind the counter, still shaking from the adrenaline pumping through your veins.

Shakily, you peeked out from behind the counter, checking for any sign of him outside. When you found the street to be devoid of him, you silently gasped in relief.

You ripped your keys out of the door with rushed hands.

You went home alone, without Wriothesley, who had taken it upon himself to personally walk you there almost every night of the week. A part of it felt strange to deviate from the routine, but you needed no reminder to know that the man you had trusted and spent time with all week was now a dangerous threat. You ran to the door of your home, opening it hurriedly and slamming it shut.

You tossed and turned as you slept that night, a doomed feeling settling in your churning stomach.

—————————

The next day, you took measures to start rebuilding. Perhaps you were just frantic to get back to some sense of normalcy after having the rug ripped out from under you the other night—or maybe you were desperate to have something to keep your mind off of the buzzing anxiety that was constantly gnawing at the back of your mind.

The man who broke in had already been put on trial and sentenced to an undetermined amount of time in the Fortress of Meropide, and had also been forced to cough up more than enough mora to cover the damages.

This, oddly enough, had all been told to you by a third party, someone hired by the court to watch over legal proceedings.

Someone was pulling the strings behind the case, and you didn’t want to think about who it was, just in case the pieces started falling together. (Deep down, you already knew.)

When you had heard he was being sent to the Fortress, you felt something in your gut twist unpleasantly, a kind of stone-like anxiety that weighed and sunk a permanent pit in your stomach. People who went there didn’t usually come back, or if they did, they weren’t the same. They weren’t viewed the same, either. What would happen to him once he came back? If he came back?

You shivered as the memory of him being dragged away resurfaced.

You sighed as you swept up errant pieces of class, determined to discard of every shard before you allowed any more precious customers or flowers to come through the door. The window had already been replaced, as a very nervous man had knocked on your door a few days after the…incident with Wriothesley, and claimed that he had been sent to repair it. You hadn’t even talked to anyone about fixing the window. A sinking feeling appeared in your chest as you watched the jumpy man chip away at glass and wood, his movements tense and swift. When you went to close the shop, you checked if you had locked the door three separate times before rushing home, practically running through the stone streets, running from absolutely nothing at all.

There was no sign of Wriothesley during the months it took your shop to recover. You were glad that he had taken what you had said to him in your moment of fear seriously. Still, you feared that he would show up on some random day, at some random time, and catch you off guard. That you would be reminded of the violence that seemed to follow him like a shadow, leaving trails of devastation in his wake.

Everyday you went home glancing over your shoulder while walking briskly down the street, always making sure to make it home before dark.

—————————

You unlocked the door to your home, hurriedly glancing behind you as you shoved the keys into the lock, pushing the door in quickly as it gave way. You closed and locked the door behind you, allowing yourself to relax minutely against the cool frame.

“Back so soon? I noticed you’ve been closing earlier nowadays. What’s that about?”

You froze, an ice cold fear creeping through your veins.

There, sitting in the dark of your unlit living room, was the man you had been simultaneously avoiding and thinking about constantly for months.

You could make out the silhouette of his hulking figure, leaning back into your favorite chair with his fingers laced together and knees spread apart, relaxed and causal. His eyes, which always held a mildly scrutinizing gaze, had turned razor sharp—they hadn’t moved from you since the moment you had stepped into the room. You were a pinned butterfly under that look, being dissected and picked apart by glacial, stormy irises.

“What are you doing here?” You asked, your voice coming out a little more shakily than intended. You tried not to hyperventilate. You really tried, but you could already feel your chest tightening, like just being in his presence was suffocating—

He stood up. Rooted in place, you didn’t dare move. If you tried to run, you knew he would catch you.

He moved towards you slowly, like he knew just as well as you did that you couldn’t escape.

He stopped a foot away from you, his height easily trumping yours, his figure casting a large, beastly shadow in the dim lighting.

You tilted your head back to look him in the eye. Even now, those icy eyes were beautiful. You thought it was unfair. Now that you knew what he was, what he was capable of, you thought, his eyes should come as warning. They were the eyes of a predator. And yet, still cold and steely, clear like cryo vision that hung from his hip, which you had never even seen until now.

Still beautiful, reminding you of clear water and arctic oceans and quiet. It was so quiet.

Neither of you spoke. Neither of you dared to break the careful silence.

He reached up, curled fingers gently caressing your cheek, dragging down along the side of your neck, as if a simple touch with too much force behind it would shatter you.

His eyes flickered to the place where your shirt had lifted to expose your collarbone, coat hanging off your shoulders and pulling the fabric down.

He ran his fingers over the exposed skin, making you shiver as you felt rough, calloused pads run across you gingerly, lightly. A delicate touch from a hardened man. He looked back at you, his eyes soft. Intense. Adoring. He had moved closer in the last few seconds, you remarked. You only noticed because you had to crane your head up more to look at him. His chest touched yours. He leaned down, ghosting his lips over your forehead. His hand had moved. One had settled on your waist, holding and trapping you close to him.

You felt a prick in the side of your neck, vision going black as you collapsed into his arms.

—————————

The next time you woke up, you weren’t in your house anymore. There was gauzy, heavy fabric hanging above you. You had been placed in a canopy bed in a room that was expensively furnished, and yet somehow untouched. You were in a bed, which was in a prison, at the bottom of the ocean.

Wriothesley walked in only an hour after you woke. You had a feeling he had been routinely checking to see if you were awake.

He looked down at you, his eyes painfully tender in a way that you regretted not noticing before. There was a fondness, a suffocating fondness, which told you that all those things he now whispered to you at night—how he wanted to protect you, how he had longed to have you for so long, how he had been watching you from afar with his heart in his hands, just waiting for the right moment to give it to you—

His eyes told you that they were all true.

Somehow, you couldn’t hate him.

Wriothesley had been living as a lonely prisoner in his own kingdom—his underwater kingdom that he ruled, because he thrived on the depths of the cold, dark ocean and its inhabitants that yielded to his power.

And yet the king of the underworld yearned for just a little bit of life. Life that you were familiar with—life that you thrived off of, and that thrived in return under your guidance. Life that you loved.

Life that had attracted you to him.

You didn’t know if anyone still talked about you on the surface; if they talked about your existence, or more so your disappearance, in hushed whispers with shifty eyes. No one talked about you down here—no one knew you existed, except for the head nurse and your husband.

You had been stolen away, under the ocean, that little shop off main street missing its owner forevermore.

You, who had always been surrounded by the life of the surface, had been transported to the underworld, a land of misery and lost souls, away from all life, surrounded and trapped by the love you once longed for—and mourning the life you once had.

—————————

Reader: *lets go of Wriothesley’s hand bc they got robbed*

Wriothesley: oh this jerk is gonna pay *sends the guy who robbed you to the bottom of the sea*

he’s been waiting to hold that hand for so long )):< wtf dude

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aluraveil · 3 months ago

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Raskolnikov’s Delirium.

Summary: Finding out your husband’s real identity should have been enough argument toward divorce— but a man skilled and meticulous at solving any problems, dutiful to your marriage, would be able to maintain your peace with ease.

contents: gender neutral reader / yandere-ish / murder / slight gore / manipulation / drugging / reader and fyodor are married. word count: 3.8k

Note: Coming up with this plot ended up being (kinda) ironic if you know the plot of actual Crime and Punishment 💀 Hence the title.

You liked to think of yourself as smart. Not a genius, not a prodigy; yet hopefully still someone with a good intuition and good head on your shoulders. With that, you believed you knew your kind husband well — always taking care of you, asking how you fare, and if you can forgive him for traveling for work once again.

Yes, he wasn’t always there for you. However, in comparison of how some people — more often than it should be — were treated in their marriages, you were plenty of lucky to be loved by Fyodor.

The businessman he was from the understanding of his tales for you, he was constantly forced to travel away from you, and still remained loyal to you only, ignoring any temptations from other beautiful people across the globe — adhering to what he believed were his husbandly duties, written in holy scriptures. But travelling could reach a level of going abroad, and as a loving husband, he didn’t want you to be separated for months if not years to come — hence why he took you with him to Japan. Exciting, really, to fly to a country where you’ve never been to before, admiring its beauty seen previously only on the screens.

You kept yourself busy with sightseeing and whatnot, while he was allowed to work in peace — wasn’t that a perfect trade? With Fyodor, you haven’t gone to work for years, focusing on being spoiled by him, prodded with another argument about him being devoted. You had to count your blessings and never complain.

Your husband put you through a rotation of hotels every week, trying to find any free moment to come and seek you out — so not too often, causing a longing in your heart that you tried to understand, and not give into being ungrateful with something as irrelevant as you missing him. Unfortunately, during a more intense period of time where he hasn’t talked to you for days, nor even over a phone, you were getting anxious and needy. A prolonged separation made you want to be selfish and go find him yourself, wherever that could be, for at least a small of a moments with him — soothing balm for your soul to know he’s at least safe, as a worry about his wellbeing was getting to you. You could have made a police report about your his disappearance, yet you still held onto your trust in him — he was not a man easy to kill, someone whose intelligence you have always admired. Just one, busy man.

Your supposed smarts had to be proven correct if you actually had managed to find your husband. It was no easy task, especially when you couldn’t just call every biggest company in Japan, as you had to reach for more… detestable tools. You were rather jittery to be paying a shady guy in exchange for information breaking about any more prominent Russian figures in the area, hoping he’s not some police officer in disguise — or a scamming man willing to hurt you.

If that wasn’t the biggest mistake of your entire life. You should have stayed patient and wait for your husband to contact you with stoicism, not panic, as what you have found out was impossibly worse than any theory of his disappearance you could have come up with.

Fyodor wasn’t being hurt. Fyodor was the one causing harm — the sight you were met with could be easily missed if you blink just once.

That’s what you receive for your impatience, when you’ve decided to seek out one of abandoned warehouses in Yokohama, after being tipped by the gangster to prove his claims about your husband being a criminal as false; instead of being deterred by them. Fyodor’s hand, the same one that would stroke your hair and hold your own palm, was now the hand causing the destruction and spreading devil’s wrath. Your husband was the most religious person you’ve known, in the most integral and rawest form as if an apostolate’s son — only for him to present you with a juxtaposition, exempt of what you thought he strived for. Or maybe, whatever it is that he’s doing, he still found to be a part of his religious mission if he had no other reason to be a devout.

He wasn’t a businessman either, at least not a certified one, when the unknown man hit with his palm has sprayed blood everywhere and fell onto the ground — only you were left as a person feeling the biggest frighten in their life, if the victim was dead. Did you your husband hide a small gun of sorts, that you simply couldn’t see from behind the barrel? Albeit, you should have heard some noise from the weapon.

Crouching behind the object, you had to keep your mouth clamped with your own hand; and the lack of any form of escapism for your tension not able to be vocalized manifested in the tremble of your body.

Too much information was thrown at you in a short span of time. Him participating in some shady and less honorable business, there was a chance you’d accept if he grovels and explains properly — you loved him really, and you hoped he loves you too — but your Fyodor being a cold hearted murder, not an ounce of expression on his face led you to believe you’d never married him. You married just the idea of him.

Variety of man were accompanying your husband, unshaken by the sight just as much as him; yet it was the murderer’s face that spoke of absolutely none humanity, as if he’s been forcing himself to be animated around you. All of these “guards” or whoever you suspected them to be, their bored gazes in their random, shaggy clothes, it blended into a marred background when your spouse was your main concern.

The man being dragged somewhere in the tall and cement building, manhandled like a ragdoll, you had to dug your nails into your cheeks to not cry. You mourned both the man and your marriage, as you were well aware it’s all been a lie. A fever dream, where you asininely believed in your husband, and his goals, and his love; and lived like a parasite of money that was only bloody.

Your heart counted every second in passing as you awaited for them to leave, before you’d run to your hotel room to pack and leave with money you’ve saved, at least this one smart thing about you; as you were sure you could never pretend as if nothing happened when facing Fyodor again.

You observed as he lifted his bloody hand into the air, crimson becoming pinkish under the sunlight that could still never cleanse his sins, before a man dressed like a butler, with a bandage wrapped around his head diligently wiped it for him with a handkerchief. Just this small gesture spoke of the amount of power Fyodor must have had, for his subordinates to be serving him by mere, silent order.

The sight would be enthralling if it wasn’t for the inhumanity being presented.

“That was a very filthy man. I can tell just by the smell of his blood,” the long-haired man scoffed, making your husband smile — ruthlessly.

“What’s filthy and repulsive or not isn’t determined by bodies and their odors. Their filth is mirrored from their souls, tested by God, Ivan. I can tell this man hasn’t sacrificed himself for anything good and pure in his life, other than vices and hedonistic desires…”

“You are absolutely right, master!” Ivan chirped with obedience, conforming to his opinion, pronto.

Witnessing the true personality of your husband was like a stab in the back, betrayal in its highest condensation as you truly married a fraud. The only gnawing confusion was a question why would he marry you? You didn’t serve any bigger purpose, he didn’t use you, and you only took money from him in exchange for small domestic haven; on rarer days, at that.

Were you a cover for something? Were you some sort of pet for him to be amused with? With how abnormal Fyodor looked, killing that man with a tool you couldn’t have witnessed, and then preach about God as if he was sinless made him a person too complex for your pained and foggy mind to understand. You were unhealthily flabbergasted to think in terms other than paranoia, and your mind screamed at you to think of what sort of business this is supposed to be, trying to come up with visceral excuses to make your husband look repentance-worthy.

Said fear manifested in the twitches of your muscles, and trying to adjust your kneeling form that was soon to give you a cramp in the muscle, your muscle jumped too hard and hit the barrel in front of you. Its sound ricocheted against the metal walls before it collapsed on the ground, exposing your trembling form.

Despite your husband’s previous unperturbed attitude a moment ago, he was now staring at you in a small shock — even genius he didn’t predict you coming here, having expected you to stay a loyal lover.

Weapons of all kind but all very deadly were suddenly pointed at you by his men, and that Ivan man was marching towards what he saw as a threat to his master, making you flinch. Thankfully, Fyodor’s hand lifted up in the air halted him and men. “Wait. Do not touch them. That’s my spouse,” Fyodor ordered with seriousness.

“A-a spouse?” Ivan choked out, suddenly being reminded of the unfortunate and unpleasant fact that his master was indeed married, just had never revealed the person behind it. The jealousy burned in his chest, thinking of anyone undeserving to be serving his master; regardless, he stayed put with unshakable obedience — the only truth in this world.

When it came to you, you finally collapsed on your knees, unable to keep up yourself with exhausted and sore muscles from squatting. Wide eyed, you were staring at him with fear, wondering how much he’ll hurt you now that you knew.

You froze like a deer in the headlights when he approached you with a steady walk, analyzing you from head to toe with an unreadable, apathetic face — too close to the coldness from before, if that resulted in one death already.

You watched him like a hawk when he kneeled down in front of you on one knee, keeping an eye for any danger, and closed your eyes with ill-flavored thrill when his hand went to your face — expecting similar demise a man before has met.

Instead, your cheek was stroked gently, and you had to do a double check by lifting up your eyelids. His purple eyes bore holes into your soul, as if enjoying the trepidation in you. “You were supposed to wait for my return, as always. What has changed?” he sighed.

You had to force your lungs to work in order to speak, better at answering questions than coming up with your own when your mind was a disarray of thoughts. “You were taking more time than usual…” you croaked out, not at all soothed by his affection.

Fyodor looked to the side, then back at you with a realization. “… You’re right. An amateur mistake from my side, to forget to inform you about the delay.”

“W-what delay?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said curtly. “Your job as my spouse was to rest, not stress yourself out unnecessarily.”

“You just killed a man!” you pointed out and started crying. “That’s a lot to keep me away from being stressed out!”

“There, there, it’s not the way you think it is,” he said reassuringly, with you not able to tell if the softness wasn’t just a play because how could he be affectionate as if nothing has happened? Your mouth frothed in anger at his words, to which he remained ignorant as he removed his cloak and draped it over your shoulders. “You-”

“How did you know where to find me?” he inquired, with some odd excitement to it, as if proud of you. You were attractive to him, but the true pull came to him from someone’s intelligence.

“I hired some mob to find you. I had to use my savings with how expensive his service was,” you complained with a bigger sob; yet it wasn’t about downplaying the situation with topic of getting broke, just you being so hysterical anything seemed bad automatically. Fyodor pondered over your words, “A mob, huh…”

His lipline distorted into wider form, and he pulled you into his arms. “Ah, it’s all my fault, darling. I should have given you a call. What a bad husband I’ve become, haven’t I?” he cooed and rubbed your back, tragically enough with same warmth and reverence you were used to.

You tried to pull away from him, naturally, only to be trapped further. “No, it’s alright. Everything is going to be just fine — you can hold me to that promise.”

“Nothing will be okay, stop tampering with my perception! You just killed a person, you’ve been lying to me the entire time, how did you even do that trick, why-” your spiraling was cut off with Fyodor speaking to the bandaged-head, confusing you with the language being used for the exchange. It wasn’t Russian you two spoke in or any other familiar to you language; as if evading the possibility of you understanding him, to your panic caused by lack of control.

You couldn’t make out any of the words in the complicated speech, only see the man nodded and feel Fyodor’s grip tighten on you.

“It really is such a bad dream, isn’t it?” he asked gently, back in Russian, confusing your pained head.

“W-what? What do you mean, Fyodor, this is all disturbingly real…” your mind errored as it tried to come up with possible explanations for his digression, none making sense. You observed Ivan leave behind Fyodor.

“That’s how nightmares can be vivid sometimes. I’m sad for you.”

“I’m literally touching you!” You beat at his chest to accentuate your truth.

“You have to wake up, my dear.”

As you dragged on your struggle in his arms, few minutes later you felt a small pinch to the side of your neck — the fault from Ivan who returned. You hyperventilated, looking at your husband with alarm. “What did he do? What did you tell—”

“Shh,” he stroked your hair, “as I’ve said, you needn’t stress out. Just wake up.”

Whatever you were injected with was working on making your muscles feel ache, and your skin felt incredibly itchy. “It hurts…” you sobbed, feeling suddenly dizzy and sweating, with vision blurring.

“Oh, I know. I’m sorry, that’s why you need to wake up from this nightmare. None of this is real or physical. Just a nightmare, and I’m here for you as always, as your husband.”

A few more spins of vertigo, and you passed out in Fyodor’s arms.

❄︎

The Russian was sitting in the hospital’s room’s chair, unmoving like a statue, dead purple eyes observing your unconscious form nestled in the warmth and plush of bed — where you should be. A man who has helped you with finding him, who also happened to be one of the traitors willing to sell information, hasn’t met a fate this idyllic.

Being entangled in endeavors of his mission in Japan, he genuinely had forgotten to talk to you, leading to your distress that made you search for him. Yet, none of it meant the end of your marriage, not even now that you’ve seen for what he truly was.

Of course, you couldn’t live with the knowledge. Where he married you, it was nothing but a mere curiosity about what marriage is like, if especially so sacred in the eyes of God — with the latter, even if your marriage was a fraud, he was being good to you. He could have been cruel and it would probably have suited him better — if God and Bible didn’t allow. He didn’t marry a partner in crime, so his identity and ability must remain a secret; with you being recompensed by comfortable life everyday.

A game, an experiment was an inherent reasoning; at least in the first days. Because as of now, he was quite fond of you — not in full extent of a typical human, graciously still above you being deemed as a pet. You were a bit smarter than most humans, even if he still wished for someone who could stimulate his mind on the level of Dazai’s; you also could do things even he didn’t expect, pleasantly surprising him like you did today. Above all, you weren’t too clingy as long as you were kept spoiled, and were a good coverup in case something happens. With that, he didn’t plan on letting you go anytime soon — even he, sometimes missed you, making him feel repugnant just at the thought of letting such weakness rule his perfect image. You were rather adorable when you were so worried about his anemia, too.

He found the idea of you ending up with another person unappealing, and the idea of unraveling and stripping you piece by piece in his free time riveting.

He really had fun when you managed to find him on your own. It was a shame he couldn’t put you through more situations like this, if he needed you to not be conscious about who you married. With the sedative coursing through your veins that Ivan has injected you with under his guidance, he had enough tool to keep you in oblivion— the chemical induces severe fever as a side effect.

He only needed to keep you hydrated and medicated so you don’t die or end up with a brain damage from the hotness.

Fyodor’s smile became soft when you woke up — back to your old life when he was nothing but a model lover. “Oh, thank God, my prayers have been answered! I’m so glad you’re with us. You really scared me when I’ve heard about what happened to you…”

Through the haze on your mind, the debilitating headache, you looked at your husband as you were regaining your bearings and taking in the sounds again. Your eyes widened as you remembered something — not so clear as more distant — nonetheless, still worrying and scary, if about scenes of a man being killed and others shrugging about it. “You—where’s that man, how could-” you were agitated, your body trembling; extremely confused to how you were in the hospital.

“Darling?!” Fyodor asked with a small panic, and grabbed your hand after sitting down on the edge of the hospital bed. “What’s wrong? Is the fever giving you hallucinations again?”

You wanted to take your hand away, only for it to feel too heavy; obstructed by some cables too. “You killed a man, I saw that!” you exclaimed with distress.

“Killed a man?” he responded, taken aback. “My dear, I didn’t kill anyone. You are currently suffering from an extreme fever, and you must have had a fake vision. I tried to wake you up when you were having a nightmare before, but you couldn’t have woken up…”

You looked at him for a few seconds, now knowing why you felt so pained and weak. You felt barely coherent too. “But it was so real! You talked to me and then—” you stopped as you realized you couldn’t remember more. If your body was high on fever, and you didn’t remember too much, it really must have been a fever dream. Instead, you had small flashbacks of Fyodor’s reassurances, telling you to wake up and that it’s just a bad dream.

“I know. Delirium can do that to one in fever. It must feel awful,” he said with sympathy and kissed your hand. “To feel as if you witnessed something so terrible when in reality you didn’t, and it being so vivid. But do not fret, I’m here for you.”

Some anxiety still remained within you, yet assuming that pesky fever was everything capable of messing with you, you finally settled down, feeling soothed by his presence. “I missed you. How did you end up here?” few tears trickled down your face, when you were feeling too hot and scared by the fever.

“My poor spouse,” he wiped the tears for you and kissed your forehead. “I was actually busy with work, when I’ve received a call from your hotel’s reception. Apparently, you weren’t answering to the cleaner trying to clean your room few days in a row, so eventually they got worried and entered your room with a spare key, only to have found you with a nasty flu. Then they called ambulance, and for me, and for a loving husband I am, I came here immediately.”

Even through the fever messing up with your mind, everything your husband said sounded plausible as you cherry-picked words, and you realized you could have never approached any warehouse in your state. Even when a busy man, your husband came to you, in sickness and health, loving you.

“I don’t deserve you,” you choked out, and started sobbing like a baby. “I’m sorry for accusing you.”

“No, no,” he shushed gently, before lying down next to you. “It’s not your fault. You’re too feverish to be malicious, it’s just an effect of it. Come here, I’ll hold you a little before I’d call a doctor in to check up on you.”

You nodded and let him gather you in his arms, careful to not mess up with the hospital equipment you were connected to. You suffered in relief at finally being able to be there with your husband. “You’re going to be alright. I’ll take care of you.”

And as much as you knew a man of his constitution shouldn’t be near someone with a flu, you wanted to be selfish and not point out the fact he could get sick too — maybe he’d stay with you longer and you could take care of him, coddling him.

And Fyodor who rubbed your aching muscles was glad for you to not be asking why he’s breaking his rule of staying away from any sick people. It’s not as if he could get sick from a drugged person anyway.

He smiled contentedly against your cheek at the thought that the short-lived crisis in your marriage had been vanquished with a blow as swift as his ability could kill; appearing just happy at your reunion. Testing out different tones of his voice on your susceptible feverish mind, too faint to be caught by an untrained ear, has demonstrated how suggestion can be a powerful tool for a wicked man like him.

“I love you,” you murmured against his chest, on your way to sleep.

“… I know.”

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aluraveil · 3 months ago

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kaiser x reader, watching his practice

kaiser knows he’s being watched, he always does, especially when it’s your eyes on him. bm was having one of their open practice sessions today where members of the public could watch the upcoming stars and their raw potential. of course, the training grounds tonight were filled to the brim. you being the amazing partner you are, decided to drop by with some of your friends, all fully enjoying the show being put on.

he feels your eyes on him as he dances across the field almost too easily. each step, each turn, calculated, a display of his sheer talent and confidence. and he knows damn well he looks good doing it.

you sit on the sidelines with your friends, trying to focus on your current debate over the very important topic of who's hotter, chris prince or noel noa, but to no avail you were constantly distracted by his presence. honestly, it’s hard not to watch him, especially when he keeps glancing your way, a smirk tugging at his lips every time he catches your eye.

“show-off,” you mutter under your breath, your friends giggling in response, knowing you damn well love it. i mean, you can’t really deny the flutter in your chest whenever he looks your way.

kaiser, displeased with your reaction, decides to take it up a notch. he calls for the ball, dribbling it effortlessly between his feet before using his kaiser impact to score into the top corner of the net. the crowd is applauding and going wild, but kaiser only has eyes for you, raising an eyebrow as if to say, “did you see that?”

you roll your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you.

“come on, kaiser! stop flirting and get back to practice!” one of his teammates calls out, laughter in his voice.

kaiser just shrugs, jogging back to his position, but not before blowing you a sly kiss. you feel your face heat up, quickly burying into the shoulder of your friend to hide your blush.

practice continues, but kaiser’s attention is split between the drills and you. he loves showing off, especially when you’re watching. kaiser wants your entire being to be consumed by him. he wants your eyes on him and him alone. whenever he catches your watching him, a fire is lit up inside of him, making him play even better.

as the session comes to an end, kaiser slowly makes his way over to you and your little group, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his jersey, flashing his abs, doing absolute wonders on you and his audience.

“enjoy the show?” he asks, a teasing lilt to his voice.

you look up, finally facing him with a smirk. “maybe a little. you weren’t too bad out there.”

he laughs, running a hand through his damp hair. “only ‘not too bad’? i’ll have to try harder next time, schatz.”

you shake your head, standing up and stretching. “you’re impossible, you know that?”

he steps closer, his eyes glinting mischievously. “only because you make me want to be.”

before you can respond, he pulls you into a deep kiss, full of desire. it’s enough to leave you breathless, and as he pulls away, you can see the satisfaction in his eyes.

“come on,” he says, grabbing your hand. “let’s get out of here.”

you quickly apologise to your friends as you scurry off. hand in hand, you can’t help but feel a sense of pride when it comes to kaiser. his antics are nothing new, never ceasing to give you a headache, but you can’t help but feel the utmost happiness for him. and god are you proud to be his.

god i hate writing the endings of fics.

anyways "schatz" -> darling (literally translated: treasure)

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aluraveil · 3 months ago

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Nineteen

Oliver Aiku x Reader

Content: You don't know Oliver's actual age and assume that he's just some creep

[2,023 words]

Oliver casually leaned against the counter nearby, his gaze locking onto you as a mischievous grin slowly spread across his lips. After a brief pause, he pushed himself off the counter, making his way toward you with confident strides.

"Hey there—"

Before he could even finish his sentence, you suddenly let out a scream so piercing it could've been heard miles away, your eyes locking onto him in pure shock.

"Ah! Stranger danger!" you shouted with a dramatic flair.

The entire room seemed to freeze. Conversations ceased, and a few heads turned in your direction, some with looks of confusion, others with a hint of concern. In an instant, you were off like a shot, darting through the crowd with the speed and agility of a deer escaping a predator. Without missing a beat, you slipped through the back door, leaving no time for anyone to react or stop you.

Oliver stood there, blinking in complete disbelief, his face a mix of confusion and frustration.

"What the hell is up with that chick?" he muttered, watching as you disappeared from sight.

Shuto, his friend who had been standing nearby, couldn’t help but snicker under his breath, shaking his head with amusement. "Dude, that’s the second time she’s done that to you. What did you even do to freak her out so bad?"

Oliver let out a deep sigh, running a hand through his dark, licorice-colored hair. The green underlayer of his hair caught the dim party lights, adding a subtle pop of color to his otherwise dark look.

"I literally just said ‘hey,’" he responded, his voice tinged with bewilderment.

Unbeknownst to him, you had recently turned eighteen and were hyper-aware of the creepy old men who suddenly seemed too interested in your ‘freshly legal’ status. It freaked you out, so you had developed a habit of running at the first sign of a suspicious-looking older guy. And unfortunately for Oliver, with his strong facial hair, he looked like he had been through two divorces and had a midlife crisis at least once.

The problem? He was only nineteen.

It definitely wasn’t the last time you saw him. In fact, it felt like he was popping up everywhere you went. At the café you frequented every morning, there he was, standing in line ahead of you. At the grocery store, you’d turn the corner to find him browsing the aisles, as if the universe had a strange sense of humor. Even at the movie theater, when you were just trying to enjoy a film in peace, you’d spot him in line for tickets or grabbing snacks, like you couldn’t escape his presence no matter where you went.

He wasn’t actively following you, you were sure of that. It wasn’t like he was showing up in places you were just to make you feel uneasy. But somehow, it seemed like fate had a funny way of throwing the two of you into the same spaces at the most unexpected moments. It was as if the universe had decided that your paths were meant to cross over and over, whether you liked it or not.

The next time you encountered him, it was a literal collision at the bookstore.

"Oh, it’s you," he muttered, rubbing his chest where you'd bumped into him.

Your eyes widened in recognition. "Ah!" Without missing a beat, you turned on your heels and ran once more, nearly knocking over a display of discounted romance novels.

Oliver groaned. "Seriously? Again?"

By the time the next inevitable encounter happened, you were at a party—one mostly filled with college freshmen and their friends. You were laughing with a friend when your eyes landed on a familiar face. Your laughter died instantly.

What the hell was a grown-ass man, who looked like he worked a corporate job and was on his third failed marriage, doing at a party for college kids?

Your confusion doubled when you got a good look at him. Okay… he looked really good. Like, annoyingly good. His dark hair was styled messily yet effortlessly, and those mismatched eyes were way too pretty to belong to some sketchy older dude.

Unfortunately for you, he noticed your staring and started making his way over.

"Hey, gorgeous."

Oh no. That was dangerous. That was flirting. And worse? It was working.

You stiffened. "What are you doing here?"

Oliver blinked, clearly caught off guard. "Uh… what?"

But before he could even respond properly, you turned on your heels and disappeared into the crowd. Again. You leaned against a wall, your heart racing. What was wrong with you? Why did he have to look so good?

Was this how girls with older men kinks felt?

The next incident, you stepped into the elevator, pressing the button for your floor. Just as the doors were about to close, a hand shot in to stop them.

It was him.

You made direct eye contact. He sighed. "Oh, for the love of—"

You slammed the ‘door close’ button repeatedly like your life depended on it.

Unfortunately, fate was not on your side, and Oliver casually stepped in, letting the doors close behind him.

Trapped.

You stiffened, staring straight ahead. Maybe if you didn’t move, he wouldn’t notice you.

Oliver, exasperated, pinched the bridge of his nose.

You’ve lost count on how many times this has happened now.

One seemingly ordinary day, everything around you seemed to crumble in the most unexpected way. It all began with something as simple as an invitation—your friend had asked if you wanted to tag along to her boyfriend’s soccer practice. At the time, it didn’t seem like anything extraordinary. You figured it would be a good way to kill an afternoon, a casual way to pass the time. Plus, her boyfriend happened to be on Japan’s U20 soccer team, which was cool enough in itself to spark some curiosity.

You had expected to watch a bunch of talented players showing off their skills, maybe even get a little impressed by their moves. The idea of watching a professional practice session sounded like it would be a decent way to spend a few hours, and that was it.

What you hadn’t expected, though, was to see him. The very same guy who seemed to keep showing up in all the random places you visited. The one who had somehow made his way into your life without you even realizing it.

Dressed in crisp white and coral, effortlessly orchestrating the field with razor-sharp precision, was the very man you had spent weeks actively avoiding like the plague. Every pass he made was deliberate, every defensive maneuver executed with ruthless efficiency. He moved like someone who had spent his entire life perfecting his craft—quick, calculated, untouchable.

Your stomach twisted violently as the realization hit you like a freight train. The guy you had been convinced was some weird, middle-aged creep with a concerning tendency to appear everywhere you went? The one whose presence had unsettled you to no end? Yeah. Turns out, he wasn’t some lurking menace at all. He was an elite athlete in his prime—one of the country’s top young players, no less.

And now? Now, he was looking right at you.

Oh, shit.

Your breath caught in your throat as he strode toward you, still glistening with sweat from the intense practice session. His damp, jet-black hair clung to his forehead, a few unruly strands falling over piercing, mismatched eyes that locked onto you with an expression teetering between amusement and exasperation.

There was no escaping it now.

"You’re strange," he said flatly when he finally approached you. He was half expecting you to bolt again, but was a little taken back when you didn’t. Instead, you looked up at his towering frame with doey eyes filled with embarrassment.

"H-How old are you?" you blurted out, because at this point, you needed absolute confirmation that you hadn’t been acting insane for no reason.

Oliver raised an eyebrow. "Guess."

“25?" You said so confidently he gasped.

"WHAT?!"

"…30?"

"Now you’re just fucking with me."

"Um… 29?"

He stared at you, visibly in pain. "I’m nineteen."

Your jaw dropped. "What?!"

"I’m literally on the U20 team," he deadpanned. "That means I am under 20."

"Well, I didn’t know you were on the team!" you snapped, now feeling thoroughly embarrassed.

Oliver let out a long, suffering sigh, dragging a hand down his face. "Now that you found out I am, I bet you want me though, right? Tch, shallow women these days."

"Hey!" You crossed your arms, scowling. "I thought you were some weird old dude following me around! Besides, I don’t even know your name—" Your eyes flickered down to his jersey, where ‘AIKU’ was printed in bold letters.

'…Aiku.'

He sighed, clearly exhausted. "Oliver," he corrected.

You blinked. Oliver Aiku?

"Yeah." He rubbed his temples. "That’s it. I’m shaving my beard."

That threw you off. "Wait, what?"

Oliver groaned. "I look in the mirror every day and think I look fine. But no, apparently I’ve got the aura of a dude with a corporate job and three divorces! Do you know how messed up that is? I’m still in the ‘teens’"

"Sorry," you muttered, averting your gaze.

"Unbelievable," Oliver grumbled. "I can’t believe I got traumatized by a random chick who thought I was thirty."

You snorted, crossing your arms. "Traumatized? I was the one out here fearing for my life every time I ran into you!"

"Well, maybe if you actually looked at me instead of running away screaming, you wouldn’t have this problem."

You pointed at him accusingly. "Are you actually nineteen? Or are you a forty-year-old man who got isekai’d into a younger body?"

He groaned. "For the last time, I am nineteen!"

You narrowed your eyes. "That’s exactly what a forty-year-old would say."

"Bro." He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he stared at you.

"Sorry, what can I do to make it up to you?" you asked sheepishly, genuinely worried you'd somehow messed up the vibe.

Oliver eyed you with a half-frustrated look, his hands on his hips like he was preparing to deliver some life lesson.

"Give me your phone," he said, not waiting for a reply as you reluctantly handed it over. You were half scared but curious, was he going to take 0.5 pics of you and leak them to the internet?

Oliver continued navigating your phone, asking "You busy tomorrow night?"

You blinked. "Uh, no. Why?"

He turned the phone in his hand and casually added his number to your contacts, tapping the screen before handing it back to you. "You are now."

Your eyes widened in shock as you looked down at your screen. "Wait, did you just—?"

"Yep. Don’t make me regret it," he said with a teasing smile.

Before you could even respond, he was already walking off, leaving you standing there with your phone in hand.

You tried to shake it off, but when you met him the next night, you were hit with a wave of surprise. There he was, standing at the restaurant entrance, his usual grin on his face. But something was different.

Oliver had shaved. Completely. No beard. His face, which had previously carried the ruggedness of someone much older, was now startlingly smooth. And if possible, he looked even younger than you remembered—maybe even younger than his real age of nineteen.

"Oliver?" You stammered, unable to hide the shock from your voice. You had expected some hint of stubble, some remnant of his previous ‘older man’ look, but no. Nothing. Hair really is a man’s makeup.

He chuckled, clearly amused by your stunned expression. "Surprised?"

"You look... like you're actually nineteen," you managed, still processing the sight of his clean-shaven face.

Oliver grinned, his mismatched eyes twinkling mischievously. "Yeah, well, I thought I'd give it a try for a date with a pretty girl."

You shook your head, still trying to process the fact that this was the same guy who had spent weeks looking like someone who pays alimony and a mortgage.

203 notes · View notes

aluraveil · 4 months ago

Text

YOU LOVE HER (it's over)

1 : you already found someone to miss // s, itoshi

NOTE ;; my part on the collab w/ @aoshei !! ofc i have sae, my no.1 bbg. // angst , no comfort \\

.. ..

when sae told you for the first time that he's going to spain, you cried.

he promised you that he'd call you every day, despite the time difference.

he kissed you softly for the last time before he walked onto his flight.

sae promised he'd always love you.

so when you woke up one morning to find his contact unavailable and all ways of contacting him blocked, you cried. he broke his promise to you. sae was gone, and you couldn't get him back.

.. ..

that was two years ago today and you were certain that you had moved on from your first love. you had been on dates, kissed other people, dated other people. but it had never felt the same as it did with sae. you two were young, dumb kids, fresh into the world of teenagers, but you loved each other. or so you had thought, and deluded yourself with. you were now eighteen, a full-time college student studying for your dream.

so, why? why did it ache your heart to see the news headlines, all screaming in your face about the return of the 'treasure of japan, itoshi sae' ? it had been four years since he had left the country, abandoning you .. leaving you all alone to drown in your misery. it had been two years since he had cut you out of his life without explanation as to why.

all you wanted today was to be left alone. you cancelled plans with your friends, postponed that date that you were meant to go on tonight. you had accepted the fact that you had never truly gotten over itoshi sae, and you couldn't bare the idea of accidentally bumping into him.

but the world is cruel. fate is even crueler. that's why you were currently stood in front of the man who shattered your young heart, a coffee in his hand. you couldn't breathe. your vision was trained onto his left hand which held the beverage, an engagement ring nestled onto his ring finger.

sae watched you stare at his hand, a cold expression on his face. he had closed his heart off to you years ago, and that wasn't going to change now. he didn't spare you a second glance, walking past you as if you were another nobody he didn't even bother to remember the name of.

you watched him leave .. leave everything that the two of you once shared. hushed whispered of promising to marry each other when you grew up. planning out your wedding with him. buying small cakes from stores, eating it together as you both giggled in between wedding vows. sae had left it all behind without as much as a second thought.

so when the day arrived, the news frantically reported on itoshi sae, a newly married man, posting pictures of the blissfully perfect wedding with his new perfect wife. and you sat alone again, tears staining the front page of your newspaper, your heart shattering once more.

523 notes · View notes

aluraveil · 4 months ago

Note

Kaiser and isagi’s beef is insane

I loved ur isagi work where he was jealous that kaiser kept flirting w the reader! Do u mind making a part 3? I don’t have any ideas but ur the writer so feel free to do whatever u want :)

Snapchat

Yoichi Isagi x Reader

Content: Blurb. Kaiser adds you on snap...

Wanings: slight ooc

[791 words]

You’re in the kitchen, the warm scent of freshly baked cookies filling the air. You hum softly to yourself as you press down on the dough, rolling it into perfect little balls. It's a quiet afternoon, just you and Isagi. He’s in the living room, sprawled on the couch, aimlessly scrolling through your phone and taking goofy pictures of himself. You don’t mind, it’s kind of cute. Honestly, you trust him enough to go through your phone. And he trusts you the same way. It’s a no-judgment zone.

You sneak a glance at him from the kitchen, catching him mid-pose. His face is scrunched in some overly dramatic expression, and you can’t help but smile at how ridiculous he looks. "You look like an idiot," you call out, knowing he can hear you.

"You're just jealous because I look this good," he responds without missing a beat, holding up the phone to show you his latest masterpiece.

You chuckle, shaking your head as you continue baking. Just as you’re about to place another tray in the oven, you hear him chuckle from the other room.

Your notification sound pings, pulling his attention. He glances down, eyebrow raised in curiosity. It’s a Snapchat request. From Kaiser. What?

Kaiser, wants to add you? The idea sends a little pang of jealousy through him, but he quickly shakes it off. You’d probably be mad he was entertaining Kaiser at all but he couldn’t help himself. He needed to know why Kaiser wanted to add you. So, he clicks “Accept,”

A few moments later, a new snap pops up, and Isagi opens it with some hesitation. He almost chokes on his own breath when he sees what’s inside.

It's Kaiser. Shirtless. Posing in front of a mirror, flexing his absurdly toned back muscles, a smug grin on his face as if to say, LoOk at thESe mUscLes, Y/n. AReN’t yOu iMprEsSEd?

Isagi, now fully in his feelings, can’t help it. He’s irritated and annoyed. He takes a deep breath and, without thinking too much, snaps a picture of his middle finger. His thumb and forefinger are exaggeratedly posed, the camera angle making it look like a sarcastic, exaggerated gesture. He adds a caption. “Bitch, ain’t no one care ab your big back.”

He hits send and watches, mouth set in a frown as he waits. But then, to his surprise, a new snap arrives from Kaiser.

You peek at Isagi, who’s still glaring at your phone, looking more agitated than he should be. He opens the snap, and Kaiser’s reply is pure chaos. It’s another shirtless photo, but this time, he’s doing a backflip. Mid-air, looking like he’s defying gravity. He somehow finds a way to make his abs even more prominent as he flips, and the caption reads: "Nice try, Isagi, but you can’t out-muscle perfection."

Isagi clenches his jaw, and without missing a beat, he snaps a photo of himself benchlifting more than what Kaiser can, with the caption, “Do you even lift, bro?🥱”

It’s a showdown now.

Kaiser’s snap arrives a few minutes later. This time, he’s holding up a protein shake and looking way too pleased with himself. The caption: "This is my breakfast, Isagi. What’s yours? Probably something weak like cereal. You couldn’t handle this shit."

Isagi gets ready to take another snap when his eyes fall on you. He turns to you, grinning slyly despite the mess he’s in. "He started it, Y/n," he says, but you’re already holding your stomach from laughing at the absurdity of it all.

He quickly snaps a photo of his own, showing a huge fucking steak, completely lean, sizzling on the pan. “I get my protein straight from the source.”

Your phone buzzes as Kaiser sends one final snap.

It’s a photo of him with a dog. A cute one, and he’s looking at the camera with a completely fake look of innocence. “Just letting you know, Isagi. I’m also a dog person. I’m every lady’s dream guy.”

“Yeah, we can tell you’re a dog guy with the lack of pussy you get.” Isagi snaps, holding up the poor cat you guys both adopted a while ago. The poor kitty had no idea what was going on.

He throws the phone on the couch and leans back, still laughing. “That guy is seriously a piece of work,” he says.

You watch him for a second before grinning. Ten out of ten rage bait. "Yeah, but you kind of took the bait, didn't you?"

He sighs dramatically and flops back, "I swear... this is so not over."

And before you can say anything, he grabs your phone again and, without hesitation, snap a photo of both of you together.

The caption? “Fuck yo backflips, I give backshots.”

202 notes · View notes

aluraveil · 4 months ago

Note

badly craving for some Fyodor fics & your writing is good asf 😩 I would like to humbly request an arranged marriage au with Fyodor where the reader has a big fat crush on him but he finds their affection disgusting. After the wedding, they try to woo him and get him to fall for them but to no avail. Until one day he gets sooo sick of it and essentially yells at the reader to stop which causes them to lose all hope and start to secretly hate him because he's actually cruel. On the other hand, Fyodor notice how the reader is not the same affectionate spouse anymore and gets uncomfortable. He realizes how he has become fond of their tenderness of him. Basically, (yander-ish) Fyodor tries to win their love back after noticing how they're falling out of love with him.

(feel free to ignore this request, hope you have a wonderful day <33)

Bittersweet

Yandere!Fyodor x Reader

The morning after your wedding should have been a dream. Instead, it was a cold, unfeeling reality.

You woke up early, your heart fluttering at the sight of your husband still asleep beside you. Fyodor Dostoevsky looked almost peaceful in his slumber, his dark lashes resting against pale skin, his lips slightly parted. You wanted to reach out, to brush a strand of his hair away from his face, but you refrained. He had barely tolerated your presence the day before; you doubted he would welcome your touch now.

Still, you couldn’t help but admire him, your heart aching with the depth of your affection. So, as the sun cast its first golden rays through the curtains, you slipped out of bed and set about preparing for the day. You instructed the servants to make his favorite tea (or at least what you had learned was his favorite), and you carefully arranged a breakfast tray, making sure everything was just right. You wanted this to be a good start.

When Fyodor finally emerged from the bedroom, his loose white shirt hanging carelessly off his frame, his eyes flicked toward you—and immediately away.

"Good morning, Fedya" you greeted with a hopeful smile, setting the tray down on the table. "I had breakfast prepared for you. I wasn’t sure what you preferred, but I made sure to—"

"Unnecessary" he interrupted flatly, walking past you without so much as a glance at your efforts.

"I just wanted to do something nice for you. We are married now, after all."

Fyodor turned to you then, "Yes, we are." He stepped closer, and for a brief, foolish moment, your heart leaped in anticipation. But then he leaned in, his lips nearly brushing your ear as he murmured, "Try not to make a nuisance of yourself, dear spouse."

And with that, he pulled away, seating himself at the table without touching a single thing you had prepared.

Your chest tightened, but you swallowed the disappointment down, forcing yourself to remain composed. It was only the first morning. There would be other chances.

The rest of the morning was much the same.

You tried. You truly did.

After breakfast, you attempted to engage Fyodor in conversation, asking about his work, his interests—anything that might spark even the smallest hint of warmth. Each attempt was met with silence or vague, uninterested responses. His gaze barely lingered on you, his words clipped and dismissive.

By midday, you were accompanying him through the estate’s grand halls, trying to match his slow, measured steps. He had business to attend to, you knew that, but you had hoped he might spare you a moment—just a fleeting second of genuine attention.

Instead, he stopped in his tracks, exhaling a sigh of barely concealed irritation.

“Do you intend to follow me all day?”

“I only wished to spend time with you. We’re married now, aren’t we?”

Fyodor let out a soft, humorless chuckle. “Ah. A dutiful spouse. How sweet.” He tilted his head, a mockery of affection glinting in his dark eyes. “You think that if you play the devoted partner, I will fall at your feet? That I will somehow return the affection you so desperately throw at me?”

Your heart sank. “That’s not—”

His presence, his words, his very existence—it was all razor-sharp, meant to cut you down.

“I find your affections revolting.” His voice was soft, almost gentle, and somehow, that made it worse. “A pitiful display of misplaced devotion. I agreed to this arrangement, but do not mistake compliance for desire.”

It was a knife to the chest.

He didn’t wait for a response. With a final, disinterested glance, he turned on his heel and disappeared down the corridor, leaving you standing there, hollow and trembling.

That night, you didn’t wait for him to return to bed. You didn’t linger by the door, hoping he would speak to you.

For the first time, doubt began to seep into the cracks of your foolish, hopeful heart.

Maybe love wasn’t something you could earn.

For a month, you tried.

You woke before him each morning, ensuring his tea was prepared exactly the way he liked it. He never drank it. You arranged quiet dinners, hoping to share a meal with him, but he rarely showed. On the rare nights he did, he barely acknowledged your presence.

You tried to touch him—just a brush of your fingers against his sleeve, a hesitant hand on his shoulder—but he recoiled each time, his eyes flashing with something between disgust and boredom.

Yet, you persisted.

Because you loved him.

Because you had convinced yourself that if you just showed him enough warmth, enough care, enough devotion, he would soften. That the walls around his heart would crack, even just a little, and he would see you.

But they never did.

And then, one evening, it all crumbled.

It had been a long day. Fyodor had returned home later than usual, his coat damp from the rain. Still, you greeted him at the door, reaching out instinctively to take his coat.

“Welcome home, Fedya” you murmured, offering him a small smile. “You must be tired.”

“And?”

“And… I thought perhaps we could spend some time together?”

“You never stop, do you?” he said, “This pitiful game of yours.”

“Game?”

“That’s what this is, isn’t it?” He continued “A desperate, clumsy attempt to win my love. Do you think I don’t see it? Every lingering gaze, every pathetic offering of affection.”

Your hands trembled at your sides, but you forced yourself to stand your ground. “I just wanted us to be happy”

“You are a fool” he murmured, “Stop embarrassing yourself.”

It was then that something inside you shattered.

Something in your chest grew cold.

That night, for the first time, you did not wait for him to come to bed. You did not look for him in the halls or seek his company at breakfast. You no longer lingered in his presence, no longer tried to win a single scrap of his affection.

----

For the first time since the wedding, Fyodor felt… unburdened.

The mornings were quiet. He no longer had to brush off your eager greetings or ignore the tea you so carefully prepared. The nights were peaceful. You no longer waited for him, no longer tried to share hushed conversations as he undressed for bed.

Yes. This was better.

A week passed. Then another.

He still saw you, of course. You lived under the same roof. You still crossed paths in the grand halls of the estate, still shared the same dining table on occasion. But you no longer sought him out.

You were distant but polite, reserved but not cold. You still addressed him as "Fyodor" still fulfilled your duties as his spouse, but there was no warmth behind your words.

He had gotten what he wanted.

One evening, as he returned to the estate, he realized you no longer greeted him at the door. You used to wait for him, no matter how late, a soft smile on your lips. Now, you were nowhere to be seen.

The first time, he dismissed it. The second time, he noticed. The third time, he lingered in the entryway for a second too long, waiting for something—someone—that never came.

Then, it was the meals.

You used to insist on eating together, always trying to engage him in conversation. He had found it annoying, an intrusion into his silence. But now, you simply took your meals at a different time.

It was convenient, really. He no longer had to deal with your chatter.

And yet, when he sat alone at the grand dining table, his food untouched, he found himself staring at the empty seat across from him.

It was quiet.

He told himself he should be pleased. That this was what he had wanted all along.

But if that were true… why did he keep noticing your absence?

Fyodor didn’t have an answer.

And for the first time, the uncertainty unsettled him.

It happened over dinner.

For the first time in weeks, you and Fyodor sat at the same table. Not because you sought his company, but because it was simply convenient. A mere circumstance, nothing more.

You ate in silence, your gaze lowered, your movements graceful but detached. You did not speak unless necessary. You did not try to meet his eyes.

And Fyodor hated it. He hadn’t intended to say anything. He wasn’t sure why he cared. But as he watched you calmly cut your food, as if he were just another person sharing the space instead of your husband, the words left his lips before he could stop them.

“You no longer prepare meals for me.”

You didn’t pause, didn’t even flinch at his sudden remark. You simply finished chewing, set your fork down, and responded with quiet indifference.

“You never ate them.”

He hadn’t expected that response.

“You used to try regardless” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “You no longer do.”

This time, you did pause, tilting your head slightly as if considering his words.

Then, you shrugged.

“I suppose I grew tired of wasting my efforts.”

“You’re different.”

“I learned my place.”

For some reason, that did not sit well with him.

For some reason, he found himself watching you more closely as you returned to your meal, eating in the same quiet, unshaken manner.

For some reason, he didn’t like this calm, distant version of you.

You set your utensils down with deliberate care, wiping your mouth with a napkin before speaking.

"You don’t have to worry, Fyodor." You met his gaze, but there was no desperation, no lingering hope in your eyes anymore. Just something steady. "I understand now."

"Understand what?"

"That my presence is of little consequence to you." You leaned back slightly, your posture relaxed, as if you had long made peace with this truth. "You have your work, your plans—things far more important than indulging a foolish spouse’s affections."

His grip on the glass tightened, but he said nothing.

"You can focus on those things" you continued, "I won’t get in the way. I won’t bother you with unnecessary affections or expectations anymore." You glanced down at your plate before pushing it aside. "I’ll be here. Silently."

This should have been a victory.

This was what he had wanted—what he had forced you into. You were finally the ideal spouse. Quiet, undemanding. A presence that did not intrude upon his world.

Yet, as you sat there, distant but composed, something gnawed at him, something he couldn’t place.

It was unsettling.

He no longer understood you.

And he didn’t like that at all.

Days passed, and it only grew worse.

He found himself noticing the spaces you had left behind.

The library, where you once sat curled up in the corner, reading quietly as he worked, was empty now. The garden, where you used to walk, humming softly to yourself, now held only the sound of the wind. Even at night, the room felt colder.

---

It was at a gathering—one he had little interest in attending, but one that required his presence nonetheless. You had accompanied him, as expected, standing by his side as poised and composed as ever. But unlike before, there was no subtle shift toward him, no gentle touches, no warmth in your eyes when you addressed him.

You spoke with others, smiled at their words, laughed at their stories. Not in a way that was inappropriate, not in a way that brought disgrace to him, but in a way that made something in his chest coil unbearably tight.

Because it was a smile he had not seen in weeks.

Because it was warmth you had stopped giving him.

You were fine.

You were content in this new distance, unaffected by the void that had begun to gnaw at him.

It unsettled him.

More than that, it infuriated him.

He had expected bitterness. He had expected resentment. Those, he could have understood—controlled. But instead, you had done something far worse.

You had let him go.

You had truly accepted the reality he had forced upon you, had adjusted, had thrived without the need for his affection.

He was the only one suffering now.

This was not how it was supposed to be.

----

Fyodor had never asked for your assistance before.

Not when he was drowning in paperwork, not when his workload was unbearable, never. He was a man who preferred solitude, who functioned best in his own world without distractions.

Yet, tonight, he had called for you.

And so, you sat beside him in his study, your presence unobtrusive, your role simple—double-checking documents, ensuring nothing was overlooked. It was quiet work, but for the first time in weeks, conversation flowed easily between you.

You spoke of your days, of the things that occupied your time now that you no longer wasted it on him.

New books you had taken an interest in. The musicians who played in the town square. People you had met—acquaintances, staff, fleeting faces in the estate.

And him.

"The garden’s been lovely lately" you mused, absently flipping through a page. "All thanks to Mikhail."

His pen halted mid-stroke. Mikhail?

"The new gardener" you continued, unaware of the shift in the air. "He’s been doing wonderful work. The roses have never looked better."

"You seem fond of him."

"I suppose I am. He’s good at what he does. Very passionate about it." A small chuckle. "He talks about flowers the way some poets talk about love."

"And you enjoy such conversations?"

You only shrugged. "It’s interesting to listen to. He has a way of making the simplest things sound beautiful."

How… irritating.

A man who spoke of flowers as if they were poetry.

A man whose name had no business being spoken so fondly from your lips.

A man who had stolen your attention that had once belonged to Fyodor alone.

His gaze dropped back to his papers, but the words blurred, his thoughts elsewhere.

You had moved on.

You had let go.

And now, for the first time, Fyodor realized—

He did not want you to.

Mikhail disappeared without a trace.

One day, he was there—trimming the hedges, tending to the roses, greeting you with his easy smile. And the next, he was simply gone.

At first, you assumed he had left for personal reasons. Perhaps he had fallen ill, or maybe he had found a better opportunity elsewhere. But no one seemed to know.

The other staff whispered about it. His belongings were left untouched in the small quarters he had been provided. There was no resignation letter, no farewell, nothing.

It was as if he had simply vanished.

You tried not to think too much about it. People left all the time, didn’t they? There was no reason to assume the worst.

And yet, a strange unease settled in your chest.

Still, life moved on. The estate remained, the garden still needed tending. And when no one stepped in to fill the role, you did what you could.

At first, it was manageable. Watering the plants, plucking weeds—simple things. But soon, it became overwhelming.

Some flowers began to wither.

The roses that Mikhail had so carefully cultivated lost their vibrancy. The once-thriving vines grew untamed, the flower beds dulled, lifeless.

You needed a new gardener.

You had to hire one.

You mentioned it one evening, seated once again in Fyodor’s study as you absently flipped through a household ledger.

“I need to find someone new for the garden” you mused. “It’s been difficult keeping up with it alone.”

Fyodor barely glanced up from his work. “Is that so?”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Some of the flowers have already started wilting. It’s a shame. The estate looks so much livelier when it’s well-maintained.”

A quiet hum from him. Nothing more.

“It’s strange, though. How Mikhail just disappeared like that.”

This time, his quill paused—just for a second.

“I suppose some people are simply unreliable” he murmured, dipping the quill into ink.

An odd feeling stirred in the back of your mind.

It was silly, wasn’t it? The thought that Fyodor—

No.

You shook it off. Ridiculous.

There was no reason to think he had anything to do with it.

Yet, as the days passed, as the flowers continued to wither, as the space Mikhail had once occupied remained empty, you couldn’t quite shake the thought.

And worse—though you did not yet realize it—Fyodor knew you couldn’t.

And he was waiting.

Waiting for you to understand.

That no matter how far you tried to move from him—

He would never let you go.

It started with the flowers.

No matter what you did, they wouldn’t bloom.

Some parts of the garden thrived as they always had, but a particular patch—right where Mikhail had once worked the most—remained barren. The soil was wrong, dense and damp in ways it shouldn’t have been.

One day, curiosity got the better of you.

You knelt down, gloved fingers sinking into the earth as you began to dig.

A few inches deep, the soil darkened. The smell turned foul, pungent.

Your fingers grazed something.

Something not stone. Not wood. Something soft.

You swallowed, heart pounding, and dug further—until a shape began to take form beneath your hands.

Your breath caught in your throat.

A hand.

Pale, lifeless, limp. The fingers were stiff, the nails caked with dried blood.

You jerked away, scrambling back, your vision blurring with disbelief, with horror. And as you sat there, trembling, staring at the thing that should not have been there, your mind whispered the truth before you could stop it—

Mikhail.

You should have screamed. But before the panic could fully seize you, before you could even process the implication of what you had just unearthed—

The bells in town rang. Loud. Urgent.

And the news spread like wildfire.

Another body. Another victim.

The serial killer had struck again.

Suddenly, all thoughts of Mikhail’s shallow grave were drowned beneath something bigger, something that seized the town in terror.

The killer had been targeting people in the area. And now, they had claimed yet another life.

The estate became a sanctuary, a place of safety. Servants whispered in fear, locking their doors at night, avoiding the streets unless absolutely necessary.

And Fyodor—Fyodor had never looked calmer.

One evening, as the news spread and the fear settled into every home, he turned to you, “You should stay close to me.”

“What?”

His fingers tapped idly against the armrest of his chair. “It’s dangerous out there.”

You hesitated. Of course it was. That much was obvious.

You nodded.

And Fyodor smiled.

Because you had no idea, did you?

No idea that the real monster was sitting right in front of you.

And now, you had walked right into his arms.

At first, Fyodor simply remained close—never overbearing, never forceful, just there.

You didn’t even question it.

After all, it made sense, didn’t it? The town was in fear, a murderer lurking in the shadows, and you lived in a secluded estate. Of course, you would stay near him. Of course, you wouldn’t wander too far.

And Fyodor?

He played his role perfectly.

One evening, as you read by candlelight, a cold breeze drifted through the room. Without a word, Fyodor draped a shawl over your shoulders, his fingers brushing your skin just briefly before pulling away.

When you thanked him, he only gave a quiet hum, as if it was nothing.

Then, the meals.

He had never cared about your routines before, had never paid attention to whether you ate or not. But now, he would casually remind you.

“You’ve hardly touched your plate” he’d murmur during dinner, tilting his head slightly. “You should eat more.”

And when you did, he looked pleased.

Then, conversation.

You had spoken freely before, of course—but now, Fyodor engaged.

He listened intently when you spoke of your interests, made thoughtful remarks, even encouraged you to continue.

And perhaps it was just because you were lonely, because the house felt emptier, because the world outside was dangerous—

But you found yourself enjoying his company.

He simply filled the spaces that had once been empty.

And soon, without realizing it, you began to trust him again.

You laughed a little more around him. You lingered in his presence longer. You sought his thoughts on things you never would have before.

And Fyodor?

He watched.

He waited.

Because it was working.

You didn’t even realize, did you?

That he had pulled you back in.

That, piece by piece, you were becoming his again.

It was gradual—so gradual that you didn’t even notice.

Little by little, you returned to how you once were.

At first, it was just habit. You had always been warm, always been affectionate. And now that Fyodor was allowing it, even reciprocating in his own quiet way, it felt natural to fall back into those patterns.

You started making tea for him again.

Not because you expected anything, but because it felt right. Because he drank it now, without a word of complaint.

You sought his company more.

Not in the desperate, longing way you once had, but comfortably. You’d sit in his study, flipping through a book while he worked, just as you used to.

And most importantly—

You trusted him.

You felt safe with him.

The world outside was dangerous, filled with unseen horrors, and Fyodor was steady. Reliable. A pillar of protection in the growing storm.

Of course, you didn’t realize that it was he who had created the storm in the first place.

And Fyodor?

He knew better than to be careless.

Yes, you had come back to him—had settled back into his grasp—but he wasn’t a fool.

Affection was fickle. Trust was fragile.

And he had no intention of letting you slip away again.

So, he tightened his hold.

"You should stay in today" he murmured one morning, glancing toward the window. "I have a bad feeling about the town."

You hesitated—but he was rarely wrong, was he?

So you listened.

Then, it was the staff.

Servants who used to chat with you now avoided meeting your gaze, as if afraid of something unseen. People you once trusted left without a word.

Slowly, the house became his entirely.

And then, it was you.

One evening, as you prepared to retire to bed, Fyodor’s voice stopped you at the doorway.

"Come here."

You turned, confused, but something in his tone left no room for argument.

So you stepped closer, and he reached out, his cold fingers brushing over your wrist.

"You forgot your necklace" he murmured, fastening it around your neck.

You blinked. "I… I don’t remember taking it off."

He only smiled. "Perhaps you shouldn’t take it off at all."

You didn’t notice the way his fingers lingered against your skin.

Didn’t notice how pleased he looked when you nodded, murmuring, "Alright."

You didn’t see it—

The slow, delicate strings that bound you to him.

By the time you realized, it would be too late.

Because now, he had you.

And he would never, ever let you go.

565 notes · View notes

aluraveil · 4 months ago

Note

hiii ive recently gotten into your fyodor works and i really really like them. I wanted to know if you could write fyodor with a fem reader whos also a yandere. bonus points if the reader joined the doa just for the purpose of getting close to fyodor

Yandere!Fyodor x Yandere!Fem!Reader

Fyodor Dostoyevsky did not believe in coincidences.

When you first entered the Decay of Angels, he had already decided your fate.

You were too competent, too eager to prove yourself. That alone made you suspicious. Devotion was easy to fake, and those who offered their loyalty so readily often had ulterior motives.

So, Fyodor played along. He gave you a mission—an impossible one.

A simple kill would have been too merciful. No, he would let the weight of failure crush you first. He would watch as your perfect facade cracked, as you realized your mistake in approaching him. And then, once you were vulnerable, he would dispose of you.

At least, that was the plan.

The mission was chaos. A trap set by the enemy, an ambush that should have left you dead. Fyodor watched from a safe distance, expecting to see you break, perhaps beg for your life, perhaps attempt a desperate escape.

But you did neither.

You fought. Not with recklessness, nor fear, but with purpose. Every move was calculated, every strike precise, like a masterful game of chess unfolding before his eyes. Blood stained your hands, but there was no hesitation—only devotion. Not to survival. Not to yourself, but to him.

When the last body fell, you turned, searching for him, and for the first time, he truly saw you.

And in that moment, something inside him twisted.

He didn’t want you dead.

He wanted you his.

From that night onward, everything changed.

Fyodor no longer planned to kill you, he kept you.

At first, it was under the guise of observation, keeping you close to ensure your loyalty. But you knew better. He was testing you, just as much as you were testing him.

So, you played your role flawlessly.

You followed his every command with quiet efficiency, predicting his needs before he even voiced them. Documents he had yet to ask for would already be on his desk. Threats that had barely entered his mind would already be eliminated.

"You work well." Fyodor mused one evening, watching as you placed a steaming cup of tea beside him. He hadn’t told you his preference. He never did, but you made it just right.

You smiled, feigning innocence. "I only wish to be useful to you."

"Mm. Is that all?"

It wasn’t all.

Because at night, when the world quieted, and the grand stage of deception was momentarily left behind, your true self emerged.

Your room was a shrine, meticulously kept, but obsessive in nature. Photographs of him, captured in stolen moments when he wasn’t looking, adorned the walls. Newspaper clippings of his movements, notes upon notes of his habits, his speech patterns, the subtle shifts in his expressions—everything was recorded, memorized, worshipped.

And the photographs…

Some were candid, taken from afar—Fyodor seated in a dimly lit café, Fyodor standing at a harbor, Fyodor with his hand resting against his lips in thought. Others were closer, riskier—his hand reaching for a teacup, the delicate curve of his wrist, the way his violet eyes gleamed under low light.

You ran your fingers over one of them, tracing the curve of his jaw, breath hitching as your chest swelled with a familiar, dizzying warmth.

"You’re mine" you whispered, voice dripping with unwavering conviction. "Even if you don’t realize it yet."

-----

"You'll be working with Sigma for this mission" Nikolai had said one evening, flipping a knife between his fingers and was about to throw it to your direction with a smile on his face. "He needs someone to cover him while he—"

"No."

Fyodor didn’t even look up from his teacup. His voice had been calm, smooth as always, but there was no mistaking the finality in it.

Nikolai blinked. "No?"

Fyodor set his cup down with a soft clink against porcelain. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to meet yours.

"She works under me." he said, as if it were the simplest truth in the world. "Why would I allow my piece to be moved by someone else?"

You felt a shiver crawl down your spine—not from fear, but from something far, far more intoxicating.

Nikolai let out a dramatic sigh. "Come on, Fedya. Sharing is caring."

Fyodor only smiled. "Would you share your own limbs, Kolya?"

The conversation ended there. You never worked with anyone but Fyodor after that.

One evening, you were speaking with a lower-ranking informant—just a meaningless exchange, but when you turned, you found Fyodor watching.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just sat there, legs crossed, fingers lazily twirling a lock of his own dark hair. But his gaze followed you with eerie precision, tracing every movement, every shift of your expression.

When you finally approached him, he tilted his head slightly.

"Enjoying yourself?"

"It was just a conversation," you answered.

"Mm." He hummed, expression unreadable. "I see."

That night, the informant vanished.

You never saw him again.

----

One night, after a mission, you returned covered in blood—not your own, of course. But as you stepped into Fyodor’s quarters to debrief, you caught the flicker of something in his eyes. Not disgust, not concern—no, Fyodor did not care for such trivial emotions.

But something about seeing you like this, drenched in the aftermath of violence, carrying out his will, unsettled something within him.

His fingers curled slightly, as if resisting the urge to reach out.

"You should wash up" he murmured, voice softer than usual. "I don’t like others seeing you like this."

"...Like this?"

Fyodor smiled. His fingers drummed lazily against his chair’s armrest.

"Only I should see you like this."

----

Fyodor didn’t plan to enter your room.

He had only intended to check on you—nothing more. A small curiosity, really. After all, you were late returning from your mission, and while he trusted your efficiency, something in the back of his mind told him to investigate.

That was the first sign something was wrong. Fyodor Dostoyevsky did not check on people. He didn’t wait for them.

And yet, he found himself here.

The door was unlocked.

His first assumption? Carelessness. But no—you weren’t careless. You were calculated. If the door was unlocked, it was because you never expected anyone to enter.

Stepping inside, he let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting. Your room was clean, orderly. And yet, there was a distinct feeling of something unsettling beneath the surface.

Then, he saw it. The walls.

Photographs. Dozens of them. Of him.

Some taken from afar—his silhouette against city lights, the sharp angle of his jaw as he spoke on the phone, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips when he thought no one was watching.

His gaze swept over the rest. Notes. Endless notes. His speech patterns, his habits, theories about his past, predictions of his next moves, all written in your handwriting.

And then, the final piece.

On your desk, laid out with almost reverence, was his glove. One he had lost weeks ago, now carefully placed atop a stack of old reports. As if it were a keepsake.

Fyodor inhaled slowly.

How… unexpected.

And yet, something in him didn’t recoil. He did not feel disgust. He did not feel fear. He felt—fascination.

Oh, my love…

How poetic.

How utterly perfect.

He stood in the center of the room, hands clasped behind his back, soaking in the sheer weight of your obsession, and let the minutes pass in silence.

The door creaked open.

You stepped inside, exhaustion clear in your posture, but the moment your gaze landed on him, standing there, surrounded by the evidence of your devotion—your breath hitched.

"Ah!" Fyodor murmured, tilting his head ever so slightly. His violet eyes gleamed in the dim light, dark and unreadable. "What an interesting little collection you have, my love."

He took a slow step forward. You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

"Tell me…" He reached out, fingers ghosting over one of the photographs before flicking his gaze back to you. "How long have you been watching me?"

What would he do? Would he kill you? Would he laugh?

He chuckled.

"How adorable" he murmured, more to himself than to you. His fingers trailed along the edge of his own photograph, as if entertained by the sight of it.

Then, his gaze locked onto yours.

"I wonder" he purred, stepping even closer, invading your space, "should I be flattered by this devotion…"

His fingers lifted your chin. A soft, teasing touch.

"Or should I remind you that you belong to me, not the other way around?"

Fyodor's fingers still tilted your chin upward, his violet eyes drinking in every flicker of emotion across your face—shock, fear, something far more fragile underneath.

But he had seen it the second you walked in.

The deadened look in your eyes. The stiffness in your movements. The way your fingers curled at your sides, as if gripping onto something unseen.

You weren’t just afraid of being caught.

You had come back here tonight intending to disappear.

How amusing. How utterly foolish. Did you truly believe he would allow such a thing?

He hummed, tapping a single finger against your chin. “Tsk. And here I thought you were more intelligent than this, my love.”

Your breath shuddered. “I—”

“Shh.”

Slowly, he stepped forward, forcing you to move back. Your legs hit the edge of your desk.

“You were going to kill yourself” he murmured, almost conversationally. A mere statement of fact. He didn’t need to ask—it was written in your very being. “Tell me, my love… why?”

You swallowed, throat dry.

What could you say? That you had loved him from a distance for so long, only to realize you could never truly have him? That you had joined the Decay of Angels just to be close, just to be seen, but even standing at his side left you hollow? That your love was a void, and you had grown tired of waiting for it to be filled? You knew it was pathetic.

Yet Fyodor only regarded you with quiet amusement. A knowing gleam in his eyes, as if he had already picked apart every thought in your mind.

"You disappoint me" he murmured, shaking his head. “Such devotion, wasted on cowardice. Did you think you could leave me so easily?”

His fingers trailed lower, gliding along your wrist until they wrapped around it.

“You belong to me, my love” he whispered, “And if you wish to die…”

His grip suddenly tightened.

“…then you should do it for me.”

Slowly, Fyodor reached into his coat and pulled out a small, sharp dagger. He pressed it into your palm, curling your fingers around the handle, guiding it upward until the tip ghosted over your throat.

A shiver ran through you—not from fear. Not from pain.

From the way he was looking at you.

Testing you.

"Go on" he whispered. "Show me how far your devotion truly runs."

Your grip trembled. The cold metal bit into your skin, not yet enough to cut, but enough to feel its presence. For a moment, you wondered—if you did it, if you pressed just a little harder—would he stop you?

Or would he simply watch you bleed?

The dagger slipped from your trembling fingers, hitting the floor with a sharp clang.

And then—before you could stop yourself—before you could think

You lunged forward and buried yourself into him.

Your arms wrapped around him tightly, as if anchoring yourself to something real, something solid. Your hands fisted into his coat, clutching the fabric like it was the only thing keeping you alive.

Your body shook, the weight of everything—your obsession, your desperation, your surrender—pressing into your chest like a vice. You could feel his warmth, his presence, the scent of faint tea and something sharper beneath it.

"I can’t" you gasped against him. "I don’t want to die, I don’t—I just—"

A hand tangled in your hair.

"Shh" Fyodor murmured. His fingers curled into the strands, tilting your head just slightly as his other hand came to rest on your back.

You expected him to push you away. To mock you. To tell you what a pathetic little creature you were, groveling at his feet.

But he didn’t.

He only held you there.

"Ah… my love," he whispered, his lips ghosting against your temple. "Did you think you could die without my permission?"

"You live for me now" he continued, his voice almost sweet in its cruelty. His fingers traced along the back of your neck. "Every breath you take, every thought in that pretty little head of yours… all of it belongs to me."

His fingers tilted your chin up.

Violet eyes bore into yours, gleaming in the dim light.

"Now," he mused, a slow smile curling on his lips. "How shall I make sure you never try to leave me again?"

221 notes · View notes

aluraveil · 4 months ago

Note

Hello, I’m honestly in love with how you portray yandere Fyodor.

Could you please write a scenario where his darling would either offer a break up (or divorce, simply put, them separating) or they’d try to escape from him (knowing that a peaceful conversation would be futile). I wonder how he’d feel and react, if a person he trusted so much, to the point he’d even see them as a lover, would try to break free. I wonder just what the consequences might be.

(Please don’t be afraid to write or take it to an extreme, if you feel like it)

Fyodor Dostoevsky is a man who thrives on control, and in a relationship, that control is absolute. He chose you. He trusted you. He gave you the rare privilege of being his. To him, love is not a fleeting sentiment but a binding force, an unbreakable contract.

“So...this is where you draw the line.”

There was a time when being with Fyodor felt like a dream. A dark, quiet dream where the world beyond his embrace blurred into irrelevance.

You remembered those nights best, the ones where the two of you existed in a fragile sort of peace, where his touch was neither cold nor cruel, only deliberate.

“You shiver too easily, my love.”

Fyodor’s voice had been laced with amusement that night, his arms a loose circle around you as he draped a thick blanket over your shoulders. The dim candlelight painted his pale skin in soft, flickering gold, making him look almost human, almost warm. You had leaned into his touch, letting him tuck you against his side on the worn velvet couch.

“Maybe I wouldn’t if you didn’t insist on keeping the windows open in winter” you murmured, half-drowsy.

A quiet chuckle. You felt the faintest brush of lips against your temple. His fingers traced idle patterns against your wrist, the rhythmic motion lulling you further into the comfortable haze of drowsiness.

“Endurance builds character” he teased, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Cruel.”

“Mm, but you stay.”

You had laughed at that, shaking your head. Of course you stayed. Back then, there had been no chains. Or at least, you had not seen them.

“My love” he had murmured, lips ghosting over yours, “you are the only one I would ever trust with my heart.”

You had believed him.

Oh, how naïve you had been.

----

“You could have died, Fyodor.”

Your voice was sharp, louder than you intended, but the frustration clawing at your ribs left no room for restraint. The dim light of the study barely reached him where he sat, his figure relaxed in his chair, one hand resting lazily on the armrest. His coat was draped over the desk, and beneath it, his white shirt was still stained with the remnants of dried blood.

He did not even look at you.

“And yet, I did not.”

The sheer indifference in his tone made your nails dig into your palms.

“That isn’t the point!” You stepped closer, heart pounding. “You were reckless! What if—what if this had gone differently? What if you hadn’t come back?”

Slowly, Fyodor turned his head,

“Would you have mourned me, my love?”

“That’s not—Fyodor, I’m serious. You can’t just keep throwing yourself into danger like this. You act as if you’re untouchable, but you’re not.” Your voice softened, frustration bleeding into something almost pleading. “You’re not invincible. And I don’t want to lose you.”

He studied you for a long moment before exhaling softly, standing from his chair. In an instant, he was in front of you. One hand reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face before settling against your cheek. His touch was deceptively gentle.

“You worry too much.”

“Because you don’t worry enough” you shot back.

A slow smile curled at his lips. Amused. Indulgent.

“My dear,” he murmured, thumb ghosting over your jaw, “you should know by now that a mere brush with death does not concern me.”

“Well, it concerns me.”

“How sweet.”

You frowned, pushing his hand away. “I’m being serious.”

He let his hand fall back to his side, but the smile remained.

“And I am listening” he assured you, though you could not tell if he actually meant it.

There was no winning against Fyodor in words alone. You had known that for a long time. But the quiet truth sat between you, unspoken.

You cared.

And that, in itself, was a weakness he would never hesitate to exploit.

-----

It started with a mistake. Or maybe, it started long before that—woven into every quiet moment where you had chosen to look away, to ignore the warning signs, to convince yourself that love could exist where control reigned.

But tonight, you couldn’t ignore it.

The scent of blood was thick in the air. Not yours. Not Fyodor’s. But someone else’s—someone who, hours ago, had still been breathing.

You stood frozen in the doorway of his study, staring at the slumped figure on the floor. The body was already cooling, their face contorted in an expression of terror you didn’t want to look at for too long. A puddle of crimson seeped into the fine carpet, staining it irreversibly.

And Fyodor—calm, untouched—stood just beyond them, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves as if he had merely spilled a drink.

“You’re home earlier than expected” he mused, glancing at you as if this were a perfectly normal evening.

You had always known what he was capable of. You had always known what kind of man he was. But knowing and seeing were two different things.

“Who—who were they?” Your voice came out unsteady.

“A nuisance,” he answered simply, stepping over the body as if it were nothing more than an inconvenience. “But not anymore.”

There was no hesitation in his voice. No remorse.

Something inside you cracked.

“Fyodor, this—” Your breath hitched. “This isn’t normal.”

He tilted his head, a faint smirk playing at his lips. “Normal is a matter of perspective, my love.”

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head. “No, this isn’t just perspective. This is—this is wrong.”

His expression did not change, but something in his gaze darkened. “You’ve always known who I am.”

“Knowing doesn’t mean accepting.” Your hands clenched at your sides. Your pulse was racing. Your mind was screaming at you to run, but you were still rooted in place. “I—Fyodor, I can’t do this anymore.”

Then—“Ah.”

He exhaled softly, almost as if he were disappointed.

“So,” he murmured, stepping closer, “this is where you draw the line.”

“How unfortunate.”

He didn’t stop you.

Not that night. Not as you turned on your heel and fled from that bloodstained room, your heartbeat a deafening roar in your ears. Not as you grabbed whatever you could fit into a bag with trembling hands, not even as you slammed the door behind you and stepped into the cold night air, lungs burning from the weight of what you had just done.

He let you go.

It should have felt like a victory. Like freedom.

But deep down, you knew better.

The first sign came days later. A call that never came. A friend who was supposed to meet you at the café—one of the only people you still trusted—simply… vanished. Their phone disconnected. Their apartment emptied overnight, as if they had never existed at all.

Then another.

And another.

One by one, the people in your life began to disappear. Not just close friends, but acquaintances, colleagues, neighbors—anyone who might have given you a sense of security.

Then came the message.

A simple envelope slipped beneath the door of your temporary apartment. Inside was a single note, written in the elegant, looping script you knew far too well.

You are free to leave me, my love. But you are not free from me.

How many will you grieve before you understand?

Your hands shook as you clutched the paper, bile rising in your throat.

He had let you go.

But you would never be free.

----

The room smelled of iron and death.

The dim light flickered above you, casting long, grotesque shadows against the walls. The only sound was the ragged, choked gasps of the person in the chair—not dead. Not yet. But close.

And Fyodor—elegant, composed—stood beside them, rolling the bloodied sleeve of his white shirt back down as if he had merely finished a tiresome chore. His violet eyes gleamed in the low light, unreadable, but his smile was patient. Indulgent.

“You still resist” he mused, tilting his head as he stepped toward you. “Even now. Even after everything.”

Your knees pressed into the cold floor, your body trembling, hands clenched into useless fists. You wanted to fight. You wanted to scream. But the helpless, wet gasps of the person beside you made every breath a struggle.

You had tried to escape. You had tried to reject him. But Fyodor had always been patient.

“Knowing,” he murmured, crouching in front of you, fingers brushing over your tear-streaked cheek, “does not mean accepting. Isn’t that what you told me?”

“I don’t—” Your voice broke as you swallowed back the sob rising in your throat.

“No more lies, my love.” His thumb brushed against your lower lip, his touch deceptively soft. “You knew me, yet you refused to accept me. So I will teach you acceptance.”

He stood, turning back to the broken, bleeding person beside you, and your breath hitched.

“No—no, please, stop—!”

“You only need to say it.” His voice was quiet, patient. As if he were offering you a simple solution to a minor problem. “Say that you want to stay.”

The person in the chair was barely conscious, their body slack, their breaths uneven. Another strike, another moment, and they wouldn’t survive this.

You had already lost so many.

You had already fought for so long.

And deep down, beneath the fear, beneath the agony, you knew.

There was no winning against Fyodor. There never had been.

Your lips parted. Your throat burned. The weight of the words crushed you before you even spoke them.

“I… I want to stay.”

Silence.

Then, warmth. A hand cupping your face, tilting your chin upward. Fyodor’s gaze softened, his lips curling into something almost tender.

“There you are, my love.”

175 notes · View notes

aluraveil · 4 months ago

Text

— jealousy, jealousy

itoshi sae x f! reader

summary: as cool-headed as he may seem, even itoshi sae isn't immune to jealousy.

warning: english is not my first language. apologies for any grammatical or spelling errors.

— itoshi sae is anything but a jealous man. how, you may ask? simply because he’s with a partner he feels secure with. your love has always proven that he will always be the only one for you. he knows that very well, and he doesn’t need any convincing.

normally, that’s the case.

but what if itoshi sae isn’t as invincible as he seems?

there’s not one person in the world who doesn’t have an insecurity they wish to bury deep within the darkness of their heart—the one thing they never want to be reminded of again. and much like every other human being that walks on earth, itoshi sae possesses one insecurity that will easily shatter the facade he created for himself. if it were up to him, he would rather encase it in a jar with a rock to sink it down the mariana trench. alas, he cannot sink what he cannot touch.

it was after a late night practice in the re al facility when it happened. you, his ever loving and supportive girlfriend, decided to pick him up after training. he would usually take the train home, or call up a taxi straight to you. however, one thing he noticed is that whenever you have the car with you, there is not one instance where he commutes home.

you always pick him up, no matter what.

he loves it—the feeling of reciprocity. sae loves that you freely do what you want to do for him the same way he does to you. but tonight, as he watches you from a distance engaging in a short conversation with leonardo luna, he wished you weren't as perfect as you already are. couldn't the traffic hold you up a bit longer just so he's already waiting out for you? maybe he shouldn't have taken his time in the shower to have you waiting outside instead. whatever it is that he could have done, sae surely regrets ever leaving time for you to bump into one of his teammates, even more so with leonardo.

"querido!" you spotted him as soon as he walked out the door, a twinkle in your eyes somehow relieving him from the thorns that wrapped around his heart. that's right. you were there for him, and you were happy to see him. not leonardo or anyone else for that matter.

"ahh, so you're sae's girlfriend." leonardo pieced two jigsaws together, snapping his fingers in realization. he then looked back at sae with those typical deceiving eyes of his. his smile was sickening, sae could hurl right then and there. there is no one else as despicable as leonardo luna himself.

it was because of him that he lost hope in becoming the world's number one striker in the world.

seeing him with his girlfriend, as if it were a reminder that he can easily take her away too, might as well be his last straw.

without a word, sae opens the door to the passenger seat and gently pushed you inside—much to your protest. he turns back to leonardo with a sigh. "we'll go ahead. see you tomorrow."

then he rounded the car to get to the driver's seat. as he was about to reach for the handle, leonardo calls out to him and had him pause. sae looks back up reluctantly, seemingly drained from the scenario at hand.

"you're really lucky, aren't you?" leonardo grinned. "fuck it up and just know i'm right around the corner."

it was clearly a threat, one that made his blood boil. grunting, he climbed in his seat and drove away before he loses control of himself. the car ride was quiet, with you still confused why he chose to drive tonight when he was clearly exhauted from practice, and him still trying to process how he's currently feeling.

it isn't like him to feel hostile towards other men who linger around you. if anything, he enjoys it more with the way you happily slap the fact that you're his right at their faces. yet, with leonardo, he doesn't even want you to bat an eyelash at his direction. there's this uneasy feeling that maybe at some point, you won't hit him with the usual 'i love my boyfriend and he's the absolute best' speeches.

that maybe, you'll realize then and there that itoshi sae is nothing compared to leonardo luna.

that you deserve someone better—someone you can proudly call yours as you cheer for him when he scores the heroic goal of the game. someone whom you can dedicate your designs to—a better model for your brand.

god, he wants to hurl so bad just thinking about such gruesome what ifs. he wants to stop thinking about it already, yet every time his mind comes to a pause, the depths of his mind has already cooked up a new scenario to overthink once again.

why did you have to bump into leonardo himself? it could have been any other of their forwards, like kaiser! you get along pretty well with that damn blue rose and he never felt a hint of malice towards him! god, you might as well be best friends with the guy and sae was completely fine with it.

why the fuck did it have to be leonardo?

"sae,"

the sound of his name slipping past your lips had finally pulled him out of the poisonous den named his thoughts. he shakes his head a little, snapping out of his daze as his eyes cleared back on the road. then, the rest of his senses came back to life. the first thing he noticed?

your hand atop his as he guides the steering wheel.

for a moment, sae glanced at your direction and found your concerned expression directed his way. his heart churns at the sight, for him. why are you looking at him like that?

why do you have to be so loving?

he doesn't deserve you.

"pull over, querido." it wasn't a request, and he wasn't about to disobey you. the moment he saw the nearest gas station, he parked by the convenience store and let out a breath he had unknowingly been holding in.

you shifted, taking your seat belt off. without a word, you opened the door and got out.

god, did you finally realize it? you're about to leave and dump his ass right now. he doesn't even want to follow you out—fearing for the news that might hit him hard on the face if he does. he'd rather stay in the car and bask in the scent of your perfume a little longer. he will sure miss—

"come on," you opened his door, reaching a hand out with a gentle smile. "i'm hungry."

that's how you both ended up at the second floor of said convenience store, with you serving two cups of ramen and microwaved skewers. he watches you stiffly as you stuffed your mouth full with msg bomb, a little conflicted on how he should feel about the situation right about now. had he been reading too much into things?

when you noticed that he wasn't eating, you snap his chopsticks in half for him and mixed his ramen. it was easier to reach him given that you're seated beside each other, thus he had no excuse not to eat the portion you just fished out.

he had no choice.

"i'm not hungry." he mutters.

"aha!" you pointed at him with an accusing finger, as if you finally caught him for something even he didn't know he was doing. "about time you start talking."

"what?"

"you think i didn't notice?"

"..." he looks at you, eyes pleading for you to stop whatever it is you're about to tell him. "please, amor. i know i—"

"i love you."

and so, he paused, stunned by your surprise attack. you took it as a chance to finally cup his cheeks with both hands, giving him not a bit of a chance to cower away from your declaration.

"and i have every intention of marrying you, so don't go around thinking that i'll leave you for someone else." you said it so confidently, as if you were a hundred percent sure that he was already doubting and overthinking in the midst of things. how you knew? he had no idea, but hearing your assurance had him melting right into your arms.

sae rested his chin on your shoulder, pulling you close as his arms wrapped around you in a loose embrace. then, he was able to release the biggest sigh of relief—washing out the little bit of insecurity left in his system. you had him scared for a moment, but damn was he a fool to think you'd ever leave him.

it was you for god's sake.

you would scourge through both heaven and hell if it meant being with him again. you'd gladly die a soldier of war if he were the one holding the sword. by the gods, you would drop even your biggest fashion show if he called for you at any given time. you, whose love is so big that it swallows him whole, and itoshi sae basks in the warmth you bring into his life.

"i'm yours." he whispered. "and i'll always be, right?"

you chuckle, leaning back a little to capture his lips with your own. "you have no choice, querido." he could feel your breath gently fan against his lips. "you're stuck with me whether you like it or not."

god knows how lucky he is to have you, and itoshi sae will spend more than one lifetime to prove that you were never wrong to choose him time and time again.

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aluraveil · 4 months ago

Text

im eating up all this yandere kaiser content

(michael kaiser x reader // 18+ MDNI // cws: yandere kaiser, stalking, reader smokes cigarettes, toxic behaviors // wc: 2.2k)

"so you really did it?"

"did what?" you ask, exhaling a puff of cigarette smoke into the frigid air. your fingers are numb.

"break up with him!"

"kaiser?" you snort, taking another drag before speaking. "i guess? i called things off earlier today, but we weren't actually dating. so it's not like it's really a breakup."

"... sure."

your friend on the line hardly sounds convinced. but it is... true. you and michael kaiser never dated. you never had a label, never discussed any type of commitment or potential future together. though you had spent more than one weekend (try a dozen plus) at his apartment, oscillating between cuddling, fucking, and being in each other's presence's in a way that was distinctly not platonic—

you and michael kaiser were never dating. you were not together. (Regardless of him flying you out to one match in Vienna, and the another in Rome—) you weren't dating.

you never were.

you never expected to either. michael kaiser was transparently damaged, and handling it in an unproductive, destructive manner. you saw this from a mile away, but entertained your chemistry regardless. maybe it was the influence of a few drinks and a few heated arguments that got you in bed with him to begin with, despite clocking his toxic tendencies early on.

you fought a lot, for not being a couple.

care made kaiser squirrely and angry. kindness made him snap. aggression, biting and clawing— angry sex that metastasized into something carnal and closer to a fight resonated with him far more than little affections. you only saw moments of vulnerability from him when you were both fucked out and exhausted. or, when he thought you weren't looking. you felt him pet through your hair while he thought you were asleep, more than once.

you broke up with kaiser because you couldn't handle things as they were anymore.

maybe you wanted to be loved. maybe you wanted to be held, openly and tenderly. maybe, you wanted a partner and not a man with an ego problem who fucked like a god and treated you like invasive creature nine times out of ten when you showed him affectionate.

(you just want to be loved.)

the luxuries and innate chemistry of your relationship simply wasn't worth it.

so, you broke things off. over text, because it seemed the least messy.

[you]: hey, what we have isn't working for me anymore. i don't want to see you any longer. i care about you a lot, but what we have is not sustainable. i wish you all the best, michael.

(you try not to be too affectionate with your message, lest you rile him up. you want to be gentle, but not too... emotional. it's better this way.)

you block him after sending the text. clean breaks— it's kinder in the long run, isn't it? even if it hurts more in the moment.

you sigh into the receiver, tossing your cigarette butt to the side, "i mean it, we weren't ever serious."

"if you say so."

you kick at the snow beneath your feet. there's an inch or two of it on the ground, coating the cobblestones of the path you walk on. the river that cuts through your city runs, despite the cold. there's no one around, and it's peaceful beneath the amber-tinged street lights.

"you don't sound convinced."

"because i'm not." your friend pauses. "... have you seen his instagram story from today?"

"nope," you pop the word from your lips. "i blocked him."

"already?"

"immediately."

"damn. that's cold of you."

"you don't know kaiser like i do," you shake your head. it's better this way, to be cleaner.

(you have always been able to foresee the way that man would tear you apart, if you misstepped too grievously.)

"well regardless," a notification comes up on your phone. your friends has sent a screenshot of kaiser's story. "look. he flew out to your city."

your stomach drops. sure enough, the screenshot has a location stamp over a photo of kaiser's deft hands, twirling a flute of champagne from what is clearly a first class seat.

"... maybe he has a match."

(he doesn't. you know this; there's no league that plays in your city.)

"or, he's coming to see you!"

"that would be insane," you laugh. that bastard... wouldn't, would he? he is... was halfway across the world.

"it would be romantic."

"it would be insane," you repeat.

you turn on your heel, back the way your came through the parkway. your apartment is... about a mile away, maybe. it's dark and cold, but you can probably get back there quickly. you're not sure where this particular sense of haste comes from—

but it's a frantic sort of feeling.

your friend pouts, "you have no sense of romance then, i guess."

(and your friend doesn't know michael kaiser.)

anxiety pitches around between your stomach and lungs. you swallow, and it feels too dry.

"i promise i do," you shake your head. "that's the problem."

"sure. tell me more about it later, 'kay? i gotta get ready to go out. let me know if your man shows up!"

your stomach rolls. "gotcha."

"bye bye!"

the line goes dead. your drop your arm to the side, your phone like a deadweight in your hand. you take a few steadying breaths, looking out at the rush of the river. the roar of it is just far enough away to not be overstimulating. the rest of the night is blanketed in snow and stillness.

you nearly trip as you begin to walk again, panic unfurling in your chest with each step.

(there's no way michael came all the way to your city, on a fucking last minute flight no less, for you. there's no literally no fucking way.)

why would he anyway? to try and salvage your not relationship? that hardly logical. there has to be another reason— his team has had him in a few PR campaigns lately, maybe... maybe that's it.

(you know that you are lying to yourself.)

you slip, just for a step or two, on some ice that's beneath the layer of fluffy snow. barely, you keep yourself upright, your arms flying up to find your balance once more. you take a steadying breath, pressing a hand to your chest.

"you should be more careful."

the blood in your veins freezes, numb and chilled like the air around you. your head jerks up.

kaiser sits on a bench, about ten paces in from of you. his arms are spread out over the back of it. he regards you with a tilt of his head, almost playful.

he looks you up and down, voice full of poison, "you could have hurt yourself."

"why the fuck are you here?" your voice barely manages to stay steady.

"why wouldn't i be?" kaiser shakes his head, a laugh bubbling in his chest. the cadence of it makes you feel nothing but unease. "i've got a match in London. i'm just picking you up."

"what are you talking about?" you swallow, audibly. you know that he hears it.

"don't be obtuse." he stands up. your stomach fills with leaden dread.

"you don't be obtuse," you snap back. "we're done. this—" you point between the two of you, "— is over."

"that's a mutual decision." he steps toward you.

you step back. "no, it's not."

kaiser is faster than you, he's up against your front in a moment. it makes you stumble back, nearly falling on the same patch of ice as before.

deftly, he gets an arm around your waist. the force of it is immediately too much, too tight, too hard. you're pulled against him, chest-to-chest. you brace your hands on his shoulders, some attempt at distance, but he doesn't budge. he stares down at you, the cold heat of his own presence engulfing you effortlessly.

"i-it's not," you whisper, voice wobbling. "you need to leave."

"you're an idiot."

"please let go."

"now, you're doing this on purpose, aren't you?" kaiser smiles, something acidic that you can almost taste.

he bends the two of you, so your back arches. you scramble against him for some purchase.

"there's nothing to 'let go'," his sneers. you hit your fist against his shoulder. "you're coming with me to London, and you'll stop throwing this tantrum now, or along the way."

"it's a not fucking tantrum!" you snap at him. your voice matches the roar of the river. you meet his gaze, angry slipping into your tone as it so often does with him. "we are done. i don't want anything to do with you, michael— especially now. i can't believe you hopped on a fucking plane to, what, harass me on my own turf?"

his palms circles your jaw in a swift, uncomfortably fast movement. the pressure of him is unyielding. you can't look anywhere other than him.

the way he looks at you scares you, now more than ever. the frigid blue of his eyes is haunting and as hollow as it is full of vitriol. anger. all directed at you.

"i 'hopped on a plane' to take you home," kaiser dips you further. if he wasn't holding you, you'd crash to the ground. "i should've done so earlier, but i didn't expect that you'd lose your shit so quickly."

you weren't—, "i’m not—"

his grip on your jaw grows tighter. from a distance, this may look romantic to an onlooker.

from your position, you are in the jaws of a beast that you thought you had escaped.

"you're mine—" he pats your cheek, hard, as he tells you. the angle is bad, given it's with the same hand that's holding your jaw. your brain rattles inside of your skull. "don't think you can run away just because you got a bit scared."

"that's not why i broke up with you—"

"but, it is."

you want to cry, run away, jump in that goddamn fucking river. "no—"

"i get it," kaiser noses into your cheek. he's just as cold as you are. his voice is too soft; it unnerves you. "it's scary, loving someone. i'm scared too"

"i—" you don't love him, you can't love him—

he pulls back just enough to dip your body as far as it can go, and look into your eyes, his own pupils blown.

"let's be scared together," he says, just above a whisper, before slotting his lips against yours.

you slam your fist on his shoulders, his chest, the back of his head— you don't fucking care. whatever you can reach. kaiser doesn't relent. instead, he licks into your mouth. kisses you filthy in a public park just because he can.

maybe his words seem romantic, if you were to recount them to someone else. maybe. maybe someone could read his plane ride to you as a grand, romantically-driven gesture.

but, as he holds your head squarely in place, and fucks your mouth with his tongue, stealing your words and breath in tandem— you know, so lucidly, that none of kaiser intent here is 'romantic'. not in a way that's normal, that's sane.

no, this is the only way a deeper connection can exist for him, you think. the hand on your jaw slips down to your throat, holding you there. it's a collar and kaiser's holding the leash.

you whimper; you feel so foolish. you feel so fucking stupid for thinking you could disentangle yourself from him so easily.

"do you get it now?" kaiser says against you lips.

all you can do is nod, it's all the action he allows you.

all of the fights and tension that made connection between you before so intoxicating— it evolved into this. it was always destined to. you've been ensnared since day one, but didn't have the foresight to see you.

kaiser did, though.

as he pulls away, you're light-headed. he rights you and steadies you at the waist. he pats your head and even coos at you.

"are you done now?" he begins to walk you with a hand at your lower back— back in the direction you came. probably toward the nice hotel in the center of town where he undoubtedly has a suite. where he'll fuck you stupid into the king mattress. "if you cry, i'll just make it worse."

'worse'.

you shake your head, hard and fast, and suck down any tears beading at the corners of your eyes.

he seems pleased. "good."

there's nothing you can do but walk by his side. this has always been his design, even if you couldn't see it. regardless of any attempts to sever things and run off, even cleanly, this is where you'll end up.

hip-to-hip, with his hand on your lower back. with the promise of pain and pleasure doled out to you in equal measure.

as you step through the doors of the, as expected, upscale hotel, a wave of warm, fragranced air hits you. and with it, some part of you sags, defeated so simply. crushed. you sniffle and rub at your eyes.

(you don't see kaiser smiling at your side. you don't see the way he slips the concierge a wad of bills with the understanding that he'll be given a room far away from others, and that you won't be disturbed.

he has work to do. you— were going to fucking leave him? he— he needs to make sure that you understand that that is not your choice to make.

and, as he sees you, stifling tears and shaking like a leaf, your little act shattered so seamlessly, he thinks you really are starting to get it.)

you are his.

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