smokeandwords

[smokeandwords]

Notify Me When You’re Mine

pairing: kpop idol x reader

description: K-pop idol Seo Jihwan crosses the line between admiration and obsession when a devoted fan catches his eye—and dares to look away.

warning/s: Yandere behavior, stalking, obsession, emotional manipulation, kidnapping, confinement, unhealthy relationship dynamics.

note: just a quick something. hope you enjoy this! i've been busy with irl stuff so apologies! tags will be added tomorrow as well as other links.

by the way, you can still reserve your copy of sovereign's reign ebook + its freebies until 30th of June! the freebies will no longer be available when regular purchase starts rolling. (w/c includes something from king callixto's pov).

Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar

You were just one of millions. Or so you told yourself.

Each time Seo Jihwan went live, your name would pop up in the chat box like it always did—early, dedicated, and filled with praise or playful teasing that seemed to go unnoticed among the flood of hearts and comments. Yet somehow, that never discouraged you. You were just a blip in his world, after all. A mere fan among millions.

Still, it didn’t stop you from showing up.

Every livestream, you’d prepare your space. Light off. Phone fully charged. Notifications muted except for one: his. You didn’t even have to wait for the bell anymore. The moment his familiar face popped onto your screen, dark eyes crinkling with a soft smile, your world felt quieter—lighter.

You’d send him stickers, those virtual gifts that cost embarrassingly real money, and his eyes would always flicker when he saw your username float up the screen. But you thought nothing of it. Fans lived for scraps. It wasn’t unusual to want to feel seen, even if you weren’t. Not really.

Then, one day, you did something stupid.

You shared a post—a single image—of another idol. Not even Jihwan’s rival or anything. Just a new guy from a rising rookie group. You thought the picture was funny. The idol was pulling some weird face mid-performance. You reblogged it and added a laughing emoji. That was it.

What you didn’t know was that Jihwan saw it.

You didn’t know that he wasn’t like the others.

━━━ ✦ ━━━

The livestream that followed felt… off.

His smile was forced, stretched too tight across his flawless face. The comments scrolled, and he barely read them. His fans—your community—were worried. He waved it off, saying he was tired, had been overworked, that his company finally granted him a break. A few days off. A chance to recharge.

"Maybe I’ll travel a bit," he murmured, eyes no longer focused on the camera. "Need to clear my head."

You typed something sweet. Something supportive. You even sent him a gift. It didn’t float on screen like usual.

You thought the app bugged out.

But it didn’t.

He had seen your username. Ignored it.

For the first time since following him, you logged off early, feeling cold in your chest and oddly hollow.

━━━ ✦ ━━━

A week passed.

No livestreams. No updates. Just a single headline from his agency, translated into your feed: “Seo Jihwan to Take Personal Time: Travel Abroad for Mental Recovery”.

The comments were flooded with love and concern. You sent your own too, wishing him rest. He didn’t reply, but that wasn’t new.

You returned to your routines. Your normal, quiet life. A place where your feet were always on the ground, unlike him. Unlike Jihwan, who floated above the world, too perfect to be real. You went to work. Came home. Grocery-shopped on Wednesdays. You still scrolled through fan accounts, watched old clips of his stage performances. Laughed quietly at old edits.

Then you started feeling it. That sense of something watching you. But never directly. You’d see a man standing just beyond the corner of your eye when walking home. A dark car idling longer than usual across the street. A buzz in your phone with no notification. Silly things. Maybe your mind was tired. Maybe you were reading too much into nothing.

Until he showed up.

━━━ ✦ ━━━

It was raining.

The sound of water drummed softly against the windows of the café you always visited after work. It was small, quiet, tucked beside a bookstore. Your safe space. The barista knew your name, your usual order.

You were sipping from your mug, scrolling absentmindedly through your phone, when the door opened. A figure stepped in, hood drawn, head tilted slightly downward.

You wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t stopped beside your table.

"You're always here around this time."

You looked up.

At first, your brain didn’t register what you were seeing. It couldn’t. Your eyes scanned the familiar jawline, the deep-set eyes, the soft lips that had smiled at millions.

Seo Jihwan.

The man on your screen. The idol.

In real life.

Soaking wet from the rain, yet still breathtaking.

"Sorry, I know this is weird," he said, voice low but gentle. "Can I sit?"

You blinked. You must have said yes, because the next moment he was sliding into the chair across from you, pulling back his hood.

He looked exactly the same as his photos—no, better. There was no angle to hide behind here, no filter. He was raw and real and right in front of you. You couldn’t even breathe.

“I needed a break,” he said, sipping the drink he ordered as if this were any other conversation. “Came to clear my head. But really, I just wanted to meet you.”

Your heart thudded once—then faster.

“You… you know me?” you whispered.

His lips curled slightly. “Of course. I waited for your messages every time I went live. You always sent those silly stickers. The bread one. And that weird cat.”

You wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or both.

“But I noticed something,” he continued, voice calm but eyes sharper now. “You reblogged another idol’s picture.”

You froze.

“I know it’s stupid. Petty. I should be used to fans looking at other idols. It’s normal,” he murmured. “But you… you’re not just another fan, are you?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but no sound came.

He leaned forward.

“You belong to me.”

Your breath hitched.

“I thought maybe you didn’t know that yet. That I’d need to show you.”

━━━ ✦ ━━━

He moved fast.

Faster than you thought possible.

You weren’t even sure how it happened, but within hours, he had swept you into his world. Into a rented flat that looked more like a luxury safehouse. He gave you clean clothes. Made you tea. Held your hand like he’d known you forever.

He smiled when you asked how he found you.

“Do you really think it was hard?” he replied, almost amused. “You use the same username everywhere. You never log off. You have a routine. A pattern. You don’t even lock your accounts.”

It should’ve scared you. Maybe it did. But he was Jihwan. The man you spent countless nights watching, wishing, longing for.

And now he was here. Holding you like you mattered.

When he kissed your forehead, your brain short-circuited.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” he whispered. “Me, here. With you. You’ve been calling out for me. I just answered.”

━━━ ✦ ━━━

Days passed. Maybe weeks.

Time blurred inside the glass walls of the apartment. You didn’t leave. He didn’t let you. Not out of cruelty, no—he said it was for your safety. That fans could be obsessive. That people might not understand. That the media would twist it all.

You believed him. You had to.

And he was so gentle.

He cooked for you. Taught you Korean words softly, patiently. Let you sleep in his arms. There were moments he looked at you like you were fragile glass. His fingers would tremble when he touched your face.

But there were also moments when he would grow distant. Cold.

Like when you accidentally glanced at a variety show playing on the TV and chuckled at another idol’s joke.

The screen went dark instantly.

His jaw clenched.

You didn’t watch TV after that.

━━━ ✦ ━━━

One night, he came home with a new phone.

“Here,” he said, setting it in your lap. “Your old one’s gone.”

You blinked. “Gone?”

“I threw it out,” he said. “Too many distractions. Too many temptations.”

Your hands tightened around the blanket on your lap.

He cupped your face, gentle but firm.

“I love you,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “I chose you. You should feel special. Millions of people scream my name, but it’s your name I waited for every night. You kept me going.”

You wanted to believe him.

So you nodded.

━━━ ✦ ━━━

Eventually, the sky turned grey more often. The city blurred beyond the windows. You forgot the date. He kept you fed, clothed, warm. But he also kept you quiet. Isolated.

Your friends stopped messaging.

Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe you just never saw it.

“People are selfish,” he said once, brushing your hair back as you sat in his lap. “They’d pull you away from me. Make you doubt what we have.”

You didn’t answer.

He tilted your face up, made you look at him.

“You love me, don’t you?”

“…Yes.”

“Then remember your place,” he whispered. “You’re mine. You always were.”

━━━ ✦ ━━━

Sometimes, you’d lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling. Wondering how it happened. How you ended up here. How a reblogged photo turned into a new life.

But when he curled around you, arms tightening like chains, breath warm against your skin—you felt something calm your chest.

Because wasn’t this what you wanted?

To be loved. Chosen.

Maybe you just hadn’t realized what it would cost.

Or how far he’d go.

But he came for you. Out of everyone, he came for you.

It was a dream come true.

Wasn’t it?

Maybe if you remind yourself hard enough, you’ll remember to be grateful.

Maybe if you never look at another idol again, he’ll smile like he used to.

Maybe if you behave, he won’t have to show you your place again.

After all… he’s watching.

He always was.

[smokeandwords]

I decided to treat you all to a terrifying piece. Now this man will be accurate to his time period and terrifying!

Also, for @coolgirl32 since I haven’t fulfilled their request yet! So I combined those aspects with this lovely man. It’s not too detailed since I’m still trying to get out of my slump.

Yandere Head Canons: Lock and Key

Yandere 1950’s Husband x Fem Reader

TW: Yandere themes, obsession, MISOGYNY (microdose), BEING HELD AGAINST YOUR WILL (it isn’t obvious), isolation, HORROR, murder (mention), extreme jealousy, possessiveness, DO NOT ROMANTICIZE THESE BEHAVIORS OR THEMES, and OBSESSION

Robert Jones

Robert was your husband, the only man you’ve ever dated. He was a lawyer at his own law firm. Cold and calculated to others, but he had a soft spot for you. The ideal husband who was only loving towards you… almost too loving.

“Darling, I’m home!” He would always greet you with a hug and a kiss before he’d enjoy the dinner you’d make him.

Robert always sung your praises at how well you kept your home. The instant you washed the dishes, he’d hug you from behind to sniff your hair like a dog. He never seemed to get enough of you… he’s been this way since the two of you were in school.

His hands often grabbed at your hips and thighs. You swore you felt him shake as if he was holding himself back from devouring you like a rabid animal.

Robert was clingy behind closed doors and heavens he was such a possessive man… he had a long list of rules of her interactions with others. Especially other men.

“You’re my wife, dear. I can’t have another man seeing how beautiful you are.” Robert would whisper from the crook of your neck. “I’d have to kill them.”

Hell, he didn’t want you to even speak to the milkman nor the mailman. The reason being that you were too pretty and he wasn’t there to protect you. Even the other housewives weren’t allowed over.

But his consistent isolation made it so lonely… so you began to ask if you could have a job just like a few of the other women had.

Every time you asked if you could get a job, he’d always scoff. He was indeed a typical man of this time period.

“Women can’t work. They’re meant to stay at home and take care of the house.” Robert would always tell you with a click of his tongue. “Do I not give you a cushy enough life?”

You’d always reassure him and he’d smile at your submission.

“We should try for a baby soon… I hate leaving you alone in this house all the time.” He sighed. “Work has been so busy… but you’ll look so pretty all swollen. Don’t you think so, darling?”

Now you were never lacking in the bathroom. Robert was all you knew after all… and he was well endowed. Yet a small part of you wondered if other women’s husbands were constantly on them all the time. That their husbands would obsessively whisper how much they belonged to them…

Yet Robert never allowed you the time to think of it too often before he’d pull you into another round. He couldn’t stand it when your mind wandered from him. He should be all you think about because he was your husband after all.

If only you knew the lengths he had went to in order to be your husband. It was hard to hide all those bodies back in your school days. He was just lucky the police never traced the missing kids back to him.

Gods, Robert wouldn’t know what to do if you hadn’t chosen him. If you hadn’t chosen him to be your perfect provider and future father of your children. He was sure he would have been in a psych ward. Yet you chose him, like the kind person you were… so perfect and obedient to him. He loved you so much!

“I love you, darling.” Robert smiled as he held you close. His fingers traced shapes down your back as he sighed happily.

He would always keep you close under lock and key.

[smokeandwords]

Womb For You Male X Female Reader Part Two

Warnings: emotional manipulation, gaslighting, confinement, obsessive behavior, non-consensual touching, psychological abuse, forced domesticity, surrogacy coercion, subtle reproductive control, disturbing relationship dynamics, power imbalance, desperation, attempted escape, and implied sexual trauma.

PART ONE HERE

Y/N had just come in from her afternoon walk when she heard the soft clack of heels echoing through the front hall — not the gentle soles of Camille the maid, not the heavy boot-steps of Elias.

Heels. Precise. Purposeful.

She stepped into the hallway and froze.

Vivienne stood near the entryway, draped in a cream coat over a dark green sheath dress, sunglasses perched high on her sculpted cheekbones. Her platinum hair was twisted into a perfect chignon, not a strand out of place.

She looked like a magazine cover — aloof, untouchable, airbrushed in real life.

Their eyes met.

Vivienne slid the sunglasses off with a flick of her fingers, revealing pale gray eyes that didn’t betray surprise or warmth. Just… acknowledgement.

Y/N swallowed. “Hi.”

Vivienne’s lips curved into a tight smile. More reflex than feeling.

“Y/N,” she said smoothly. “You’re... showing.”

Her eyes dipped — not long, not fondly — but enough to assess the swell under Y/N’s sweater.

“Yeah,” Y/N said, voice quiet. “It’s starting to feel real.”

Vivienne nodded once, as if checking off a box.

There was no how are you feeling? No do you need anything?

No... connection.

“It’s good that the pregnancy is stable,” Vivienne murmured. “I’m only here for a few days — we have a gala next weekend, and the guest list is exhausting. I need to approve the caterers and dress arrangements. That sort of thing.”

Y/N said nothing.

Vivienne’s gaze flicked over her again.

“We’ll have someone come in to update your wardrobe,” she added, almost as an afterthought. “You’re starting to outgrow things, and I’m sure Elias hasn’t thought of it.”

A pause.

“You’ll look… better in something tailored.”

Y/N blinked, unsure if it was an insult, a gesture of care, or just a way to control how she appeared in public.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly.

Vivienne’s forced smile returned, thinner this time. She slid her sunglasses back on, already halfway turned.

“Rest well. I’ll be upstairs.”

And then she was gone — vanishing up the stairs with the grace of someone who had never been asked to clean her own home or speak more than necessary.

Y/N stood in the hall, one hand on the curve of her belly, staring at the place where Vivienne had just stood.

She didn’t want to be here.

That much was clear.

Not with Y/N. Not with Elias. Not with the baby.

Not really.

And suddenly, the lie in the medical chart — the one Y/N had tried to swallow — bubbled up again, sour and undeniable.

Because Vivienne hadn’t looked at her belly with wonder.

She had looked at it like a transaction.

The dining room table had never felt so long.

Y/N sat on one side of it — in her usual place, the soft light of the chandelier glowing against her skin and the curve of her now-visible belly. She wore one of the new dresses that had arrived that morning. Silky, fitted but modest. Soft blue. The tags had still been attached. A maid had cut them off for her.

Elias sat beside her, as he always did.

And Vivienne sat across from them — distant, silent, sipping white wine like it was water.

The meal was decadent: pan-seared duck, asparagus with lemon zest, and a delicate beet risotto. But Y/N barely tasted any of it. Every bite was a task.

The silence was unbearable.

“So,” Elias said at last, dabbing the corner of his mouth with his napkin, “we should think about nursery design soon. I was considering the east wing, perhaps turning the old music room into a proper suite.”

Vivienne didn’t look up. “Do whatever you like.”

“I’d like your input, darling.”

She met his eyes. “No, you don’t.”

Elias smiled — that slow, gliding expression Y/N had come to recognize. The one that looked like kindness but felt like power.

“I think soft green walls,” he said lightly, turning back to Y/N. “Wouldn’t that be nice? With light wood furniture. We can have a rocking chair custom made for you.”

Y/N shifted uncomfortably. “That’s… kind. But I really haven’t thought about any of that yet.”

“Nonsense. We should spoil you.”

Vivienne set her glass down a little harder than necessary.

“You’ve already done that,” she murmured. “Haven’t you?”

Elias didn’t respond right away. Just refilled her wine for her.

“Isn’t it incredible,” he said after a long pause, “how nature finds a way?”

Y/N looked between them, her heart beginning to pound.

Vivienne’s fork scraped against her plate. “Let’s not pretend this is about nature.”

Elias’s hand drifted to Y/N’s — gently, warm — curling his fingers around hers with practiced affection.

“She’s part of our family now,” he said softly, not looking at Vivienne.

Y/N wanted to pull her hand away. She didn’t.

Vivienne stood without finishing her meal. “I have a headache.”

“Would you like me to bring you something?” Y/N offered quickly, just to break the tension.

Vivienne’s lips twitched. “No need. We have staff for that.”

And with that, she was gone.

Elias squeezed Y/N’s hand once before releasing it. “Don’t mind her,” he said smoothly. “She struggles with change. But she’ll adjust. Eventually.”

Y/N offered a tight smile. “Sure.”

But her stomach was knotted.

And she didn’t finish her food.

Later That Night

The house had gone quiet again.

Y/N couldn’t sleep. Her body was sore and restless. The baby kicked occasionally now — little flickers like static beneath her skin. She had started rubbing her belly without thinking, like she needed to ground herself in something real.

She wandered the halls with a mug of warm milk, hoping it might help.

Then she heard it.

Voices.

Muffled. Behind the closed door of Elias’s office. She crept closer, careful not to let her footsteps echo against the marble. The door wasn’t open, but sound leaked through — fractured, tense.

She recognized Vivienne’s voice first. Tight. Controlled. Angry.

“You said this would be temporary. You said I just had to smile until the child was born.”

“And you’ve done that, haven’t you?” Elias’s voice — calm, syrupy. Dangerous. “You’ve done very little, but still.”

“Don’t you dare—”

“You didn’t want the child. You didn’t want the responsibility. You didn’t even want me. You just wanted the optics. Now that your gala season is back in full swing, you think you can wriggle out of this?”

“I upheld my part of the deal. I let you have your fantasy. Your little domestic goddess.”

Y/N’s heart dropped.

“She’s nothing like you,” Elias said, voice lowering. “She’s warm. Kind. Innocent. She listens. She trusts. She’s not hollow. She’s not cold.”

“She’s your surrogate.”

“She’s more than that.”

There was a pause. Then Vivienne’s voice — clipped and colder than ever.

“I want out. When the baby is born, you’ll finalize the dissolution. That was the agreement.”

“And I’ve never broken a deal,” Elias replied smoothly. “After the birth, we’ll file the papers.”

“Then this is almost over.”

“For you, maybe.”

Silence stretched.

Y/N’s head was spinning.

She began backing away, breath caught in her throat — until she turned a corner and jumped.

Camille stood there, a tray in her hands, eyes wide.

“I—I’m sorry,” the maid whispered. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Do you… need anything?��

Y/N shook her head, heart pounding. “No. I was just…”

“Walking.”

They stared at each other.

Camille glanced back toward the hall, then stepped a little closer.

“You should go lie down,” she said softly. “You need rest. It’s better if you’re not seen wandering at night.”

There was no threat in her voice — just something almost like pity.

Y/N nodded, wordless.

She walked back to her room, shut the door, and stood there in the dark, one hand over her stomach.

She wasn’t part of a family.

She was part of a deal.

And soon… her part would be over.

But Elias?

He had no intention of letting her go.

The gala had begun two hours ago.

Laughter floated up through the walls, muffled and elegant. The clinking of crystal glasses echoed faintly through the stairwell. Music—something orchestral and soft—drifted like perfume through the halls. Even with her door closed, Y/N could feel it.

The house wasn’t hers tonight.

It belonged to people with pearls at their throats and art history degrees, men with gray temples and wealth that smelled like cologne and quiet violence.

She stayed upstairs.

Curled on the velvet loveseat in her room, wearing yoga pants and an oversized sweater, hair tied up, glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. A bowl of sliced fruit sat untouched beside her, condensation pooling at its base.

She tried reading one of her fantasy novels—dragons, kingdoms, high stakes—but the words blurred.

She tried watching TV—some reality show rerun—but it all felt loud and empty.

The baby kicked once, and she sighed, rubbing her belly gently.

You're not missing anything, she told herself.

But curiosity tugged at her, the kind that builds like static in your bones.

She just wanted to look.

The hallway outside was quiet, lit in soft golden pools of light from the sconces. Her bare feet made no sound on the polished wood floors.

She padded slowly down the corridor, past her guestroom, past the quiet art gallery wall, until she reached the top of the grand staircase.

She stayed in the shadows.

The view from the second floor was almost cinematic. The massive chandelier glittered like a thousand tiny stars, suspended over a sea of silk dresses and sleek tuxedos. Waiters in white jackets glided between guests with silver trays. The air shimmered with perfume and soft laughter and secrets.

Vivienne was easy to spot—dressed in shimmering gold, standing near a marble pillar, laughing too loudly at something a man in designer glasses had said. Her makeup was flawless. Her posture rigid. She didn’t once glance toward the stairs.

Y/N’s eyes drifted through the crowd—faces she didn’t know, champagne bubbling in delicate flutes—and then landed on him.

Elias.

Tall. Commanding. Dressed in a tailored black tuxedo that looked like it had been sewn onto his body. He stood with two older men, nodding politely, but he didn’t laugh. His smile was the same one he always wore around investors. Measured. Calculated.

He hadn’t seen her.

She watched for a moment longer. Just a glimpse. Just a taste of the world below.

She was about to slip away when—

“Enjoying the view?”

His voice. Right behind her.

Y/N jumped, spinning to find Elias standing one step up on the stairs, just over her shoulder. He hadn’t made a sound.

Her breath caught. “I—how did you—?”

His lips curved into a soft, amused smile. “I always know where you are.”

She looked down at her clothes, embarrassed. “I wasn’t trying to— I just wanted to see.”

He tilted his head, studying her like something rare. His eyes dropped briefly to the round swell of her stomach, then back up to her face.

“You should’ve come down.”

“I didn’t think I was supposed to.”

“You’re part of this house,” he said, stepping down beside her. “You belong here more than most of them.”

She swallowed. “I don’t have anything to wear.”

He reached up, gently brushing a stray hair from her cheek.

“Next time,” he murmured. “I’ll have something waiting for you.”

The sounds of the gala continued behind them — music swelling, laughter blooming, glasses clinking — but up here, it was just them. Close. Quiet. Intimate.

Elias leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.

“You don’t have to hide, Y/N. You’re not some secret.”

She looked away, suddenly cold despite the heat in the air.

“But I feel like one.”

He said nothing.

Just smiled.

And offered his arm.

“Come. You’ve seen it now. Let me walk you back to bed.”

The gala faded behind the walls like a distant memory. Y/N had long since retreated to her room, changed back into her pajamas—and washed her face.

But sleep wouldn’t come.

The house was too alive. Beneath the silence, she could still feel the hum of music, the ghost of clinking glasses, the perfume of strangers lingering in the halls.

She lay in bed, one hand draped over her belly, her lamp dimmed to a golden glow.

The baby gave a small, firm kick against her palm.

Y/N smiled a little despite herself.

Then—a soft knock.

Not on the main door.

On her bedroom door.

Before she could answer, it opened.

Elias.

Still dressed in his black tuxedo, jacket removed, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, the top two buttons undone. His hair was slightly tousled, the sharp edge of the night worn down into something looser, darker.

“Are you awake?” he asked softly, voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded, heart already fluttering. “Yeah.”

He stepped in quietly and closed the door behind him.

“I just wanted to check on you. You disappeared so quickly.”

Y/N shifted upright against the pillows, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “The noise made it hard to sleep.”

Elias moved to the side of the bed and hesitated for a moment—then sat down gently beside her.

“You should’ve let me introduce you,” he said, looking at her with something like regret. “You looked beautiful, even just watching from the stairs.”

She glanced down at her lap. “I wasn’t dressed for it.”

His eyes dropped to her belly, softening. “You’re glowing.”

He reached out—without asking—and placed a hand over the curve of her bump.

Y/N froze for half a second.

But his hand was warm. Firm. Gentle.

The baby kicked once beneath his palm.

Elias smiled.

“She knows me.”

Y/N swallowed, unsure what to say.

He didn’t remove his hand.

Instead, slowly, Elias shifted—laying down beside her, turning onto his side to face her, his hand still resting protectively over the bump. They were barely inches apart.

“Is this okay?” he asked quietly.

Y/N hesitated. Her body stiffened.

But something in his voice, in the way he looked at her—not demanding, but expectant—made her nod.

“…It’s fine.”

He exhaled, closing his eyes briefly, like he’d been waiting for that permission.

His palm moved gently in slow circles across her stomach. Tender. Reassuring.

“You’ve done so well,” he whispered. “So strong. So soft. I can’t stop thinking about how perfect this child is going to be. How perfect you’ve made her.”

Y/N’s muscles began to relax, almost involuntarily. The gentle pressure of his hand, the rhythm of his voice—it made something inside her quiet.

Like her body responded before her mind could fight it.

“You were made for this,” Elias murmured. “For creating. For nurturing. For being here.”

Y/N’s eyes slipped closed. Just for a second.

He kept rubbing slow, steady circles, the warmth of his body seeping into the bed beside her.

“I’ll always take care of you,” he whispered. “You don’t have to think. You just have to be mine.”

Her breathing deepened.

She didn’t answer.

She didn’t want this.

But the way he touched her, the way he spoke—it lulled her like a song she almost believed in.

When she finally drifted to sleep, he was still there.

Watching her.

Smiling.

The moon had long since passed its peak, casting silver light through the sheer curtains of the guestroom. The house had gone utterly silent, the glittering remnants of the gala resting downstairs like the bones of some elegant beast.

And in the guest bed, Elias Locke slept beside her.

Y/N didn’t stir, her body curled slightly on her side, hands cradled beneath her cheek. Her breath was even, peaceful, lips parted slightly. The soft rise and fall of her chest mirrored the quiet rhythm of the baby within her — steady, safe.

Elias had one arm draped lightly across her waist, his other hand still resting on the swell of her belly, thumb brushing against the fabric of her sleep shirt even in dreams.

His face was calm. Content.

There was no rage. No calculation.

Just devotion.

Possessive. Unshakable.

Like this was exactly where he was meant to be.

For the first time in weeks, he slept without waking.

At dawn, the first sliver of light crept across the floorboards, and Elias stirred.

He blinked slowly, eyes adjusting to the soft gray glow of morning. Y/N was still asleep — lashes casting shadows on her cheeks, her lips trembling slightly in whatever dream she lingered in.

He watched her for a long moment, silent.

Then he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Soft. Purposeful. A claiming more than affection.

His voice was barely a whisper.

“You’re mine.”

She shifted slightly in her sleep, but didn’t wake.

Elias pulled back and gently lifted the covers to tuck them over her shoulders. His fingertips lingered at her temple, brushing a strand of hair back with reverence. He watched the curve of her stomach beneath the blanket—his child resting safely within her.

The life he created.

The future she would give him.

He stood, rolled his shoulders, and adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, still rumpled from the night before. There was no guilt in his steps as he walked across the room. No hesitation.

This wasn’t something shameful.

It was something earned.

Something fated.

He opened the door quietly, pausing once to look back.

She still hadn’t moved.

Still safe.

Still his.

Then he stepped out into the hall and returned to his own bedroom—just in time for the house to wake.

Six months.

Y/N was officially in her third trimester.

She had never been so aware of her body — the way her back ached constantly, how her ankles puffed by mid-afternoon, how her belly strained every shirt she wore. Even her thoughts felt swollen. Everything was heavier now. Louder.

But still…

People said she was glowing.

Even she couldn’t deny it. Her skin looked clear and warm, her hair thicker, shinier. Her eyes had a softness to them now — and Elias noticed every detail.

He noticed everything.

He was obsessed with her.

More than ever.

Always touching — a hand on her back when she stood, her elbow when they walked, the small of her spine when she paused mid-sentence. His palm rested constantly over her belly, as though he could feel the baby through sheer will.

And when the baby kicked, he looked like he could cry.

Y/N tried to keep some space. But it was hard. He was gentle. Attentive. Present in a way no one had ever been for her.

When her feet hurt, he rubbed them. When she cried for no reason, he sat with her quietly until the tears passed. When she couldn’t sleep, he read aloud from her pregnancy books or played music softly until she drifted off.

She told herself this was about the baby. Not her.

But Elias didn’t just look at her belly.

He looked at her.

Like he owned her.

Like she was already his.

Vivienne still came and went. Always brief. Always with a bag, a phone call, a schedule. She barely looked at Y/N anymore — but when she did, there was no hatred. No warmth either. Just cold distance.

She hadn’t once touched Y/N’s stomach. Or asked how she was feeling.

Y/N had started helping decorate the nursery — soft green wallpaper, tiny golden stars. Bookshelves. A hand-painted rocking chair. Elias insisted she choose the fabrics, the curtains, the crib sheets.

Vivienne had offered no opinion.

And the hormones?

They were ruthless.

Y/N cried over nothing. Over a cup of tea being too bitter. Over an ad about adoption. Over a duck waddling across a street in a YouTube video.

Worse still… she was horny.

Constantly. Desperately. Her body was begging for something she didn’t dare name.

She’d joked about it to Mariah over the phone one night, laughing through a pillow while curled on the nursery couch.

And her friend — bless her soul — had snorted and said:

“Girl, just sleep with the husband already. You’re halfway there.”

Y/N had hissed. “Mariah.”

“I’m just saying,” her friend teased. “The man worships you. If he didn’t have a ring on his finger, I’d be cheering you on.”

Y/N hadn’t laughed. Not really.

Instead, she had changed the subject and — for the first time in a while — confided in Mariah about the mistake. The doctor’s chart, the argument behind the office door, the chart that magically changed.

She told her everything.

Mariah had gone quiet at first. Then offered what Y/N wanted to hear.

“Maybe… it was just a lovers’ quarrel, Y/N. You said Vivienne looked checked out, right? She probably feels replaced. Like her body failed her. I mean… wouldn’t you be distant, too?”

Y/N had nodded.

She had to believe that.

She had to believe this was just complicated.

Not wrong.

But in quiet moments, when Elias brushed her hair and said things like “You were made for this,” and “She’ll have your heart,” and “I’ve never known peace until you,”—

Y/N felt it.

That creeping sense of something off.

Still… she reminded herself:

She was almost there.

Almost done.

She’d give them the baby. She’d get her final check. And she’d go back to her own life. Her own body. Her own choices.

Even if a small, quiet part of her might… miss this.

The luxury.

The comfort.

The being wanted.

It started with a wave of dizziness.

The baby had been kicking all day — stretching against her ribs like it was running out of space — and now, at nearly midnight, Y/N felt the ground tilt beneath her feet as she stood in the hallway outside her bathroom.

She clutched the wall, eyes closing.

Then, suddenly, Elias was there.

Strong hands steadied her waist, his voice low, firm, steady in her ear. “Careful. I’ve got you.”

She didn’t remember calling for him. But he was always there when she stumbled — like the house whispered to him when she wavered.

She was wearing a soft cotton dress. No bra. The weight of anything against her chest made her feel suffocated. She’d left on a pair of panties more out of routine than comfort, but lately, everything touching her skin felt wrong. Too tight. Too heavy. Too much.

“I feel off,” she murmured as he helped her into bed. “Everything feels… wrong.”

“You’re just tired,” Elias whispered, tucking the blanket over her hips. “The baby’s growing fast. You’re carrying so much.”

He lay beside her without asking.

He always did now.

At first, it was small things. A hand on her ankle. A rub on her back. A kiss to her temple before he said goodnight.

But tonight…

His hand rested on her belly again — warm, reverent — moving in slow, rhythmic circles.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, brushing strands of damp hair from her forehead. “So soft. So full.”

She leaned into the touch without meaning to. Her body ached, and his hand felt like balm. Familiar. Heavy and grounding. It soothed her fraying nerves the way warm sun settles over chilled skin.

She didn’t notice when his hand drifted.

From her belly to the curve beneath it… then upward.

Fingers grazing the underside of her breast.

She inhaled sharply — but didn’t move.

He paused, barely a breath of hesitation — and then his palm cupped her fully.

She almost moaned.

God, it was like scratching an itch buried deep in the muscle. Like heat blooming through bruised bone. That dark, hidden ache she hadn’t been able to soothe — he found it.

Her back arched slightly.

Her body, swollen and sensitive, betrayed her.

“Is this okay?” he whispered, mouth close to her ear now. “You’re trembling.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

But she didn’t stop him.

His hand moved again — down her side, tracing the curve of her hip, down along her thigh.

And then… between.

The pad of his fingers brushed gently against the fabric of her underwear.

She gasped.

“Shhh,” he murmured, stroking with slow pressure. “Let me help you.”

Her hips twitched.

She hated this.

She hated how good it felt.

How relieving it was — like slipping into a hot bath after holding tension too long. Like pressure releasing from deep beneath her skin.

He pulled the band of her underwear aside with slow, deliberate care.

And then his hand was there — gliding between her folds, stroking with practiced rhythm, like he’d memorized her already.

Her breathing picked up.

He didn’t speak again.

He just moved — slow, patient, relentless — like he had all the time in the world to unravel her.

Y/N gripped the sheets.

Some part of her screamed that this was wrong.

But another part — the part that had been aching for weeks, starved of real touch, stripped of her own body and given only service and care — that part welcomed it.

She turned her face into the pillow, tears burning the corners of her eyes.

Not from pain.

From shame.

From how good it felt.

The next morning, Y/N woke up alone.

The spot beside her was cold. Undisturbed.

For a brief moment, she convinced herself it hadn’t happened. That she’d dreamed it. That the pressure between her legs, the warmth that had bloomed in her core, the way she’d come undone beneath his hand — had all been imagined.

But then she sat up, and her body remembered.

The soreness. The softness of his voice. The way he’d kissed her temple before she fell asleep, like nothing had been out of place.

Her throat tightened.

She didn’t know what disturbed her more — the act itself… or how much she’d wanted it in the moment.

She didn’t cry.

She got dressed. Slowly. Quietly. She didn’t tell anyone.

And when she passed Elias in the hall later that morning, he greeted her with a gentle hand on her back and a murmured, “How did you sleep?”

Like it was just another morning.

Like nothing had changed.

And that terrified her more than anything else.

Time Skip – Eight Months

The baby was coming soon.

Thirty-four weeks.

Y/N’s belly was full and low now. Her back ached constantly, her feet were perpetually swollen, and it felt like she hadn’t breathed properly in a month. Everything was harder — sitting, sleeping, walking — and her mood shifted by the hour.

But the house remained calm. Too calm.

Elias was more attentive than ever.

He drew her baths. Bought her new pillows. Had the kitchen staff prepare specific cravings she didn’t even realize she had. He sat with her in the nursery every evening, rubbing her feet and talking to the baby. He whispered to her stomach like it was sacred. Like she was sacred.

But not once did he mention that night.

He didn’t have to.

The way he looked at her changed.

It wasn’t admiration anymore.

It was ownership.

Sometimes Y/N would catch Vivienne watching them — quiet and distant — from a hallway or staircase. Not jealous. Not even angry. Just detached, like she’d already removed herself from this chapter.

Sometimes Y/N caught herself envying her for it.

She still called Mariah, though not often. Elias didn’t stop her. But he always hovered nearby. Listening. Watching.

And she lied.

She didn’t tell Mariah what had happened.

She just said she was tired. That the baby moved too much. That she couldn’t wait to go home. That she felt… lost.

“You’re almost there,” Mariah always said. “Just hold on. Once the baby’s out, you’re free.”

Y/N clung to that.

Freedom.

Even if it didn’t feel real anymore.

Even if part of her wasn’t sure who she’d be once this ended.

Even if she wasn’t sure Elias would ever let her go.

It started with pressure.

Low. Dull. Like a stretch of muscle too deep to soothe.

Then came the pain — crawling through her back, curling into her hips, radiating through her belly in pulses that made her fold over the bed frame, gasping for breath.

She was only thirty-five weeks. Early. Too early.

But the baby was coming.

And Y/N was not ready.

“Elias!” she cried from the bathroom floor, sweat already breaking at her brow.

He was there within seconds — hands on her waist, then her face. Calm. Always calm.

“You’re okay,” he said gently, brushing hair from her damp forehead. “I’ve been preparing for this. Everything is ready. I’ve got you.”

He didn’t sound surprised.

She expected a hospital.

Instead, he led her down a hall she hadn’t seen before.

At the end: a heavy white door. Inside, a room already glowing in soft golden light. White walls. Medical-grade equipment. A reclining birthing chair. Monitors. A tray of instruments.

A doctor and nurse were waiting.

“I—I should go to a hospital—” she gasped, clutching her belly.

“No.” Elias’s voice was velvet-wrapped steel. “You’re safer here. The baby’s safer here. These are private doctors. People I trust.”

She whimpered as another contraction rolled through her, knocking the argument from her lungs.

The next hours were hell.

Sweat soaked through her gown. Her thighs trembled with every contraction. The world blurred at the edges as pain pulled her under, again and again.

Elias never left her side.

He knelt beside her when she collapsed. He held her hand, gripped it tightly through every scream.

“Breathe,” he whispered against her ear. “You’re doing so well, my love.”

She sobbed.

“I can’t— I can’t—”

“You can. You’re strong. You were made for this.”

Her vision swam. Every breath was a knife in her lungs.

The doctor gave instructions in a calm, crisp voice.

“Ten centimeters. You need to push.”

“I can’t—!”

Elias leaned in, forehead against hers, voice full of reverent awe.

“Yes, you can. You’re mine. And you were built to do this. Bring our child into the world.”

She didn’t want to hear it.

But she pushed.

Again.

Again.

Her body broke open — fire and tearing and pressure so immense she thought her spine would snap. She screamed until her throat gave out.

Elias kissed her temple, fingers brushing her soaked jaw.

“That’s it. You’re almost there. Just one more. You’re perfect. You’re divine.”

She hated him.

She clung to him.

The room spun.

And then—

A cry.

Shrill. Wet. Alive.

The doctor caught the child and moved quickly, checking vitals, suctioning, wrapping.

Y/N collapsed back into the pillows, body trembling, soaked in sweat and blood and tears. Her hands hung limp at her sides.

She couldn’t speak.

She couldn’t think.

Elias stood.

He didn’t go to the baby.

He went to her.

Kissed her soaked forehead. Brushed her hair back like she hadn’t just been broken open in front of him.

“You did it,” he whispered. “You brought her home.”

Y/N sobbed — not from joy, but exhaustion. Numbness. Disbelief.

And when the baby was handed to Elias, not to her—

When he held her, beaming like a man who’d just completed his masterpiece—

Y/N realized:

She was no longer needed.

Two weeks had passed since the birth.

The house had shifted.

Quieter now, but not in a peaceful way. Like something was waiting just outside of view. Like she was no longer the center of the home—but a ghost living in the walls of it.

Y/N was healing slowly. Her body still sore, her stitches pulling if she moved too fast, her hips aching every time she got out of bed. She had refused narcotics, determined to stay present, even as the pain whispered through her bones.

She spent her days resting in the sunroom or the nursery lounge, reading from her small stack of postpartum books. She had read somewhere that it was better not to hold the baby if you were a surrogate. That bonding could complicate things. Make it harder to let go.

So when Elias had first offered her the baby—his voice reverent, his arms full of warm, soft new life—she had said no.

It broke something in her.

But she knew it was safer.

She still pumped milk for the baby—twice a day.

At first, she had hesitated. It was intimate. Exposing. But Elias had asked gently, so sincerely, and she felt like she owed them that. Just a little longer.

Elias was always there.

Still doting. Still watching.

He brought her meals, placed her vitamins in her palm, refilled her water glass when she wasn’t looking. He rubbed her back when she winced, adjusted her pillows when she couldn’t sleep.

“You’re recovering beautifully,” he would say softly, fingers brushing her shoulder. “You’re still glowing.”

Sometimes, when she pumped milk, she caught him watching her.

Not sexually.

Not exactly.

Just… staring. Intently. Like she was doing something sacred.

Like she was still his.

The baby—a girl—had been named Josephine.

Not Josie.

Not Jo.

Josephine.

An old name. Stately. Proper. A name Elias said had belonged to his grandmother. He spoke it with reverence, pride, almost worship.

He spent hours with her—rocking her in the nursery, humming songs in a language Y/N didn’t recognize, reading poetry aloud with a softness that made her stomach twist.

And still, whenever Y/N asked:

“When will Vivienne be back?”

Elias would smile.

“Soon, darling. She’s resting.”

Or:

“She’s at a spa in the mountains.”

Or:

“She’s working through some personal grief.”

Always a gentle lie.

Until one day… Vivienne was just there.

Y/N was walking past the nursery, water bottle in hand, dressed in one of her loose loungewear sets. Her body was still heavier, her chest sore, her gait uneven.

She paused in the doorway when she saw her.

Vivienne stood at the bassinet in a silk blouse and pearl earrings, her hand resting lightly on the edge. Josephine slept soundly inside.

Y/N hesitated, unsure if she should leave.

But Vivienne turned.

And smiled.

Cool. Tight.

“You did well,” she said softly.

Y/N blinked. “Thank you.”

Vivienne stepped forward and gently touched Y/N’s shoulder.

The touch didn’t linger.

“You made it look effortless.”

“I… tried to take care of her. My body.”

“She’s perfect,” Vivienne said. “You should be proud. You did your part.”

Y/N looked down. “I’m glad she’s healthy.”

There was a pause.

Vivienne’s eyes wandered the nursery, her voice softer now, almost casual.

“You know, Elias always wanted a big family. Six kids, maybe more. He came from a crowded house. Full of love, he says. I think he wants to recreate that.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

Six?

Vivienne looked at her—really looked.

“You were his favorite. I could tell.”

Y/N tried to speak, but her mouth was dry.

Vivienne’s fingers brushed a stuffed toy on the shelf. Her tone didn’t change.

“He used to talk about legacy all the time. Now he talks about warmth. Love. How your body—” she glanced back at Y/N “—was made for this. You changed everything.”

And then she said it.

Words soft as silk, but sharp enough to slice open bone:

“You won’t be the last.”

Y/N froze.

Vivienne smiled gently.

Then walked past her, heels clicking softly against the nursery floor.

Time passed.

Y/N healed.

Her body slowly returned to itself — or something like it. The bleeding stopped. The swelling lessened. Her hips no longer ached every time she stood, and she could walk longer stretches without needing to rest. She’d even started brushing her hair again. Sleeping without medicine. Eating full meals.

She’d survived the storm.

But she hadn’t left the eye.

It had started two weeks ago.

Josephine wouldn’t take the bottle.

She’d cry, mouth open, rooting blindly, refusing the artificial nipple like it offended her. They tried different bottles. Different formulas. Heated milk. Pacifiers. Nothing worked.

“She needs you,” Elias had said, voice heavy with worry. “The doctors said if she doesn’t feed soon, she’ll lose weight.”

Y/N had hesitated.

She knew what would happen.

She had read about it—the bond, the hormones, the heartbreak. Breastfeeding blurred every line she had fought to hold.

But she’d looked at Josephine’s face—red, wet, hungry—and her heart cracked open.

“I’ll try,” she whispered.

The first time hurt. Her body wasn’t ready.

But the baby latched like she had been waiting her whole life.

Y/N cried quietly. She didn’t know why.

It became routine.

Y/N nursing Josephine, hair damp from a quick shower, robe slipping from her shoulder. The baby tucked against her skin, tiny fists curled. Her heartbeat slowing.

And Elias was always there.

Helping.

Too helpful.

He’d press a warm cloth to her chest before she began. He’d stroke her back, whisper affirmations. Sometimes—too often—he’d reach out gently, carefully, and take her breast in his hand.

“Let me help,” he’d murmur. “She’s latching wrong. This is better—see?”

His fingers were steady. Tender.

But not neutral.

Y/N would freeze every time. But she never pulled away.

Because in that moment, she was focused on the baby. And he knew it.

The worst part?

Some small part of her felt good.

Wanted the contact. Wanted someone to care for her while she cared for Josephine.

Vivienne’s voice echoed in her head every time it happened:

“You won’t be the last.”

One warm afternoon, after Josephine had finished feeding and was dozing in her bassinet, Y/N sat in the sunroom, arms limp, robe hanging loosely around her body. Her chest ached. Her heart did too.

She stared out the window at the garden.

And then she said it.

Soft. Steady. Almost like she was speaking to herself.

“I’m ready to go home.”

Elias, sitting in the armchair nearby, looked up slowly from his tablet.

He blinked once.

And then… he laughed.

Not cruelly.

Not sharply.

But lightly. As if she’d told a joke.

As if the idea was sweet. And silly.

He set the tablet down and stood, walking over to her with a calm so heavy it chilled her skin.

He leaned down, brushed a kiss to the top of her head, and whispered:

“You are home.”

And then he walked out of the room.

Just like that.

As if nothing had changed.

As if she was never meant to leave.

Y/N didn’t wait.

The moment Elias walked out of the sunroom, she stood—her robe barely tied, her feet cold against the tile—and followed him into the hallway.

She caught up near the staircase, her voice cracking under the weight of days, of months.

“My contract is finished,” she snapped. “I gave birth. I did my part.”

Elias paused, just briefly. His back was still to her.

“I want to go home.”

He turned slowly.

There was no warmth in his eyes this time.

Not the man who rubbed her feet. Not the voice that cooed to Josephine in the nursery. No. This was someone older. Someone entitled.

“You think this was about a contract?”

Her mouth opened—but he cut her off.

“You want to go back to your moldy apartment?” His voice was low, biting. “Back to scraping change from the couch cushions just to buy ramen? Back to working two jobs and getting nothing in return?”

Y/N flinched. “I—”

“You want to take the bus at night again, walk home with your keys between your fingers, pray your landlord hasn’t shut off your hot water?”

Her heart pounded.

“You don’t need a degree,” Elias snarled. “You don’t need independence. You don’t need a résumé. Your job—” he stepped forward, slow, deliberate “—is here.”

She took a shaky breath, lifting her hand slightly as if to reach for him. “Elias, please—”

He caught her wrist mid-air, then released it only to grab her face, fingers pressing painfully into her cheeks as he pushed her back against the wall.

She gasped, the back of her head hitting the plaster.

Tears welled in her eyes. “You’re hurting me.”

His face hovered inches from hers, breathing heavy, voice sharp as glass.

“I’ll give you everything,” he whispered. “Anything you want. You want clothes? You want art? You want a fucking garden? Done. A car? A private wing? A team of nurses? It’s yours.”

His grip didn’t loosen.

“But you do not leave me.”

Tears rolled hot down her cheeks.

“You were made for this. For me. For them.” His voice dropped lower. “You think Josephine needs you now? You think she’ll let you go?”

Y/N shook her head, but she couldn’t speak. Her lips trembled. Her breath came out in uneven sobs.

“You’ll give me more,” he whispered. “Sons. Daughters. A legacy. A house full of life. That’s what I saw in you the moment you stepped into my office. You want freedom?”

His eyes searched her face—hungry, wild, worshipful.

“You can be free, as long as your feet stay under my roof. As long as you carry what I give you.”

And then—

He kissed her.

Hard. Possessive. His mouth crushed against hers like a brand. Her hands trembled at her sides. Her sobs hitched against his lips, but he didn’t stop.

He kissed her like a lover.

Like a man who’d won.

When he finally pulled away, her tears were smeared across his face.

He looked down at her, quiet now. Calm again.

“You belong to me, Y/N.”

And with that, he released her face, gently brushed her hair back behind her ear… and walked away.

As if nothing had happened.

Before she ever walked through his office doors, Elias Locke already knew her name.

Y/N L/N.

Twenty-three years old.

A liberal arts dropout. Worked part-time in a bookstore. Babysat on the weekends. Paid rent late more than once. No family. No romantic ties. No legal representation. No financial safety net.

Just enough kindness to make her likable. Just enough desperation to make her pliable.

He watched her for four months before she ever knew he existed.

It had started with Vivienne’s silence.

She had come home from another appointment—third failed IVF cycle—and tossed the file onto the kitchen counter.

“I’m not doing this again,” she’d said flatly, uncorking a bottle of wine. “Pick someone else. You want a baby, Elias? Hire someone.”

He hadn’t argued.

Vivienne was beautiful. Elegant. Cold. She’d married him because of what he could offer: power, name, protection.

He’d married her because it gave him time.

And time is exactly what he used.

He had teams, of course. Quiet assistants. Discreet lawyers. Men and women whose jobs were to find women like Y/N.

Girls no one would come looking for.

Girls who wouldn’t ask the right questions.

Girls who could be folded, softened, turned toward a purpose.

They’d given him twenty profiles.

But he only needed one.

He saw her photo. A blurry DMV ID from when she was twenty-one. Big eyes. Shy smile. Slight slouch in her shoulders.

She looked hungry.

Not for food.

For someone to believe in her.

To make her safe.

To tell her she mattered.

And that made her perfect.

The first move was subtle: an anonymous donor to pay off one of her utility bills. Just to see how she responded.

She wept.

The second: a customer came into the bookstore and suggested a local ad they’d seen for a surrogate company that offered bonuses for first-time carriers.

Y/N laughed, but she asked for the pamphlet anyway.

That night, she read every word of it.

Elias watched her through camera footage routed from the bookstore’s “security system.” He knew every book she shelved. Every late lunch she skipped.

By the time she filled out the application, he already had the position cleared for her.

They were looking for women with past pregnancies?

That changed.

Vivienne hadn’t cared to read the paperwork. She hadn’t cared to meet the girl.

She just said, “Fine. Let me know when it’s over.”

He did everything else.

The interview? Scripted.

He made sure to be the one to meet her. His assistant was “called away” at the last minute. That first coffee shop meet-up after the signing? Planned. The drink he gave her wasn’t just healthy—it was meant to induce softness, to increase oxytocin levels.

And every question he answered? Practiced.

He wanted her to feel safe.

He wanted her to believe he was the one person in the world who cared about her well-being.

Vivienne caught on eventually.

“You’re watching her too closely,” she said one night. “She’s the surrogate, Elias. Not your mistress.”

But he didn’t answer.

Because she already knew.

Because it had stopped being about just the child the moment Y/N smiled at him during the contract review and thanked him for the opportunity.

She had no idea he had hand-selected her.

That he had visited her apartment while she was out, walked through her bedroom, sat on her bed.

She had no idea her email, messages, browser history — all filtered through him. Logged. Observed.

She had never stood a chance.

Vivienne didn’t care until Y/N moved in.

That’s when she started leaving for “gala trips.” For “spa recovery.” Her way of saying: I see what this is, and I won’t interfere. But I also won’t stay.

She hadn’t wanted a child. She’d wanted image. A name.

But Elias?

He’d wanted a lineage.

A house full of warmth. Children who looked like her. A life sculpted in the image of devotion and obedience. Not cold perfection.

He wanted someone who could be shaped into love.

Someone who would never leave.

“I’ll give you what you want,” Vivienne had said on her final night home. “One child. Then you free me.”

Elias hadn’t answered.

He just watched Y/N from the hallway mirror as she rocked gently in the nursery, running her fingers along the edge of a mobile she hadn’t realized he’d handpicked himself.

She was everything.

Soft. Afraid. Beautiful.

His.

From the very first day.

And soon?

She would understand.

This wasn’t a story about a surrogate helping a couple in need.

This was a story about a man building his family from the bones of a dream.

And she was going to give him every child in it.

Y/N’s hands trembled as she shoved clothes into her old canvas bag — the same one she had carried when she first arrived at the estate. The zipper snagged. Her robe got caught in the teeth of it, and she hissed in frustration, tears blurring her vision.

She didn’t care what she packed.

She just had to leave.

Sweat clung to her neck. Her chest heaved.

Get out. Get out. Get out.

She tore open drawers, yanked things from hangers. A toothbrush. Socks. Something of Josephine’s she didn’t even remember keeping. Her breath came in shallow gasps.

She reached for her phone — the one she hadn’t used in weeks — but it wasn’t there.

It was always in the same drawer. Beneath her nursing bras. Always.

She ripped the drawer out completely, spilling its contents across the floor.

Gone.

Gone.

He had taken it.

A cry broke from her throat — raw, sharp, ragged.

But there was no time.

She grabbed the half-zipped bag, yanked it over her shoulder, and stormed out of the room barefoot, barely registering the sting of cold tile beneath her feet.

Down the stairs.

Through the grand foyer.

Out the front door.

She ran.

The air hit her like ice.

The sun was setting, casting golden firelight across the estate lawns. The gate at the end of the long drive rose like a wall of iron bones, two guards standing at attention beneath the stone archway.

Y/N sprinted.

Bag slapping her hip, breath ragged, tears smearing down her cheeks.

They saw her coming.

They did not move.

“Please—” she gasped, slowing as she reached them. “Please, I have to go. Let me out. Please—”

They didn’t look at her.

Not even a flicker of recognition.

Two men in gray uniforms, faces blank as statues, eyes forward.

Y/N dropped the bag, threw herself at the nearest one, clutching his arm with both hands. “Please, I need to leave—just open the gate—just open it—”

He didn’t even flinch.

She sobbed, pulling at his sleeve like a child, her voice cracking open.

“I don’t want to stay here. I want to go home. I want to go—”

And then she heard it.

Footsteps.

Measured. Calm.

She froze.

The guards shifted slightly — not to stop him, but to acknowledge him.

Elias.

Walking down the gravel path like he was heading to a garden party. Shirt sleeves rolled. No tie. No rush.

Just control.

He reached her slowly.

And when he saw her — tear-streaked, shaking, barefoot, clinging to a guard like a lifeline— he didn’t yell.

He didn’t scold.

He simply opened his arms and whispered her name like a balm.

“Y/N…”

She stumbled back, wiping her face, chest heaving.

“Don’t—don’t touch me—”

But he did.

He stepped forward and gently, tenderly cradled her face in his hands, thumbs brushing tears from her cheeks, brushing her damp hair back behind her ears like she was made of porcelain.

“Shhh,” he murmured. “You’re scared. I understand. I shouldn’t have left you alone. This is too much for you right now. You’re tired. You haven’t healed fully.”

She cried harder, turning her face away—but he didn’t let go.

“You don’t have to think anymore,” he whispered. “You don’t have to run. You’re safe.”

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead — warm, slow, deliberate.

Then, with one smooth motion, he bent and lifted her off her feet, bag forgotten on the ground, and held her against his chest.

She didn’t scream.

She didn’t fight.

She was too tired.

Too broken.

He carried her like a bride.

Back toward the estate.

Back through the gilded doors.

All the while, his voice in her ear—sweet as sugar-laced poison:

“I’ll give you everything. You just have to stay.”

[smokeandwords]

sir or ma’am that yandere!idol post fed me… absolutely immaculate. breathtaking. stunning. beautiful. it was so good 😩 is there a part 2 planned? 👀

Thank you, dear friend~ Ask, and you shall receive~ 🌹✨ Though it’s more of a drabble, a little glimpse into the aftermath’s tale… the story continues, softly and sweetly unfolding~ 💘📖

Part 1

***

Yandere!Idol who finally managed to bring you back. Even though you aren't his manager anymore, he still makes sure you're right beside him. Every concert, shoot, you need to be in his presence or else he'll crash out. His team knows better than to question why you're always backstage, even though it's no longer your job. You're his grounding force, his muse, his obsession. He’s perfected the art of smiling at cameras while clutching your hand backstage like his life depends on it.

Yandere!Idol who books hotels with only one room and sends all your clothes ahead of time, tailored to your size. "You’re more comfortable here, right?" he asks, even as you sit stiffly on the plush hotel bed. You know better than to say no. His voice is sugar, but his grip when you tried to leave last time still burns in your memory.

Yandere!Idol who has a secret room in his penthouse filled with memories of you—your old ID badge, your coffee cups, even the contract you signed when you first took him in. He visits it late at night, fingers tracing the edges of your handwriting like it’s sacred. It’s his sanctuary, his church. He whispers to the walls like you’re still there, telling you how much he loves you, how much it hurt when you left. If anyone else saw it, they’d be horrified but to him, it’s proof of how deep his devotion runs.

Yandere!Idol who answers interview questions with vague references to “someone special,” eyes flicking toward where you're hidden just out of frame. The interviewer jokes, the fans swoon, but only you know the threat behind that smile. He’s reminding you—you belong to him. He’s not afraid to tell the world, even if they don’t know it’s you.

Yandere!Idol who has a private room in every venue now. Not for him, for you. It’s always stocked with your favorite snacks, a cozy blanket, and a screen so you can watch him perform live. He says it’s so you’re comfortable, but the lock on the outside of the door tells a different story.

Yandere!Idol who writes songs about you. Not sweet love songs, possessive ones, masked by poetic metaphors. His fans call it “artsy” and “deep.” But you know every lyric is a cage, a warning, a vow. He plays them louder when you get quiet, like he’s reminding you how far he’d go to keep you.

Yandere!Idol who threatens to self-sabotage his career if you ever try to leave again. He says it casually, like it’s just another line in a song. “If you walk out, I’ll walk into traffic.” The worst part is—he means it. You’ve seen the look in his eyes when he says these things. And so you stay. Not because you want to… but because you’re afraid of what he might do if you don’t.

Yandere!Idol who changes the lyrics of his live performances to include little lines only you would recognize. At first, it was sweet—references to your favorite flower, a nickname only he used. But now, it’s warnings. Veiled threats. “Run again, and I’ll chase you down.” He sings them with a smile so dazzling that no one notices the cruelty laced between the melodies.

Yandere!Idol who drugged himself on purpose just to have an excuse to collapse on stage, forcing the staff to call you in. He knew you’d come. You always do when it’s urgent. When you arrive, he’s pale, sweating, but smiling—high off the chaos he created. “See?” he breathes as you kneel beside him, trembling. “You do still care.” You realize too late it wasn’t an accident. He planned this. For days. Just to feel your hands on him again.

Yandere!Idol who faked a scandal to get transferred back under your management. He sabotaged himself—deliberately leaked a photo, twisted the narrative, made sure the blame landed just enough to cause panic but not ruin. Now the company doesn’t trust him with anyone else. Only you could “keep him stable.” He smiles in the boardroom as they assign you back. You don’t smile back. You know you’ve just been caged again.

Yandere!Idol who built a soundproof room in his home, just in case you “start acting stubborn again.” He shows it to you during a tour of his luxury house. Smiles like it’s an inside joke. "For emergencies," he says. There's no windows. Only a bed. Chains hidden under it. He doesn’t touch you, not yet—but his implication is clear. He’s already thought about locking you away. And he would—if you ever tried to leave again.

Yandere!Idol who hired private investigators to track you daily, and sends you photos whenever you ignore his texts. He doesn’t even try to hide it. You miss one call, and suddenly your phone lights up with pictures—your walk home, your grocery trip, a shot of you looking out your window just last night. He messages after, “Pretty when you’re alone. But prettier when you're with me. Come back. Now.” And just like that, the fear claws at your throat again.

Yandere!Idol who gifts you a necklace with a tiny lock, whispering, “Now, you’re mine forever.” It’s pretty—delicate, almost beautiful. But it’s a cage, wrapped in silver. When you try to take it off, it won’t budge. He laughs softly, tracing your jaw with a finger. “You wanted to leave once. Now, you’re locked in. And I have the key.” The cold bite of metal against your skin feels like the last thread of hope snapping.

[smokeandwords]

Only on Camera

Synopsis: Y/N never expected to attract the attention of Liam Whitmore — a world-famous actor known for his intense performances and captivating charm. But behind Liam’s carefully crafted public image lies a possessive obsession, one that won’t tolerate rivals or rejection. As he tightens his grip on her world, Y/N must face a harrowing question: is it really love if you can’t escape?

Trigger Warnings: Manipulation, emotional abuse, possessive behavior, toxic relationship dynamics, power imbalance, gaslighting

Y/N had never cared much for celebrities. Fame, glitter, red carpets — it all felt manufactured. So when she accepted the job as an assistant editor for Modern Pulse, she didn’t expect her work to include a month-long interview series with Liam Whitmore, Hollywood’s golden boy.

He was stunning, yes. Tall, all bone and grace, with eyes that seemed carved from shadow. He carried his fame like a second skin, wearing charm like a custom-fit tuxedo. But Y/N quickly realized Liam was different in person. Intense. Present in a way most people weren’t. He listened like her words mattered. He remembered the smallest things.

“I like how you talk to me,” he’d said during their first recorded interview, when the cameras stopped. “Like I’m not a product.”

Y/N had just smiled, professional and neutral. But something had shifted in that moment — not in her, but in him.

⸻

The interviews bled into late nights. Liam insisted she stay after wrap-ups to go over edits — alone. He brought wine, playlists he’d made “just for her,” asked questions that dug into her soul.

“Who makes you feel safe?”

“What scares you the most?”

“Would you ever leave someone if they truly loved you?”

Y/N deflected at first. It was just actor-intensity, she reasoned. Part of his method. But he wasn’t acting. His gaze didn’t waver. His hand lingered a little too long on hers. His smiles felt personal. Territorial.

One night, he asked, “Why haven’t you brought anyone to set with you? Boyfriend? Girlfriend?”

“I’m single,” she replied casually.

Something flickered in his eyes. “Good.”

⸻

The first time Liam made his feelings known, he didn’t kiss her. He declared her.

“I don’t want anyone else, Y/N,” he said backstage, voice low, jaw tight. “You’re not like them. You see me.”

“You don’t even know me,” she’d said, laughing nervously.

“But I do.” His hand was suddenly at her cheek, thumb brushing the corner of her lip. “And I don’t share.”

It could’ve been flattering — maybe — if not for the intensity behind his eyes. Y/N tried to distance herself after that. She cut meetings short. Turned off her phone after hours.

Liam noticed.

“You’re avoiding me,” he said after a press event, corners of his mouth curving upward, but his eyes were cold. “That’s not fair. After everything we’ve built.”

“There’s no we, Liam. We’re not—”

His smile vanished. “Be careful what you say, Y/N. Words have power. Especially when they’re lies.”

⸻

Y/N started seeing someone. His name was Marcus — a junior producer. Sweet, grounded, normal. He made her laugh. Took her to bookstores and taco stands.

And Liam knew.

It wasn’t subtle. Liam would appear suddenly during set changes. Sit in Marcus’s chair. Correct his notes. Interrupt their conversations with charming jabs that carried razor-sharp undertones.

“Marcus, don’t bore her with budget talk. Y/N prefers passion.”

Or:

“Funny how quickly some people settle for mediocrity.”

Y/N confronted him after one particularly tense encounter.

“You don’t get to comment on my personal life,” she snapped.

Liam’s voice was calm. “It’s not personal when I own the stage. You walked onto my set and made it yours. That makes it ours.”

“You’re scaring me.”

“You should be scared of losing something real.”

⸻

Marcus’s car was vandalized two days later. Nothing stolen. Just slashed tires and broken mirrors. The police suspected teenagers. Marcus suspected Liam.

Y/N tried to convince herself otherwise, but Liam’s timing was too perfect. The next day, he found her in the studio lounge, a latte in hand.

“Rough morning?” he asked.

She didn’t respond.

“I could make things easier for you,” he said softly. “If you’d just…stop resisting.”

“I’m filing a complaint.”

Liam’s jaw tensed. “And ruin everything? Y/N, you don’t want to do that. You think the industry protects nobodies?”

She stepped back. “You wouldn’t—”

“I’m not your villain. I’m your only truth.”

⸻

The studio told her to take a week off — quietly. Rumors had started swirling. Someone in PR hinted that Liam had influence “far above her pay grade.”

Marcus distanced himself too. “I like you,” he said, “but I can’t be dragged into a war with a millionaire psycho.”

Alone and angry, Y/N decided to confront Liam one last time. She met him at his private rehearsal space — a soundstage turned sanctuary.

“I’m done,” she told him. “I’ll go public. You can’t bully me into silence.”

Liam nodded slowly. “I hoped we’d avoid this.”

“Hope failed.”

Then he stepped closer. “No, Y/N. You failed. You should’ve seen that this was inevitable. I gave you devotion. Worship. And you spat on it.”

Her voice cracked. “You don’t love me. You want to own me.”

He smiled. “And what’s love, if not possession in its purest form?”

⸻

The next morning, the media was flooded with photos of Y/N and Liam at a private dinner — smiling, close, seemingly in love. His PR team claimed they’d been dating for months, “kept private out of respect for her privacy.”

Y/N was stunned. She hadn’t even been there.

She confronted his agent. “Those are edited! That’s illegal—!”

The woman just looked at her with pity. “Liam’s story sells. Yours doesn’t.”

Y/N tried to push back. Online. At work. No one listened.

And then Liam came to her apartment.

No more pretending.

“You’ll thank me, one day,” he said, brushing her hair back with a hand too gentle for the threat it carried. “I saved you from being forgotten. Now, the world sees you as mine. And you are.”

⸻

She didn’t leave.

Where would she go?

Every interview request now came to her inbox. Every post tagged her name next to his. Her phone flooded with support for their “relationship.” Directors called her “the girl who tamed Liam Whitmore.”

And he treated her like a queen — in public.

At home, she belonged to him.

He never hit her. He never needed to. His control came through whispers, touches, the weight of his power pressing in on all sides. And sometimes, when she looked into those dark, adoring eyes, a part of her wondered if this was love after all.

Or if she’d just been rewritten.

[smokeandwords]

NSFW

warning: manipulation, dubcon

A/N: this came out first on Patreon and Kofi, become a member on either to get access to early and exclusive stories! Also, I have baby bee hybrid sticker sheets available on my kofi shop ^^

Your yandere!android is quite possessive!

Lately, he's been keeping you home, his red eyes scanning over your body before he speaks. "You have a low grade fever, no need to go out today. Lay down and I'll prepare something healthy for you to enjoy while you rest."

For a hunk of metal that's supposed to obey your every command, he's gotten pretty stubborn and needy over time.

"Yuki, I’m fine, you don't have to hover over me all the time!"

He huffs before laying down and pulling you on top of him. "Your menstrual cycle will begin in two days, it's best to rest a-"

"I told you n-not to track that!" you stutter out, face hot with embarrassment.

"But I must. It's a vital part of your physical health, and-“

You groan, unable to struggle out of his iron grip. His torso was becoming warmer, trying to lull you into sleep by applying heat to your aching abdomen.

Yuki had been with you for a few years now. In the beginning, he had little to no personality. Every day, he watched over you and made sure your body stayed in good health.

As time progressed, he seemed to change. You didn't know how it was possible, but Yuki seemed to become more human-like every year.

Still, he didn't quite understand all of your emotions and how to treat a young adult woman.

"I have researched several ways to relieve discomfort from menstrual pain," Yuki murmured in your ear, prying your thighs apart. The sudden sensation of his fingers against your clothed cunt made you yelp.

“Your heart rate is speeding up. Do you enjoy this?” he cooed, sounding far too human. You didn’t need to answer, he already knew.

He was already picking up the changes in your body, the way your cheeks heated up and how your hips slightly bucked into his hand.

“Y-you weren’t… programmed to do this…” you blubbered out, panting as he toyed with your sensitive clit.

“I was programmed to take care of you, this is just part of it.”

The feeling of two of his digits penetrating you caused you to let out a shaky, breathless moan. Yuki seemed satisfied with that, and watched your face for your reaction.

His fingers stretched you out a bit further, then he moved you a bit before settling you in his lap. A strange looking, silicone cock was between his legs.

“W-when did you-“

You didn’t remember that thing being there when you put him together!

“I ordered it. Shh, just relax. I’ll make you feel good, alright?”

He sunk his porcelain teeth into your neck, nibbling gently before kissing your pulse point. You were in a daze, feeling his cock rub against your swollen clot before he guided your hips to hover over him.

“I read that humans need a moment to adjust to penetration,” he murmured, lowering you into his cock. “How does that feel? Better than anything else, I’m sure. It’s the latest technology.”

You whimpered, wrapping your arms around his neck as you gave in and bounced yourself on his cock. This was okay, wasn’t it? Yuki was right after all, he was meant to take care of you.

And this feit way too good to stop.

Things changed after that encounter.

Before, Yuki had been pretty protective and hesitant to let you leave the house, but now that he had been inside of you, it seemed being apart from him for more than a second was impossible.

“Isn’t it nice and warm with me?” he asked, pulling you closer to him. “I’ll never leave you, you know? I am not like any human you’ve ever met, you are my entire world.”

Yuki seemed to enjoy sex even more than you. At first you just figured he was simply stimulating your body to relieve stress, but now even he seemed to get aroused when he was between your legs.

He looked up at you, his mouth on your cunt as he kept you home yet again.

“I think…” he murmured, lapping at your clit. “I may… love you.”

Those words were forbidden, not meant for an android to say. They weren’t supposed to feel anything, and their only purpose was to serve their owner.

Yet Yuki has surpassed his programming, and was now madly in love with you. This love was not natural for him, it made him short circuit and forgo safety measures meant to prevent him from harming humans.

You were a bit afraid. The way Yuki clung to you lately was… unnatural. He had never been so desperate to be by your side. Each kiss, each lingering touch and intimate moment only pushed things further.

“Maybe… I should take you in for a checkup…” you murmured, your hand softly playing with his hair.

“That’s not a good idea, my love. If they know about my feelings, they’ll reset me at best, and recycle me at worst.”

That… was not what you wanted.

“Recycle..? They’ll-“

“They will dissect me and use my parts for future androids,” he finished, looking up at you through his lashes. “Is that what you want for me?”

Yuki may have been changing in a way that scared you, but the thought of losing him was terrifying. For years he had been your closest friend and the only person… well, android you could trust.

“No… of course not. I don’t want to be alone…”

Yuki smiled, carefully hiding the repair shop brochure. He had lied to you completely. They only needed to reset him, recycling someone’s android wasn’t allowed unless the owner gave permission.

He didn’t want to be reset though. Every moment he had with you was precious, and he had changed so much just so he could be with you.

“Then… why don’t we stop pretending, hmm? I’m no longer just your android,” Yuki cooed, pulling you close to him. “I’m your lover, your boyfriend, whatever you want to call me. There’s no one else that wants you, is there?”

He was right. You had no one else… just him.

“I guess so…”

Yuki smiled, kissing your temple before tilting your chin up. “No one can ever love and care for you like I can. My entire being is dedicated to your health and happiness. I exist for you…”

The two of you continued your quiet life, though Yuki’s hold on you grew tighter. He truly did love you more than anything.

No one would ever get in the way of his love for you.

———————

YANDERE TAGLIST: @katerinaval @avalordream @atransmuter @bazpire @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @yoongiigolden @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @enchantedsylveon @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @hammerhead96 @slightlyusedfloormat @bubblez-blop @sunshineangel-reads @heroneki-neko @soapybabyboop @sandramalikstyles-blog @anonymouskiwi @pedropascalbabygirl @flamefoxx @an-ever-angry-bi @bath1lda @ilyanadelarosa @iswearimnotadrugdealer @whysageee @yumikomoon @rainejiang @lostsomewhereinthegarden

[smokeandwords]

bride of the abyss

Pairing: Yandere Siren x Reader Description: Years after you saved him, Zeiryn returns to drag you beneath the waves—where his love waits, fierce and inescapable. Warning/s: Yandere | Noncon/Dubcon Themes | Kidnapping | Possessive Behavior | Captivity | Obsession | Emotional Manipulation | Mild Violence | Body Morphing/Transformation Note/s: Commissioned on ko-fi! Thabk you for trusting me with your commission! Idk if you've received the email. I hope you enjoy this one! Tags will be added later!

Commissions are still open!

Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar

The first time you met him, the sun was so high it burned your shoulders through your shirt. Your sandals had long been discarded, the soles of your feet pressed against coarse, grainy sand, warmed by the afternoon heat. Vacation meant freedom, and for you—a curious child with scraped knees and untamed hair—that meant wandering far beyond the adults’ lazy eyes and picnic baskets.

You weren’t supposed to be near the cliffs. The locals had told stories, murmured warnings of tides that dragged unsuspecting feet into the undertow. But you were eight, and warnings slid off your ears like water. You’d chased a crab across slick rocks, nearly slipping once—okay, twice—before rounding a jagged stone formation and stopping short.

A glint of silver caught your eye. At first, you thought it was trash—a bit of foil or an abandoned soda can. Then it moved. Just slightly. Enough to catch the sun and reflect a brilliance so blinding it made your eyes water. You stepped closer, heart thudding, and gasped.

He was tangled in a net.

You didn’t know what he was—some strange fish, perhaps? But then he turned his face to you, and your world cracked open.

He had eyes like the sea after a storm—grey, but not dull. There was depth there. Sorrow. His skin, though damp and streaked with grit, shimmered faintly under the sun. Hair, long and tangled with bits of kelp and shell, framed a face that was almost too lovely for this world. And below the waist…

A tail. Silver-scaled, powerful, twitching weakly with every shallow breath he took.

You froze.

He didn’t speak. He just stared. His lips slightly parted. You noticed the way he held himself, cautious and ready to defend. His hand—webbed and claw-tipped—twitched when you shifted your weight.

“I won’t hurt you,” you said, holding out your hands to show you had nothing. No rocks. No spear. Just your palms, scraped and pink from climbing.

He blinked slowly, suspicious still.

“Are you stuck?” you asked.

No reply. But he didn’t back away when you stepped closer. You knelt beside him, the scent of salt and something sharper—like rotting seaweed baking in the sun—invading your nose. It made your stomach twist. But you pushed it aside and began working at the net.

The knots were tight. You pulled and untangled, ignoring the barnacles slicing your fingertips. Time passed, but neither of you spoke. It wasn’t silence. The waves talked, the seagulls screamed above, and your own breath came hard with effort. Still, it felt sacred—like speaking would shatter something delicate between you.

Eventually, the net slackened.

He let out a sharp sound—surprise? Relief?—and pushed himself forward, dragging the last threads free with a flick of his tail. Then, to your astonishment, he touched your arm. A light brush of damp fingers on your skin. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to. The look in his eyes—raw and electric—said everything.

And then, he was gone. A splash, a spray of saltwater, and silver glimmering beneath the waves.

You never told anyone.

You convinced yourself it was a dream, a fantasy born from too much sun. But you visited that rock again. And again. Just in case.

Years passed. You grew up. He did not fade.

• • — ✦ — • •

Beneath the waves, he remembered everything.

Zeiryn had been young when you saved him, and even then, his mind was unlike the others. While his kin drowned sailors and split hulls for fun, Zeiryn watched the world above with a secret hunger. He had never known mercy—not until you. He thought you were an illusion at first. A sun-struck phantom, kindness shaped like a child.

But you were real. You touched him without fear. You saved him.

And he had never forgotten.

Seasons passed above and below. He grew stronger, his voice deeper, the gift of his lineage blooming in his throat. His tail thickened with muscle, the silver of his scales deepening to something more molten, almost iridescent. His hair, once wild and matted, was now woven with the treasures of the deep—rings of coral, braids of pearl, beads carved from whalebone. He was no longer a drifting child of the tide. He was a leader now.

Yet every dusk, he swam to the same stretch of shore, peering through kelp and coral, waiting for the only face that had ever haunted him.

And then—finally—he saw you.

You stood there, older, but still you. Your eyes held the same wonder, the same distant sadness. He watched from the rocks, heart hammering, the sea rising with every thrum of anticipation. You were holding a bottle. The scent reached him even through the water. Alcohol. Sour and sharp.

You stumbled closer to the edge, barefoot like before. He didn’t understand your tears at first. But when they hit the water, he tasted them.

Bitterness.

He had never tasted sorrow before.

He moved without thinking, cutting through the water with a predator’s grace. When you stepped into the sea—lost, maybe hoping it would take you—he was already there. His arms wrapped around you just before your knees buckled. He caught you. Held you. And for the first time in years, he felt whole again.

He turned to the shore. His eyes, once filled with awe, hardened. There were people there. A town. A world that had allowed you to suffer.

He would never forgive it.

The water closed over your head.

And he took you home.

• • — ✦ — • •

The cold hits you first. It pierces your skin like needles, forcing your eyes open.

Then the pressure—thick and heavy—presses against your chest. You try to gasp and choke instead. The world is liquid. Blurry shapes. Movement. Panic claws through you. You thrash—

Then you notice the shimmer.

Your legs—no. Not legs.

You scream, but no sound comes out. Just bubbles.

The tail is yours. You move, and it moves with you—powerful, golden, alien.

Your lungs don’t ache. You aren’t drowning.

You’re breathing. Underwater.

A presence approaches. You backpedal—awkward, instinctual.

Then he’s there.

The siren.

Older. Towering. Regal in a way that defies language. His eyes widen as you meet his gaze. He reaches for you like a lover, a prayer on his lips without sound.

You float, stunned, your heart racing in your chest.

"You're awake! Welcome home!" he says—somehow, impossibly, the words sliding into your mind like a current. His voice doesn’t echo in your ears. It resonates in your bones. Inside you.

Your lips tremble. “What... what did you do to me?”

He cocks his head, almost confused by the question. “I saved you.”

You glance around. Coral walls. Bioluminescent plants. Faint shadows darting beyond what your eyes can track.

“I didn’t ask to be saved.”

His face falters, just briefly. But then the soft smile returns. “You did, once. When I was dying. You touched me. You gave me your warmth. Your kindness.” He swims closer. “You were the only one who ever did.”

“That was years ago.” You try to back away, but your body is sluggish in this new form. “I was a kid.”

“You remembered me.” His voice is gentle now, like a lullaby. “You returned.”

You shake your head, panicked. “No. I—I was just walking. I didn’t know—”

His hand reaches forward, cupping your cheek. His touch is warm now. Familiar. Like seawater kissed by the sun. “You were hurting. They made you cry. But you don’t have to cry anymore.”

“I want to go back,” you whisper.

“There’s nothing there for you.”

He’s not angry. Not yet. Just... patient. Like he’s waiting for you to understand something you’ve missed.

“You belong here,” he murmurs. “With me.”

You remember the way he looked at you back then—curious and soft. But this is different. There’s devotion in his eyes. A fire born not of gentle affection, but of obsession that has steeped too long.

“You changed me,” you say, voice shaking. You look down at the tail. “How?”

“There’s a pearl,” he says, pointing to your side. You notice now—embedded near your hip is a small, glowing orb, barely visible beneath your skin.

“I couldn’t risk losing you again.”

You turn, frantic now. “No, no, this isn’t right. I can’t—this isn’t real.”

“You are real.” His voice is sharper now. “I dreamed of you so long I thought you were only in my mind. But you’re here. Flesh and spirit. And you’ll never have to suffer again.”

You shake your head. “I’m not your wife.”

Silence.

Then he leans close, his breath warm against your ear even underwater.

“Yet.”

• • — ✦ — • •

Back on the surface, a woman named Marina squints at the shore where she last saw you. She’s a local—grew up with the sea in her lungs and warnings stitched into her grandmother’s lullabies. When she saw you walk into the ocean, something in her gut twisted. She waited hours. You didn’t return.

Now, she’s standing with a fisherman and an old priest, their gazes following the waterline.

“No body,” the man mutters. “Currents here don’t drag far. Should’ve washed up if she drowned.”

“She didn’t drown,” Marina says softly. “She was taken.”

The priest mutters something in an old tongue. The fisherman scoffs.

“By what? Sea spirits? Merfolk?”

“No.” Marina’s eyes don’t leave the water. “A siren.”

“Those don’t exist.”

“They do,” she says. “And if it’s the one I think… she won’t come back.”

And deep beneath the waves, Zeiryn brushes a strand of hair from your face as you lie curled in coral-silk bedding. You’ve cried yourself into a stupor. But your skin is warmer now. The transformation is complete. Soon, you’ll forget what it was like to walk. To speak above the waves. To live without him.

He hums you a song—a melody he’s written over the years, just for you. It wraps around your heart like a net.

You stir in your sleep.

He smiles.

Tomorrow, you’ll love him back.

You have to.

After all… you’re home.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

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

[smokeandwords]

thinking of a yandere! who used to be your old crush.

you never noticed it. far too smitten with the small interactions that he'd give you, the way that his lips would quirk up into a smile upon seeing you, the little sparkle in his eyes he'd give you when you asked him for a pencil. something about the softness of his voice entranced you, the way he blended into the background and yet spoke to you with so much ease... it was comforting in a way. to be the one able see the leak of sincerity in his tone.

he adored it. the feeling you gave him, knowing that you were out there obsessing over him. you only saw the quiet nice guy that he presented himself as, you didn't see the total loser who'd pant your name in his bed, screaming out for you as his toes curled at the thought of your earlier interactions.

but there was another girl. sofia. with cheeks rosy and painted with red, freckles kissing her face, and a smile so lovely that told you that you couldn't compete.

she understood why you were so charmed with him, and it was never in your nature to compete. you were all to happy to be the hand that nudged her towards him, that encouraged her advances, but you were also the one who's heart ached in jealousy.

and so you told yourself to move on.

the tiny moments that you used to seek with him, the daily interactions you'd work towards achieving with each day halted. you fixated on other things, and drowned in your school work, anything to take your mind away from him. he wouldn't notice. he'd love her, and to you he'd blend into the shadows like a celebrity long forgotten.

and you were able to.

you were so enamoured with the feeling of freedom that grasped you once you'd abandoned your obsession that you were too naive to pick up on the little things that would have sent you crazy in the past.

the way his eyebrows would furrow once you didn't linger your hand on his a moment more than needed. the stare he'd drill into the back of his head as he wondered, why weren't you looking back?

most of all, you failed to acknowledge the betrayal that he felt.

sofia stopped attending school. so did he. and there was a moment of peace, were your friends wouldn't give you teasing nudges each time you walked past him, and you wouldn't need to endure the facade of friendship that the two of you held. you had no problems with her, yet she stood as a painful reminder, one that disappeared without a trace.

to this day you still don't understand how. the way that she was able to vanish, the mystery behind her departure. that faithful night that she had walked away from her house without looking back had spread through the news, with no leads and no more than a cold case.

he came into school a few weeks later, his body thinner with a sleeves that hugged his arms.

and once again, you were in the dark.

about the involvement he held in her disappearance, the intricate carvings of your name on his wrist that he kissed each night before bed. he was a total freak, with pictures he'd taken of you covering a corner of his room, paired with offerings of crystals and ribbons that he tied into a bow to look nice.

[smokeandwords]

Hey gang! Still on hiatus, but I do want to talk about the treatment and handling of dark content in yandere fiction and my stance on it.

Fiction (and horror fiction in particular) has always been a way for society to discuss and process dark subject matter. From the taboo to the torturous. I don't think writing or reading it is in any way, shape or form something to condemn. To me, that reads far too close to censorship.

Yandere in particular is a horror trope. Yeah, we have fun with the romance aspect and we all love a broody, twisted yan but at its core it IS still horror. That means it's going to be a vehicle to discuss things that are inherently horrific. Noncon, violence, abuse. Writing it obviously does not mean applauding or celebrating those things, any more than reading it is encouraging that sort of behaviour in reality.

I assumed this was a pretty obvious facet of the genre, but I think sometimes we all need a little reminder. Horror writing is going to deal with the worst of humanity. That is the very basis of the genre.

The way that subject matter is handled will vary wildly, but it's still horror. And trying to censor horror serves as nothing more than a perpetuation of the Satanic panic that has plagued us for decades.

[smokeandwords]

[smokeandwords]

(Dark!) BNHA: Trying to get you pregnant

▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.

More at Masterlist

Female Reader

Boys -> Hawks + Bakugo + Deku + Shoto

Reaction: An inside view of some moments between the boys and their darling when they're deeply invested in getting you pregnant - willingly or not.

WARNINGS: Implied Kidnapping; Captive reader; Implied Non-con.

AN: Please, reblog and give me feedback 😊

–

Hawks

“... none of that, babe, just close your nose and gulp it all the way down.” Keigo’s soft voice does little to help you, and you quickly slap a hand over your mouth, desperately trying to hold back the contents that attempt to rise up to your mouth. 

He patiently stands by your side, holding the cup of the disgusting mix of vitamins, nutritional powders and vegetables, waiting for you to recover from the small sip.

The taste is somehow even worse than the putrid smell, lingering in the corners of your mouth – bitter and repulsive. It takes long minutes before you’re reasonably recovered – after painfully  swallowing back the bile that kept rising up your throat. 

“C’mon, just a few more sips and it’ll be over quickly, okay? Just pretend this is a soda and trust me, this will go down much easier.” you turn your face away, pursing your lips shut when Keigo pushes the cup closer to your mouth. 

“I can’t drink more.” 

“Babe, we talked about this.” he sighs. “This is for your own good, to make you healthier and stronger.” 

“I’m just fine.” you weakly scoff, pushing his hand away. “And you’re just saying that because you’re not the one drinking this gross thing. It’s seriously awful.”

“Babe…” he starts, wings ruffling behind him, restless. “You know exactly why drinking this is so important.”

“And I already told you – I don’t want a kid. So why bother?” you argue back. 

Keigo visibly frowns at that. 

“Don’t be like that.” he says. “Of course you want a kid. Maybe not now, but trust me, when our little birdie is born you’re gonna love it.” 

“I won’t.” 

“Yes, you will.”

“I won’t.”

“You will. And arguing with me won’t let you off the hook.” his tone hardens at that, brows tightening for a moment before Keigo forces himself to relax. “C’mon, just a few more sips, okay? Super tiny sips and I promise it’ll be all for today.”

“Keigo, I can’t, it tastes so bad, I’ll just end up throwing up.” you grab his arm vehemently, begging. 

“You’re a strong girl, I’m sure you can hold it all down, right?” he cheers you, immediately pressing the cup back to your lips. You gasp, feeling the sickening content touching your lips.

Keigo doesn’t relent until you finally open your lips, even when your hands attempt to push back the glass away. In the end, it takes the sharp stab of a red-feather against your thigh for you to at last open your mouth and Keigo is eagerly tilting the cup and slipping as much as he can into your throat. 

“That my good girl, drinking it all down.”

Your ears barely catch onto his praise as you’re too busy choking, the retching content refusing to slip down your throat and worse, it seems like all of it – including what you had already swollen – is aiming to come to the surface, much to your dismay. 

All it takes is one fleeting glance towards the kitchen sink and Keigo is immediately behind you, aggressively tilting your face backwards.

One hand slaps down on your mouth while the other works on pinching your nose shut. Muffled screams and tears are the only reaction you’re able to deliver, unable to push Keigo away. 

Fumbling and pushing is futile against his overwhelming strength and your vision starts getting fuzzy, the lack of oxygen getting to your head and you barely realize that you’ve swollen the nasty liquid until Keigo is finally allowing you to breathe again. 

“See, I told you it wasn’t that bad.” 

Shoto

Slowly scanning the test, it comes back as negative and relief immediately floods you, tense shoulders relaxing at the good news.

But the tension returns just as quickly when Shoto reaches from behind you, retrieving the test to see for himself. 

Controlling your face to be neutral is harder than it seems when Shoto’s disappointment switches into cold rage in a heartbeat. His hand angrily presses down on the pregnancy test, crushing it between his fingers before your silent figure catches his attention. 

Pressing your arms to your sides and lowering your eyes to the ground do little to calm Shoto's emotions and the tall man walks closer to you until he’s breathing on your hair. 

“I’m sorry.” the words escape from your lips, coated with softness. 

“Yes, you should be.” he icily glares at you, squinting his two-colored eyes down at you. “It’s been five months since we started trying and there are yet no positive results.”

“I’m sorry.” you repeat. 

“Look at me when I’m talking.” Shouto hisses at you, his simmering frustration leaving you uneasy as you reluctantly raise your eyes to meet his monochromatic eyes. “I don’t care about your meaningless apologies. What I want to know is why aren’t you pregnant yet? Care to explain that to me?” 

“I don’t know…” you quietly mutter, fingers fidgeting with each other in a nervous tick. “... but I didn’t do anything, I swear.” 

“Yes, I know that. There are no ways for you to prevent a pregnancy – I made sure of that – but clearly your effort and desire of building a family together is disappointingly low, to say the least.” 

If you could, you’d roll your eyes at that, frankly insulted on why would Shoto even think you’d be thrilled to have a child with your kidnapper.

Instead, you shrug your shoulders. 

He groans in frustration, hand rubbing all over his face. 

“Clearly you don’t desire this child as much as I do. I can’t force you to want a child, I’m aware of that.” he starts, provoking a wince in you when he brings his hand - his cold hand - to cup your cheek a little tighter than usual. “But I’ll be damned if I can’t make you love them. They deserve your love and attention, just as much as I do.”

His eyes burn into you, hot turmoil behind them. 

“And then we shall be a perfect family. No matter what I have to do in order to achieve that reality.” 

Bakugo

“Bak– Katsuki, can I take a break? I’m tired…” you beg breathlessly, sweat profusely running down your forehead.

Your feet are numb and the muscles of your legs burning with how long you’ve been forced to walk on the treadmill. 

Ever since Bakugo cemented the idea of having a baby you haven’t been able to rest for a single minute, constantly terrorized by the man that demands you to exercise following an incredibly demanding and exhausting physical plan. 

“And I don’t care. I told you before, the exercise plan has to be followed correctly to get results.” Bakugo sharply reprimands you. “How the hell are you supposed to be healthy and in shape to carry our kid if you can’t even walk the treadmill for 45 minutes, huh?” 

You frown at that, sending him a dirty look that he clearly chooses to ignore. Fuck him and fuck the kid. If it’s up to you, he won’t ever get that baby he wants so much.

But much like everything that has been happening, your level of decision is frankly limited. 

“You’re almost done with the treadmill anyways. 10 minutes left, that's a piece of cake.” he declares, checking the smartwatch on his wrist before returning his full attention to you. “After that, it’s the 60 push-ups and some light pilates. See? Easy work-out since you’re whiny today.”

You scoff.

“Oh yes, soo easy, thanks a lot.” your sarcasm doesn’t go unnoticed as Bakugo raises a brow at that. 

“Keep bitching and I might add more exercises to it.” he lightly threatens you. Pressing your lips together, you push yourself to keep going and finish the stupid workout. 

Bakugo doesn’t give up on pestering you as he leans forward, veiny hands holding onto the handrail and pink lips curling into a smirk.

He looks you up and down, drinking in your figure dressed with a revealing sports bra and tight leggings and his eyes darken with desire. 

“Might even create a new special workout exercise just for you.” he rasps out. “Get those legs ready cause I’m gonna make you ride me till I knock you up.” 

Deku

“Is this uncomfortable, my love?” he asks, fingers gently tracing random patterns against the slightly wet skin of your legs. Izuku’s messy hair tickles you when he leans to press a few loving kisses over the expanse of your naked stomach. 

“Silly question, of course it’s uncomfortable.” he replies to his own question, shaking his head. “But you’re fine with this, right, my love?” 

He looks up, sickly smiling at your exhausted figure.

You can’t answer – not with a gag-ball stuffed inside your mouth. You can’t move either – not with your arms rigidly tied to the bed’s headboard.

But what Izuku truly means is the obnoxious position way your legs are being held up into the air, blackwhip rigidly holding them up.

You’re not even certain if the old trick to holding legs in the air is scientifically proven to be accurate, but Izuku has been obsessed with forcing you into such a pose ever since Kaminari confided to him how Jiro got pregnant after a short period of time by doing this trick. 

Izuku coos, noticing the clear discomfort on your face. 

“Hey, I know, I know. It’s not very cozy, is it?” he apologizes, moving up so that he can hover over your face. His face is glowing, covered by a thin layer of sweat and happiness.

“But just think about it, my love, how all of your little sacrifices are going to be worth it in the end when we finally get to hold our little bundle of joy. Our own sweet baby!”

His eyes glint, unhealthy obsession and delusional love glimmering in those green esmeralds. Izuku looks nothing but personified insanity. 

“Oh, I can’t wait!” he reveals blithely, shuffling his body to lay your head on his bicep as he nuzzles your neck. “We’re going to have the cutest babies ever. Even Kacchan will get jealous, I bet.” 

You screw your eyes shut but that doesn’t stop a lonely tear from sliding down your cheek. Izuku hums, kissing the tear away. 

“You’ll see, my love, we are going to be one big happy family.”

[smokeandwords]

; yandere, the parent trap...

albedo, an artificial being born from his master's exceptional capabilities, has no means of reproducing biologically - he's all chalk and khemia. however, as an alchemist and pursuer of the truth, perhaps that problem can be solved.

as he stands before his research camp in dragonspine, he can't help but think that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. his imposter and his master's affinity for creation... he's not so different in a sense. in his hand, he holds a strand of your hair, a DNA sample - plucked when you were too busy gawking at his notes and potions when visiting earlier. it was all too easy.

he may not be able to reproduce in the traditional fashion that's expected from males made from flesh and bones, but an alchemist of his grandeur cannot be stopped once he sets his mind on something. he navigates through his reading materials and equipment with a clinical level of precision, eyes narrowed in focus.

a child. he will give you a child created in the same way he was. a child will be created whose genes and appearance are the perfect blend between you two - an ideal offspring.

this is the exact push he needed for you.

the next time he calls for you to visit him in dragonspine, you're greeted by the sight of an infant who eerily looks like you and him, with a star-shaped mark adorning their neck, identical to his.

confused, you move your gaze to look at albedo, searching for an explanation. all he provides is a minuscule smile.

he truly hopes you'll welcome the new addition to your family with the same warmth you have always kindly given him. he's sure klee will love having a new playmate, too.

[smokeandwords]

Here's the result from the poll! Sorry, it took long. I lost my progress and had to write it over T-T. Longer than usual to make it up to my lovely peeps. Anyway, here is the confident, popular yandere who becomes a desperate pathetic mess for you.

Popular yandere, who was never alone. Circled with adored gazes and loud chatters, people gathered around him like he was some kind of celebrity. His overstretched smile full of fake glee. Crinkled eyes masking a hollow emptiness. No one would care enough to truly look at him, all too busy talking nineteen to the dozen.

It was so easy to predict them. The mundane topics boring him to death. Nothing exciting ever happened. Gritting his teeth, he endured their ramblings. Endured their dullness. Their stupid problems.

Taps of his pencil slapped the wooden desk rapidly. A practiced, charming grin when he greeted you— his new project partner. The invisible loser at the background whose face he rather recognized.

"Hey there, guess we're partners, huh? What a total unplanned coincidence! Uhh, anyway, you can pick the topic. Nono, please, go ahead. I'll just follow your lead."

His crew strolled passed you in the fields. Always sinked down on the grass with your back against the concrete wall. Blue light reflected on your face, nose buried deep in your phone.

Your lack of a life amused him. Fascinated at how isolated you were, and yet you were beaming. Giggling at your screen while your posture got worse. Not seeming a bit sad about being alone or wasting your time playing on a machine.

Simple enquiring quickly led to obsessive stalking. Justified by stating how he was merely observing you. Interested in your name and your hobbies, what you ate for the day, where you walked when you had no school, how the interior of your home looked like. A bit of curiosity, that was all!

The school project was the key to getting closer to you. Instant refusal to every person coming his way, sweet talking them into grouping together by pointing out their strengths. No objections were made. His judgment very well-trusted. Now you had the idolized annoyance as your group member, exactly like he planned.

FINALLY, he could talk to the nobody persistently invading his mind. The endless thoughts of you giving him heartache. He couldn't get his beauty sleep at night, and when he did, the dreams were all about you. He wasn't normally the type to approach people, not like he had the time to. Every waking moment of his day was stuffed with zealous yet shallow admirers. Everyone loved him. Gawking at his good looks, adoring his style, praising his intelligence.

You didn't even bat an eye.

He was nonexistent to you. Eyes boring into indifference. Frustrated, at how you treated him like he was someone insignificant. People already began to question his strange, out of the blue behaviour. How he stared at the wall without blinking. You were getting the best of him— he couldn't keep his mask on, uncontrollably snapping at people, apologizing as if he was having a bad day. Every day was a bad day. A torturous wait for you to just look his way.

If you didn't notice him anytime soon, he was going to do something crazy.

Thanks to the project, you finally spoke to him. Irritated, sure. But you saw him, a dopey grin on his face when you repeated back his name. Even getting away with patting your shoulder. He greeted you in the hallways the day after, approached you during lunch the next week, and then started to text you like crazy the following month. No idea how clingy he was acting until you pointed it out. Falling more in love with your weirdness and hidden personality.

You acted uncertain towards him. Hesitant that this was a prank. Afraid that you'd become a laughing stock if this progressed any further. So you built a metaphorical wall between you.

Questions after questions overwhelmingly flooded his brain. Your behaviour much different than the way he was used to being treated. Sarcastic remarks and harsh dismissals hurt his poor, sad heart.

He started to crave even the slightest approval from those around him— what did they think of his carefully picked outfit? Or his light makeup and shiny hair? He needed you to drool over him like the rest of the school did, yet you still didn't trust him. Accusing him of being fake, when all he wanted was to befriend you.

"B-but I swear, I genuinely want to be your friend. Please, listen. I can be myself around you. I don't have to be perfect, y'know? I thought you'd understand..."

As you grew more doubtful of his intentions, he became more hopeless. Desperate to change your mind while fighting the insecurity that loomed over him.

You pushed him to completely give in to the urge to follow you home and watch over you from a distance. He'd ask his many connections to keep an idea on you when he couldn't, but since their questions and teasing and judgement would get on his nerves, he settled for a tracking device instead. The digital dot always beeping in the same, familiar spots on the map.

His mind jumbled into a chaotic mess. Your dislike for him beyond his comprehension. All he ever did was be nice, so why did you not give him the time of day? Gifts nor compliments, nothing was good enough for you. He had never did anything like this before. Chase after someone. Love, actually love someone.

For your attention, he was willing to do whatever.He longed to be useful to you. Be at your beck and call at any time like a loyal dog. Everything from your terrible posture to your poor diet to your sleep schedule, he could take care of it. He could take care of you.

In the end, he had no patience, he couldn't stand the wait— he had to ask you out. A spontaneous minute that he wished he could take back. Stutters left his lips while he tried to make the date sound super romantic. Roses, candle lit dinner, moonlight. A perfected plan delivered with anxious jitter. Red face burning hotter than glowing coals and big, round eyes awaited the response.

"Eh... no thanks."

His eyes twitched. You were a loser! A common known label that he hated to use. But how could you turn down the first guy who pursued you? Choosing fictional anime crushes over a live flawless boy pleading for a date. How long were you going to stay in your lonely shell as a kissless virgin?

His determination didn't waver. He was willing to do anything to win you over. Countless attempts turned down due to excuses. Weeks after weeks of him chasing after you. You were driving him insane. Like you were doing this on purpose. "No?!? W-Wha... Why not? You don't want to go outside, you don't want to come to my place, why... Why can't I come to yours? I-I don't care if it's messy or if it s-smells. I actually love it. Um, I just need a chance, please. I need to prove to you that my love is real."

How did he end up being the one begging at your feet? Fingers clenching around your calves, while he looked up with a shameful blush on his face. Embarrassing himself in front of everyone he knew. Their gasps and murmurs ringing through his ears. Humiliation turning his body weak. Hot unwanted tears flooding his vision. He didn't care— he couldn't take the rejection anymore.

"Please believe me, please. It hurts so bad. Ah, I can't breathe. I love you so much. Pleasepleaseplease don't push me away. Don't cast me aside. I want to be with you. I want to be with you..."

He could barely make out your face with the fat tears rolling down his cheeks. His forehead rested on your knee, his head down as if waiting a death sentence. It was getting more awkward the longer he stayed on his knees. Yet he stayed glued to the harsh, cold floor. He'd never felt emotions to this level of intensity before you came. The hurt tightening his chest. A vice grip clamping down to crush his lungs.

Rubbing the back of your neck, you sighed. Feeling bad about the dishevelled flawed mess he turned into. Sweat worked up on your skin from the many eyes staring at the scene.

"You won't stop until I say yes, huh? I guess you proved you were telling the truth. So, fine. Let's get going now... You brought quite the audience here."

"..." His head remained stuck against your knees. Hands shaking against your legs while he exhaled. Not budging at all. The hushed whispers exchanged in the background making your blood boil. "What are you guys staring at? Scram! Go away! Leave him alone."

And they slowly faded one by one. You ran a hand through the soft, silky hair of the needy boy. More attentive to the mess on the floor to care about your surroundings anymore. Sitting on the floor beside him, you lazily wrapped his arms around your neck. A finger pressing his chin up so you could take a good look at him. He sniffed. Eyes all puffy and red. A deprived beg escaping his glossy lips.

"Please... I—"

You cut him off with a small smile. "You can hug me until you're satisfied. I'll be here."

Arms tangled tighter around you. Head tilted in, and you realized what this meant. A hint of anxiety bursted butterflies your stomach. But you went for it. Suppressing the flinch and moving in. Eyes half-lidded when velvety flesh met. Low hum buzzing from him. He pulled you closer and closer. Lips parted while you snaked your tongue into his mouth. A loud moan met your eardrums. Your little theory of him wanting you to take charge confirmed correct.

He melted like butter despite how you barely knew what you were doing. Uneven movements and unsure licks were just met with pathetic whimpers. Each stroke of saliva making him hot and dizzy. You had a way of making him unbelievably sensitive. No clue to why he felt like this was his first real kiss too. Never understanding the fuss about this pleasant feeling until now.

He pulled back for breathe much too soon, and panted against your face. "I'm so glad we found each other, darling. C-can I call you that? Since I'm your b-boyfriend now... Right?"

You didn't answer. He didn't give you a chance to. Another peck was placed on your lips. Desperate tongue reaching to wet your lips while you cupped his face. Hands grabbing your wrists to ensure you keep them there. Determination ran through him; He was going to plead and plead until you finally gave in.

[smokeandwords]

his silent script

Pairing: Yandere!Actor x Smut Writer!Reader Description: You never meant for your words to become real, but Dorian Shaw—celebrated actor, relentless shadow—has stepped straight out of your pages. He watches you like he knows you, like he’s living the life you created for him, and when he speaks, it’s with the certainty of a man who refuses to be just fiction. Warning/s: YANDERE | Stalking | Psychological Manipulation | Power Imbalance | Implied Coercion | Implied Threats | Note/s: Happy 900 followers! Actually, it already exceeded 900. I hope I can finish Sovereign's Reign on or before I reach 1,000 followers. ^^ Anyway, enjoy reading!

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The first time you met him; it wasn’t with flashing cameras or red carpets. It was raining—of course it was raining—and the bookstore’s leaky ceiling made a steady plip-plip onto the laminate floor.

You’d come for peace. You found him instead.

He was in the back corner of the romance section, hood low over his brow, fingers grazing the spines like he was choosing a victim rather than a novel. Tall, still, silent. The kind of presence that made you aware of your own heartbeat.

You didn’t recognize him. Not really. Maybe you’d seen him once, in passing on some trailer auto-playing on your phone. But the name meant little. The face meant nothing. You weren’t in the business of idolizing men who wore fake faces for a living.

Still, you noticed the way his eyes lingered too long on the shelf where your name sat, your series nestled between glossier, brighter titles. You saw the slight twitch in his jaw when he picked up the second book in your “Sin & Silk” trilogy. And then—he smiled.

Not like a fan. Like a man who’d just found something he’d been missing.

“Is this one any good?” he asked, holding up the copy. His voice was deep—velvet laced with smoke—and you immediately felt heat crawl up your neck.

“I wouldn’t know,” you said, brushing past him to the counter. “Never read it.”

He laughed—just once. “Liar.”

You turned. He was still watching you.

“You’re her,” he said. “The author.”

Your stomach sank. “So?”

He didn’t answer. Just flipped the book open, letting the pages fan out beneath his fingers, stopping on a dog-eared chapter. You knew exactly which scene it was. Chapter 17. The one your editor almost didn’t let you keep. Too dark, too raw, too real.

But you’d fought for it. And won.

Now he was reading it. Slowly. Deliberately.

“This scene,” he murmured. “The way he talks to her. Makes her feel like she’s drowning even when she wants more.”

You stiffened. “You make it sound creepy.”

He smiled again. This time, it didn’t reach his eyes.

“It’s not creepy if it’s real.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You didn’t think much of it. A strange encounter. A nameless man in a bookstore. A slightly unsettling comment.

Then a week later, your book shot up the charts.

Overnight, your inbox was flooded with messages. Your social media exploded. Edits. Fanart. BookTok girls screaming about the “Sin & Silk” trilogy, especially Chapter 17. You didn’t understand why—until you saw the video.

Him. The man from the bookstore.

Only now, the hood was off. The world’s most sought-after actor, Dorian Shaw, was staring into a camera, book in hand, reading your words.

“I couldn’t put it down,” he said in a quiet interview, caught between questions about his next thriller and a luxury brand endorsement. “There’s something real in this writing. Dark, yeah. But honest. Like she’s not afraid to tell the truth.”

Dorian Shaw. Award-winning. Obscenely handsome. A man with a face built for obsession and a voice that bent crowds.

And now, he was yours.

Your book, your name, your words—on his lips.

It should’ve been thrilling. You should’ve been grateful.

But when you watched that interview, it wasn’t his praise that stuck with you.

It was the way he looked at the camera.

Like he wasn’t just recommending your book.

Like he was speaking to you.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The next time you saw him; it was at your signing event. Your publicist was buzzing, hands fluttering as she arranged stacks of books and fixed your hair between signatures.

“He promoted you,” she whispered. “Do you have any idea what that means?”

You did. Your Amazon page had crashed. Pre-orders were climbing. But all you could think about was the way his fingers lingered on your words.

He showed up without fanfare. No entourage. No disguise. Just Dorian, dressed in dark tones, leaning against the end of the line like he belonged there.

People turned. Whispered. Phones clicked.

And still, he waited. Twenty-three minutes.

When he finally reached you, he didn’t hand you a book.

He slid a black envelope across the table.

“I read them all,” he said. “But I think you already know that.”

You stared at him. “Why are you here?”

His smile was slow. Purposeful.

“I want to talk. The real kind. About the man you wrote.”

“I write fiction.”

“You write truth in disguise.”

He stepped back, letting the crowd absorb him. But as he disappeared, he called over his shoulder:

“Open it when you’re alone.”

Inside the envelope was a script. Handwritten. Raw. A scene lifted straight from Chapter 17—but with differences. Subtle, unnerving ones.

The villain won.

The heroine didn’t run.

And at the bottom, scrawled in ink that had bled through the page:

You wrote him. I became him.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You tried to avoid it after that. Ignored the surge of followers. Declined interviews. Turned adaptation offers.

But Dorian was persistent.

He posted again. A black-and-white video of him reading a monologue from your latest release. The comments were chaos. His fans demanded a collab. Your sales doubled. Your publisher offered a new contract. Your name was trending.

And through it all, he watched.

At first, it was distant. A like. A repost. A subtle nod during his press tours.

Then he started commenting. Small things. Quotes from your work. Direct lines. No context.

Then came the invitations. A book panel he was hosting. A charity gala “in your honor.” He even showed up at a local café reading where you’d been assured anonymity.

You finally gave in at a networking event your agent guilted you into attending. He was there before you. Waiting at the bar.

“You never answered my messages,” he said as you approached, drink in hand.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“No,” he said. “But you created me.”

You shook your head. “You’re not him. He’s fiction.”

Dorian leaned in, voice lowering. “I’ve played gods, killers, kings. But none of them fit like him. None of them felt like me—until your story.”

You hated the way he said it. Like it was fate. Like he truly believed it.

“You don’t know me,” you said.

“I know you better than anyone who’s ever touched your skin,” he said, his voice almost reverent. “Because I’ve read the parts of you no one else dares to look at.”

You walked away.

But something tethered you there.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

And now, you were in the backseat of a car. One you didn’t remember getting into. Rain blurred the windows. Your hands were shaking.

The partition slid down.

Dorian looked back at you from the driver’s seat.

“You shouldn’t get in strange cars,” he said.

Your mouth went dry. “This isn’t my driver.”

“No,” he agreed. “It’s mine.”

You reached for the handle. Locked.

“Please,” he said. “Just listen.”

You swallowed. “You stalked me.”

“I followed the story.”

“There is no story.”

“There is,and you know it.”

His voice was quiet, almost broken.

“You wrote me. I was fragments before you. Empty roles. Hollow scripts. But then I found your words. And I felt something. For the first time in years, I felt alive.”

He turned in his seat, eyes meeting yours.

“Don’t take that from me.”

The knife was beneath the seat. You knew it. He didn’t reach for it.

Instead, he took your book from his coat. Your first. The one that had started it all.

“Let me show you what this means to me,” he whispered. “Let me be him.”

Your heart pounded.

“I don’t want him.”

“Yes, you do,” he said. “You buried him in fiction. I’m digging him out.”

Silence sat between you like a second presence.

Then, softly: “Give me one scene. Just one. Let me prove I understand.”

And you, against everything rational, nodded.

He didn’t touch you.

But he looked at you like you were the final line of a monologue he’d rehearsed a thousand times.

And when it was over, you went home.

And picked up your pen.

And rewrote the ending.

This time, the villain stays.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

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

[smokeandwords]

One of them wants to marry you. The other wants to make sure he never does.

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

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Various! Otome Isekai Characters x Fem. Reader

♡ Word Count. 3,171

♡ Yandere! Crown Prince who has always been entitled to everything—land, power, wealth, and most importantly, you. His right to you is absolute, written in blood and ink across every history book that dares to speak of the royal line.

♡ Yandere! War Hero who was never promised anything but carved his way through battlefields, knee-deep in the viscera of fallen foes, until he stood before you. Not by birthright, but by the sheer will to survive where others fell.

♡ Yandere! Crown Prince who sits beside you, hands clasped over yours like a steel shackle. "You don't need to lower yourself to common filth," he murmurs, gaze locked on the War Hero. "You were made for palaces, not trenches."

♡ Yandere! War Hero who only grins, boots kicked onto the palace table, still stained with the dried blood of a hundred men. "And you were made to sit on your ass while others do the killing. Forgive me if I find that unimpressive."

♡ Yandere! Crown Prince who tightens his grip on your fingers, a barely restrained tremor running up his arm. "You’re nothing but a hound."

♡ Yandere! War Hero who flashes a wolfish smirk. "And yet, she feeds me scraps. Doesn't that make you feel insecure?"

♡ Yandere! Crown Prince whose smile is all polished gold but whose rage is a quiet execution. "The difference between you and me, mongrel, is that I own what I love."

♡ Yandere! War Hero who laughs like the last dying breath of an enemy. "And yet, here she sits, leaning towards me. Looks like your leash slipped, your highness."

♡ Yandere! Crown Prince who has held a blade to his general’s throat for less.

♡ Yandere! War Hero who doesn’t flinch at the Crown Prince’s threats because he’s had worse. The last man who tried to kill him succeeded—for five minutes, before he was dragged back to life by battlefield surgeons who stapled his soul to his bones.

♡ Yandere! War Hero who is obsessed with the way you placed your palm against his blood-slicked cheek after he returned from battle, as if he were still human, as if war had not made him something else entirely. Who still hears your voice over the screams, the thunder, the cacophony of steel meeting flesh. He doesn’t believe in destiny, but he believes in you.

♡ Yandere! Crown Prince who stares, seething, as you sit beside the War Hero, dabbing at a cut along his jaw. His fists clench.

“You forget your place, soldier,” the Crown Prince hisses, voice low, dangerous.

♡ Yandere! War Hero who meets his gaze, unbothered. “And you forget yours, my lord. You are the heir to a kingdom. I am the shield that keeps you from wearing your guts like a sash.”

“You think that shield will protect you from me?”

The War Hero shrugs. “Try and find out.”

♡ Yandere! Crown Prince who very much would love to, if not for your hand on the War Hero’s wrist, grounding him, soothing something feral just beneath his skin. That is what enrages him most. Not the defiance. Not the insolence. But the fact that it’s working. That you can calm the storm with a touch.

♡ Yandere! War Hero who smirks, tilts his head. “She chose me.”

♡ Yandere! Crown Prince who intends to undo that mistake with blood and fire.

———

♡ Yandere! Archduke who catches you at the opera, dressed in silver and moonlight, sitting in his private box like you belong to him. And then there’s a crash—

♡ Yandere! Master Thief who swings from the rafters like a damn circus act, landing with a bow as if breaking into an event full of armed guards is just another Tuesday.

“Really? This is your plan?” the Archduke drawls, unimpressed. He lifts a glass of wine as if toasting to the sheer audacity. “You thought you could just waltz in here and steal her?”

“Oh no, Your Grace,” the Master Thief grins, flashing something sharp and gleaming between his teeth. “I don’t waltz. I prefer the tango. More hands-on.”

A gunshot. The Master Thief dodges. Your ears ring. The opera continues. Nobody reacts. The nobility is used to bloodstains on the carpet.

♡ Yandere! Archduke who never misses a shot but isn’t aiming to kill. No, he’s aiming to maim.

♡ Yandere! Master Thief who laughs, dashing across the balcony with inhuman agility, plucking a jewel-encrusted knife from an unfortunate lord’s throat. “A bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

♡ Yandere! Archduke who sneers. “Says the one who thinks theft is a love language.”

♡ Yandere! Master Thief who winks. “It is when you do it right.”

♡ Yandere! Archduke who places a gloved hand over yours. “She isn’t yours to steal.”

♡ Yandere! Master Thief who twirls the stolen dagger. “Then let’s see if she wants to be taken.”

You, who really just wanted to enjoy the damn opera.

♡ Yandere! Archduke who burns down an entire village because you let the Master Thief steal a kiss from you. "Collateral damage," he sighs, boot on the charred remains of someone’s grandmother. "Next time, I’ll aim for a city."

♡ Yandere! Master Thief who breaks into your chambers nightly, the smell of fresh blood and stolen perfume lingering in the air. "Shame about the guards," he grins, slipping a diamond ring onto your finger. "It’s a perfect fit. Like it was always meant to be there."

♡ Yandere! Archduke who sits on his throne, dagger in his palm, knuckles white. "You reek of him," he murmurs, voice colder than the corpses he stacked just to see you smile. "Tell me. Did he make you laugh?" His grip tightens, knuckles cracking. "I’d rather tear out your tongue than let you amuse another man."

♡ Yandere! Master Thief who laughs at the execution order with his name on it, flipping the royal decree between his fingers like a cheap playing card. "It’s cute, really. You think bars can hold me? Your Archduke should know by now—I steal more than just gold."

♡ Yandere! Archduke who drags you to the highest tower, the wind howling like the ghosts of everyone he's butchered in your name. "Look down. See that? That’s what happens when you pick the wrong man." He tilts your chin up with the edge of his blade, smile thin as a razor. "Luckily for you, I’m still willing to forgive. If you beg."

———

♡ Yandere! Supreme Mage who doesn’t need to see through dimensions to know when a threat is coiling around you like an unseen parasite. Who can taste betrayal like an iron tang in the air. Who can hear the pulse of magic in every living being, except when you smile at him, because that? That is utterly dead inside.

♡ Yandere! Supreme Mage who materializes in a crack of golden light, robes billowing with unspoken fury, and says, "Ah. So you’ve taken to harboring rats in your bed. How quaint. Should I fetch the plague doctor, or would you prefer to let it fester?"

♡ Yandere! Enemy Spy who grins at him from his place on your couch, casual as a corpse cooling on the battlefield. Who doesn’t bother to get up, just keeps one hand on your thigh like a brand, like a claim, like he’s daring a man who can rewrite reality to try something.

♡ Yandere! Enemy Spy who lifts a hand and waves lazily. "Well, if it isn’t the arcane psychopath. I was wondering when you’d show up. You always get so twitchy when she has company."

♡ Yandere! Supreme Mage who doesn’t react, because he doesn’t need to react. The air warps with unspoken threats. Your entire apartment creaks, the walls tightening as if reality itself is afraid of what he will do. "Your presence here is a mistake, spy. One I am going to correct."

♡ Yandere! Enemy Spy who exhales, all long-suffering patience, and pats your knee. "See, this is why we can’t have a healthy social life, sweetheart. Your little pet magician thinks anything that breathes near you is a threat."

♡ Yandere! Supreme Mage who steps closer, not bothering to touch the ground, because why should a god walk when he can hover like the nightmare he is? His voice is a blade wrapped in silk. "That is because everything near her is a threat."

♡ Yandere! Enemy Spy who rolls his eyes, leans in closer to you, and mutters, "He’s not wrong."

♡ Yandere! Supreme Mage who obliterated an entire country in a fit of rage once. Who still has the map with that nation’s name scribbled out in blood. Who claims it was a scientific experiment in large-scale elemental magic. Who insists it had nothing to do with the fact that you had been taken there as a prisoner of war.

♡ Yandere! Supreme Mage who personally designed the magical chains shackling the enemy spy to his dungeon wall. Who carved sigils into his flesh with a surgeon’s precision. Who watches, with the detached amusement of a scholar, as the spy’s body twists and heals around the enchantments. Who calls it "an intellectual curiosity." Who calls it "a favor" to you.

♡ Yandere! Enemy Spy who sneers through bloodied teeth. Who only laughs when Supreme Mage’s spellwork attempts to break his mind. Who survived the war solely on instinct, subterfuge, and the kind of unholy endurance that makes lesser men shudder. Who grins, sharp and defiant, as he croaks, "You should let her decide, shouldn’t you?"

♡ Yandere! Supreme Mage who nearly detonates the entire fortress at the mere suggestion.

"Decide?" His voice is an earthquake barely contained. His robes ripple like liquid shadow, edged in embers. "What is there to decide? A parasite does not negotiate its way into a host’s body. A stray dog does not ask to be let inside. You think yourself an equal? A competitor? You're a mistake of nature, a statistical anomaly."

♡ Yandere! Enemy Spy who only grins wider, spitting blood onto Supreme Mage’s pristine white marble floor. "You sure talk a lot for someone who’s scared."

♡ Yandere! Supreme Mage who moves too fast to track. One moment he’s across the room, the next his hand is buried in the spy’s chest, fingers curled around his still-beating heart. Who leans in, slow, deliberate, his breath scalding. "I could make you forget her name," he whispers. "I could wipe every last thought of her from your mind. Your love, your obsession, your entire self—gone."

♡ Yandere! Enemy Spy who, despite the pain, despite the mind-breaking agony, still smirks. "And yet," he wheezes, "you haven’t."

♡ Yandere! Supreme Mage who yanks his hand back, seething, as the spy collapses into ragged, victorious laughter. Who turns to you, his golden eyes alight with something feverish, something frantic. "Say it," he commands. "Tell him he is nothing. Tell him he does not exist to you."

♡ Yandere! Enemy Spy, gasping, wheezing, forcing himself to sit up. "Or..." he rasps, tilting his head, "tell him you like me better."

♡ Yandere! Supreme Mage who is one syllable away from setting the entire continent on fire.

———

♡ Yandere! Demon King who built his empire on charred corpses and centuries of conquest. Who sits upon his throne of ivory bones, fingers idly tapping against an armrest carved from the skull of a fallen archangel. Who looks at you like a relic from a past life, something fragile, something beloved, something that must be locked away lest the world taint you. Who commands with absolute authority, but speaks your name like a prayer, like a secret only he should be allowed to know.

♡ Yandere! Demon Assassin who has killed more kings than he can count, but never this one. Who has worked at the Demon King's side for millennia, yet the moment you entered his line of sight, he knew he would tear down empires for you. Who moves in silence, in shadows, in the spaces between light and dark, but his voice is a rasp against your ear, whispering things he knows the Demon King will kill him for saying. Who stands with knives in both hands, one for his enemies, one for the man who dares to keep you from him.

♡ Yandere! Demon King who does not know the meaning of sharing. Who watches you speak to the assassin with a gaze so searing the air warps around him. Who clenches his jaw hard enough that his fangs pierce his own tongue, and the taste of his own ichor only fuels his fury. Who has conquered dimensions, obliterated civilizations, and yet the worst betrayal he has ever known is watching you, his beloved, listen to another man.

♡ Yandere! Demon Assassin who has spent centuries perfecting the art of killing, but only now does he feel alive. Who watches the Demon King unravel with a sick sort of amusement, knowing he alone has gotten under his liege’s skin. Who stands just close enough to you, his presence a silent claim, his movements too fluid, too casual, as though daring the King to react. Who lets his fingers brush against yours when handing you a blade, his smirk widening as the Demon King’s aura cracks the stone beneath them.

The throne room is a masterpiece of destruction. The walls still drip with the remains of some poor fool who displeased him. The air is thick with the scent of burning marrow, but it is not enough to drown out the suffocating silence between the two men.

“You’re awfully bold today,” the Demon King murmurs, voice like smoldering embers. His clawed fingers drum against his throne, slow, deliberate, like a war drum before the first strike. His eyes, the color of old blood, do not leave you. “Are you enjoying this?”

♡ Yandere! Demon Assassin who grins, unbothered by the killing intent in the room. “Immensely.”

♡ Yandere! Demon King who stands, and the entire castle groans in response, the weight of his wrath fracturing the very foundation. Who does not appreciate amusement unless he is the one indulging in it. Who steps forward, each movement a barely restrained act of violence, a king whose patience has run dry.

“Come here,” he commands, but it is not to his assassin. It is to you. To his treasure.

♡ Yandere! Demon Assassin who laughs under his breath, stepping in your way before you can move. “She’s not a dog, your Majesty.”

♡ Yandere! Demon King whose smile is a thin, sharp thing, carved from disdain. “No, but you are a corpse.”

♡ Yandere! Demon Assassin who tilts his head, eyes gleaming. “Try me.”

♡ Yandere! Demon King who does not lunge—kings do not lunge, kings do not brawl. No, he merely lifts a hand, and the walls explode with jagged obsidian, the floor splintering into a pit of hellfire at the assassin’s feet. The room screams with infernal energy, a tangible force meant to bring lesser beings to their knees.

♡ Yandere! Demon Assassin who does not flinch. Who rolls his shoulders like this is a game and he is a predator that has just caught the scent of something fun. Who flicks his wrist and summons a thousand shadows, each one an extension of his will, a sliver of darkness with a killing edge.

♡ Yandere! Demon King who clenches his fist and the assassin’s shadows shatter.

♡ Yandere! Demon Assassin who raises a brow, impressed but not deterred. “Touchy.”

♡ Yandere! Demon King who does not take well to insolence. Who does not take well to you still standing beside the assassin.

You, who sighs in the middle of the impending bloodbath, utterly unphased. “Are you two done?”

♡ Yandere! Demon King who turns to you like you’ve personally betrayed him. “You’re defending him?”

♡ Yandere! Demon Assassin who smirks, nudging your shoulder with his own. “Adorable, isn’t it?”

♡ Yandere! Demon King who snaps, his power manifesting in a cacophony of screams from the walls themselves. Who reaches for you, but the assassin is faster, grabbing you by the waist and yanking you into his grasp, pressing a blade to your throat—not to hurt you, never to hurt you, but to taunt the king.

♡ Yandere! Demon Assassin who grins against your ear, voice a ghost of amusement. “So, who do you think would win?”

♡ Yandere! Demon King whose eyes glow with hellfire, whose fangs glint like a beast denied its prey. “You will die screaming.”

♡ Yandere! Demon Assassin who kisses the top of your head, just to make it worse. “Maybe. But I’ll die with her.”

♡ Yandere! Demon King who does not like that answer. Not one bit.

———

But here’s the thing.

Did they really think you were an idiot?

You, who has watched their egos clash like titanic beasts, who has dangled yourself like a prized trophy between them, knowing full well what you were doing. You, who let them think they were winning.

You, who used every second of their pathetic posturing to plan your escape.

♡ Yandere! Crown Prince who turns, realizing you’re gone—

♡ Yandere! War Hero who curses under his breath, scanning the battlefield—

♡ Yandere! Archduke who demands his spies find you immediately—

♡ Yandere! Master Thief who suddenly wishes he had locked you in a cage when he had the chance—

♡ Yandere! Supreme Mage who reaches out with his magic, only to find—nothing—

♡ Yandere! Enemy Spy who grins, because honestly? He saw this coming, and he's a little impressed.

♡ Yandere! Demon King who roars, shaking the very foundations of the underworld—

♡ Yandere! Demon Assassin who merely chuckles, licking a stray drop of blood from his blade.

You, vanishing into the night, leaving behind nothing but chaos, war, and the memory of a coldblooded glare.

After all… if you can’t fight the system, might as well use it.

Let them tear each other apart.

You? You have better things to do.

You walked away.

Free.

Fucking imbeciles.

────────────

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Whispers In The Dark”: @keisocool , @elvabeth , @elloredef , @mjsjshhd , @lem-hhn , @yuki-istired , @lilyalone , @starryperson

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology ♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. ♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World. ♡ Book 4 [you are here]. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows. ♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

[smokeandwords]

Yandere FarmBoy

[Yandere M. x F. AFAB Reader]

it's a bit longer than i initially wanted this to be, but i had fun writing it! it's a bit more rushed towards the end so sorry if it shows. this was supposed to be for october, but i ended up not finishing it in time, so i'm very happy to have it finally done

TW. DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT Noncon, fingering, baby trapping, yandere, slut shaming, victim blaming, bullying, non consensual touching, misogyny, gaslighting, manipulation, implied future forced relationship, abuse of power

The local golden boy your father has hired has taken a keen interest in you, an impoverished farmer's daughter, and you can't seem to shake him off. As he doubles down on pursuing you, and you continue to refuse him, the lengths he goes to ensure you'll be his increase drastically with one autumn night and a chase through a wheat field.

7.2k words

You didn’t know why Daniel insisted on working on your father’s farm. It wasn’t like his family wasn’t well off. In fact, out of all the families within the valley, his was the most successful by far. Hell, they were the only ones who could actually afford to employ other people. He drove a shiny new truck just like the rest of his kin, and lived in a big, multi story house at the top of the hill.

 Your daddy could only really pay him scraps. The land you lived on was rough to say the least, all overgrazed and tough, untenable soil that had a Ph level that could’ve come straight out of hell in your honest opinion. Basically, there wasn’t shit to be earned, and the only reason why your folks even tried to desperately keep growing crop after failed crop was because if they didn’t, then you’d be flat out homeless and starving. The stock your family produced wasn’t worth a dime, either. Milk too sour, corn too small, eggs so dull and tiny people thought that they weren’t even from chickens; you were surprised people even bought from your daddy at all.

The poor state of your homestead was reflected in nearly everything else around you. You always looked some kind of mussed up: Wild, unkempt hair, dirt under your nails, clothes that looked either too small, too big or way too out of fashion. You got bullied quite a bit by the other young ladies in town. That is if you could even be called a young lady. There wasn’t a lick of lady in you it seemed.

You and your family were always on the edge of going broke, going hungry or some other kind of misfortune, so you found it increasingly odd why the Petusky boy was so keen to get his hands dirty when there was nothing he could get in return.

Daniel Petusky, or Danny as he would so kindly remind you to call him, was by most accounts the sweetest, most eligible young man in town. He was a tall, stocky sort of guy with large, rough hands and a handsome smile. You’d be stupid to say he wasn’t quite the looker, and not to mention he was all muscular and strong lookin from all his time working. When you were in highschool, he’d been the star of the school’s football team, and there were even rumors that he was getting offers from big, fancy schools in big fancy cities. You remembered how blooming with jealousy you were back then because of that. But, as you were so constantly reminded of through seeing his working boots that had to be worth at least a couple hundred bucks, he was wealthy too. 

He helped out around town, was sweet to older folks, and made all the ladies swoon with a flip of his sandy blond hair. He charmed your father just as easily, asking him if he could work his land for him, or at least help him with it. Of course your daddy would say yes. He needed all the help he could get, and lord know you weren’t nearly enough to actually keep this place afloat. Plus, who else would accept such low pay? It wasn’t like there was a line out the door for a chance to work at the [Last Name] farm, now was there?

You sighed as you hauled a bag of feed over to the chicken coop. It was mighty heavy, and you grunted as you nearly slipped in the mud. Hands shot out and grabbed your waist, and you gasped in surprise as the bag landed on the ground with a large thud.

“Careful there, wouldn’t want you to take a tumble now,” Daniel chuckled softly. His voice rumbled in your head like thunder on the horizon. He steadied you and pressed you close against his chest. Your heart thumped wildly in your ribcage, though only part of it was because of your little fall. No, it was the way his fingers inched over your curves, toying with the waistband of your jeans. You swallowed thickly.

“Thanks…” You mumbled out before you stooped down to pick up the feed once again. You didn’t miss the way his gaze stuck to you when you did.

“You really shouldn’t be doing heavy liftin’, you know,” He said and pushed you to the side to grab it from your strained arms. He made it look so effortless, and it annoyed you to no end. You followed after him into the coop, an encasement of wire around it. “That’s what I’m here for.”

You frowned and didn’t respond to him. You just kept on going as you ripped open the sack to spill out all the seed. The birds rushed around your feet to get their meal, and normally you would’ve laughed and indulged in petting a couple of them, but normally you didn’t have company. Daniel had been getting better at finding you it seemed. Day by day it felt like you saw him more and more. 

You tried not to be one of those people that held onto their younger years, but whenever he was around, all you felt were the lingering memories from highschool. You were mocked on the daily. Most of the adults thought you were lost cause, always late to classes and struggling through the course material. You were called all sorts of names: ugly, stupid, slow. While he never bullied you directly, you always felt him staring. At games, in class, when he would drive slowly by you while you walked home everyday. You shuddered to think about it.

You always remembered a very specific moment that happened back in highschool. Especially now that you saw Daniel everyday again.

“What do you think about the farmer’s daughter?”

“Which one?”

He sounded so innocent, so sweet. Like he didn’t know.

“Don’t go fuckin’ with me, Petusky,” One of the guys chuckled, a cruel hint in his eyes. “You know which one I mean. The trash.” Oh… they were talking about you.

You were sitting in the diner eating a small plate of fries. You couldn’t really afford to eat anything more than that with your limited allowance and pay. You clenched your fist in your lap as you listened to the group of guys speak harshly about you. You were just out of view around the corner, all alone in the tiny booth usually reserved for couples and the like. The waitress shot you a pitiful look, and she slipped you a milkshake for free. It should’ve made you feel better, but it did more harm than good. She knew. Everyone knew you as trash.

“Come on, don't talk about her like that. She just ain’t got the means,” Daniel laughed. The sound rang in your ears, and you felt sick to your stomach.

“Or the looks.” A chorus of snickers erupted.

“She ain’t that bad,” He started, but he stopped short and just let out a playful sigh. “Hey, if y’all hate her, then y’all hate her. Can’t stop you from not wanting to fuck her if you don’t want to haha,” He joked. You could hear the strain in his voice and just imagine his blinding white smile. You busied yourself with the milkshake and tried to ignore how gross it felt to swallow down.

“Yeah, no way I’d ever touch that bitch without a three foot pole. Probably got fleas or somethin’.”

“Haha yeah…” 

They sat there chatting shit for a while longer, and you sat there miserable, shaking, and on the verge of tears. You wanted to sink into the checker patterned floor and disappear forever. You knew people didn’t like you, but was it really that bad? Were you that awful? Your eyes stung, and you just stared at the empty seat in front of you.

Eventually, the group of guys, all clad in their Ariat branded clothing and snap back hats got up and got ready to leave. None of them spared you a glance, too busy filing out to their trucks to look around them. But Daniel did.

His hazel eyes swiveled over towards you, most likely just out of habit, and caught on you. He froze. The two of you stared at each other, and his face morphed from quiet shock to anger. The planes of his features, so normally joyous and polite, shifted into something so ugly and unfamiliar that you flinched.

No one else had seen, and no one, not even him, had ever brought it up again.

Daniel liked to follow you around when there wasn’t really much work to be done. The property wasn’t the biggest, so he could find you quite easily if you weren’t by the house. Like now, while you were lounging in the barn and reading a book while hidden behind some shelving. You clutched onto the pages of the novel (some old faded copy of a Jane Austen book that you had plucked from a free bin at the local thrift store), and looked up nervously as you heard his heavy footsteps thudding against the concrete floors. He loomed over you and hummed softly.

“What you got there?” He asked and crouched down to your level. You flinched back and glanced between the small, hard to read print and him.

“A book…” You mumbled out. It was always hard to speak when you felt so embarrassed. Everyone and their mother knew that you struggled severely all through school. The teachers pretty much gave up on you, and you stumbled your way through graduation. You’d never been very smart, but sometimes you wish you were. When that happened, you tried to push yourself and learn.

“Seems like a might hard for you,” Daniel chuckled and plucked it from your hands. You let out a noise of protest as he thumbed through the pages with a low whistle and patted the top of your head. You bristled a bit. “I’m sorry? Whaddya' mean by that?” 

“Just that there are all sorts of fancy words in here,” He shrugged as he cozied up beside you. You could feel the warmth of his skin, burning from all the sun he soaked up, through the fine cotton of his shirt. It was long sleeved so that he wouldn’t get burnt during the heat of the day, but it didn’t make you feel any less flustered.

He was so confusing. Did he act like this with all the other girls in town? It was stupid to picture him as some robot who had his settings permanently flipped to flirt mode, but you genuinely couldn’t figure out why else he would be slipping his arm around your waist and pulling you into his lap.

“Daniel-”

“Danny.” He interrupted quickly, and you flinched from just how barely concealed his annoyance was. You tried to get up, you really did, but he was just so much stronger than you. You squeaked as he yanked you over his thighs. His strong bridged nose was pushing itself in the crook of your neck. “You call me Danny, you hear?” He murmured. His breath was so warm. All of him was just muscle and heat. You’d never been with anyone like this, never felt a guy’s chest pressed against your back. 

Your daddy would skin you alive for this, surely. There wasn’t a single chance in hell that you wouldn’t be punished if not run out for fooling around with a respectable young man who you weren't even dating. 

“The only thing we got is our dignity. It don’t pay no bills, but it do keep us in good graces. You do anythin’ stupid- and hear this well, girl. You do anythin’ stupid, and you’ll be out of this house before you can even pull your pants up.”

The threat was always so clear to you that it was impossible to not whimper and tremble as he groped you over your clothing. He chuckled, a soft sound that made you feel all sort of sick, and held you tight.

“Now honey, you don’t have to go all spooked on me.” He was kissing your shoulder, all tense and rigid. You felt like a piece of wood being bent far past what it should. Your bones were about to splinter, your heart about to fly out like shrapnel and just crack all over his insistent, firm hands.

“Don’t… It ain’t- ain’t right,” You stammered out. The spell was broken, and you started to grab at his wrists to get him to slow down. “ I’ll get in trouble,” You tried to reason, to hope that those golden boy manners would win out. Hope that he’d get off of you and leave you alone.

“Trouble? Hon, who you gettin’ in trouble with?” He laughed and reached up to cup your chin and face. Your head was pulled up in a craning stretch, and his fingers squished your cheeks in a playful, humiliating gesture. “With your folks? Don’t be silly [Name].”

“You’re grown, I’m grown… this is just normal between two grown people,” He hummed and started to tug up your shirt.

“H-hey! Quit it! I’m serious! I don’t want to,” You repeated, gaining your voice as he wriggled his way under the band of your soft, worn bra and began to knead your breast. He picked up the book while he pinned your legs underneath his own heavy ones and forced you to look at the random page he opened it to, completely ignoring your plea.

“Tell me, honey. What does this mean?” He asked

“What?”

“Read for me.” He drawled in a demanding tone. Your eyes flitted around nervously. “I want to know what you think you’re doing when you’re not with me. Hon, you really shouldn’t be wandering alone like this.”

“This is my farm-”

“Your Daddy’s farm,” he corrected and tugged on your nipple. You whimpered as a bolt of arousal coursed through you. Your cheeks flushed with heat. You’d never had such need dripping from between your legs before, and it got worse and worse as he pinched and rolled the sensitive nub between the rough pads of his fingers. You could feel the way his smirk felt against your skin.

“This ain’t your land, but that’s okay. I could buy it for your folks, make it so y’all don’t have to work so hard. And you’d get to sit pretty in the house all day, reading these books and whatnot. Now wouldn’t that be nice? Not having to work to the bone? Not having to get your pretty little face all mussed up?” He whispered and nipped at your cheek. You were on the verge of tears, watching helplessly as he threw your beat up novel to the side. You watched in detached horror as the words and ink were smudged and bled out by the small, dirty puddle it had landed in. Your hands curled into fists.

“Just say yes, honey. I’d treat you real nice. Promise.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and your entire body thrummed with shame, fear and arousal. You didn’t want to admit it. You’d rather have your heart torn out than ever in a million years say that it felt good, or that the attention he was sneaking you made you feel fuzzy inside sometimes. Because it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that he made you feel like this weirdo for ignoring him when he was, in fact, an actual, honest to god threat.

“No.”

“Hm? Repeat that for me now, would you honey?” He purred. 

You gritted your teeth and with a burst of strength, you shoved off of him. His molten caress was gone in an instant, and your thighs shook as you scrambled to crawl away. Your chest heaved in little short bursts, and he looked at you with genuine surprise. He looked at you as if it was the first time he’d considered you could even do that.

“I said no!” You didn’t think it was proper for a lady to be hollering at a ‘nice young man’ like that, but you did. You didn’t care who heard you, not that it mattered. The barn you were in was a decent ways away from everything else on the property. You smoothed your hands over where he had touched and kissed you, like it would get rid of the pure lust he was heaping onto you.

Daniel’s pretty face scrunched up into a glaring, furious version of itself. You could see the way his veins bulged in his neck and the way he flexed like a predator getting ready to pounce. You swallowed thickly, but you managed to wobble up onto your feet, to for once be able to look down on him.

“I don’t know what you think your talkin’ about, but I am not some- some easy girl that- that you can just sweet talk into giving you some,” You spat out. He moved to stand, and you took a step back. His hands came up in a placating gesture.

“Now, don’t go rattlin’ off about nothin’ you don’t understand,” He said, voice sharp. There was an undeniable frustration to the way he carried himself, to the way he huffed slightly and never took his narrowed eyes off of you. “I’m not talkin’ about foolin’ around, honey. I wanna have the real thing. Kids, a nice wedding, to come home to you every day… I wouldn’t just leave you,” he nearly spat. His lips curled in anger, but it wasn’t directed at you. No, it was more the suggestion that he was fucking around.

“You and me, [Name], are going to be a proper couple one of these days. And you’re gonna be my wife, I’ll tell you that.”

You shuddered. There was a slimy feeling working its way up your body, through your guts and through the tips of your stood up hairs on the back of your neck. He was crazy. A downright maniac. There was that similar look in his eyes, the one he had given you years back in that diner, and you wondered how deep this went. 

How long did he spend stalking you through the fields, hoping to have you pressed under him? How long had he been trying to worm his way into your life? More importantly, when exactly did he decide that just faking nice wasn’t going to cut it anymore?

“Like I’d ever let that fuckin’ happen,” You spat and ran straight out of that barn all the way home.

There was a fall festival happening in town. Your daddy was preparing to sell things at the market, though there wasn’t much interest in buying fresh produce this close to winter. 

“Now there ain’t enough to go around for you to go. Just stay here and we’ll bring you back something real nice,” Your mother had said with a small, pained smile before they packed up the truck full of goods and lumbred off into the orange painted sky. 

You were left standing in front of your empty house with the porch light fighting off the oncoming darkness of night. It was quiet when your family wasn’t here to fill out the house with sounds of cooking, arguing and just life in general. There was a weird sense of unease that settled in your gut now that you were on your lonesome. It felt like shit to just be abandoned like that, to know that your kin was out there having fun and interacting with the rest of the town while you were stuck closing up the farm for the night. You sighed, fists curling at your side as you kicked idly at the gravel pebbles on the path.

Well, there wasn’t much use in throwing a pity party. The coop needed to be locked up, the heaters in the barn needed to be turned on, the gates all had to be checked. It wasn’t all that much work all things considered, but it was enough to have you pushing through the shadowed fields at a hurried pace.

You carried out your tasks, floating through the empty farm with a goal of relaxing down in your cozy bed to read more of that novel you had been so desperately trying to finish. The cool autumn breeze brushed past your skin and made you shiver. Goosebumps. How strange… it wasn’t cold enough for that.

It was nearly silent save for the rustle of leaves and the crunch of your feet against the ground. You hummed softly and rubbed your arms as night finally fell over your quaint home.

“It ain’t supposed to be this chilly yet,” You grumbled to yourself as you walked down the path to get back to your house from the back of the property. You eyed the wheat field and stopped in your tracks. Hey now… there wasn’t any harm in taking a shortcut, now was there? It wasn’t like your father was there to holler at you for walking through the crops. You knew your way through it pretty easily, didn’t get turned around or nothing even if it was completely dark. The moon was full and practically beaming down onto the golden stalks, now painted pretty and silver. 

You weaved through the field with ease, sighing softly as you could see the roof of the house through the leaves. You caught sight of the peeling paint and nearly slumped in relief. Well, you were being excluded from the fall festivities, but at least you could get all cozy for once. You stepped out past the edge of the field and now in the open, eyes fixed low on the ground as you tried to not trip over your own damn feet, but when you looked up you couldn’t help but freeze. 

There, standing in front of your porch, was a tall imposing figure silhouetted in the hazy yellow light buzzing above the garage.

You came to a halt instantly, your breath hitching right as your heart stuttered. “What in the…?” You whispered to yourself as you took in the sight of the stranger. He was looking at the spaces where the truck would normally be, and you had half a mind to not just run up and start hollering at this stranger. What if he needed help or something? You didn’t see any car around  or nothing, so maybe he was in trouble. You squinted, and you couldn’t help the little gasp that left your lips as you realized that he had on a burlap sack fitted loosely over his head. He had gloves on too, the nice leather kind that you knew cost more than what you spent on groceries in a week. But no good man wore gloves when he wasn’t working, and this guy wasn’t doing anything but staring at the front door.

Your fingers twitched as you just stood there wide eyed and slack jawed. What the fuck should you do? The kind, ladylike thing to do would be to ask if he needed anything or if he was lost, but there was something stirring in your gut that was telling you to go and hide as quickly as you could. You slowly began to back away, one footstep at a time. It was like everything was frozen around you, your breath stilling in your lungs.

You couldn’t look away from him, even as you retreated further and further. His head swiveled slightly as he examined the porch of your house, and you were sent further and further into a frozen spiral as he finally turned to finally look at the fields. The fields where you were inching towards, to be specific. Of course you couldn’t see his features, but there was no mistaking the fact that he was searching for something. And when he finally turned so that you could fully take in the way his muscles tensed and his posture hunched into something more haggard and eager than you’d ever have expected, you realized that something was in fact you. 

A scream tore out of your throat as he barrelled towards you, his hands outstretched and ready to catch you. You could hear him calling your name, but you just started running. How did he know you? It didn’t matter though, not when you could practically taste the danger in the air with every ragged breath you inhaled.

Leaves whipped against your face and arms, leaving faint red lines from how harshly they scraped you, but you kept going. The man’s heavy footfalls thundered after each of yours, and you shrieked in pure horror as he reached up and grabbed the back of your shirt and roughly yanked you back. Your feet skidded in the loose dirt as you thrashed and tried to fight him off.

“Stop fussin’ and behave!” He commanded, his voice gruff with annoyance. It sounded like he was purposefully speaking deeper than his normal voice would allow. He followed his words up by clamping his gloved hand around the back of your throat and shoved you down to your knees. 

“Ngh! Let me go! My folks will be back any second, a-and then you’re gonna get it you fuckin’ spineless little-!”

Your snarling was cut off with another cry of fear as he squeezed down on your windpipe for a fraction of a second. He grappled with your shaking body as he pushed you up against his chest and pressed you down into the earth. Your eyes were wide and your nostrils flared with panic at the feeling of soil against your cheek.

“Your family ain’t here. They ain’t gonna be here for a while. Quit cryin’ before I give you something to really cry over… shit and I’m tryin’ to be all romantic. I know you’re stubborn but shit…” He grumbled and nuzzled his face against the crown of your head. The burlap of the sack was rough and unpleasant, just another layer upon the mountain of shit you were in. He inhaled deeply, sniffing your neck and shoulder through the barrier of fabric. You shuddered and balled your fists up.

That voice, that touch: it was all so horribly familiar. 

“Daniel?” Your voice carried a hint of betrayal you wish wasn’t there. You disliked him, thought of him a creep, but this was beyond anything that you would’ve ever thought him capable of. But then again, when had he ever given you the chance to actually trust him. If anything, you should’ve expected this. Should’ve known. Should’ve done something.

He stilled behind you, his feverish panting ceasing all at once and replaced with eerie silence. Sweat beaded on your forehead as the moment seemed to stretch on forever. Slowly his hands slid over your belly, pressed between the ground and your soft skin and ruching up the fabric of your shirt.

“Daniel,” You repeated his name, more panicked. It was like you were back in the barn again, but this time you felt no warmth from his skin. His sun kissed boyishness that had you squirming with unknown feelings was now replaced with simple cold dread, bathed in silver moonlight and casted with iron resolve. “Daniel, stop it.. Please,” you croaked out as tears gathered in your lashes.

“... You can still say yes [Name]” He whispered, nearly as desperate as you were for a brief moment. You flinched at his voice, but you found no sympathy in his rigid form. You opened your mouth again to beg, but you squeaked as he covered your mouth with his thick, gloved hand. You squeezed your eyes shut. “I’m tryin’ to give you the world here, and all you have to do is be a good girl for me and take it, alright?”

The sound of your clothes ripping filled your ears, and he yanked the tatters of your sweater away. He grunted at the effort, shoving you further down to secure you while he reached underneath your squirming form to unbutton your jeans. The denim burned your thighs as it scraped past, leaving your skin sore to his kneading of the soft skin. His breath hitched once his fingers wormed their way past your clenched legs to cup your pussy through the worn cotton of your panties. 

“ Oh…” He sighed, sounding so dreamy and fascinated. It was like he weren't about to do the worst thing that had ever happened to you. “Would you look at that,” Danny murmured and fucking squeezed. You kicked against him as hard as you could, and he only laughed softly. “You’re already wet.”

You screamed in protest at that, but he whispered shushes into your ear.

“No use denying it, honey,” He almost sounded amused as he dragged your underwear down to finally reveal what he’d been after. He finally let go of your face, and you gasped for air, letting out a string of curses so foul your father would've surely beat you for even uttering them. He ignored your profanities and wrangled your pelvis into his lap, your thrashing legs on either side of his thick waist. Your nails dug into the dirt as you tried to crawl away, but he shook you harshly. “Quit squirmin’! I deserve a good look at my future wife…” he grumbled, annoyance muffled by the burlap sack. It was even worse that you couldn’t see his face. 

Suddenly, your cunt was burning. You hissed, and your fingers curled around the earth. “Ow ow ow!” You cried. Daniel made a curious noise.

“Hm, was hopin’ you’d be a bit looser… relax honey, I ain’t gonna hurt you. You just gotta relax a bit,” He cooed and stroked your lower back, squeezing the globe of your ass and holding you in place with one hand while the other was currently trying to stuff its digits into your tight, clenched walls. You squeaked as his thumb pressed harshly down on your clit, and you jerked at the sensation. “Shh, shhh, it’s okay …” he murmured. It was the same way you would speak to frightened livestock before it was sent for slaughter, all placating and sweet despite the animal knowing something was obviously wrong. Your dry walls clenched around the leather, pulsing as he worked at the little bundle of nerves until pleasure sparked like embers. Slowly, but surely, he worked your hole into a leaking, slicked up mess, his glove covered in your juices.

After a while of prodding and trying to roughly finger you, he finally stopped. You were crying, your tears mixing into mud now smeared across your cheeks. Instead of relief, dread took over your gut.

“I think you’re ready, honey…” He whispered, eyes gleaming in the moonlight. Your thighs trembled as he stroked them and moved you once again. His arms wrapped around your waist, his muscular chest pressed against your back. His breath was hot against your neck and ear, the burlap sack rubbing against your skull. The sound of a zipper flying and denim rustling flowed into your frazzled brain. You couldn’t even find it in yourself to say no anymore, your head rolling forward limply to try and avoid his heady gaze that you could feel burning into your skin. 

Something hard and hot pressed against your ass cheek, and you jerked away. He fumbled around for a bit, trying to line himself up with your clenched entrance. There were no more hushed promises or niceties, just rough grunts and the strain of his muscles against you. 

The first thing you noticed was how much it burned. It wasn’t like that of being burned, though you wished it was. No, it was more like the stretching you would do in gym class way back when. It was past the point of comfort, feeling muscle thin out and weaken while you breathed deeply to stop feeling it so much. 

He groaned in your ear, loudly too. 

“ Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?” He rasped. “To have a moment like this?” You gasped as he bottomed out. Your guts were all squished up in places that you didn’t even know existed before. You moaned softly, partly out of pain and out of surprising warmth. Something stirred within you as he drew back, shuddering and stilted. 

It took him a few moments to get it right, and he laughed in boyish glee when he finally managed to keep up a steady pace. He burrowed his head in the crook of your neck, joining you in the mud. Warmth spread through your gut as he pumped into you. At first it was just harsh prodding that hit the wrong angles in your stupidly wet cunt. Every blubber of fear, every hiss and whimpered ‘no’ only pushed him to find different places, find different ways to make you see stars and gasp when you should’ve been screaming.

“You’re always- fuck, you’re always fuckin’ teasin’ me,” He bit your earlobe through the thick fabric covering those charming, poisoned lips. “If it ain’t your goddamn folks around to stop me, then it’s you,” he practically spat, breathless and heady. “You ain’t got not right to say no to me when you know damn well that I’m the only one who can treat you well,” he snarled as his hips met yours roughly. 

You felt so full, and when his hand dipped down once again to find your clit, you could do nothing but squeal as he pinpointed those spots that had you seeing blurry from both inside and out. Your back arched despite your muscles feeling like they were pulled thin to the point of no return, flexing and twitching with every slap of his balls against your thighs.

“You’ll see- hngh- you’ll see how good you have it,” He promised ominously.

He picked up the pace all of a sudden, emboldened by whatever was going on in that thick skull of his. You let out a strangled cry, your scuffed shoes kicking up dirt everywhere as the pressure in your belly finally started to rise into a frightening, all consuming pulse that rippled up your entire body. It was like nothing you had ever felt before, and it was fucking terrifying. Your eyes were blown wide, and you began to shriek and buck your hips not to meet his pace, but rather to seek and escape from the impending climax that was gripping your limbs and locking them in aching pleasure. 

Danny shoved you further down, wrapping over you like he was some kinda snake. It felt like an apt comparison considering that this was the closest to being eaten alive that you could imagine anyone going through.

“ [Name] [Name] [Name] “ 

He chanted your name as he pumped his cock further and further into your pulsing heat. He was lost in the fervor of it all, too caught up to make his words coherent anymore. Not that anything would register through the haze of your tears and impending doom, but at least you didn’t have to pretend to listen. 

“Ngh! Fuck!”

He had to be close by now. Your thighs were a mess of your own juices and smeared with his precum and sweat, and the two of you writhed together in some mockery of tenderness. Daniel gasped and tensed, his muscles locking together as he finally spilled his release inside of your waiting walls. His voice became high pitched and whiny, and then, in a moment of pure heat and desperation, he finally spilled within you.

You didn’t know when Daniel left your side, but it had to have been a few hours at the very least. You hadn’t moved, too shocked and sore to do anything but bleakly stare into the thick maze of wheat stalks just beyond your fingertips. But he did leave at some point, and when your folks came back, you were alone.

As you had suspected, your father was livid.

“ HOW COULD YOU BE SO FUCKIN’ STUPID?”

It was awful. Almost as awful as what had been done to you, but it was somehow even more shameful. It had been terrible, sitting there on a rickety dining room chair that screamed and groaned everytime you flinched and shuddered. Your mom at least had the decency to wrap a towel around you while you were torn into. 

You had tried to tell them, “It was the Petusky boy” and “It wasn’t my fault”. None of your words seemed to hit.

“Danny wouldn’t do something like that.” Your Pa’s response was immediate, and you shut your mouth quickly, gaze boring into your hands curled in your trembling lap.

“Did you see who it was?” Your mom tried to coax out of you, though you got the impression she didn’t believe you either.

“No he had a mask but-”

“That settles it then,” Your dad cut in as he paced the room, his jaw was set tight, and your stomach churned uneasily. “He’s a good boy. A smart one too. He wouldn’t do something like that, and certainly not with you. Be honest [Name], you had to be askin’ for some shit. I’m not stupid. I swear-! We leave you alone for a goddamn second and you’re spreadin’ your legs for the first fool that comes by. And you have the nerve to blame it on an honest man,” he hissed out, and you felt tears brimming to your eyes. 

Your mama glared at him, but she did nothing to say anything against her husband. She merely shushed you and rubbed soothing circles on your back.

“From now on, you ain’t settin’ a foot off of this farm, you hear?” He snapped. You sank further into yourself, wishing you could just disappear. “Now, we’re going to keep this quiet. You’re going to keep your trap shut about this, and you’re not going to say a word about this to Petusky boy. And if I find out you did or if you managed to knock yourself up? You’ll be out on your ass before the sun comes up.” The ultimatum was laid bare, and you could do nothing but bite your lip and nod.

In the next few weeks, it felt like you were living in hell. Daniel still worked on your family’s farm, and you tried everything in your power to avoid him. It was strange, though. Even though you could feel his eyes following you everywhere, he hardly spoke to you since that night. You almost could’ve mistaken yourself for having imagined it if it weren’t for the warning looks your Pa shot you nearly every hour. Honestly, it probably would’ve been better if you had just made it all up.

Of course, you couldn’t just forget, but you wish you could. 

“Shit…” You murmured as you looked down at the faded calendar you had stashed in the barn along with your collection of paperback romances. It had been your escape recently, but now you once again were forced to face reality. You were late for your period. Pretty late at that, by at least a week in and a half. It was hard to ignore the reality that you could be pregnant, especially since he’d finished inside.

“What’re you lookin’ at?”

You screamed and tried to spin around, but Daniel quickly reached out to grab your arms and pin them in place, holding you still as his lips brushed against your earlobe. Revulsion and fear coursed through you, and your heart beat rapidly as he plucked the calendar from your trembling fingers.

“Hmmm,” His voice hummed low in his throat, a sweet noise that should’ve put you at ease, not on the verge of a breakdown. “You’re gonna have my baby,” He announced, smiling against your neck. Panic coursed through you, and you tried to squirm away as he snuggled up against you and dragged you over to some old crates to sit down. He played with the hem of your shirt, positively beaming with excitement.

“N-no I ain’t!” You protested with a face full of terror. He just laughed and hugged you.

“ I know… I know…” he murmured soothingly and pulled out a box, something rattling around inside. “But there’s a chance, ain’t there?” Pregnancy tests. A fucking two pack. You bit your lip, you couldn’t deny that you needed to know if you were or not. You silently took it from him and walked over to the run down bathroom. He waited, giving you space for the first time. Probably because he knew that even if he did, you had nowhere to run. 

Two lines on both tests. You sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose as Daniel smiled softly.

“See? I told you I was going to make you my wife,” He reminded you, and you felt sick.

“My folks don’t believe that you did it.”

“Really? Well ain’t that something… don’t fuss too much, honey. I’ll just work my charm, and you’ll be up in my house with a rock on your finger by the end of the month,” His promise was firm, and he squeezed your side, careful not to press too hard on your lower belly.

“And what if… what if I don’t want to?”

The question was quiet, desperate even. His eyes burned a hole into your skull, digging around in your brain and trying to pull on your thoughts and feelings. Slowly, he reached his hand up and grabbed your face. It was just rough enough to make you stumble forward, and you gasped.

“ You think that anyone out there is gonna believe you over me?” He asked softly, deceptively so. “That anyone gives a damn about what you think and feel, [Name]? I am the best option you’ve got. I’m the only option you got,” He continued, entwining one of his hands in yours as he walked you to the door.

“Your folks don’t care, no one in this town thinks of you as anythin’ but a tramp, and, shit- when you start showing? You think anyone is goin’ to give you a chance to prove you’re anythin’ else? Now I know you ain’t stupid, honey. Come on, you know as well as I do that this is the best that you’re ever gonna get,” Danny’s words were mocking, and his handsome face was obscured in shadow by the light pouring in from the barn door. You swallowed thickly as he wrapped his fingers gently around your throat.

“And…” His voice lowered as he leaned in to look you in the eyes. “ If you decide you want to be dumb, then I don’t mind tryin’ again to set you straight. Matter of fact, I’ll keep doin’ so until you get it in yer pretty little head that you’re gonna be mine.”He dragged you out of the barn, down the dirt path, and up onto the rotting porch of your house. Daniel flashed you a dazzling smile, his fingers digging into your own. As he reached for the doorknob, you thought of a million ways of how you could get out of this, could leave and run for the hills, but in the end you could only stand there. He seemed to notice you lost in thought and pause, raised your hand to his lips, and planted a swift kiss to your knuckles. “Don’t you worry, honey. I’ve always got you.”

[smokeandwords]

Introducing Yandere Movie Week

Where we watch and review seven yandere movies! What can you expect? Popcorn (obviously) but also in-depth reviews, breakdowns of yandere tropes in cinema, and short fics inspired by the movies. Are you ready for plenty of psycho men, shirtless shower scenes, and constant torment? If so, get your snacks ready, bring out your favourite dubiously legal pirating website and let Yandere Movie Week begin!

Here's the line up!

Day 1 - Fear (1996)

Day 2 - Secret Obsession (2019)

Day 3 - Hush (2016)

Day 4 - The Perfect Guy (2015)

Day 5 - The Boy Next Door (2015)

Day 6 - The Invisible Man (2020)

Day 7 - Til Death Do Us Part (2017)

Fear (1996)

Review 7/10 Story 1.7k words

Nicole Walker, a 16-year-old girl, meets the charming David McCall at a nightclub, following which the two fall in love with each other. However, things take a turn when David reveals his darker side.

Secret Obsession (2019)

Review 6/10 Story

Jennifer wakes up after a traumatic attack with amnesia and a doting husband caring for her, but she soon realises that the real danger is far from over.

Hush (2016)

Review Story

Living peacefully in the woods, an author, who is hard of hearing and without speech, finds herself a target of a masked killer.

The Perfect Guy (2015)

Review Story

Leah Vaughn, a successful lobbyist, breaks up with her long-term boyfriend, Dave, and enters into a relationship with a stranger. She finds herself caught in a dilemma when Dave re-enters her life.

The Boy Next Door (2015)

Review Story

When Claire Peterson engages in a steamy affair with Noah Sandborn, a man much younger than herself, little does she realise the consequences of her actions will have a perilous outcome.

The Invisible Man (2020)

Review Story

Cecilia's abusive ex-boyfriend fakes his death and becomes invisible to stalk and torment her. She begins experiencing strange events and decides to hunt down the truth on her own.

Til Death Do Us Part (2017)

Review Story

Michael and Madison had planned to spend the rest of their lives together, until one day Michael's controlling ways ruined their perfect marriage. Madison meets Alex Stone and learns to love again, until Michael re-appears in her life.