#tw.implied coercion

[noirscript]

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

[noirscript]

04; the forsaking

Pairing: Yandere!Billionaire x Undercover!Reader Description: You gave up chasing the truth when no one cared to hear it—until Micah brought you a name you couldn’t ignore, and a company where people vanished behind glass walls and golden promises. Now the garden is locked, Micah is gone, and you understand far too late: you were never investigating him. You were chosen. Warning/s: Yandere | Manipulative Behavior | Emotional Coercion | Betrayal | Forced Proximity | Implied Captivity | Unsettling Intimacy | Power Imbalance | Toxic Devotion | Possessive Behavior | Gaslighting | Cult Undertones Note/s: Apologies for not posting this part yesterday. My left eye was aching (there's still something there today T^T). Um... I hope you enjoy it! Also, updating sanctum later. Enjoy reading and let me know what you think!

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You almost don’t open the envelope.

It feels wrong. Not in the way a forgotten or a mistake in the address might feel—but in the way that your skin knows something before your mind does. It sits in your mailbox like it doesn’t belong to this world. Off-white. Cleanly folded. No postage. No return address. A silence wrapped in paper.

Your fingers hesitate above it, reluctant. But you take it. You always take it.

The texture is smooth but stiff, the kind of paper you’d find in law offices or wills. And it’s cold. Not from the weather, but from something deeper—like it’s held in a room with no light, no breath, no sound. The faint scent that clings to it slithers up your nose: cedarwood, yes—but beneath it, something metallic, something wet. Like blood licked from a knife.

Your throat tightens.

Inside, there’s only one note. A single slip of thick, expensive paper with a short message in a hand you could recognize even blind. Micah’s. Steady. Careful.

Glass garden. 7:30. Be calm. Just you and him. –Micah

You reread it. Once. Twice. A third time, hoping something will change, hoping the words will blur into something more mundane. But they don’t. They stay exactly as they are—clean, precise, damning.

You stare at the envelope in your lap long after you’re home. The apartment is too quiet. You can hear the tick of your wall clock. The gentle groan of old pipes. Even your own breathing sounds intrusive. You glance at the drawer across the room—the one where the last shred of control lies tangled in wires.

The bug. The mic. Your shield.

You open it slowly. The metal catches the light like a sliver of ice. It looks so small now. So stupid.

Your fingers brush it.

Then, withdraw.

You close the drawer.

You don’t bring it.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The drive is a blur of black roads and blinking yellow lights, your headlights carving tunnels through the dark. The city peels away behind you in layers—first the noise, then the lights, then the illusion that you are not complete and utterly alone. Trees crowd in around the road as the miles unspool. Their limbs look like claws. The stars vanish. Even the moon keeps its distance.

By the time you reach Zachary Quinn’s estate, your breath is shallow and cold in your chest. The gate doesn’t wait for you. It swings open soundlessly, the wrought iron parting like jaws.

You drive through them. Of course you do.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The garden gleams ahead—glass walls aglow with golden candlelight, soft and flickering. It looks peaceful from a distance. Safe, even. But the closer you get, the more you feel it: that wrongness coiled inside the glow, the too-perfect symmetry, the way the hedges seem to lean in when you’re not looking.

You walk the path slowly, gravel crunching beneath your shoes. You pass a fountain shaped like a cupped hand, water falling in perfectly timed droplets. It sounds like a clock ticking down. Like something waiting to begin.

Micah sits at the far end of long stone table. The candlelight dances across his skin, turning him pale and bruised-looking. He doesn’t lift his head as you enter, though you can see the way his shoulders rise and fall.

You step closer. Your heartbeat pounds against your ribs like it’s trying to get out. The air inside the garden presses against your skin, hot and thick and fragrant—sweet herbs, overripe flowers, and something beneath it all that makes your stomach clench.

Rot.

He finally lifts his head.

“Micah,” you whisper.

His eyes are red. Exhausted. Haunted.

“I didn’t want to,” he says, the words scraped from his throat. “I thought I could stall him. If I gave him just enough truth, maybe he’d…” He hesitates, then looks up fully, and the shame there is worse than rage. “I thought he’d go easy on you.”

You stare at him, but the words don’t land. They dissolve in your ears like ash.

“No,” you say. Quiet. Sharp. A thread of denial. “You told him?”

“I told him it was me,” he says, faster now, like he can fix it by forcing it out. “That I dragged you into it. That you didn’t mean anything by it. That you were innocent.” He swallows hard. “I begged.”

“No,” you say again. You’re shaking your head and you don’t remember starting. “You wouldn’t…”

“I didn’t think he’d—” Micah’s voice cracks. “I thought that maybe he’d still—”

But you already know. You knew when you opened the letter. When you crossed the threshold of the garden. When the gate opened without a sound. You knew this was never a meeting.

It was a sentencing.

“He’s already here,” you whisper.

Micah freezes.

Your breath hitches. Your skin prickles, not from cold, but from the knowing—he’s here. Not just nearby. Not just on his way. Zachary is here already. In the garden. Watching. Waiting.

Like an apex predator hiding in plain sight, letting you circle the snare.

Micah’s eyes flicker toward the shadows for the briefest moment. A betrayal in a glance.

You take a slow step back, away from the table. You feel like the air is closing in, thickening around your ankles like smoke.

“You should have run,” you say, voice hollow.

“I couldn’t,” Micah whispers. “He… I thought he loved you enough to stop.”

He steps closer, then stops himself. His hand lifts, then falls.

“I thought I could protect you,” he says, quieter now.

You want to scream at him. Shake him. Break whatever fantasy he’d been clinging to. But it’s too late. His body is already sagging with defeat.

Then, like some twisted mockery of comfort, he leans in and kisses your forehead. The touch lingers like ash, warm for a moment, then cold as it fades.

You don’t speak. You don’t move.

Micah turns and walks past you, leaving the garden with slow, rigid steps. The doors whisper closed behind him.

You’re alone.

But not really.

You feel it—behind you, beneath you, around you. A pressure, an absence of sound that hums louder than noise ever could.

Then, he’s is there.

You don’t hear him arrive. There’s no footfall, no shift in air. One moment, the space behind you is empty. The next—it is filled.

You turn, and Zachary stands in the doorway.

He wears black. As always. Tailored to perfection. No loose threads. Not a single wrinkle. His collar open, hands casually relaxed at his sides. As if this were a dinner party. As if you were guests.

He smiles. Slowly.

“Micah,” he says, “is sentimental.”

The sound of his voice makes your skin crawl. It’s rich and warm and completely without empathy. Velvet stretched over knives.

“That’s what makes him so… useful.”

You try not to flinch, but it’s hard. Your libs feel to light. Your heart has started pounding again, loud enough to fill your ears.

Zachary steps closer. Measured. Controlled. Like a lion that’s already cornered its prey and sees no need to rush the kill.

“But you,” he continues, “you’re colder. You think. You play the game.”

He stops in front of you. Close enough that you can smell his cologne—subtle spice, warm woods, and underneath it, something sharp and predatory.

“You wanted to understand me. Dissect me.” His smile deepens. “And now, you have.”

Your voice comes out brittle. “What do you want?”

Zachary raises his eyebrows slightly. “Everything.”

Then his fingers trail along your arm—just a whisper of touch—and the shiver it sends through you is immediate, involuntary.

“I want you to stop pretending,” he murmurs. “Stop running. Stop hiding behind lies.”

His hand moves beneath your chin, tilting you face up. He doesn’t grip. He positions. Like you’re a figure to be adjusted.

“I want you to stay,” he says.

Your breath catches.

“I forgive you,” he adds, as though he’s offering a blessing. “For trying to betray me. For thinking you could win.”

He steps behind you. His breath warms the curve of your neck.

“You didn’t choose me,” he whispers. “But I’m choosing you.”

Then—click.

The garden doors lock.

Zachary’s hand settles on your shoulder. Gentle. Absolute.

And you—frozen, heart thundering, body tense like a wire drawn too tight—you know there is no escape.

His voice brushes your ear like silk spun from a spider’s web.

“So now,” he says, “let’s talk about the truth.”

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

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

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