What a wicked thing to do—To let me dream of you

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Choices, Consequences

Dark!Valarr Targaryen X Reader - Modern AU

Minor Aerion X Reader

Summary: A scholarship student rejects the quiet, gentle Valarr Targaryen to focus on her future, only to end up trapped in a deeply abusive relationship with his charismatic cousin, Aerion Targaryen. Years later, isolated and broken, she discovers that the man she once thought was safe may have only been hiding a different kind of cruelty all along CW: Graphic rape/non-con, coercion, domestic abuse, emotional abuse, psychological abuse, physical violence, financial abuse, manipulation, victim blaming, misogyny, toxic relationships, stalking/obsessive behavior, filmed assault, non-consensual recording, blackmail implications, gaslighting, degradation/humiliation, strangulation/choking, hair pulling, explicit sexual content, trauma bonding, possessiveness, isolation, panic attacks, violence against women, dead dove themes, dark romance, “nice guy” entitlement, abusive power dynamics. WC:16k

You met Valarr Targaryen on a Tuesday in late September, and for the rest of your life you would remember the exact quality of the light in that lecture hall. You were eighteen, and you had never been so tired in your life.

The scholarship sat in your chest like a second heartbeat, It followed you everywhere from your cramped dorm room to the dining hall where you calculated every meal against your declining balance to the library where you stayed until the security guard kicked you out at midnight every single night. You weren't here to make friends. You weren't here to fall in love. You were here because you'd clawed your way out of a town that wanted to swallow you whole, because you'd worked doubles every summer since you were fifteen, because you'd written scholarship essays with your actual blood until your fingers cramped and your eyes burned and some committee in a wood paneled room somewhere had decided you deserved a shot. One shot. That was it. And you were not—absolutely not—going to blow it on some boy with pretty eyes.

Valarr sat two rows ahead of you in History of Westerosi Political Structures, and obviously you noticed him. Everyone noticed him. It would've been weird if you didn't. He had that thing, that quiet unhurried way of existing in a room like he'd never once wondered if he belonged there. His hair was dark, almost black except for that one streak of silver gold at his left that practically screamed Targaryen. And not just any Targaryen. His dad was Baelor, the heir of the Targaryen conglomerate, the one all the business magazines said was going to drag the family empire into the modern era. Which meant Valarr had been born into the kind of money you couldn't even wrap your head around. The kind where buildings have your last name on them.

He should have been insufferable. You kept waiting for him to be insufferable. The legacy kids usually were, treating college like a four year networking mixer with occasional exams, wearing their wealth like armor, never thinking twice about any of it because they'd never had to. But Valarr didn't seem to fit that mold.

The first time he talked to you was week two. You'd forgotten a pen, which was so stupid, so completely avoidable but you'd been running late from your work study shift at the admissions office, still slightly sweaty under your backpack because the building had no AC and it was still summer hot in September. You were patting down your pockets with increasing desperation, already doing the mental math of how much lecture you'd miss if you sprinted back to your dorm, already feeling that hot wave of shame at your own disorganization, when someone tapped your shoulder.

You turned. And there he was, leaning forward across the gap between the rows, holding out a plain black ballpoint pen. "Here," he said. His voice was lower than you expected. Quiet. "I always carry extras."

"Thanks," you said. And you meant to leave it there. You really, genuinely meant to. But then he shifted in his seat, half turned toward you, and you got your first real look at his face.

Strong jaw. Straight nose. The kind of bone structure that belonged in statues and his eyes. One brown, warm like earth after rain, soft and deep and almost gentle. One blue, pale and sharp and unreadable as winter ice. The mismatch was so striking you forgot what you were going to say. You just stared at him like a complete idiot while the professor called the class to order, and Valarr Targaryen gave you this tiny, almost shy smile, and turned back around.

It happened slowly after that. So slowly you didn't even notice it was happening until it had already happened, which you'd realize later was probably the point.

Valarr didn't push. That was the thing you kept coming back to, the thing that undid you. He didn't chase you, didn't treat you like some challenge to conquer, didn't pull any of the moves you'd spent high school learning to deflect. He just... showed up. Casually. Gently. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. He'd fall into step beside you on the walk from lecture to the library, not crowding you, matching his pace to yours so easily it felt accidental. He'd ask about the reading. Or what you thought of the professor's argument. Or whether you'd started the essay yet. And somehow these totally mundane conversations would stretch into twenty minutes, thirty, until you were standing outside the library doors still talking while people pushed past you with their backpacks and their coffee cups and their midterm stress.

He was easy to talk to. God, that was the worst part. He was so easy to talk to. He actually listened when you spoke. He remembered things you'd mentioned offhand weeks ago. He asked follow up questions that showed he'd been paying attention. Being around him felt... safe. Which was terrifying, because you'd spent years building up walls specifically designed to keep people like him out, and he was walking through them like they weren't even there.

The first time you realized he might actually like you was a Thursday in late October.

Midterms were eating you alive. You'd been in the library for six hours straight, running on vending machine crackers and the dregs of a cold brew you'd bought that morning. Your eyes were burning. Your neck was a disaster. You were genuinely considering just sleeping under the table rather than walking all the way back to your dorm.

Valarr appeared at your elbow so quietly you startled, nearly knocking over your water bottle. He was holding a paper cup from that coffee shop off campus—the good one, the one you could never justify spending money at—and he set it down next to your laptop like it was nothing.

"You mentioned once that you liked oat milk lattes," he said. And when you just stared at him, he shrugged with one shoulder, almost embarrassed. "You've been here since noon. Figured you could use it."

"Valarr, I can't—this place is so expensive, let me pay you back—"

"It's a gift." He said it firmly, his blue eye holding you in place. "No strings. You work harder than anyone I know, and you deserve a coffee. That's it."

You should have refused. You knew you should have refused. Thanked him politely and pushed the cup back across the table and reinforced every wall you'd been letting crumble. But you were so tired. And the coffee smelled like vanilla and warmth and something you couldn't name, and Valarr was looking at you with his brown eye full of gentle concern and his blue eye full of something deeper, something you weren't ready to put a name to yet.

You took the cup. Wrapped both hands around it. Let the heat seep into your fingers.

"Thank you," you said. Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to.

"My pleasure," Valarr said. And then he pulled out the chair across from you, opened his laptop, and stayed.

He didn't ask you out for another month. He waited until finals were over, until you'd turned in your last paper and stumbled out of the library into the weak December sun like some kind of cave creature seeing light for the first time. You were giddy with relief, and when he found you on the quad you didn't immediately tense up the way you usually did. You smiled at him and he smiled back, that shy almost smile you'd come to recognize, and he said, "Can I take you to dinner? Not as a study thing. As a date."

The smile died on your face. The panic hit immediately that old familiar voice screaming at you that you couldn't afford distractions, that your scholarship required a 4.3 GPA minimum, that boys like him didn't date girls like you without eventually realizing their mistake and moving on. You thought about your mom working doubles at the diner back home. You thought about the student loans you were already racking up even with the scholarship. You thought about the career you needed to build, the life you needed to secure, the thousand ways everything could fall apart if you let your focus slip for even one second. You thought about all of it in the space of maybe three seconds while Valarr stood there with his mismatched eyes full of careful hope.

"I can't," you said. The words came out in a rush, tumbling over each other. "Valarr, I'm sorry, I just—I can't. I'm on scholarship. I have to stay focused. I can't do the relationship thing right now."

You watched his expression shift. The hope didn't shatter he was too controlled for that, too well bred. But it dimmed. The blue eye went distant, and the brown eye went so sad, so impossibly sad, and you felt like the worst person alive.

"Okay," he said. "I understand. Really."

And then he did something that genuinely shocked you. He stepped back. Didn't push for an explanation. Didn't try to argue you out of it. Just stepped back, giving you physical space, and nodded once. "I'll see you next semester, then. As friends." The word friends landed softly, carefully. A peace offering. "Good luck with your grades."

—

Valarr kept his word. The next semester, he didn't linger after class. He didn't bring you coffee. He didn't seek you out in the library or walk you across the quad or send you articles related to your shared coursework. When you passed each other on campus, he'd nod politely and keep walking. Distantly. Politely. He'd drawn a line and he was holding it, and you should have been relieved. This was exactly what you'd asked for. Space. Distance. The ability to focus entirely on your studies without the complication of a boy who made your heart beat too fast.

You were fine. You were totally fine. You threw yourself into your coursework with an intensity that bordered on obsessive. You pulled all nighters in the library. You aced your midterms. You impressed your professors. You did everything right. And if your stomach dropped a little every time you saw the back of his dark head in lecture, if you sometimes caught yourself looking for him on the quad before you remembered you weren't supposed to be doing that, well. That was your business. No one else's.

You kept the pen, though. It was still in your bag, buried at the bottom, and every time your fingers brushed against it you felt a tiny, stupid pang of something you refused to name.

And then Aerion Targaryen walked into your Political Theory seminar in the spring of your sophomore year, and everything went wrong.

You didn't know he was Valarr's cousin at first. You just knew he was a lot all this bright, sharp energy that filled the room the second he walked in, like someone had turned up the volume on the world. He was beautiful in the way that made you instinctively suspicious. Silver-gold hair worn slightly long, swept back from his forehead. Violet eyes so pale they almost didn't look real. A smile that seemed to hover at the corner of his mouth like he was in on a joke no one else had heard yet. He dressed like money and moved like power and spoke like every word out of his mouth was a gift he was generously choosing to share with the room.

He was ten minutes late on the first day. "Sorry I'm late," he announced to the professor, not sounding sorry at all. "Won't happen again."

It would happen again. You knew that instantly. It would happen constantly.

The universe had a real sense of humor, because the professor paired you together for the semester long research project through a random draw. Random. Sure. Aerion slid into the seat beside you with this fluid, careless grace, close enough that you could smell his cologne.

"Looks like we're partners," he said. His violet eyes swept over you with an assessment so frank it felt like being photographed. "What's your name?" and the way he said it made you feel like a puzzle he'd just decided to solve.

The project was on authoritarian power structures, and here's the thing that drove you absolutely crazy: Aerion was brilliant. Like, genuinely, infuriatingly brilliant when he bothered to try. He had this mind like a razor, quick and sharp and precise, and he could draw connections between historical events and modern political theory that none of your other classmates would have ever thought to make.

He also did none of the assigned reading. Showed up to your meetings late. Tried constantly to derail your work sessions into personal conversations you refused to engage in. He asked you invasive questions with the casual entitlement of someone who'd never seriously been told no. Where were you from? What did your parents do? How did you afford a school like this? You deflected every single one with clipped, professional answers, and he smiled at each deflection like you'd just scored him a point in some game only he was playing.

"It's impressive, you know," he said one evening, about three weeks in. You were in a study room in the library, you at the table with your laptop and your color coded notes and your carefully organized research materials, him sprawled in a chair with his feet up on the windowsill like he owned the building. "The whole scholarship thing. Working-class hero narrative. Very inspiring."

"It's not a narrative," you said, not looking up. "It's my life."

"Even better." He tilted his head, hair catching the fluorescent light. "Authenticity is so rare around here. Everyone else is so dreadfully boring. Trust funds and daddy issues, no original thoughts in their heads." He gestured vaguely at you. "You're different. I like that."

"Good for you."

He laughed like you'd done something delightful. "You really don't like me, do you?"

"I don't know you."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting."

He dropped his feet from the windowsill and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, those pale violet eyes fixed on your face with an intensity that made your skin prickle. "Let me take you to dinner," he said. Not a question. A statement. "Not as project partners. As a date."

"No." You didn't hesitate. The word came out hard and immediate.

"Why not?" He sounded genuinely curious, like your refusal was a fascinating anomaly he'd never personally encountered before.

"Because I'm not interested."

"You might find you're wrong about that."

"I'm not."

"Humor me."

"No."

The silence stretched. You kept your eyes on your laptop screen, your fingers frozen on the keyboard, your heart beating way too fast. When you finally risked a glance up, Aerion was smiling again. But it was a different smile than before. Sharper at the edges. Hungrier.

"Well," he said, settling back into his chair. "I suppose we'll see."

He asked again a week later. And again the week after that. And again, and again, and again. Each refusal treated as a minor setback rather than a boundary a small hurdle to clear instead of a wall he should stop running into. He left a note in your textbook, a single line on stupidly expensive stationery: Dinner. Friday. Think about it. He showed up at your usual study spot with two coffees and this easy, familiar air like you'd invited him. When you ignored his texts, he found reasons to text you again. When you gave him one word answers, he treated them like conversation. When you told him, flat and explicit, that you were not interested in dating him and never would be, he smiled that wolf smile and said, "Never is a long time."

The worst part—the absolute worst part—was that he never crossed a line you could point to. He never threatened you. Never cornered you. Never raised his voice or got angry or did anything that would justify filing a formal complaint. He was just constant, humming presence at the edge of your life, wearing you down through sheer persistence. Your friends started to notice. Your roommate made some offhand comment about how he must really like you, and how hot he was.

Three months into the project. Two weeks before finals. You broke.

It was a Tuesday night. You'd been studying for eighteen hours straight, running on nothing but adrenaline and cheap energy drinks that left your hands shaking. You'd just gotten an email from the scholarship committee reminding you about GPA requirements for renewal, and the subject line alone had sent your anxiety spiraling. You were exhausted and terrified and so achingly lonely in a way you couldn't admit to anyone, least of all yourself.

Aerion found you in the library at eleven p.m. Your head was in your hands. There were tears burning behind your eyes that you absolutely refused to let fall.

He didn't say anything. Just sat down across from you, folded his hands on the table, and waited.

"What do you want," you said. Your voice was scraped raw. You didn't look up.

"I want you to let me take you to dinner."

"God, Aerion, I don't have time for this, I can't—"

"One dinner." His voice was softer than you'd ever heard it. Gentler. Almost... tender, if you didn't know better. "That's all I'm asking. One dinner. If you still hate me after, I'll leave you alone. You have my word."

You looked up.

His violet eyes were earnest. Open. Free of their usual calculating gleam. In the dim library light, he looked almost human. Almost kind.

"You'll really leave me alone?" you asked. You hated how small your voice sounded.

"If that's what you want. Yes."

You didn't believe him. Not really. But you were so tired. So impossibly, bone deep tired of fighting on every front your classes, your finances, your future, and now this man who wouldn't stop pushing and pushing and pushing no matter how many times you told him no. The thought of one less battle, even just temporarily, was so seductive you couldn't think straight.

"Fine," you said. The word tasted like surrender. "One dinner."

—

Five years later, and you had gotten very, very good at lying to yourself.

The apartment was obscene. That was the word that always came to mind when you let yourself think about it. Obscene. Floor to ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline, a kitchen you could have fit your entire childhood home inside, furniture that cost more than your mother had made in a decade of double shifts at the diner. Aerion had insisted you move in after graduation. Hadn't asked, really. Had just sort of arranged it. One day your stuff was in your cramped studio apartment with the leaking ceiling and the neighbors who fought at three in the morning, and the next it was here, in this penthouse that never quite felt like yours, your clothes hanging in a walk in closet the size of a bedroom, your toothbrush in a marble bathroom that echoed when you breathed too loud.

You were a stay at home girlfriend. That was the term Aerion used, always with that little smile of his, like it was cute. Like it was a choice. "She's focusing on home right now," he'd tell people at parties, his hand on the small of your back, his thumb tracing possessive circles through the fabric of whatever dress he'd picked out for you. "Taking some time before figuring out next steps." And people would nod and smile because Aerion Targaryen was charming, Aerion Targaryen was magnetic, Aerion Targaryen was the kind of man you didn't question in public.

What they didn't know, what no one knew, was that you'd applied to forty seven jobs your first year out of college. Forty seven. You'd tailored your resume, written cover letters until your eyes crossed, shown up to interviews in your one good blazer with your heart hammering in your chest. And every single time, you'd gotten the same polite rejection email a week later. "We've decided to move forward with other candidates. We wish you the best in your search." At first you thought it was just the job market. Bad luck. The economy. Then you'd had that one interview at the think tank downtown, the one where the hiring manager had actually called you personally, had sounded genuinely confused. "I don't understand," she'd said. "You were our top candidate. But we got a call from someone in the Targaryen legal department. Something about a potential conflict of interest? I'm so sorry."

You'd confronted Aerion that night. He hadn't even denied it. Had just looked at you with those pale violet eyes and that lazy, half amused smile and said, "Why would you need to work? I take care of you. Everything you have, I give you. Isn't that enough?"

It wasn't a question. It was never a question.

Now you were getting ready for another family party, and you were running late, and your hands wouldn't stop shaking. You sat at the vanity in the bedroom. You leaned close to the mirror. The bruise was on your cheekbone this time, just under your left eye, a mottled bloom of purple and yellow that makeup could cover but never quite erase. You'd gotten good at this part. Color corrector first, the peachy one that canceled out the purple. Then concealer, two shades lighter than your skin, patted in with your ring finger in gentle, careful motions. Then foundation, then powder, then a sweep of blush to make yourself look alive.

The bruise was from two nights ago. You'd burned the risotto. Such a stupid thing. Such a small, ridiculous thing. The risotto had burned because you'd been distracted, because you'd gotten a message from an old classmate who'd just been promoted, who was doing actual work in your actual field, and you'd been standing at the stove staring at your phone and feeling something enormous and terrible rise up in your chest. Grief, maybe. Or envy. Or just the dawning, suffocating realization that you had become a ghost in your own life. And then the smoke alarm had gone off, and Aerion had come into the kitchen, and you'd seen his face, and...

Well. You were very good at concealer now.

"Are you almost ready?"

His voice came from the doorway, and you just kept patting foundation onto your cheekbone with steady fingers and met his eyes in the mirror. Aerion leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking like something out of a magazine spread. He always looked like that. It was almost offensive, how beautiful he was. The silver gold hair swept back, the sharp jaw, the custom tailored charcoal suit that probably cost more than your entire undergraduate tuition. His tie was loosened just slightly, that careful casualness he cultivated, and his smile was warm. He looked like a man who had never done anything wrong in his life.

"We're supposed to leave in an hour," he said. "You know how my father gets about punctuality. I don't want to be late." A pause. The smile sharpened, just a fraction. "Don't embarrass me."

"I won't," you said. Your voice came out smooth. Pleasant. Exactly the way he liked it.

He crossed the room in a few easy strides and leaned down to kiss you. His lips were soft, gentle, the same lips that had smiled against your skin a hundred times, the same lips that had whispered cruel things in the dark.

"Good girl," he murmured against your mouth. And then he was gone, footsteps retreating down the hallway, leaving the bedroom door open behind him like always.

You turned back to the mirror. The bruise was hidden now. You couldn't see it at all. If you didn't know it was there, you'd never guess. You looked fine. You looked normal. You looked like a woman who had everything.

Valarr.

The thought came unbidden, the way it always did these days. Creeping in at the edges when you were too tired to keep your defenses up. You used to push it away immediately, shove it back down into whatever locked box you kept your regrets in. But lately you'd been letting it linger. Just for a moment. Just in the privacy of your own head, where Aerion couldn't reach.

You thought about that Tuesday in late September, the gold light in the lecture hall, the way Valarr had leaned forward and held out a pen like it was the most natural thing in the world. You thought about coffee in the library, his shy almost smile, the way he'd said "My pleasure" like he actually meant it. You thought about him walking away across the quad, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold, giving you exactly what you'd asked for even though it clearly broke his heart to do it.

"One dinner," you'd said to Aerion. One dinner, and then he'd leave you alone. And here you were, five years later, hiding bruises under expensive makeup in an apartment that felt like a cage, getting ready to smile pretty for a family that would never be yours, living a life that had stopped feeling like your own so gradually you hadn't even noticed until it was too late.

What would have happened if you'd said yes? To Valarr. To the one who listened like your words mattered. The one who'd stepped back when you asked him to, who'd respected your no even when it hurt him. The one whose eyes had looked at you like you were something precious, something worth protecting, not something to be owned.

Would he have brought you coffee at midnight? Probably. He'd done that even when you weren't his. Would he have celebrated your successes instead of quietly ensuring you never had any? Almost certainly. Would he have made you feel like a person instead of a possession, a partner instead of a prisoner?

You'd never know. Because you'd been eighteen and terrified and so focused on protecting your future that you'd closed the door on the one person who might have actually wanted to build one with you.

And now you were here. Concealer on your cheekbone. A designer dress laid out on the bed. An hour until you had to perform happiness for a family that probably knew exactly what their son was and didn't care. You set the makeup brush down. Looked at yourself in the mirror. Your eyes were dry. You'd stopped crying a long time ago, tears didn't help, tears just made him angrier. Maybe I should have given him a chance.

You let the thought sit there, heavy and impossible, as you reached for your dress. Somewhere in the apartment, Aerion was whistling. You could hear him moving around, getting his watch, pouring himself a drink even though the party hadn't started yet. In forty five minutes you'd be in the car beside him, your hand in his on the center console because he liked to hold it while he drove, liked the way it looked. In an hour you'd be smiling at his father and making small talk with his sisters and pretending, always pretending, that everything was fine.

But for right now, just for this one moment, in the quiet of the bedroom with the city lights flickering on outside the window, you let yourself imagine a different life. One where you'd said yes to a boy in a lecture hall. One where you'd let yourself be loved by someone gentle.

One where the bruise under your makeup wasn't there at all.

"Five minutes!" Aerion called from the living room. His voice was bright, cheerful. The voice of a man who had never lost a thing in his life.

"Coming," you called back.

You stood up. Smoothed down your dress. Checked your reflection one last time. The concealer was holding. The bruise was invisible. You looked perfect. You always did.

—

You spotted the wine stain before Aerion did, which meant you had approximately three seconds of knowing it was coming before the disaster actually hit. A bloom of dark red spreading across the pale gray of his suit jacket, seeping into the fabric that probably cost more than your mother's car. Your hand flew to your mouth. The wine glass tilted in your other hand, still half full, still capable of doing more damage.

"I'm so sorry," you started, the words coming out automatic, rehearsed. You had gotten very good at apologizing over the years. "Aerion, I'm so sorry, I didn't—"

He looked down at the stain. Then up at you. And the smile that spread across his face was the warm, easy smile of a man who was not at all bothered, a man who found the whole thing vaguely amusing. Around you, the party continued its low hum of conversation and clinking glasses. His father Maekar was across the room, deep in discussion with some business associate, and you knew, you knew, that Aerion was going to kill you.

"Accidents happen," he said, his voice smooth as glass, dripping with that fake charm that made everyone else in the room relax while it made your blood run cold. He reached out and took the wine glass from your hand, setting it on a passing server's tray with deliberate, theatrical care. "Why don't you come help me find something to change into? I think there's a guest room with some spare suits."

His hand closed around your upper arm. Gentle. Light. Anyone watching would have seen a solicitous boyfriend guiding his embarrassed girlfriend away from the crowd. They would not have seen the way his fingers dug in just a little too tight, the way his thumb pressed into the soft flesh of your inner arm with precise, calculated pressure. The way his grip was less invitation and more command.

"That's okay," you said, your voice already going smaller, already shrinking the way it always did around him. "I can stay here, you don't need my help—"

"No, no." His violet eyes fixed on you, and behind the warmth was something cold and glittering, something that promised retribution. His smile didn't waver, but his grip tightened fractionally. A warning. "I insist."

The guest room was on the second floor of Maekar's estate, down a long hallway lined with portraits of dead Targaryens staring down with their violet eyes and their cold, aristocratic faces. Aerion didn't say a word the whole walk. He just kept his hand on your arm, steering you through the house like you were a misbehaving child being removed from a restaurant, his pace brisk and controlled. Your heels clicked on the marble floor. Your heart was hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat, in your temples, in the tips of your fingers.

The door closed behind you. The click of the latch was the quietest sound in the world and somehow the loudest. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

The mask dropped instantly. One moment he was the charming heir, all warmth and easy smiles, the next he was something else entirely. His face twisted with rage, his voice a low, vicious snarl that he kept carefully contained within the room's four walls. He let go of your arm only to grab a handful of your hair, twisting it around his fist, yanking your head back so you were forced to look at him. Forced to see the disgust in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," you gasped. Your scalp was on fire, sharp lances of pain radiating down your neck and into your shoulders. Tears sprang to your eyes automatically, your body's learned response after years of this. "Aerion, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, my hand slipped, I—"

"You humiliated me." His face was inches from yours. You could smell the wine on his breath, the expensive cologne he wore, the sharp copper edge of his anger. "In front of my father. In front of everyone. Do you have any idea how that looked? Do you have any idea what they think of me now, having to drag my clumsy fucking girlfriend upstairs because she can't hold a glass properly? Like some kind of goddamn babysitter?"

"It was an accident, I swear—"

"Everything with you is an accident." He released your hair with a shove, and you stumbled, catching yourself on the edge of a heavy mahogany dresser. The corner bit into your hip. "God, you're useless. You can't cook a simple risotto without burning it. You can't hold a conversation at a party without staring at the floor like a frightened rabbit. You can't even stand in one place without ruining a five thousand dollar suit. What do you actually do? What is the point of you? Tell me. I'm genuinely asking."

You didn't have an answer. You had learned a long time ago that there was no right answer. Anything you said would be wrong. Anything you said would make it worse. Silence would make it worse too, but silence was at least faster.

"Nothing," he answered for you, his voice dripping with contempt. "You do nothing. You are nothing. I gave you everything. I gave you a home, I gave you clothes, I gave you a life most women would kill for, and you can't even stand next to me at a party without fucking it up." He stepped closer, and you flinched back against the dresser. Something flickered across his expression, satisfaction, maybe. Pleasure. He liked that. He always liked that. "You know what the worst part is? You don't even try. You don't even pretend to be grateful anymore."

"I am grateful," you whispered. The words tasted like ash.

"No, you're not." He tilted his head, studying you like you were a disappointing piece of art he'd overpaid for. "You're a burden. You're dead weight. And I keep you anyway, because I'm a good man, and I take care of what's mine. Do you understand that? Do you understand how lucky you are that I haven't thrown you out on the street?"

"Yes," you said. The word was barely audible.

"Yes what?"

"Yes, I understand."

"Good." He stepped back, smoothed down the front of his stained jacket, and took a breath. The transformation was instant. The rage receded, the mask slid back into place. "I have to go change. Because of you. Stay here. Do not come back to the party until I come get you. I don't want anyone seeing you like this."

Like what, you wanted to ask. Like a woman who had just been screamed at until she couldn't breathe? Like a woman who was trying very hard not to cry and failing? Like the thing he had made you into? But you just nodded, the way you always did, and he left, and the door clicked shut behind him, and you were alone.

You sank onto the edge of the bed. The tears came then, not the pretty kind, not the delicate crying of movies and photographs. The ugly kind. The kind that came with shaking shoulders and snot and sounds you tried to muffle with your hand because even alone you were afraid of being too loud, afraid he might hear, afraid he might come back. You pressed your palm against your mouth and cried until your ribs ached, until your throat was raw, until you felt hollowed out and empty and so tired you could not remember what it felt like not to be tired.

You didn't hear the door open.

"Hey. Are you alright?"

The voice was quiet. Low. Familiar in a way that made your stomach drop before your brain even caught up. You looked up, and there he was.

Valarr. He stood in the doorway with the hallway light behind him and his eyes were fixed on you with an expression you could not quite read. Concern, maybe. You had not seen him in months. Not really. Sometimes you would catch glimpses at these family gatherings, a nod across a crowded room, the back of his head disappearing around a corner, but you never talked. Aerion made sure of that. Aerion made sure of a lot of things. "Stay away from him," he'd told you once, his hand around your wrist, his voice pleasant and conversational. "I see the way he looks at you. If I ever catch you talking to him, I'll make you regret it." And you'd believed him. You'd always believed him.

"I saw what happened," Valarr said. He stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. "With the wine. And him bringing you up here. Are you okay?"

You swiped at your eyes with the back of your hand, smearing what was left of your carefully applied makeup. "I'm fine. It's fine. I just got overwhelmed. It's nothing."

Valarr didn't move. "That didn't look like nothing. I was watching. He had his hand in your hair before the door even closed."

"It's fine," you repeated. The word felt hollow even to you. It was the word you said most often, the word you used like a shield, and it had never once protected you.

"No." He took a step closer. Then another. His voice was still quiet, still careful, but there was something steely underneath it now. "No, it is not fine. Does he do that often? Does he—" He paused, like he was bracing himself, like he was not sure he wanted the answer. "Does he hit you?"

The question hung in the air between you. No one had ever asked you that. Not your friends from college who had drifted away one by one, not your mother who you only talked to on holidays now, not a single person in five years. You opened your mouth to lie, to say no, to do what you always did. To protect him. To protect the fiction you had all been living.

"Yes," you whispered.

The word came out before you could stop it. And once it was out, something broke open inside you, some dam you had been building for half a decade, brick by careful brick. The tears started again, harder this time, and you could not stop them.

Valarr crossed the room in three quick strides and knelt in front of you. He didn't touch you. He was always so careful about that, always leaving you space. His mismatched eyes were level with yours, and his voice was steady and sure.

"I'll help you," he said. "Okay? I'll help you. You don't have to stay here. You don't have to go back to him. I will take care of everything."

"You will?" Your voice was so small. Pathetic. You hated how pathetic you sounded.

"Yes." He reached out then, slowly, giving you time to pull away, and when you didn't he took your hand. His grip was warm and solid and achingly gentle. He disappeared into the ensuite bathroom and came back with a glass of water and a damp washcloth, which he pressed into your hands with that same careful gentleness.

"Here," he said. "Drink this. It'll help."

You drank. The water was cool and clean and it steadied something in your chest, slowed the frantic hammering of your heart. Valarr sat down in the armchair across from the bed, elbows on his knees, watching you with an expression that was hard to read.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence was almost comfortable. Almost. Then Valarr leaned back in his chair, and something in his face shifted.

"You know," he said, his voice still quiet but different now. Cooler. The softness leaching out of it. "I don't understand."

"Understand what?"

"You." He gestured vaguely at you, at the room, at everything. "This. All of this. I've been trying to figure it out for five years. Five years of watching you. Five years of asking myself what I did wrong."

You lowered the water glass. A cold trickle of unease ran down your spine. "What do you mean?"

"I mean..." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. It was a hollow, bitter sound. "I was right there. I was right there in that lecture hall, and you said no. You said you had to focus on your studies. You said you couldn't do the relationship thing. You looked me in the eye and told me you weren't ready for anything serious." His voice was climbing now, the careful calm starting to crack. "And I accepted that. I backed off. I walked away. And then a year later, you're with him? With Aerion?" He said the name like it tasted of something rotten. "What was it? The money? The excitement? The bad boy thing? Because it sure as hell wasn't his personality."

"That's not—it wasn't like that—"

"No? Because from where I'm standing, it looks exactly like that. I asked you out. I was respectful. I gave you space when you said no. I did everything women say they want. I was the nice guy. I was the one who listened. And you still chose him. You chose the man who treats you like garbage while I got to stand on the sidelines and watch."

"You don't understand what happened—"

"You're right. I don't." He stood up abruptly, pacing to the window and back. The carefully controlled calm was crumbling now, something bitter and raw bleeding through the edges. "I have spent five years watching you with him. Watching him drag you to these parties like a trophy. And I kept thinking, she chose this. She chose him. She looked at me and looked at him and decided he was what she wanted. She decided the monster was worth more than the man who actually cared about her."

"He wore me down." The words came out broken, barely a whisper. "Valarr, he wouldn't stop. He asked and asked and asked and I was so tired, I was so exhausted from saying no, and he just kept coming back, he kept pushing, he—"

"So you just gave up?" He turned to face you, and his expression was something you had never seen on him before. Contempt. Disgust. A kind of wounded, ugly bitterness that had been festering for years, rotting him from the inside out. "That's your excuse? He was persistent, so you just spread your legs and let him have what I asked for respectfully? Do you hear how that sounds?"

"That's not fair—"

"Fair?" He barked out a laugh, sharp and humorless. "You want to talk about fair? What was fair about the way you treated me? You had standards for me. You had boundaries for me. I had to be patient, I had to be respectful, I had to take no for an answer like a good little boy. But for him? For the guy who wouldn't stop, who chased you like a dog after a bone, who grabbed what he wanted and didn't ask permission? That's the one you let in. That's the one you gave five years of your life to."

"I was eighteen." Your voice cracked. "I was eighteen and I was scared and he was so relentless, Valarr, you don't know what it was like, you don't know what he's like when no one's watching—"

"I know exactly what he's like." He was pacing again, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "I grew up with him. I've known him my whole life. I know he's cruel. I know he takes what he wants and breaks it when he gets bored. And still you chose him. Still you get into his car and sleep in his bed and play the perfect girlfriend at every family dinner while I get to sit across the table and pretend I'm not dying inside."

"You don't get to blame me for this." Your voice was shaking now, but not with fear. With anger. A tiny spark of the person you used to be, the girl who had clawed her way out of a dying town, the girl who had sworn she would never let anyone take her future away. "You don't get to stand there and act like I deserved this. Like I asked for this. Like I wanted to be beaten and controlled and turned into nothing."

"I'm not saying you deserved it." He said it like it was obvious, like it was reasonable, like he was explaining something simple to a child. "I'm saying you chose it. Every day for five years, you have chosen it. You could have left. You could have asked for help. You could have come to me at any point and I would have saved you. But you didn't. You stayed. You stayed and you let him do this to you and now you want me to feel sorry for you?"

"I had nowhere to go." The tears were streaming again, hot and fast, but you didn't wipe them away this time. "He made sure of it. No job, no money, no friends. You think I didn't want to leave? You think I didn't try? He took everything from me. Everything."

"Poor little victim," Valarr said, and his voice was soft now, almost gentle, somehow worse than the yelling. "Poor little thing who had no choices and no options. Except you did have a choice. Five years ago, you had a choice. Me or him. And you made it. And now you get to live with it."

"Then why are you here?" The question came out sharp, desperate. "If you hate me so much, if you think I deserve all of this, why did you bring me to this room? Why did you tell me you'd help me?"

He stopped pacing. The room went very still.

"I'm going to help you," Valarr said, and his voice had changed again. Something had shifted in the quiet of the room, some subtle recalibration of the air between you. "I meant that. I will get you out of here. I will keep you safe. But I need something from you first."

You looked up. His mismatched eyes were fixed on you, and for the first time you noticed that neither one was gentle anymore. The brown eye was not sad. It was hungry. The blue eye was not concerned. It was calculating.

"What?" you asked. Your voice came out wary. The hope that had flickered in your chest a moment ago was already starting to gutter.

He didn't answer right away. Just leaned back against the dresser, crossed his arms over his chest, and let the silence stretch. You had seen Aerion do that a thousand times. Use quiet as a weapon. Let the other person fill the empty space with their own anxiety. The recognition made your stomach turn.

"I've been thinking," Valarr said finally. "About fairness."

"Fairness."

"Yes." He tilted his head, that silver gold streak catching the lamplight. "I did everything right. I was patient. I was respectful. I brought you coffee at midnight because I wanted to see you smile. I walked you to the library in the rain. I asked you on one date, one single date, and when you said no, I backed off completely. I let you go. Do you remember that?"

"I remember," you whispered.

"So I've been wondering." He stood up slowly, unfolding himself from the dresser with a deliberate, almost lazy grace that made your skin crawl. "What do I get? For being the good one. For doing it the right way. For waiting and hoping and watching from a distance while he got to touch you and keep you and break you. What's my reward?"

Your blood went cold. The washcloth slipped from your fingers and landed on the carpet with a soft, wet sound.

"I'm not asking for much," he said, taking a step toward you. Then another. His voice was still quiet, still reasonable, like he was discussing a business arrangement, like this was all very logical. "One night. You owe me that much, don't you think? After everything? After you chose him over me and let him..." He gestured vaguely at your face, at the concealed bruise you had spent an hour covering up. "Let him do that to you. Let him mark you. I would never do that to you. I would be gentle. I would be good to you. I would show you what it could have been like, if you'd made the right choice."

You couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. The room felt like it was shrinking, the walls pressing in, the air growing thin.

"You owe me," he continued, his voice dropping lower, almost intimate. "Five years I've waited. Five years I've watched him have what should have been mine. Do you know what that does to a person? Do you know how many nights I lay awake thinking about you? About what he was doing to you? About what I would have done differently if you'd just given me a chance?" He shook his head slowly. "You broke something in me. You and your choices. So now I'm asking for a chance to fix it. One night. One night of you actually choosing me, for once in your miserable life."

"One night," he repeated, and now he was standing right in front of you, close enough that you could smell his cologne, something clean and understated, so different from Aerion's heavy, cloying scent. "And then I'll help you. I'll get you out of here. I'll set you up somewhere safe, somewhere he can't find you. A new apartment. Money to get started. Whatever you need. All you have to do is give me what you gave him. What you gave him for free, for five years. I'm only asking for one night. That's more than fair."

"No." The word came out strangled. You pushed yourself off the bed, backing away from him. "Valarr, no. I can't. I won't. This isn't you. This isn't who you are."

"You don't know who I am." He was still advancing, still calm, still speaking in that reasonable tone like you were the one being irrational. "You never bothered to find out. You were too busy falling into his bed."

"I'm not like him," Valarr said, his voice softening, almost pleading now. "I told you. I would never hurt you. I'm not a monster. I'm not going to hit you or scream at you or leave bruises on your face. I just want what's fair. Don't you think it's fair? After five years of watching you with him, after everything I went through, don't I deserve something? Anything? Or do I just get to be the good one forever, the one who waited and respected you and got nothing while the bastard who broke you got everything?"

"You're scaring me."

"Good." His jaw tightened. "Maybe you should have been scared five years ago, when you made the choice that led us here. Maybe you should have thought about consequences. Maybe you should have considered that actions have reactions, that treating someone like they're invisible, like their feelings don't matter, like they're not good enough, might eventually come back around."

"Please," you gasped. Tears were streaming down your face, hot and fast. The concealer was probably ruined. The bruise was probably visible. None of it mattered. "Valarr, please, you're not like this, you're not this person, I know you're not—"

"Maybe I wasn't." His grip on your hair tightened, twisted, and the pain was blinding and familiar and somehow worse because it was him. "Maybe you made me this way. You and him. You made me into this. You taught me that kindness gets you nowhere. You taught me that the only way to get what you want is to take it."

You lunged for the door. You made it three steps. Your hand was on the doorknob, the cool metal pressing into your palm, the hallway freedom just one twist away. Your fingers closed around it. You started to turn it.

And then his hand fisted in your hair and yanked you backward. The pain was blinding. The same pain Aerion had given you an hour ago, the same spot, the same brutal pressure on your scalp. You screamed, a short, shocked sound that was more surprise than anything else, and stumbled backward into his chest. His other hand clamped around your upper arm, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, hard enough to leave marks that would bloom purple and yellow tomorrow.

"Don't," he said into your ear. His voice was still calm. Still quiet. That was the worst part. That was the part that would haunt you later. How calm he was. How controlled. How utterly reasonable he sounded while his fingers twisted in your hair and his grip ground bruises into your arm. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be. I said I'd be gentle. I meant it. I am not going to hurt you the way he hurts you. But you have to stay. You have to give me this. After everything, you owe me this much. You know you do."

"Please," you whispered. The word was barely a sound.

His breath was warm against your ear. His chest was solid against your back. "Shh," he murmured. "It's okay. It's going to be okay. Just stay still. Just let me have this. You gave him everything for five years. You can give me one night. That's fair. That's more than fair. You know it is."

You closed your eyes. The darkness behind your lids was almost a relief, no mismatched eyes, no handsome face twisted into something unrecognizable, just blackness and pain and the sound of your own heartbeat thundering in your ears.

Behind you, pressed against the solid warmth of his chest, Valarr Targaryen breathed slowly and evenly and didn't let go.

He dragged you across the room by your hair, the sudden, violent yank snapping your head back. Your heels scraped uselessly against the polished hardwood floor, the sound a sharp contrast to the muffled music drifting from the party downstairs. Your free hand clawed desperately at his wrist, your nails digging into his skin, but Valarr didn't even flinch. He didn't slow. The bed loomed ahead, a massive four poster monstrosity draped in deep red silk that matched the expensive dress you'd spent minutes zipping yourself into.

He released your hair just long enough to shove you forward with a brutal force. You pitched onto the mattress, the silk bedspread slick under your palms, your skirt riding up your thighs. Before you could scramble off the other side, his weight crashed down on your back, driving the air from your lungs in a wheezing gasp. One hand pinned both your wrists together behind your spine, squeezing so hard you felt the joints pop. The other hand fumbled at his belt buckle, the metallic clink of the buckle and the rasp of the zipper loud and predatory in the quiet room.

"No—please, Valarr, please—" Your voice cracked, a fragile sound. You twisted beneath him, bucking your hips, trying to throw him off, but he was a wall of muscle. He drove his knee into the small of your back, grinding your hips deep into the mattress, pinning you flat.

"Shh," he breathed, his voice still possessing that terrifying, measured calm. "You're making this ugly. Don't make it ugly."

He released your wrists for a split second, not to let you go, but to reach into his pocket. He pulled out his phone. The screen glowed, casting a cold, clinical light over your terrified face as he propped the device up against a lamp on the nightstand. He tapped the screen, the red 'REC' icon blinking into existence.

"Look at the camera," he commanded, his voice devoid of emotion. "I want to remember the exact moment you realize you have no choice."

"Stop it! Put it away!" You screamed, fighting with a renewed, desperate strength. You drove your elbow back, catching him hard in the ribs. He hissed, a sound of annoyance, and for a second the weight on you eased. You lunged forward, half off the bed, your fingers grazing the edge of the nightstand—

His hand clamped around your throat, cutting off your air and dragging you back onto the center of the bed. He flipped you onto your back with a violent heave, his hips settling heavily between your thighs. His free hand gripped the hem of your dress, shoving the fabric upward, bunching the expensive silk around your waist. You kicked wildly, your heel catching his shin, and he grunted. He didn't let go; instead, he grabbed your ankle, wrenching your legs wide apart. The fabric of the dress stretched taut, clinging to your curves, but it didn't rip.

"Stop fighting," he said, his eyes locking onto yours. "You can't stop this. You can't stop me. The sooner you stop, the sooner it's over."

He didn't bother removing your panties. He simply hooked a finger into the side of the lace, pulling the fabric harshly to the side, exposing your wet, trembling folds. He freed his cock—thick, flushed, and leaking pre-cum. He lined himself up, the blunt, hot head of his member pressing against your entrance, demanding entry.

"Look at the phone," he whispered, his hand gripping your jaw, forcing your head to turn toward the recording device. "Look at yourself. Look at how pathetic you are."

You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head, but he tightened his grip on your jaw, bruising the skin. "Open your eyes. Look at it."

As you stared into the lens, he thrust forward. The stretch was fire, a burning, agonizing invasion that made your whole body arch off the mattress. A scream ripped from your throat, echoing through the room, but it was drowned out by the sound of his heavy breathing. Your nails raked across his cheek, drawing long, red lines of blood. He didn't even blink. He pulled out almost entirely and then slammed back in, deeper and harder, the bed frame creaking violently beneath the force of his assault.

You clawed at his chest, your legs kicking and thrashing, your heels sliding uselessly against the silk sheets. He was too heavy, his body an anchor pinning you to your own nightmare. Every movement was a rhythmic, punishing drive, the wet, slapping sounds of his cock hitting your pussy filling the room, punctuated by your jagged sobs.

"Fight," he murmured, his hips settling into a relentless, piston like rhythm. His hand remained locked on your jaw, forcing you to keep your eyes on the phone, documenting every tear, every grimace of pain. "Fight all you want. It doesn't change anything. You're mine tonight. Just tonight. Then you can go back to Aerion and tell him how much better I am."

Your hands found his throat, your fingers squeezing in a desperate, wild attempt to choke him, to stop the relentless invasion of your body. He laughed—a low, breathless sound of genuine amusement—and drove into you so hard that your grip broke, your head knocking back against the headboard. Stars burst behind your eyes, the world spinning into a blur of red silk and violet light.

His pace quickened, becoming frantic and brutal. His breath grew ragged, his composure finally cracking as he neared the edge. You felt it in the way his hips stuttered, the way his fingers dug deep, bruising crescents into your thighs.

"No—don't—don't cum inside me—"

He didn't listen. He let out a long, low groan, his body shuddering violently above you as he slammed himself deep into your womb. You felt the hot, thick flood of his cum filling you, pulsing inside you in waves, some of it spilling out and dripping onto the red silk of the bedspread.

He stayed buried for a long moment, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm and slow, while the phone continued to record the aftermath, your trembling limbs, your vacant eyes, and the visible heaving of your chest.

Then he pulled out with a wet sound. You lay there, legs splayed, your dress bunched up around your waist, your panties twisted aside, a wet trail of his seed sliding down your inner thigh. Your entire body trembled with a shock you couldn't shake. Your throat was raw, your voice gone.

He looked down at you, wiped the smear of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand, and smiled. "See? You're fine."

—

Two months later the card was still in your wallet. Two months later, and you hadn't thrown it away. You told yourself it was because you couldn't risk Aerion finding it in the trash, finding it anywhere, asking questions. You told yourself a lot of things. But the truth was simpler and more shameful: some broken part of you still believed you might need it. Might need him. The man who had hurt you. The man who had offered you a way out with one hand and held you down with the other.

You hadn't told Aerion what happened that night. When Valarr finally let you go—after, after, after—you had stumbled back into the party with your dress smoothed down and your hair finger combed and your face scrubbed clean of tears and concealer both. The bruise was visible. You told Aerion you'd fallen in the bathroom. He'd looked at you with those pale violet eyes, flat and disinterested, and said, "You're a mess," and gone back to his conversation. He didn't ask about the red marks on your arm. He didn't ask why you were shaking. He didn't ask anything.

You were grateful for that, in a horrible way. Grateful that your boyfriend's complete lack of interest in your wellbeing had finally worked in your favor.

Valarr had given you his card as you were leaving the guest room. Pressed it into your palm with those long, elegant fingers, his mismatched eyes soft and earnest, like he hadn't just—like he wasn't—

"Call me," he'd said while buttoning his shirt. "If you still want my help. I'll be more than happy to give it." A pause. A small, almost shy smile. "I told you. I'm not like him. I keep my promises."

You'd taken the card. You didn't know why. Maybe because you were in shock. Maybe because some desperate animal part of your brain was screaming at you to keep every possible escape route, even the ones lined with teeth. Maybe because you'd spent so long being told what to do that you'd forgotten how to make choices of your own.

Whatever the reason, the card stayed. Tucked behind your student ID in the wallet you barely used anymore because Aerion paid for everything. A little rectangle of cream-colored cardstock with VALARR TARGARYEN embossed in silver and a phone number below.

You never called.

—

Valarr waited.

The first week after the party, he was patient. He understood. She needed time to process. What had happened between them was intense, emotional, she was probably just gathering her thoughts, working up the courage to reach out. He kept his phone on him at all times. Checked it compulsively. Every buzz made his heart stutter.

The second week, he was still patient. Mostly. A little annoyed, maybe. He'd made his offer very clear. He'd been generous. More than generous, given the circumstances. She owed him a response, at the very least. A thank you. An acknowledgment. Something.

The third week, he started to get angry. He'd done everything right. That was the part he kept circling back to, the thought that spun in his head at three in the morning when he couldn't sleep. He'd been the nice one. The good one. He'd backed off when she said no, all those years ago in the December cold on the quad, not because he gave up—he never gave up—but because he was playing a longer game. Let her focus on her studies. Give her space. Show her he was different from the other men, the ones who took and took and never asked. He'd constructed the whole thing so carefully. The coffee in the library. The gentle concern. The way he'd walked away without arguing. It was all designed to make her see him as the safe choice, the right choice, the one she'd come back to when she was ready.

And then a year later she was dating Aerion. Aerion. His vapid, cruel, reckless cousin. The one who'd never worked for anything in his life. The one who treated women like accessories and people like toys and the world like his personal playground. Valarr had watched them together at that first family party, Aerion's arm slung possessively around her shoulders, her smile brittle and nervous, and he'd felt something crack open inside him. Something he'd been holding together with careful hands for years.

He'd dated other people. Of course he had. He was a Targaryen; options were never the problem. He'd taken models to galas and heiresses to dinners and a very earnest PhD candidate to a weekend in Dorne that she'd described later as "lovely but a little intense." None of them stuck. None of them were her. None of them had looked at him with those eyes—god, those eyes—and said no, I can't, I have to focus, and then turned around and spread their legs for a man who didn't even pretend to be kind.

He started checking Aerion's social media. It was easy. Aerion posted constantly, his life was a curated gallery of wealth and beauty and casual cruelty, and at the center of it, always, was her. Her in a designer dress at a charity gala. Her on the deck of a yacht, wind in her hair, smile not quite reaching her eyes. Her in the kitchen of that penthouse apartment, looking startled, caught mid-motion by Aerion's phone camera. "My little homemaker," the caption would say. "Isn't she precious."

It ate at Valarr. It gnawed at him from the inside. He used to check your social media obsessively, but you'd deleted everything. So he followed Aerion instead. He saved every photo. Catalogued every post. Built a shrine of you in the dark of his phone screen while his resentment curdled into something unrecognizable.

After the party, after the guest room, after he'd finally taken something for himself, he thought things would change. He'd sent her the video the next morning. A short clip, just a few seconds, enough to remind her what had happened. What they'd shared. He hadn't included his face in the frame—he wasn't stupid—but she would know. She would remember. And she would understand that he was serious, that his offer was real, that he was willing to help her if she was willing to be helped.

But two months passed, and she didn't call.

The video had been sitting on his phone since that night. He'd watched it more times than he could count. Late at night, mostly. In the dark of his own apartment, with the city lights flickering outside the window, he'd press play and watch her face crumple, watch her try to twist away, watch the exact moment she realized that the nice one wasn't nice after all. It made him feel something complicated. Shame, maybe, somewhere deep down. But mostly it made him feel powerful. Made him feel like he'd finally evened the score.

And she hadn't called. Two months of silence. Two months of waiting. Two months of watching Aerion's Instagram stories and seeing her there, still playing the perfect girlfriend, still living in that penthouse, still choosing him over and over and over again. Valarr had given her an escape. He'd given her a way out. All she had to do was pick up the phone. All she had to do was say yes to him the way she'd said yes to Aerion. Was that so much to ask? Was he really so unworthy of her that she'd rather stay with a man who hit her than spend one night with someone who actually cared?

His feed changed as Aerion posted a photo of you that morning. You were sitting on the balcony of the penthouse, the city spread out behind you, a cup of coffee in your hands. You were wearing a silk robe. You were smiling. The caption read: Five years with this one. Still the best decision I ever made.

The rage built slowly and then all at once. He was in his study when he made the decision. His phone was in his hand, the video loaded and ready. Valarr typed out a message.

Thought you should see this. Found it on an old phone. Looks like your girlfriend isn't as loyal as you thought.

He attached the video. His thumb hovered over the send button. For a moment—just a moment—he imagined her face when Aerion saw it. Imagined what would happen to her. Imagined the bruises that would bloom under her skin, the tears, the terror. He imagined her finally understanding that she should have chosen him. That he was the only one who could have kept her safe.

She'd had her chance. Two months of chances. She'd made her choice.

He pressed send.

The message whooshed away into the ether, delivered and read almost immediately. Valarr set his phone down on the desk, leaned back in his chair, and waited.

Somewhere across the city, in a penthouse apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows and a kitchen that cost more than a house, Aerion Targaryen's phone buzzed. And buzzed. And buzzed.

—

The water was just coming to a boil when you heard the front door slam.

You knew that sound. Knew it in your bones, in the scar tissue of five years. The way the hinges rattled. The way the deadbolt snapped back against the frame. The way the air in the apartment changed instantly, thickened, became something you had to push through just to breathe. You didn't turn around. Your hands stayed on the cutting board, knife moving through vegetables with the mechanical precision of long practice. Dinner had to be ready by seven. Dinner was always ready by seven. The last time dinner hadn't been ready by seven, you'd spent three days covering a bruise on your jaw.

"What," Aerion's voice came from behind you, low and shaking with something you'd learned to recognize, something worse than the usual rage, "the fuck is this?"

You turned.

He was holding his phone. His face was a color you had never seen before, not the usual flushed red of a burned risotto or a spilled drink, but something deeper. Something almost purple. The veins in his neck stood out like cords, thick and pulsing. His violet eyes were wild, unhinged, the pupils blown so wide they had swallowed the iris almost completely. His free hand was clenched so tight at his side that his knuckles had gone white, and you could see a tiny thread of blood where his own fingernails had broken the skin of his palm.

Your mouth went dry. Your fingers went numb. "What's what?"

"Don't." He took a step toward you, and you backed into the counter automatically. The edge of it bit into your spine. You could feel your kidneys pressing against the marble, the sharp ridge of the cabinet handle digging into your lower back. "Don't fucking play stupid with me. Don't you dare play fucking stupid with me." He thrust the phone toward you, and you flinched back so hard your head cracked against the cabinet. "The video. Valarr sent me a video. Of you. Of him. In the guest room at my father's house." His voice splintered on the last word, something raw and wounded bleeding through the fury, something that was almost a howl. "You fucked my cousin? In my father's house? During a family party?"

The world tilted sideways. You grabbed the counter to steady yourself.

"No," you said. The word came out fast, desperate, your free hand coming up in front of you like it could shield you from what was coming. "No, Aerion, that's not, it wasn't like that, he, I didn't—"

"He what?" Aerion was across the kitchen now, phone forgotten on the counter, his hands grabbing your shoulders and slamming you back against the cabinets so hard the dishes inside rattled and a wine glass somewhere tipped over and shattered. "He what? He seduced you? You tripped and fell on his dick? What's the excuse this time, huh? What's the story you're going to spin me?"

"He raped me."

The words hung in the air between you. Three words. Three impossible, horrible words that you had never said out loud before, not to anyone, not even to yourself in the dark of the bathroom with the shower running to cover the sound of your crying. You had carried them for two months in silence, too afraid of what Aerion would do if he knew another man had touched you, too afraid of what Valarr would do if you tried to tell, too afraid of everything all the time every single day.

Aerion went very still. For a moment, one brief stupid hopeful moment, you thought maybe he believed you. Maybe he would stop. Maybe some buried part of the man you had once thought you loved would surface and see you, really see you, and—

"You lying whore."

His hand closed around your throat. Not the theatrical choking he did sometimes when he wanted to scare you, not the warning squeeze he used to remind you who was in charge. This was different. This was his whole hand, his whole strength, his thumb pressing into the soft hollow beneath your jaw and his fingers digging into the sides of your neck and his grip tightening and tightening until the world started to sparkle at the edges.

"He raped you?" Aerion's face was inches from yours, his breath hot and sour with the scotch he'd been drinking since lunch, his violet eyes blazing with something that went far beyond anger into a place that was genuinely terrifying. "You expect me to believe that? Valarr? Boring, pathetic, do-everything-right Valarr? You think I don't know you? You think I don't know you've been in love with him since college? You think I'm stupid?"

"I haven't," you choked out, your hands scrabbling at his wrist, trying to pry his fingers away. His forearm was like iron. You might as well have been clawing at a statue. "I never, I chose you, I stayed with you—"

"You chose me because I was the only one who wanted you!" He shook you, your head snapping back against the cabinet, and pain bloomed bright and hot at the base of your skull. "You think I didn't know? You think I didn't see the way you looked at him at every family dinner? The way you'd get all quiet and sad whenever he was in the room? The way you'd watch him when you thought I wasn't looking?" His voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "I saw everything. I see everything. You don't take a piss without me knowing about it, you understand me?"

"No, Aerion, please, I never—"

"He sent me a video." He shook you again, harder, and your teeth clacked together. "Of you. With him. In a bedroom. At my father's house. You expect me to believe you weren't a willing participant? You expect me to believe my boring pathetic cousin suddenly turned into a rapist? How stupid do you think I am?"

"I didn't want it!"

"Liar!"

He released your throat just long enough to backhand you across the face. Your head snapped to the side, your cheek exploding with pain, and you tasted blood where your teeth had cut the inside of your mouth. Before you could recover, his hand was back around your throat, squeezing harder this time, and black spots were dancing in your vision.

"Let me tell you what's going to happen," he said, his voice terrifyingly calm now, the way it always got right before the worst things happened. "You're going to tell me the truth. All of it. How long it's been going on. How many times. Where. When. And then, once I know everything, I'm going to decide what to do with you. Maybe I'll let you stay. Maybe I won't." His thumb pressed harder into your throat, and you made a sound that wasn't even human. "Or maybe I'll just squeeze until you stop moving, and then I'll call my father and tell him you attacked me. Who do you think they'll believe? Me? Or the gold digging scholarship bitch who's been leeching off him for five years?"

"Please," you rasped. The word was barely a sound. Your vision was narrowing to a tunnel. "Aerion, please, I can't breathe, I can't—"

"Good. You don't deserve to breathe."

Your hand flailed out. Searching for anything. Anything at all. Your fingers brushed the handle of the knife on the cutting board, but you couldn't, you wouldn't, that wasn't who you were. You kept reaching. Your lungs were burning. Your throat was collapsing. The tunnel was closing to a pinprick, and somewhere in the distance you could hear Aerion still talking, still threatening, still promising all the ways he was going to make you pay for betraying him.

Your fingers closed around the handle of the stockpot. The pot on the stove behind you, the one you had filled with water for the pasta, the one that had been boiling for five minutes now, the one you had put on before everything went wrong. You didn't think. You couldn't think. There was no thought left, only instinct, only the animal drive to survive. You swung.

The pot came off the stove in a great arc of silver and steam. Aerion saw it coming. His eyes widened, his grip on your throat loosening, his mouth opening to say something. He didn't let go fast enough. The boiling water hit him full in the face.

The sound he made wasn't human.

Aerion screamed, a high horrible animal sound, and his hands flew to his face. He stumbled backward, clawing at his own skin, his perfect beautiful face already blistering red, his silver-gold hair plastered wetly to his skull. The water had soaked through his shirt, his chest, and he was still screaming, still stumbling, his feet slipping on the wet tile floor. He reached out for something to steady himself, his hand catching the edge of the kitchen island, but his fingers were wet and his grip was weak and he was still screaming, still clawing at his own ruined face.

He went down.

It happened so fast. One moment he was upright, shrieking, his hands pressed to the red raw mess of his cheeks and eyes. The next he was falling, his feet skidding out from under him on the water-slick floor, his body twisting as he went down, his arms windmilling uselessly. There was a sound, a sound you would hear in your nightmares for the rest of your life, the thick wet crack of skull against marble. A sound like an egg breaking. A sound like the end of something.

And then silence.

You stood with your back against the counter, your chest heaving, your throat burning where his fingers had been. The pot was still in your hand, empty now, dripping the last few drops of scalding water onto the floor. Steam rose from the puddle spreading across the tile. Aerion lay on his back in the middle of it, his eyes open and unseeing, his mouth slightly parted, a dark red stain beginning to seep out from under his head and mix with the water on the floor. His face was still blistering. His hands were still curled into claws where they'd been tearing at his own skin. He looked surprised. Even with the burns, even with the blood pooling beneath him, he looked surprised.

He wasn't moving.

He wasn't breathing.

"Aerion?" Your voice came out as a croak, barely a whisper, your vocal cords scraped raw by his grip. You couldn't feel your hands. Couldn't feel your face. "Aerion, get up."

He didn't get up.

"Aerion, this isn't funny. Get up."

He didn't get up. The kitchen was very quiet. The water on the floor was still steaming, curling up in lazy wisps, and the only sound was the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant noise of traffic twenty floors below. Outside the window, the city lights were flickering on against the darkening sky, and somewhere far below, people were going about their lives, getting dinner, meeting friends, laughing at jokes, while you stood in a penthouse apartment with a pot in your hand and your boyfriend dead at your feet.

His face was still beautiful, even now. Even with the burns. Even with the blood spreading beneath him like a dark halo. The man who had hit you and choked you and isolated you from everyone who loved you. The man who had made sure you could never leave, never work, never have a life that didn't revolve around him. The man who had been seconds away from killing you.

He was dead. He was actually dead. Slowly, very slowly, you set the pot down on the counter. Your hands were shaking so badly it clattered against the marble.

Your phone was on the kitchen island. Aerion's was still there too, the screen dark now, the video Valarr had sent still waiting in his messages like a bomb that had already gone off. You didn't look at it. You didn't want to see it. You didn't want to see yourself in that guest room, didn't want to see what Valarr had done to you, didn't want to think about how he had filmed it, how he had saved it, how he had sent it to Aerion knowing exactly what would happen. There would be time for that later. For now, there was only this: the body, the blood, the silence.

You picked up your phone. Your hands were shaking so badly you could barely unlock it. The screen blurred in front of your eyes, and you realized distantly that you were crying. You hadn't noticed when you'd started.

You had to call someone. You had to call 911. That was what you were supposed to do. That was what innocent people did when accidents happened. They called for help, they explained what went wrong, they trusted the system to believe them.

But you weren't innocent. Not in the eyes of his family. Not in the eyes of the world.

Maekar will kill me.

The thought hit you like a physical blow, and the shaking got worse. You remembered Maekar at the party two months ago, his cold violet eyes, the way he had barely acknowledged your existence because you weren't a person to him, you were Aerion's accessory. You remembered the Targaryen lawyers, the ones who had called your potential employers and made sure you never got a job, the ones who had erased your career before it even started. You remembered the way the family closed ranks around their own, how they had spun every scandal, buried every misstep, destroyed anyone who threatened their reputation. You had watched it happen to a former business partner of Maekar's who had dared to sue. The man had lost everything. His company, his home, his marriage. The Targaryens had not even broken a sweat.

They wouldn't believe you. They would look at Aerion's body on the floor and your handprint on the pot and the bruises on your neck, and they would spin it. They would say you were the abuser. They would say you had been taking advantage of him for years, living off his money, isolating him from his family, bleeding him dry. They would find your old classmates, your old coworkers, anyone who had ever seen you snap under pressure, and they would twist every moment into evidence. The scholarship girl with the chip on her shoulder. The gold digger who finally got caught. The monster who murdered the golden boy in his own kitchen.

You had seen what Targaryen money could do. You had been on the receiving end of it for five years. They could bury you so deep no one would ever find you. They would make sure you spent the rest of your life in a cell, or worse, and no one would ever know the truth about what Aerion did to you, what Valarr did to you, what this family had done to you since the moment you stepped into their orbit.

You couldn't call 911.

You couldn't call your mother. What would she do? Fly across the country on money she didn't have, sit in a courtroom while the Targaryen legal team tore her apart, watch her daughter get dragged through the mud and convicted of murder? No. You couldn't do that to her. You couldn't do that to anyone you loved.

There was only one person who might help you. Only one person who had the power to stand against the family, who knew their secrets, who owed you. God, he owed you something after what he had done. The thought made you sick. Made you want to crawl out of your own skin. But the body was still on the floor and the blood was still spreading and you were running out of time.

You scrolled through your contacts with shaking fingers until you found the number you had never saved but knew by heart anyway. The number from the card that was still in your wallet, tucked behind your student ID like a poison pill you had been saving for an emergency.

Valarr.

The phone rang once. Twice. Three times. With each ring, your chest got tighter, your breath got shorter, and the reality of what you were doing pressed down on you like a physical weight. You were calling the man who had assaulted you. You were asking him for help. You were so broken and so desperate and so completely out of options that the man who had held you down in a guest room two months ago was your only chance at survival. Wasn't that the sickest joke of all? That after everything, the only person you could call was the one who had helped put you here in the first place?

He picked up on the fourth ring.

"Hello?"

His voice was calm. Even. Almost pleasant. Like he had been expecting you. Maybe he had been. Maybe he had been waiting by the phone for two months, just like he had been waiting for years, patient and careful and so sure that eventually you would come crawling back. The quiet one. The careful one. The one who listened like your words mattered, right up until he stopped listening entirely.

"Valarr." Your voice came out as a sob, barely recognizable, scraped raw by Aerion's grip on your throat. "Valarr, please, I need, I need help, something happened, Aerion he, he tried to—"

"Slow down." Still calm. Still measured. Still so controlled it made your skin crawl even through the panic. "Tell me what happened."

"He saw the video." The words tumbled out of you in a flood, unstoppable, each one tripping over the next. "The video you sent him, he saw it and he came home and he was so angry, Valarr, he was choking me, he was going to kill me, he said he was going to squeeze until I stopped moving and then tell his father I attacked him, I couldn't breathe, I thought I was going to die—and the water was boiling on the stove and I grabbed the pot and I threw it at him and he slipped, I swear he slipped, I didn't push him, I didn't mean to kill him, he just fell and his head hit the floor and he's not moving, he's not breathing, Valarr he's dead, Aerion's dead, I don't have anyone else, please, please you have to help me—"

You were rambling. Sobbing. Hyperventilating so hard the words were barely coherent. Somewhere in the middle of it you had slid sideways against the cabinets, your forehead pressing against the cold marble floor, the phone still clutched to your ear. Aerion's body was three feet away. You could smell the blood. You could smell the boiled water and the steam and the faint lingering trace of his expensive cologne. His eyes were still open. He was still looking at you.

Valarr was silent for a long moment.

"Stay there," he said finally. His voice had shifted. The calm was still there, but underneath it was something else, something sharp and focused and almost eager. "Don't call anyone. Don't touch anything. Don't move the body. Just stay exactly where you are."

"Are you, are you going to help me?"

"Yes." The word came quickly. Too quickly. "I'm going to help you. I told you I would, didn't I? I keep my promises."

Your sob of relief was so violent it hurt. "Thank you. Thank you, Valarr, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry for not calling you before, I should have called you right after it happened, I should have—"

"Shh." His voice softened, almost gentle. Almost kind. Almost like the boy from the lecture hall who had handed you a pen a lifetime ago. "Don't apologize. Just stay where you are. Don't move. Don't talk to anyone. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

"Okay."

"And don't tell anyone else. No police. No family. No one. Do you understand? If you call the police before I get there, I can't protect you. The family will eat you alive."

"Yes. Yes, I understand."

"Good girl."

The line went dead.

You dropped the phone. It clattered on the marble floor, skidding through the cooling water and coming to rest against the leg of the kitchen island. You didn't pick it up. You just lay there with your cheek pressed to the cold tile, your breath coming in ragged hitched gasps, your throat throbbing with every heartbeat. Three feet away, Aerion stared at the ceiling with his burned face and his unseeing violet eyes.

You waited for the man who had ruined your life to come save it.

—

Three years later, you walked down the aisle in a dress that cost more than your mother's house, and everyone said you made the most beautiful bride.

The tabloids called it a love story for the ages. A Tragedy That Became a Triumph, one headline read, accompanied by a photo of you and Valarr at some charity gala six months ago, his hand on the small of your back, your smile soft and demure. After the tragic accident that claimed the life of Aerion Targaryen, his grieving girlfriend found solace in the arms of his cousin. Now, three years later, the couple is set to wed in what insiders are calling the society event of the year. The article went on to describe your dress, custom Vera Wang, off shoulder, a cathedral train that stretched twenty feet behind you, and the venue, the Targaryen estate's private chapel, and the guest list, which included senators and CEOs.

What the article didn't mention was that you hadn't chosen the dress. Valarr had. He'd brought in three designers and made you try on dozens of gowns while he sat in an armchair with a glass of scotch and vetoed each one until he found the dress he wanted. What the article didn't mention was that you'd woken up the morning of the wedding and thrown up three times in the ensuite bathroom, so quietly that Valarr wouldn't hear, your forehead pressed against the cool marble of the toilet seat. What the article didn't mention was that the smile you wore as you walked down the aisle was the same smile you'd learned to wear at Aerion's family parties, the same performance of happiness you'd been giving for years, the same mask you'd never been allowed to take off.

The chapel was full of Targaryens. They filled the pews in their designer suits and their tasteful dresses, their silver gold hair catching the light from the stained glass windows. Maekar was in the front row, his face as unreadable as ever. If he suspected anything about his son's death, he'd never shown it. Valarr had done his work well. The official report had ruled Aerion's death a tragic household accident, a slip on a wet kitchen floor while cooking alone. No mention of you. No mention of the video. No mention of the bruises on your neck or the boiling water or the way Aerion's eyes had stared at the ceiling seeing nothing. Valarr had made it all go away.

And then he'd made you his.

"You'll stay with me," he'd said that night, three years ago, when he'd arrived at the penthouse and found you still huddled on the kitchen floor. He'd knelt beside you, careful not to get blood on his trousers, and his mismatched eyes had been so full of gentle concern. "I'll take care of everything. I'll protect you. But you have to do exactly what I say. Do you understand?"

You'd nodded. You'd been in shock. You'd been so grateful, so pathetically grateful, that someone was going to make the nightmare stop.

"Good," he'd said. "From now on, you're mine. You should have been mine from the beginning. But don't worry. I'm going to fix everything."

He'd framed it as grief housing at first to the public. You were too devastated by Aerion's death to live alone, too fragile to be on your own, and Valarr, kind, generous, patient Valarr, had opened his home to you. The family thought it was sweet. The tabloids thought it was romantic. No one thought to question why the grieving girlfriend needed to be sequestered in her dead boyfriend's cousin's penthouse.

When you'd tried to bring up the possibility of leaving, of starting over somewhere new, he'd sat you down in his study and explained, very calmly and very clearly, exactly what would happen if you tried.

He had evidence. He'd always had evidence. He also had footage from a security camera across the street from the penthouse, footage that showed him entering the building that night and leaving with you, footage that didn't match the official timeline of Aerion's death. He had text messages. Phone records. A paper trail that, in the wrong hands, could unravel everything. And if you ever left him, if you ever tried to go to the police, if you ever breathed a word of the truth to anyone, he would make sure the whole world knew what really happened. Not just your role in Aerion's death, though that was bad enough, but everything. He'd make you the villain. The scheming scholarship gold digger who seduced both cousins, who murdered one and manipulated the other, who deserved to rot in a cell for the rest of her life.

"After everything I've done for you," he'd said, his voice so reasonable, so calm, "after I saved your life and cleaned up your mess, this is how you repay me? You think you can just leave? You think anyone else would have done what I did for you? I protected you. I lied for you. I buried a body for you, and you want to walk away like none of it happened." He'd shaken his head slowly, that sad almost-smile on his face. "You made this mess. I fixed it. Now you owe me. That's how this works."

After a while, you stopped thinking about leaving. It was easier that way. Valarr wasn't like Aerion. He never hit you, never raised his voice, never left bruises that you had to cover with concealer. His cruelty was quieter, more precise. A comment about your weight delivered with a look of tender concern. A reminder of what he'd done for you, what you owed him, slipped casually into conversation at breakfast. A hand on the back of your neck at parties, just a little too tight, just enough to remind you who you belonged to. "I waited so long for you," he'd say sometimes, in the dark of the bedroom, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin. "I was so patient. I did everything right. And now here you are. Finally."

The proposal had been a public affair. Of course it had. The Targaryens didn't do things privately. Valarr had gotten down on one knee at a benefit gala, in front of three hundred people and a photographer from Vogue, and when he'd opened the ring box and asked you to marry him, every camera in the room had turned to capture your reaction. You'd said yes because there was no other answer. You'd said yes because his hand was on your wrist under the table and his mismatched eyes were fixed on you with that familiar, patient intensity, and you'd learned a long time ago that saying no to a Targaryen man didn't mean anything if they didn't want it to.

Now you were walking down the aisle toward him. The organ music swelled. The guests rose to their feet. You could feel their eyes on you, hundreds of eyes, all of them seeing the beautiful bride in the beautiful dress, all of them believing the beautiful lie. Valarr stood at the altar with his hands clasped in front of him, his dark hair immaculately styled, that streak of silver gold catching the light.

He smiled at you as you approached. That shy almost smile from the lecture hall, the one that had undone you when you were eighteen years old and too exhausted to see it for what it was.

Your father wasn't walking you down the aisle. You didn't have a father to do it. Valarr had offered to have his father escort you, but you'd refused. It was the one thing you'd managed to refuse. And so you walked alone. Each step down the long white runner felt like a door closing behind you. The chapel doors, heavy and ornate, had already been shut. There was no breeze. There was no escape.

You reached the altar. Valarr took your hands in his. His grip was warm and steady and exactly as tight as it needed to be.

"You look beautiful," he murmured, low enough that only you could hear. "I've been waiting for this for a long time."

You smiled. It was the smile you'd learned to wear. The smile of the grateful survivor, the lucky bride, the woman who had been rescued from tragedy and given a second chance at love. Behind that smile, behind the mask you'd worn for so long you couldn't remember what your real face felt like, something small and buried and nearly dead whispered a truth you couldn't speak aloud. You had traded one cage for another. You had escaped Aerion's hands around your throat only to find Valarr's hands around your life. And no one would ever know. No one would ever see it. Because Valarr wasn't like Aerion. He never hit you. He never left bruises. He just made sure you could never, ever leave.

The priest began to speak. The congregation settled into their seats. Somewhere in the front row, Maekar Targaryen watched with his cold, unreadable eyes, and the twins Daella and Rhae dabbed at their perfect tears, and the whole Targaryen dynasty bore witness to the final piece of the story Valarr had been writing since the moment he handed you a pen in a lecture hall nine years ago.

"I now pronounce you man and wife."

Valarr cupped your face in his hands and kissed you. His lips were soft. Gentle. The kiss of a man who had never done anything wrong in his life.

The applause was deafening.

[darkficslover]

Valarr became full blown incel after getting rejected by reader😭. I can't choose which targ cousin is worse? 10/10 fic. Ugh I love it how valarr acts like he's better than aerion but he's just like him but without physical violence. From this fic it's clear targaryens can't handle rejection AT ALL <333

[bloodywankers]

“The kiss of a man who had who had never done anything wrong in his life” literal chills

[bloodywankers]

Hiiiii, I’ve been a fan of your yandere ocs but I’ve been struggling to think of something to ask despite wanting to know more about them .. what would a normal day be like for Luciano’s darling?

hello!! Sorry for the late reply anon 😓

I’m not sure if this answers your ask since i realise it’s more of a what ‘darlings life would be like’ rather than her day but i didn’t really know how to make it more specific <\3 pls let me know if there’s anything more specific you wanted me to answer!! 🫶

tw; yandere, implied kidnapping, forced marriage, misogyny, brief mention of domestic violence, unedited

yandere oc x female reader | 0.5k wc | oc: luciano magnotti | more oc fics | navigation

Luciano, especially, out of all the yanderes wants to emulate a healthy functioning relationship, mostly for his own sake. So he would avoid physical restraints like chains or what-not so his greatest tool to prevent escape is just the miles and miles of uninhabited land that you have to go past before reaching your home. Anything that brings harm to you is off the table since it’s what his own father used to do, but I guess he doesn’t consider psychological harm or threats of violence directed towards your loved ones to fall within this category…

In the beginning, if you just show him enough affection and it’s like you aren’t being held against your will at all! A slight issue with this strategy is that his wants and desires increase exponentially. He might be satisfied with just talking to you at first, maybe add on a peck on the cheek once that gets old. It’s a never ending cycle. Eventually you’ll find him attached at the hip to you and it’ll be impossible to get rid of him.

He wants to get married to you as soon as possible but, before marriage he’ll give you a separate bedroom (this man is a virgin). He likes seeing you do domestic chores but definitely wouldn’t force you to, not at first at least. He’s happy with doing most of them if he can have you nearby just to talk to since Luciano is a pretty lonely guy, although it’s his own fault.

He’s a simple man, just wants to lay in your lap while you guys read books together or make food while you complain about your favourite movie—anything that makes him feel special.

He definitely wouldn’t let you have any access to the outside world. This means no devices with internet access or even visits. Refusing to take you outside no matter how well behaved or compliant you are. But on the bright side, he’ll spare no expense to fund your hobbies as long as they meet these requirements.

Although not outwardly, he does have some old-fashioned chauvinistic tendencies. The soft pretty dresses that look like they belong to the last century, the implicit expectation that you do as he says or how he nudges you towards doing domestic chores like cooking once you get used to current arrangement.

Two things he definitely wouldn’t tolerate is you being ungrateful for all he does and/or acting afraid of him, as if he’s a horrible monster (he’s literally a criminal!). As long as you can act sweet and grateful for everything he does while stopping yourself from flinching each time he gets closer you should be fine for some time!

Although pretty awkward at first, once that initial phase is over, he starts to get more and more comfortable with demanding your time and affection. He will definitely want kids eventually so it’s best to mentally prepare yourself for that…

[bloodywankers]

“mea culpa, mea culpa, mea máxima culpa”

yandere mafia oc x sexworker reader | oc: luciano magnotti (visual) | navigation | 7.0k wc | unedited

tw; yandere, female reader, misogyny, kidnapping, past domestic abuse, past child abuse, coercion, unhealthy relationships, murder, slut-shaming, religious themes, delusion, unhealthy ideas of masculinity, religious trauma, sexual harassment

1.

The silence of the library left ample room for the outside rain to be heard, it was getting heavier with every passing second. The weather forecast didn’t let you know that god was unleashing another flood upon mankind. If it had, maybe you could have avoided mutilating your umbrella beyond recovery by staying at home. But now that you were already here, miserable, wet, and with no means of returning until the rain let up—you decided to make the most of it.

‘Crime and Punishment.’ Your eyes lit up as you finally found the book, cursing whoever arbitrarily put it amongst the titles beginning with ‘J’ instead of ‘C’ while reaching for it. Unfortunately, your victory was short lived, someone else beat you to it by mere seconds.

Looking to the side, an awkward regret washed over you as a man stared back, his hand still on the book not yet taken out of the shelf.

“Uh…” ‘Just apologise and leave’, you told yourself like a mantra as your brain tried to formulate words.

“I—.”

“I didn’t see you there, sorry. Were you also looking for this book?” He asks while pointing to the copy of ‘Crime and Punishment’ now in his hands.

“Oh—um, yes but it’s okay! You reached for it first.” Examining the man in front of you more carefully, he looked like a student—young, well-dressed and holding a book that was definitely part of some mandatory curriculum. He introduced himself as Luciano, around your age and not, in fact, a student—although he didn’t describe his job in much detail either. Luciano was a soft spoken man with his dark brown hair, hazel green eyes and a general air of mystery about him. Your opinion of him was definitely helped by the fact that he encouraged you to have the book as he had already read it before and after hearing of your misfortune with the rain, insisted you take his umbrella.

“My car's in the parking lot right outside so I’ll be fine, you should take it.” He could’ve offered to drive you, insisted on it, but he didn’t and you appreciated that. What with being strangers to each other, in spite of the positive first impression, and all.

You relented in the end, somehow managing to exchange phone numbers while trying to express your discomfort with just taking his umbrella and offering nothing in return.

“It’s been so long since I enjoyed talking with someone this much, let’s do this again.” And so, with a promise to meet again sometime soon, you set off.

On your way home, book safely tucked in your bag and Luciano’s umbrella in hand, you felt bittersweet as your apartment complex finally entered into view. As if you had defrauded a kind man that did nothing to deserve it. These things always go the same: meet someone, hit it off, start thinking that maybe, just maybe, you’ve finally met the one but then they find out what you do for work and suddenly it’s like a switch flips. You aren’t the ‘pure and innocent’ woman they imagined and therefore not quite worth their devotion. Because according to their logic—women like you, sex workers, are to be used and tossed aside, not brought home.

It’s hard to consider the ‘morality’ and ‘propriety’ of it all when you’ve not eaten in a few days so you try not to think about it. You weren’t harming people or resorting to crime, you earned whatever little you had but as your phone screen flashed with a notification from Luciano—asking if you had made it home safely—you could already picture his reaction to your job being as extreme as those of the men you had met in the past.

2.

The following weeks, you two would meet whenever your schedules aligned. During those get-togethers—it felt improper to call them dates—Luciano would occasionally ask about your childhood, whether you had any family, or what you thought about one book or the other. To your relief, he didn’t ask about your job and so you never brought the topic up either, even if it weighed on your conscience at times.

“I thought you were a student the first time we met.” You stated, recalling the first meeting.

“Me? Oh no, I dropped out quite some time ago.” He sounded somewhat ashamed when admitting to it.

“I’m sure you could go back and get a degree.” Your attempt at comfort didn’t land all too well as he chuckled bitterly and replied.

“It's too late for me now.” His tone shifted when saying this. What exactly made it sound so off? You couldn’t quite put your finger on it. If you had figured it out earlier, maybe you would’ve left while you still could—changed your name, left the city, never involved yourself with Luciano or anyone even remotely affiliated with him. But you didn’t. Instead you began fantasizing about a better future, one that was always above your station.All while sitting side by side in the late evening with him as you admired the sunset, listening to the small excerpts of his childhood that Luciano would occasionally indulge you with.

“You used to get picked on as a kid? No way!” Your reaction elicited a laugh from the male.

“I was a total wimp.” Despite the nature of the memory, he recounted it with an air of nostalgia, as if it were something pleasant.

“In the end, I’d hide behind my little sister or go running to my mother and she’d comfort me ‘til I stopped crying.” Looking at his face, you could see a small smile forming, one dripping with unmistakable fondness.

3.

Luciano couldn’t help but feel warm and fuzzy inside. How long had it been since he last spoke with a normal person?

“Boss, the mayor called earlier today sayin’ he’d be there tonight.” A familiar face, his assistant, said apprehensively—his eyes cast down and set on the floor as he realised his mistake far too late. Luciano had made it abundantly clear how much he disliked them calling him ‘boss’ like some stereotypical mob lowlives. The brunette was many things but he refused to be considered a criminal on top of it all, he wasn’t like that—he didn’t do it out of a twisted craving for violence or power like most men around him. He was nothing like them.

“Well then? What’re you standing here for? Go make preparations for it, Antonio.” People like Antonio don’t get it until you spell it out for them in a language that they understand, Luciano thought as much. Because he saw the way they looked down on him, judged him to be frail and feminine by his appearance, so he compensated like this. How else was he to protect himself? After all, there is nothing worse than a weak man incapable of protecting his family, that’s what his father always said before dying.

The library was meant to be a short break, something routine, and yet he approached someone he had no business involving in that filthy line of business of his, he was getting greedy. But Luciano made up his mind—you were so sweet, so pure, he couldn’t bear to repeat the same mistake once more so he was going to end things. Decisively cut contact and only looking back on you as a fond memory from the past.

4.

It was a common occurrence to see public figures at the club you worked at. Whether it’s policemen, priests or politicians—nothing surprised you. So when the new mayor was amongst the men in that room with his hands wandering all over Bianca, barely nineteen and doing sex work to afford a living, you weren’t surprised.

Her discomfort was evident as she looked your way distressed, so you prepared to step in. Planning to tactfully get the mayor’s attention so she could slip out for a bit. That’s when your gaze fell to the man next to the mayor, clad in a dark suit and previously immersed in whatever conversation the two men were having—now, his dark brown hair shuffled somewhat as he glared straight at you.

It was Luciano.

It felt as if the whole world stopped moving. For a second all you could register were those familiar hazel green eyes of his. Yet, when they stared back, it was a look devoid of any of the warmth you became accustomed to.

None of the men that came to that nightclub were good news and if Luciano could get one-on-one time with the mayor, he most certainly wasn’t company you would want. Thankfully, he turned back to entertaining the mayor which allowed Bianca to slip away without your intervention and permitting you to blend into the background, foolishly hoping that he forgets you were even there.

The rest of the night went by peacefully, aside from the growing pit in your stomach that is. As the men began exiting little by little, you prematurely breathed a sigh of relief. This mistake soon became evident to you as someone behind you—it wasn’t hard to guess who—gripped your forearm. The sudden act elicited a yelp from you, causing some of the people ahead to turn back with equal parts concern and curiosity.

“Leave us.” Unfortunately, those words were all it took from Luciano, whose hand was still securely placed on your arm, for everyone in that room besides you two to leave.

“You’re a hooker?” He spoke, grip still on your arm as if you’ll run away the first chance you get—an assumption not entirely inaccurate.

“The proper term is sex worker.” You could see the gun tucked under his suit jacket, in fact, most of the men there that night had one attached to their hips. Knowing that, you still couldn’t help correct him.

“Is that really what you should be focused on right now?” No part of the harshness in his tone that night reminded you of the gentle, soft-spoken Luciano you had met in the library. In fact, if someone told you that the man in front of you was an entirely separate person from the one in your memories, you might just believe them.

“You’re a criminal, do you really think you’re in a place to judge?” You’re going to die, you thought. This much recklessness was unusual, even for you. But you just couldn’t stand the way he looked down upon you—as if you were committing the gravest sin one could. Ignoring how he, or whichever one of the many men he kept in his company, had requested your presence there in the first place. As if he wasn’t the one attending a back-alley meeting with the mayor, at a nightclub with a gun attached to his hip.

Your words struck a cord with Luciano, if his reply was anything to go by. “I’m nothing like them.”

His voice cracked as he spoke, tone unsure of the words leaving his own mouth.

“I didn’t realise they made exceptions just for you—.”

“Do not lump me in with scum like them when you don’t know anything.” Whatever little restraint he had by then vanished as he began raising his voice. Perhaps in some last ditch attempt at intimidation, you presumed, by that point unsure of who he was trying to convince but you didn’t stick around to find out. His reaction was nothing new, it was similar enough to other men you had encountered in the past that you felt no need to hear him out further. You stormed out before he, or anyone else really, could stop you—taking advantage of the chaos at the nightclub to shuffle between the crowds of people unnoticed. Holding in your urge to speed out of the building as soon as humanly possible, largely to avoid attracting any further attention as Luciano’s associates had yet to leave. Instead, you calmly ordered a taxi while exiting so that you could make it home as soon as possible, lest things get violent as they often did in these instances. Only messaging Bianca afterwards so she wouldn’t worry when she realised you were no longer at the club.

5.

Going to church wasn’t a habit you upheld religiously but as a child largely raised in an orphanage attached to a church, going there brought you peace. A peace that you desperately needed at present because nothing good would come from being alone. And so, you tried to wash away the exhaustion from last night's events and dressed in your best, church-appropriate clothes.

It was out of the ordinary for you to visit the orphanage on a Sunday during the morning mass when most attendees were retired and elderly so the children couldn’t help failing to contain their surprise.

“Big sis, you’re here!!” Announced one of the younger boys, the sheer excitement on his face quickly reflecting on yours as well.

“Dani!” You called back towards the boy, opening your arms to invite him, and the other children, into a hug. God knows you needed it.

“Big bro Luci’s here and now you too, sis! Today’s the bestest day ever!” Declared Alma, another of the orphanage children, from within your embrace.

“Luci?” That name didn’t ring a bell so you rightfully looked towards the much older nun that watched over the children, sister Maria.

“He’s a young man that comes by and plays with the children every so often. I’ve been meaning to introduce you but you’re both such a nightmare to get a hold of!”

“It’s okay! I’ll introduce you to him, big sis!” Alma interrupted, now holding your hand with her own much smaller one as she dragged you towards the main church with strength that a little girl her age had no business having.

At the same time, sitting in the church pews, Luciano’s mind similarly kept wandering to the events of the previous night—he had thought of you as pure, as above him. The kind of woman that would rightfully turn her nose at discovering who he truly was, which you did, but you yourself were no saint either. Granted, his reaction was nothing to applaud, he acknowledges that much, but the way you had stormed out, that finality in your every step, it left him with an unresolved conflict in his heart. One that was all too familiar to Luciano by now. He had replayed similar scenes in his mind over and over again, what-if scenarios with alternative choices that could have changed the outcome so that he wasn’t left all alone again and again.

“Brothers, if anyone is caught in any transgression, you who are spiritual should restore him in a spirit of gentleness. Keep watch on yourself, lest you too be tempted.” Luciano was unsure why that particular verse stuck with him but he felt invigorated, the remainder of the sermon quickly blending into the background as he rushed out of the building with the urgency of a man that would die if he didn’t fulfill his objective that very instant. It’s almost as if god was on his side as he spotted you with the children. Seeing you embrace them so lovingly reminded him once more why you became all he could think about so suddenly. You weren’t perfect but he could help, he could protect you from the cruel and ugly facets of the world so that you don’t need to return to that life of depravity anymore. Luciano didn’t have to lose you, he wouldn’t.

“Oh! Big bro, you’re here!!” Alma spotted him from across the courtyard, pointing at him with zeal as Dani ran to grab him—not that Luciano was going anywhere, there was no need for him to when you were right there, kept in place by Alma’s smaller hand. You stared back at him with part disbelief and part terror, an emotion that was entirely misplaced if you ask Luciano.

“You’re Luci…?” You asked once he was dragged close enough by Dani.

“It’s the nickname my mother gave me as a child.” He answered bluntly, eyes not wandering from your face for a second. “That’s beside the point, I need to talk to you.”

You didn’t look thrilled at the prospect but surrounded by the curious eyes of the children and sister Maria, you reckoned that making a huge fuss would benefit no one. You patted Alma on the head in farewell and offered a nod towards the sister before following Luciano straight towards his parked car. Not your smartest decision but you were dealing with a volatile man who had access to unfathomable amounts of weapons and power, neither of which you wanted used in front of the children or their elderly caretaker.

Once inside, you were quick to change your tone as you weren’t thrilled at the prospect of being alone with him so soon. “What was it that you wanted to talk about?”

Luciano however didn’t reply to your inquiry, opting instead to manoeuvre the vehicle out of the parking and drive through unfamiliar streets until urban sprawl disappeared into the distance, replaced by untouched landscapes. The car was driving fast enough that even if you somehow disabled the child-lock, exiting it would be suicide so instead, you tried to ascertain what fate awaited you on arrival to your destination by observing the man on the wheel. Unfortunately, his appearance offered you no clues until he began talking.

“[name], I wanted to apologise f’r how I spoke to you last night, it wasn’t right of me—” Luciano’s neutral well-spoken accent wavered slightly, giving way to an undeniable country dialect that you presumed was from his upbringing in a farming town. It had its own charm and had he stopped his sentence there, you might’ve actually forgiven him but the brunette continued. “—You’re someone I can’t bear to lose so it’s only right I stop deceiving you. After all: If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” Weird sermon aside, you were quite puzzled as to what more he could possibly confess to after last night’s revelation.

“You remember when I told you I dropped out of university, don’t you?”

“Yes…” You replied apprehensively.

“I used to study medicine back then, before I dropped out. I thought that maybe if I saved enough people that way that I would be forgiven for my sins.” He paused briefly, letting out a bitter laugh before continuing. “That didn’t work out, obviously—my mother fell ill so I dropped out to support her and my little sister, Lucia. You would’ve gotten along with Lucia.”

You looked outside the passenger window in hopes of his tangent ending faster.

“I tried everything, construction jobs, deliveries—but it just wasn’t enough. Mama looked worse every time I visited and Lucia, god I couldn’t even look her in the eye. You have to understand, I hate violence, it reminds me so much of him—oh I hate it, I hate it. But I had no choice.” His voice sounded more desperate, laced with pure vitriol when referring to ‘him’, whoever that was.

“One of my coworkers introduced me to this…this ‘line of work’. I realise it’s the exact opposite of what I moved to the city to do, but it’s not my fault! I was desperate, desperate enough to call those violent scumbags my brothers.” His grip on the steering wheel tightened but even that couldn’t conceal the way his hands shook.

“Mama died soon after—d’you know what her last words were to me? ‘You’re exactly like your father.’ After seventeen years, the first time she spoke to me eye-to-eye and that’s what she said! But I didn’t mind because she was my mother—who I swore to protect.” Luciano’s eyes were glazed over with tears, it wasn’t hard to notice how he was doing whatever he could to not cry in that moment.

“What kind of man am I? I couldn’t protect my mother and then I just stood there, like a fool, when Lucia discovered the things I did, the extent I went to for them. She looked at me exactly how you did yesterday, the same way mama did for the first time all those years ago. Suddenly everything I did, every person I harmed, it was all for nothing.” Even now, if he had stopped here, you might’ve made an effort to understand him, to pity the sorry man who sat beside you but he kept going.

“My father would get angry with me when I was younger. He would call me weak and pathetic. He’d say that there was no use for me if all I did was hide behind my mother, that I wasn’t a man. Even told me that he would finish the job himself if I ran away from a fight again. Mama said that if I truly repented, that I would be forgiven but she never looked at me quite the same. They’re all liars. Which is why, this time, I’m going to do things my way.” The car finally came to a stop and Luciano’s gaze was once again dead set on you.

6.

The way in which Luciano’s nose scrunched or how his eyes narrowed seemed almost reasonable—after all, what sane person could remain composed in the face of a murder. However, the problem was that he wasn’t an innocent bystander, rather, Luciano Magnotti—the most brutal mobster the country had seen in its history—was anything but a witness to this brutality.

Surely one loses the privilege to have the ‘holier-than-thou’ attitude he had when they’ve committed as many violent acts as he? His mother sure did think so.

She thought as much from the day her gentle and soft-spoken son first tasted violence by his own hand. That day all those years ago when he killed his own father. From then onwards, it didn’t matter how pitifully he cried for her forgiveness because all she could see was the uncanny look on his face at ten years old as he raised the shattered glass bottle. The little smile on his face as he approached her afterwards, so pleased with himself.

“Mama….” The boy murmured, voice barely above a whisper as he gazed onto the older woman on the floor—his expression somewhat dazed.

His mother, who had laid there writhing in pain just moments prior was now sat up. Still unable to muster the strength to move her body fully, but nonetheless able to witness the act in its entirety. How the bottle had come down with a force she did not know her son, scrawny and weak, was capable of. Even now, her gaze alternated between the slowly approaching boy and blood which gushed out of her husband’s injury, onto the small rug and everything else along its path.

“L-Luci…what have you done?” Her voice gave the impression that she meant to sound firm, not terrified and heaving as she had actually come across.

“He was hurting you, mama.” The boy, now standing in front of his mother, looked down towards an old injury on her leg with an apparent displeasure.

Despite remaining sat on the floor, her son was still just barely her height, the woman noted. Her mind drifted to the time he had come to her sobbing after other children teased him for being so short and weak, however, the distraction was short-lived as Luciano, or Luci as he had been nicknamed for so long, suddenly knelt down and hugged her.

“I was so scared, I just wanted him to stop but he wouldn’t listen. I kept telling him to but he wouldn’t listen!” His demeanor from just moments earlier felt so distant as he now gripped onto her clothes, shaking and beginning to cry as he so often did. The only difference was that this time, he did so covered in the blood of his father.

“The blood, he won't stop bleeding! We have to call someone, we have to get help, if we get him to a doctor in time I'm sure your father will be okay. We just have to get him a doctor.” She rambled on and on uncontrollably, now with finally enough strength to move her son aside and approach her husband.

“But mama, we can’t do that.”

The boy that would hand over his most prized possessions to his younger sister with an earnest smile. The same one that would sit in a corner and entertain himself with scrappy library books because he knew how guilty his mother felt telling him they couldn’t afford to buy him any toys. That same boy, for the first time, spoke to her with such selfishness in his tone, matter-of-factly like it was the most obvious thing.

“The police'll take me away now, won’t they mama? And if you get the doctor he’ll wake up again. That means he’ll hit you again! I don’t like when he hits you mama.” The innocence of his tone was betrayed by the indignant look in his eyes as he stared at the body of the man he once used to lovingly call ‘papa’.

“Mama I don’t want them to take me away from you.” He still looked shaken from earlier, tears in the corners of his eyes as he spoke. It finally occurred to her then, it wasn’t that Luciano couldn’t understand what he had done, he just didn’t see what was so wrong with it.

After that moment, her mind stopped registering things fully as she ran around maniacally trying to get help until all their neighbors had heard the ruckus and crowded in their small home while waiting for the doctor.

Despite their insistent questioning, she kept repeating the same lines like a mantra. ‘Why won’t he stop bleeding?’ ‘Is the doctor here yet?’ ‘Not now, I have to make sure he doesn’t lose any more blood.’ So instead, they turned to Luciano.

“Papa was drunk when he got hurt.” The boy’s words were vague enough that the neighbours started filling the gaps with their own theories, arguing until a common consensus was reached with no input from either of the blood-soaked witnesses.

‘No child should see their father in such a state. It's a good thing Lucia isn’t home.’ Said one of the women, a small sigh of relief exiting her lips as she did.

‘Leaving behind his wife and two children, what a tragedy.’ Another one added, shaking his head as if though already certain the father wouldn’t survive.

‘Luciano, you have to take care of your mom and sister now as the man of the house.’ One of the older men said as he held onto his shoulders.

When the help finally arrived, clearly unprepared for such an incident, a small group of the neighbors spoke with them—their words carried the conviction of somebody who had witnessed the whole thing with their own eyes. Whereas his mother turned from yelling at the neighbors to now the doctor.

Nobody paid Luciano much mind beyond one of the older ladies that with her hand around his shoulder pushed him into her side and absentmindedly stroked his head with her other hand. She would occasionally stop to give her two cents to the discussion.

Any usable evidence had been trampled over during the ruckus and the victim—a known drunk—was long dead. To add to that, an open murder case would reflect badly on a small town like theirs which barely even showed up on maps to begin with. So, in the end, it was labelled an accident with little more thought.

That summer at age ten, Luciano Magnotti, the one responsible for the murder of his father, stood solemnly at the very man’s funeral. Largely unresponsive to the crowd of people offering condolences and advice he had not requested.

Notably, the boy stood quite far apart from his mother who was similarly quiet while holding on to the youngest, Lucia, who looked equally sad moreso due to her mother and older brother’s demeanour than any understanding of the events around her.

Even if the law believed him innocent, his mother could not. From then on, during the day, she would do whatever meagre work came her way and in the evenings roam their house like a zombie in exhaustion. Only breaking her silence to drag her daughter away from Luciano. When asked why, she would never answer. At night, when the delirium cleared, all she could do was pray on her knees for forgiveness. Because some part of her too had hoped for her husband to never wake up again. Because her bewilderment at her son couldn’t make her forget the way it felt a weight had lifted from her shoulders as her husband's sleeping body made contact with the bottle. Perhaps fittingly, a hypocrite and a violent drunkard gave birth to a murderer, she would think bitterly in her final moments.

As an adult, Luciano was much more aware of what he had done—and he sincerely regretted his actions, he really did! Why else would he beg at his mother’s feet every chance he got? Even on the day he was finally leaving for the city.

“Mama…At least look at your son, just this once. Please?” After realising she wouldn’t budge, he would sigh and leave the room to bid goodbye to his younger sister and be on his way to the train station. Stopped by the occasional person awake at such an hour, each complimenting ‘how well he had grown up despite his family situation’ and occasionally teasing him for the stark difference in how he looked as a child to now. Because to everyone else, despite the change in his demeanour, Luciano forever remained the ‘girlish’ boy who would read books in a corner and cry when he eventually got beat by other kids his age for it. But to his credit, he had made it to a good university straight out of high school.

He would work through his studies, whether it was cleaning or construction, no job was beneath the young man who would work himself to physical exhaustion and then do coursework during his lunch breaks to tire his mind as much as his body. The gruelling routine, the occasional interaction with his much older coworkers who would treat him like a son and the admiration from his classmates, it almost made him forget who he was.

The economy was no better now than it was all those years back when his father had first lost his job so a series of unfortunate events is all it took for Luciano to be kicked out of the course. With no more access to student housing or any close friends to help him, crime enveloped him like a predator lying in wait for the very opportunity.

A low-life criminal for a gang. But even as he entered businesses he once worked for, demanding extortionate ‘protection fees’, Luciano liked to think he was above it. His mother can’t work at her age, not when she was inexplicably bedridden, and his sister should enjoy the things other girls her age do, not worry about debts that are never quite paid and bills that don’t stop at any occasion, it’s not his fault that he has to do this.

He’s just doing his job, he would tell himself as superiors praised him and he cruised through the ranks.

“The first time’s always the hardest…” One of the superiors, he couldn’t recall which, said while handing him a gun for the first time.

“…Afterwards, you realise how easy it is—to kill someone I mean. Makes ya’ wonder why people don’t do it more often.” He chuckled cynically as he finished that sentence, looking up to appraise Luciano’s expression.

“I see.” Was all he got in response as Luciano remained lost in thought, gaze focused on the gun in his hands.

“The fuck’s that s’pposed ta’ mean? Man, you gotta stop speaking like you’ve got a stick far up your ass. It pisses me off.” Another of the men said as he wrapped an arm around Luciano. He earnt himself a smile from the latter and a couple of laughs from the others. They saw him like one of their own, like a brother but even when they huddled around him and joked in such a casual manner, Luciano couldn’t help but think he was somehow different. These men, they weren’t like him, they did it for the money and they liked the violence, they liked the way it made men and women alike cower to their demands—he did it to sustain his family, he was different.

Perhaps as a final act of mercy to him or, more likely, to Lucia herself, their mother never told her how exactly their father had died despite the girl’s pleas throughout the years. Nowadays, the topic, along with Luciano’s strained relationship with their mother was largely avoided altogether by Lucia in an attempt to feign a semblance of normalcy. Luciano used to wonder on some days, would she too treat him like their mother if she found out what had truly happened to their father?

He would receive his answer with a slap to the face at his mother’s funeral, from his baby sister, the only person that still called him ‘Luci’ with such endearment.

“This is how you paid for her treatment?!” She asked him in tears, pointing towards the grave their mother finally rested in. For someone that spent so long rationalising his behaviour to himself, none of those excuses would come to his mind in that moment.

“Lucia l—.”

“You said you got an office job—I’ve been living off your dirty money all along?! You’re a criminal, you—!”

“I am nothing like them!” His sudden shift in tone made Lucia flinch but that didn’t stop him from continuing.

“I did it all for you two, every last bit of it was to protect you two. If I hadn’t done what I did, mama would’ve died slowly and painfully until the last breath.” This time, his voice levelled off but now he had a grip on his sister’s shoulders, painful and desperate—as if begging her to understand. Despite knowing that before disease could ever kill his mother, he already left her as a living corpse.

“Don’t ever come near me again—.” She stopped herself from finishing that sentence but Luciano could tell what she wanted to say. ‘You disgust me.’ Her face said as much. His grip loosened in the moment, letting her storm off.

Had Luciano held on more firmly, maybe he would still have a sister. At least that’s what he told himself as he cut down friends and foes alike, each in a more brutal way than the last but still convinced he was above it all.

Offering a small prayer, a habit he picked up from his mother, he would pray for them to finally rest in peace and end with requesting forgiveness for his sins. If Luciano had the time and privacy, he would begin justifying his actions to even god himself.

Despite reaching the top, Luciano had nothing to show for it.

Men of all statuses would bow to him alike, no one daring to offend him and yet he missed the teasing of the other children from his childhood. At least back then, his mother would warmly embrace him afterwards, kissing his every wound sweetly until he would relent.

All the books in the world sat in his office and yet he missed the torn ones from the public library which would fall apart as he read them. At least after finishing those he could proudly share his findings with Lucia who would eagerly listen to it all.

Even that man, his father, at one point used to ruffle his hair affectionately after coming home from work, before he lost it all. But even after that, as he would beat him black and blue, at least there was some sort of emotion there—even if just anger. Now Luciano truly had nothing at all.

That’s the kind of man you awkwardly smiled at, unaware that it was the first smile he received in so long which didn’t conceal murderous intent. That’s the man who you attentively listened to rant about a book not realising how long ago he had last done so.

You offered a man dying of thirst water and now you’re surprised he laps it up with the desperation of someone who would die without it.

7.

Whenever you asked to leave, Luciano would outright ignore you, as if you never said anything to begin with. Sometimes he would let you stroll through the garden behind his villa, always in those frilly sundresses that you couldn’t understand his obsession with. Most of the time, he would bring you books and DVDs to keep you entertained. Anything that couldn’t be used to contact someone else or escape.

The villa itself, despite being the only house for miles, wasn't ridiculously big as you would imagine the home of a single man with more wealth than he knows what to do with would be. Nor had you seen anyone beside Luciano since your arrival.

He would cook for you and let you sleep in a separate bedroom of your choosing, it felt like a nice vacation if you ignored the locked doors. And to your relief, Luciano—for all his talk—never got too close to you. Almost as if he didn’t quite know what to do with you, a hesitation that made you believe you could escape. Isolation began weighing on you after a few days, especially when your only interaction was with an awkward and unstable murderer that would begin preaching at random and even that interaction was largely limited to the evenings when he came home from ‘work’.

Your mind wasn’t at peak performance after being effectively kidnapped and isolated for so long so your escape plan wasn’t the brightest. Truth be told it was quite simple. Luciano always left at a similar time so you waited for an hour or so after his departure before rushing towards the door—your bobby pin enough to get past it. The outside gate was old and rusted in some parts but nothing you couldn’t climb. The real issue was walking towards the nearest city when all you could see was vast stretches of country roads with no sign of civilization. You don’t know what you expected to happen, part of you knew your little escape attempt would fail and did it solely as a ‘fuck you’ to the man that thought he could keep you there but another part of you truly hoped it would work. You missed your shitty apartment, you missed the freedom you’ve had for most of your life living alone, you missed the life you had made for yourself even if it was pathetic, meaningless and lonely at times.

“I don’t think I ask for much of you, [name].” Your heart almost stopped as you heard him. To this day you still don’t know how he found you but he was there regardless, arms wrapped around your waist and his face visibly disappointed.

“Let go.”

“Luciano, let me go, I want to go home.”

“H-Hey—stop!”

“You want to go back?” He seemed to be in disbelief, the mere prospect that you might want to return to your old life was something he couldn’t reason with.

“To whoring yourself out? [name] why is it so hard for you to understand that I’m trying to help you?”

“I don’t remember asking for your so-called help, in fact, I was doing just fine until you decided to take out your unresolved mommy issues on me.” His grip on you tightened at the mention of his mother.

“I really should’ve taken a page from your sister’s book and left when I still had the chance—!”

“[name], that’s enough.”

“What? Struck a nerve? Can’t handle the fact that I’m a human being and not some pure virgin bitch for you to ruin?”

“[name] I’m warning you.”

“Fuck you! You murderous bastard you’re going to rot in h—!” Luciano covered your mouth with his hand, the other one still holding you in place.

“I’m not going to hurt the woman I love but you’re sorely mistaken if you think I’ll let this type of behaviour slide.” He started hauling you towards his car despite your kicks and muffled screams.

“That girl from the nightclub, what was her name? Bianca? The mayor keeps asking me about her y’know? I know how much you care about her so I’ve been holding him off for quite some time now, he’s an animal when dealing with women. It’s pretty unpleasant stuff.” You knew what he was getting at, he didn’t need to continue.

“In a way, you’re right, [name]. I’m not a good man, but I’m fine with that. I'll keep my hands submerged in this filth if it’s for you, if it means you’d just stay with me.” Luciano has this ability to say and do the worst things when he’s desperate but then also expresses so much tenderness in the same breath.

“You don’t realise what’s good for you just yet but that’s okay, you’re confused and emotional. It’s okay.” He was crouched in front of you, who was sitting on the passenger seat facing towards the door, his hands now gently holding your face as he spoke.

“I don’t care what I have to do anymore, I just can’t go back to a world without you in it.” With those words he, for the first time, wrapped his arms around you as if you’d vanish if he let go.

The thing about Luciano is that once he gets a taste, he can’t have enough of it, whether it’s violence, power, or you.

[bloodywankers]

I read too many bible verses to not do ts but here is the other half (the bit in bold) of the bible verse used in the fic (which Luciano conveniently skipped over lmfao)

Galatians 6:1-3 ESV

Brothers, if anyone is caught in any transgression, you who are spiritual should restore him in a spirit of gentleness. Keep watch on yourself, lest you too be tempted. Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ. For if anyone thinks he is something, when he is nothing, he deceives himself.

[bloodywankers]

tw; blood, implied domestic abuse

finished drawing Luciano’s backstory heh (the last panel looked so mid I had to use special effects to kinda hide it) this is lowk meant to accompany this fic

You can also find more on him in my OC masterlist here!

Art is kinda scruffy since it’s a quicker drawing also I GENUINELY HATE text features in drawing apps they ALL suck buns so you will have to make do with my severely stabilised handwriting

[bloodywankers]

“mea culpa, mea culpa, mea máxima culpa”

yandere mafia oc x sexworker reader | oc: luciano magnotti (visual) | accompanying short comic | navigation | 7.0k wc | unedited

tw; yandere, female reader, misogyny, kidnapping, past domestic abuse, past child abuse, coercion, unhealthy relationships, murder, slut-shaming, religious themes, delusion, unhealthy ideas of masculinity, religious trauma, sexual harassment

1.

The silence of the library left ample room for the outside rain to be heard, it was getting heavier with every passing second. The weather forecast didn’t let you know that god was unleashing another flood upon mankind. If it had, maybe you could have avoided mutilating your umbrella beyond recovery by staying at home. But now that you were already here, miserable, wet, and with no means of returning until the rain let up—you decided to make the most of it.

‘Crime and Punishment.’ Your eyes lit up as you finally found the book, cursing whoever arbitrarily put it amongst the titles beginning with ‘J’ instead of ‘C’ while reaching for it. Unfortunately, your victory was short lived, someone else beat you to it by mere seconds.

Looking to the side, an awkward regret washed over you as a man stared back, his hand still on the book not yet taken out of the shelf.

“Uh…” ‘Just apologise and leave’, you told yourself like a mantra as your brain tried to formulate words.

“I—.”

“I didn’t see you there, sorry. Were you also looking for this book?” He asks while pointing to the copy of ‘Crime and Punishment’ now in his hands.

“Oh—um, yes but it’s okay! You reached for it first.” Examining the man in front of you more carefully, he looked like a student—young, well-dressed and holding a book that was definitely part of some mandatory curriculum. He introduced himself as Luciano, around your age and not, in fact, a student—although he didn’t describe his job in much detail either. Luciano was a soft spoken man with his dark brown hair, hazel green eyes and a general air of mystery about him. Your opinion of him was definitely helped by the fact that he encouraged you to have the book as he had already read it before and after hearing of your misfortune with the rain, insisted you take his umbrella.

“My car's in the parking lot right outside so I’ll be fine, you should take it.” He could’ve offered to drive you, insisted on it, but he didn’t and you appreciated that. What with being strangers to each other, in spite of the positive first impression, and all.

You relented in the end, somehow managing to exchange phone numbers while trying to express your discomfort with just taking his umbrella and offering nothing in return.

“It’s been so long since I enjoyed talking with someone this much, let’s do this again.” And so, with a promise to meet again sometime soon, you set off.

On your way home, book safely tucked in your bag and Luciano’s umbrella in hand, you felt bittersweet as your apartment complex finally entered into view. As if you had defrauded a kind man that did nothing to deserve it. These things always go the same: meet someone, hit it off, start thinking that maybe, just maybe, you’ve finally met the one but then they find out what you do for work and suddenly it’s like a switch flips. You aren’t the ‘pure and innocent’ woman they imagined and therefore not quite worth their devotion. Because according to their logic—women like you, sex workers, are to be used and tossed aside, not brought home.

It’s hard to consider the ‘morality’ and ‘propriety’ of it all when you’ve not eaten in a few days so you try not to think about it. You weren’t harming people or resorting to crime, you earned whatever little you had but as your phone screen flashed with a notification from Luciano—asking if you had made it home safely—you could already picture his reaction to your job being as extreme as those of the men you had met in the past.

2.

The following weeks, you two would meet whenever your schedules aligned. During those get-togethers—it felt improper to call them dates—Luciano would occasionally ask about your childhood, whether you had any family, or what you thought about one book or the other. To your relief, he didn’t ask about your job and so you never brought the topic up either, even if it weighed on your conscience at times.

“I thought you were a student the first time we met.” You stated, recalling the first meeting.

“Me? Oh no, I dropped out quite some time ago.” He sounded somewhat ashamed when admitting to it.

“I’m sure you could go back and get a degree.” Your attempt at comfort didn’t land all too well as he chuckled bitterly and replied.

“It's too late for me now.” His tone shifted when saying this. What exactly made it sound so off? You couldn’t quite put your finger on it. If you had figured it out earlier, maybe you would’ve left while you still could—changed your name, left the city, never involved yourself with Luciano or anyone even remotely affiliated with him. But you didn’t. Instead you began fantasizing about a better future, one that was always above your station.All while sitting side by side in the late evening with him as you admired the sunset, listening to the small excerpts of his childhood that Luciano would occasionally indulge you with.

“You used to get picked on as a kid? No way!” Your reaction elicited a laugh from the male.

“I was a total wimp.” Despite the nature of the memory, he recounted it with an air of nostalgia, as if it were something pleasant.

“In the end, I’d hide behind my little sister or go running to my mother and she’d comfort me ‘til I stopped crying.” Looking at his face, you could see a small smile forming, one dripping with unmistakable fondness.

3.

Luciano couldn’t help but feel warm and fuzzy inside. How long had it been since he last spoke with a normal person?

“Boss, the mayor called earlier today sayin’ he’d be there tonight.” A familiar face, his assistant, said apprehensively—his eyes cast down and set on the floor as he realised his mistake far too late. Luciano had made it abundantly clear how much he disliked them calling him ‘boss’ like some stereotypical mob lowlives. The brunette was many things but he refused to be considered a criminal on top of it all, he wasn’t like that—he didn’t do it out of a twisted craving for violence or power like most men around him. He was nothing like them.

“Well then? What’re you standing here for? Go make preparations for it, Antonio.” People like Antonio don’t get it until you spell it out for them in a language that they understand, Luciano thought as much. Because he saw the way they looked down on him, judged him to be frail and feminine by his appearance, so he compensated like this. How else was he to protect himself? After all, there is nothing worse than a weak man incapable of protecting his family, that’s what his father always said before dying.

The library was meant to be a short break, something routine, and yet he approached someone he had no business involving in that filthy line of business of his, he was getting greedy. But Luciano made up his mind—you were so sweet, so pure, he couldn’t bear to repeat the same mistake once more so he was going to end things. Decisively cut contact and only looking back on you as a fond memory from the past.

4.

It was a common occurrence to see public figures at the club you worked at. Whether it’s policemen, priests or politicians—nothing surprised you. So when the new mayor was amongst the men in that room with his hands wandering all over Bianca, barely nineteen and doing sex work to afford a living, you weren’t surprised.

Her discomfort was evident as she looked your way distressed, so you prepared to step in. Planning to tactfully get the mayor’s attention so she could slip out for a bit. That’s when your gaze fell to the man next to the mayor, clad in a dark suit and previously immersed in whatever conversation the two men were having—now, his dark brown hair shuffled somewhat as he glared straight at you.

It was Luciano.

It felt as if the whole world stopped moving. For a second all you could register were those familiar hazel green eyes of his. Yet, when they stared back, it was a look devoid of any of the warmth you became accustomed to.

None of the men that came to that nightclub were good news and if Luciano could get one-on-one time with the mayor, he most certainly wasn’t company you would want. Thankfully, he turned back to entertaining the mayor which allowed Bianca to slip away without your intervention and permitting you to blend into the background, foolishly hoping that he forgets you were even there.

The rest of the night went by peacefully, aside from the growing pit in your stomach that is. As the men began exiting little by little, you prematurely breathed a sigh of relief. This mistake soon became evident to you as someone behind you—it wasn’t hard to guess who—gripped your forearm. The sudden act elicited a yelp from you, causing some of the people ahead to turn back with equal parts concern and curiosity.

“Leave us.” Unfortunately, those words were all it took from Luciano, whose hand was still securely placed on your arm, for everyone in that room besides you two to leave.

“You’re a hooker?” He spoke, grip still on your arm as if you’ll run away the first chance you get—an assumption not entirely inaccurate.

“The proper term is sex worker.” You could see the gun tucked under his suit jacket, in fact, most of the men there that night had one attached to their hips. Knowing that, you still couldn’t help correct him.

“Is that really what you should be focused on right now?” No part of the harshness in his tone that night reminded you of the gentle, soft-spoken Luciano you had met in the library. In fact, if someone told you that the man in front of you was an entirely separate person from the one in your memories, you might just believe them.

“You’re a criminal, do you really think you’re in a place to judge?” You’re going to die, you thought. This much recklessness was unusual, even for you. But you just couldn’t stand the way he looked down upon you—as if you were committing the gravest sin one could. Ignoring how he, or whichever one of the many men he kept in his company, had requested your presence there in the first place. As if he wasn’t the one attending a back-alley meeting with the mayor, at a nightclub with a gun attached to his hip.

Your words struck a cord with Luciano, if his reply was anything to go by. “I’m nothing like them.”

His voice cracked as he spoke, tone unsure of the words leaving his own mouth.

“I didn’t realise they made exceptions just for you—.”

“Do not lump me in with scum like them when you don’t know anything.” Whatever little restraint he had by then vanished as he began raising his voice. Perhaps in some last ditch attempt at intimidation, you presumed, by that point unsure of who he was trying to convince but you didn’t stick around to find out. His reaction was nothing new, it was similar enough to other men you had encountered in the past that you felt no need to hear him out further. You stormed out before he, or anyone else really, could stop you—taking advantage of the chaos at the nightclub to shuffle between the crowds of people unnoticed. Holding in your urge to speed out of the building as soon as humanly possible, largely to avoid attracting any further attention as Luciano’s associates had yet to leave. Instead, you calmly ordered a taxi while exiting so that you could make it home as soon as possible, lest things get violent as they often did in these instances. Only messaging Bianca afterwards so she wouldn’t worry when she realised you were no longer at the club.

5.

Going to church wasn’t a habit you upheld religiously but as a child largely raised in an orphanage attached to a church, going there brought you peace. A peace that you desperately needed at present because nothing good would come from being alone. And so, you tried to wash away the exhaustion from last night's events and dressed in your best, church-appropriate clothes.

It was out of the ordinary for you to visit the orphanage on a Sunday during the morning mass when most attendees were retired and elderly so the children couldn’t help failing to contain their surprise.

“Big sis, you’re here!!” Announced one of the younger boys, the sheer excitement on his face quickly reflecting on yours as well.

“Dani!” You called back towards the boy, opening your arms to invite him, and the other children, into a hug. God knows you needed it.

“Big bro Luci’s here and now you too, sis! Today’s the bestest day ever!” Declared Alma, another of the orphanage children, from within your embrace.

“Luci?” That name didn’t ring a bell so you rightfully looked towards the much older nun that watched over the children, sister Maria.

“He’s a young man that comes by and plays with the children every so often. I’ve been meaning to introduce you but you’re both such a nightmare to get a hold of!”

“It’s okay! I’ll introduce you to him, big sis!” Alma interrupted, now holding your hand with her own much smaller one as she dragged you towards the main church with strength that a little girl her age had no business having.

At the same time, sitting in the church pews, Luciano’s mind similarly kept wandering to the events of the previous night—he had thought of you as pure, as above him. The kind of woman that would rightfully turn her nose at discovering who he truly was, which you did, but you yourself were no saint either. Granted, his reaction was nothing to applaud, he acknowledges that much, but the way you had stormed out, that finality in your every step, it left him with an unresolved conflict in his heart. One that was all too familiar to Luciano by now. He had replayed similar scenes in his mind over and over again, what-if scenarios with alternative choices that could have changed the outcome so that he wasn’t left all alone again and again.

“Brothers, if anyone is caught in any transgression, you who are spiritual should restore him in a spirit of gentleness. Keep watch on yourself, lest you too be tempted.” Luciano was unsure why that particular verse stuck with him but he felt invigorated, the remainder of the sermon quickly blending into the background as he rushed out of the building with the urgency of a man that would die if he didn’t fulfill his objective that very instant. It’s almost as if god was on his side as he spotted you with the children. Seeing you embrace them so lovingly reminded him once more why you became all he could think about so suddenly. You weren’t perfect but he could help, he could protect you from the cruel and ugly facets of the world so that you don’t need to return to that life of depravity anymore. Luciano didn’t have to lose you, he wouldn’t.

“Oh! Big bro, you’re here!!” Alma spotted him from across the courtyard, pointing at him with zeal as Dani ran to grab him—not that Luciano was going anywhere, there was no need for him to when you were right there, kept in place by Alma’s smaller hand. You stared back at him with part disbelief and part terror, an emotion that was entirely misplaced if you ask Luciano.

“You’re Luci…?” You asked once he was dragged close enough by Dani.

“It’s the nickname my mother gave me as a child.” He answered bluntly, eyes not wandering from your face for a second. “That’s beside the point, I need to talk to you.”

You didn’t look thrilled at the prospect but surrounded by the curious eyes of the children and sister Maria, you reckoned that making a huge fuss would benefit no one. You patted Alma on the head in farewell and offered a nod towards the sister before following Luciano straight towards his parked car. Not your smartest decision but you were dealing with a volatile man who had access to unfathomable amounts of weapons and power, neither of which you wanted used in front of the children or their elderly caretaker.

Once inside, you were quick to change your tone as you weren’t thrilled at the prospect of being alone with him so soon. “What was it that you wanted to talk about?”

Luciano however didn’t reply to your inquiry, opting instead to manoeuvre the vehicle out of the parking and drive through unfamiliar streets until urban sprawl disappeared into the distance, replaced by untouched landscapes. The car was driving fast enough that even if you somehow disabled the child-lock, exiting it would be suicide so instead, you tried to ascertain what fate awaited you on arrival to your destination by observing the man on the wheel. Unfortunately, his appearance offered you no clues until he began talking.

“[name], I wanted to apologise f’r how I spoke to you last night, it wasn’t right of me—” Luciano’s neutral well-spoken accent wavered slightly, giving way to an undeniable country dialect that you presumed was from his upbringing in a farming town. It had its own charm and had he stopped his sentence there, you might’ve actually forgiven him but the brunette continued. “—You’re someone I can’t bear to lose so it’s only right I stop deceiving you. After all: If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” Weird sermon aside, you were quite puzzled as to what more he could possibly confess to after last night’s revelation.

“You remember when I told you I dropped out of university, don’t you?”

“Yes…” You replied apprehensively.

“I used to study medicine back then, before I dropped out. I thought that maybe if I saved enough people that way that I would be forgiven for my sins.” He paused briefly, letting out a bitter laugh before continuing. “That didn’t work out, obviously—my mother fell ill so I dropped out to support her and my little sister, Lucia. You would’ve gotten along with Lucia.”

You looked outside the passenger window in hopes of his tangent ending faster.

“I tried everything, construction jobs, deliveries—but it just wasn’t enough. Mama looked worse every time I visited and Lucia, god I couldn’t even look her in the eye. You have to understand, I hate violence, it reminds me so much of him—oh I hate it, I hate it. But I had no choice.” His voice sounded more desperate, laced with pure vitriol when referring to ‘him’, whoever that was.

“One of my coworkers introduced me to this…this ‘line of work’. I realise it’s the exact opposite of what I moved to the city to do, but it’s not my fault! I was desperate, desperate enough to call those violent scumbags my brothers.” His grip on the steering wheel tightened but even that couldn’t conceal the way his hands shook.

“Mama died soon after—d’you know what her last words were to me? ‘You’re exactly like your father.’ After seventeen years, the first time she spoke to me eye-to-eye and that’s what she said! But I didn’t mind because she was my mother—who I swore to protect.” Luciano’s eyes were glazed over with tears, it wasn’t hard to notice how he was doing whatever he could to not cry in that moment.

“What kind of man am I? I couldn’t protect my mother and then I just stood there, like a fool, when Lucia discovered the things I did, the extent I went to for them. She looked at me exactly how you did yesterday, the same way mama did for the first time all those years ago. Suddenly everything I did, every person I harmed, it was all for nothing.” Even now, if he had stopped here, you might’ve made an effort to understand him, to pity the sorry man who sat beside you but he kept going.

“My father would get angry with me when I was younger. He would call me weak and pathetic. He’d say that there was no use for me if all I did was hide behind my mother, that I wasn’t a man. Even told me that he would finish the job himself if I ran away from a fight again. Mama said that if I truly repented, that I would be forgiven but she never looked at me quite the same. They’re all liars. Which is why, this time, I’m going to do things my way.” The car finally came to a stop and Luciano’s gaze was once again dead set on you.

6.

The way in which Luciano’s nose scrunched or how his eyes narrowed seemed almost reasonable—after all, what sane person could remain composed in the face of a murder. However, the problem was that he wasn’t an innocent bystander, rather, Luciano Magnotti—the most brutal mobster the country had seen in its history—was anything but a witness to this brutality.

Surely one loses the privilege to have the ‘holier-than-thou’ attitude he had when they’ve committed as many violent acts as he? His mother sure did think so.

She thought as much from the day her gentle and soft-spoken son first tasted violence by his own hand. That day all those years ago when he killed his own father. From then onwards, it didn’t matter how pitifully he cried for her forgiveness because all she could see was the uncanny look on his face at ten years old as he raised the shattered glass bottle. The little smile on his face as he approached her afterwards, so pleased with himself.

“Mama….” The boy murmured, voice barely above a whisper as he gazed onto the older woman on the floor—his expression somewhat dazed.

His mother, who had laid there writhing in pain just moments prior was now sat up. Still unable to muster the strength to move her body fully, but nonetheless able to witness the act in its entirety. How the bottle had come down with a force she did not know her son, scrawny and weak, was capable of. Even now, her gaze alternated between the slowly approaching boy and blood which gushed out of her husband’s injury, onto the small rug and everything else along its path.

“L-Luci…what have you done?” Her voice gave the impression that she meant to sound firm, not terrified and heaving as she had actually come across.

“He was hurting you, mama.” The boy, now standing in front of his mother, looked down towards an old injury on her leg with an apparent displeasure.

Despite remaining sat on the floor, her son was still just barely her height, the woman noted. Her mind drifted to the time he had come to her sobbing after other children teased him for being so short and weak, however, the distraction was short-lived as Luciano, or Luci as he had been nicknamed for so long, suddenly knelt down and hugged her.

“I was so scared, I just wanted him to stop but he wouldn’t listen. I kept telling him to but he wouldn’t listen!” His demeanor from just moments earlier felt so distant as he now gripped onto her clothes, shaking and beginning to cry as he so often did. The only difference was that this time, he did so covered in the blood of his father.

“The blood, he won't stop bleeding! We have to call someone, we have to get help, if we get him to a doctor in time I'm sure your father will be okay. We just have to get him a doctor.” She rambled on and on uncontrollably, now with finally enough strength to move her son aside and approach her husband.

“But mama, we can’t do that.”

The boy that would hand over his most prized possessions to his younger sister with an earnest smile. The same one that would sit in a corner and entertain himself with scrappy library books because he knew how guilty his mother felt telling him they couldn’t afford to buy him any toys. That same boy, for the first time, spoke to her with such selfishness in his tone, matter-of-factly like it was the most obvious thing.

“The police'll take me away now, won’t they mama? And if you get the doctor he’ll wake up again. That means he’ll hit you again! I don’t like when he hits you mama.” The innocence of his tone was betrayed by the indignant look in his eyes as he stared at the body of the man he once used to lovingly call ‘papa’.

“Mama I don’t want them to take me away from you.” He still looked shaken from earlier, tears in the corners of his eyes as he spoke. It finally occurred to her then, it wasn’t that Luciano couldn’t understand what he had done, he just didn’t see what was so wrong with it.

After that moment, her mind stopped registering things fully as she ran around maniacally trying to get help until all their neighbors had heard the ruckus and crowded in their small home while waiting for the doctor.

Despite their insistent questioning, she kept repeating the same lines like a mantra. ‘Why won’t he stop bleeding?’ ‘Is the doctor here yet?’ ‘Not now, I have to make sure he doesn’t lose any more blood.’ So instead, they turned to Luciano.

“Papa was drunk when he got hurt.” The boy’s words were vague enough that the neighbours started filling the gaps with their own theories, arguing until a common consensus was reached with no input from either of the blood-soaked witnesses.

‘No child should see their father in such a state. It's a good thing Lucia isn’t home.’ Said one of the women, a small sigh of relief exiting her lips as she did.

‘Leaving behind his wife and two children, what a tragedy.’ Another one added, shaking his head as if though already certain the father wouldn’t survive.

‘Luciano, you have to take care of your mom and sister now as the man of the house.’ One of the older men said as he held onto his shoulders.

When the help finally arrived, clearly unprepared for such an incident, a small group of the neighbors spoke with them—their words carried the conviction of somebody who had witnessed the whole thing with their own eyes. Whereas his mother turned from yelling at the neighbors to now the doctor.

Nobody paid Luciano much mind beyond one of the older ladies that with her hand around his shoulder pushed him into her side and absentmindedly stroked his head with her other hand. She would occasionally stop to give her two cents to the discussion.

Any usable evidence had been trampled over during the ruckus and the victim—a known drunk—was long dead. To add to that, an open murder case would reflect badly on a small town like theirs which barely even showed up on maps to begin with. So, in the end, it was labelled an accident with little more thought.

That summer at age ten, Luciano Magnotti, the one responsible for the murder of his father, stood solemnly at the very man’s funeral. Largely unresponsive to the crowd of people offering condolences and advice he had not requested.

Notably, the boy stood quite far apart from his mother who was similarly quiet while holding on to the youngest, Lucia, who looked equally sad moreso due to her mother and older brother’s demeanour than any understanding of the events around her.

Even if the law believed him innocent, his mother could not. From then on, during the day, she would do whatever meagre work came her way and in the evenings roam their house like a zombie in exhaustion. Only breaking her silence to drag her daughter away from Luciano. When asked why, she would never answer. At night, when the delirium cleared, all she could do was pray on her knees for forgiveness. Because some part of her too had hoped for her husband to never wake up again. Because her bewilderment at her son couldn’t make her forget the way it felt a weight had lifted from her shoulders as her husband's sleeping body made contact with the bottle. Perhaps fittingly, a hypocrite and a violent drunkard gave birth to a murderer, she would think bitterly in her final moments.

As an adult, Luciano was much more aware of what he had done—and he sincerely regretted his actions, he really did! Why else would he beg at his mother’s feet every chance he got? Even on the day he was finally leaving for the city.

“Mama…At least look at your son, just this once. Please?” After realising she wouldn’t budge, he would sigh and leave the room to bid goodbye to his younger sister and be on his way to the train station. Stopped by the occasional person awake at such an hour, each complimenting ‘how well he had grown up despite his family situation’ and occasionally teasing him for the stark difference in how he looked as a child to now. Because to everyone else, despite the change in his demeanour, Luciano forever remained the ‘girlish’ boy who would read books in a corner and cry when he eventually got beat by other kids his age for it. But to his credit, he had made it to a good university straight out of high school.

He would work through his studies, whether it was cleaning or construction, no job was beneath the young man who would work himself to physical exhaustion and then do coursework during his lunch breaks to tire his mind as much as his body. The gruelling routine, the occasional interaction with his much older coworkers who would treat him like a son and the admiration from his classmates, it almost made him forget who he was.

The economy was no better now than it was all those years back when his father had first lost his job so a series of unfortunate events is all it took for Luciano to be kicked out of the course. With no more access to student housing or any close friends to help him, crime enveloped him like a predator lying in wait for the very opportunity.

A low-life criminal for a gang. But even as he entered businesses he once worked for, demanding extortionate ‘protection fees’, Luciano liked to think he was above it. His mother can’t work at her age, not when she was inexplicably bedridden, and his sister should enjoy the things other girls her age do, not worry about debts that are never quite paid and bills that don’t stop at any occasion, it’s not his fault that he has to do this.

He’s just doing his job, he would tell himself as superiors praised him and he cruised through the ranks.

“The first time’s always the hardest…” One of the superiors, he couldn’t recall which, said while handing him a gun for the first time.

“…Afterwards, you realise how easy it is—to kill someone I mean. Makes ya’ wonder why people don’t do it more often.” He chuckled cynically as he finished that sentence, looking up to appraise Luciano’s expression.

“I see.” Was all he got in response as Luciano remained lost in thought, gaze focused on the gun in his hands.

“The fuck’s that s’pposed ta’ mean? Man, you gotta stop speaking like you’ve got a stick far up your ass. It pisses me off.” Another of the men said as he wrapped an arm around Luciano. He earnt himself a smile from the latter and a couple of laughs from the others. They saw him like one of their own, like a brother but even when they huddled around him and joked in such a casual manner, Luciano couldn’t help but think he was somehow different. These men, they weren’t like him, they did it for the money and they liked the violence, they liked the way it made men and women alike cower to their demands—he did it to sustain his family, he was different.

Perhaps as a final act of mercy to him or, more likely, to Lucia herself, their mother never told her how exactly their father had died despite the girl’s pleas throughout the years. Nowadays, the topic, along with Luciano’s strained relationship with their mother was largely avoided altogether by Lucia in an attempt to feign a semblance of normalcy. Luciano used to wonder on some days, would she too treat him like their mother if she found out what had truly happened to their father?

He would receive his answer with a slap to the face at his mother’s funeral, from his baby sister, the only person that still called him ‘Luci’ with such endearment.

“This is how you paid for her treatment?!” She asked him in tears, pointing towards the grave their mother finally rested in. For someone that spent so long rationalising his behaviour to himself, none of those excuses would come to his mind in that moment.

“Lucia l—.”

“You said you got an office job—I’ve been living off your dirty money all along?! You’re a criminal, you—!”

“I am nothing like them!” His sudden shift in tone made Lucia flinch but that didn’t stop him from continuing.

“I did it all for you two, every last bit of it was to protect you two. If I hadn’t done what I did, mama would’ve died slowly and painfully until the last breath.” This time, his voice levelled off but now he had a grip on his sister’s shoulders, painful and desperate—as if begging her to understand. Despite knowing that before disease could ever kill his mother, he already left her as a living corpse.

“Don’t ever come near me again—.” She stopped herself from finishing that sentence but Luciano could tell what she wanted to say. ‘You disgust me.’ Her face said as much. His grip loosened in the moment, letting her storm off.

Had Luciano held on more firmly, maybe he would still have a sister. At least that’s what he told himself as he cut down friends and foes alike, each in a more brutal way than the last but still convinced he was above it all.

Offering a small prayer, a habit he picked up from his mother, he would pray for them to finally rest in peace and end with requesting forgiveness for his sins. If Luciano had the time and privacy, he would begin justifying his actions to even god himself.

Despite reaching the top, Luciano had nothing to show for it.

Men of all statuses would bow to him alike, no one daring to offend him and yet he missed the teasing of the other children from his childhood. At least back then, his mother would warmly embrace him afterwards, kissing his every wound sweetly until he would relent.

All the books in the world sat in his office and yet he missed the torn ones from the public library which would fall apart as he read them. At least after finishing those he could proudly share his findings with Lucia who would eagerly listen to it all.

Even that man, his father, at one point used to ruffle his hair affectionately after coming home from work, before he lost it all. But even after that, as he would beat him black and blue, at least there was some sort of emotion there—even if just anger. Now Luciano truly had nothing at all.

That’s the kind of man you awkwardly smiled at, unaware that it was the first smile he received in so long which didn’t conceal murderous intent. That’s the man who you attentively listened to rant about a book not realising how long ago he had last done so.

You offered a man dying of thirst water and now you’re surprised he laps it up with the desperation of someone who would die without it.

7.

Whenever you asked to leave, Luciano would outright ignore you, as if you never said anything to begin with. Sometimes he would let you stroll through the garden behind his villa, always in those frilly sundresses that you couldn’t understand his obsession with. Most of the time, he would bring you books and DVDs to keep you entertained. Anything that couldn’t be used to contact someone else or escape.

The villa itself, despite being the only house for miles, wasn't ridiculously big as you would imagine the home of a single man with more wealth than he knows what to do with would be. Nor had you seen anyone beside Luciano since your arrival.

He would cook for you and let you sleep in a separate bedroom of your choosing, it felt like a nice vacation if you ignored the locked doors. And to your relief, Luciano—for all his talk—never got too close to you. Almost as if he didn’t quite know what to do with you, a hesitation that made you believe you could escape. Isolation began weighing on you after a few days, especially when your only interaction was with an awkward and unstable murderer that would begin preaching at random and even that interaction was largely limited to the evenings when he came home from ‘work’.

Your mind wasn’t at peak performance after being effectively kidnapped and isolated for so long so your escape plan wasn’t the brightest. Truth be told it was quite simple. Luciano always left at a similar time so you waited for an hour or so after his departure before rushing towards the door—your bobby pin enough to get past it. The outside gate was old and rusted in some parts but nothing you couldn’t climb. The real issue was walking towards the nearest city when all you could see was vast stretches of country roads with no sign of civilization. You don’t know what you expected to happen, part of you knew your little escape attempt would fail and did it solely as a ‘fuck you’ to the man that thought he could keep you there but another part of you truly hoped it would work. You missed your shitty apartment, you missed the freedom you’ve had for most of your life living alone, you missed the life you had made for yourself even if it was pathetic, meaningless and lonely at times.

“I don’t think I ask for much of you, [name].” Your heart almost stopped as you heard him. To this day you still don’t know how he found you but he was there regardless, arms wrapped around your waist and his face visibly disappointed.

“Let go.”

“Luciano, let me go, I want to go home.”

“H-Hey—stop!”

“You want to go back?” He seemed to be in disbelief, the mere prospect that you might want to return to your old life was something he couldn’t reason with.

“To whoring yourself out? [name] why is it so hard for you to understand that I’m trying to help you?”

“I don’t remember asking for your so-called help, in fact, I was doing just fine until you decided to take out your unresolved mommy issues on me.” His grip on you tightened at the mention of his mother.

“I really should’ve taken a page from your sister’s book and left when I still had the chance—!”

“[name], that’s enough.”

“What? Struck a nerve? Can’t handle the fact that I’m a human being and not some pure virgin bitch for you to ruin?”

“[name] I’m warning you.”

“Fuck you! You murderous bastard you’re going to rot in h—!” Luciano covered your mouth with his hand, the other one still holding you in place.

“I’m not going to hurt the woman I love but you’re sorely mistaken if you think I’ll let this type of behaviour slide.” He started hauling you towards his car despite your kicks and muffled screams.

“That girl from the nightclub, what was her name? Bianca? The mayor keeps asking me about her y’know? I know how much you care about her so I’ve been holding him off for quite some time now, he’s an animal when dealing with women. It’s pretty unpleasant stuff.” You knew what he was getting at, he didn’t need to continue.

“In a way, you’re right, [name]. I’m not a good man, but I’m fine with that. I'll keep my hands submerged in this filth if it’s for you, if it means you’d just stay with me.” Luciano has this ability to say and do the worst things when he’s desperate but then also expresses so much tenderness in the same breath.

“You don’t realise what’s good for you just yet but that’s okay, you’re confused and emotional. It’s okay.” He was crouched in front of you as you sat on the passenger seat facing outwards towards the door, his hands now gently holding your face as he spoke.

“I don’t care what I have to do anymore, I just can’t go back to a world without you in it.” With those words he, for the first time, wrapped his arms around you in an embrace, as if you’d vanish if he let go.

The thing about Luciano is that once he gets a taste, he can’t have enough of it, whether it’s violence, power, or you.

[bloodywankers]

Hello! I am just curious if you do comms? I LOVE your art for your OCs Luciano and Claude and thought, hmmm... this art style is most suitable! I hope you do 🤧

Hii that’s super nice of you to say!! 😻🫶 Sorry for the late reply but this caught me off guard since I don’t rlly have any commission prices (I didn’t think anyone would be interested) but please feel free to DM me and we can try to figure something out 😓💔

It would probably be in the ballpark of £10-£15 (British Pounds)

(+) with my (lack of) anatomy skills I don’t think I’d feel comfortable having you pay ur hard earned money for anything beyond a bust shot(?)

so basically you would get something like this:

If you’re okay with that please DM me on tumblr 🥹✌️(regardless I rlly appreciate u dropping by in my asks!!!)

[bloodywankers]

seeing how your art has improved when visiting your older posts is so wholesome. I can recognise your drawings without seeing the blog name now. your art style is very unique and lovely <3

bro this is genuinely the nicest thing you could've said to me ily 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

i always think my art style looks a little generic so you saying this means so much 😓🫶🫶🫶🫶

[bloodywankers]

OC: Luciano Magnotti

you can read more on him here !

Cropped the hell out of the original drawing because I cannot figure out how to draw his fingers without making them look like fat sausages 💔

This guy is a good Christian catholic boy I promise!! (just do NOT ask about what happened to his father 😓🤞) Bro is genuinely the biggest hypocrite on the block but it’s okay because he’s doing it for you! (Nobody asked him to do that….)

He’s the last of my OC’s that I’m going to update. I just have to write more stuff on them that isn’t based on the old characterisation… Atp I might just upload my drafts cuz I’ve got three different ones on him for the same exact story but can’t complete any of them 🫩

Navigation

[yanshrike]

Thinking about yandere!injured man that you rescue.

cw/tags: yandere, m!yandere x gn!reader, isolation, codependency, kidnapping, sfw but account is 18+/MDNI

You see him one night on your way home, collapsed in the street. You almost don’t notice that his shabby clothes are soaked through with blood because of the rain pouring down on him.

You should keep walking. Everyone else does. You barely have enough coin to feed yourself, and who knows where he came from. He could be a criminal, fled from the kingdom cells. He probably won’t be able to attack you in this state, but who knows.

He looks young. Around your age, a man grown, but still. He looks so downtrodden, so miserable, his light brown curls falling over his face like he’s a poor little kitten.

It’s stupid to take him in, but it’s evil to leave him to die. You’re a fool and a bleeding heart, because you drag him halfway across town to your tiny home. The area is even rougher than where you’d found him, but he should be safe inside, as long as he makes it through the night.

Mercifully, he does. The man doesn’t wake up, however, but his fever breaks, so the dressings you’ve put on his wounds and the concoction you gave him seem to be working.

He sleeps for two days and pulls a kitchen knife on you the first time he wakes. He can barely stand, let alone fight, and he drops it and passes out immediately after. You consider kicking him out. You can’t bring yourself to do it.

He looks peaceful while he rests. Gentle, almost, his bangs falling over his smooth, olive brown skin. You find yourself thinking that he looks like a pretty sculpture, lying there in your cot. He is slender but not starved like most in this town, so you figure he must be the son of a merchant or trader.

He’s calmer, the next time he wakes. You’re in the middle of cooking some stew when he does, and it takes a few minutes before you feel the eyes on your back.

“Hello,” he says. His voice is smoother than you imagined.

You turn to face him, hands against the counter. You’re close enough to grab a knife if you need it. You hope you won’t. “Hi. Know what happened to you?”

He pauses for a moment, looking around. Your home isn’t very big, so there isn’t much to look at. The cot is practically in the kitchen, which is also next to the door. “I was running. How did I end up…here?”

He motions at your raggedy place.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “Running, huh…I found you, across town. People were stepping over you.”

The man tries to stand, but groans and immediately sits back on the cot, gripping the sheets. The next words come out pained. “You nursed me. Why?”

You almost laugh. “You looked like a kitten.”

He furrows his brows. “Most men wouldn’t enjoy such a comparison.”

“Apparently. Would you like something to eat?”

You have to feed him spoonfuls, and he looks spiteful at his own body, but he lets you do it. He’s quiet, mostly, but not ungrateful. He says his ‘pleases’ and his ‘thank yous’ without fail, although he won’t mention where he’s from or where he’ll go.

You notice now, with him staring at you, that he has purple eyes, the kind reserved almost solely for the bloodline of the royal family. Most common people know nothing of the lords and ladies who govern, but everyone knows the royals have purple eyes.

A wayward prince or two has been known to sire bastards in the towns closest to the capital, like your own. You wonder if this man had been housed by his lord father and now cast out at the behest of his lady wife. It would explain him being well-fed with nowhere to turn in his injured state.

There’s been turmoil in the capital recently, although not much news gets to you here. You don’t much care for the royals or their ongoings, so it doesn’t matter if one brat or another sits the throne. You only care if there will be enough grain to feed you for the upcoming winter.

You don’t bother asking him. Most bastards are touchy about their parentage. Not like orphans. You never knew your parents, so maybe that was why. He’d had a taste of a life that was just out of reach. You couldn’t even imagine such a thing.

You figure he wouldn’t tell you, anyway. You don’t know what any of the royals look like, aside from the eyes, but they seem confirmation enough. You wonder if he looks like his father. He is pretty. The bard who sings at the local tavern says all princes and princesses are pretty.

His recovery is slow but steady. You have to leave most days to fish or sell your herbs at the market, but he manages himself.

Some days, you force yourself to stay in. When the red cloaks flood the village, it spells nothing but trouble. You wonder what they’re here for. Sometimes they look for criminals, but most times it feels like they’ve been sent only to strike fear into your hearts.

The man looks worried when you tell him they come; you desperately hope he’s not the one they’re searching for. It would be a swift execution for you, harbouring a criminal. Especially one important to the crown.

You don’t ask. He doesn’t tell you.

He does tell you his name, after the you start calling him “man” to his face. He tells you to call him Indra.

He doesn’t leave and you don’t ask him to.

You and Indra begin a life together, against the odds. You bring home fish and he cooks dinner. When he feels well enough, he comes into the forest to collect herbs with you. The two of you eat every meal together.

It’s…nice.

You’ve been on your own so long, you forgot what it felt like to come home to someone at the end of your day. He listens when you tell him about the rude merchant or kind older woman you encountered. He asks about where you’re from and if you’re happy in this life. He doesn’t pry when you shrug. He smiles when you tell him that it’s better now that you have a companion.

His face is even prettier when he smiles.

He sings to you when you can’t sleep, his voice pretty and soothing. He tells you stories you’ve never heard before, tales from far away lands. He laughs at your jokes, and tells you he enjoys your way of life.

He gets upset when you tell him about the tavern: the drinks, your friends, the men and women who approach you flirtatiously. You suspect he’s envious of your freedom.

You ask him to come. He refuses. You don’t pry. Your life together goes on.

It seems natural, the first time he kisses you. You put your hand on his chest and he gasps and you think you’ve caused him pain until he pushes himself entirely against your body.

The sex is only another part of your life together, after that. He is gentle, but passionate, when he touches you. His kisses litter your body and his flesh is always hot against your own.

Soon, you spend less nights meeting up with friends at the tavern and more sleeping with him. Some days it feels like all it takes is for his robe to dip from his shoulders, and your plans are abandoned.

It’s been nearly half a season when you notice his roots begin to grow in. A dark, raven colour.

This time, you ask. He doesn’t answer.

You fight and you yell and remind him that you never ask for anything. You share your home and your body and you only want him to be honest with you.

He doesn’t yell. He leaves. You don’t know where he goes.

You don’t sleep that night. You wonder if he’s gone for good. If you’ve squandered the only good thing fate has ever given you.

He comes back the next morning, before you plan to leave. He’s written you a letter, he says.

You tell him you can’t read. He reads it for you.

He hugs you. You apologize. You never get your answer.

You let it go.

This life is enough.

Your friends seem to disappear entirely. You haven’t spotted even one of them recently, and when you ask around, most have said the same. Your neighbour tells you they probably fled, because of how much the red cloaks have been brutalizing the village. She tells you that you should leave too.

You can’t. What if he doesn’t follow?

You want to stay here. To stay in this small house, with your companion. You wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Even when you know nothing about him.

It starts off small. An irritation like a fly buzzing around your head. It grows. It burns in your brain. You don’t know where he was born or who his parents are. You don’t know how he became injured or ended up on your doorstep. You don’t even know if Indra is his real name.

He is a stranger here and he will remain a stranger until he flees. You know it to be true.

You don’t ask him not to leave. He doesn’t tell you he won’t.

You don’t have anyone else left. Even your neighbour packs up her things and goes. She tells you the town is full of ghosts that she cannot escape.

One day you return, and he’s not there. It’s a good thing, you tell yourself. He lies. He brings trouble to your doorstep.

You search for him anyway.

You see him out in the sunlight for the first time.

He speaks to a red cloak. When he notices you, he turns and points straight at you.

You have only a moment for the betrayal to sting before you start to run. He will tell them you stole him away at worst, helped him at best. Perhaps he will say that his crimes are your own. It won’t matter. The neighbour’s son had been hanged last year on this very street for less. He may have been a bastard, but he still had royal blood.

You were no one.

It isn’t the red cloaks that find you in the forest. It’s Indra.

He doesn’t ask you not to run. You don’t tell him you won’t.

“Where are you going, my dearest?” He asks.

He chases you through the forest, his purple eyes wide and wild. He’s healed enough for it now. You sprint for a different path toward the edge of town. An armoured hand reaches out and grabs you, leaving you to tumble to the ground.

“Handle them with care,” Indra yells as he catches up to you.

The red cloak pulls you up onto your feet. “Yes, my prince,” he says.

You look at Indra. He looks at you.

He is a stranger. A prince, apparently.

You try to run. You should have done it months ago, the first time he lied or hid himself away. The red cloak doesn’t let you.

Indra asks you to behave. You don’t agree.

He tells the guard to bind your wrists. He apologizes. You ignore him.

Indra doesn’t bother to let you take anything from your home. He coos at you and promises that it’s unsafe.

His uncle tried to usurp his throne, he tells you. He had to pretend, to hide away for some time. His uncle is dead now, but his supporters still run amuck. You will return to the castle with him.

He apologizes for deceiving you.

You tell him to let you go. He ignores you.

Indra is different, the next time you see him. He is dressed in lavish purple silks, a hibiscus flower in his hair, now fully dark. He carries a sword at his side.

The man who cooked dinner for you and told you of his favourite fables is a distant dream.

Indra is a stranger.

He won’t let you go.

You are given a room that you cannot leave. Food at every meal. Nothing but time to stare out the window and look over the city.

You feel your muscles atrophy.

You want to fish. You want to walk the forest and gather your herbs. You want to sell them at the market, to speak with your neighbours and visit friends at the tavern. You suspect most of them are dead, now. How long has he been ordering his red cloaks around?

You want Indra to cook dinner for you. You want to eat it in your small, ramshackle home.

He doesn’t eat with you now.

A member of the royal family takes his meals at court. A peasant isn’t allowed anywhere near there, even someone favoured by the crown prince.

Indra visits you as much as he can.

He talks to you. You ignore him.

He won’t let you leave.

He sings you to sleep. Watches you as you do. Presses kisses to your head that feel like burns.

He keeps you here. His own pet, caged in his castle.

He goes free. He is a prince. He is not your Indra. He is a stranger.

He tells you he loves you.

He won’t let you leave.

[honey-snail]

Body Count (It Ain't Looking Good)

Sum: There is a dead body in your freezer, a vigilante at your door, and unfortunately, only one of those things is about to become your biggest problem. Inspired by the Webtoon I Dare You and this little blurb. Yandere! Dick Grayson x Reader // 5.4k Warnings: Yandere, fem!reader, paranoid/unreliable reader, stalking, murder/corpse disposal, dead body in freezer, minor character death, memory loss/traumatic brain injury, medical abuse, forced medication, restraints, captivity themes, gaslighting, unhealthy relationships/hella toxic dynamics, corrupt police, abuse of power, blood, attempted violence, non-con touching, coercion, reader is definitely not okay, Dick is extremely not okay but we should all expect that, Dick is a cop, MDNI.

There’s a dead body in the freezer.

That is all you can think about as you stare at the dark-haired vigilante standing on the doorstep of your shabby apartment in downtown Blüdhaven. The hallway light flickers behind him as he stares down at you with startling blue eyes. His easy expression falters the moment he sees you, his gaze widening as though the past has opened the door wearing your face.

He is one of those masked bats. Birds. A hero from television who could take you away and lock you in a cold cell where the lights never turn off, and you have to pee in front of prison guards.

What if they have a piss fetish?

Okay so, there's a dead body in your freezer, a vigilante at your door, and a very real possibility that your future involves forever-turned-on lights, communal toilets, and a prison guard with suspicious interests. School does not prepare you for situations like these.

You don't quite remember much of school, only that you passed enough classes to secure a nine-to-five and afford an apartment with electricity. Electricity keeps the freezer running. The freezer keeps the body cold. Until tonight, that has been enough to prevent situations like this.

The vigilante seems far more concerned about your well-being than whatever crimes might be waiting inside your apartment. He keeps trying to peer past you, tilting his pretty face toward the narrow gap you have left between the door and its rotting frame.

Your fingers blanch on the knob.

“Is anyone else home?” the vigilante asks. His tone is easy, almost careless, but his gaze keeps moving over your face. The way his eyes move makes you uneasy. Does he know? Is he going to take you to prison? Are you going to end up on death row?

“I was expecting somebody else.” He laughs softly, then adds on quickly, “Not that finding you instead is a bad thing. It’s just…” His eyes flick past your shoulder toward the apartment. “Could I come inside for a minute? I need to check something.”

The door is open exactly six inches. Any narrower is rude; any wider, he’ll see the kitchen. Then he might ask about the deep freezer.

You certainly don't care about a man dressed like a bum with a hero suit underneath: joggers, an unzipped jacket, and the dark blue bird stretched across his chest. He does seem familiar.

But everyone does when you lose your memory.

“It’s too late to let strangers in,” you say rather flatly. You wouldn’t want a bum like him in your apartment anyway. Dead body or not.

His brows pinch, disappointment sliding across that perfect face.

Wrong answer.

Adjust.

A practical thought clicks into place: if he sees the freezer, punishment follows. A pre-emptive correction would be simply killing him. But there is no physical room beside the meal prep. Shifting him to the fridge would evict five days of carefully portioned meals, and the power bill is already stripping your bank account. Spoiled food means no food. No food means starving.

You can’t afford to get stupid.

A gentle tap-tap on the doorframe pulls your eyes back up. He smiles, soft and warm, igniting an unwelcome heat in your cheeks. To your surprise, his cheeks are pink as well.

“I’ll just… call her,” he murmurs, fingers drifting toward his pocket.

“She’s on vacation,” you blurt, too loud and way too quick to be considered normal. Another wrong answer, if the brief, puzzled tilt of his brow means anything.

But then he smiles, thinner this time, as though he is masking a bruise of disappointment. Either he is already suspicious and plans to alert the authorities, or he will try again on some quieter night. For the moment, you survive the encounter.

Still, a problem remains: there’s no freezer space for a second corpse, not unless you ditch the meal prep.

You watch him retreat down the dim hallway, one hand lifted in a genial wave before he disappears into the rattling elevator cage at the far end. Only when the doors slide shut do you slam the deadbolt, shove the chain back in place, and glance at the freezer.

Preparations will have to begin tonight.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The week passes without sirens, arrests, or freezer re-arrangements. You almost believe the vigilante was a fever dream - until a new voice slides through the paper-thin wall.

The building has been hollow for two years; anyone with sense either fled or wrapped themselves in the same caretaker-cocoon that once shielded you. Six months ago that cocoon tore, and routine became sedative: clock-in, clock-out, corpse check, reheated meal prep. The caregiver’s old tablet still pings PAID each month, money shrinking in an account you can’t access. Don’t think about investigations. Investigations ask questions.

The scrape-and-thud of furniture next door means fresh eyes. You crouch on cracked linoleum, snapping dry ramen into crooked shapes beside the chained freezer, and listen to a mid-twenties male voice on speaker: boxes, deliveries, parking permits - ordinary words that grate because ordinary people notice smells and knock on management’s door when your apartment is too loud. You swallow brittle noodles and run tonight’s checklist: finish the last stir-fry, rewrap the feet - frostburn is creeping, drain the drip tray, and smile if the newcomer says hello.

Caregiver’s Rule #12: smiles disarm.

Across the wall, you hear a door close. His front door. Footsteps echo down the hall, unless it’s only your heartbeat. It’s difficult to tell. The sound seems to move through the floorboards instead of over them, each step pressing closer, until the apartment feels too small to hold you, the freezer, and all the terrible inside it.

Is he going to introduce himself now?

You click the lock shut on the freezer. The faint sound of safekeeping does nothing to stop the dread that fills you with every step outside your door. Then comes a light tap against the wood, just like before.

You slowly ease yourself up, trying to seem neither too willing to open the door nor too afraid of what waits behind it.

Afraid people invite questions.

You force a smile onto your face. Do you look normal? Does the body smell, and have you simply gotten used to it?

The math is getting ugly: one freezer, one body, two possible problems.

Play smart.

Unlocking the door proves to be more difficult than it was a week ago. Your hands shake as they slide the lock out of place, and you do your best attempt at a cheerful smile. “You must be the new neighbor,” you force out.

Unease settles low in your stomach as you glance up at him. Same height as the vigilante who came by last week. Less of a bum, however. He wears a cardigan over a white shirt, with nice-looking pants that seem dry-cleaned, which is odd for a resident in this slum of a building. Same blue eyes that pin you in place and the same familiar dimpled smile that reminds you of your nightmares from the other night.

It would be easier if they were the same person. Then you would only have one body to worry about, but the chances of them being the same are awfully slim, and you are not one to take chances. Especially when there’s a cell waiting for you.

“I am,” he says, voice coated in honey. “Thin walls, huh?”

He’s friendlier than the vigilante from last week, though that does nothing to comfort you. His voice is nothing but warm, neighborly, and harmless. Suspicion builds in your stomach. Or maybe you’re just hungry. However, you don’t quite enjoy the caged-animal feeling that licks up your spine when his arm comes to rest against the wall, blocking your view of the hallway and any possible exits.

Nice guys - those are the ones you worry about.

“Dick Grayson,” he offers, extending a hand you refuse. Too risky to exchange DNA when there’s a felony cooling five feet away. “Blüdhaven PD. Anything you need…”

Shit. Sirens begin to scream inside your skull. The freezer rattles awake behind you. Your sins are already mocking you.

You manage that it must be “nice” - wrong adjective.

His smile slices: “Nice isn’t the word.”

You scramble for “safe,” tack on “for you” as if that helps. Since cops get wrist-slaps for killing, your brain mutters - you choke the thought down.

He softens, coaxing: “It’s not always safe.” Bait. Your gaze returns to his hands - broad, sure, the sort that could pry a freezer lid or close over a throat. Your stomach tightens. He keeps the patter light, claims he didn’t want to be rude, asks if you’re always like this.

“Yes,” you say, which somehow amuses him. You don’t really get the social cue behind it all. Then the real kicker, delivered with a wink: “Have a good night - and don’t forget your medication.”

Your smile turns to ice. You never mentioned the pills.

You should really kill him.

First plan: poison - too slow. Second: ceramic vase - probably shatters. Third: push him down the stairs - lobby cameras.

Should’ve checked the cameras.

Sirens howl in your head; even the freezer seems to vibrate with them. He knows you’re unmedicated. Worse - he knows you’re alone.

This is still normal, you insist, bolting the door a second time now. The padlock’s click echoes louder than his footsteps retreating down the hall.

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You’ve been hiding ever since Dick Grayson moved in two weeks ago. Since then, he has learned your schedule like the back of his own hand. He knows when you leave, hears the tardy shuffle in your step, counts the key fumbles when you chase the bus. He even indulges himself by stopping at the same coffee shop every morning, just to say hello before you scamper off to your pitiful nine-to-five. On Fridays, you return late with plastic bags full of discount groceries, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of marked-down items.

You used to leave the apartment more. Not much, but enough. A trip to the mailbox before work. A stop at the corner store after. Sometimes you would linger outside the laundromat with your tote bag pressed to your side, watching people through the glass like you were trying to remember how normal worked. But now that he has moved in beside you, your schedule has changed, and so have the dark circles under your eyes. You avoid him more often than not. You keep your curtains drawn shut, the cheap fabric pulled tight even in the middle of the afternoon. You only access the mailbox when he leaves for work, even if the morning paper you are so insistent on grabbing is already a day behind.

A sigh escapes him as he lies on his bed, shoulder pressed against the shared wall, listening for any sound from your apartment.

Nothing.

That bothers him more than noise would. The breaker tripped a few hours ago. He heard the electricity die through the wall, that low mechanical hum in your apartment cutting out all at once, leaving behind a flat, ugly quiet. It would be easy to climb onto your patio, pick the lock, and flip the switch back on for you. An easier option would be to check whether the caregiver he hired took the money and left you all alone.

His jaw tightens. You shouldn’t be working in your condition.

He groans into the hands resting over his face, dragging his palms down until the heels press against his eyes. Then he turns, burying his face into your old pillow. It barely smells like you anymore, but he still keeps it tucked beneath his head every night like a comfort plush.

How long have you been alone? It has to be at least six months. Maybe seven. You were fine when he left for Gotham. Or fine enough. The accident had left you different, sure. More numb. A little damaged in a way even the best doctors could not fully smooth over. But you had been alive and mostly manageable.

It has been two years now since the accident. Two years since the ring box sat heavy on the car’s center console, black velvet catching the passing streetlights every time the vehicle moved beneath them. He had asked you too soon. He knows that. You knew that. The two of you had been fighting more. He had been getting rougher with you, quicker to grab, to corner, to tell himself it was only because you scared him when you talked about leaving. You had threatened to leave. He had started acting too much like Bruce, all paranoia.

He has always been too hasty. Asking for your hand in marriage was never the mistake. Just the timing of it. You had stared at him with tears in your eyes as you tried to set boundaries, your face losing color as he promised he would keep you safe. No matter how badly you misunderstood him. Your fingers had curled around the seat belt, pressed hard against the buckle.

He had thought you were overwhelmed. Even tried the calming techniques first, using a low voice that typically worked with your outbursts. His hand open. Breathe with me, princess. You’re okay. But you kept shaking your head and reaching for the door, so he had started reaching for the tranquilizer dart in the back seat, just to get you quiet until he could bring you home and keep you safe until the wedding.

You were probably just afraid of happiness. Maybe that’s why you did it.

You were quick to unlock the car door. Quicker than his hand as he lunged across the console. Even faster than the desperate grip of his fingers against your sleeve before you slipped through them and threw yourself out of the vehicle.

Did you have to jump?

The question is as familiar as the guilt that ate him alive when he saw you in the hospital, your head wrapped in white, tubes taped to your skin and down your throat, machines clicking and breathing around you. Severe brain damage, they said. A long recovery. But money fixed enough of it. Bruce’s money. The best doctors the area could offer, even some who flew in. Bruce’s hand clamped heavy on his shoulder as the old man told him, “Don’t let it get to you. There are plenty of fish out there.”

But you were the only one he wanted to catch.

Did you have to throw yourself out of a moving car to get away from him? Was life with him that hellish?

He hates that word. Hellish. It doesn’t belong in his memories with you. Not in the kitchen, where he cooked meals and set bowls in front of you even when you glared at him as if he had poisoned them. Sure, you threw one at his face once. Called him a pervert. A fake hero. But you were simply cranky some days. Overwhelmed. Easy to brush off, the same way you brushed away the blankets he laid over your shoulders when you pretended not to be cold.

It doesn’t belong with the little doodles and notes he left on the fridge either, even if some of them came back shredded into death notes. Or with the scissors he had to pry from your hands while you threatened to slit your throat if he didn’t let you leave.

Of course, there were nights when you slow-danced with him in the living room to old love songs, your cheek resting against his chest as you finally got tired of fighting. Or even the mornings when you woke soft and quiet, blinking up at him like you forgot why you were angry. The afternoons when you asked so prettily for fresh air after he had kept you locked in the bedroom for too long, voice hoarse, fingers curled into his shirt.

Sure, spanking worked when you got too difficult, but so did a good timeout from time to time. You always melted against him after being alone long enough.

You could be sweet when you wanted to be. That was love. It had to be love.

He had loved you enough to try to move on with Barbara back in Gotham. It worked for a couple of weeks. Better than sitting at your bedside, loving you through recovery while you could barely remember who he was, watching your confused, frightened eyes fill with fear when he leaned too close. The times when he needed to remind you with a hand pinching your air tube that he was still the person you were supposed to kiss back.

His hand curls against the bedsheet where you would have slept.

If the Joker had not been loose for six months, Dick would have come back to you sooner. He would have continued his weekly checkups while you were drugged and less observant. Your caregiver was always good at giving you more than you needed to help with the nightmares she claimed were about him.

They’re just dreams. He’s not your monster.

You slept deeply enough then that he could sit beside your bed, brush the hair from your face, adjust your blanket, and pretend the quiet between you was peace instead of punishment. You never flinched in your sleep.

He cut things off with Barbara when he came back here. Watched her cry as he held her, her face tucked against his shoulder, her fingers twisting in the back of his shirt. He felt bad. Of course he felt bad. But her tears didn’t make him want to choke sense into her. They didn’t make him want to kiss her until she stopped making that awful, broken sound.

Yours did, however.

You’re not the same as before. He expected that. Certainly much healthier than you were in the hospital, at least. Your social skills are lacking, but that is expected when a lamb first learns how to walk again. If anything, it works out for the best. You’re more relaxed around him now. You don’t keep the lock in place like you used to when the two of you were first seeing each other. You don’t insult him. You stopped crying. The list could go on and on about how oddly perfect things would be between you two.

Finally, he hears your footsteps down the hall. Should he greet you? No. That would be too eager. He shouldn’t frighten such a delicate creature after work.

Your front door unlocks. He listens to the stumble of your shoes against the floor, the rustle of a plastic bag, the small irritated sound you make when something bumps into the wall. After a handful of minutes, the breaker clicks back on. The apartment gives a faint electric shudder through the wall, and the hum returns. You must have noticed by now that it has been off for a couple of hours. It’s a heatwave, after all. You probably have too many appliances plugged in.

Maybe he could offer to cook for you tonight. Something simple. Pasta, maybe. Open that fresh bottle of wine he got from a buddy. He can show up at your door with a friendly neighbor smile, pretend he hasn’t spent the last few hours listening for proof you are still breathing. You might let him in if he plays his cards right. He can pour you a glass, make you laugh, kiss you before walking you back to your door like the old days.

Then he hears it.

Your door opens again.

Are you leaving?

Dick pushes himself upright, head tilting toward the wall. Your footsteps are quick this time. Frantic. You mutter under your breath, the same word over and over.

Ice.

You must be going to the convenience store. All your food must have spoiled, or at least enough of it to scare you. That refrigerator was never the greatest. It was never his idea to keep you here for two years. You were supposed to move in with him after one, but work got busy. Gotham got loud. People kept needing him, and you had been safe enough. Or he thought you were.

He’s already moving before he finishes the thought, tugging his work uniform back into place, smoothing a hand over his glossy dark hair in the mirror by the door. The uniform helps. A good excuse for running into you at the convenience store down the road.

A friendly neighbor coming home after a long night of police work.

Not a man following you into the night.

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If Dick had known you could make such a horrified expression and still look so painfully cute, he might have pulled a stunt like this sooner. The convenience store is nearly empty at this hour. Outside, the heatwave fogs the beer-ad glass; inside, you stand in front of the ice chest with both arms full, eight plastic bags stacked awkwardly against your chest, as if you’re trying to carry a body instead of save one. He taps your shoulder; you nearly drop everything.

“Throwing a party?” he teases, bright and harmless, as though meeting here were a coincidence either of you should believe. His gaze flicks from the bags to your face - eight is a lot of ice for someone with no friends in any file he’s pulled, no emergency contacts who call more than once, no coworkers who walk you home. You’re usually alone.

That has always made things easier.

Your eyes jump to his uniform, then his badge, before Dick lifts a hand in an open-palm wave.

“Easy,” he says. “Just me.” Your grip only tightens; water runs from a corner of one bag and slides down your wrist. You don’t seem to notice. You're so much stranger and more calculated - so unlike the version of you who once snapped at him for thrills and shoved him away after too many kisses. Different isn’t ruined; it’s just leverage.

Your reply is lost to the freezer hum and the cashier’s squeaking stool.

“What was that?” he prompts. You glance at the bored clerk, then back at him, and repeat too loudly: “It’s for coffee meal prep.” He nearly laughs. Eight bags for morning coffee? Adorable. He props a shoulder against the glass, frost blooming behind him. “You need eight for one cup?” A beat. “Tired of seeing me in the mornings?”

You look away, try to brush past. “It’s melting - I won’t have any to practice with if it melts.”

Practice? Before you can retreat, he lifts six bags off your pile. You jerk for them, a small startled sound, but he’s always been stronger. For an instant he sees the old fury in your eyes, enough to make his heart kick before he reins in the teasing.

“How about I help?” he offers gently.

You huff and push toward the register while meltwater stipples the floor. Dick follows, shifts the bags against his hip, and - before you can fish out your wallet - taps his card: beep. You freeze mid-reach.

“I had it,” you mutter.

“I know,” he smiles. “And now you still have it.”

Tension moves between you, louder than the compressor rattle; the cashier pretends not to listen.

Why eight bags? Maybe the breaker scare sent you spiraling, food spoiling after the caregiver vanished. No reason for you to budget groceries or lug ice through Blüdhaven at night when he’s right here. He’ll audit the caregiver’s spending, see where the money went.

The bell jingles as you step into wet heat. Sidewalk puddles shine under streetlights; a distant siren wails and fades. You walk too fast - shoes slapping pavement in a nervous tempo - bags swinging hard against your legs. Each time you edge toward the curb, Dick glides between you and traffic. “Careful,” he says. You flinch. “I’m careful.” Twice you reach for the ice he’s carrying; twice he shifts it easily away.

“They’ll melt faster if we stop to argue,” he reminds you. That quiets you, though your eyes keep darting: his hands, the street, the apartment looming ahead. Plastic crackles whenever your grip flexes, leaving a thin trail of meltwater. When you veer to the curb again, he blocks you.

“Walking on the outside,” he explains - seat-belt muscle memory, sleeve slipping from his grasp.

“That’s not necessary,” you protest.

“Humor me,” he smiles, and you swallow the argument.

The lobby smells of old mail and cherry-lemon cleaner that never makes the place look clean. But it does take the smell of mold out. Elevator’s Under Construction - crooked sign over the button - so you climb the stairs. Halfway up, you freeze, alarmed to find him behind you.

“Go on. I’m not in a rush.” He motions ahead.

You don’t like his eyes on your back; good to know. He takes the next flight first, listening to your uneven breathing and the ice shifting in your arms.

Hallway air is thicker than outside, trapped under flickering bulbs. Your door waits - paint chipped, peephole cloudy, chain probably dangling because you left in a hurry. His door is beside it, close enough to hear everything. You whirl, blocking your knob.

“I can take them now.” Your smile appears a beat late - the wrong mask worn the wrong way. Dick’s chest warms.

“Should I help you get these inside?” he asks, voice honey-soft. Helping is love; love lets him in.

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You have gotten yourself into a spectacular pickle.

Bargaining at the threshold proves useless: your arms are full of melting ice, his arms are full of melting ice, and technically all of it belongs to you. You assure him - politely, firmly, repeatedly - that he doesn’t need to come inside, the bags aren’t heavy, it’s late, he must be tired, you’d hate to be a bother. Normal words for normal people. Dick Grayson only smiles and hoists the bags higher as they start to sink again.

Nice people are harder to shake; your caregiver warned you about that. They treat no like an invitation to try harder. Eight bags were a mistake. Four would have meant coffee prep or a broken fridge - anything ordinary. Eight screams emergency. Eight screams hidden freezer. Eight screams a smell you’re praying belongs to yesterday’s trash.

Behind the door, the apartment waits. So does the smell.

Sweet, damp, wrong - probably already leaking from the freezer seams after hours without power in a heatwave. Please be trash, please be trash. Maybe it isn’t bad yet. Maybe the chain kept the lid sealed. Maybe the trash under the sink reeks worse. You have never hoped for trash before, but there’s a first time for everything when a corpse is thawing in your kitchen.

Open the door and risk the odor. Refuse and risk the neighbor’s suspicions. Stand here and the ice keeps melting, the body keeps warming, the officer eventually calls someone. The officer is someone.

Slower disaster is better than fast. Keys slip in your wet fingers; metal clinks too loudly. Laugh. Harmless people laugh. You laugh like a woman you’ve seen in movies over misplaced keys, not like a woman calculating whether she can drop a policeman before he draws his gun. Dick doesn’t laugh back - he only watches.

Finally the lock turns. You step in first; he follows, gently shuts the door - then locks it. Fine, be creepy. Warm, stale air greets you, carrying a faint, rotting sweetness. Trash. Just trash. You clutch the ice, march past the chained chest freezer, swear you won’t look - then look anyway. Chain still tight. Good. Bad.

“Should I put these in the freezer?” he asks, kindness itself. For one absurd beat, you almost answer yes, right beside the dead woman. Then you see where he’s staring: not at you, but at the chain around the lid.

“Do you have a key?”

Words jam in your throat. A lock for sleep-eating? A safety latch? All terrible.

Your gaze darts to the ceramic vase by the door- heavy, blue-flowered, dusty. It has held receipts, dead pens, a spare button. It could hold blood. You edge one bag against your hip, freeing a hand. His head is turned. His hands are full. You might have a second. Handle’s chipped - won’t slip. Good.

Aim for his perfect face. If he falls, the entry rug is dark, good for soaking. Ice buys time. Boxes in his apartment for the body parts. One problem at a time.

He starts to turn.

You grip the vase and swing with all your might.

Sorry, officer.

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Dick should have expected it. Your fire never truly burned away - no amount of medication or brain damage could smother that stubborn spark. Of course you fought him: manic smile at the door, polite excuses stacking. Of course you lunged for the vase. You were a frightened animal that didn’t know what was good for you.

He whistles low as he crouches by the chest freezer, one knee sinking into damp flooring, bobby pin clamped between his teeth. Picking the padlock feels crude but easier than ripping off the chain or searching for a key. The apartment smells off - wrong, even by your standards. Beside him, the ice bags sweat into widening puddles. He glances over.

You glare from the floor - cheek pressed to the fake tile, hair pasted to your face, both wrists cuffed to the radiator pipe because you refused to sit, to stop kicking, practically refused every warning he gave you. Pride props your hips at an uncomfortable angle; muffled sobs stutter as you try to swallow them. Stubborn thing. Makes him nostalgic for every time you mistook courage for good odds.

“You’re in trouble!” you shout, yanking the cuff. Metal rattles; skin scrapes raw, a thin red line blooming toward your palm. His smile fades. “Careful,” he murmurs.

You ignore him. “There’s a vigilante around here.”

Bobby pin pauses. He meets your eyes, smiles. “I know, baby. If only he were here.” Fury and panic twist your features - here you are. Not healed, but flickering under fear: sharp mouth, wounded pride, fight that proves you need someone stronger.

Click. Chain slithers to the wet floor like a dropped leash. You go still. Breath hitches in tiny bursts; his palm rests on the lid, not lifting yet, enjoying the desperate set of your face. Beg me not to.

“What’s in here?” he asks, voice low. Your lips tremble. Silence. “Baby, what did you do?” Thumb stroking the lip, he waits.

“A body.” The words leak out - tiny, broken.

He studies your face first: eyes wet, cheek glued to tile, wrist bleeding. Embarrassed, not remorseful - cornered, not guilty. Pulse steadies.

“A body,” he repeats, then lifts the lid. Cold sighs out, followed by sweetness gone sour. Plastic-wrapped limbs, frost-blurred features - the caregiver, tucked in with practical care. His gaze traces corpse, chain, puddled ice, then you: still glaring, still calculating whether biting helps. Optimistic.

“Well,” he breathes. Lid stays open; smell dulls. A cop should radio this in. Nightwing should. Instead he thinks: six months alone, one corpse, no help until now.

“You’re going to need someone, aren’t you, princess?”

“Don’t call me that.” Sharp even now.

He smiles with a fond look in his eyes. “I can make this disappear - body, payments, reports.” You stop struggling to listen. Good. “But you’ll do something for me.” He crouches close. Hard not to kiss your tears away.

“You’ll stop hiding. Take meds when I say. Eat real food.” His thumb grazes your torn wrist, voice softening, while his other hand trails down your spine. “And you’ll quit hurting yourself trying to escape the only man trying to help.”

A strangled sound escapes as his palm settles over your heat, giving you two soft, almost patronizing pats. His smile widens as you look over at him, cheeks warmed and dewy. His fingers find their way between your legs and glide along your slit, earning such pretty sounds from your lips. You probably haven't been touched for months. Years, even. So loyal, aren't you? Willing to do anything to cover up your little mistake, huh?

“If you’re lucky,” he whispers, “maybe I’ll marry a cruel thing like you.” He kisses the tear-damp cheek, tasting salt, watching your lips purse back. Pulling his hand away just to watch the frustration on your face. Maybe he'll save such things for marriage. Shouldn't get too hasty. Especially not after last time.

Odd, how neatly things work out - for everyone.

dividers @/diviniyae & @/somebitchprobably-graphicdump

[bloodywankers]

it’s just so peak

[bloodywankers]

spain winning has filled me with nationalistic pride I didn’t know I had anyways

VIVA ESPAÑA NENEEEE 🗣️🗣️🗣️🔥🔥🔥🔥🇪🇸🇪🇸🇪🇸🇪🇸🇪🇸🇪🇸🇪🇸

[yanshrike]

Thinking about yandere!lords of two rival houses.

cw/tags: m!yandere, f!reader, imprisonment, medieval era misogyny, classism, reader is a sugar baby before sugar babies existed, smut, 18+ MDNI

Since as long as anyone could remember, the Drewetts and the Drests had been feuding. Perhaps the grudge began when land was stolen from the Drewetts or when a public insult was made to the Drests. The origin no longer mattered, for the conflict was now inherited without question or concern as to a resolution: it was simply accepted that the two houses were natural enemies.

You took no concern of the petty squabbles of highborn lords: if one was willing to share his bread and bed, you were happy to indulge in the warmth of it for the night. It just happened that you had taken a liking to the town nearby to the Drewetts and the Drests, and thus found that the easiest way to sustain your livelihood would be to ingratiate yourself to the future lords of the nearest castles.

It was young Lord Basil of House Drest that you met first. He was accompanying his lord father into the local village to hear the petitions of the common folk, for it would soon be his turn to give them counsel. You had gone on behalf of the old woman who ran the inn that you had been staying at, to petition the local lords to resolve a dispute between her and a man who had stolen from her inn the previous week.

It was Lord Basil who accompanied you back to the older woman’s inn to hear the testimonies, and it soon became clear that he was to be easy prey. He had come of age a few years ago but still blushed like a young boy with his first crush as you spoke with him.

You hadn’t been intending on seducing him, but you were running short on coin and, despite your discounted fee at the inn for your help with the petition, it wouldn’t be long before you’d be without food or shelter.

Thus, when Lord Basil invited you to visit the Drest castle, you were all too happy to oblige. He had been too shy to invite you to his bedchambers once the two of you had wandered away from prying eyes, but with an inviting kiss from you, Basil was all too eager to claim your body.

You usually found it easy to let the men do as they wished while you ignored them, but Basil’s hesitancy pushed you to take the lead. He was eager to learn to pleasure you, to feel your warmth and taste you on his tongue. Basil had surprised you, for not many men, let alone highborn men, were so interested in such things, and against your own wishes, you found yourself enjoying your lustful nights with him.

It was often that you were on top, with his hips thrusting desperately to meet your own, but soon he gained confidence and enjoyed being the one bending your legs toward your chest and taking you like that. You enjoyed these nights for what they were, and accepted the gifts of coin and jewelry from Basil, allowing you to leave the castle of House Drest for periods of time.

You met Lord Callahan of House Drewett only a few weeks later, in one of your many short departures from the Drest castle. You learned it was best not to keep the attention of young men for too long: they soon got ideas about futures that could not exist.

You knew better than to expect a highborn lord to provide security for his lowborn mistress. They would practically imprison you there with whispers and promises and pregnancy, only to have you thrown out in the cold once their lord fathers forced them to marry some highborn lady from court. More than likely, they’d find another mistress, younger and prettier, and cast you out even sooner than their marriages.

It was for that reason that Lord Callahan’s presence delighted you. It was difficult to keep the attention of one young lord, but if you had another who favoured you, it would be easier in case you were suddenly ignored and left penniless by the other.

Callahan was similarly eager to invite you to the castle of House Drewett, and much less shy than Basil, although you suspected neither had much experience before you. Callahan liked to have you rough and fast, sometimes against his wall and sometimes in the bushes and, more rarely, in his bed. It was nice to have a little variety, you had to admit, for as much as you enjoyed Basil’s slow, tender lovemaking, Callahan’s eagerness was a unique thrill.

Callahan spoke to you less than Basil, who often liked to tell you about the newest troubles at court or his father’s pressures for him to marry or win a tourney. He did ask about you, sometimes, as did Basil, inquiring as to where you had come from and where you went when not at the Drewett castle.

You were certainly more forthcoming with the former than the latter, for you had often heard Basil’s grumbling about the Drewetts. He even mentioned once that Callahan had bested him in a joust, although Basil claimed that he had cheated and that Basil was certainly the better scholar and poet of the two. He was oblivious to his words when he spoke of Callahan being practically illiterate, forgetting that most lowborn like you were as well.

Callahan’s words could be equally callous with regard to his views on the intelligence and beauty of the common people, but with both you simply gritted your teeth and took their coin. It was easier sometimes with Callahan, for Basil admittedly made you feel special to him, although you knew better to believe a man’s words when he was drunk on your body.

The nobles at the Drest castle were, however, certainly more unforgiving with their judgemental stares and whispers about Basil’s whore being a shameful sight. The court at House Drewett seemed apathetic at worst, as they likely knew that Lord Callahan was not the type to be so infatuated with simple whores as to try and keep one as a real mistress.

You flittered between them, for you knew the nature of men was to try to keep what was meant to be free, only for it to perish in their care. The castles of the two houses were only across the river from each other, so it was easy to make your visits whenever you needed some coin or the nights in the village became unbearably cold.

The cold was the same reason these lords accepted you into their beds, you figured. You were trapped by the need for coin and they by the orders of their families, but both felt cold at times and sought out something to bring them warmth, even if only a mirage of the real thing.

All knew they must return to reality at some time. For you, returning from the luxury of silk sheets and a full stomach to the scratchy sheets of the inn and uncertainty about your next meal. For them, giving up on the follies and games of their youths, on passion, and devoting themselves to a marriage of politics more than of choice.

You were careful, at first, to keep your trysts with one a secret to the other, knowing that each would be offended at the thought and likely cast you out of their beds. Soon, though, you became sloppy with your attempts to hide your misdeeds.

You hadn’t visited either Basil or Callahan in two weeks, but the highborn never visited the village unless to hear petitions, so it was a surprise to you when you ran into Callahan on your way back from visiting a friend. It was even more surprising for you to hear that he had come looking for you.

He was calm, at first, and questioned as to why he hadn’t seen you in some time. Callahan made no mentions of missing you, but insisted that you come back to the castle with him upon finishing your errands for the day. You offered him a quick romp in your room at the inn, for you still felt antsy with how Basil had been pressing you to stay permanently at his castle despite the already harsh rumours around the two of you.

Callahan hadn’t put such pressures on you, but that wasn’t necessarily a good sign either, as you didn’t know how long it would be before he grew tired of you. You preferred to let the heart grow fonder with distance or, if that did not succeed, to simply begone before you were humiliated by being cast out.

It was on your way back to the inn with Callahan that you ran into Basil, waiting inside for you. He smiled when he saw you, but it quickly faded when he saw who trailed behind you. Both were quick to draw their swords, despite your protest, but were forced to put them away by the innkeeper, who chastised them for their recklessness like they were her own sons. Thus, you came to a compromise, both coming into your room and leaving their weapons by the door, but not their frowns and silent anger.

You made both tea as you apologized for the unfortunate encounter. Callahan chuckled sardonically at your words, but Basil instead turned his angry gaze on you, asking how you could betray him, let alone for the likes of a Drewett. Callahan scoffed, and suggested that it was Basil who was surely inadequate after you’d had his cock.

It was perhaps the most difficult task of your life to convince them not to murder each other, which would surely lead to your execution as well if two lords were found dead in your room. They seemed willing to not be violent to the other after hearing your words, but had not so quickly forgotten your wrongdoings, and soon, both turned to you in their anger, to which you could only plead that you had no formal attachment to either of them.

It was not as though you were a wife, you told them. You were merely a lover, one of many they would surely have in their lives, just as they were two of many you would have.

Your honestly had not won you them over, and you were loathe to realize that soothing the anger of a highborn was simply a fool’s errand. Both hated the other long before you had come along, now more, and perhaps even now hated you. There was only one idea you had to salvage this entanglement, and that was to end it the same way it begun.

Callahan was fuming when he watched you press your lips against Basil’s, but his anger was given an outlet when you turned and pressed your lips against his as well. The two quickly shed their clothes and tore your own from your body, their rage and betrayal fuelling their lustful acts. They were only satisfied so long as you gave both attention, so you found yourself laying kisses on Basil’s cock as Callahan fucked you harshly from behind.

The two seemed insatiable this night, for as soon as Callahan had spilled inside you, Basil was eager to take his place and claim your cunt as his own. When Callahan occupied your mouth and Basil your cunt, Callahan had reached his fingers down to rub at the flesh between your legs, claiming when you came that it was due to his touch and not Basil’s pathetic cock. Both taunted the other about how they pleased you and who was your favourite, leading to each fucking you harder and faster.

You were exhausted by the time they were finished with you, and it seemed a miracle that both were gone by morning, with no signs of bloodshed anywhere in your home or the village, although someone had left a pouch of coins for you to find.

It was clear to you that this arrangement had come to an end, for better or for worse. You would miss this village and the inn that had become your home, perhaps even Basil and Callahan, but your livelihood insisted you move on, as you had done many times before.

With the pouch of coin and the gold jewelry you had been gifted by your highborn paramours, it wouldn’t be difficult for you to travel and find a new place to settle, perhaps even in time to find a new highborn to take pity on you.

It would take a few days for the man to whom you usually traded your jewelry to return, so your plan was to leave in one week, giving you plenty of time to say goodbye to friends and pack away your meager belongings. Neither Basil nor Callahan returned to visit you in this time, a fate in which you had long anticipated, but which stung nonetheless. You chastised yourself for such feelings, and swore that the next lord with whom you found yourself in bed would draw no such feelings from you.

The night before you were set to depart, you received a letter from Basil, brought to your door by a messenger who worked for House Drest. It asked you to meet him on the outskirts of town, somewhere you had hardly been to. You could not even remember if there was a building of some kind, a tavern perhaps, that he wished to meet at, but you decided to meet him regardless.

In truth, you felt sorry for Basil, and he had endeared himself to you enough that you felt obligated to say goodbye to him as repentance for sleeping with his mortal enemy. You heard nothing from Callahan but, of the two, that was to be expected. You felt that Callahan had always maintained a certain distance from you, that the intimacy that perhaps came too easy with Basil was withheld by Callahan. You were certain that his anger triumphed over any meager affection he may or may not have held for you, which would inevitably have faded regardless.

That night as you sought out Basil, you saw nothing but trees as you searched for him on the outskirts of town. In the low light of your lantern, you cautiously ventured further into the forest, until you came across a small cabin you had never seen before but which bore the Drest sigil: a sheep.

When you knocked on the door, it opened a few seconds later, and you were quickly ushered it by Basil.

“I’ve heard things, my love. Things about you,” he said. Basil’s hair had been cut short since you last saw him, the dark curls trim on his head. He seemed older now, less boyish than you had always thought him. You stepped back from him when he got too close, only to run into a strong chest and arms that encircled your waist.

Callahan’s wispy blond hair fell over his face, nearly looking brown in the light. You had never noticed his height much, but his imposing form became clear as he stood over you. “I should have expected that it would be impossible for a whore to be loyal, but to think of leaving me behind? You should know better. And to have to hear it from my guards stationed in the village is unforgivable, sweetheart.”

“Callahan…please release me. You said yourselves, I am only a commoner…you will have to let me go soon enough even if I do not leave. How long do you think your courts, your fathers will allow this to go on? You must think of me, if you cherish the times we have spent together. If I do not go now, I will not survive when I am forced to leave.”

Basil approached you, cupping your cheeks softly in his hands, and sighing. “I knew you did not wish to leave me, my love. You were only being foolish, but you are only a common born woman. I should have known better than to trust your words, when you do not even know yourself what is best for you. But it’s alright, darling. I will take care of you, now. You will not need to worry, only to remain here in my grasp.”

Callahan glared at him and tightened his arms painfully around you. “Our grasp. If you will not honour our pact, I will simply kill you, as Drest scum deserve. Then I would have her to myself.”

Basil returned his heated stare. “Fine. Our grasp. I honour it only for the sake of our darling, here. It is better to have pieces than nothing at all, I suppose.”

“Please…you must know it is both of you who are being foolish! How will you keep me here? You have castles to return to, duties at court! You must let me leave eventually, and I’d prefer it sooner before any affection you may have had for me fades away and I am left in squalor.”

Basil laughed. “You’re so silly, my love. So silly and so stupid. I have told you: we will not tire of you and leave you without our care. Why, I’ve had this house refurbished just for your use! It was an old Drest hunting house, but now it is all for you to stay, safe and sound.”

“My father thinks I’m on a hunting trip right now,” Callahan said. “He won’t be expecting my return for some time. Plenty of time for us to become settled with you. Perhaps we won’t be able to stay all the time, but our guards will remain happily stationed outside to ensure no one has any accidents or escapes.” He pinched your cheek. “Understand?”

You remained silent, contemplating when you would be able to make a break for the door. Surely they were faster than you, but perhaps if you shouted for help, those who knew you would come.

Callahan seemed to read your mind.

“Your friends were so helpful, letting us know that you were planning to leave us behind. All we had to do was toss them some coin and they spilled all your ecrets. Amazing what some gold can do, isn’t it? It can open these legs, after all.” He nudged your thighs apart with his knee.

“You’re being mean, Drewett.” Basil turned to you. “I forgive you, my love. I knew you were too dumb to know what to do, but still. I think you must need to be taught a lesson. By your lords.”

Callahan chuckled at his words. “For once, we agree.”

[bloodywankers]

absolute cinema

[bloodywankers]

Character Profile

tw; yandere, kidnapping, alcoholism, mentions of child neglect, car accident, some descriptions of injuries, major lore exposition dump

unedited | 1.5k wc | oc masterlist | navigation

Name — Alexei Chekhov

Traits — Obsessive | Possessive | Lucid 

Appearance —

He has ash blonde hair, violet eyes and two moles on his face (one under his eye and the other under his lip). His skin goes red really easily whether because of the cold, the alcohol or plain blush. 

He can be considered to have a fit or healthy build most of the time but he’s not buff by any means. (His face does most of the heavy lifting)

Personality —

Alexei, despite his best attempts, is an introvert at heart. He doesn’t have any friends because he never made an effort to get to know people, leading them to naturally give up on trying to approach him. He’s nice, sure, but superficial kindness can only get you so far. 

He acts like a smiling idiot most of the time purely because it's the path of least resistance. Nobody takes him too seriously. ‘He did something wrong? Well, what do you expect? It’s Alexei after all. That guy’s an airhead!’ But underneath it all he’s a petty brat who is quick to anger if things don’t go his way and tends to hold grudges for a long time even if the other person doesn’t even realise. 

After his accident the worst aspects of his personality suddenly became so much more prominent. Meaning he became even more irritable (didn’t know this was possible!) and him living alone led to many unhealthy habits such as a shit sleeping schedule and takeout for most meals. Purely because he felt there was no point in going through all that effort to take care of himself anymore. 

But underneath all that, he also has a strong sense of responsibility towards those he cares for, he likes to feel needed by them. This list of loved ones includes a grand total of three people: his brother, his dog and eventually his darling. 

Other Facts About Him—

Alexei used to be quite good at painting, something he was obsessed with since a young age. This was to the point that he was hellbent on pursuing art as a career.

A car accident in his 20s left him with lifelong scars all over his body, somewhat deformed hands that could no longer carry out high precision tasks and killed any shot he had at art. Ironically it was the other driver who was at fault for driving under the influence but this incident quickly turned his life around for the worst.

Prior to the accident, whenever people approached him they would describe him as uninterested or arrogant, resulting in him having no real friends or social skills.

Alexei is quick to anger when things don’t go his way, leading to him dropping the smiling fool act quite easily. 

The more he bottles up his emotions, the more he will overcompensate by leaning into the himbo persona. This unintentionally helped him attract women to sleep with (before he met his s/o) but none of them ever stayed with him. 

Despite being quite intelligent when he wants to be, he acts like a whiny brat most of the time.

Hates leaving his house, especially during the day-time but he has no choice since his dog demands to be walked multiple times a day.

Absolutely, under no circumstances would he want to have children. Part of this is due to his mother blaming the twins for ending her ballet career and his father’s general dislike for them as young children. Neither of them were quite ready to be raising children and Alexei is convinced that he will be no different.

Position —

As the younger twin, he’s always enjoyed playing hooky while his brother carried out the unenviable task of trying to live up to their parents’ expectations. 

Alexei shamelessly ignores anything he doesn’t enjoy, barely scraping the marks needed to pass his classes but only because retaking them would be an even bigger pain in the ass. 

After the accident he began his spiral to rock bottom. Drinking until the barkeeper has to wrestle the bottles out of his hands, sleeping with women in hopes that it might make him feel something besides that sensation of being a dirty, used, wet rag. His introversion and general dislike of strangers actively worked against him here as he’s always been happiest while painting (which stopped being an option for him overnight).

Relationships —

His mother  tries to keep up the caring act for appearances but they are largely indifferent towards each other nowadays. His father might contact him once in a blue moon just to give him shit for not obediently following whatever dull corporate life was planned out for him.

Viktor, his elder brother is the one person that Alexei could rely on and  felt understood by growing up, however, they have an unhealthy dependence on each other that neither brother seems to be aware of. While trying to show their affection in whatever way they can, most of their attempts end up doing more harm than good. Viktor blames himself for Alexei’s accident and tends to clean up after his brother’s messes to ease his own guilt. 

Walt is Alexei’s pet dog—he got the name from some old film he was watching at the time of his adoption. Walt, the little bastard that he is, insists his food is served a specific way, refusing to touch it otherwise. The AC must always be at a specific temperature, otherwise, he’ll start howling pathetically until you comply. And god forbid you try to deny him the right to sleep on the bed next to you (this is a tactical choice so that he can pounce on you first thing in the morning). Walt is a husky that Viktor got for Alexei after the accident in hopes that it might bring back his sense of purpose. Truthfully, caring for him is what directly enabled Alexei’s approaching and subsequent kidnapping of his darling (it made him realise how much he enjoyed being needed by others).

Darling —

It’s a common occurrence for Alexei to dislike most things whilst simultaneously becoming obsessed with the few things he does like to unhealthy degrees, his darling being no exception. 

Now, there’s two things that motivate Alexei more than anything: spite and his sense of responsibility. This means that he is one of the most likely yanderes to go for a disabled s/o or an already married one (why not do both!). 

With a disabled darling, Alexei would try to be much more understanding and gentle—as long as you don’t kick up too much of a fuss(emphasis on this)—as he sees a bit of himself in you. Everything from how much people are willing to tolerate him, to what basic tasks he can perform has changed now that his body isn’t what it used to be and he can’t do the one thing he used to be good at so part of him would hope you can understand him better than others would. Of course, it would be a lie to say he doesn’t also enjoy seeing how you have to rely on him to survive. Motivating him to go above and beyond caring for his darling in this situation, which is pretty ironic considering how little regard he has for his own body and health. 

He treats you almost like how he treats Walt, meaning he expects the same type of loyalty from you as well. But his main reason for pursuing his s/o in this scenario is just the fact that a dog can’t substitute his base human desire for connection and nobody he’s met so far could understand him like you did. Well, maybe his brother but the thought of spending the rest of his life single with no one to talk to but Viktor makes Alexei shiver in disgust, no matter how close or mentally ill they are, they’re still siblings in the end. 

On the other end of the spectrum, we have an already married darling who would definitely suffer more. Partly because in this scenario, Alexei would likely be motivated by spite. 

Maybe he’s invited to the picture perfect wedding of some acquaintance (he didn’t even know you until that night) and sees you smiling up there on the altar with your groom. Seeing how perfect your life is (even if just on the surface) just pisses him off, especially after his own became such a mess so he will actively ruin your marriage any way possible just to see you miserable and swoop in, not as a saviour but instead to laugh in your face. You’ve unintentionally become an outlet for his bottled up frustration but Alexei doesn’t do passing fascinations, he’s in too deep to just toss you aside so you shouldn’t be surprised if you wake up in an unfamiliar room with an eager dog and his haughty owner.

Regardless of who his s/o is, all Alexei wants is someone he can take care of and push himself to get up in the mornings for. A body worthy of being nurtured and cared for because he can no longer see his own as such.

[bloodywankers]

OC: Claude Roseford

You can read more on him here!

this is an old drawing but i didn't put it on the masterlist and i cant find the og post (if i even posted it at all) so the old geezer is making a comeback 😜✌️

two versions because i can't decide on which lighting i like more hehe (leaning towards the more yellow-ish one tbh)

i think out of all my OCs this guy is the worst— (tw; yandere) Claude is the type of mf that would be amused watching you attempt to swim against the current. That is, for example if you were the type of person to fight against the establishment (maybe an activist) or subvert the status quo in general. Minor issue, he IS said 'establishment' or 'status quo'.

Unlike Alexei (who you can somewhat appease) or Luciano (who is delusional enough to have convinced himself he isn't your thirteenth reason why), Claude knows exactly what kind of scumbag he is and seemingly doesn't have the capacity for shame.

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[bloodywankers]

OC: Luciano Magnotti

You can read more on him here.

This is still a wip but tbh idk if I’ll finish it anytime soon (rendering guns is hard 💔🥀)

Also smth abt the perspective is very off but I’ve given up trying to fix that atp

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