Welcome to my little corner of the internet! You can call me Cake. This blog is my space to share my art and writing as well as some art that I commissioned! I’m 19 years old and my pronouns are she/her.
About Me:
- I love writing, drawing, reading, ice skating and roller skating, video games,
- Obsessed with Loki, Billy loomis and Stu macher, Steve rogers, Bucky Barnes, Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham, the mikaelsons
- Always fueled by CAKE
What I Post:
- fanfiction, yandere OC’s x reader
- Random reblogs of things that make me laugh or inspire me.
- Occasional personal thoughts and updates.
- I do sometimes post explicit content including smut, if that makes you uncomfortable do NOT interact.
Feel Free To:
- Send me asks or messages—let’s be friends!
- Share your thoughts on anything I post; I love hearing from you.
- Reposts and likes are always appreciated 🥰
- Just vibe and scroll along; I’m glad you’re here.
Thanks for stopping by! Stick around if you enjoy yanderes or just need a place to chill. Let’s make this a fun, cozy space together. 💌
This story contains explicit content, including smut and yandere behavior. Please remember that this is a work of fiction, and I do not condone any of these actions in real life. If you or someone you know is in a similar situation, please seek help immediately. If these themes make you uncomfortable, I advise against reading further. With that said, enjoy the story!!
⚠️Disclaimer⚠️
Trigger warnings for this chapter: Non consensual watching, male masturbation, non consensual touching (let me know if I missed any or need to anything to this list)
Chapter Three:
You take a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves, but something about the air feels heavier now, like the weight of the town itself is pressing down on you. When you look up, you realize with a start that the sun is setting, casting long, stretching shadows across the pavement. A thick fog has begun to roll in, swirling at your feet, and with it comes a biting chill that seeps into your bones. You shiver, wrapping your arms around yourself as you take a hesitant step forward.
You need to get back.
Turning in what you think is the direction you came from, you start walking, your pace brisk but uncertain. The fog thickens, clinging to the air like something alive, and with each step, the town around you grows darker. Buildings blur together, their edges softened by the mist, and the further you go, the less familiar anything looks.
Your frown deepens.
This town isn't that big. You'd driven through it the night before—it took maybe ten minutes, at most. There's no way you should be this turned around. No way you should feel lost.
Yet the library is nowhere in sight. Neither is the inn.
The streets stretch on, endless and unfamiliar, as if the town itself is shifting around you, rearranging itself in ways that don't make sense. The air feels heavier with each passing second, thick with dampness and something unseen that prickles at the edges of your awareness.
Then—you see them.
Two figures in the distance, shrouded in shadow, standing eerily still at the edge of the woods. They linger at the mouth of a dirt driveway that snakes up a hill, disappearing into darkness. Their presence is unsettling, yet you can't look away.
The more you stare, the stranger they seem. They don't move, don't shift—don't even seem to breathe. And yet, there's something wrong. The shapes of their bodies, the way they stand—it's too identical. The same height, the same posture, the same eerie stillness. It's like looking at a mirrored image, a duplication of a person where there shouldn't be one.
Your pulse quickens as you squint, trying to see their faces, to make out what they are—
But before you can, the fog surges forward, thick and suffocating, swallowing them whole.
The world around you blurs, your vision clouded by the dense mist, and for a moment, there is nothing. No figures, no trees, no street beneath your feet—just a vast, disorienting emptiness.
Then—
The fog thins.
And the woods are gone.
Blinking rapidly, you whirl around, your heart pounding. The dirt driveway, the looming trees, the shadowed figures—none of it is there. Instead, you're standing directly in front of the inn.
The warm glow of the front windows spills onto the porch, familiar and welcoming, yet your skin is crawling. You don't remember walking here. You don't remember turning in this direction.
One moment, you were lost.
The next, the town had decided to put you exactly where it wanted you to be.
You stand there, disoriented and confused, your breath coming in uneven puffs of cold air. The quiet hum of the town feels different now, charged with something unseen, something watching. You don't know how you got here, but the eerie sensation of being placed rather than having arrived lingers deep in your chest.
Then, without warning, the door to the inn slams open.
You jolt, your wide eyes snapping toward the entrance as a figure steps into the doorway. The dim glow from inside spills over him, casting long shadows on the porch. It takes you a second to process who you're looking at—Zayan, the inn's landlord.
His ever-present grin stretches across his face, unfazed by the cold or the oddity of you standing frozen in place outside. "What are you doing standing out here in the cold?" he exclaims, his voice warm but edged with something unreadable. "Come inside, come inside!"
He waves you in, stepping aside, but there's something about the way he's looking at you—like he expected you to be here. Like he knew exactly where you'd end up.
You slowly walk toward the inn, each step feeling heavier than the last. The warmth spilling from inside is inviting, but the weight of what just happened clings to you, refusing to be shaken off. As you cross the threshold, you can't help but glance back—once, twice—peering into the darkness, half-expecting to see something lurking just beyond the glow of the inn's lights. A shadow, a figure, those eerie glowing eyes from before.
But there's nothing.
Just the empty street, swallowed by fog and night.
With a quiet click, the door swings shut behind you, sealing out the cold. You flinch slightly at the sound, your nerves still frayed, but when you turn, Zayan is there, smiling.
That same wide, unwavering smile.
"Much better," he says, rubbing his hands together as if he's the one shaking off the chill. "No need to linger out there in the dark. This town has a way of... pulling people in if they're not careful."
His eyes gleam with something you can't quite place, and for a moment, you're not sure if he means that as a warning or a simple observation.
Zayan doesn't move right away. He just lingers, watching you with that same unwavering grin, his sharp teeth almost too white in the dim inn lighting. His eyes glint with something unreadable, and the longer he stares, the more unsettled you become.
You shift on your feet, the weight of his gaze pressing against you like an invisible hand. It's clear he wants to say something, but for whatever reason, he won't just say it.
"Is there something else you needed?" you finally ask, hoping to break the strange tension.
"Oh! I thought you'd never ask!" Zayan exclaims, his voice as bright and cheerful as ever, as if he'd just been waiting for your cue. "Why don't you come to my office and help me out with some paperwork?"
It's worded like an offer, but there's something about the way he says it—the slight tilt of his head, the way his grin doesn't quite reach his eyes—that makes it feel more like a test. Like he's expecting you to refuse.
You hesitate for only a second. You are staying here for free, after all, and you did promise to help out.
"Sure, lead the way," you say, keeping your voice neutral, even if you're not particularly excited about spending more time with him.
Zayan's grin widens—somehow.
"Wonderful," he says, turning on his heel. "Follow me."
As you trail behind him down the dimly lit hallway, you can't shake the feeling that you just agreed to something more than a little paperwork.
The moment you step inside, something about the room feels... off.
It's clean—almost too clean. Papers are scattered across the desk, but they don't look haphazard. They look placed, as if each sheet was positioned with careful intention. The air smells faintly of something you can't quite place—paper, ink, and a lingering trace of something sharper, something unfamiliar.
The heavy curtains are drawn tightly shut, thick fabric blocking out any hint of the outside world. It should make the room dim, but somehow, the chandelier above burns too brightly, casting sharp, unnatural shadows that don't quite sit right against the walls.
Zayan holds the door open for you with an exaggerated flourish, his grin still ever-present. But when he steps in behind you, there's a quiet click.
Your stomach tightens.
You turn slightly, about to ask why he locked the door, but before you can, his hand presses gently against the small of your back, guiding you forward.
"Just for privacy," he murmurs, voice smooth, punctuated by a playful wink.
You swallow hard, unsure if the shiver running down your spine is from discomfort or something deeper—something instinctual. But you say nothing as you lower yourself into the large chair in front of his desk.
Zayan doesn't sit.
Instead, he stands over you, looming, his presence unnervingly close. Every time he reaches for a paper, he leans in further, until the sharp tip of his nose barely brushes against your head. You can feel his breath against your hair, slow and steady, as if he's deliberately taking his time.
Zayan hums as he slides a stack of papers in front of you, the edges crisp and unnervingly pristine. "Just some basic record-keeping," he says lightly, tapping a clawed finger against the top sheet. "Payment logs, guest information—the usual."
You glance down, scanning the neatly written names, dates, and room numbers. A flicker of unease prickles at the back of your mind. Should you even be looking at this? This seems like the kind of information that should be private. But before the thought can fully settle, you wave it off. You're only helping, right?
Still, your grip on the pen tightens as you force yourself to focus.
Then, you hear it.
A sharp inhale.
Your entire body stiffens as you realize—Zayan is smelling you.
It's subtle at first, almost too quiet to notice, but now that you're aware of it, you can't ignore it. The deep, slow drags of breath just above your head. The way the air shifts ever so slightly as he leans in closer.
You don't move. You don't react. You don't even know how to react.
Instead, you stare at the paper, willing yourself to focus, willing the moment to pass. But it doesn't.
His breathing grows heavier.
The pen in your hand trembles slightly as you try to steady yourself, to ignore the way every nerve in your body is screaming at you to do something.
But what, exactly?
For a while, Zayan does nothing but breathe.
Slow, deliberate inhales, each one dragging in the scent of your skin as if he's savoring it. The sound of it is deafening in the otherwise silent room, each breath sending an icy prickle down your spine. You grip the pen tighter, trying to ignore the way your hands tremble over the paperwork.
But then—he moves.
At first, it's subtle. His presence shifts, his breath no longer just near you but on you, ghosting over the sensitive skin near your ear. Your shoulders tense, every muscle in your body locking up, but he doesn't stop.
Then, something even worse.
The slow, deliberate press of lips against your neck.
Your breath stutters. A cold wave of dread crashes through you, freezing you in place as he plants another kiss—this time lower, just above your collarbone. His lips linger for a beat too long before moving again, trailing downward with sickening patience.
You're shaking now. Not just from fear, but from the sheer wrongness of it all.
And the worst part? You can feel it—how much he's enjoying this.
Zayan doesn't just sense your fear—he's thriving on it. Every hesitant breath you take, every tremor in your hands, every slight flinch—it's like fuel to him. You can practically hear the satisfaction in the way he exhales, the hum of amusement vibrating against your skin.
Your instincts scream at you to *move*, to *do something*, but it's as if you're trapped, caught in the tension of the moment, unsure of what would happen if you push back.
And Zayan?
He's waiting.
Because this isn't just about what he wants.
It's about seeing what you'll do.
Your mind reels, panic clawing at the edges of your thoughts. Every nerve in your body is screaming, your skin crawling beneath Zayan's touch. The room feels too small, the air too thick, and for a terrifying moment, you wonder if you'll even be able to move—if your body will listen to you at all.
Then, without fully thinking, you slam your hands down onto the desk. The sharp sound echoes through the room, making even you flinch. Your breath is uneven, your heart hammering in your chest, but you force your voice to come out steady.
"Stop touching me."
It's not a plea. It's a demand.
Zayan doesn't pull away immediately. If anything, you feel his smirk before you see it—the way his lips curl against your skin, his breath hitching in what sounds like amusement. His posture doesn't change, his presence still looming over you, but there's a new energy now, a shift in the air.
Slowly, he leans back, though not by much.
"You wound me," he murmurs, his voice dripping with mock hurt. "So tense. So afraid."
His eyes gleam as he watches you, as if he's taking in every detail—your stiff posture, your clenched fists, the way your chest rises and falls a little too quickly.
"But," he finally sighs, stepping back fully, giving you just enough space to breathe, "if that's what you really want..."
His grin widens, sharp and knowing.
You don't trust that look. Not for a second.
"I trust you can finish your paperwork on your own," you say, your voice colder than before. You push away from the desk, your pulse still racing, and storm toward the door.
Your hand grips the knob, ready to make a dramatic exit—only for it to refuse to turn.
You freeze.
The lock.
Your frown deepens as you reach down, fingers fumbling slightly as you flip it open. For a tense second, you hesitate, expecting—no, *bracing*—for Zayan to stop you. Maybe another touch, another word, maybe even just a shift in his stance to block your way.
But nothing comes.
When you glance back, he's exactly where you left him, standing behind the desk, that ever-present smirk still stretched across his face. He watches you with a lazy amusement, eyes glinting in a way that makes your stomach twist.
He wanted you to run.
The realization sends another shiver down your spine, but you don't stick around to dwell on it. The door swings open, and you all but rush out, your footsteps echoing through the dim hallway as you make a beeline for your room.
You don't stop.
Not until you're inside, the door shut and locked behind you, your back pressed against the wood as you try to steady your breathing.
Even then, you swear you can still feel his gaze.
The rich scent of leather and the faint aroma of sandalwood filled the air as Zayan pushed aside the disguised panel, revealing a room bathed in a soft, seductive glow from the screens that lined the walls. He stepped in, the plush carpet muffling his footsteps, and his eyes immediately fell on the luxurious couch that beckoned him closer.
The screens lining the walls flickered to life, bathing the dimly lit office in a cold, bluish glow. Images flashed across them—empty hallways, the front desk, the quiet streets outside. With a slow, deliberate flick of his wrist, Zayan navigated through the feeds, his fingers dancing over the controls with practiced ease. One by one, the images shifted until he found what he was looking for.
Your room.
A slow, satisfied smile crept across his lips as he leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes drinking in the sight before him. There you were, pressed against the door, your breath still uneven, your posture stiff with lingering fear. Perfect.
His anticipation swelled as he watched you, utterly unaware of his gaze. The way your fingers trembled slightly, the way your shoulders heaved with every deep inhale as you tried to calm yourself—it was fascinating. Delicious, even.
Zayan settled onto the couch with a self-satisfied grin, his body sinking into the soft cushions that enveloped him. He reached for the zipper of his fitted pants, the leather of his belt making a soft sound as it slipped through the loops. With a deliberate motion, he released his erection, its tip glistening with anticipation, and paused to caress the smooth shaft, feeling it throb under his touch. The veins stood out prominently, mapping a path of longing along his length.
As he gazed at your image, his hand began to move with intention, alternating between a firm grip and a gentle caress, creating a rhythm that matched the quickening beat of his heart. Each stroke drew a low groan from deep within him, the sound resonating in the softly lit room. The warmth of his hand contrasted sharply with the cool air that brushed against his sensitive skin, sending waves of pleasure coursing through him.
Leaning back, Zayan let his thoughts drift back to that moment in his office. He recalled how you quivered beneath him, your breath hitching in shallow, erratic bursts. Your hands balled into fists, caught in a struggle between fight and flight. Disgust. Fear. Two raw emotions, so palpable, yet you remained. You hesitated, even as every instinct urged you to flee.
Why?
The question sparked a flicker of amusement within him, a smirk playing on his lips. Did a part of you want to discover what would unfold if you stayed? Were you pushing your boundaries—or perhaps testing his?
The mere thought sent a thrill racing through him.
He shifts forward in his seat as his eyes lazily drift back to the monitors. Just in time to see you move.
You've finally pushed away from the door, no longer frozen in place. He watches as you cross the room, your steps hesitant but determined, making your way to the large closet on the far wall.
As you step inside the closet to change into more comfortable sleepwear, Zayan's eyes are glued to the screen, his hand quickening its rhythm around his cock. He can't resist leaning in closer to the monitor wanting to get closer to you.
He takes in every exposed inch of your skin, his gaze sweeping across your body. A smile creeps onto his face, fueled by the realization that you remain blissfully unaware of his watchful eyes.
His grip tightens around his shaft, the friction sending a jolt of pleasure through him. His breathing quickens, his chest rising and falling in time with his strokes. He closes his eyes, surrendering to the sensation.
It doesn't take long for his climax to build, his body tensing as the pressure grows. When it finally breaks, it's like a dam bursting, the flood of release washing over him. He cries out, his hips bucking involuntarily, the sound of his voice echoing off the walls of his chamber.
It's not enough, he thinks, as the rush of adrenaline subsides. It's never enough.
This story contains explicit content, including smut and yandere behavior. Please remember that this is a work of fiction, and I do not condone any of these actions in real life. If you or someone you know is in a similar situation, please seek help immediately. If these themes make you uncomfortable, I advise against reading further. With that said, enjoy the story!!
⚠️Disclaimer⚠️
Chapter two:
You wake up disoriented, the oppressive darkness of the room giving you no hint of what time it is. The thick curtains block out any potential light, casting the space in an eerie, timeless stillness. For a moment, you lie there, cocooned in the heavy comforter, reluctant to face the chill you know is waiting beyond it. With a resigned sigh, you push the blanket off, immediately shivering as the cold air bites at your skin, its sharpness sinking into your bones.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, you rub the sleep from your eyes and glance around the room, its ornate furnishings casting long, sinister shadows even in the dim light. You force yourself to your feet and shuffle into the bathroom, the icy tiles shocking your bare feet. You change quickly, eager to escape the cold, and splash water on your face, the sensation helping to chase away the last remnants of sleep. The bathroom's opulence feels almost mocking as if it's aware you don't belong here.
Once dressed, you make your way out into the hall. The inn is as silent as a tomb, and when you pass the check-in desk, it's unsurprising to see that Zayan is still absent. You pause briefly, glancing around the lobby, wondering where he might be. A fleeting curiosity stirs in your mind, but you quickly push it aside. Whatever secrets he holds, you doubt they'll be easy to uncover.
Stepping outside, the crisp air hits you like a wall, the morning fog clinging to the streets and swallowing the world whole. The mist coils thickly, obscuring everything beyond a few feet ahead of you. It's a cold, damp veil, muffling the sounds of the town and making it feel even more isolated. You shiver and wrap your arms around yourself, looking back at your car parked near the inn. The idea of driving through this soup of fog is unappealing; you can barely see your own hand in front of your face, let alone navigate unfamiliar roads.
Instead, you decide to walk, your footsteps echoing faintly on the cobblestone streets. As you wander, your eyes are drawn to the intricate architecture of the town. The towering Gothic buildings loom overhead, their dark spires disappearing into the fog. Gargoyles perch on the edges of rooftops, their stone faces seeming to watch your every move. Wrought-iron gates and elaborate carvings adorn the facades, each detail hinting at stories long forgotten—or perhaps stories you'd rather not uncover.
Despite the beauty of the town, there's an unsettling emptiness to it. You haven't seen a single person yet, not a passerby, not even a flicker of movement in the windows you pass. The silence is deafening, and with each step, the weight of the stillness presses heavier on your chest. You can't help but wonder where everyone is, a faint unease stirring in your mind.
As you round a corner, a large building comes into view through the fog. Its towering presence is impossible to ignore, with walls lined almost entirely with tall, arched windows. The glass panes glint faintly in the muted light, giving the building an ethereal glow. A wrought-iron sign hangs above the grand double doors, swaying gently in the breeze. The words "Hollow Hearth Library" are etched into the metal, their elegance stark against the weathered sign.
With a deep breath, you push open the heavy doors, their weight surprising you, and step inside.
The air is thick with the scent of aged paper, polished wood, and a faint hint of candle wax. Towering shelves stretch from the polished oak floors to the vaulted ceilings, their dark wood carved with intricate details—floral patterns, mythical creatures, and swirling designs that seem almost alive. The shelves are packed with books of every size and color, their spines embossed with gold lettering that glints faintly in the dim light. A wrought-iron spiral staircase spirals upward in the center of the room, connecting multiple mezzanines that extend like bridges across the vast space.
The ceiling is a masterpiece in itself, painted with celestial scenes of stars, constellations, and swirling nebulae that seem to shimmer faintly when the light catches them just right. Massive chandeliers hang from iron chains, their candles casting a warm, flickering glow that dances across the room. Between the chandeliers, gothic arches frame the ceiling, their pointed edges emphasizing the room's height and grandeur.
Large stained-glass windows line the far walls, their vibrant hues muted by the mist outside. The windows depict scenes of scholars, mythical beasts, and arcane symbols, their meanings shrouded in mystery. The colored light filters through, painting the floor and furniture in shifting patterns of ruby, emerald, and sapphire.
In the center of the main hall, long mahogany tables are arranged in neat rows, each one accompanied by high-backed chairs upholstered in dark velvet. Green-shaded lamps sit atop the tables, their warm glow inviting visitors to sit and read. The tabletops are scratched and worn, evidence of countless years of use, but they add to the library's charm.
To the left, a massive stone fireplace dominates the wall. Its mantle is adorned with gargoyle statues and an ornate clock with hands shaped like ivy tendrils. A fire crackles softly within, its warmth barely reaching the vast, cavernous room but offering a comforting presence nonetheless.
Near the entrance, a curved desk sits like a sentinel, its surface meticulously organized yet brimming with character. Quills rest neatly in an ornate silver holder, their feathers gleaming softly in the dim light. Ink bottles of various shades are arranged like an artist's palette, and an imposing leather-bound ledger lies open, its yellowed pages filled with delicate, flowing script.
Behind the desk sits a figure draped in a tailored, high-collared coat, the rich fabric catching the faint glow of the nearby lamp. Their head is tilted slightly downward as if immersed in their work, though their eyes are closed. Yet, as if sensing your presence, they lift their head with an almost supernatural awareness.
"Hello, dear," they say, their voice deep and smooth as velvet, tinged with an unsettling warmth. The sound wraps around you, drawing you closer almost against your will.
You take a tentative step forward, compelled by curiosity and unease. As you approach, you notice the sharp contrast between the dark frames of their round glasses and their tan, flawless complexion. Behind the lenses, their long, dark eyelashes seem impossibly delicate, casting faint shadows on their cheeks as they blink slowly. They study you with an air of quiet amusement.
"How can I assist you today?" they continue, their voice carrying a gentle lilt that makes the question feel more intimate than it should.
Your eyes are drawn to their hands, which rest elegantly on the desk. They are long-fingered and deft, faintly ink-stained from what appears to be hours of meticulous work. Despite their composed demeanor, there is something about their presence—an aura of authority mixed with an undercurrent of mystery—that makes your heartbeat quicken.
"I was wondering if you had any information on jobs in town," you ask the librarian, their sly smile deepening as they set their quill down with deliberate care.
"Well," they begin, their voice carrying a hint of intrigue. As a matter of fact, we do have a position open in a new office that's being built. Quite the opportunity for someone with your background."
You nod, though a twinge of disappointment flickers through you. The idea of returning to an office job isn't exactly thrilling, but the pay is decent, and it's a role you know you can handle.
"Is that job not to your liking?" the librarian asks, tilting their head ever so slightly. Their glasses catch the faint light, obscuring their eyes for a moment, making their expression unreadable.
"It's not that..." you start, searching for the right words to explain your hesitation.
Before you can finish, the librarian cuts you off smoothly. "How about we make a deal?"
Their tone is calm, almost too calm, and the way they lean forward slightly feels deliberate as if they're letting the weight of their words hang in the air between you.
"A deal?" you echo, your voice tinged with suspicion. What is with everyone and making deals? The memory of Zayan's unsettling grin flickers in your mind, and unease settles deeper in your chest.
"Yes," the librarian replies smoothly, threading their fingers together and resting them on the desk with an air of calculated calm. "Why not work here, with me?"
Their words are simple, yet the way they say them feels loaded with something unsaid. The corners of their lips twitch, just shy of a full smile as if they're savoring the weight of their offer before you've even responded.
"Here?" you ask, glancing around the expansive library. The idea isn't unappealing—there's a quiet charm to the rows of books and the gothic ambiance, far removed from the stifling monotony of an office. Still, the offer feels too convenient, too... deliberate.
"Indeed," they say, their voice dropping into a velvety tone that seems to wrap around you. "This library could use an assistant, someone with a curious mind and a knack for order. I suspect you'd find it... fulfilling."
You narrow your eyes slightly, sensing there's more to their words than they're letting on. "And what's the catch?"
Their smile grows, and a flicker of amusement flashes behind their round glasses. "No catch, per se, just the usual workplace expectations. Sorting books, managing visitors... and perhaps handling the occasional oddity."
"Oddity?" you repeat, your brows furrowing.
"This library isn't quite like others you may have encountered," they admit, their voice light but their gaze intense. "But I assure you, the experience will be rewarding."
You hesitate, the air between you thick with an unspoken challenge. The librarian seems entirely at ease, as though they already know your answer, their knowing smile making your skin prickle.
"And if I say no?" you ask cautiously.
Their fingers tighten slightly where they rest, though their expression doesn't falter. "Then you are, of course, free to leave. The choice is yours."
You pause, weighing your options. On one hand, this job could be an invaluable opportunity to learn more about this enigmatic town and its strange, timeless aura. On the other, the deal feels undeniably suspicious, much like the one you made with Zayan. Something about this place—and this librarian—prickles the back of your mind like a warning.
The librarian remains perfectly still, their unreadable smile never wavering, their presence unnervingly serene. Their eyes remain shut, yet you feel as if they're somehow watching you intently, waiting for your answer. When you glance at their round glasses, a strange thought strikes you: why would they need them if they never open their eyes?
"I think... I'll work here," you say, hesitating slightly as the words leave your mouth. The decision feels uncertain, like stepping onto thin ice.
The librarian's smile widens, and for a brief moment, it feels as though the entire room exhales with them. "Excellent!" they exclaim, their tone lilting with genuine, or perhaps feigned, delight. "I'm happy to have you. Why don't I give you a tour, if you're free?"
Their hands unfold, gesturing gracefully toward the maze of bookshelves stretching out behind them. You hesitate but nod, curiosity outweighing your unease.
"Perfect," they say, rising smoothly from their seat. Despite their languid movements, they seem to glide, not walk, around the desk. "Follow me, and I'll show you the secrets this library holds. But remember..."
They pause and lean in just slightly, their voice lowering into something almost intimate. "Once you step into the depths of this place, you might find leaving isn't as simple as you'd think."
They straighten their smile firmly in place and beckon you to follow. Despite the lingering apprehension in your gut, your feet move forward.
As you walk through the labyrinthine aisles of the library, your curiosity begins to outweigh your unease. The towering bookshelves seem endless, the scent of aged paper and leather binding filling the air. They move gracefully ahead of you, weaving through the shelves as they passionately describe the intricacies of the library's vast collection.
You nod absently, half-listening, before a realization strikes you. You slow your pace, looking at Silas with a slight frown. "Um... I just realized I never caught your name," you say, interrupting their monologue as they pause to gesture at a particularly ancient tome.
They stop mid-gesture, tilting their head slightly in your direction as if considering your words. "Ah, right. How terribly rude of me," they say with a small, apologetic smile. "My name is Silas. Silas Aldridge."
You open your mouth to introduce yourself, but Silas cuts you off with a wave of their hand. "No need for that. I already know who you are, so don't trouble yourself."
Their words make your stomach drop. You blink at them, your brows knitting together. "You... already know?"
Silas resumes walking, their tone light and conversational, as if they hadn't just said something profoundly unsettling. It was almost eerie how easily they brushed past it, as though discussing the weather instead of whatever cryptic truth lay beneath their words.
"Oh, of course. It's part of my job, after all."
You quicken your pace to keep up, your mind racing with questions. "And what exactly does this job entail? How do you already know me?" The words spill out in rapid succession, your curiosity clawing for answers. Something about this entire encounter feels off, and the more you think about it, the more the unease settles deep in your gut.
Silas merely chuckles in response, the sound carrying a teasing edge. "So many questions," they muse, casting you a knowing glance. "All of them will be answered in due time. But for now, you must learn to be patient."
Their words do nothing to soothe your unease. If anything, they only make you more determined to uncover the truth.
You open your mouth to protest, but before you can utter a word, Silas smoothly interrupts.
"It seems our tour has come to an end," they say, their tone light yet final.
It takes you a moment to process their words, and only then do you realize—you're back at the large service desk where this all started. A sense of disorientation settles over you. Had you really been so distracted that you hadn't even noticed where Silas was leading you?
"I expect you to start in two days," Silas continues, as if this is simply a matter of fact, not something up for debate. "Just to give you some time to get adjusted to town. I'll see you then."
Before you can formulate a response, they turn on their heel and stalk off, disappearing somewhere deeper into the labyrinth of the library. Just like that, you're alone.
You linger for a moment, glancing around as if the towering bookshelves might offer some sort of clarity, but none comes. With a sigh, you turn toward the massive windows lining the front of the building, noting the position of the sun—it's just past midday.
Taking a breath, you push open the library's heavy doors, the weight of them grounding you for the first time since stepping inside. Stepping out onto the street, the town stretches before you, unfamiliar yet oddly expectant, as if it, too, is waiting for something.
You start walking, unsure of where you're headed, your footsteps echoing faintly against the quiet street. The air is damp and cold, seeping through your clothes and settling into your skin. Despite the sky being clear—an expanse of pale blue stretching endlessly above—you can't shake the unsettling dimness that cloaks the town. It's as if an unseen filter has drained the vibrancy from everything, leaving behind muted tones and elongated shadows that seem to stretch just a little too far.
The buildings, old and looming, stand in eerie stillness. Their windows reflect the sky, yet there's something off about them, as if they're watching you rather than simply existing as glass and brick. The streetlamps, unlit, seem unnecessary in broad daylight, but their presence feels ominous, almost as if they're waiting for night to fall.
A breeze stirs through the empty street, rustling the leaves scattered along the cracked pavement. The silence isn't quite silence—there's a faint hum beneath it, a distant whisper of something just out of reach, too soft to decipher but enough to send a chill down your spine.
You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to shake the unease settling in your chest.
You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to shake the unease settling in your chest. The town feels too quiet, too still, yet something about it hums with an unseen presence. Then, just as you take another step forward, you hear it—a faint whisper drifting from behind you.
Your breath catches in your throat, and you whip your head around, scanning the empty street. Nothing. No one. Just the same old buildings and empty sidewalks, stretching endlessly in both directions. Your heartbeat quickens. Maybe it was just the wind. Maybe your mind is playing tricks on you.
Still, the uneasy feeling lingers, crawling up your spine like a cold touch.
You pick up the pace, your casual stroll turning into a brisk walk. As you pass dark alleyways, something catches your eye—movement, subtle and quick, disappearing just as fast as it appeared. Your pulse hammers as you glance toward the shadowed spaces between buildings. For a fleeting second, you swear you see them—eyes. Glowing, watching, unblinking.
Your breath comes faster now. The whispers return, growing louder, surrounding you, pressing against your mind like a presence just out of reach. The town feels like it's closing in, the air heavier, the ground unsteady beneath your feet.
Panic grips you, and before you realize it, you're running. Your footsteps echo through the desolate streets, the whispers twisting into something almost intelligible—but you don't want to hear what they're saying. You just want to get away.
Then—
Impact.
You slam into something solid and unyielding, the force knocking you backward. You barely have time to register the jarring pain as you hit the ground, landing unceremoniously on your butt.
"Ow," you mutter under your breath, wincing.
Blurry from the fall, your eyes trail upward, expecting to see another empty street or perhaps another trick of the shadows. But instead—someone.
A person.
Your breath comes in short gasps, but a wave of relief crashes over you. You're not alone. Not entirely.
Silently, you rejoice, even as the whispers fade into the background, retreating like they were never there at all.
"I'm so sorry! Are you okay?" you ask, your voice breathless from the collision and the lingering adrenaline still thrumming in your veins. You scramble to your feet, brushing the dust from your clothes before quickly extending a hand to her.
The woman looks up at you, her face pale, her expression unreadable at first. Now that you're really seeing her, you notice the fine lines etched into her skin, the streaks of silver running through her dark hair. She must be in her sixties.
But it's her eyes that unnerve you the most—wide and darting, flickering to the shadows stretching across the street. She isn't looking at you. She's looking past you, around you, as if searching for something lurking just beyond sight.
"I'm so sorry!" she whispers, voice frantic and almost not directed at you at all.
She doesn't take your hand. Instead, she scrambles to her feet on her own, movements jerky and desperate. Her lips move rapidly, breathlessly repeating, *sorry, sorry, sorry* under her breath like a prayer, or maybe a plea.
"Wait! Are you sure you're okay?" you ask, stepping forward, concern outweighing your unease. You gently place a hand on her shoulder, but the second you do, she jolts violently, her whole body going rigid.
Her eyes snap to yours—wide, terrified.
"I'm so sorry!" she suddenly shouts, her voice cracking with something between fear and desperation. Then, before you can react, she turns and bolts down the street, moving with a swiftness you wouldn't have thought possible for someone her age.
You stand frozen, watching as she disappears into the distance, your heart hammering in your chest.
This story contains explicit content, including smut and yandere behavior. Please remember that this is a work of fiction, and I do not condone any of these actions in real life. If you or someone you know is in a similar situation, please seek help immediately. If these themes make you uncomfortable, I advise against reading further. With that said, enjoy the story!
⚠️Disclaimer⚠️
Chapter one:
You knew it would come to this. You sigh heavily, the weight of your situation pressing down like an immovable force, as you stare at the eviction notice in your hand. The past few months have been a slow, relentless spiral—your job lost, your savings drained, and now, the final blow: the small apartment you've called home is no longer yours.
Bills pile up on the table in front of you, unopened and overwhelming, a cruel testament to how far you've fallen. You let the eviction notice flutter onto the stack and run a hand through your hair. It's hard to tell if the ache in your chest is from frustration, fear, or resignation. Probably all three. You've officially lost it all. No job. No family. No partner. Just yourself and your beaten-down car, the last thing in your life that hasn't betrayed you. Yet.
You glance around the apartment, taking in the modest space one last time. It was never much, just a single large room with scuffed wooden floors and paint peeling from the walls. The cabinets by the sink barely closed properly, and the faucet always dripped no matter how hard you turned the knob. A worn-down table stands in the center, surrounded by mismatched chairs you salvaged from thrift stores. In the corner, your sleeping mat and a pile of blankets mark where you've spent countless restless nights.
Your gaze lingers on the bathroom door to the right, cracked open to reveal a glimpse of the tiny, dingy shower you always meant to scrub clean but never quite got around to. It wasn't pretty, but it was yours, and somehow, you'd made it work. Now, it's slipping away, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.
You let out another sigh and push yourself off the equally worn chair, the creak of the wood echoing in the silence. The emptiness of the room feels heavier now, as if even it knows this is goodbye. You grab your hastily packed duffel bag, cramming the last of your belongings inside. There isn't much—just the essentials, a few keepsakes, and whatever clothes could fit. Everything else, you'll have to leave behind.
Stepping outside, the chill in the air bites at your skin as you walk to your car, the only thing left that feels like yours. It sits there, parked against the cracked curb, its faded paint and dented hood a reminder of how many miles it's carried you. You open the door, toss your bag onto the passenger seat, and slide behind the wheel.
For a moment, you just sit there, gripping the steering wheel and staring ahead, unsure where to go. The road ahead feels as uncertain as your future, and the weight of starting over presses down hard. But for now, all you can do is turn the key in the ignition and drive, hoping that somewhere out there, there's a chance to begin again.
You drive for days, the hum of your car's engine the only constant companion through the long, empty highways and desolate stretches of land. Your stops are brief—just enough time to sleep in some dingy parking lot under the pale flicker of a neon sign or to pump gas with the last of your crumpled bills. Each mile blurs into the next, a hazy dreamscape of monotony and exhaustion.
The future feels like a distant, unreachable concept, and you find yourself wondering if there's even a point to your aimless wandering. Then, one afternoon, with the sun beginning its descent, you come across a town.
At first, you consider passing by like you have every other town. Just another dot on the map, another place that isn't home. But something about this one makes you slow down. There's an odd stillness to it, as if it exists in a bubble untouched by time.
You pull over at the edge of town and step out of the car, staring in awe at the scene before you. Towering gothic Victorian buildings line the cobblestone streets, their dark, intricate facades reaching up toward the cloudy sky. Spires and gargoyles loom like watchful sentinels, their stone eyes seeming to follow you. Elaborate wrought-iron fences and overgrown gardens fill the spaces between buildings, giving the town an air of faded grandeur.
The light here is different—soft and muted, as though the sun itself has to fight to penetrate the heavy atmosphere. Even the air feels thicker, carrying a faint scent of damp earth and old stone.
You hesitate, torn between curiosity and unease. This place doesn't feel like the kind of town you stumble upon by accident. It feels... deliberate as if it's been waiting for you.
Against your better judgment, you climb back into your car and drive slowly into town. The streets are eerily quiet, with no sign of life apart from the occasional flicker of movement in a shadowed window or the rustle of curtains pulled shut. You pass by an old clock tower, its face cracked but still ticking, and a row of dimly lit shops with signs in looping hand-painted script.
Your gaze lingers on the townspeople—or what little you see of them. They move quickly, heads down, avoiding your curious stare. There's a peculiar hush in the air, as though the town itself is holding its breath.
Despite the strangeness, something about this place calls to you. It's unsettling, yes, but there's also a certain charm in its otherworldly beauty, in the way it feels untouched by the chaos of the outside world.
You park your car in front of an inn with a wooden sign painted in faded gold, its Gothic script reading "The Hollow Hearth Inn."
The inn stands as a brooding masterpiece of Gothic Victorian architecture, its towering presence dominating the narrow cobblestone street. The structure is composed of dark stone, weathered by time and streaked with moss, giving it an aged almost foreboding charm. Ornate ironwork adorns every window, curling into intricate patterns that resemble vines or talons.
Twin stone gargoyles crouch atop the pointed gables, their faces frozen in eternal snarls as if to ward off unwelcome visitors. The roof is steeply pitched, covered in slate shingles that glisten dully in the dim light, and the chimneys rise like watchtowers against the overcast sky, each capped with decorative spires.
The façade is framed by tall, arched windows, their stained glass panes depicting scenes that seem to shift and shimmer depending on the angle of the light. A grand oak door bound with black iron bands and adorned with a heavy brass knocker shaped like a snarling wolf's head serves as the main entrance. The surrounding porch is supported by elaborately carved wooden columns, their bases wrapped in creeping ivy.
Gas lanterns flicker on either side of the door, their amber glow casting eerie shadows that dance across the stone walls. A faint mist clings to the ground around the building, curling and weaving through the wrought-iron gate that encircles the property.
Behind the inn, the outline of a sprawling garden is visible. It is wild and untamed, with overgrown hedges and skeletal trees that seem to claw at the air.
Your heart pounds as you step out of the car once more, bag slung over your shoulder, and walk toward the inn's imposing entrance. Before opening the door, you pause, unable to resist admiring the craftsmanship of the handle. It's sculpted into the head of a snarling wolf, its mouth open as though caught mid-growl, every detail eerily lifelike—from the textured fur to the glinting sharp fangs.
Something about it feels... alive. There's an almost magnetic pull toward the handle, an inexplicable urge to touch it. Without thinking, your hand drifts forward, fingers brushing against the cold, unyielding metal.
Suddenly, a sharp pain jolts you back to reality. "Ow!" You recoil, shaking your hand instinctively, and glance down to find a small bead of crimson blooming on the tip of your finger.
One of the wolf's fangs. It pricked you.
You glance back at the handle, an uneasy feeling creeping over you. The blood from your finger seems to seep into the wolf's open mouth, vanishing into the grooves of the sculpture as though the metal itself is drinking it.
The faintest vibration courses through the handle, a low hum you can feel in your bones. The sensation is fleeting, gone as quickly as it came, leaving you to question if it was ever there at all.
Your pulse quickens, but you shake off the unease, wiping your finger on your sleeve. The faint sting lingers as you reach for the handle again, hesitating for only a moment before pushing the door open.
As it creaks inward, the dim light of the inn spills out onto the cobblestone steps, and you step inside the floor creaks beneath your feet. The interior of the inn is an elaborate masterpiece, as if time itself had preserved its eerie beauty for centuries. Stepping inside, you're enveloped by a luxurious and oppressive atmosphere, the dim lighting casting flickering shadows across every surface.
The foyer is grand yet unsettling, with dark wood paneling climbing the walls, polished to a sinister sheen. A massive chandelier hangs from the vaulted ceiling, its iron frame twisted into intricate, almost organic shapes. The candles flicker unnaturally, their flames casting a soft but unsteady glow that barely penetrates the dim corners of the room.
A sweeping staircase dominates the space, its banister carved with grotesque figures—wolves, ravens, and other creatures—locked in a silent, eternal struggle. The deep red carpet that covers the stairs is worn but plush, its edges frayed as if from the passage of countless feet over the years.
To your left, an arched doorway leads to the lounge. There, an immense fireplace roars, the flames licking at the carved stone mantle adorned with gargoyles. Velvet armchairs and fainting couches are arranged around the fire, their fabric rich but faded, with embroidery that seems to writhe in the corner of your eye. The air smells faintly of wax, aged books, and something metallic—like blood.
To your right, the check-in desk is crafted from ebony wood, its surface scratched and scarred, as if it has witnessed centuries of use. Behind the desk, an old-fashioned key rack holds ornate skeleton keys for each room, their brass numbers dulled with age.
Paintings line the walls, their frames gilded and impossibly intricate. The subjects are a mix of haunting portraits—faces with eyes that seem to follow you—and shadowy landscapes shrouded in fog. Above it all hangs an enormous clock, its pendulum swinging in slow, deliberate arcs. The ticking fills the air, a reminder of time's unrelenting march—or perhaps its irrelevance in this place.
Corridors stretch out from the foyer, their paths dimly lit by sconces shaped like clawed hands gripping candles. Each hallway has unique doors, their intricate carvings hinting at the secrets they might conceal. A chill runs down your spine as you realize how eerily silent the place is, the only sound the steady tick of the enormous clock above.
You finally tear your gaze from the surroundings and turn toward the check-in desk, its dark, polished surface gleaming faintly in the flickering light. The ornate skeleton key rack behind it stands empty, casting strange shadows on the wall.
"Hello?" you call, your voice breaking the heavy silence as you approach the desk. There's no response.
You glance around nervously, leaning over to peer behind the counter, but no one is there. The emptiness of the space unsettles you further. Your eyes land on a small, intricately designed bell atop the desk. Its brass surface is decorated with faint etchings of vines and serpents, the kind of detail that seems almost too ornate for such a simple object.
"Hello?" you say again, this time softer, as doubt creeps into your voice. The oppressive quiet of the room makes your words feel like an intrusion.
Your hand hovers over the bell for a moment before you finally press down on it. The sharp ding cuts through the stillness like a blade, reverberating off the walls and echoing down the empty corridors.
You wait.
Nothing happens.
The silence rushes back in, heavier than before, wrapping around you like a thick blanket. You glance over your shoulder, suddenly feeling exposed in the vast, space.
Just as you begin to step back, considering whether to leave, a soft creak breaks the silence, like a door slowly opening down one of the hallways. You whip your head toward the source of the noise, heart pounding, but the corridor is empty—at least, as far as you can see.
"Can I help you?" a low, velvety voice suddenly murmurs from behind you.
You whirl around, startled, to find a figure standing behind you, as if conjured from the very shadows of the room. Dressed sharply in dark, tailored attire, they blend seamlessly with the somber surroundings. Their piercing eyes gleam with a strange, knowing light, and an amused smile curls at their lips as if they've been observing you far longer than you'd care to imagine.
"Ah, good evening," the figure says smoothly, their voice rich and unnervingly warm. "Might I help you?"
You swallow your surprise and try to compose yourself. "Um... hello. I was wondering if you could tell me a little about this inn," you say, your voice steady despite the unsettled feeling twisting in your gut.
"Of course!" The figure beams, the intensity of their expression a touch too bright, too eager. "Welcome to the Hollow Hearth Inn! I am Zayan, proprietor of this modest establishment."
Modest? You glance around, your eyes sweeping over the towering walls and intricate details. The word feels laughably inadequate.
"We offer rooms for every kind of guest," Zayan continues, his smile unwavering. "Whether they plan to stay... a while... or simply pass through."
Something in the way he says it makes your skin prickle. Still, exhaustion wins over unease. "Okay, so what are your prices for a few nights?" you ask, hoping to cut through his theatrics.
Zayan's smile widens impossibly, a glint of something dark flashing in his gaze. "For you," he says, his tone dripping with delight, "I'm sure we can come to an arrangement."
You stiffen. "What kind of arrangement?" you ask, crossing your arms defensively.
"Oh, nothing complicated," he replies with a casual wave of his gloved hand. "I couldn't possibly turn away someone as... unique as you. Let's forgo payment—for now." His voice lowers, and the glint in his eyes sharpens. "All I ask in return is a simple promise: that you stay here and perhaps lend a hand when needed. A... partnership, of sorts."
You hesitate, the weight of his words settling uncomfortably in your chest. "What's in it for you?" you ask, narrowing your eyes.
Zayan's grin stretches wider, unsettlingly so, his eyes glittering with a mix of amusement and something far more sinister. "Why, I gain the pleasure of your company, of course. A delightful addition to my little inn." He steps closer, holding out a gloved hand. "What do you say? A roof over your head, a chance to start anew, and all you have to do... is agree."
The deal seems too good to be true, and your instincts scream at you to walk away, every fiber of your being warning you against this path. Yet, despite the unease twisting in your chest, you find yourself unable to resist the magnetic pull of his outstretched hand. It's as if some unseen force beckons you, drawing you closer despite your better judgment.
Before you realize it, your fingers extend and press into his gloved palm. The moment your skin touches his, a cold shiver races down your spine, the chill of his leather glove sending goosebumps across your skin. Zayan's grip is firm yet oddly gentle, his smile deepening as if he's won some silent victory.
"Wonderful," he purrs, his voice velvet smooth. "Welcome to the Hollow Hearth Inn. I promise you, my dear, this will be... an experience to remember."
As he releases your hand, the warmth of the room seems to leech away, leaving you feeling exposed and uncertain. The blood pricks in your ears as his eyes linger on you, sharp and calculating, as though he's already dissecting every secret you've yet to uncover.
"You'll find your room at the top of the main staircase, third door on the right," Zayan says, his voice as casual as if this were the most ordinary of exchanges. "Settle in. Rest. And when you're ready, we'll discuss how you can... assist us here." His smile sharpens, barely masking the promise of something far more than a simple agreement.
You nod stiffly, your feet carrying you toward the staircase on autopilot. As you ascend the steps, a heavy silence presses down on you, the dim sconces casting eerie shadows that seem to stretch and twist unnaturally. You glance back once, your heart skipping a beat when you see Zayan still standing at the desk, watching you with that same unnerving smile.
You slide the intricate skeleton key into the lock, the cool metal feeling heavy in your hand. The key itself is a work of art, adorned with swirling designs that seem to shift in the dim light. With a soft click, the door unlocks, the sound reverberating faintly in the still hallway. Slowly, you push it open, the hinges groaning softly as if reluctant to reveal what lies beyond.
The room inside takes your breath away. It's the most elaborate, opulent space you've ever set foot in—a masterpiece of Gothic decadence. The walls are lined with dark, polished wood, each panel carved with intricate patterns of vines and flowers that seem almost alive. Heavy crimson drapes frame tall windows, their fabric shimmering faintly with golden embroidery that catches the dim candlelight from a chandelier hanging above.
The chandelier itself is a marvel, a cascade of wrought iron twisted into the shape of skeletal branches, each tip holding a flickering flame encased in glass. The light casts dramatic shadows across the room, playing against the ornate furniture—dark velvet chairs with clawed feet, a massive canopied bed draped in heavy silks, and a writing desk inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
Your gaze drifts to a gilded mirror on the wall, its frame depicting scenes of triumph and torment, the details so vivid they almost feel real. Everything about this room screams wealth and luxury, but there's an undercurrent of something else—something darker, as though the room itself holds secrets it won't share.
For a moment, you're mesmerized, your fingertips grazing the edge of a velvet chair as you take it all in. It's a far cry from the run-down apartments and cheap motels you've known. You almost laugh at the thought—if this room is supposed to impress you, it might have worked better on someone who had seen more than peeling paint and flickering lights.
The door closes behind you with a soft click, sealing you in the luxurious room. You set your bag down near the wardrobe, its simple, scuffed exterior out of place among the room's extravagance. Taking a moment to glance around, you still can't shake the feeling that you don't belong here, like an intruder in someone else's dream.
The bed draws your attention, its dark silken sheets gleaming faintly under the flickering chandelier. For a second, you hesitate to touch it, your hands hovering over the smooth fabric as if it might shatter under your fingertips. But the pull of exhaustion outweighs your unease. You sit down, the mattress firm yet impossibly soft, as though it was tailored to cradle every inch of you.
Opening your bag, you rummage through for your sleep clothes, feeling oddly self-conscious in the vast, ornate space. A thin nightshirt and some old sweatpants are all you have. You slip into the adjoining bathroom, its marble floors cold against your bare feet. The gilded sink fixtures gleam in the dim, golden light of the sconces, and the large claw-foot tub almost tempts you into a bath. But the day's exhaustion is too heavy on your shoulders to entertain the thought.
After splashing water on your face, you take a deep breath, staring at yourself in the mirror. Your reflection seems different somehow, warped by the faint shadows that play across the room. You shake off the eerie feeling and head back to the bed, flipping open your bag to grab your phone. No service, of course. Not that you expected any.
You pull back the heavy comforter, the sheets beneath impossibly soft and smelling faintly of lavender. As you slide under the covers, the weight of the day finally crashes down on you. The warmth of the bed is almost too comforting, lulling you into a haze despite the unease gnawing at the edges of your mind.
The room is silent, save for the faint creak of the chandelier's chains swaying ever so slightly above. You close your eyes, telling yourself it's just the unfamiliarity of it all. But as sleep begins to pull you under, you can't help but feel that the room is watching you, waiting for you to drift into its grasp.
Opposites in every way, one is shy and kind(Ceil), the other loud and arrogant(Cyris). They share an uncanny bond that seems almost telepathic.
You only catch fleeting glimpses of them—a shadow slipping around a corner, the faint outline of two figures standing in a window high above the street. There’s something ethereal about them, something that makes them feel both otherworldly and uncomfortably real.
Curiosity gnaws at you, and you can’t resist asking around. But the townsfolk grow tight-lipped the moment the twins are mentioned. Their worried glances and hurried whispers make it clear: You’re better off not knowing. Yet, amid the half-answers and evasions, you manage to glean a few scraps of information.
The twins live in the grand mansion perched on the hill overlooking the town, a crumbling but imposing estate surrounded by iron gates and overgrown gardens. It’s a place the townspeople avoid, murmuring warnings about strange noises and unnatural lights that flicker in the windows late at night.
You’ve also heard they’re as different as night and day. One of the twins is painfully shy, a soft-spoken soul with a gentle kindness that almost makes you forget the unease surrounding their name. The other? Brazen and arrogant, with a voice that can silence a room and eyes that seem to see straight through you.
But there’s one thing they share in common, and that’s you.
At first, it’s subtle—an odd coincidence. You find yourself walking the same streets as the twins, their elusive presence never far from your periphery. You feel the weight of their gazes when you pass the mansion gates, though you never see them watching. Letters, unsigned and written in elegant but unsettling handwriting, begin appearing at your door. Each one tells you something new about yourself—things no one else could possibly know.
Soon, the town starts to feel smaller, the walls closing in around you as the twins’ influence grows more pronounced. People you once trusted now treat you differently, as if you’ve been marked. Whispers follow you wherever you go, and you begin to wonder if this connection to the twins is fate—or a curse.
The mansion on the hill beckons, and the twins await. Whatever they want from you, it’s clear they won’t stop until you find out.
The Librarian (Silas):
The librarian is an enigma wrapped in quiet authority. He always sits at the massive wooden desk in the center of the library, surrounded by an endless sea of books that seem to stretch into the shadows. Despite your frequent visits, you’ve never seen his eyes open. They remain shut, as though he doesn’t need them to see. Instead, there’s always that mischievous smile curling at the corners of his lips—a smile that makes you feel like he knows more about you than you do yourself.
The library is a haven of sorts, the only place in town where you feel you might find answers about the strange happenings you’ve encountered. But it’s also a trap, one you walk into willingly despite the librarian’s constant warnings.
“You’re digging too deep,” he tells you each time, his voice a melodic lilt that’s equal parts teasing and foreboding. “There are things better left buried, my dear.”
But he never stops you. If anything, he seems amused by your persistence. When you ask for specific books, he retrieves them with unnerving precision, always producing exactly what you need—or what he wants you to find.
You’ve tried asking him outright about the town’s secrets, but his answers are always cryptic, wrapped in riddles that leave you more frustrated than enlightened.
“What’s the point of a mystery if you’re given the solution?” he says with a chuckle, turning a page in a book he seems to read without looking at.
Yet, there’s a flicker of something beneath his playful demeanor—something calculating. You’ve come to realize that the librarian doesn’t share knowledge without a price. Sometimes, it’s a trivial request—a promise to organize a row of books or recite an old poem from memory. Other times, the cost feels far more personal.
“Tell me about the dreams you’ve been having lately,” he asked once, unprompted, his smile widening as though he already knew the answer.
When you hesitated, he simply shook his head and withdrew the book you needed, sliding it just out of reach.
“Knowledge is a trade, not a gift,” he reminded you, his tone lilting with mock disappointment.
Still, you can’t stay away. The library holds too many clues, too many pieces of the puzzle you’re trying to assemble. And the librarian? He’s the gatekeeper to it all, a shadowy figure whose true intentions remain as much a mystery as the town itself.
One thing is clear: he knows more than he lets on, and you can’t help but wonder what it would take to uncover the truth hidden behind that perpetual, knowing smile.
The Breakfast shop boy (Espen):
The breakfast shop boy is a beacon of normalcy in a town that seems anything but. He’s the kind of person whose cheerful demeanor instantly makes you feel like everything might actually be okay. With his ever-present smile and warm, easy-going attitude, he manages to turn even the most mundane interactions into moments of genuine comfort.
The small breakfast shop where he works is a cozy haven, filled with the smell of freshly baked pastries and brewing coffee. It’s one of the few places in town that feels untouched by the strange, oppressive air lingering elsewhere. The boy greets you by name every time you walk in, his voice bright and familiar, as if he’s known you forever.
You quickly grow fond of him, drawn to the way he listens so attentively, asking questions that make you feel seen and understood. But as the days go by, you begin to notice something strange. Every conversation you have with him somehow shifts the focus onto you. You find yourself sharing your thoughts, your past, your fears, and your hopes, all while realizing you know almost nothing about him.
When you try to ask about his life—where he’s from, why he’s in this odd town—he always deflects with a laugh or a vague comment. “Oh, my story’s not all that interesting,” he’ll say, brushing it off as if it doesn’t matter. And maybe it doesn’t. After all, his presence alone is enough to make you feel safe, like someone in this unsettling place has your back.
But sometimes, in the quiet moments, you can’t shake the feeling that his constant smile is just a little too perfect, that the way he steers conversations isn’t as innocent as it seems. After every encounter, you’re left with the uneasy realization that, for all the warmth he exudes, you still don’t know who he really is.
Still, he’s the one person in town you feel like you can trust—or, at least, you want to. Because in a place where everyone seems to have secrets, a kind smile might be the only thing keeping you from succumbing to the darkness.
The Clockmaker (Tiago):
They are always found in their dimly lit shop, surrounded by ticking clocks of every size and design. Their voice is soft, barely more than a whisper, and when they speak, it often seems as though their mind is somewhere far away, lost in a labyrinth of thoughts only they can navigate. Their words are poetic yet disjointed, as if they’re recounting fragments of dreams rather than engaging in conversation.
Their hands move with eerie precision as they work, adjusting delicate gears and winding springs. Despite their reserved demeanor, you can’t help but feel that the clockmaker knows more about you than they let on. Occasionally, they’ll murmur something cryptic—an odd comment about time running out, or the past being closer than it seems—that leaves you unsettled long after you leave the shop.
The clocks themselves are mesmerizing, each one seemingly unique, ticking in rhythms that sometimes align with your own heartbeat. There’s an uncanny sense that they aren’t just measuring time but manipulating it, bending it to the clockmaker’s will.
When you ask questions about the town or the strange occurrences you’ve experienced, the clockmaker rarely answers directly. Instead, they’ll say something vague, like, “Time has its way of revealing all truths,” or, “Some moments aren’t meant to be revisited, no matter how much they call to you.”
Despite their distant nature, there’s a profound sadness that lingers in their eyes—when they bother to look at you. It makes you wonder what moments in time they’re trying to hold on to, or what they’re desperately trying to forget.
You can’t help but feel that stepping into their shop is like entering a liminal space, caught somewhere between past, present, and future. And the longer you stay, the harder it is to tell if time is moving forward—or standing still.
The Alchemist (Koa):
The alchemist is by far one of your favorite people to talk to, though “talk” might be too generous a word for the games of wit and manipulation he prefers. His workshop, tucked away in a shadowy corner of the town, exudes an aura of mystery and chaos. Bottles of glowing liquids bubble on shelves, peculiar herbs dangle from the ceiling, and the faint smell of something metallic always lingers in the air.
With sharp, calculating eyes and a smirk that seems permanently etched on his face, the alchemist never answers your questions outright. Instead, he dangles answers like bait, always just out of reach. “I could tell you,” he says, leaning over a table strewn with bizarre instruments, “but what would be the fun in that?”
If you want his help, you’ll have to pay the price—and it’s rarely money he wants. Perhaps he’ll demand you drink one of his experimental potions, promising it will “only slightly” alter your perception of reality. Other times, he’ll turn the tables, treating you like one of his experiments, asking pointed, invasive questions that feel like he’s peeling back the layers of your mind. He pokes and prods at your fears, your motives, and your secrets, dissecting you with unnerving precision.
Yet, despite his games and the thinly veiled danger he carries, you find yourself drawn to him. There’s an air of confidence about the alchemist, a sense that he’s untouchable. He moves through the town with an almost arrogant ease, unbothered by its dangers. While others whisper warnings or flinch at the town’s shadows, he seems to revel in them, as if he’s stronger than the forces at play—or perhaps part of them.
Every so often, he drops cryptic hints about the town’s mysteries, as if he knows far more than he’s letting on. “The truth isn’t what you think,” he might say, swirling a glowing flask in his hand. “But then, it rarely is.”
And while his intentions remain unclear, one thing is certain: the alchemist is far more than he seems, and his help, while tantalizing, always comes with strings attached. The question is, how far are you willing to go to unravel the town’s secrets—and how much of yourself are you willing to let him see?
After losing everything-your job, your home, and your savings-you find yourself aimlessly driving, searching for something, anything, to hold onto. Days blur together as you stop only to sleep in your car or scrounge for gas with what little money remains. Hope feels like a distant memory until you stumble upon a town seemingly lost in time.
This place, shrouded in an eerie, perpetual twilight, is unlike anything you've seen. Towering Victorian Gothic buildings loom over narrow, winding streets, their dark spires piercing the fog-drenched sky. Wrought-iron gates twist into elaborate, almost sentient shapes, and the windows of the towering structures gape like hollow eyes, watching your every move. The cobblestone streets are slick with mist, amplifying each footstep into a hollow echo that feels far too loud in the oppressive stillness.
Even the smallest details of the town are unsettlingly intricate. Lampposts adorned with lifelike carvings glow faintly, their light flickering as if alive. The air is thick with an unsettling stillness, broken only by the faint rustle of the mist and the distant tolling of a bell, marking the passage of time-or perhaps warning of something else entirely.
Drawn by equal parts desperation and curiosity, you pull your car to a stop. The town seems to whisper an invitation, tugging at something deep within you. Despite the unease crawling along your spine, you step out, your worn bag slung over your shoulder, and take your first tentative steps into this haunting labyrinth. The town feels alive in a way that shouldn't be possible, and you can't shake the feeling that it's been waiting for you.
(Yandere OC'S x gender neutral reader)
Hello and Welcome to Veins of Twilight!
This is a dark, twisted tale of obsession, desire, and mystery set against the haunting backdrop of a Gothic Victorian town. Be warned: this story delves into mature themes, so proceed at your own risk.
Important Notes
Trigger warnings will be provided at the beginning of chapters containing heavy or distressing themes.This story will explore intense violence, psychological manipulation, and classic yandere tropes.While this is a work of fiction meant for entertainment, the behaviors depicted are not condoned in real life.
Content Advisory
This story contains explicit sexual content, so reader discretion is advised. If you're uncomfortable with mature, smutty scenes, this may not be the story for you.
Now, with that out of the way, prepare to immerse yourself in the dark allure of Veins of Twilight, where love becomes obsession, and danger lurks around every corner. Welcome to a world where hearts beat with desire and shadows hide secrets waiting to be uncovered.
