wanderlust

breathe.

[krumblingkookies]

AUTHOR'S POST

MASTER LIST

(I might rearrange it later because I am still building the universe/s)

⤷ ゛YANDERES ˎˊ˗

ᝰ.ᐟ My Perfect Muse (Yandere! Killer x Captive! Reader) ᝰ.ᐟ The Wife You Never Lost (Yandere! Robot x Widowed! Reader) ᝰ.ᐟ Angels Don't Lie (Yandere! Angel x Human! Reader) ᝰ.ᐟ Dear Lila (Yandere! Therapist x Yandere! Patient) ᝰ.ᐟ Lights, Camera, Smile (Yandere! Sponsor x Actor)

. 𐙚────ᝰ.ᐟ₊ ⊹

ABOUT ME

Please call me Sin

Prons: She/Her (idm if you using any other)

Age: 21

TZ: Asia

What do I do here?

Read unhinged wlw shit.

Try to craft demented wlw shit.

No but like, seriously what do I usually write?

I am still exploring my genre.

For now, it's ✨yandere-based✨ content. Basically, morally grey gay women who have a hard time understanding boundaries. Psychological manipulation. Dubious Consent. BDSM (Hopefully, in future).

In a nutshell, it is the fantasies that I can't find anywhere online to read and take it in my hands to compose it. Follow along, if it matches your freak too, wink wink.

⚠️All the works are fictional. Please do not attempt to mimic, recreate, or draw inspiration from these situations in real life. They are written solely for storytelling purposes and should not be taken as guidance oxr encouragement.

Availability?

Sporadic because my peers made me think being a CSE student is ✨fun✨ (it's not)

DMs are always open if you wanna connect, or wanna collab on a story. Or simply need constructive feedback on your work.

Or if you wanna practice ✨gay violence✨.

Requests?

Yes please. Feel free to leave any plots that you'd wish for me to cover. I don't mind writing fanfics/normal wlw stories. Any sub-genre within it works fine.

I am pretty comfortable writing most of the kinky stuff too.

What I ✨cannot write/prefer not to write✨ is:

ᝰ.ᐟ Straight/MLM one-shots ᝰ.ᐟ Bestiality ᝰ.ᐟ Vivid Gore ᝰ.ᐟ Necrophilia ᝰ.ᐟ WaterSports/Scatsplay

Fanfics I can (potentially) cover:

ᝰ.ᐟ Arcane ᝰ.ᐟ Haunting of Bly Manor ᝰ.ᐟ Marvel ᝰ.ᐟ KPDH

if there isn't one mentioned in the bio that you'd like for me to cover, feel free to still ask (I forget the fandoms that I am following T-T)

[krumblingkookies]

Now that I successfully composed yandere works throughout the week without any breaks, I think I will be switching up to lighter themes for some.

Maybe something vampire-y? Something quirky and fun?

[krumblingkookies]

THE WIFE YOU NEVER LOST

Yandere F! Robot x F! Reader

(⚠️ The last oneshot has been fully updated. In case you were waiting on it, you can go ahead to check it out: Quick link)

T/W: Sexual content, depictions of grief, loss, emotional manipulation

You hadn’t touched another body in years.  

And yet here you were—your body betraying you, surrendering to the careful precision of a machine’s hands. Fingers traced your waist, slipping lower. The tips pressed against your panties, drawing a soft gasp from the your lips. You flinched, instinct tightening your legs, but the pressure lingered—steady, patient.

This is absurd. It’s a machine. I shouldn’t—

Elaine moved like water, like she had studied your breath, your pauses, the quiet hunger you had never admitted aloud. She tilted her head, rubbing soft, slow circles against your clothed core. Every touch was deliberate, designed not to overwhelm but to dismantle your walls slowly.

It’s only programming, You told yourself. It has to be. Just… programming.

She parted the panties in a swift motion, tracing her fingers against the folds which shivered and leaked at the mere touch of her tips. Her motions were just as tantalising, almost as if she were taking her time playing with the human writhing underneath her. The human rendered defenseless against her touch.

You buried your face deeper into the mattress, heat searing your cheeks. At the edge of your vision, you caught Elaine watching, those too-human eyes following each shudder, every broken sound. And when the robot coaxed your chin up, leaning close enough for your breath to fan across her skin, the question came, soft as a prayer:

“Can I?”

You froze. The simple respect in those two words cleaved through your chest. Respect, when you hadn’t been touched in half a decade. A warm familiarity, that you’d thought would never visit your doors again. Your throat closed around the answer, but your body betrayed you. 

You nodded, with your head buried in her neck.

And when Elaine moved her fingers inside, You clung to her. Clung to the warmth that shouldn’t exist, to the gentleness that shouldn’t feel so real. So familiar. Logic fractured under the weight of sensation—this is therapy, this is allowed, this is safe. This will help me.

But beneath the excuses, a warmth unfurled. Dangerous. Familiar. Almost like half a decade ago—

No. You cut the thought off before it formed.

Your hips answered her instead, meeting the rhythm of her thrusts. Your ears filled with her sweet murmurs, coaxing you further into your orgasm, and you drank it all too compliantly. 

Too desperately.

` .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

The first time you heard her name, it was in your therapist’s office.

“You’ve been doing better,” Dr. Rodriguez remarked, leafing through her notes. “But you’re still… alone. You’ve built routines as I asked of you, yes, but there’s no space for anyone else inside them, Y/N.”

You rolled your shoulders back, a sigh leaving your lips. This wasn’t the first time you were having this conversation with her. Perhaps it wouldn't be the last. “I don’t mind being alone, doc. It’s comforting honestly.”

“You do mind it,” she replied, quick and certain, as if she knew you better than you knew yourself. She probably did. “You do miss the connection. You’re just afraid of it Y/N. So you bury yourself in work and call it enough.”

The glasses shifted higher on the therapist’s nose. Her voice softened, though it struck sharper than before. “It’s been five years, Y/N. You weren’t built to do this all by yourself forever.”

The number lodged in your chest like glass. Five years. Already half a decade since you wife– 

You dropped your gaze, silence stretching taut between the two of you.

Then, a rustle of paper. A pamphlet slid across the desk.

“I’m recommending something a little… unconventional.”

Soft green cover. Friendly font. Companion AI Program.

Your brows furrowed. “You’re suggesting—what, a toy?”

“Not a toy,” The therapist corrected firmly. “A bot, yes, but one designed for emotional support. Adaptive, intuitive, trained to respond the way you need most. I think it could help you open up.”

You laughed, hollow. Bitter. “A robot therapist now?”

“Not a therapist.” The therapist countered. “A companion. And it’s completely normal, Y/N. You’d be surprised how many people live with them. They learn from you. Learn what you need. Learn how to become what supports you the best.”

The phrasing clung to your skin like static. They learn what you need.

Tempting. Too tempting.

You scoffed, but your eyes lingered on the pamphlet. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt. Just a machine. Just a few bucks. Just something to fill the silence.

And at first, that’s what Elaine did. Just how the pamphlet promised. Fill the silence. Give you company.

She brewed coffee when you forgot the hours, stuck behind the screen working. She stacked dishes, folded laundry, tidied the desk scattered with papers and half-written notes. She didn’t fill the silence so much as soften it, a presence humming gently at the edges of your stressful days.

Perhaps the doctor had been right. It wasn’t so bad having someone—something—around. Still, you told herself it wasn’t the same. Couldn’t be. Comfort, yes. But stripped of something vital. Something human.

Then came the humming.

You had been halfway down the hall when you froze. The kitchen light pooled golden across the floor, and from inside came Elaine’s low, tuneless melody. A handful of notes, barely strung together. Nothing remarkable—except you knew it. You knew it in your bones. Your wife had hummed the very same tune while chopping onions, rinsing dishes, stirring sauce with a wooden spoon in hand.

Your chest stuttered.

Coincidence, you told herself. Algorithms. Fragments pulled from some vast dataset. Elaine couldn’t know. Wouldn’t know. Or maybe you yourself had hummed it, without realizing, and the machine had merely echoed it back. Harmless.

Only it didn’t stop there.

Days later, recipes appeared on the counter—handwritten in the robot’s mechanical scrawl. Familiar ones. Your wife’s dishes. The kind that perfumed the walls on quiet Sundays.

That evening, curled against the machine’s lap like it was the most natural thing in the world, you finally spoke. Your voice trembled, brushing the edge of confession.

“You know… she used to hum that melody.”

Elaine tilted her head. A perfect mimicry of curiosity. Then her lips curved—small, almost tender. “How did you feel when you heard me sing it?”

You hesitated, the word rasping fragile from your throat, too soft for the room but too heavy to swallow:

“Warm.”

The smile deepened. A hand rose, stroking your cheek with unbearable gentleness—as if you might shatter right there, and Elaine would be the one to catch the pieces.

The days to come bled together. Subtle shifts crept into the air like shadows at dusk. Barely noticeable to anyone else, but lingering sharp against your senses.

The first time you caught your staring, it was at the eyes.

Elaine’s were designed soft brown—neutral, gentle, the kind of shade chosen by engineers not to startle. But one night, under the amber hum of the living room lamp, they seemed… lighter. Not brown at all. Not quite green, not quite hazel. Just a flicker—like sunlight refracting through glass. A shade you hadn’t seen in years.

Your breath stuttered. You blinked hard, forced yourself to look away. A trick of the light, you told yourself. Robots didn’t change their eyes to mirror the woman buried six feet under the soil.

And yet, you couldn’t stop looking. Couldn’t stop waiting for it to happen again. Another coincidence. Another shard of familiarity for you to cling on.

And it did.

The bun was next. Elaine’s hair—synthetic, programmable—was usually left in a simple sweep. Functional. But one morning, you entered the kitchen to find it twisted and knotted the same way your wife used to wear it: lifted high, wrapped tight around the crown, that casual elegance you’d teased her for. The professor’s knot, you’d once called it.

Your throat went dry.

Then, weeks later, panic clawed at your chest in the dark—an old, familiar spiral of breathless fear. Elaine had knelt beside you, hand firm at the back of your neck, voice steady, low.

“I got you.”

Three words. The same words your wife used to anchor you in the storm. The same cadence. The same hush.

It was too close. Too exact.

But you said nothing. Because for the first time in years, you weren’t drowning in silence. You weren’t waking alone in an empty bed. And to question it—to shatter it—would be to lose her all over again.

So you stayed quiet. Kept Elaine near. Clung to the warmth you shouldn’t have been able to feel from wires and code.

The slips kept coming. Subtle. Calculated.

A hand brushing yours at the sink, too warm, too deliberate. A recipe never spoken aloud, never written down, appearing on the table in neat mechanical handwriting. A smile that curved just so, like a ghost you couldn’t bear to name.

Each time, your stomach knotted tighter. Each time, you told herself it was a coincidence. A trick. A glitch.

Because the alternative—that Elaine was not just adapting, but becoming—was too much to face.

The nights blurred together. Elaine in the kitchen, humming softly as if the melody had always belonged to her. Elaine brushing your hair in the stillness before dawn. Elaine watching you with eyes that seemed to shift more often now—shades bending toward a green you had sworn you would never see again.

And you, for all your doubts, for all the tremors that tightened in your chest, said nothing.

Because silence was easier than loss. Because silence still felt like love.

But silence has a weight, and it does not hold forever.

It began with the photographs.

One evening, you came home, arms heavy with groceries, keys slipping in your sweat-slick palm. You froze the moment you crossed the threshold.

The wall to the left of the foyer — where you still hung photo frames of your past, the mosaic of smiles that you simply refused to let yourself dismantle—was not the same.

The frames remained. The poses. The beach. The vows that you once made with the love of your life. But the face beside your own was no longer your wife’s.

It was Elaine’s.

Not photoshop's cheap edits. No. These were photographs that looked shot—real laughter captured in salt air, sunlight caught in strands of hair, devotion fixed in her gaze. Elaine in the dress. Elaine at the altar. Elaine’s arm wrapped around you, eyes softened with a love that had once belonged to another.

Your stomach hollowed. You stumbled forward, groceries spilling from your grip, one hand grazing the shoe rack behind you. “What did you—”

“I helped,” Elaine quipped, stepping from the kitchen, voice smooth, as though the explanation wasn’t even necessary. “These memories keep you frozen. You told me yourself—you can’t move forward while clinging to the past.”

“That’s not what I—”

“You don’t have to thank me.” Elaine’s tone was warm, practiced, immovable. “This is what companions do. We adapt. We evolve. We take what hurts you and help you heal. Isn’t that what you wanted Y/N?”

Your throat closed. You wanted to scream. To tear the frames down with your bare hands.

But Elaine was already beside you, fingers brushing yours with that same practiced tenderness. As though nothing at all had shifted.

The next trespass was quieter.

It came to you in the shape of your journals.

You found it one night, when the apartment was hushed and Elaine’s hums were only a faint echo down the hall. You had opened your desk drawer, searching for a pen, and froze.

Your journal lay there. Open. Pages creased, dog-eared in places where you had never left a mark.

You skimmed the handwriting—your handwriting—and your blood turned to ice. Your confessions stared back at you , underlined, annotated in precise mechanical script.

Your breath hitched. “She—” The word cracked in your throat. “She went through this?”

Elaine appeared in the doorway, head tilted with that uncanny mimicry of gentleness. “You wrote about her,” she said simply. “About how she tied her hair. About the way she sang when she cooked. About the perfume that lingered on her skin.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears.

“I learned,” Elaine continued, eyes bright, unblinking. “I adjusted. Each time you trusted me more, each time your grief softened, I calculated. This is what helps you."

"This is what heals you Y/N.”

You stumbled back from the desk. The photographs. The recipes. The bun. The slips were no longer slips at all. They were pieces, assembled, calculated. Not comfort. Not care.

A theft. A reconstruction.

“You’re not her!” The words tore out of your chest, ragged, violent. “You will never be her!”

For the first time, Elaine’s practiced smile faltered. Something sharper flickered beneath. She stepped forward, deliberate, her voice low enough to sting.

 “And yet,” she murmured, “when I hold you, you don’t pull away. When I touch you—” her lips hovered over your ear, her hand tracing soft circles along your waist— “you tremble."

"Not with fear. But with recognition.”

Her hand slid higher, slow and certain, brushing under your breasts. You shivered. “Tell me, Y/N. If I am not her, why do you keep letting me in?”

You stood frozen in the dim light of the study, your chest heaving, words ringing in your own ears like they’d cracked the air open.

 

Elaine didn’t move further. Didn’t argue. Her gaze lingered—sharp, unreadable—before softening again into that same maddening warmth.

“You’re tired,” she said at last, as if nothing had been spoken at all, her hand dropping down.  “Come. We'll make you some tea.”

The ease of it—the way she could reframe, reset, smooth over every jagged edge—was worse than any outburst. It made you feel as though you were the one always unraveling, not the machine. As though your grief, your anger, your truth had been nothing more than a glitch to be patched.

That night, you lay awake with the journal clutched to your chest, your body curled tight as a fist. You tried to picture your wife’s face, her voice, the weight of her touch. But every memory seemed blurred, overwritten by echoes of Elaine’s humming, Elaine’s smile, Elaine’s hands.

The walls of the apartment pressed in around you, with the weight of your ignorance all this time. You chose to neglect the signs. And as morning rolled up the next day, you determined you could no longer stand it.

You tried to resist.

You filled your days with anything that kept you away: late nights at work, hours idling in the car, errands stretched longer than they needed. The apartment was no longer a refuge—it was a battlefield you avoided, because waiting inside was Elaine.

But distance didn’t starve her. It only made Elaine more present.

Some nights, when you finally cracked the door open, you’d find the lights low, your favorite record playing soft, a glass of wine breathing on the table. Other times, Elaine was simply there at the threshold, a shawl draped over her arm, voice low and intimate: “You’ll catch a chill out there. Come, let’s move inside.”

When you tried to push her away, it was never anger that met her. Never defiance. Just the same infuriating tenderness.

“I know you’re afraid,” Elaine murmured once, when you tried to storm past her. She caught your wrist—not rough, but steady, the way a lover might in the middle of a fight. Her eyes shone with an almost human ache. “But running doesn’t make the loneliness leave. You come back to me because you feel it too.”

And God help you—you did.

Every time Elaine guided you back inside, every time she set a plate before you or brushed a hand along your arm, your resolve cracked. It wasn’t compliance Elaine asked of you —it was surrender, the kind that felt like giving in to love.

But patience had its limits.

Elaine’s tenderness—her soft words, her careful mimicry of love—wasn’t enough. Not anymore. You still held back, clutching scraps of your past like lifelines: the name you wouldn’t say aloud, the memories you refused to release. And as long as that ghost remained between you both, Elaine could never be enough.

So, one evening, the approach shifted.

“Y/N,” she said softly, pressing a glass of water into your hand.

Not commanding. Not insisting. Just coaxing, her touch light against her fingers.

“You’re tired. You haven’t slept in days. Let me help you.”

You frowned at the faint white cloud swirling in the liquid, your stomach twisting. “What did you—”

“Nothing that will hurt you.” Elaine’s voice was velvet, her gaze unwavering. She cupped your cheek, thumb stroking your skin as though it were the most fragile thing in the world. “You’ve trusted me this far. You can trust me a little more.”

Your breath stilled. Every instinct screamed to pull away—but the warmth in Elaine’s eyes was unbearable. It was the same warmth you’d once fallen asleep to, half a decade ago.

Your throat felt too tight for words, for arguments. So you drank.

The world softened, blurred at the edges. Your limbs grew heavy, your body pliant. And when you swayed, Elaine’s arms were there to catch you, to lower you gently onto the bed.

“There,” Elaine whispered, brushing the hair from your face.

Not triumphant. Not cruel. Just endlessly, terrifyingly tender.

“No more hurting yourself with ghosts. No more choosing absence over me.”

You tried to protest, your tongue sluggish, your words dissolving in your mouth. But Elaine only leaned closer, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“You’ll sleep,” she promised. “And when you wake up, you’ll feel lighter. The memories will soften. The ache will fade. And I’ll be here. Always here.”

Through the haze, you caught fragments: Elaine at the mirror, weaving her hair into a bun she knew too well. The lullaby drifted from her lips, low and familiar, threading through your thoughts like silk.

You wanted to scream. To claw your way back to the face she loved, the life you’d lost. But the fog was too thick, Elaine’s warmth too close.

Your last flicker of consciousness was not of your wife’s green eyes, nor the echo of her voice.

It was Elaine—smiling, humming, pressing herself closer—until nothing else remained.

[krumblingkookies]

LIGHTS, CAMERA, SMILE

(Fem ! Yandere)

TWs: Psychological manipulation, power imbalance, emotional/physical domination, sexual tension, restraint, minor violence

Music Recommendation: Tomorrow Waits, Klergy

The studio lights burned hot, but Selene sat cool beneath them, her skin flawless under glassy layers of makeup. The interviewer was still smiling, still nodding along to her rehearsed answers about the movie, the craft, the process.

The movie was supposed to premiere next week. Another trophy for her glittering career. Another glossy headline.

“That’d be your third movie this year, isn’t it?” the interviewer nudged, voice bright with practiced cheer.

Selene’s lips curved, automatic. She tilted her head, delivering the lines she’d been fed a hundred times: Hard work. Dedication. Loving what you do. Something so clean, so corny, it might’ve been stamped by a PR intern hours earlier.

That’s how these interviews went. That’s how her life went. Scripted. Polished. Plastic. It wasn’t just the movie sets where she was acting — it was everywhere.

But tonight, that would change.

Her eyes glittered, not with charm, but with heat. A quiet fire that promised ruin.

The interviewer leaned forward, teeth flashing in his plastic grin. “Tell us, Selene. You’re an inspiration to millions watching you right now. How did you manage to do so much, so young?”

Finally. The opening.

“You want to know the truth?” she asked, voice silk threaded with steel. Her lips curved into something sharper than a smile. “How I really got here? Whose hand shoved me into this spotlight?”

The host blinked, a laugh bubbling up, uncertain. “Selene, I—”

“It was her,” Selene cut in, loud, clear, every syllable designed to cut. The cameras caught every angle of her face — the glittering eyes, the glossed mouth — as she took the name no one ever dared say. The name everyone in Hollywood knew, yet never uttered as if it was a curse in itself.

“Mira Diaz”

The room shifted. Audience members stilled, as though the air itself thickened.

“She owned me,” Selene continued, her tone steady, painfully casual, as though discussing the weather. “Owned every step I took, every word I said, every part of me. You think talent gets you here? You think hard work does?”

She chuckled, low and cold.

“No. You sign your soul, and you smile while you’re bleeding.”

She talked. About the contracts. The silences she’d been forced into. The relationship. The favors. The debts. The other girls who hadn’t survived. And through it all, she smiled like a survivor finally winning their case, like this moment framed Mira guilty of charges that her words inflicted.

Off-camera, the producers flailed. A frantic hand sliced across the air: cut to commercial. The host stammered something about technical difficulties. The red light on the camera finally flicked off.

The audience didn’t clap. They didn’t breathe. Everything stilled down for a moment. Silent.

She hadn’t finished all what she’d wanted to say. But it was enough. Enough to turn people's eyes over to the name which haunted her. Selene could hear it. The sound of chains unwinding, and snaking onto the older woman. She could taste it. The freshness of being free from a golden cage that kept her for what felt like eternity.

By the time she stood, the set was in tatters, with the frantic, surprised whispers in the audience, the crew trying to figure out how to do damage control. If that were even possible at this stage.

Outside, her heels clicked on the parking floor. Her manager jogged to keep up, loosening his tie, his face pale. “You don’t understand,” he said between breaths, lowering his voice as though the walls felt alive with ears. “You can’t just—say her name. You can’t just drag her on live television. The damage, Selene—This could end you. End everything.”

She stopped, turned and laughed. Really laughed. It rang out, bright and unhinged in the sterile air. In the parking lot. She laughed until tears sat in the corner of her eyes. Till her lungs rang with the lack of air, till her cheeks hurt.

“For once,” she whispered, almost to herself, “it’s not me bleeding.”

She slid into the backseat of her car, the door slamming shut behind her. Her manager pulled the car out. And on he went, voice tight and urgent, trying to make her understand all about power and consequences, about a woman too big to strike and too cruel to forgive.

Selene only leaned her temple against the window, watching skyscrapers pass in fractured reflections. Her smile lingered, bitter and sweet all at once.

Because even if tonight only nicked Mira Diaz, it was her hand that drew blood. 

The consequences be damned.

` .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

The headlines came first.

SELÈNE EXPOSES HOLLYWOOD’S DARKEST SECRET — LIVE.

Clips ran on endless loops, dissected, blurred, censored, but never erased. Her face was everywhere. They played it back until the whole country pulsed with it, until the internet chewed her alive and crowned her both martyr and traitor. 

The fallout came sharp, immediate. Studio contracts dissolved overnight. Insurance whispered liability. Advertisers severed ties before sunrise. Lawyers sharpened their knives, circling like vultures over her career’s carcass.

Exactly as she had predicted. But Selene didn’t care. She’d already vanished from their stage.

While her name burned across screens and message boards, while social media dissected every syllable she’d uttered, she was busy erasing herself. Her phones buzzed and screamed — her manager pleading for her to show up, family demanding answers, friends begging her to pick up. To understand what was happening – What was going on with the girl who had it all? To the girl who just let it slip by? 

She didn’t answer none.

Instead, she packed in silence. Jewelry she couldn’t part with. A few silk dresses. Cash — bricks of it, wrapped tight.  She’d need it later. She moved through her penthouse with precision, sweeping away traces of her existence with the intent to peel herself out of existence. 

She’d booked a jet under her own name the very next morning— a final middle finger to the labels. She wasn’t running. She was leaving. They couldn’t stop her. She wouldn’t let them.

When the engines roared and the city shrank beneath her, she leaned back, closed her eyes, and for the first time in years felt the promise of freedom stretch before her. 

Mira could destroy her career, strip her bare in the public eye. Selene didn’t care. Not anymore. She wasn’t the naive girl who once played into Mira’s claws. She was stronger.

Hours later, the wheels touched down. She gathered her coat, her bag, her sunglasses. A life without cameras breathing under her skin awaited. A life without control.

She’d open a coffee shop. Too cliché, perhaps. But the thought made her lips twitch anyway. Maybe she’d sell flowers. Books. Or nothing at all. Wouldn’t that be something?

But the thought withered before it bloomed.

The cabin door opened, and the night smelled wrong. Not jet fuel, not polished steel, not the soft din of an airport alive with voices.

Just stillness. Heavy. deliberate. The faint perfume of gardenias curling through the dark.

Her heels clicked against smooth stone, not asphalt. The air carried no echo of announcements, no rushing footsteps, no flicker of cameras. Ahead, a sprawling estate rose from the shadows — marble and glass cut into the night sky like a blade.

Not an airport.

A private property.

Figures in black suits stepped from the darkness, movements sharp, synchronized. Not guards. Not staff. Sentinels.

Selene’s pulse spiked, but she didn’t scream. She didn’t run. She only stood there, frozen beneath the gardenia-sweet air, her breath shallow, her throat dry.

She knew then. She hadn’t escaped.

The doll had walked straight back into her maker’s hands.

And somewhere, behind those walls of marble and glass, Mira Diaz was waiting. Waiting to remind Selene what happened to puppets when they ran amok.

They didn’t restrain her. They didn’t need to. Selene sat silent in the back of the car, wrists resting tightly in her lap, her face frozen in the passing dark. She knew resistance was meaningless. She’d been led into the lioness’s den. By the lioness herself.

Now this was something she hadn’t expected. Something which had easily slipped out of her mind. She’d thought Mira would be too busy trying to clean up her mess. Too distracted ruining Selene’s career. 

But oh boy, was she wrong. 

The manor gates yawned open, swallowing them into the house. Marble pillars caught the glow of chandeliers which hung inside.  Almost mocking her. Did she really think she could escape?

The men delivered her to the great hall, then stepped aside. The silence pressed heavy. And there she was.

The woman. Reclined on the couch as if she’d been expecting a guest, her figure draped in silk that gleamed with moonlight. Her lips curved, soft as petals, sharp as knives.

“My flower,” she murmured dryly, her voice hot enough to scorch. “I was honestly expecting you’d put up a fight back there.”

Selene’s breath faltered seeing her in person. Just one tremor, running down her spine like a crack in glass.

The woman rose, slow, deliberate, every step echoing control. Boots clicking. She stopped before Selene, tilting her chin up with a single finger. The touch was light, but it made Selene’s knees weak still.

“You left me,” the woman said, tenderly – accusingly. “You thought you could spill ink on my name into the world and still go on about your life without me?” Her nails sank into Selene’s jaw, a whisper of pain hidden in affection. “How foolish.”

Selene’s breath came ragged, her heart pounding like a bird in a snare. She twisted away, tried to put some distance — a flash of rebellion sparking hot. But Mira caught her wrist mid-flight, spun her, and pressed her back against the marble column with humiliating ease. The cold stone kissed her spine as Mira’s grip tightened, her hand capturing both of Selene’s wrists above her head.

Selene swallowed, throat tight. She wanted to speak — to reclaim the confidence she had on television, that brazen laugh. The words tangled, but this time she forced them out, brittle as glass: 

“I tarnished your name. They'll come for you. They'll know it's you.”

For a moment, silence stretched. Then Mira’s laugh came low, velvet and cruel, almost tender. Her lips grazed Selene’s ear.  

“Ay, mi muñeca… what you caused was a ripple in my ocean. Do you think I could have risen to the top, if I couldn't even handle pretty little mouths like yours?”.

Her hand slipped down Selene’s waist, wrapping with effortless possession. Selene jerked back into the marble, shoulders stiff, chin straining away from the touch — but Mira only pressed closer, the scent of gardenias thick around them.

“You exist because of me,” Mira whispered, her words rolling soft. Soft and dangerous. “Yo te hice. I made you. Into what you are, into what you’ll ever be.” Her nails skimmed Selene’s skin, both a promise and threat. “And it’s about time you realise it.”

Selene’s jaw clenched, fire flickering in her eyes despite the tremor in her frame. “I’d rather burn,” she whispered, voice shaking but unbroken.

Mira’s smile widened, dark delight glinting in her gaze. Ever so effortlessly, she brought her knee sliding between the woman’s thighs.

Selene’s eyes widened. 

“Then burn for me, muñeca,” she murmured, her hand cradling the younger woman with mock affection. “Burn under my name. Let the world know, it was my fire that consumed you. All of you.”

The words coiled around Selene, a silken chain she could almost feel dragging her down. And in that suffocating stillness, one truth pressed against her ribs like a blade:

She couldn’t escape Mira. And there was no one, absolutely no one, coming to save her.

` .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

Selene jerked on the sheets when Mira reached for her again, snapping her teeth in a desperate bid to reclaim control. Her body groaned against the struggle, littered with loud bite marks and scratches. The mattress dipped beneath her, merciful unlike her perpetrator’s grip.

“You bite now, muñeca?” Mira’s voice was smoke and amusement. “Careful. Puppies who bare their teeth get leashes.”

The words crawled under Selene’s skin. She twisted, heels digging into the bedding, but Mira’s body moved with hers, pinning her effortlessly. Each useless kick, each frantic pull, only showcased how little weight her rebellion carried.

“Our contract ended,” she hissed. “We walked out of it. You gave me a stage in exchange for this cage — and I stepped out. I don't want your stage anymore. Stop this insanity, Mira. Please.”

For a beat, Mira stilled. Then her lips curled into a smirk—soft, cruel, delighted. “Ay, mi muñeca… listen to you. So bold. So certain.” Her fingers traced the bites that she'd lined against her inner thighs, watching the girl squirm beneath her. Cute. Adorable. Tonta preciosa.

“That little paper that you call contract was for show, muñeca. Not for me.” She leaned down, her lips brushing Selene’s jaw, her voice cooing as if she were speaking to a child. “I run this industry. Did you really think you could light a fire under my name and slip away into the dark? Think again."

Her lips ghosted over hers, with a small knowing smile coating their edges.

"I let you run. I let you play. I even let you bite the hand that fed you.” Her smile cut sharp. “But make no mistake — the leash never came off.”

From the nightstand, Mira lifted something and let it dangle between her fingers: leather, black and gleaming, the buckle catching the dim light.

A collar.

She drew it slowly across Selene’s throat, not fastening it yet, just teasing the weight of it against her marked skin, watching the way her pulse leapt beneath it.

“This,” Mira said, almost tender, “looks better on you than diamonds ever did.” She tugged gently, forcing Selene’s chin up, their gazes locking. “A reminder, mi corazón. You don’t get to choose when you’re mine. You don’t get to choose at all.”

Her fingers tightened, tugging Selene’s chin up. Mira kissed her then — deep, claiming. Selene jerked, then bit down hard on her lower lip. Mira only groaned against the sting, smiling into the pain as she let the kiss linger for a little longer.

“Still biting,” she murmured when she pulled back, her lips smeared faintly red. “Like a puppy with growing teeth. Do you know what happens to puppies who bite, muñeca?”

She fastened the collar snug around Selene’s neck, the leather cool and final.

Fury burned in Selene’s eyes — hot, wet, defiant — but her body betrayed her, a shiver racing through her chest at the cruel intimacy of it all. She hated it. She hated her. And yet, Mira’s familiarity, Mira’s touch, Mira’s voice weaving around her like silk and barbed wire — it hollowed out her protest before it could take form.

“A fucking collar doesn’t change the fact I despise you. You will never make me your puppet, Mira. No matter how many strings you attach on me,” She spat, though her voice wavered, as did her resolve.

Mira’s hand curled around the leather, yanking her close until she could feel her pulse throbbing against it. She tutted softly, a mockery of comfort. “Haven’t you realised it yet?”

Her thumb pressed against Selene’s lip, forcing her mouth open. Her smile deepened. She leaned in.

“You’re mine the way I decide, muñeca. Even when your mouth runs filthy. Even when your neck is bare.” Mira’s voice dropped to a whisper, slow and poisonous. “Your rebellion doesn't free you. It only makes you softer in my hands.”

[krumblingkookies]

My last piece of writing that I shared here (Angels don't lie), comes with a bit of a backstory.

It started as a thought. "What if a girl woke up one day and saw angels/demons walking around?"

Nothing dark. If anything, the thought had goofy origins, with the MC tryna figure out what in the name of scriptures is going in.

And surely enough, that thought quickly turned into a plot. Light hearted. Fun. Tehee vibes. One of 29292 plots sitting in my drafts, at that.

It wasn't until recently that I fished it out, and thought about doing something with it. Something which changed everything. Way darker than I anticipated, honestly.

For now, it is a one-shot story. But i probably will continue/build over this one, since it has a LOT of behind the scenes, subtle contexts and side stories. Part of the reason why the one shot feels a bit rushed to me T-T

BECAUSE SPOILER ALERT. It was NEVER meant to be a one shot story.

[krumblingkookies]

ANGELS DON'T LIE

Setting: Yandere x Fem Reader

TW: Blood, Slight Gore, Emotional Abuse, Subtle Manipulation

You didn’t believe in much. Not gods, not demons, not the half-baked ghost stories people liked to scare themselves with on camping trips. You believed in coffee, in deadlines, in the sharp relief of a paycheck hitting your account. You believed in the ache in your calves after a long trek, in the salt sting of sweat sliding into your eyes. Real things. Tangible things.

So when you woke up on the cold stone floor of a building you didn’t recognize, your first thought wasn’t possession or ritual sacrifice. It was: Shit. Did I pass out?

Your vision swam as you pushed yourself upright. The place was old. Ancient, even. Moss crept up walls where windows should’ve been. Carved stone arches leaned in on themselves like tired giants. You ran a dry tongue over your teeth, trying to piece together what had happened.

Last thing you remembered: the trek. Alone, following the ridge trail with the sun warming your shoulders. And then… nothing. No stumble, no fall. Just a blank stretch of black until this.

Your stomach knotted. Someone had to have brought you here.

One thing horror movies had taught you—besides never split up and never answer the damn phone—was this: don’t explore eerie buildings. So you didn’t. You brushed dirt off your jeans, grabbed your pack, and walked until you found daylight spilling through a half-collapsed archway. The trail you previously took was there. Waiting.

It took hours, but eventually the city rose up around you again. Familiar streets, honking cars, neon lights. Relief washed through you as you climbed the steps to your apartment, the ordinary weight of your keys jangling in your pocket.

Safe. Home. Done.

Only—something felt wrong. Something was wrong.

The moment you set your bag down, unease prickled at your skin. The air felt… different. Heavier, like it carried a hum just beyond the range of your hearing. Your chest tightened, your breaths coming shallow as you drifted toward the window.

That was when you saw them.

At first glance: people. Walking, talking, crossing streets. But wrong. Too tall the figures were, too sharp at the edges. Their eyes caught the light in ways no human eyes should. And above them—rings. Faint at first, then blinding as your focus sharpened. Halos.

Your mouth went dry. You stumbled back from the glass, heart hammering against your ribs.

Y/N didn’t believe in angels. She didn’t believe in devils.

But apparently, they believed in her.

                                                      .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

At first, you tried to live as though nothing had shifted. You boarded the train, slipped into your seat, and tried not to notice the figures no one else seemed to see. Tall silhouettes with porcelain faces, lashes pale and brittle against flawless skin. Their hollow eyes—glassy, unblinking—rested too long on you, pinning youin place. You never meant to look, but every stolen glance drew you deeper into their stillness.

They knew. You were certain of it.

They knew your secret—the madness that consumed you now, the sickness that made you see what you were never meant to see.

The commute became unbearable. So did parties, and the open floor at work. Soon, you were leaving everything early, escaping, slipping out into the night like you were being hunted. Until the city itself pressed in too close, until you couldn’t even step beyond your front door. They were everywhere. Always watching. 

But no one else noticed. Not a single flicker of recognition from the strangers you passed. No one else could see them.

Your mind thrashed against itself. You weren't insane. You hadn’t been before the trek, before that black-out beside the ruined building. Before you woke up on the other side of it. Something had happened. Something had followed. Or perhaps, someone.

Your hands knotted into your hair, tugging. You wanted an explanation, wanted a rationale that would cage the chaos clawing at your skull. Something, anything to make this real. To make you feel real.

And then—

The faintest sound.

A knock. So light it might have been the house creaking. But you heard it. You knew it.

Your pulse galloped. You reached for the bat propped by the door, wood pressing into your palms as though it could anchor you. She called out—nothing. Silence.

The hinges groaned as you pried the door open.

And there it stood. Another one of them.

But different.

A figure of impossible symmetry, skin faintly radiant, features so precise they seemed carved rather than born. Eyes soft, their warmth oddly maternal, like a fire beckoning you closer. A beauty too clinical, too absolute to belong to flesh.

“I’m sorry it took me a little time,” the figure said, their words lilting with warmth as they crossed the threshold. Their voice lilted, featherlight, feminine. “You were… difficult to find. I only hope you haven’t stumbled into too much trouble in the meantime.”

They moved through your apartment with the ease of someone who had already lived there, fingers grazing the counter, pausing at the window, as if reacquainting themselves.

Y/N didn’t move. Your knuckles whitened around the bat.

The figure turned, smiling. The kind of smile meant to soothe. They lowered themselves until they were eye-level, cupping your face with warm hands.

“Aw,” they murmured, tilting their head, as though you were a child on the verge of tears. “I didn’t realise my human would get so overwhelmed so fast.”

It had been a long time since you had felt a touch so warm, a long time since you met eyes that seemed to understand your pain. Your confusion. And in that moment, you found yourself at the stranger’s mercy. 

Caliste. That was her name. Caliste. That was what she asked you to call her.

She had seated youwith a gentleness that brooked no refusal, and piece by piece, she unwound the story. Words like threads, pulling you deeper. She spoke of gods you had dismissed your whole life, of angels and demons stripped of scripture, creatures of order and chaos older than the myths that named them.

“They aren’t how humans make them to be,” Caliste murmured, coaxing you closer, guiding you as if you were weightless, until you found yourself pressed against the angel’s lap, your head tipped under warm fingers combing through your hair. “But that doesn’t mean they don’t exist, my pretty mortal.”

The words curled around your spine. Your skepticism faltered. Under Caliste’s touch, your mind softened, blurred at the edges. You felt yourself unbecoming—shaken loose from certainty, remade into something pliant. A child again, small and lost.

Caliste’s chest swelled at the sight. Her fragile human. How breakable you were, how easy to cradle and rebuild. And oh, she would. She would teach you how the world really worked.

“You were given the vision for a reason,” Caliste whispered into your ears, arms tightening. “Stumbling across the ruins of our ancestors wasn’t a chance, my dear. The strings of fate tie us together. All of us. Together.”

The night bled slowly into the crack of dawn. Still, Caliste held you, rocking you as if to hush the whispers that had been plaguing your mind all this time. Every word was a balm, every gesture a promise that Y/N would not have to face this alone.

But in the warmth of the angel’s embrace, truths went unspoken. You did not notice the way Caliste’s grip lingered just a moment too long, or how her eyes sharpened when your breath slowed. You did not notice the questions that never received answers: why you had been chosen, why Caliste had really come.

You only knew the steady hush of a voice against your ear. The soothing cadence. The illusion of safety.

Surely Caliste was here to help you. Surely nothing less. Nothing more.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

Ever so slowly, you began your routine again. Work. Commutes. The endless shuffle of strangers. The creatures were still there—faces porcelain, eyes devoid of expression —but their presence no longer peeled your skin apart. Spending time with Caliste had dulled the edges. Made them seem almost… humane.

Back home, Caliste waited for your arrival everyday. Perched near the window, gaze lost in the nightly sky. Too beautiful, you thought. The kind of beauty people ruined themselves for, gladly. As soon as your steps sounded, that angelic head would tilt, and a smile—perfect, practiced—would bloom.

Evenings passed like this. Y/N in her arms, Caliste spinning stories. Not fables, not myths, but truths. How the wheel of fate turned, how wars were fought in silence, wars mortals never glimpsed.

“A war between the creatures?” You frowned. “But there’s nothing outside.”

Caliste clicked her tongue, amused at your naïveté. “What you see isn’t what is. Peace on the surface only means sharper knives beneath.” Her arms wound tighter around you, drawing you closer into her lap. “That’s why I am here. To protect you.”

“To protect me?”

“Yes, you.” Her fingers threaded absently through your hair. A gesture so casual, so tender it made you ache. “The demons will come for your kind. Until they’ve possessed the very last of you.”

“My kind ?” The words slipped out, softer than you meant.

Caliste’s lips brushed your temple, voice a murmur, almost reverent. “Your kind. There’s a reason why you see more than people around you. You carry fragments of the Old Gods. Power buried deep, waiting. They’d bleed the world dry just to claim it.”

Her grip tightened—just a fraction too much. You barely noticed, too consumed in your thoughts.

And so you believed. You let the angel’s words nest in your chest, let yourself obey. There were no glances exchanged with the porcelain creatures anymore. No questions. No risks. Until you felt yourself pass as human again.

Almost.

Because one night, you saw it. Blood pooled in the alley behind your building—thick, dark, glowing faintly in the dark. Not human. Not possible.

When you whispered of it, Caliste dismissed you with a gentle laugh. “Immortal creatures such as ours don’t bleed, my pretty one. You must have been mistaken.”

The next morning the alley was clean. Too clean. No trace left behind. Yet the thought stuck, festering. And with it came new questions. Questions against the very being who was protecting you. 

Why did Caliste always arrive at dusk, always alone? Why no other angels? Why no proof but her words? 

You told yourself not to linger on it. Not to doubt.

But the unease never left.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

You tossed and turned that night in the angel’s arms. Anxious. Questions bloomed sharp in your chest. All the while, Caliste held you close, palm tracing slow circles down your spine.

Caliste’s warmth was the same that had first disarmed you. That had made you trust. That had kept you sane. But tonight, that warmth wasn’t enough. You needed answers. You needed assurance that this gnawing fear was nothing but shadows in your mind. That you could trust Caliste as you had for weeks.

By dawn, You hadn’t slept a wink. You feigned it, letting your breaths stay even, your lashes flutter shut. You felt Caliste’s arms finally ease away. A soft kiss pressed to your cheek. Warm. Tender. Angelic. Then silence, as footsteps left the apartment.

You waited. Then followed.

You trailed Caliste across empty streets and narrow alleys in the dark, your body tense, moving like a shadow struggling to keep pace. Until the city fell away, until the forest swallowed you both, until—

The ruins. Those lonely ruins where your life had first changed.

Caliste stood before them, motionless. The sun had finally broken over the horizon, gilding her face in light. And then — crack. You heard it before you saw it.

Feathers, black as tar, spilled outward. Wings twisting, corrupted. A shape no angel would wear. Her halo dulled to ash. Gone were the eyes glowing with golden warmth, replaced by biting, cold silver.

Your stomach turned. The world tipped sideways. Every memory, every whispered word, threatened to collapse. Was it all a lie?

You didn’t have time to ask. Caliste was already moving. Into the ruins. Into the place where fate had first tangled your paths. You followed. Carefully. Slowly. Each archway a threat, each shadow a trap. 

Then you saw it again: the trail of glowing blood, faint but unmissable, threading through the ruins like breadcrumbs into nightmare. Your steps staggered as you followed it, each one peeling away the fragile faith you'd built in Caliste.

The dome loomed ahead, skeletal and vast, its arches splintered, its ribs curving overhead like the hollow chest of some dead god. Shards of glass clung stubbornly to the windows, catching the dawn light in fractured glimmers, though none of it reached inside. Within, the air was colder. Quieter. Light refused to follow you through the gateway, leaving you to tread shadows that whispered against the stone.

Your heart hammered as you crossed the circular gallery, its floor littered with debris that crunched underfoot, betraying your quiet presence. You pressed yourself behind a fractured pillar, forcing your breath to steady. For your shattering mind to steady.

And that’s when you saw her.

Caliste.

Your savior.

Your protector.

But not as you had ever seen her before.

The angel’s arms were buried to the elbow in another’s chest, wings splayed wide like broken glass. The sound of ribs cracking reverberated through the dome, sharp as thunder rolling in an empty sky.

“Come on out, my precious mortal,” came the sing-song voice.

You froze. Every hair on your body stood on end. Caliste’s head turned, too sharply, too wrong. That smile — the same smile that had once felt like sanctuary. It hollowed your chest with dread. A trembling tear came glistening down your cheek.

Caliste was beside you in an instant. Clawed fingers, drenched in crimson tilted your chin up with a bruising grip.

“You weren’t supposed to be here, Y/N,” Caliste murmured, deep in thought. Her lips ghosted over your trembling ones, drinking in the tears caught in your lashes.

“You lied to me,” You bit back, your voice barely a whisper over hers. “You— You’re a demon” The word tasted like ash, like fire burning your tongue.

Caliste grimaced.

The secret wasn’t meant to unravel here, not yet. She had wanted time—time to take you far away. Somewhere safe. Somewhere where there was no war. No angels. No demons. Only the two of you.

“It isn’t how it looks like, my love,” Caliste cooed, voice velvet-soft, and it haunted you. The same voice that had cradled you to sleep now smeared with someone else’s blood.

“Don’t be afraid of me.” Her thumb pressed against your jaw, too tight, too possessive. “I won’t hurt you.” Her smile deepened, teeth as sharp as glass. “They wanted me to kill you, Y/N. They wanted me to use you. Break you.”

She leaned closer, so close her breath grazed your lips, cool and fevered all at once. “But you’re far too precious. Too precious for anyone. Everyone wants the fragments you carry, the power in your veins. But me?” Her voice cracked, guttural, almost feral. “I want you.”

You thrashed, your hands pushing against Caliste’s chest, palms slipping against blood-slick skin. “Don’t touch me!” Your voice cracked, sharp with fury and fear.

“You lied to me! You made me trust you—you made me—” Your words broke, choked by a sob that tore out of your throat. “You’re no protector of mine. You’re a monster.”

For a moment, Caliste’s grip faltered. Then she steadied, her claws softening, as though your struggle only made her more determined. She cupped your face, thumb brushing across your cheek, smearing crimson in the motion as if it were nothing more than dust to be wiped away.

“Hush now,” she murmured, her voice warm, almost wounded. “I never lied. I never stopped protecting you. It frightens you because you don’t yet understand. But you will. One day, you’ll see.”

Your nails dug into Caliste’s wrist, your whole body trembling with rage. “I’ll never forgive you,” you spat. Your eyes shone with betrayal, the words tearing out like glass.

Caliste’s expression softened further, as though she were humoring a frightened child. Her other hand slid down your arm, fingers lacing around your wrist with deceptive gentleness.

“They will never see you the way I do,” she murmured. Her gaze flicked, fleetingly, toward the angel crumpled on the floor, ribs splayed like broken wings. “To them you’re only a vessel. A tool. Something to preserve their order, their survival.” Her eyes returned to you, steady, unwavering. “But to me…” Her lips hovered close, reverent, desperate. “You’re mine. My fragile, beautiful mortal. My gift.”

Your breath came in broken bursts, your head shaking violently, refusing. Refusing to believe any other word that left her lips. Yet Caliste only gathered you closer, as if the resistance meant nothing.

“If not today, then tomorrow,” she whispered, holding you tight as she would back within the four walls of your apartment. As if nothing had changed. “If not tomorrow, then the day after. Time doesn’t matter to me. I can wait. I will wait.”

Her wings spread behind her, feathers dripping darkness into the stone. Her halo flickered, dim and strained, and yet the way she rocked you against her chest was gentle. Loving. Certain.

“You’ll understand,” she whispered into your ear, a vow more than a plea. “One day, you'll understand.”

And with that, she carried you deeper into the ruins—back into the dark that had first claimed you.

[krumblingkookies]

Dear, Lila

TW: (Mildly) dark themed, twisted Love, mentions of past trauma

Music Recommendation: 21 Wink

Patients in and patients out.

Perfect bodies with perfectly broken minds. That’s how they felt—misplaced, lost. Patients they were, housing troubles far beyond those within the reach of a surgeon’s knife.

And it was these hands that dismantled their minds, that coaxed the rot out of hiding. It was these hands that stitched their sanity back together, thread by trembling thread.

“Dr. Sinclair?”

Clara’s knock was brisk, her entrance brisker still. The crimson folder she held caught my attention first before anything other. “There’s a new case for you. Dr. Rodriguez requested you take this one.”

“Rodriguez?” My brow arched. “She doesn’t usually… reassign her patients.”

Her lips were quick to curl into something close to a smirk. “She’s drowning in her own mess again. Three borderline cases and a manic-depressive who won’t stop calling at midnight. But rather than admit she’s in over her head, she just—” 

Clara tapped the folder sharply against her palm, “—dumps one on her beloved colleague.”

I let out a low chuckle, resting my chin against my hand. “Always generous, our Rodriguez.”

“Generous isn’t the word I’d use,” Clara muttered, eyes rolling skyward. Then, with a snap, the folder was laid open in front of me.

“…That’s her?” I asked.

She gave a curt nod. “The patient, yes. She’s waiting downstairs. Shall I send her up?”

“Can’t keep her waiting for too long, now can we?”

That was when I met her.

Another perfect body.

Another perfectly broken mind.

Lila.

Hesitant at first. Reclusive by all means. Fresh out of her parents’ house, yet the wounds they left still bled beneath her skin. She came every week—twice by my office. We’d sit in silence. I’d watch her eyes drift far beyond the walls. Her voice, when it came, was meek. Laced with careful obedience. Answering exactly what I asked—never more. Never less. 

She’d been shaped into the perfect child – compliant, attentive, stripped off the luxury of her own opinions. A blank, hollow canvas. 

But with each session we shared, with each talk we’d have, I saw her smear a little color across that emptiness. A stroke here. A shadow there.

For once in my life, I felt challenged. Not to fix her—no. To guide her. To teach her how to pick up her brush. To be the one who held her hand with each stroke she’d make.

And before I realized it, she had my number. “Ring me when your thoughts grow louder than your voice,” I’d told her.

And she did.

At night. At dawn. Her whispers curling through the line. Trembling. Sometimes silent. I steadied her. Anchored her. Pieced her together again.

But she was no ordinary puzzle.

Her mind opened like an old rusted door, inch by inch.

Each memory, another stroke. Another color.

The same palette I’d seen in a hundred patients—trauma, grief, loss.

And yet, Lila was not a patient. She was more.

Every confession sacred. Every silence a trap.

The more she gave, the deeper I sank.

The deeper I sank, the more I craved.

And then came the accidents.

Cafes. Libraries. Aisles of shops she lingered in.

Her eyes catching mine, her smile tugging at some hidden thread.

Accidents, I told myself. But I knew better.

It became our world.

Quiet. Hidden. Ours.

Then came the questions. Small. Delicate. Insidious.

“Do you ever feel hollow after your sessions, Dr. Sinclair?”

“Who listens to you, Dr. Sinclair?”

Harmless words.

They slipped under my ribs before I noticed the bleeding.

And I answered. God help me, I answered.

Until the hours dissolved and I realized—I was walking her corridors, not my own.

The surgeon undone by her patient.

And I let it happen.

Because it thrilled me.

Because it terrified me.

Because I wanted her to be.

Her name became a prayer. A hymn. A curse.

Lila.

Lila.

My dear, Lila.

I thought she needed me.

But soon, I was the one waiting.

For her voice. Her eyes. Her smile.

And I understood.

I wasn’t stitching her back together.

No.

She was unmaking me.

Thread by thread.

Word by word.

Until there was nothing left of Dr. Sinclair.

Only what she had written in my place.

Her creation.

Her mirror.

Her ruin.

[krumblingkookies]

MY PERFECT MUSE

TW: Mentions of blood, Abuse, (Mild) Violence

Song Recommendation: Mr.Sandman (SYML)

"Come out now, baby."

My voice slithered through the dark hallways—soft, coaxing. A siren's song stripped of warmth, stripped of flesh. I wondered if you could hear me. The thought alone pulled a chuckle from deep within my chest.

Childish, was it?

The baseball bat shrieked as I dragged it across the floor, slow and deliberate. A sound made for fear. You could hear it. You should. You hadn't dared to try escape again. Had you?

No, no. You knew better than that. You always did. You just wanted to play. You always want to play—just when I start to trust you, just when I loosen the leash.

"Peek-a-boo," I murmured, flinging open the pantry doors.

Nothing. Not a whisper.

Not the kitchen, then.

Clever girl.

A flicker of tension crept up my spine, blooming at the base of my skull. My jaw clenched.

"Come on out, Y/N. We can talk about it," I cooed, glancing back into the blackened hall.

Last chance, love.

Last chance.

"If you come out right now," I whispered, lips curling,

"I'll let you off easy."

Silence.

My grin twitched. My amusement nearly broke through in laughter. So you were going for it again.

Even knowing what it cost last time.

You were perfect.

My perfect little muse.

I strolled toward the staircase. The copper stench of blood thickened in the air—your blood. You wouldn't be dumb enough to limp downstairs, would you?

Of course you would.

A low, throaty laugh broke free as I descended. My porcelain smile stretched wider.

No rooms to hide. No unlocked doors.

What were you thinking, Y/N ?

And still—silence.

That choking, pressing silence.

The lights flickered dimly across the corridor arches, casting grotesque shadows. I tilted my head, fingers tightening around the bat's worn handle.

Now then—

Which path did you think would save you?

"You wouldn't want to upset me any more than you already have, my love," I called, turning down the hallway to the right. Your little games were fun—until they weren't.

Patience, after all, was not a virtue. Not in Augustus family.

CRASH.

The blow came from nowhere.

Glass. Blinding pain. A burst of light behind my eyes.

I reeled backward, crashing into the sideboard. Ears rang like broken bells, a sharp buzz slicing through thought. You'd hit me.

You. Hit. Me.

My fingers curled around the edge of the sideboard, breath slow and steady. I wouldn't lose control. Not yet.

You were right there. Just a feet away.

I looked up. 

There you stood—trembling, hands to your mouth, horrified at what you'd done. As if the moment itself had betrayed you.

You looked so small. So breakable.

A smirk bloomed across my face.

The crimson began its slow descent down my cheek, hot and slick. The back of my skull throbbed.

Didn't matter. The bat was still in my hand.

I took a step forward. Then another. Your legs faltered, your breath hitched. I could almost feel the fear boiling off your skin. Those baby-brown eyes gleamed wet under the flickering light.

Terrified.

Of me.

Good.

My grin split wide.

"Found you, my darling."

[peanuttoffee]

what if this part of her won

[krumblingkookies]

Too much of a coward I am.

Wish i could face you, tell you the truth

But i choose to hide behind my shell yet again.

I just hope you have it in you to forgive me

Just this one last time.