Heya! I’m putting up this commission post for those who are interested to see their own personal yandere in their environment… or you could also request from the pre-existing list of oc!yandere of this blog. (I'm in pain for a week now (T▽T).)
Listing
Full Fiction
Immerse yourself in a 1,000 word count full fiction or more with your chosen yandere. The price starts at $10. Additional 1k words are priced at $10. So, for 2k words, you'll be paying $20, 3k = $30, and so forth.
One Shot
Let your yandere take care of you within 500-1,000-word count. Price starts at $6 and max at $10. Beyond 1k words, I suggest getting the full fiction instead 😊
Drabble/Ficlet
Sometimes, yanderes can get impatient. They’ve been waiting for too long and wanted to get you. Get your fix at $5.
Mode of Payment
For the payment, you can send it on my kofi (via donations) or you can also ask me for my paypal. I have limited mode of payment available due to restrictions.
Information
You can message me here on tumblr (via ask at the moment) or you can also opt to send a commission request via ko-fi. Or you can also email me on [email protected]. Or discord @noirscrypt. If you want to commission me, kindly include the following to your message:
Tell me about your ideal yandere. What you'd hate them to do to you: do you want them to keep you from leaving him? Do want them to keep an eye on you at all times? Tell me about the things you hate (or love) about him. Let me know about your "hard no's" too.”
Limitations
So, here are some of my hard no’s:
Vore/Gore (or any graphic horror snuff)
NO GOLDEN SHOWER. You’ll never find them here. Sorry.
Loli/Shota (need I say more?)
Terms of Service
You can post it on your own blog, have it printed, or have it translated.
You can't claim it as your work, though. You can't claim any of my characters as your own, or use them for anything else. Also, you can't commission other writers to write my characters either. :)
You can't train any a.i. using my characters or the commission.
Optional: With your permission, I can post your commission on this blog and enjoy the reaction of other readers. It's fun. Trust me ;)
Final Notes
As I've mentioned above, I'm trying to find other source of income (may not be stable, but at least it'll help me save up).
I've been in pain for the past few days and it's becoming more and more unbearable at this moment. Pain killer's not relieving the pain anymore and I'm having difficulty walking. I was shortsighted and wasn't able to save up for these kind of things. At this point, I'm also accepting donations of any amount.
I am open for commission, but it's not required. I highly appreciate your support with my works. :)
pt. 3
Pairing: Yandere Husband x Reader
Warning/s: Yandere | Obsessive Behavior | Psychological Manipulation | Emotional Abuse | Possessive Partner | Stalking | Implied Non-Consensual Acts | Dubious Consent | Confinement | Control and Power Imbalance | Dark Themes
Notes: Please enjoy the part three of Coen's story. Still recovering from the accident. Just pulled up his story's draft that I almost forgot. I'm sorry T^T
Part I | Part II | Part III
You waited until day nine.
Nine days of predictable patterns. Nine days of coaxed comfort and gentle surveillance dressed up as affection. Coen had relaxed just enough to make the illusion breathable, like a man confident the storm inside you had passed. And maybe it would have—if you hadn’t seen the key again.
It was a small detail. Barely a second’s glance as he stepped into the garage to retrieve a bottle of wine from the car’s backseat, leaving the door ajar while he hummed to himself. There, hanging above the workstation—keys. Labeled. Organized. One of them gleamed under the overhead light, and it pulsed like a beacon in the back of your mind every hour after.
So you waited.
You kept up the act. Read beside him. Let him brush your hair. Laughed at his jokes when required and rested your hand over his chest at night, hearing the slow, possessive rhythm of his breathing as he held you with a grip too soft to bruise but too tight to slip.
And on the ninth night, when he finally let his guard down and decided to soak in the bath upstairs, you made your move.
It wasn’t bold. It wasn’t loud. You had studied the hallways like scripture. Counted every creak in the wooden floors, every shadow in the low-lit sconces. You walked barefoot, holding your breath until your lungs screamed, and paused every time a gust of wind rattled a window somewhere deeper in the estate.
The garage was colder than you remembered. Smelled of oil and pine cleaner. The lights were already off, but moonlight filtered through the high windowpanes just enough to guide you to the keys.
They were there. Untouched. Hanging from their place on the wall like obedient soldiers.
You reached for them slowly, forcing yourself to move like a woman picking flowers, not cutting wire. You found the fob labeled “Black Car – Hills,” and your fingers trembled so violently when you closed around it that you nearly dropped it.
The car itself sat in the far corner, sleek and silent. You slipped inside, body moving on instinct as you adjusted the seat, inserted the key, and tapped the ignition.
Nothing.
Silence.
A moment passed, then the screen flashed red.
NO ACCESS.
You stared, breath caught in your throat, as the vehicle's onboard security system blinked once, twice, then shut off. The garage door remained still.
It was biometric. Of course it was. His control didn’t stop at locked doors and flattery. Of course the car wouldn’t start without him.
Your hands tightened around the wheel until your nails dug into your palms. Something hot and helpless curled inside your chest and begged to scream, but you bit it down. Screaming would get you nothing.
You climbed out, trembling but composed, and moved to return the key. Your bare feet padded across the floor as you reached the rack and—froze.
The key was still in your hand.
But there were footsteps behind you.
Slow. Heavy. No rush.
The air shifted, cold and intimate, and you didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.
“I told you,” Coen said softly, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space. “You’ve been so good for me.”
You turned slowly, eyes wide, throat dry.
He wasn’t angry. Not the way you expected. He looked calm—disappointed, but calm.
And that was worse.
“I was going to tell you,” you lied, voice hoarse. “I just needed—air.”
“You were going to run,” he said, stepping closer. His expression was unreadable. “You think I didn’t see this coming?”
“I didn’t—”
“You did.” His eyes found the key in your palm. “You waited. You watched. You smiled for days like a perfect little wife and waited for your chance.”
You couldn’t deny it.
But he didn’t take the key.
Instead, Coen reached for your hand, gently, as though coaxing you back from a ledge. He plucked the fob from your fingers with a reverence that felt insulting. Like you were a child who’d taken a toy before asking.
“I’m not mad,” he said, brushing a thumb over your knuckles. “I knew it might happen. That you’d test the edges of your cage. It’s...natural.”
You didn’t speak. You couldn’t trust your voice.
He stepped even closer, towering now, his body trapping you between the keys and his breath.
“But let me ask you something,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Would he have done this for you?”
Your brow creased in confusion.
“The bartender,” he clarified. “Or whoever it was you imagined might have taken you in when you walked away. Would he have built you a home? Kept you safe? Remembered every single thing you loved and given it back to you? Even after you tried to leave him?”
You shook your head, but not in answer. In disbelief.
Coen leaned in. His lips brushed your temple.
“Would he have come for you?”
You said nothing. But he heard something anyway.
He always did.
And then his voice shifted. Lower. Darker. That delicate edge between heartbreak and hunger.
“I’m going to forgive this, love. Because I know you’re still healing.” His mouth ghosted over the side of your neck. “But I’ll need to remind you again. Just once. That I’m not something you run from.”
His hand slid down your arm. Not forceful. Not yet.
“I let you go once,” he whispered. “It almost destroyed me.”
The silence that followed didn’t feel like mercy.
It felt like a promise.
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
He didn’t drag you upstairs.
There was no shouting, no bruising grip around your wrist. He simply took your hand in his, guiding you back through the echoing hallways of the estate as if you were returning from an evening walk instead of a failed escape. The lights were low. The silence between you grew heavier with each step. You wondered if the staff knew. If they were awake behind those silent walls, watching monitors or peering from behind half-closed doors.
When you crossed the bedroom threshold, he didn’t speak.
He closed the door behind you, clicked the lock, and exhaled slowly as though what came next exhausted him.
“I’ve been so patient with you,” he said, turning toward you at last. “So gentle. I thought if I reminded you of what we had—of what we still are—you’d come back to me on your own.”
You stood near the foot of the bed, fingers numb, heart pounding painfully in your throat. You could have begged. Pleaded. But you’d learned something far more useful in the past few days.
Silence disarmed him.
Coen stepped closer, and with each pace, the mask of calm slipped a little more. Not in rage—but in need. That bottomless, frantic hunger he tried so hard to dress in silk and patience.
“I would’ve given you time,” he whispered. “Days. Weeks. However long it took.”
He stopped in front of you, eyes locked on yours, his voice shaking—not from anger, but something far more dangerous.
“But you ran. And that’s what changed everything.”
He reached for the tie on your robe, fingers moving with a slow precision that made your skin crawl. You didn’t resist. You didn’t move. And in return, he treated your body like something sacred and ruined all at once.
The robe slipped off your shoulders.
His hands followed.
“You’re not being punished,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw as he slid his hands down your sides. “This isn’t about pain. It’s about memory.”
He brought you to the bed with that same suffocating tenderness, easing you down like a husband caring for a delicate wife who’d been through something traumatic. His touch wasn’t violent. It was possessive. Reverent. Worship laced with control.
“You belong to me,” he whispered against your skin. “Say it.”
You turned your head away. He caught your chin gently, turning it back to him.
“I said—say it.”
The first time, you whispered it out of fear. The second time, he drew it from your lips with the push of his body between your legs, his mouth pressed to yours like a seal. You said it again when he moaned your name into the hollow of your throat, and again when he held you there, unmoving, until your body gave in to what your mind resisted.
“You’re remembering,” he breathed against your ear. “Good girl.”
He claimed you slowly. Thoroughly. Again. And again.
No rage. No shouting.
Just Coen and his unshakable belief that he was fixing you.
That with enough kisses, with enough whispered claims in the dark, he could overwrite the part of you that still wanted to run.
“You were made for me,” he murmured, when your body finally stopped trembling. “Every inch of you. Even your rebellion.”
He stroked your hair back from your face like a man soothing a child after a tantrum.
“You’re not allowed to break, darling. I won’t let you. I built you to be mine.”
You didn't answer.
You let your eyes fall closed. Your body stay soft.
And in the quiet, beneath the weight of him, beneath the choking silk of devotion twisted into control, you thought of the garage again. Of the lock. The car. The timing.
You hadn’t failed.
Not yet.
You have learned.
You knew now how quickly he moved. How silent he could be. How long it took him to draw a bath. How he exhaled before unlocking the garage.
Coen believed he’d reminded you of your place.
But in truth, he'd reminded you of something else.
Hi everyone, I want to sincerely apologize as I’ll need to delay the release of Sovereign’s Reign. I was involved in an accident—I fell from a jeepney on my way home, and my right shoulder took most of the impact. The soreness and limited movement have made it difficult for me to finalize everything as planned.
I hope you can understand, and I truly appreciate your patience and support. I’ll make sure to update you once I’m back in better shape.
To those who've been here for a while, you've probably came across my commission posts before. (I'm still open for them, by the way!) All those issues are being resolved bit by bit and now...
I've become a marketing head in one of the businesses in our city 🥹 So uh... yeah. I became busy for awhile due to my new position and job.
Yaay! Anyway, can't wait to share more stories (of course yandere ones) that I haven't posted yet because I forgot to post it hahahahaha
Hello, just read one of your works, the yandere husband one, Coen I believe. It was nice, but there was no tag or warning for rape/marital rape, let alone a set scene.
I checked your profile and didn't see a warning there either.
If you could please add a warning or tag for rape, smut, nsfw whatever you prefer, just please add a warning. Thanks.
Hi, yes! Apologies for that. I'll be tagging them tonight as soon as I get home. Thank you for sending this reminder!
✨ Sovereign’s Reign is now available for pre-order! ✨
Pre-order period: May 16 – May 31 June 30 [EXTENDED]
🌙 What you’ll get (for free!):
— A novelette from King Callixto’s POV | pre-order exclusive!
— Special bonus chapters
— Character profiles with story-format backstories | pre-order exclusive!
— A sneak peek at Runes of Escape
📖 Reserve your copy here → Sovereign's Reign Pre-order
P.S. You’ll notice the name Amari Omori on the cover—that’s my new pen name for published ebooks moving forward. (Better SEO and all that. Noir’s a little too saturated rn.)
💌 Questions? Send me an email, or reach out on Discord (@noirscrypt) or Instagram (@noirscrypt).
IMPORTANT TO NOTE: You will be receiving the files on or before July 30, 2025. The file you'll receive upon payment is a placeholder.
Extended the pre-order period until end of this month! Don't miss the pre-order of Sovereign's Reign and get the freebies along with the main ebook! ^^
p.s. I didn't noticed that the ETD (Estimated Time of Delivery) on my ko-fi post is scheduled this month. Edited that on ko-fi as the ETD is on or some time after July 30. (31, maybe? HAHAHAHA)
Notes: Apologies for not tagging both fics featuring Coen. Will refrain from posting anything mid-day so I can tag them properly moving forward. 😔 I'll schedule them 8 PM (GMT+8). :) Thank you!
The days blur, not because they’re fast, but because they repeat with near-mechanical precision.
Coen wakes early, showers in silence, then returns with your coffee already prepared the way you like it—two sugars, no cream, in the porcelain mug from your old kitchen, as if dragging familiar pieces of your old life into this twisted domestic revival.
He kisses your forehead every morning like he didn’t hold you down against the mattress the night before, whispering promises into your skin while taking you like a man possessed. He sets out fresh clothes folded at the foot of the bed. Never tight. Never restrictive. Flowing, soft, breathable.
Because he doesn’t need chains to keep you here.
He needs you to look comfortable.
“Eat, love,” he murmurs behind you as you stare at the breakfast he prepared—eggs, fruit, toast, perfectly plated. “You need to take care of yourself. You’ve been through a lot.”
You’ve been through a lot.
As if he wasn’t the one who orchestrated the fall of your freedom.
As if he wasn’t the reason your body still aches in places love was never meant to bruise.
Still, you eat.
Because he watches.
Always.
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
The windows don’t open. The door locks from the outside. He says it’s for security. That he “can’t risk losing you again.” The walls don’t have cameras, but you’ve stopped trusting what’s visible. His staff—those loyal men in quiet black—don’t speak to you, but they always seem to know where you are.
Once, you tried the side entrance during his call.
It was locked.
The next morning, a subtle change—your shoes were moved. He never mentioned it. Just kissed your hand at breakfast and said, “You're such a good girl for staying close.”
You never said a word.
But that night, he made love to you slower. Almost reverently. As if rewarding loyalty you never offered.
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
The house has a library. Coen insists you read. He brings you books you used to love—titles from your shared shelf back in the city. You thumb through the pages, half reading, half calculating.
Maps. Floorplans. Patterns.
There are no clocks. You guess the time by the light—gray mornings, golden afternoons, the sharp navy of night pressing against windowpanes you can’t open. You’ve counted five security rotations so far. Three men. Two women. They trade shifts at dusk and dawn.
Coen thinks you’re adjusting. That you’ve surrendered.
You let him think that.
Because you’ve learned that quiet is armor. That the more you comply, the more freedom he gives in return. Controlled freedom. But freedom nonetheless.
Like how he lets you roam the halls now. One level. Two wings. No access to the cellar. Never to the garage.
But you saw it once.
From the reflection in the mirror, when he left the door cracked just a little too long. A glimpse of a car, black and clean. Keys hanging from a board.
It burned itself into your memory.
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
He brings you flowers on the fourth day. Not store-bought. Picked. Arranged.
He holds them out like a peace offering from a war you weren’t allowed to win.
“You’ve been so good to me,” he says, eyes soft like they used to be, the illusion stretching like paper over a blade. “I knew you just needed a little…reminding.”
Your hands tremble as you take the bouquet.
He doesn’t notice.
Or maybe he does—and just likes the way it looks on you.
“I’ve missed this version of us,” he continues, brushing a lock of hair from your face. “You’re soft again. Sweet. It suits you.”
You press your lips together, forcing a smile.
Because sweet wives don’t plot escapes.
Sweet wives don’t memorize security lapses.
Sweet wives don’t watch the keys when his hand grazes the kitchen counter.
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
But you do.
Because somewhere under the bruises, under the silk and false comfort, you remember that love never felt like this.
You may wear the role well.
But you're not broken.
Not yet.
And somewhere in this fortress, this gilded prison wrapped in roses and delusion, there’s a door.
Pairing: Yandere!Husband x Reader
Warning/s: Yandere | Marital Rape | Forced Domesticity | Psychological Abuse | Dubious Consent | Gaslighting | Possessive Behavior | Surveillance | Isolation | Captivity | Coercive Control | Grooming Dynamics | Trauma Bonding | Power Imbalance | Manipulative Affection | Dark Themes
Note: As always, will fix the deets tomorrow after work. Also!!! Don't forget to pre-order Sovereign's Reign tomorrow to get the exclusive freebies. Once the pre-order period is over, the freebies will not be released in the near future so don't miss it!
Enjoy reading!
You weren’t trying to provoke him. You weren’t even angry—just tired. Tired of hearing him shout orders through the house like it was just another one of his boardrooms. Tired of the half-empty dinners. The cold sighs. The glares when something went off-schedule, like your presence had suddenly become another inconvenience on his carefully managed calendar.
You just wanted your husband back.
He didn’t even notice the plate on the table, still warm from the oven, untouched.
“Coen,” you said softly, standing at the threshold of his office, hands loose by your sides. “Dinner’s been ready for almost an hour.”
He was mid-call, pacing. One hand rubbing his temple like the weight of the world belonged only to him. He didn’t even spare you a glance. “Push the Langford deal to Thursday, I don’t care if he flies in from Geneva—if he wants a signature, he’ll wait.”
You stood there longer than you should’ve. Hope dulling into resignation.
“I’m not your assistant,” you murmured.
Coen froze. Just long enough for you to think maybe he heard you.
But the call continued. His tone dipped to cold formality. The conversation ended with clipped silence, and only then did he finally turn.
His face wasn’t full of fury—it was worse. It was unreadable.
“You think I like this?” he said, voice level but sharp, like ice cracking beneath weight. “You think I enjoy being pulled apart from every side just so this family—so you—can live like this?”
You laughed, but it came out more like a scoff. “You don’t even see me anymore.”
“I see someone who’s sulking because I didn’t look at her pasta.”
The insult hit harder than it should’ve. Because it wasn’t about the pasta. And he knew that.
You looked at him—really looked—and for the first time in weeks, you didn’t see your husband. You saw a man cracking open under the illusion of control, flinging shards at whoever stood closest.
“If you can’t handle your big emotions, maybe you shouldn’t have married anyone yet,” you said quietly. “I’ll leave you be. If that’s what you want.”
You turned your back, picked up your small overnight bag by the door, and walked out.
No slamming. No scene.
Just absence.
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
Coen didn’t chase you.
He returned to his desk and kept working, as if numbers and projections could patch over what had just fractured.
Hours passed. Night deepened. The phone in his hand glowed faintly. His mind drifted, then jolted when he realized something—something small but gutting.
He hadn’t heard your footsteps come back.
The bedroom was empty. Sheets cold. No light. The vanity was spotless. But your ring—your delicate, perfectly fitted wedding band—sat alone on the surface like a discarded promise.
It looked obscene without you.
He reached for the tracking data embedded in the band. Nothing. Dead. You’d left it behind.
A cold fury slid down his spine like a knife.
You hadn’t just left the apartment.
You had left him.
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
You weren’t hard to find.
Coen had contingencies for every threat, every risk. And yes, in his state—his exhausted, unraveling mind—you were now classified as a threat. Or maybe a possession straying too far from its place. Either way, he dispatched the right men. Quietly. Discreetly.
You were found at a quiet restaurant bar downtown. Nothing extravagant. Simple clothes. Hair pinned back like you were trying to disappear. But you still drew attention. Not from the crowd—but from him. A bartender. Young. Smiling at you with a look that twisted Coen’s stomach inside out.
You laughed.
And that was enough to seal your fate.
You were pulled from the booth before you could scream, ushered to a sleek black car with tinted windows and hands too strong for resistance. You didn’t fight at first. You thought maybe Coen just wanted you home.
But you weren’t taken to the penthouse.
You were taken somewhere you’d never seen. A private estate—one of his backup properties in the hills. Secluded. Heavy architecture. The kind of place meant to hold something.
He was already there when you arrived. Sitting in a tall chair by the fireplace, glass of untouched whiskey on the table beside him.
He didn’t rise immediately. Just looked at you with a calm that felt like pressure against your chest.
“Coen…” Your voice cracked from panic and disbelief. “This is insane. I just needed time.”
“You left your ring,” he said softly, as if you’d committed some sin that couldn’t be undone. “You let another man near you. You smiled at him.”
Your breath hitched. “He’s a bartender. He was being polite—”
“You smiled,” he repeated, standing now, each step measured as he crossed the room. “Like you used to smile at me.”
You backed up, only to meet the wall behind you. “I didn’t do anything with him. I would never—”
“You would,” he whispered, his hand braced beside your head, trapping you without touch. “You could. You think that’s any better?”
Your breath came faster. “You’re not thinking clearly. I’m your wife.”
“That’s why I have to remind you.”
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
His mouth was on yours in a second—unforgiving, demanding. You pushed, but he caught your wrists, raising them above your head and holding you in place like a punishment and a promise all at once.
“Coen—”
“You don’t get to leave me,” he said, pulling your body flush against his. “You don’t get to walk out on me. Not when I’ve given you everything.”
“I needed space—”
“You needed to remember who you belong to.”
He turned you around, pressing your hands flat against the wall. You felt his breath at your neck, hot and trembling with restraint. You felt the pull of your clothes, the burn of anticipation laced with terror.
“Coen—please, don’t—”
“You left your ring,” he whispered, biting into your shoulder. “So I’ll brand you another way.”
He slid into you in one brutal, possessive thrust, and you cried out—part shock, part betrayal, part twisted hunger he knew your body hadn’t forgotten.
“You’re mine,” he rasped into your ear, each movement purposeful and deep. “Say it.”
You whimpered, clenching, breath catching.
“Say it,” he growled, fucking into you harder. “Say you’re mine.”
Your voice failed. Your mind blurred.
“Not the bartender,” he hissed, snapping his hips forward. “Not some stranger. Me. Only me.”
You gasped his name through your sobs.
“Again.”
“Coen—”
“Again.”
“Yours,” you breathed, broken. “I’m yours—”
“That’s right,” he whispered, slowing just enough to press a kiss to your cheek. “You always were.”
He took you again on the settee. Against the window. On the floor, with your hands tied and his voice in your ear repeating every deluded thought he’d let fester. That you were trying to leave him. That you were already gone. That now you would never forget who you married.
And when he finally collapsed against you, drenched in sweat and satisfaction, he kissed your temple like he’d just saved something. Not destroyed it.
“You remember now,” he whispered.
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
You woke up in a bed that wasn’t yours.
Cleaned. Dressed. Alone.
Somewhere down the hall, classical music played softly. Coffee brewed. Outside the window—nothing but fog and forest.
✨ Sovereign’s Reign is now available for pre-order! ✨
Pre-order period: May 16 – May 31 June 30 [EXTENDED]
🌙 What you’ll get (for free!):
— A novelette from King Callixto’s POV | pre-order exclusive!
— Special bonus chapters
— Character profiles with story-format backstories | pre-order exclusive!
— A sneak peek at Runes of Escape
📖 Reserve your copy here → Sovereign's Reign Pre-order
P.S. You’ll notice the name Amari Omori on the cover—that’s my new pen name for published ebooks moving forward. (Better SEO and all that. Noir’s a little too saturated rn.)
💌 Questions? Send me an email, or reach out on Discord (@noirscrypt) or Instagram (@noirscrypt).
IMPORTANT TO NOTE: You will be receiving the files on or before July 30, 2025. The file you'll receive upon payment is a placeholder.
Extended the pre-order period until end of this month! Don't miss the pre-order of Sovereign's Reign and get the freebies along with the main ebook! ^^
p.s. I didn't noticed that the ETD (Estimated Time of Delivery) on my ko-fi post is scheduled this month. Edited that on ko-fi as the ETD is on or some time after July 30. (31, maybe? HAHAHAHA)
I'm currently editing the recent stuffs I just mindlessly posted (due to time restraint). But will take a brief break for quick grocery run.
By the way! Head's up to those who'd like to reserve callixto's ebook (Sovereign's Reign), the pre-order will end on the 30th so make sure to grab it before time runs out!
pairing: yandere artist x erotic book writer!reader
description: At your first fan signing, you felt exposed enough—but when a reader dared to praise the man you wrote with too much longing in his voice, Eleazar reminded you exactly who that character was based on, and who your stories—and body—belong to.
warning/s: Yandere behavior, possessiveness, explicit sexual content, obsession, emotional manipulation, jealousy, degradation (verbal), rough sex, public surveillance (implied stalking), power imbalance, noncon/dubcon undertones.
note: i don't know when the next part will be posted, but i'll let you guys know. somehow. btw, whoever read this first was able to read the og draft with the og name. hahahahahha forgot to replace it before posting earlier. my bad. enjoy reading!
You told your publisher no the first three times.
You weren’t trying to be difficult, but the idea of being out there again—on display, in front of people whose faces you don’t know and whose eyes you can’t read—left something tight in your chest. You liked the quiet comfort of your work, the cocoon of anonymity that came with hiding behind stories. Signing books and smiling for photos in a public venue felt too much like exposure, like stripping without the safety of Lee’s rope.
But deadlines had come and gone, the pre-orders exceeded expectations, and your publisher, bless their persistent hearts, finally played the only card you couldn't ignore: contractual obligation.
So here you are.
A fanmeet. One city over. A sleek little bookstore with floor-to-ceiling windows, a table draped in velvet, and a line of readers curling out the door. The staff is kind. The readers are gentle. The girl with trembling hands and tears in her eyes says your writing got her through the worst year of her life. The college boy with a dog-eared copy quotes your own words back to you. It feels surreal to be seen like this—for something you created in solitude.
You should be happy. You should be proud. And you are. But still, under the polite smile and gracious thank-yous, you feel it.
A presence.
You don’t see him. Not yet. But it’s there. Like a shift in temperature, a heat against your spine that makes the hair on the back of your neck lift. You force yourself to stay calm, keep signing, keep nodding. Maybe it’s your nerves. Maybe it’s your paranoia.
But you know that weight. That gravity. You feel it every night before you fall asleep, curled into Lee’s chest. You feel it now, stronger than ever.
By the time the fan steps forward, you’ve already braced for it.
He’s young. Maybe mid-twenties. Glasses, nice smile, a little awkward in the way of people who read more than they speak. He’s not a threat—not at all. Just eager. His hands tremble as he holds out your book for you to sign.
“I… I’m sorry if I sound weird,” he says, voice high with nerves. “I just—your writing changed something in me. Especially the new one. The way you described… him. Your male lead. His hands, his mouth. It was so vivid. So real. Like I could feel every touch.”
You nod gently, offering the practiced, polite smile you’ve given to others. “Thank you. That means more than you know.”
He clears his throat, eyes darting between you and the edge of the table. “If I’m being honest, I… I wish he was real. That kind of love? That intensity? It’s rare. Obsessive, sure—but who wouldn’t want someone that devoted?”
You stiffen. Just slightly.
“Anyway,” he laughs, trying to brush off his own words. “Sorry. I just had to say it. You’re incredible.”
You thank him again. You sign. You don’t look up again until he’s gone. And when you do… Lee is standing near the entrance.
He isn’t in line. Isn’t smiling. Isn’t even trying to hide the storm in his expression. He’s watching you—no, watching everyone. No one else notices him. He’s good at that, at folding himself into shadows even when the light’s right on him. You know that look. It isn’t anger. Not yet. It’s the calm before it.
You spend the rest of the event on autopilot, your throat dry, fingers aching from the pen gripped too tight. The moment it’s over, the moment you’re in the car, Lee speaks.
“You liked that?”
You blink at him. “What?”
He turns to face you fully, eyes unreadable. “Hearing another man say he wanted to touch you the way I do. That he wants to be the man in your book.”
“He wasn’t being inappropriate, Lee. Just enthusiastic. That’s what fans do.”
“You wrote me, and he saw himself.”
“I can’t control how people interpret—”
“He wants you.”
You hesitate. “He admires the character.”
Lee leans in, voice low and too calm. “That character is me.”
You don’t argue. You won’t win. And truthfully, he's not wrong. Every word you wrote was pulled from your nights together. The tenderness. The fury. The pleasure laced with something darker. It was Lee—filtered just enough to fit fiction. But for Lee, fiction doesn’t mean not real.
He drives in silence, hands tight around the wheel, until you're home.
The studio is cold. Not from the air, but from the tension. You enter first. Lee follows without a word, locking the door behind him. You hear it—click—and something inside you stirs.
He doesn't touch you. Not right away. He circles slowly, gaze dragging across your body like he’s stripping you layer by layer with his mind. You stand still. Wait.
“You smiled at him,” he says finally, quiet but firm. “You laughed.”
“I smiled at everyone today.”
“You leaned in.”
“He was nervous. I was trying to make him comfortable.”
“He was imagining fucking you.”
You take a breath, trying to stay calm, but your pulse is already racing. “You’re reading too much into it. He didn’t say anything like that.”
“He didn’t have to.” Lee steps closer. “I saw it in his eyes. He wants to replace me. He wants to rewrite my role.”
His hands finally touch you, not with the familiar tenderness of homecoming, but with something rougher, more desperate. He grabs your wrist, not to hurt, but to anchor.
“You’re mine,” he says, dragging your hand to his chest, pressing it over his heart. “Every word you write, every scene, every sound—it's mine.”
You nod, unable to speak.
“Do you know what I felt, watching him look at you like that?”
You whisper, “Tell me.”
“I felt the edge,” he breathes, hand sliding to the back of your neck. “I felt it pulling me. Wanting to drag you into it with me so I could erase every trace of anyone else.”
Then he kisses you.
It’s not sweet. It’s not patient. It’s consuming.
He undresses you slowly but without ceremony, hands possessive, lips trailing over every inch of exposed skin like he’s reclaiming lost territory. Your bra slips from your shoulders. Your skirt falls. By the time he walks you back into the studio chair—his chair—you’re already shaking.
He sits first and pulls you onto his lap, straddling him. His hands grip your waist. He looks up at you, paint-speckled light catching the edge of his eyes.
“No ropes tonight,” he murmurs. “I don’t want you tied. I want you to stay because you know where you belong.”
You nod. “With you.”
His cock is hard beneath you, pressing against your bare folds as he lifts your hips and slides in—slow, deliberate, deep. You gasp, clinging to him, your nails digging into his shoulders.
“Say it again,” he growls, already thrusting up into you with sharp, punishing rhythm. “Say who you belong to.”
“You, Lee—only you.”
He grips your hair, pulling your face to his. “Louder.”
“I belong to you!”
His pace quickens, desperate and unforgiving. You’re already close, already unraveling. You feel him everywhere—inside you, around you, beneath your skin.
“You smiled at him,” Lee whispers against your ear. “Now smile for me.”
You do. You smile as he ruins you. As he reminds you. As he marks you from the inside out.
He doesn’t stop when you come the first time. Or the second. He keeps going until your voice is hoarse and your body limp. When he finally finishes, it’s with a broken groan, arms wrapped tight around you as he spills into you. He holds you there, panting, sweating, possessive even in afterglow.
No one else gets to have this. No one else gets you.
He pulls you close, kisses your forehead, and whispers, “Write this down.”
You nod, already dazed.
“Next time someone thinks they can step into my story,” he murmurs, voice like silk soaked in blood, “I’ll show them what kind of ending they earn.”
