Silly gooper Yumi^_^♡ @silly-gooper - Tumblr Blog

HEADLOCK : ch. 1

chapter one : like machines do

masterlist my ao3!

pairing : spencer reid x fem!reader

summary : You're on the hunt for an unsub who's forcing his victims to perform carnal acts or die. What you don't know is that he's set his sights on you and your colleague, Dr. Spencer Reid.

wc : 12k

tags/warnings : no use of y/n, dead dove do not eat, fuck or die, noncon/dubcon, nonconsensual filming, kidnapping, voyeurism, fingering, oral sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, forced orgasms

authors note : lowkey locked in and started writing again after like two years and made a new account because im into a completely different fandom now lol

yanderenightmare

Preying on the Hunter

♡ FMT: oneshot, 6k words, hybrid au, bunny reader, polar bear insert

♡ TW: dystopia, sex-trafficking, sexual slavery, vore-ish, forbidden love kinda, angst, size difference, predator x prey, subjugation, sexism allegory, master/slave dynamics

♡ FEM reader

Rabbits are born sluts.

That much has always been clear. Damn useless creatures except for one thing—being used. They’re everywhere, in the several hundreds, easily hunted, easily trained by carrot and stick, and easily broken when put under it.

And you, you’re the same, a dime a dozen among the other dumb bunnies in the burrow. You’re not any different.

And yet, from where he stands atop the mezzanine, lording over the pleasure den down below, his own empire, time and time again his eyes stray from admiring his rich guests and the cold cash they spend on his fluffle only to land on you.

slutdier

𝑩𝑬𝑺𝑻 𝑭𝑹𝑰𝑬𝑵𝑫𝑺 𝑫𝑶𝑵’𝑻 𝑲𝑵𝑶𝑻 You go back to the summer cabin with your lifelong best friend Bucky Barnes and the tension you’ve both ignored finally becomes impossible to deny. One charged night changes everything between you, no longer just best friends, but something irrevocably more.

alpha!bucky barnes x fem!omega!reader

word count : 17,9k

warnings 18+ : no use of y/n, childhood bestfriends to lovers, somnophilia, stealing intimate items for masturbation, bucky is a pervvv, dddne, guilt-ridden sexual acts, consuming bodily fluids without prior consent, unprotected sex, breeding, knotting, scenting, biting, pheromonal compulsion, heavy guilt and self-hatred while doing the wrong sexual acts, first heat/first rut happening (both late), a/b/o & possessive dynamics, fingering, virginity loss

author’s note : first of all I just wanna say the BIGGEST thank you for 2k followers like what??? that’s actually insane!!! please take this fic as a little gift from me to you <3 I’m beyond grateful for every single one of you. and second of all… since centuries of rut kinda blew up (which still feels unreal), I decided to cook up another a/b/o bucky fic 😩😩

Old Polaroids still live in the glove compartment of Bucky’s truck, faded edges, corners curling from years of being handled, the plastic sleeves cracked from too many openings and closings.

There’s one of you at eight, gap-toothed and grinning wide, perched on his skinny shoulders while he pretends to stagger under your “enormous” weight, both of you laughing so hard the photo is blurry.

lumpyspacequinn

how i feel searching for hours for angst fics but all i can find is y/n sucking their soul out of their dick.

Please recommend good angst fics

gumdrops-stuff

zombieforcefield

Being dramatic runs in their genes

auvielle

Yandere! Asylum! Patient x Doctor! Reader

⤷ TW: Features themes of severe psychological obsession, possessive yandere behavior, intense emotional manipulation, manic outbursts, physical violence, and institutional settings. Please read with care.

requested by: @lemon12345

They called the basement of Saint Jude’s Psychiatric Facility “The Well.”

It was where the state dumped the cases that defied medicine, God, and basic human decency. Down here, thirty feet below ground, the walls bled damp salt, the air tasted permanently of industrial bleach and damp wool.

Nurses on the upper floors avoided taking shifts down here after four in the afternoon. The sub-level held the long-term containment cases, the ones the state had given up on classifying. But you were twenty-six, freshly certified and newly transferred from an outpatient clinic in the city, you were young enough to view the transfer as an opportunity. Your predecessors had relied heavily on chemical restraints and brief, ten-minute check-ins conducted through the door slots. Your approach was different. You believed that consistent, unhurried human contact was the only thing that actually produced long-term behavioral changes.

Marcus, the chief orderly on the sub-level, stood outside the heavy door with a ring of brass keys in his hand. A dark scar ran through his left eyebrow, pulling the eyelid down in a permanent squint from an old injury.

"He does not talk to staff," Marcus said, keeping his voice low as he reached for the deadbolt. "The last doctor tried to sit across from him without guards in the room and lasted four minutes before he panicked and ran out. Keep your distance from the table. If he moves toward you, hit the wall button immediately."

"I reviewed his file over the weekend," you said, adjusting the heavy leather folder under your arm. "I know he has a history of sudden aggression."

"His file is fifty pages of incident reports," Marcus grunted, turning the key until the iron latch gave a hard, metallic pop. "It tells you he broke a guard's arm in October. It does not tell you what goes on in his head."

The heavy door creaked open on dry hinges.

The cell was narrow, lit by a single long light fixture mounted high on the ceiling behind a steel wire cage. A thick steel table sat in the middle of the room, bolted directly to the concrete floor, flanked by two heavy stools.

In the far corner, sitting flat on the cold floor with his back against the wall, sat Eli.

He was lean and slightly built, his frame looking small inside a faded grey canvas jumpsuit that hung loose on his shoulders. Messy dark hair fell over his forehead, almost touching his hazel eyes. He remained still as you entered, watching the floor.

You pulled out the stool on your side of the table and sat down. You placed your notepad flat on the metal surface, uncapped your pen, and waited.

The first month proved to be a test of endurance rather than a clinical breakthrough.

For six consecutive sessions, Eli offered zero verbal responses. He spent the hours tracking the movement of your pen, staring at his own scarred knuckles, or fixing his gaze directly on your throat. He was watching for the subtle signs every other visitor showed: the quick glance toward the security camera, the nervous shifting of feet, the shallow breathing of someone trying not to show fear.

During the third week, he finally pushed for a reaction.

Midway through a routine question about his sleep schedule, both of his heavy palms struck the metal table in a sudden, deafening blow.

The metallic impact echoed off the concrete walls like a gunshot. Key metal rattled frantically in the lock outside as Marcus’s heavy boots rushed the door.

Though your pulse spiked and blood roared in your ears, you forced your muscles to remain still. You kept your hands away from the red panic button, took a slow breath through your nose, and rested the pen back on your notepad.

"Marcus, stay outside! I'm fine," you called toward the door, keeping your eyes locked onto the patient. "Do not open the room."

The footsteps outside paused, then slowly retreated.

Silence settled over the cell once more.

Leaning heavy across the table, his chest heaving, Eli searched your face for any sign of fear. He expected pale skin, a trembling lip, or the instinctual flinch of a victim.

Instead, you remained steady, meeting his gaze directly.

"That was loud," you noted, keeping your tone smooth and even. "Did that clear out some of the tension, or are you still looking to hit something?"

His aggressive posture stalled. A flicker of genuine confusion crossed his sharp features, and he slowly drew his hands back from the steel surface, inspecting his own palms.

"We have twenty minutes left," you added, straightening your pad. "Whenever you're ready, we can try again."

For the next two weeks, the routine remained unchanged—a tense, quiet standoff where he offered little more than monosyllables. But things changed during your fifth week, on a humid Tuesday afternoon when the main generator died during a heavy storm.

The facility's backup system kicked in instantly, but the emergency low-voltage humming sent a piercing, high-pitched buzz through the concrete walls. To the staff, it was a minor annoyance. To Eli, whose senses were already hyper-reactive, it was unbearable.

When you entered Cell 409, Eli wasn't at the table. He was curled up in the corner, his knees pulled tightly to his chest, his fingernails digging so hard into his own temples that small beads of blood were forming on his skin. He was hyperventilating, his eyes blown wide, trapped in a severe sensory meltdown.

Outside, Marcus reached for his pepper spray. "Doc, step back. I'll call two more orderlies and we'll throw him in leather restraints until the power resets."

"No," you said firmly, placing a hand on Marcus's arm. "Restraints will only traumatize him more. Give me five minutes."

You closed the cell door behind you, blocking Marcus out. Instead of staying behind the table, you crossed the room and knelt directly on the cold concrete floor right in front of Eli.

"Eli," you said softly, keeping your voice low and rhythmic. "Look at me."

He shook his head wildly, a broken, breathless sob escaping his throat as his knuckles bled into his hairline.

Without hesitating, you reached out and gently wrapped your hands over his trembling fingers, slowly pulling them away from his forehead. His skin was burning hot, his pulse hammering like a trapped bird. The moment your fingers touched his, Eli froze completely. His hazel eyes snapped to yours, wide with shock.

In Saint Jude’s, touch meant force. It meant orderlies pinning him to the floor, needles piercing his skin, or heavy handcuffs biting into his wrists.

He had never felt a touch that was soft. He had never felt someone willingly hold his hands to anchor him.

"You're safe," you murmured, holding his hands securely between yours, ignoring the blood smudging onto your knuckles. "Focus on my voice. Breathe in through your nose. Follow my rhythm."

For ten minutes, you stayed on the floor with him in the dim, buzzing light. Slowly, his ragged breathing hitched, slowed, and aligned with yours. His hands, rough and calloused, relaxed inside your grip. He didn't pull away. He stared at your face as if he were seeing color for the very first time, taking in the faint warmth of your hands, the calm line of your jaw, and the absolute absence of disgust or fear in your eyes.

When the emergency generator finally cut off and the lights stabilized, you gently let go of his hands and stood up.

"Our time is up for today, Eli," you said softly, wiping your hands with a tissue from your pocket. "I'll see you on Thursday."

Eli remained on the floor, staring up at you. He lifted his hand, touching the exact spot on his fingers where your palms had rested.

From that exact afternoon, the atmosphere inside Cell 409 completely transformed.

The other patients in The Well were not quiet men. They screamed at the ceiling, banged their tin cups against the bars, and fought the orderlies during every shift change. But whenever Eli was led down the central corridor for his mandatory fifteen minutes in the courtyard, total silence fell over the entire floor.

Patients who usually threw violent fits backed away into the darkest corners of their cells the second his bare feet touched the hallway floor.

During a routine group intake assessment in the recreation hall, a large, unpredictable patient named Miller suffered a sudden psychotic break. Miller had snapped a wooden leg off a broken folding chair, swinging it wildly at the staff. The orderlies scattered, pulling their batons, but Miller lunged directly toward you, his eyes wide and unseeing.

Before Marcus or any guard could step between you, Eli moved.

He did not shout. He crossed the room in a quick, fluid run, slipping behind the larger man in a second.

A sharp, loud crack echoed through the room as Eli dislocated Miller’s shoulder, driving the man face-first into the concrete floor.

Eli pinned Miller down, placing his knee firmly against the back of the man's neck. Leaning down until his mouth was inches from Miller’s ear, Eli whispered something so softly that only Miller could hear it.

Miller, a man who had spent five years terrorizing the guards, went completely stiff. He stopped struggling entirely, weeping quietly into the concrete, terrified to make another sound.

Within seconds, the blaring alarm screamed through the recreation hall. Four heavy guards rushed in, batons drawn, slamming their boots against the floor.

"Get off him! Hands behind your back, 409! On the ground NOW!" Marcus barked, aiming his pepper spray directly at Eli's face while two other orderlies grabbed Eli by his arms, yanking him off Miller's back with violent force.

Eli didn't fight the guards back. As they forced his arms behind him, twisting his wrists into heavy steel handcuffs, Eli kept his head turned entirely toward you. He ignored the guard forcing his shoulder down and the orderlies shouting in his ears.

"Did he touch you?" Eli asked softly, his voice shaky as he tried to pull against the guards' grip to step closer, his eyes scanning over your face, your hands, your clothes. "Doc, tell me he didn't touch you."

"I'm... I'm fine, Eli," you breathed, stunned by the chaotic contrast.

"Secure him! Take him to Isolation Cell 1!" the head guard ordered, shoving Eli hard toward the heavy security doors. "Four days isolation for assault!"

As the four orderlies dragged Eli down the narrow hallway toward the punishment wing, his eyes never left yours until the heavy iron isolation door slammed shut between you.

Because Eli was placed in isolation for four days, you had to request special administrative permission to visit him in the punishment wing. When he was finally released back to Cell 409, his fixation on you had evolved into something absolute.

To help him channel his thoughts, you brought him a sketchpad and a set of charcoal pencils. When you walked into Cell 409 the following Tuesday, the entire pad was filled with detailed drawings.

"May I see?" you asked gently.

Eli slid the pad across the table, his eyes tracking your face for any sign of disapproval. He did not sit across from you anymore; he pulled his stool around to the side of the table, sitting as close to your chair as he physically could.

You flipped through the pages. The first page showed a small wooden house surrounded by tall pine trees, with two figures holding hands on the porch—unmistakably Eli and you.

The next page showed a bright kitchen set for two, complete with paper tea cups. The page after that held a drawing of a simple gold band resting on a bedside table next to a small glass vase holding a dried flower.

"What is all of this, Eli?" you asked softly.

Eli leaned in closer, his shoulder pressing against yours. His breath was warm against your cheek, his eyes wide and bright with a nervous, intense energy.

"It’s after," he whispered, his voice shaking with excitement. "When my evaluation is done and you tell them I'm cured. We’ll buy a place up north where it doesn't smell like bleach. You won't have to work anymore, Doc. You won't have to look tired or deal with the guards. I’ll make the tea every morning. Exactly one packet of sugar, just how you like it."

He reached out, his fingers hovering right over your hand resting on the table, waiting for permission.

"We’re going to be so happy there," he added softly, a faint smile breaking across his face. "I draw it every night before they turn the lights off so I can dream about marrying you."

You gently closed the sketchbook, feeling a heavy knot form in your stomach. "Eli, you know my role here is strictly professional. I'm your therapist."

His smile faded, his eyes narrowing as a still, unblinking look settled over his features.

"You're the only person who looks at me, Doc," he murmured softly, leaning closer until his cheek almost touched your shoulder. "That makes you mine."

He began quietly altering the facility's routine to claim more of your time. He learned that if he refused his morning medication, the staff would call you to administer it. If he refused to leave his cell for recreation hour, he would demand that you come read his progress notes to him instead.

Slowly, he shaved away your time with other patients. He altered your daily schedule until almost every hour of your shift was spent either inside Cell 409 or writing reports specifically about his care.

One afternoon, while you were reviewing his chart, a loose thread unravelled from the cuff of your sweater. Before you could pull it off, Eli reached over, snapping the tiny string between his fingernails.

Instead of throwing it away, he wound the thread around his ring finger, tying a small knot at the base.

"Eli, what are you doing?" you asked with a light, nervous laugh.

He looked up at you through his dark hair, lifting his finger to show the string. "Now I'm carrying a piece of you with me when the door closes. So I don't get lonely."

He wore that frayed piece of thread on his finger for three weeks, guarding it fiercely during morning wash hours, refusing to let the orderlies scrub it off.

In late February, a sudden stomach flu left you bedridden. High with a fever, you called into Saint Jude’s at six in the morning to take your first sick day in five months.

By eleven o'clock that morning, your phone began ringing continuously.

It was the main desk at The Well. Marcus’s replacement, a frantic senior orderly named Jenkins, was shouting into the receiver over a loud background noise of metallic crashing and blaring sirens.

"Doc! You need to get down here right now!" Jenkins yelled, his voice cracking. "He's losing his mind!"

"I... I called in sick, Jenkins," you muttered weakly, gripping your phone in bed. "I have a fever—"

"I don't care, Doc, you have to talk to him!" Jenkins begged, a loud screech of metal echoing through the line. "He woke up, realized you weren't at his door at ten, and snapped! He tore his cot off the wall! He broke two guards' ribs when they tried to slide his tray in! He's screaming that we hid you from him!"

Through the receiver, you heard a deep, raspy voice screaming your name in the background—a raw, desperate sound.

"Put him on the speaker," you whispered, sitting up in bed despite your spinning head.

Static hissed over the line, followed by heavy, ragged breathing directly into the microphone.

"Doc?" Eli’s voice came through, raspy and frantic. "Doc, where are you? They hid you. They took you away from me. I'm breaking the door, Doc. I'm coming to find you—"

"Eli! Stop!" you commanded, forcing strength into your voice. "I'm sick, Eli. I'm at home in bed. Nobody hid me."

Absolute silence fell on his end of the line. The heavy crashing stopped instantly.

"Sick?" he murmured, his voice shifting in a single second to a soft, heartbroken tone. "You're hurt? You're all alone?"

"I just have a fever. I'll be back on Thursday—"

"No, no, no," he whispered frantically, his breath hitching over the speaker. "I need to see you. I can't breathe when you're not here. Please, Doc. Please come back. I'll be good. I won't hit the guards. Just let me see you..."

You spent twenty minutes talking him down, listening to his desperate pleas until he finally allowed the orderlies to lock his cell.

When you returned on Thursday, still pale and weak, the damage in Cell 409 was clear. The concrete walls had deep scratch marks, the metal table was dented, and Eli was sitting in the corner, covered in bruises.

The moment you walked through the door, he stood up and stepped forward immediately. He didn't wait. He pulled you into a tight, suffocating hug, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face into the crook of your neck. He held on so hard it made it difficult to breathe, his shoulders shaking as his fingers dug into the back of your coat.

"You came back," he whispered into your skin, his voice muffled and raw. "You came back to me..."

You stood there, frozen, feeling a heavy mix of deep pity and fear as he refused to let go, his grip locking you against him.

Your sick day forced the administration to take a closer look at Cell 409.

Reviewing the incident reports and hallway footage, the chief administrator realized Patient 409’s behavior was not improving; he was simply hyper-fixated on you. They saw how he had altered your daily schedule to isolate you, and how your absence had driven him to tear his cell apart.

On Friday morning, you were called into the director's office.

"We are transferring you to the state psychiatric hospital in the upper district," the director said flatly, sliding a reassignment document across the desk. "Effective immediately. Your vehicle is already packed, and a transport car is waiting outside."

"What?" You stood up, your chair scraping the floor. "You're transferring me today? Director, I need to go down to The Well and explain this to Eli. If I just disappear without telling him, he will tear that wing apart! You saw what happened on Tuesday!"

"No," the director said sternly, raising a hand. "You are not going back down there. Telling him will only cause a scene and trigger another violent episode. It is safer for you, and for the staff, if you leave quietly. The new doctor is already taking over his case."

"Director, please—"

"That is all, Doctor. Security will escort you to the transport car."

You were escorted out the side doors of Saint Jude’s, unable to say a single word of goodbye.

Down in Cell 409, Eli was waiting.

It was ten o'clock on Tuesday morning. He had spent the entire morning preparing. He had scrubbed his hands clean, combed his dark hair back with his fingers, and tucked a small, carefully folded piece of paper into his pocket.

It was a letter he had spent two nights writing—a full, clear declaration of everything he felt, telling you that he was ready to leave this place with you, asking you to take him away so you could start the life he drew in his sketchbook. He had even smoothed out the frayed piece of sweater thread on his finger, turning it so the little knot faced up.

He sat on his stool, his eyes fixed on the heavy iron door, waiting for the sound of your key in the lock.

10:02 AM.

He smiled to himself, humming softly. You were often a few minutes late because of Marcus or the hallway checks. He adjusted his collar, his heart beating fast against his ribs.

10:05 AM.

The heavy iron bolt finally retracted with a loud metallic pop.

Eli stood up instantly, a bright, genuine smile lighting up his face as he stepped toward the table, reaching into his pocket for the letter. "Doc, I—"

The door ground open.

Standing in the doorway was a tall, middle-aged man with graying hair, holding a thick yellow clipboard. Two heavy orderlies stood directly behind him, their hands resting on their stun batons.

"Patient 409?" the new doctor said, stepping into the room without looking up from his papers. "My name is Dr. Evans. Dr. [Last Name] has been permanently reassigned to another facility. I will be taking over your case evaluations from now on."

Eli stopped dead in his tracks.

The smile on his face didn't fade right away; it froze, twitching slightly as his brain tried to process the words. He looked past Dr. Evans's shoulder, searching the empty hallway behind him.

"Where is she?" Eli asked. His voice was extremely quiet, devoid of any emotion.

"She was transferred to the upper district hospital this morning," Dr. Evans replied casually, pulling out the stool across the table. "Now, sit down so we can establish a new baseline—"

"Where is she?" Eli repeated, taking a slow step forward.

"I just told you, she's gone," Dr. Evans said, frowning as he finally looked up from his clipboard. "Now take your seat, 409—"

In the hallway outside Cell 409, the air suddenly shattered.

A horrible, blood-curdling scream echoed off the concrete walls, followed immediately by the sound of heavy metal crashing, tearing wood, and the frantic, panicked shouts of the orderlies.

Down in the main lobby, miles away from the transport car that was currently driving you to your new hospital, the red emergency sirens of Saint Jude’s began to wail.

Three weeks passed.

Your transition to the upper district hospital was smooth on paper, but your mind remained completely tethered to Saint Jude's. You barely slept. Every loud noise in the quiet clinic hallways made your stomach drop, and you found yourself constantly checking the news, terrified of reading a headline about an outbreak at The Well.

On a rainy Thursday evening, long after your shift had ended, you sat alone at your desk in your new office. The floor was dark, save for the single desk lamp illuminating your paperwork.

A soft knock sounded at your office door.

You jumped slightly, looking up. Standing in the doorway was an old colleague from Saint Jude’s—a nurse named Sarah who had worked on the upper floors. She looked pale, her jacket wet from the rain outside, holding a heavy envelope under her arm.

"Sarah?" you asked, leaning forward. "What are you doing here?"

"I shouldn't be giving you this," Sarah whispered, her voice shaking as she stepped into your office and closed the door behind her. "The director ordered everyone to keep quiet about what happened after you left. They're trying to cover it up so the medical board doesn't investigate."

Your blood ran cold. "What happened to Eli?"

Sarah set the envelope on your desk.

"The moment Dr. Evans told him you were gone, Eli lost his mind," Sarah said quietly, holding her arms tightly against her chest. "He broke Dr. Evans's jaw before the guards could even draw their batons. It took six orderlies and three sedatives to pin him down. He tore the entire cell apart, Doc. He kept screaming that they stole you from him, that you would never leave him on your own."

You stared at the brown envelope, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Where is he now?"

"They moved him to maximum solitary in the basement's lockdown wing," Sarah whispered. "He refuses to eat. He doesn't sleep. He just sits in the dark, staring at the door. But... before they moved him, the cleanup crew found something tucked under his old mattress. I thought you should have it."

You reached out, your trembling hands opening the unsealed envelope.

Inside was Eli's sketchbook.

You pulled it out, flipping open the heavy cover. Every single drawing inside—the wooden house on the porch, the bright kitchen, the simple gold bands—had been ruined. The dark charcoal lines were smeared with faint, dry red stains from where his knuckles had bled as he gripped the pages.

Taped to the inside back cover was a small, torn slip of paper.

Written in Eli's familiar handwriting was a short, shaky declaration:

You didn't leave me, Doc. They took you. I'm going to tear this place down until I find where they put you.

Tucked right beneath the note was the tiny, frayed piece of sweater thread—tied neatly into a little ring, waiting for you to find it.

A/N: hey everyone, i’m finally back! i am so, so sorry for the radio silence and for keeping you all waiting on an update—college has been absolutely drowning me lately, and finding the time to sit down and write has been a real struggle TT. I hope you guys love how it turned out!

silver-bills-and-bent-quills

Popular Yandere Best Friend × Insecure Loner Reader

86.

You couldn't believe it. You read it over and over, bright red ink a stark contrast against your scribbled writing and messy smudges.

86!

God, you could feel your heart racing. Suddenly those sleepless nights, the energy drinks strewn across your desk, the exhaustion that weighed down on your bones at all hours of the day- none of it mattered. This was proof, hope! Maybe, if you just kept on trying, then maybe-

"Luka! what did you get?"

Oh, right. How could you forget?

Your classmates had already begun crowding your desk. Not for you, of course. For Luka. Gorgeous, brilliant, perfect Luka. Someone so beyond your reach- yet, somehow, your best friend. Well, your only friend. But you weren't his only friend. Not by a long shot.

Luka was a magnet. Everyone adored him- his beauty, his grace, his drive. His soft, radiant smile- like rays of sun that melt away the overcast sky. His eyes, a brilliant autumnal hue, as if carved from fire itself. His gentle, grounded voice that cut through all chatter and made people listen. It was as if the room itself bent to accommodate him.

"Ah, not that good...I got a 92." he said, laughing softly.

A knot formed in your stomach. You told yourself, time and time again, don't compare yourself to him. You knew, before you'd even gotten the grades, you'd never beat him. You can't. You're not good enough. Then why did your throat close up? You expected this, didn't you? Heat welled behind your eyes.

God, you just wanted to leave.

The cheers and congratulations had died down. Just when you'd hope their conversation would shift elsewhere- "Oh, [Name], what about you?" Someone prompted. Shit.

Maybe she finally remembered you existed, maybe she felt it was rude to not ask you when you were right there. You didn't care. But it got Luka's attention, and when his attention was on you, everyone's was. You wished that the earth would swallow you whole.

"Hah...u-uh," 86 was good. It was objectively good. It shouldn't embarrass you to admit it. You didn't fail. Should you say that you were sick, so you couldn't study well? Should you play it off as not that good? But, no- that's what Luka did. Shit. "I-It's just an 86." You said, rubbing your neck. Why did that come out so awkward?!

You heard a cacophony of soft Ohs and unexcited Wows. Their gazes burned into you. They were comparing you two. You were sure of it. Ofcourse they would, you both were best friends, after all. You could only imagine what they must be thinking right now.'

Why would Luka hang out with someone like them?'

'How are they even friends?'

'He probably pitites them. He's too kind for his own good.'

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to steady your breathing. Fuck! Not in front of all these people-

"[Name]! Congrats!" Holy- Luka's joy almost startled you, bright eyed and all. You pictured a golden retriever. If he had a tail, he'd definitely be wagging it right now. "You've worked so hard! I'm so proud of you."

"T-thanks. Uh, you too." Only then did you realize that you'd completely forgotten to congratulate him earlier, and he'd shown such enthusiasm for you, too- God, you didn't deserve him.

Some dispersed, while the others changed their discussion into something else- a rare moment where all the attention wasn't on Luka. Sometimes, you'd wonder, more than you'd like to admit, why he still kept you around. You tried to make other friends, God, you did- you spoke to people, helped people, listened, but after a week or two, everyone was either too busy, too overwhelmed, or just straight up avoided you. It was...strange. They seemed almost afraid of you.

You felt a warm hand wrap around your own, pulling you out of your thoughts. You hated how easily he calmed you. You hated how much you needed him.

Especially since he clearly didn't need you.

"Hey...let's go to the café after school today. My treat!" That came out of nowhere. Well, you supposed it couldn't hurt. It had been a while since you'd gone somewhere together.

You've been so stressed lately with classes, exams, your things going missing...(you were still salty about your favorite jacket. Where could you have possibly placed it?) and this constant, persistent feeling of being watched. Sometimes, you'd see movement- behind the pole, in the bushes, always in the corner of your eye. Your imagination drove you mad.

Maybe a change of pace would help.

"Okay, who else?"

"Just us, hun. It's been so long, and well," He hesitated. "I want to talk."

"Huh? About what?" Is he finally sick of you? 'Hey, let's not hang out so often anymore.' No no no. If you lost him too-

"We barely get any alone time in college. You're so...closed off, nowadays. I can't stand it. It feels like we're...drifting apart."

Oh. Oh, shit.

He squeezed your hands tight. Uncharacteristically tight. "I miss you. Even though you're right here. There's this- this wall between us, now. I hate it. I want you back. I want us back," he sighed.

"You know you can tell me anything, right?" Oh, how you wish you could. "Clearly there's something, or...someone bothering you. If you won't tell me, I'll find out. But I deserve to hear it from you." He brought your hands closer. "Please, [Name]. Let me in."

There you saw it. The meek little kid who approached you in middle school during lunch, stuttering through his introduction, as he asked quietly if he could sit with you. Who wouldn't speak unless spoken to. Who only ever laughed with you. Now years later looking at you with eyes so hurt, begging you to tell him what's wrong.

"It's you," you blurt, immediately regretting those words as soon as you register the shock on his face.

"What?"

"No- no, I mean, shit, that came out wrong," you sigh. "Look, please don't be mad but...I guess I feel jealous of you, kinda." Well, can't back down now. "You're just...so popular and smart and kind and everyone likes you. I...don't exist to anyone. I guess I've just been feeling lonely." You can't believe you're saying this.

"Lonely? [Name], you have me."

"Yeah, and I value you as a friend but you're all I have. I want to have other friends, too. To hang out, chit-chat-"

"Well, we can hang out anytime you want. You don't need anyone else for that. Just call me, whenever you want, and I'll be there. I swear. Just like I've always been."

You didn't know what you were expecting. It's like talking to a wall. "You don't understand, Luka. I want to have other people in my life too. You have so many friends, so much going for you! I have nothing. No one looks at me- and I love you and care about you and you're my best friend but...it's just not fair!"

The class had emptied out by now, no one to hear your outburst. You'd done it. You've lost him too. The one person you still had. "So that's what this is about?"

You waited. Waited for his anger, his hurt. But none of it ever came. "[Name], they don't deserve you." You stared at him. What? "They don't know you. Not like I do. They won't appreciate you for who you are. They'll use you and throw you away like trash. They don't have the right to you."

You watched, dumbfounded, as his demeanor shifted in the blink of an eye. "Still, I'm so happy you think so highly of me! You are everything to me, so I try to be everything for you. That's all I've ever wanted- to be yours, fully, just as you are mine." His eyes shone with an emotion deep, foreign. It scared you stiff. But it was gone as soon as it came.

"Though, I am sorry, hun. I didn't realize I've been neglecting you. The last thing I wanted was to make you feel lonely." He brought a hand up, stroking loose hair off your face. "You should've told me sooner. I would've dropped everything for you." He was smiling, soft and gentle. Just like always.

"Then again, you've always liked it when someone else took charge. I should've known." No, no, this was different. This-

"Tell you what? Forget about the café. Come home with me."

"L-Luka...what?"

"I won't let you refuse~" he giggled, voice sing song. "It's been so long since we've properly hung out. And..." he trailed.

"I have something to show you. I can't have you thinking all those thoughts about yourself, now, can I? I'll make you understand how much you mean to me. What you are to me. I'll show you. You'll love it."

"We have to make up for lost time, after all."

bloodywankers

“mea culpa, mea culpa, mea máxima culpa”

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

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

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

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

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

“I—.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was Luciano.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes…” You replied apprehensively.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But mama, we can’t do that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lucia l—.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let go.”

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

“H-Hey—stop!”

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

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

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

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

“[name], that’s enough.”

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

“[name] I’m warning you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

wildchildtale

𝓒𝓻𝓾𝓮𝓵 𝓟𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓬𝓮 | 𝓚𝓢𝓙 (𝐼𝐼𝐼)

Pairing: Kim Seokjin X Reader

Genre: enemies to lovers; angst; smut; obsession; power imbalance; socioeconomic gap; toxic seokjin; hurt/comfort; bully seokjin; dark romance; billionaire au

Summary: They call him Saint. He's anything but. A monster hidden behind charm, wealth, and a perfect reputation. Seokjin Saint Kim is ruthless, obsessive, and far more cruel than anyone realises. The only thing standing between him and what he wants is...you. Too bad he's not willing to let that stop him.

Word Count: 7.4K

Warnings: manipulation, obsession, jealousy, emotional abuse, psychological abuse, slight dub con; coercion, threats, violence, blood/injury, power imbalance, strong language, alcohol use, smoking.

Chapter-specific warnings will be added at the beginning of each chapter.

Taglist: @writtenbyjm @withmuchluv-tannie @iheartwonnieee @gaslysainz @lachimolala-is-love-and-life @ithinkthereforeidont @idk-what-myurl-shouldbe @tahialuvss @jinkoo94 @punchbug9-blog @bebabido @evtrack @blueberriesm @jungkookgoodlookin

PART I | PART II

a/n: phew this is officially the longest chapter so far and so much happens here, so buckle up and have fun reading!! i genuinely cannot believe my own memory because i read the book almost a decade ago and yet the plot came back to me so quickly?? 😭 that being said, i’m definitely not sticking to the original storyline completely, so expect some changes along the way 👀 fmc might seem rather tame for now, but please trust me when i say she’s no doormat. she’ll push back and have him absolutely wrecked in chapters to come 😛 also writing seokjin has been SO fun ahhh.. as always, please leave comments because i love hearing what you guys think!!

Your brain was your own worst enemy.

Why else would it keep shoving his face into your thoughts every waking hour? You should be thinking about your unemployment. About rent. About how you were going to pay next month’s bills.

To make it worse, your heart wasn’t any better either.

It was humiliating enough that, once upon a time, you’d managed to harbour a crush on the very man who had spent a decade making your life miserable. But you’d sooner bite your own tongue off than admit it aloud. That secret would follow you to the grave.

It had been twenty-four hours since you’d last seen Seokjin, and you loathed yourself for letting him crawl back under your skin so easily.

You wisely hadn’t told Bella about any of it. The last thing you needed was for her to march across the city and attempt to murder him herself.

Rain began pelting the pavement the moment you stepped into your apartment building.

It was only going to get colder.

Most people expected warmth when they came home. Yours greeted you with a stubborn draft that seemed to seep through every crack in the walls. The radiator had given up weeks ago, leaving the apartment permanently chilled.

Bella laid curled beneath what looked like every blanket the two of you owned, another rerun of Gilmore Girls playing in the background. At this point, you’d both lost count somewhere after the hundredth rewatch.

You set the bag of medicine and the container of chicken broth on the table.

“I brought you some soup,” you said, forcing brightness into your voice. “How are we feeling today?”

“So much better,” Bella replied far too quickly. “I think I’m almost ready to go back to work.”

Another thing the two of you had in common—you were both terrible liars.

You saw right through her.

You saw it in the way colour had drained from her face, the dark circles bruising the skin beneath her eyes, the way her clothes hung looser than they had only weeks ago.

As if to expose her lie, a violent coughing fit seized her before she could say another word.

Bella cleared her throat. “How’s the job search going? Any leads?”

You poured the chicken broth into two bowls, instinctively giving Bella the bigger portion and yourself the smaller.

“Not really,” you admitted with a tired sigh. “At this rate, we’ll be homeless by January.”

Silence settled between you.

“I don’t think I need these medicines anymore,” Bella said after a moment, her eyes drifting towards the paper bag on the table. “I told you, I already feel better. You should return them and get a refund.”

Your heart broke. She wasn’t getting better. If anything, she looked worse with each passing day.

“They’re non-refundable,” you lied, setting the bowls down before shrugging off your coat. You sank beside her on the tiny couch, the springs creaking under your combined weight.

The two of you ate quietly, Gilmore Girls humming in the background until Bella suddenly started reciting Lorelai’s lines in perfect sync with the television.

Without missing a beat, you joined in as Rory responds.

By the time the scene ends, you’re both laughing so hard your stomach hurts.

“I’m sorry,” Bella murmured softly after a moment, staring down at the half-empty bowl in her lap. She worries at the sleeve of her jumper instead of looking at you. “I’m so sorry for doing this to you. I’ve become such a leech.”

Tears pricked your eyes and you swallowed to keep them away.

“I’ve been thinking…” She swallows. “Maybe I should just go back to Blackwood. You’ve already done way more than enough for me.”

At sixty years old, your mother was still working at the Kim estate, still trying to pay off debts that never seemed to shrink. Sending Bella back wouldn’t save either of you. It would only trade one hardship for another.

Besides, she only had a year left before graduation. You could manage. You were struggling but you were happy.

Better days would come. You refused to believe otherwise.

Reaching for the blanket draped over the armrest, you wrapped it around Bella’s shoulders before pulling her into your side.

“You’re not going anywhere, missy,” you whispered, tucking the blanket snugly around her. Then loudly, “Don’t even think about it.”

You punctuate the threat by gently booping her nose.

Bella lets out the tiniest giggle.

Eventually, her breathing evens out, her head growing heavier against your shoulder as sleep takes her.

You stay exactly where you are—tired, confused, but certain the two of you would somehow make it through.

Six days later, and you were still just as unemployed.

You’d applied everywhere. Cafes, bookstores, reception desks, retail, tutoring centres. You’d stopped caring what the job was as long as someone was willing to hire you.

And still nothing.

Your credit card was a few swipes away from being maxed out, your savings had long since run dry, and the cash tucked inside your wallet barely amounted to enough for next week’s groceries.

At this point, the only thing capable of pulling you out of the financial hole you were sinking into was a miracle.

Streetlights stretched across the empty sidewalks as you made your way home from another late shift at the diner.

Despite yourself, your thoughts wandered back to Seokjin.

He hadn’t tried contacting you since that night. Good. That’s exactly how you wanted it.

So why did disappointment prick at you every time you realised he hadn’t?

You shoved the thought aside before it could take root.

A cold gust of wind swept through the empty street, making you pull your coat tighter around yourself.

Behind you, another set of footsteps echoed against the pavement, followed by a low whistle.

Instinctively, your hand slipped into your coat pocket, fingers curling tightly around the pepper spray as you quickened your steps, your pulse beginning to drum louder with every passing second.

You didn’t dare look back.

Relief flooded you the moment your apartment building came into view. However, it only lasted for a few seconds.

You climbed the narrow, ageing staircase two steps at a time, its wooden steps creaking beneath your weight while a single flickering bulb struggled to keep the hallway lit.

You stopped dead a few feet from your apartment door, the spray almost slipping from your hand.

Surely your eyes were playing tricks on you.

Because there was simply no logical explanation for Seokjin standing outside your apartment.

He leaned lazily against your front door, looking entirely too comfortable as though he owned the building. Which wait…did he? Given his ridiculous wealth, it wasn’t entirely impossible.

Hands tucked inside the pockets of an impeccably tailored black overcoat that probably cost more than your rent for the year. The dim hallway did nothing to dull him. If anything, it only made him look more like he’d just stepped out of a fashion magazine.

“I’m surprised you didn’t come to collect your tip, help.”

His gaze lifted to meet yours before drifting slowly down your body and back up again, unhurried and shameless, leaving you with the familiar urge to disappear from under it.

You scowled, your heart still beating a touch too fast. You told yourself it was the adrenaline from earlier as you fished your keys out of your bag.

“Really?” you scoffed. “I thought it was common sense not to expect someone whose life you’ve already ruined to come running because you asked her to.”

As usual, your bitter words barely earned a reaction. Instead, it seemed to amuse him.

He pushed himself off the door and sauntered over to you. This time, before he could invade your space, you took a step back, folding your arms tightly across your chest as if they alone could keep him out.

Your eyes narrowed.

“Why are you here, Seokjin?” you asked, unable to keep the suspicion from your voice, because if there was one thing you knew about Saint, it was that he never sought anyone out unless he wanted something from them. You didn’t even want to think about how he’d managed to find where you lived.

“You’re a receptionist.” He shrugged. “I’m looking for one.”

What?

You let out a disbelieving laugh.

“I don’t care. Leave.”

Turning your back to him, you fumbled your keys towards the lock, cursing the flickering hallway light that made it nearly impossible to see.

“Hundred and twenty thousand,” he said behind you, without missing a beat. “Company accommodation. Full benefits.”

Your hand hesitated for the briefest moment before you forced yourself to keep going.

“Not interested,” you replied evenly. “You can leave now.”

You never heard him cross the distance between you. You were still struggling with the stubborn lock when his hands settled around your waist, firmly pulling your back until your back brushed against the hard planes of his chest. A sharp breath caught in your throat as the warmth of him enveloped you, his breath tickling over the sensitive skin under your ear.

“Everyone has a price,” he growled, the sound low and deliberate.

His grip tightened, just enough to stop you from pulling away.

“So…Name yours.”

“World peace. A cure for cancer. An end to global hunger,” you shot back.

“One hundred and fifty thousand a year.”

The number rolled off his tongue without the slightest hesitation.

“If I were you,” he continued, “I’d already be signing the contract. Your sister’s sick. Your mother’s old and still paying off debt instead of retiring. And you…” His breath ghosted across your neck. “…don’t even have a job.”

Your entire body went rigid.

A job like this was the miracle you’d been praying for all week, but this was Seokjin, and you still hadn’t recovered from what he’d done that night. You were poor, yes, but you still had your pride, and if there was one person it refused to bow to, it was Seokjin Saint Kim.

“No.”

“…No?” He tilted his head, a brow lifting as though he’d genuinely misheard you.

“Do you want me to write it down for you?” You met his gaze.

“Two hundred.”

He said without blinking. To your horror, you felt yourself falter.

“You still don’t get it, do you?” you said through gritted teeth. “No amount of money is going to change the fact that I hate your guts.”

He watched you for a minute too long, a smug smile creeping onto his face. “I almost forgot how fun it is to see you going off.”

“Seokjin!”

“A twenty-four-seven private nurse for Bella. A joining bonus.” His jaw ticked, those plump pink lips pressing into a thin line. “That’s my final offer.”

You wanted to lunge at him, take the deal, and thank every god that had ever existed.

What did that make you? A spineless loser who couldn’t even stand up for herself?

What’s more, you couldn’t wrap your head around why Seokjin was so hell-bent on hiring you of all people. You knew him better than most. He wasn’t a generous man. He didn’t do favours. Every move he made served a purpose, every word was calculated, everything came with a price attached to it.

He was the same man who had run you out of your own home. Now he was worming his way back into your life, dangling everything you had ever wanted in front of you, and expecting you to bite.

It unnerved you.

Seokjin, as always, unnerved you.

“What’s the catch, Seokjin?” you asked, the fight draining from your voice.

The corner of his lips quirked as he reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture so awfully sudden yet slow it made your stomach flutter.

“Oh?” he mused. “Why must there always be a catch, help?”

“Because it’s you,” you replied, exasperation finally bleeding through. “You don’t do anything unless there’s something in it for you.”

His smile widened.

“There may be…the occasional task outside what’s mentioned in your contract.”

You raised a brow, waiting.

“Nothing illegal.” He paused. “Or sexual.”

It was as though he’d plucked the question straight from your head.

“Trust me, help.” His thumb brushed your cheek almost absentmindedly. “I still see more pussy than a gynaecologist in a year. Besides, I have some standards when it comes to my women.” His gaze travelled lazily over you. “So you have nothing to worry about.”

The condescension laced through his words wasn’t lost on you. It was intentional, you knew that.

It relieved you but at the same time a strange twinge of annoyance flared hot in your chest.

Of course he was sleeping around. That much had never surprised you.

After all, Seokjin Saint Kim was the most sought-after bachelor in the country—rich, powerful, devastatingly handsome. Women practically threw themselves at him.

Reading between the lines, your mind chose to settle on to the fact that he was still single.

It had always struck you as odd how he never kept anyone around long enough for people to remember their names.

“I don’t want to do this,” you said one last time, making one final, pathetic attempt to salvage what little dignity you had left, even though deep down you already knew the battle had been lost.

How fitting.

Seokjin had found you at the exact moment you were hitting rock bottom, extending a hand just when you had nowhere else to turn. It reminded you of those stories you’d read as a child, where the devil arrived disguised as an angel, offering salvation with one hand while collecting your soul with the other.

“Sure,” he said simply. “But you kinda don’t have any other option.”

Slipping a hand into the pocket of his overcoat, he pulled out a neatly folded envelope, and held it out to you.

“Consider this an advance.”

You frowned before reluctantly taking it from him.

The moment you unfolded it, your breath caught.

Ten thousand dollars.

For a second, you simply stared at the cheque, blinking several times, convinced you’d read another zero by mistake.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen that much money.

Hell, you weren’t sure you’d ever seen that much money.

Seokjin reached up, his knuckles grazing your cheek as he gently tipped your face towards him. Standing this close, his figure swallowed yours completely, and you found yourself closing your eyes as he spoke, his voice smooth as silk, pouring over you like sweet poison.

“Do you trust me?”

“No,” you answered truthfully.

It was the easiest question he’d asked all night.

He chuckled quietly, and your ears almost strained to catch the sound. You couldn’t really remember hearing Seokjin laugh before.

“But…” His thumb lingered against your jaw. “Would you trust me with my own life?”

Your eyes slowly opened.

Seokjin was a genius.

Cunning, calculating, and always a step ahead of everyone else. More importantly, he always knew how to cover his own tracks. You knew that better than anyone. In all the years you’d lived under the same roof, you’d watched him walk away from trouble that would’ve buried anyone else.

You nodded.

“It’s settled then. Be there at eight sharp, help. The address is on the back of the cheque.” He adjusted the cuff of his coat before looking at you one last time. “And don’t make me regret my generosity.”

With that, he left the hallway, his footsteps fading until only silence remained.

You stood there for another minute, the cheque still clutched in your hand, before finally unlocking your apartment door.

Bella was fast asleep.

Relief washed over you knowing the medication had kept her asleep through the entire exchange in the hallway.

That was the moment you decided.

This was the right choice.

You would submit, bow your head, play by the devil’s rules, and take everything he was willing to give until you had what you needed.

“Who the fuck does she think she is?” Seokjin fumed, spinning lazily in his executive chair as he looked out over Manhattan from the forty-sixth floor of his New York office.

“Your stepmom?” Nate’s sleepy voice came from the other end of the phone, amusement bleeding through his words.

It was barely five in the morning in Los Angeles. Not that Seokjin gave a shit.

Seokjin could hear sheets rustling, followed by a muffled whine in the background. He rolled his eyes. At this point Nate had probably fucked his way through half of Los Angeles in his bed.

“She’s landing tomorrow and wants me to clear my entire fucking schedule for her,” he scoffed.

“This wouldn’t even be a problem if you were back in L.A. like you were supposed to be.”

Nate wasn’t wrong.

The moment it had been decided he’d take over the New York office, Seokjin had wanted to tell them all to go fuck themselves. But they all had to rotate—that was the rule. A stupid fucking rule, but a rule nonetheless. Didn’t mean he had to like it.

He missed California. His house. His fucking bed which Nate was probably defiling as they spoke.

New York was loud, overcrowded, and one giant dick-measuring contest full of desperate assholes trying to convince everyone they were important. No wonder Nate loved the place so fucking much.

Originally, the plan had been simple. Nate had spent years in New York after law school, knew the city inside out, and actually liked living there for reasons Seokjin would never understand. Seokjin had offered to swap offices the second the expansion was announced.

Instead, Nate had laughed in his face and told him to suck it up.

So here he was.

Truthfully, the four of them switched offices often enough that it hardly mattered. They had offices in Los Angeles, New York, Chicago, and London.

Jimin had volunteered to oversee London.

Not because the office needed him.

Because Wren had moved back.

Fucking simp.

“So when the fuck are we switching back dude?” Nate grumbled.

Seokjin glanced absentmindedly at the clock. “Not anytime soon. Not until the thing with Anthony’s sorted.”

The lie left his mouth easily. The Anthony situation had been wrapped up days ago.

What he wasn’t about to tell Nate was that he’d just hired you. In fact, Nate had no idea you were even living in New York.

Seokjin intended to keep it that way.

Normally, Nate ran New York while Seokjin handled Los Angeles. Yoongi floated between offices whenever negotiations got too delicate. Jimin would be on call when clients needed smooth talking.

And Seokjin was the one they sent when playing nice stopped working.

Currently, Nate was making himself comfortable in Los Angeles, using Seokjin’s house like he owned it.

As far as the four of them were concerned, it was normal. Seokjin never really minded.

This time, though, Seokjin especially didn’t mind Nate crashing at his condo. After all, he wasn’t in any rush to drag his own ass back there either.

The New York branch was all over the place, and he genuinely needed someone to clean up the mess. What you didn’t know yet was that you’d never been hired as a receptionist in the first place. That little lie had simply been easier to sell.

You’d be his personal assistant.

For now.

And once you’d served your purpose, you’d be out, dumped back to the shithole you were staying in.

There was no universe where he was letting you end up working for Nate.

Not that Nate would’ve wanted to look at your fucking face anyway. To Nate, you’d been dead ever since you ripped his heart out.

Then again…

That wasn’t Seokjin’s problem.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Nate yawned, “Jimin’s probably getting rejected in a different timezone right now.”

“Serves the desperate fucker right.”

“So…” Nate snorted. “What’s Katherine want this time?”

“Who the fuck knows.”

A muffled voice complained from somewhere beside Nate, telling him to keep it down.

“You’ll survive, Jin.” Nate replied. “Just hurry the fuck up and give me my apartment and office back, asshole.”

“Yeah, whatever. Have a good fucking night, dickhead.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” Nate laughed. “I definitely will have a good fucking—“

Seokjin rolled his eyes as the line went dead.

Just in time, a soft knock sounded as the office door swung open.

“Good morning, Mr. Kim!” the woman beamed far too enthusiastically for eight in the fucking morning, as she walked in balancing a tray in her hands. “I brought your breakfast—Double Americano, egg white omelette, and avocado toast.”

“And you are?” Seokjin asked, barely sparing her a glance as he continued signing a document.

“I’m Ava, your PA.” She chirped, smiling so brightly it was bordering on obnoxious. “I was actually the very first employee hired for the New York office. Mr. Parker hired me himself.”

That finally earned her his attention.

He looked her over once.

Well…That tracked.

Tall. Blonde. Legs for days. Dressed head-to-toe in Ralph Lauren, hair immaculate, smile polished enough to sell religion.

Made perfect fucking sense why Nate had hired her. She was exactly his type. Which begged the question: what the fuck had he ever seen in you?

“Nice meeting you, Ava.”

She smiled wider.

“You’re fired Ava.”

Ava’s face visibly fell, the smile disappearing almost instantly. Tough fucking luck.

“…Excuse me?”

“You’ll get this month’s salary, three months’ severance, and HR will sort out the paperwork.”

Her mouth fell open. “Mr. Kim, You can’t fire me.”

“I can’t?” Seokjin arched a brow, feigning mild interest, his eyes never leaving the document on his screen.

She nodded too fast.

“Oh? And pray tell, Ana… why not?”

“Ava,” she corrected with a huff. “Because we have a contract.” The panic creeping into her voice was already getting on his nerves.“If I’ve done something wrong, you’re required to give me three months’ written notice first. This would be wrongful termination.”

She was beginning to piss him off. “Show me your contract,” he said flatly.

She huffed, spun on her heel, and stomped out of his office. A few minutes later, she marched back in and dropped a copy of the contract onto his desk.

Seokjin skimmed the first page.

She wasn’t lying.

That motherfucker Nate had practically gift-wrapped the contract for her. Was he fucking her?

“What do you think about working in Los Angeles?”

She frowned, clearly caught off guard by the question, before slowly nodding.

“I’d love that.”

“Great.” Seokjin tossed the contract onto his desk. “Pack your bags. You’re transferring to the L.A. office. Effective tomorrow. You’ll be working under Nate until further notice.”

Her entire face lit up. Seokjin watched the smile spread across it and snorted to himself.

Yeah. They were definitely fucking.

Seokjin had a hell of a lot more important shit to do than sit around waiting for you.

He went back to reviewing the contract in front of him, his eyes flicking to the clock every other minute. You weren’t even here yet you’ve found a way to annoy him.

Exactly ten minutes later, another knock echoed through his office. He already knew who it was.

“Come in.”

Truth be told, Seokjin still had no fucking clue why he’d gone after you that day at the diner.

Well…

He did.

A small part of him felt responsible for the mess you and Bella were in.

A very small fucking part.

Sure, he’d played a role in turning your life into the trainwreck it was today. But he wasn’t the one who’d told you to move to the most expensive fucking city in the country with a sick sister and barely two pennies to rub together. That spectacularly stupid decision had been all yours.

He didn’t have much time to think about it before you stepped through the door.

You’d clearly made an effort. Seokjin liked that.

A cream knit sweater hugged your frame, tucked into a pair of dark jeans that had seen better days, while your hair was pulled back neatly in a low pony tail.

Instead of greeting him, you stood there with those stupidly big honey-brown eyes fixed on him in open defiance.

“Do you know how to use an iPad?” Seokjin finally asked.

“Do you know how not to be an asshole?” you replied in the exact same tone.

He had to bite back a smirk.

Jesus Christ, you were so fucking easy to rile up.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He slid the iPad across the desk. “Now sit down and start writing.”

Without giving you so much as a second to breathe, he began rattling off appointments, meetings, flight bookings, dinner reservations, and half a dozen other things that had accumulated over the past week.

You barely managed to keep up, fingers flying furiously across the screen as you tried to catch every word.

Too busy typing to notice the way Seokjin’s gaze kept drifting over your body.

Well, he couldn’t exactly be blamed. You looked fucking hot. You always had. And that was just a fact.

“I think that’s it. You’ can leave now.”

The moment you finished jotting down the last of his instructions, Seokjin dismissed you and turned his attention back to the laptop in front of him, back to typing nothing.

With every second ticking by, he grew more restless.

His shirt was freshly ironed, his watch sat perfectly against his wrist, not a single crease or speck of dust anywhere on him. He knew he looked handsome. Gorgeous, even.

So what the fuck were you staring at?

You’d always made him uncomfortable and despite that, he’d been the one to seek you out.

Hell if he knew why.

At this very moment, though, he simply wanted you to leave.

He finally looked up.

“What?”

“I still don’t understand why you hired me.” You squinted at him, eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“You don’t need to.” His jaw ticked.

Seokjin was irritated now. The way you looked at him, like you could still see through him, irked the fuck out of him.

There were a multitude of reasons why Seokjin hated you. You knew too much, after all.

The first—and by far the most glaring—was that he suspected you knew his secret from that day in the library. The thought alone made him feel weak and pathetic. Whether you actually remembered it or not hardly mattered. The possibility alone made him feel exposed.

There was nothing he loathed more than that. The second was far more irrational. You had the same hair colour as his stepmother. Thank fuck you’d dyed it.

Hating you almost felt like penance for his mother, Vivienne.

And then there was the third reason that pissed him off most.

He respected you. It wasn’t because you were particularly clever or capable, but rather that his name, his money, his power—they meant fuck all to you. Your indifference to him was oddly disarming.

He undid the top button of his dress shirt before rolling his sleeves to his forearms, dragging the moment out because he knew you were still standing there, watching him.

“Now get your ass out of my office and get to work, Help. I have things to do.”

“Heavens, look at you dear…handsome as ever.”

Katherine cupped Seokjin’s face in her cold, manicured hands. She kissed his forehead before letting him go, leaving behind the nauseating scent of vanilla perfume.

It was the most physical contact he’d allowed her in years, and she knew better than to push her luck.

They moved towards the table, and she took the seat across from him. The small concealed scar beneath her nose suggested she was recovering from yet another cosmetic procedure. No amount of designer clothes, fresh fillers, or Hermès bags could hide the one thing she refused to accept.

She was getting old.

Seokjin’s mother never got the chance.

Vivienne Saint Hawthorne had died at thirty-seven, still breathtakingly beautiful, with honey-brown hair and skin pale as snow. She had looked as though she’d stepped straight out of a fairy tale.

Only it had never been one.

The prince she’d fallen in love with had turned out to be the monster.

“I’m afraid your father won’t be with us much longer.”

Katherine’s gratingly sweet voice cut through his thoughts. Her hands were neatly clasped together, her expression carefully arranged into one of heartbreaking grief.

She really ought to have been an actress.

Instead of responding, Seokjin continued eating his dinner, cutting into the steak loudly.

Katherine sighed.

“Jin…”

His grip around the knife tightened.

He hated when she called him that.

It was his mother’s nickname for him. Hearing it from Katherine’s rotten mouth made his blood boil.

He shut his eyes for the briefest second, his jaw locking so tightly he thought it might crack. The urge to throw the crystal glass nearby was becoming a dangerously appealing idea.

“Your father is dying,” she said softly, reaching for a napkin to dab under perfectly dry eyes.

“I have no interest in what I inherit,” she continued.

Seokjin would’ve laughed if he didn’t find the lie so painfully predictable.

“The mansion means more to me than anything else. It’s where your father and I spent our years together, where our love lived.”

This bullshit was almost impressive.

Seokjin had been five when his father married Katherine. Despite being supposedly madly in love with her, his father had still made sure to have her sign a prenup.

A smart decision, in hindsight.

“If, by some unfortunate chance…” she trailed off.

Seokjin slowly raised a brow.

This was going to be so much fun.

“Spit it out, Katherine.” He leaned back in his chair. “I don’t have all day, and we both know you’re not getting anywhere with this whole…”

He gestured vaguely towards her, his expression flat.

“…performance.”

“Give me the mansion. That’s all I ask of you.”

The sweet, grieving widow act lasted exactly a second longer, replaced by the woman Seokjin had known all along. Her voice turned sharp, expression hardening into something far more cunning and calculated.

“I can’t.” Seokjin sighed mockingly and caught the flash of anger crossing Katherine’s face in real time.

“It’s my home,” she snapped. “You don’t even like that house, and you don’t even live there.”

His mother’s home.

He felt the anger hit his veins instantly, hot and familiar, but his face gave away nothing, expression composed and polite. Katherine would never get the satisfaction.

“Oh, don’t worry.” Seokjin smiled, but there was nothing kind about it. “I still have no intention of living there.”

“Well, this has been a wonderful dinner.” He stood, adjusting his coat. “I enjoyed it so much, Katherine. We should definitely do this more often.”

He turned to leave with a smile tugging at his lips, and for once he wasn’t lying. This had been far more entertaining than he’d expected.

“Don’t forget, Saint.”

He paused, glancing over his shoulder.

Oh.

So now it’s Saint? Interesting.

“We don’t know what’s in the will yet,” Katherine continued, her voice smooth again, slipping back into that sweet polished facade she’d spent twenty-five years perfecting. “And your generosity will surely be repaid when the tables turn.”

Seokjin almost laughed. As if he gave a flying fuck about inheriting any of it.

Then again…he did enjoy proving people wrong.

Katherine set her wine glass down with enough force for the crystal to clink against the table, the corners of her mouth pulling into a subtle but ugly frown.

Seokjin’s gaze lingered on the glass for a second.

Huh. So much for etiquette.

Katherine would’ve slapped him across the face for less when he was a kid. The rest of the punishment would’ve been finished by her brother in the library.

“Should I be getting legal representation, Saint?” she asked, her voice clipped. “Is that what you’re implying?”

Truthfully, Seokjin already had a pretty fucking good idea of what the will looked like. The moment his father became bedridden, Seokjin had everything set in motion. His first call had been to Nate’s father, the Kim family’s trusted legal counsel for over two decades.

He’d been preparing for this for months. No, years.

Katherine Rothschild wasn’t walking away with a single fucking penny that carried the Kim name.

The mansion itself meant nothing to him. He hadn’t called it home since forever. But now that he knew Katherine wanted it so desperately, he’d sooner burn the place to the ground himself than let her have it.

He walked back towards the table until he was standing over her, leaning down just enough for their faces to be level.

“By all means, Mother,” his smile never faltered. “Lawyer up.”

Seokjin was in a foul mood.

If there was one thing he hated more than dealing with people, it was dealing with stupid fucking people with expensive degrees. Every time, it was the same circus. They tiptoed around him like he was about to bite someone’s head off, then opened their mouths just to ask the most brain-dead, pointless questions imaginable.

Nothing new, really.

Seokjin had always been antisocial. Whatever popularity he’d had in high school came with his circle—Nate, Jimin and Jungkook. Those idiots could make friends with a brick wall if they tried. Seokjin couldn’t be bothered.

The humming of expensive electronics inside his Los Feliz penthouse and absolute fucking silence had always been his ideal way of spending a week. Well, maybe the occasional groans and moans of nameless women under him, preferably those with honey-brown eyes, soft pillowy lips, and hair that looked like yours. With the lights low and his imagination doing the rest, it made the fantasy all the more real.

The appetite that had been clawing at him for the last thirty minutes had now fully disappeared. Scowling, he shoved the now-cold steak and eggs away from himself.

What a fucking waste.

And well, of course, you were to blame. Seokjin had made the mistake of underestimating you. Turns out you were a hell of a lot sharper than he’d given you credit for. It hadn’t taken you long to realise he needed you as much as you needed him, and so you’d managed to back him into this idiotic team-building lunch.

His eyes narrowed into slits as he shot another glare your way.

You were laughing at something Zoe, his receptionist, had just said, the woman looking pleased with herself. The sound of your laugh carried across the table, bright and irritating.

Christ.

If he spent another minute at this godforsaken table, he was going to lose his mind.

Rising from his chair, he spared you one last glance, only to catch you offering to throw a retirement dinner for some old geezer whose name he couldn’t give less of a shit about remembering.

You wouldn’t even be here by then, he mused to himself. Whatever. He wasn’t going to burst your bubble just yet.

Two hours later, Seokjin was returning from a deposition when something in the corner of his eye caught his attention as he passed your desk.

…What the hell?

You were completely engrossed in a conversation with Ethan, one of the senior accountants. The douchebag was ridiculously young to hold the position—fresh-faced, preppy, dressed in a navy Ralph Lauren quarter-zip over an Oxford shirt. He looked like every private-school-to-ivy-league pipeline rich kid Seokjin had ever met.

Pompous little prick.

Seokjin knew his type. Hell, he was the type.

He cleared his throat once, expecting that to be enough for you to notice him.

It wasn’t.

His lips pressed into a thin line before he snapped his fingers as if he were calling over a disobedient pet.

Your head immediately turned towards him, brows raised in clear annoyance as if to ask, what?

Ethan’s reaction was far more satisfying.

The colour had practically drained from the poor idiot’s face.

“Both of you. My office. Now.”

Seokjin didn’t bother waiting for a response. He turned on his heel and walked away, a smug smile threatening to break across his face.

He’d gotten him.

He’d seen it flash across Ethan’s face. Fuck, he’d seen that same look on countless faces before. He was so damn young and already a multimillionaire CEO, and that was before anyone even brought up his family’s money.

Ruthless. Powerful. Privileged. And an absolute dick when he wanted to be, which well, was most of the time. People found him intimidating, and fuck, he loved it. Especially now.

He heard your footsteps quicken behind him, and the grin tugging at his lips only widened.

The second he stepped into his office, he shrugged off his coat and tossed it over the back of his chair.

“Book two tickets to Blackwood for this evening and arrange for a limo to pick us up.”

You looked up from your iPad, confused.

“I’ll need the other passenger’s name.”

“The other passenger is you.” Seokjin replied flatly without so much as glancing up.

You blinked, your brows knitting together as you stared at him.

“I can’t leave my sister.”

“You weren’t hired to question me,” Seokjin said, finally looking up. “You were hired to do what you’re told.”

“And I will, until it compromises Bella’s health—”

“I already said this once. Don’t make me repeat myself.” His tone dropped a notch. “Bella will have a private nurse with her whenever you’re gone. Have her moved into this apartment today.”

He scribbled an address onto a slip of paper and slid it across the desk.

Ofcourse, he didn’t tell you it was the same building he lived in—or that he owned a handful of units there himself. Funny how investments paid off in more ways than one.

You stared at the address before squeezing your eyes shut, biting your lip as you let out a slow breath.

“I’ll talk to Bella first.”

His gaze lingered on your mouth, watching the way your teeth worried your bottom lip, and a muscle ticked in his jaw.

For fucks sake.

How could he not want to fuck you?

“Here’s the thing,” Seokjin leaned back in his chair, his voice stern. “Bella isn’t your boss. I am. Which means I decide how it works.”

His eyes bored into yours.

“The moment you signed the contact, you became mine. You serve me. You will obey me. Is that clear?”

You didn’t respond but continued staring at him with those ridiculous big doe eyes.

Three sharp knocks interrupted the silence.

“Come in.”

Ethan stepped inside looking considerably less smug than he’d been five minutes ago.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Kim?”

“Yeah.” Seokjin gestured lazily towards the chairs opposite his desk.

“Have a seat.”

When he caught you taking a step backwards, he added without looking at you.

“Both of you.”

You looked at Seokjin warily before lowering yourself into the chair beside him.

“Ethan,” Seokjin said, his gaze settling on him. “Do you know who I am?”

Ethan swallowed hard. “Y-you’re the CEO of Axiom Heights.”

Seokjin gave a slow shake of his head.

“Let’s try that again.”

His voice remained calm, bored even.

“Who am I?”

Ethan looked seconds away from being sick.

“I… I…” He opened his mouth, closed it again, his throat working as panic settled in.

Seokjin turned his head towards you.

“Ms. ____?”

You met his gaze without blinking. “A self absorbed egoistic jerk?”

Damn, you had a mouth on you.

Seokjin felt the blood surge through his veins. He swallowed the irritation behind a grin that came easily. He loved it when you were like this. The more you challenged him, the more he wanted to strip that defiance from you piece by piece until all that fire burnt itself out.

Fuck. He was so hard. Fuck. You were so pretty.

Ethan, on the other hand, was horrified.

“One last chance, Mr. Ethan.”

““I-I’m…” Ethan stammered before forcing himself to straighten in his chair. “You’re… my boss, Mr. Kim.”

“There we go.” Seokjin nodded once, pleased.

“And as your boss, I expect you to remember exactly where the line is.” His smile disappeared as quickly as it’d appeared.

“I don’t give a damn what you do outside these walls, but inside this company I won’t tolerate something as stupid and careless as an office romance.” Seokjin watched the colour drain from Ethan’s face as realisation washed over him.

“I built Axiom from the ground up, and I'll be damned if either of you drag its name through the mud. Am I making myself clear?” Seokjin said, glancing between them.

“O-Oh, Mr. Kim.” Ethan practically lurched forward in his chair. “We were just talking. It’s a huge misunderstanding. I—I have a girlfriend.”

Of course he did.

Which meant you knew that now, too.

“Good,” Seokjin said with an indifferent shrug. “As long as we’re all on the same page.” He gave Ethan a curt nod, “You’re excused.”

Ethan all but fled the office.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the room steeped in silence.

Seokjin went back to the papers spread across his desk as though nothing had happened.

You, however, hadn’t moved.

Your plush lips were pressed into a thin, furious line, your arms folded tightly across your chest. If looks could kill, he’d have been six feet under already.

He could feel your glare burning a hole through the side of his face.

Finally—

“You’re pissing me off.”

He relished knowing he’d crawled under your skin.

“And you’re turning me on,” Seokjin replied without lifting his eyes from the file, his voice flat. “So unless you want to end up getting fucked against the window right there, you might wanna tone down those glares.”

“You’re sick,” you breathed out, your expression more irritated than revolted.

“Probably,” Seokjin cracked his neck before signing the bottom of a page.“But you’ve always known that, Help, haven’t you?”, he purred.

Your eyes flashed with rage, and fuck, Seokjin couldn’t take his eyes away from you as he felt his cock throb. And if there were any doubts before this moment, they were all erased. This was so on.

Seokjin was going to fuck you, use you for what he wanted, and then dump you back when he was done.

It was only deserved after what you’ve done. You should’ve known better than to let Nate have what had always belonged to him.

And right now, you’d be coming to California with him whether you liked it or not.

“I don’t understand you at all. I don’t understand why you act like this,” you muttered, shaking your head. “Then again…maybe you don’t understand yourself either. Especially not whatever this is.” You gestured between the two of you.

Only, Seokjin understood perfectly. There was nothing confusing about it.

He hated you.

He wanted you.

The two had never been mutually exclusive.

He wanted you in a way that made no fucking sense. It was a relentless, stubborn itch inside his skin that anger couldn’t erase and distance couldn’t dull. It lived beneath all the hatred and resentment —only becoming more unbearable and stronger over time.

But that ended now.

Because finally—finally—he was going to stop fighting it, and when he was finished, he’d make sure there was nothing left to haunt him after.

writingdisposal

Attachments | Yandere!Fae x Reader

w/c: ~10k

c/w: yandere themes, some gore (nothing too explicit/detailed), creepy behaviour

a/n: It's been a while. I've just been chilling and trying to find something to write about. Hope you enjoy

---------

Algeron was the prince of the fae realm. He was a rebellious young adult, soon succeeding his aged father's position as king. Clicking his tongue, he fastened his belt and put his coat on. His gaze flicked to the arched window of his chamber. The night sky was illuminated by twinkling stars that called his name. Just like every other night, he abandoned his royal duties to escape into the human realm. It was a taste of freedom, he will long for centuries once duties called. After becoming king, perhaps he should expand the kingdom further and invade more spaces in the human realm. His mind continued wandering, while he unleashed his magic, moving quietly through the portal and walking out of a tree.

The first thing he felt was the cold air hitting his face. Next he felt the way the grass got squashed by the weight of his feet. It was so unnatural to stand instead of flying just above ground, but he liked it regardless. Swiftly he closed the portal, marking its location by enchanting the tree before setting out on his little journey. He wanted to get to the lake and search for Peachleaf Bellflowers. The radiant color was most suitable for his hunting dogs' collars. In addition, they were easy to enchant, allowing his beloved dogs to be protected more effectively.

chimera-dreams

inhuman[E]

5/5 - Black Hole

s: You slip into a world where androids rule the Earth and humans have fled to the moon. Despite your constant requests to go home, you have a feeling the androids aren’t too keen on helping you.

cw: SMUT, rape/non-con, yandere oc x reader, dddne, captivity, isekai, dark content ahead, piv, author chose not to put warnings

wc: 8k

co-written with @envy-of-the-apple ♥ read on ao3 here

(reminder to put your age in your bio/pinned before you follow me or I will block you)

[NieR masterlist]

[prev]

butter-bling

goshhh idk i wanna read some JUICY LONG ASF yandere!prince (oc) x fem!reader fanfic that ends with smut. PLEASE DO SMTH LIKE THAT, PPL OF TUMBLR. PLS WRITE SMTH LIKE THAT AND FEED US. feed me please im starving I'm starving im starving I'm starving

(and if you DO end up writing smth like that pls let me know PLEASE. reblog this or atleast dm me)

noenokimushy

its not obvious yet since I've only posted two fanfics but I'm obsessed with yanderes and stalkers (only in fiction not irl. Never irl. Its scary and bad irl)

I like dead dove yanderes and I like romanticized yanderes. I'm not picky. Different but equally good imo

Also why are yandere x reader fics always that? Never yandere reader x the character. I wanna see my favorite characters being traumatized (more) I wanna see them completely freaked out and paranoid or oblivious and being totally manipulated

If it's impossible for the reader insert to be exactly like every reader anyways then it might as well be exaggerated and made into a unique character. Like a yandere, or a bimbo or a tsudere or a himbo or like just a person with a personality and goals and stuff too I guess but mostly I want to read more yandere reader fics

bellossom

obsessed w blunt headed tree snakes

bogey-chan

a-ffection

feefal

Gold, Silver, and Bronze!🥇🥈🥉

Now as sisters and with a complex sibling dynamic.

feefal

did you know 24k gold is so soft you can scratch it with a fingernail? Because bronze knows

darlamydarling

uhmm ahahah hi @skellebon our Kylars should totally go on a playdate sometime

surely they'll get along... right?

skellebon

OHHHHH MY GOSH SO CUTEEEEEEE (*^▽^*)(*^▽^*)(*^▽^*)(*^▽^*)(*^▽^*) ouhhh they're just the most adorable bbies EVERRRRR WAAAAAAHHHH TYSM FOR THIS EEEEE!!!!!!

They'd have fun telling each other stories n stuff abt their lovers....... tmi def LOL

darlamydarling

Ooh~ they defo gonna be op af as friends cuz wdym Darla would give Luca cheat sheets for exams (that's only for him and other selected individuals) and offers numerous copies of a fake cheat sheet for him to pass around in order to sabotage other students in her stead muehuehue A double date with their Kylars would really end nasty tho so I curious how that would happen 😏😏😏

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