Synopsis: Youâre a witch known for making love potions. They're fake. The reviews are real. Your track record? Immaculate. Until a duke walks in, covered in blood, and demands you reverse the spell you cast on him.
You didn't cast anything.
He doesn't care.
And now you live in his mansion.
Love Potion or Love at First Sight?
"Are you sure this is it?"
"Yes yes! This is the love potion. Now pay up or leave because I have other customers to attend to!"
You groan at the woman hesitating in front of you, wasting your time.
You're an infamous witch known in the black market for selling all types of spells and potions for a hefty sum.
Your most popular item? The love potion.
Which is actually just⊠an aphrodisiac.
But after selling 170 potions? You've only ever received positive reviews. All from noblewomen, lovestruck and happy with the results.
What can you say? You've always known men to be lustful creatures, barren from emotions. After selling a 170 with zero bad reviews? Your ideology is proven correct.
"Are you sure it works?" the woman whispers.
"100% customer satisfaction guaranteed!"
She still looks nervous.
"And if it doesn't work, you can come back and I'll give double your money back as refund."
The woman nods, pays with a pouch of gold coins, then leaves.
Another positive review, you think to yourself confidently, already marking this as your 171st success.
âŠ
You just didnât expect your first bad review to appear right in front of your face.
The door slams open.
A man stands in your doorway. With black hair and red eyes; blood plastered across his face, clothes, and most importantly his sword.
"So," The bloody man starts, one hand going up to wipe some blood off his face. âYou're the witch selling cheap love elixirs all over the market?â
You donât answer, your hand sliding toward the defense charm under your counter instead.
Because this wasnât just any man, this was the war-crazed duke feared by all of society.
"You better pay for this."
âŠGuess you'll be closing the shop for a while.
___________
And⊠you've been working at his mansion ever since.
Tasked with reversing whatever spell you supposedly casted on him. Despite all your protests, swearing up and down that you never did anything.
He doesn't believe you.
He won't believe you.
Because how else do you explain what he felt when he walked into your shop? That made his sword hand waver and his heart stutter, and his threats turn into something softer?
Obviously, youâve cursed him. There was no need to investigate this any further, nor did he feel the need to tell you about all these symptoms.
So now you're stuck in a massive estate with a madman who thinks you cursed him, brewing antidote after antidote, watching nothing work.
You could only curse that woman, muttering bitter insults under your breath.
The one who bought the potion and slipped it to him. The one who left you with this mess and then promptly left this world, if the blood on his sword was any indication.
Damn her.
What the hell did she see in this man anyway?
Because here's the thing you're learning, piece by piece. The duke? He's not just some nobleman. He's the nobleman. The one everyone whispers about, who keeps a dungeon beneath the east wing and a graveyard in the west garden. (Allegedly.)
The madman of high society.
If only you'd known he was the target that woman was after, you would've never sold her that potion. Never agreed to the commission or opened your stupid mouth about the satisfaction guarantee!!
But you didn't know.
And now you're stuck with the aftermathâŠ
___________
At first, the madman kept you confined to a workspace somewhere within the mansion.
Close enough to monitor. Far enough to ignore.
Then, he started calling for you more often. Checking on your progress. Standing just a little too close while you worked. Watching you with scrutinizing red eyes.
And then, he started sticking around you 24/7, following you from room to room like some clingy puppy who couldn't bear for you to leave his sight.
Even that wasnât enough. At some point, you stopped being assigned a room at all.
Wherever he was⊠that became your workspace.
Youâd turn around and heâd be there.
In the doorway. Behind you. Leaning against the wall like heâd been there the whole time.
Like he had nowhere else to be. Donât dukes have better things to do? Go tend to your paperwork or something!!
Through it all, he's never kind. Still angry, demanding, and barking orders about reversing the damn spell.
But he never hurts you.
His threats are loud. And his hands are rough, just like his voice that could shatter glass.
But you've started to notice something.
He always stops. Itâs all bark but no biteâŠ
And it becomes a routine.
You work. He watches. You brew. He hovers. You try to leave. He blocks the door.
At some point, he has you working in his bedroom.
No, like, actually. He stooped to this level of stupidity, needing allowing you to stay in his chambers at night.
He's sleeping on the bed and you have to sit beside him. On the floor. With your books and your herbs and your constantly dying patience.
You don't know when this became normal.
You hate that it feels normal.
__________
Tonight, you try to get up.
His hand immediately shoots out to grab your wrist.
"Where do you think you're going?"
You don't flinch anymore. The first few times, you did. Now? You just sigh.
"I'm trying to study for a reverse spell. Or a cure. For you, remember?"
"Stay."
His voice is flat. Unreasonable. Like he's not even considering the possibility of you leaving.
"I can't work if I'm stuck by your side, Your Grace."
"Leave and I'll rip your throat out."
You've heard this before. It had you frozen and crying the first few times, but then you realizedâŠ
He never follows through.
Not with you.
"Your Grace," you say, calm as anything, "you can't do that. Who will reverse your spell if not the caster?"
His jaw tightens, though the grip on your wrist doesn't loosen.
But he knows you're right.
He's quiet for a long moment, thinking. And you can see the exact second he shifts tactics.
"Then I'll slit the throats of all the guards outside who allow you to leave this room."
"âŠI'm sat."
You sit back down on the floor. Head leaning against the bed where his hand lingers limbly. Sometimes brushing your hair unconsciously, like it was to make sure you were still there.
And you work on the spell in his chambers all night long. Barely getting a blink of sleep.
He, on the other hand?
Dead to the world.
The madman who threatened to rip your throat out twenty minutes ago is now curled up on his ridiculous silk sheets, snoring softly.
His face is slack and peaceful. Innocent in a way that makes you want to throw a pillow at his head.
You've noticed this before. The way his eyes get heavy when you're nearby, how his shoulders drop when you enter the room. And the way his threats get lazier the longer you stay.
At first, you thought it was the potion's side effects.
Now you're starting to think he just⊠can't sleep without you.
Which is not your problem. You didn't sign up to be a nobleman's sleeping charm. You're a witch. A busy one! One who is currently being held against her will in a mansion that smells too much like old money and fresh blood.
And yet⊠Here you are, watching him sleep.
Because if you move, he wakes up. And if he wakes up, he gets grumpy. And if he gets grumpy, he threatens to kill someone.
Usually the guards.
You've started to feel kind of bad for the guards.
"I hope you wake up with a stiff neck," you mutter, dipping your quill in ink. "I hope you stub your toes when you wake up. I hope your breakfast is cold and your tea is bitter and your horse steps on your foot."
His lips curl up softly. Like you're singing him a lullaby.
Your quill scratches to a halt.
"âŠI hope you dream about spiders," you try, weaker this time.
His smile deepens.
He doesn't wake up. He just⊠rests. Still peaceful and content. Like your curses are the sweetest words he's ever heard.
You stare at him.
Then you look down at your notes, page full of failed antidotes and useless counter-spells. A truth youâve been avoiding for a while manifests to the surface of your mind once again.
Nothing is wrong with him.
The potion didn't work.
He's just like this.
You set down the quill to press your palms to your eyes.
And wonder, for the thousandth time, what in the hell you did to deserve this.
Maybe its time you suggest a psychiatrist.
___________
Little did both of you know.
The potion didn't work on him.
It never could have. Years of assassination attempts had made his body resistant to poisons, potions, drugs⊠Basically anything ingested.
The drink that woman slipped him? It passed through his system like water. Barely a flicker of discomfort, a vague pulling in his chest that he dismissed as irritation.
He came to your shop that day ready to kill the witch who made it.
Not because the potion had affected him. But because he was annoyed.
Someone had tried to enchant him. Someone had failed. And he wanted to make an example of the person responsible.
Until he saw you.
And something in his chest pulled again.
Not the potion, that was already gone.
Something else he didnât have a name for.
He still doesn't have a name for it. He calls it a curse. A spell. Your fault.
âŠ
It's not.
He was just love-struck at first sight.
And he's been falling harder and harder with each day that passes.
Deep in his sleep, one thought surfaces in his mind.
; yandere, this is based on a cliche trope so do with that as you will, pathetic phainon but #he gets his way, plot device sunday, manipulation, brief mention of self-harm + suicide threat (it's used as a manipulation tactic), proofread to the best of my ability...
; becoming enamoured with phainon is an inevitability that you had no chance of ever resisting. but it stings how he'll never see you beyond a dear friend from kindergarten. the moment you move on, however, begins a shift in your dynamic with him -- he wants you back, desperately so.
; push-and-pull trope with phainon. oneshots masterlist can be seen here.
I. Love is a bitter fruit grown from trees.
âIâm Phainon! Whatâs your name?â
The first time you met him, his small hand reached out, waiting for you to take it. You did.Â
A duo is often composed of an extrovert and an introvert: at the age of seven, you knew full well who was who between you and your newfound friend, Phainon. He has a birthmark resembling that of the sun located at the side of his neck. It suits him well, you canât think of anything but the sun when describing him. He shines like one, is warm like one, and basks everyone with his golden presence like one.Â
You wondered often: If he is the sun, then what would that make you?
Ideally, youâd be the complementary moon for him. During childhood, you tried to force it down your own throat by using the yellow crayon for him, and the blue one for you in your schoolwork doodles. Sun and moon, yellow and blue, light and dark â phainon and you. Growing up a bit more, you soon came to realise that you are no moon.Â
Youâre more of a sunflower who basks in his sunlight and greedily soaks up all his affection. Youâd hate to be the moon, for this meant youâd only rise when Phainon is gone â you prefer staying right by his side, a sidekick he can always count on.Â
A sidekick wearing your heart on your sleeves, shy but never quite ashamed of the sincere feelings youâve held for him growing up. A flower bud that slowly unfurls into a full bloom.
As your mother would lovingly refer to you both, you are: âTwo birds of a feather!âÂ
Your childhood memories of Aedes Elysiae, blurry some of them may be, are bathed in everlasting gold. While Phainon dragged you off to go play heroes or look through Cyreneâs cards together, you remember dropping pollen of your romantic affection, scattered across planes of time like trails of breadcrumbs left for him to decipher.Â
While the sun dipped into the horizon, you inched closer to him day by day, the fluttering in your heart evolves into a palpitation you can never stop, and small gifts handcrafted to show your admiration all gently whispered to him to âplease, take the hintâ. But reminiscent of an immovable stone, Phainon remained blissfully oblivious to the signs.
Cyrene certainly got them; her narrowing eyes and poorly hidden giggles as she sent you and Phainon away were enough of a testament. âIâm not feeling well today, you two can go on without me!â
Youâd linger at the edge of her front yard, unsure how to proceed with her help. At Phainonâs call however, you move to follow him â âokay, phai!â â trying to contain the dandelion seeds dancing around in your stomach when he leads you by the arm, not letting go despite arriving at your destination. You didnât want to let go either, even with the sweat building up in your palm.Â
High school sprouts in your backyard as a tall and looming beanstalk that would force you both to grow up even more.Â
Phainonâs high-pitched voice starts cracking like eggshells, making way for a deeper tone yet still carrying that warm lilt he always had. You grow taller, still incomparable to Phainonâs own growth spurt, but a good few inches nonetheless. Your sense of style reshapes itself, old interests thrown out for newer ones, and the patch of land where youâd all play heroes together becomes forgotten, the trampled blades of grass outgrowing their original length.Â
You start favouring the comforts of your room over the blazing heat of the sun, beginning to find sweat as something you canât stand and only coming out when Phainon pleads with you to do so.Â
He shines brighter in High School â his presence a beaming beacon of light as he walks through the hallways and enters classrooms. Being the sunflower that you are, you faithfully stayed by his side. Fawning crowds come and go, you donât.Â
Your infatuation is exposed to those who arenât Cyrene; childish people who never grew past the mental age of twelve tried to pick on you for always âSticking to phainon like some damn leech! Donât have any other personality traits or something?â â the teasing didnât last after Phainon punched one of them square in the face. His heroic act only dug your cove of feelings a little bit deeper.Â
Heâs your best friend and first love, a pillar of comfort you grew up with â you canât imagine your life without Phainon. You pick up more hobbies, he joins more clubs he never expected he would, and you share your new life experiences with each other during lunch. Sometimes separated, but never for too long.Â
Several months flicker by, and during one of your high school Valentineâs, you received gifts from men who arenât just Phainon.Â
Despite his locker overflowing with pink, glittery love notes and heart-shaped chocolates handmade out of sincerity, his gaze was pinned to the white envelope and bouquet of flowers you carried - neither of them is from him. His own gift is already hanging off your backpack, the cute sunflower keychain that it is.Â
âFrom a friend?â He asks, finally closing his locker before he risks more glitter explosions on the ground.
âI doubt it,â Heâs the only friend you have in this school, embarrassing it is to admit. Cyrene studies elsewhere. âBut theyâre cute.â
You see his tongue in cheek, and you dare let a seed of hope plant in the root of your heart. Is he⊠jealous? That makes you giddy. Tentatively, you ask, âYou think so too, right, Phainon?â
He grimaces, glancing one last time at the items in your embrace before smiling, âYeah, they are. Anyway, done with your locker? Let me carry your bag now.â
You nursed that seed of hope from then forth, slowly but steadily hoping more and more for the plausibility that he returns your feelings. It wouldnât be too far off, surely â even if youâre not meant for each other in the end, you still want to try with him. You water that seed by dropping more subtle hints to Phainon, and you fertilize it by observing your best friend like an animal in a zoo, analyzing his minuscule actions and trying to correlate them to the mannerisms of âa guy with a secret crush on his best friendâ.
To be young is to be naive.Â
You didnât need much. A simple âyou should go for it! Iâve been rooting for you two since we were all children!â from Cyrene carved out your decision to confess to Phainon near the end of high school.Â
In the end, ripped straight from the dramas you watched out of curiosity, you confess to Phainon at the height of spring after getting your high school diplomas; the scent of flowers in full bloom makes you sick with nostalgia and nerves simultaneously. Your family is off conversing with his parents, while you dragged him to a secluded spot in the school.Â
âUhm⊠Iâve liked you for a long time now, Phainon. Iâm not expecting you to return my feelings butâŠâ You leave it open-ended, too afraid to settle your confession definitively. You love him, actually - but love is a strong word that some donât like to acknowledge. For his sake, you wonât either.Â
A warm, gentle spring can never stay for too long. In the same breath, you, too, are forced to abandon the sunlight youâve known for several years at the sound of his discordant chuckle â the awkward smile etched on his face as his eyes could only look down at you in what you assume to be pity. You avert your gaze from his blue eyes, opting to stare into his birthmark instead.Â
âHey, of course I like you too - youâre my best friend! But we can always stay as friends, (Y/N). Youâre dear to me, you know â maybe not⊠like that, I just donât want things to change between us.â
You experience the first and biggest heartbreak of your life just hours after graduating from High School. Your best friend Phainon does not reciprocate your feelings and instead wishes for your relationship to stay the same, locked into the tight box of âclose friendsâ he never plans on breaking. The seed-turned-plant of hope in your heart withers down to a sad, pathetic, dried-out flora.Â
Thatâs okay. Youâll be attending the same college as him, located far, far away â even if itâs not, you have to be okay.Â
After a few tense seconds of utter silence, you smile â the most carefree smile you can muster in that moment before enthusiastically nodding at him, âI get it! Donât worry, Phainon. I totally get it. Uh, hey, I think Cyreneâs calling me. I have to take this phone call for a bit, okay? Letâs meet again later!âÂ
You bury that confession six feet under in your backyard, covered and only seen by inches of soil as you maintain your close friendship with Phainon. Best friends, close friends, friends - you are not to cross these labels unless you want to lose your close companion.Â
The months of free time leading up to college are nothing unusual, you spend it as you would in the past: Phainon picking you up on the front porch to spend the entire day together. Itâs either his or your room where youâll pour sweating buckets over study materials and banter over multiplayer games on his console.
Your heart still beats like drums just being in his vicinity alone, and it took you days of preparation to act like youâre unbothered when he invites you to his room â the walls and shelves containing time capsules from years before. Pressed white daisies you gifted him on his 10th birthday peeks out as his bookmark, and your kindergarten doodle of him as the sun proudly hangs above his bed, displayed as if itâs an artifact from the Belobog museum.Â
The most heartwrenching item is the printed photo sitting on his desk: itâs little him kissing little youâs frosting-smudged cheek at your 10th birthday party. The shock on your face is captured and frozen in time, a memory you both laugh about every month or so. 10th birthday⊠Itâs the same age you realized you see him as more than a friend.Â
Seeing it for the umpteenth time never fails to steal the air from you; the ache never gets easier. You wish you could truly put these romantic feelings to rest in a coffin and seal it shut with a lid, never to be opened again.Â
âPhainon, next time⊠letâs spend the day in my room.â
Seeing bits and pieces of you scattered around his room hurts more than him verbally rejecting you.Â
He grins, all teeth and gums, âSure!â
Even branches grow into a tree of their own, just as a fledgling must leave its nest.Â
Spring came and went, high school a chapter closed, and youâre now faced with attending school â college, you remind yourself â an ocean away from the familiar warmth of Aedes Elysiae. The wheat fields that were once taller than you, and Phainonâs house right next door, are all left behind momentarily. You canât pocket your hometown to bring with you in Penacony, but at least you still have Phainon.Â
âEverything all settled?â He gently lets go of your dormâs wooden table, finally in its correct position, âThis layout is fine, right?â
âIt is,â You hand him a towel, itching to help with wiping off his sweat, âThanks, Phainon. You didnât have to.â
âI wanted to, anything for you.â Anything for his dear best friend. He bumps your side before sitting down on the living room couch. You wanted him to stick around for a while longer, but heâs already out your door the moment he hears knocking â (âOh, your roommate is here! I need to go now, remember to call me if you need help, okay?â he pats your shoulder on the way out).Â
The patch of skin he briefly touched is still tingling when you see someone walk into the living room, luggage trailing right behind. A tall man with shoulder-length gray hair and kind yellow eyes bows at you in greeting. Heâs wearing a white cardigan with a blue sweater layered on top, the color alone reminds you of your best friend despite the difference in shades.
âHello, pardon my sudden entrance.â
â...Hi.â You donât know how to talk to people beyond Phainon and Cyrene - standing around here is making you shy. âUhm, my name is (Y/N)... And you areâŠ?â
âI am Sunday,â His hand extends for a handshake, and you hesitantly follow suit. âItâs nice to meet you. I sincerely hope we get along.â
You nod, staring back into pools of liquid gold while shaking his hand, â...Yeah, letâs. And please donât mind the succulents on the windowsill.â
II. A close-knit friendship withers in winter, in its place is a new one.
Much to your relief, your late-night fears of college drifting you and Phainon apart never come to fruition. It has the opposite effect, to your surprise. While not overdramatically countries away, Phainonâs dorm room is located a floor above - a notable difference from when he lived right next door to you. The added distance often has him visiting your dorm room unprompted (you kindly gave him a spare key in case of emergencies) and easily greeting a confused Sunday who just finished his classes for the day.
âCall me your third roommate â donât worry, I help around!â Heâd joke. Using your headband to push his hair back, wearing a baggy tee and gray sweatpants, he makes himself at home. Sometimes doing his own homework or brings his gaming laptop along.Â
After the initial surprise, Sunday doesnât mind his company â you certainly donât.Â
Phainon waits for you outside your room to walk you to your class. He makes sure you sit next to him in the classes you share. He insists you join the same org as him, and predictably, you do.Â
You thought you buried your less-than-platonic feelings in your backyard; you truly did. But Phainon has your heart racing in excitement, rekindling the dying plant of hope. You still like him â truthfully, you never stopped liking him. But heâs closer to you now, a feat you previously thought to be impossible. The distance of just one floor away makes the heart grow fonder. Dare you say, clingy?Â
But he still remains your best friend. A clingy, touchy one â but your best friend.Â
Sunday discusses the topic on a slow, school-less night. Youâre in the living room finishing up the last plates needed to be washed when he suddenly chimes in, tone so sure of his words, âAh yes, I remember now. Please tell your boyfriend to stop entering our dorm past 11 PM. The faculty recently deployed a curfew; itâs best we follow it.â
The ceramic plate in your grasp almost crashes headfirst to the floor. Out of embarrassment, you refuse to turn around and face your roommate. Boyfriend. Boyfriend â only one person is a repeat visitor in your dorm room, and heâs nowhere near being your boyfriend.
Meekly, you set the plate down and correct him, âIâll inform him, but⊠Phainon isnât my boyfriend.â
The silence that wafts through is more humiliation added onto your person. What is Sundayâs facial expression right now? Shocked? Ashamed?Â
He answers it for you: âI see⊠This is quite mortifying, my sincere apologies.âÂ
But he continues, âYouâre both seen together, and he visits you so often, not to mention the look you give him, I got the idea thatâŠâ Iâll be sure to be more observant in the future. Again, my apologies.â
Youâre wiping the table clean when you reply, still angling your face away from his eyes, âItâs cool, donât worry! No harm done! He and I are best friends, yes⊠the bestest of friends!â
You feel him raise a brow at that, âI donât mean to pry, howeverâŠâ
Cyrene always chided you for being a pushover to those around you. In this instance, you hear her disapproving frown when you fold like a wet blanket, âWhatever it is youâre thinking â! I-itâs probably right.â
Wilted sunflower that you are, you mournfully face him with your eyes cast to the floor.Â
âAh. You like him?â
You slowly nod, a small part relieved that you now have someone other than Cyrene and Phainon to confide in. âDonât tell him, pleaseâŠâ
âI wonât.â
His bird-patterned socks enter at the edge of your vision. You slowly look up. Sunday is smiling at you, although a bit tense.Â
âPerhaps itâs a bit presumptuous of me considering weâve only known each other for months, but⊠They say Iâm a good listener. If you donât mind, could you tell me more?â
Sunday is a Borage you unknowingly planted, only just now peaking when you need him most. Sitting side by side on your dormâs small couch, you gain an outsiderâs perspective on your years-long pining toward your best friend. He hears of your rejection and your still-persisting feelings. In the end, the advice he offered to you is:
âHe may not be stringing you along, but you still foster optimism in your heart. So long as you have it, you will never move forward past him. If you ask me⊠confess your love a second time; see if his opinion has changed.â
You gulp, âAnd if it doesnât?â
He smiles, gentle as clouds, âBroaden your horizons permanently. Distance yourself if you must; your friendship will pick up once you settle your feelings.â
Winter break is soon; youâll need to go back to Aedes Elysiae in a few monthsâ time. HoweverâŠ
âIf itâs not too much. A-and I understand if you donât want to! But, could I ask you toâŠâ
Sundayâs words continuously ring in your mind, repeating circles of âconfess your feelingsâ and âmove on,â bouncing off of one another. Coincidentally, Sunday is out for the afternoon when Phainon barges in a week later. Something about groupmates and âI wish you were in my groupâ going one ear and out the other as you nod at him in autopilot.Â
He picks up on your unusual behavior not even ten minutes in: brows raised to the sky and eerily getting close and personal with you, surveying your face like itâd shed off all the information he wanted. He retracts a few seconds later, less joking when he inquires, âSomething on your mind? Missing Aedes Elysiae?â
Hanging out in your small room like this, laptop opened to play some pirated action movie, and his class notes scattered around your bedsheets like autumn leavesâŠÂ
You shake your head, feeling the moment to follow Sundayâs advice is now. This is the perfect timing â no one else around to see your heartbroken face for a second time, and no Cyrene to find out youâre still hung up on him.Â
âPhainon, IâŠâ
He shuffles closer to hear you better â traitorously, your heart clenches in affection.Â
âYeah?â
You take a deep breath, screwing your eyes shut, âI think I still like you.â
You downplay your feelings for the sake of self-preservation.
His breath hitches, âAh, thatâsââ
âIâm sorry.â You apologize, remorseful at how uncomfortable he must be right now, âI really tried, butâŠâ A deep breath, âIâll move on from you soon, I promise.â
âOh,â He pauses, staring anywhere but you, âUhm⊠sure⊠Iâm glad to have you, you know?â
You nod, too fragile to face him.Â
â...Youâre my first and dearest friend. I truly, really liked you, Phainon.â You love him so, so much.
âYouâre dear to me too, (Y/N). Forever and now.â
Youâve heard of an overseas concept where a person in an unrequited love begins to sprout flowers from within. You feel like thatâs happening to you right now with how unbearable heartbreak is â yellow carnations form from your bleeding heart, wormwood seizes your lungs in a tight embrace, and pink roses mix with your innards. Youâd cough out the feeling if you could; empty your stomach from all the flowers and be done with it. Â
Predictably, heâs quiet for the rest of the movie â immediately coming up with an excuse to leave your dorm room once the end credits begin rolling in. You break down into tears the moment the lock clicks in place. You cry for hours, long enough for Sunday to come knocking on your door, just knowing you managed to do it when he readily offers you one of his giantmoa pudding tarts.Â
Eyes puffy and snot stubbornly running down your nose, you take a bite and thank him through a mouthful of pastry. Itâd taste better if you werenât so heartbroken. He gently rubs your shoulder in comfort.Â
âItâll be alright.â
Heâs rightâ But Phainon has always been by your side, rain or shine. The following months of his absence from your life will be akin to traversing a dark forest with no light source.
But thereâs light at the end of the tunnel; a rainbow at the end of the storm. When Sunday bans you from helping with chores that night, you know your heart will heal in time.
âThanks a lot⊠sunny.âÂ
He sighs in mock exasperation, âI see youâve picked up on that nickname too.â
The sun: Hey
The sun: I came by to pick you up, but for some reason, your roommateâs lying?? He said youâre not going back to aedes elsysiae this winter break??? And even denied me entry???Â
The sun: crazy right
The sun: Iâm right outside waiting for you rn
The sun: do you need help packing up? :)Â
You: No
You: Heâs telling the truth.
You: I wonât be visiting for now. Maybe next semester break?
The sun: what
You havenât read his one-word reply when your phone screen transitions to his contact photo with the text âThe sun is callingâŠâ displayed below. You sigh, reluctantly sliding to accept.
Even with speakers turned off, you hear him without pressing your phone against your ear: âWhat do you mean? Did something happen? Donât tell me you and Auntie got into a fightâŠ! Donât worry! Iâll act as the middleman like usu-â
âUhm, Phainon.â You cut him off.Â
âYeah?â
âItâs nothing like that, please donât worry.â
He makes a sound of confusion, painfully close to a whimper, âSo then⊠why arenât you visiting our hometown with me?â
âBecause youâll be thereâ. âIâm busy with some personal matters here, donât worry about me. Say hi to Snowy for me, okay?â
âNo, Iâm absolutely worrying about you â why not? We can visit them next week instead if youâre busy! Why⊠why miss out on the entire winter break? Wonât you be lonely here?â
âNo need, really! Enjoy aedes elysiae for me. And I wonât be lonely⊠so stop worrying so much, you softie. I have sunny with me.â
âSunnyâŠ? Your⊠roommate? Sunday? Heâs staying here for winter break, too?â He sounds choked up from disbelief; youâd laugh if you werenât battling against your resurfacing feelings from talking to him on the phone. âSunday?â
âYes, heâll take care of me. I swear!â
â...â
â...Phainon? Hello?â Did the call end already? You glance at your screen, frowning in confusion when you see that the call is still ongoing. Is he lagging on his end? But heâs outside of your dorm.Â
âIf you need anything,â He suddenly speaks up, âAnything â call me, please. If your roommate makes you sad or uncomfortable, tell me right away, okay? Iâll call you again the moment Iâm back in aedes elysiae. Stay safe, I love you.â
You flinch at his admission, knowing he didnât mean it like that. âI know⊠safe travels, Phainon.â
âPhai.â
âHuh?â
âCall me Phai. Isnât that what you used to call me when we were kids? Whyâd you stop? Letâs bring it back.âÂ
You lie on your bed, pondering. Why did you stop? Perhaps since it was a nickname from childhood, you let go of it and hoped Phainon would see you more than just⊠his friend since diapers. It didnât work, clearly. So you donât mind calling him that shortened version of his name again.Â
âOkay⊠Safe travels, Phai.â
Despite your emboldened decision to ask Sunday to stay with you for winter break, you are still, at your core, a floundering, unsociable person. You have your moments of being bold and talkative, but itâs covered by leaves of quietude and slight stutters. Socializing is not your strong suit. Youâre not at the stage of being totally buddy-buddy with your roommate, but youâre slowly getting there.Â
Youâre glad you met Sunday. Had it not been for him, youâd still be stuck hopelessly waiting for a day thatâll never come: a phantom of the past whoâs deathly afraid of the future.Â
In the span of your one-month winter break, you get to know him better. Your roommate, whoâs a good listener is also an older brother to an idol trainee, has a trio of friends who roomed together a floor below, likes sweet treats, and ran away from his adoptive home after graduating high school.
Your profound respect for him only continued to grow, stalking across your shared living space like vines. While Phainonâs frequent messages, consisting of photos of Snowy and with your family, make your heart twinge in longing, you start ignoring them for the sake of progress. Heâll understand why a year from now, and youâll both laugh about it like the pair of best friends that you are.Â
Itâs not college that severs you and Phainon â itâs you yourself, but cutting off a branch from your tree does not mean itâs not allowed to grow a new one elsewhere.Â
III. Regret burgeons when everything is said and done.
Phainon: I feel like youâve been ignoring me lately
Phainon: did i upset you?
Phainon: :(Â
The Gen Ed courses you took unfortunately landed you in some shared classes with Phainon, the âsunnyâ side is that theyâre coincidentally shared with Sunday and his friends too. While anxious to meet them, he thoroughly reassured you that theyâre nice people.
âJust a bit⊠loud sometimes, I hope you donât mind.â
You donât â anything to physically get away from Phainon. The one-month winter break may have taught you to rely on him less, but seeing his face again might cause you to fold like paper. You see his unanswered texts when you close your eyes, and you hear his voice right before falling asleep. You miss him, but you know what must be done. When he visited you on the day he left Amphoreus, you and Sunday worked together to pretend that no one was home when he came knocking.Â
He stayed for hours before going up to his own floor.Â
Sunday sits on your left, and Stelle (A kind woman who is equal parts loud and quiet) on the other. Your new acquaintances, Dan Heng and March, are a row ahead.Â
âIâm telling you, (Y/N)! His nickname really is cold dragon young!â March cackles in glee, making sure to point at Dan Heng in case you mistake him for someone else.
He sighs, pushing down her finger, âThat was years ago, ignore her.â
Stelle chimes in, lazily putting her arm around your shoulder and whispering, âBecause he had a gachalife phase.â
Cold dragon young hisses at her to shut up, only to serve as fuel for their cackling. Entertained, you let out a few quiet chuckles at their display. You can never be happy for too long â the classroom door soon creaks open, familiar tufts of white hair peeking in not a moment later. The realization that itâs undoubtedly Phainon has you clammoring in your seat, sitting rigidly in attention.Â
Sunday gently rubs your back, eases you back to your current circle,  âSorryâŠ!â
âItâs okay,â Sunday whispers back, sharing a glance with you.Â
âAh, (Y/N)! There you are! âŠAnd everyone too, hello!â Phainon greets from up front, hastily picking up his pace to approach your group. Facing you, he wastes no time firing question after question, âWhere were you yesterday? I waited around and tried the key you gave me, but it never worked. Did your phone break? I couldnât contact you at all, I was so worried!â
You smile at him, âPhai, itâs nice to see you again. Sorry, we replaced our door lock with a new key for uhm⊠security reasons, Iâll try to get you a copy sometime. And no⊠my phone isnât broken, I was just busy, thatâs all!â
He audibly sighs in relief, â...Really? Thatâs good, Iâm glad â I missed you a lot, you know?â Adjusting his bag strap, he nods to the unoccupied seats in the first row, âCome on, letâs sit.â
Stelle speaks for you, âOh, sheâs sitting with us.â
âHm? Right! Thank you for taking care of my best friend, but weâll get going nowââ
âNo, I mean sheâll be sitting with us for this class.âÂ
Phainon cocks his head, âSorry, can you repeat that?â
You meekly affirm, âIâm⊠sitting with them. Uh, theyâre really nice people, Sunny introduced me to them!â
âHuh?â He looks like a lost puppy on the verge of being abandoned, â...But our seats?â
âIâll try to sit with you next class!â
You never do: you sit next to Sunday in every single one of them and ignored the bewildered look on his face each time.Â
He beelines for you after dismissal, blue eyes so eager and pleading when he asks you, âLetâs get dinner together â my treat? It feels like I havenât seen you in centuries.â
Only for you to scratch the back of your neck while shyly glancing at Sunday, âUhm⊠we already made plans after school. Sorry, Phai.â
âOh.â He steps back, letting you and Sunday pass by him to exit the room. His blue eyes follow you until they can no longer. Heâs left with himself when he mutters a bitter:
âI get it.â
âLet me carry that forâAh, SundayâŠ?â
Heâs a second too late, but Phainon stubbornly clings to your bagâs front pocket, the very bag that the other man is already carrying. Youâre still in the bathroom when the professor dismisses the class. Wanting to do his usual duties, Phainon intended to carry your bag, but⊠someone already beat him to it. He smiles at him, polite, âThank you friend, but this is my thing, if youâd kindlyââ
Sundayâs lips curve into what seems to be a subtle mocking smile. He adjusts the bag closer to him before replying in a composed manner, âHow chivalrous of you, Mister Phainon. However, itâs not needed. See? I can carry it for her.â
Phainon sees it as clear as day.Â
Childishly, Phainon thinks he can carry it better than he can. Itâs what he always did for you since he still had some front teeth missing from his smile; itâs his duty, not your roommateâs.Â
He reluctantly lets go when you come up to thank Sunday, blatantly ignoring him just a few feet away. He enthusiastically greets you, but he still exists as an imaginary concept in your eyes. Whatâs going on? He ponders, watching you chat the world away with Sunday. What happened before that winter break that caused you to grow so tremendously close to that guy?Â
You said youâd give him a new copy of your dorm room, but youâre ignoring his texts, his existence, and now â letting someone else do his usual tasks. Seriously, what gives?
Sundayâs like a parasite attached to your hip, it unnerves and angers him.Â
Are you⊠trying to replace him? His heart threatens to drop just thinking about it.Â
You are.
You really are trying to replace him.Â
Sunday sits next to you, Sunday lives with you, Sunday eats with you, Sunday talks with you, Sunday texts with you, Sunday laughs with you â Sunday, Sunday, Sunday. Every time Phainon is graced with your presence, itâs quick to sour from your notable companion by your side. Your new circle of friends too, Phainon sees it clear as day: you donât want to be around them all the time, but youâre peer pressured into doing so. If Phainon was by your side⊠he would never let that happen to you. Heâd punch them into blindness should they dare to make you inconvenienced.Â
Two birds of a feather â thatâs what your mother called him and you; A pair of friends so close you might as well be surgically joined together in the middle. When Seven-year-old Phainon first reached his hand out to you, his brain made the unconscious decision then: youâd be the sole irrevocable part of his life. Flowers bloom and wilt; they experience a death of their own, but under Phainonâs sunlight, he promised that heâd never let a sunflower like you be anything less than thriving.
He leads and you follow, only so heâd be the one to be hurt when braving the unknown. Scraped knees and bruised patches of skin are nothing because youâre not hurt. He shines so you can comfortably hide under the shade â youâre not one for people, heâs fine with the way you are. He adjusts around your existence, a mold of comfort that perfectly fits none but you. Heâs your fighter and protector; sword and shield.Â
Skipping rocks on a nearby lake, teasing Cyrene together, learning from her cards, and discovering a poor abandoned puppy whoâd eventually be named âSnowyâ are all flashing strings of gold in his memories. Moments carefully planted in his own backyard and given regular maintenance lest he start neglecting them.Â
He loves you, of course he does. There is nothing purer in this world than his love for you; a flower specially nursed and plucked with the greatest care, a beauty unparalleled for itâs fertilized from the attention you give him.Â
His room is centered around you; every item given is meticulously stored and given a special place. The polaroids, your kindergarten doodles, the yellow crayon you gave him, your pressed flowers â he still has it, even brought it along to his dorm room, where heâs embraced by your presence every night before sleep.Â
He loves you, he knows this well in his heart. But Phainon is simply not worthy of you. His love for you is pure, but he, as a person, is not. A Sun can also be damaging to a sunflower â he is the filth to your pure, the actual darkness to light.Â
Is it because he refused your confession?
He preserves you because no one in this world deserves you, but must you go ahead and leave him for dead after finding a different sun to seek sunlight from? Sunday⊠What does he have that Phainon does not? Is he the better him? Does he treat you kinder than he does?Â
Sunday is far from holy. If anything, heâs the snake trying to lure you to ruin. You donât know any better, hence why Phainon is around to protect you.Â
This is the biggest hurdle youâve ever faced together, and with his heart being torn to pieces by your own gardening tools, heâll make it right. He always goes. Heâll make it right, heâll get you back, and you two can go back to the way you were before â just more. Friends, best friends, lovers, and everything in between, heâll really give it all to you.Â
Sunday⊠heâs poisoned your mind and rotted your pure soul.Â
IV. Desperation is a seed planted long, long ago â still, spring has come.
âThank you for sticking around me, Phai.â
Heâs in the middle of starting a pathetic fire using twigs and stone when you blurt out cryptic words beside him. He hums, continuing his work, âWhat do you mean?â
âCanât I just say thank you!?â You fluster, quickly standing up and pacing around the edge of the forest youâve both designated as your âcamping spotâ. âMama said itâs nice to thank people! So, uhm- Thank you for being my friend, please never stop being my best friend!â
ââCourse I wonât!â Phainon toothily grins, fluffy white hair gaining a slight bounce from his motions, âActually, Iâll never abandon you. Ever!â
You perk up like a sunflower dancing in the wind, âReally!?â
The fire finally sparks to life, small and flickering, but there. At the same time, he gazes deep into your eyes, only knowing nothing else but sincerity at such an age, âYeah! I swear!â
A yelp, âSwearing is bad!â
Phainonâs eyes blearily blink open. His dorm room ceiling greets him first thing in the morning.
Phainon stalks and waits like a deep-rooted willow tree. He strikes you when he knows youâre alone. It all falls into place: Sundayâs trainee sister is dropping by a different part of the city over the weekend; logic dictates that he wonât be coming back to his dorm room until then. Your close proximity to Sunday will momentarily halt, and Phainon is free to slither in.
Heâs waiting right outside your dorm room when you come walking down the long hallway, body language all languid, even resting against the paint-chipped-off stone pillar while scrolling through his social media feed,
Youâd spot him a mile away, and seeing him without Sunday by your side makes you hesitate all the more. Your stupid heart starts speeding up.Â
âI just want to talk,â He calls out, pocketing his phone to spread his arms wide open for a hug, âI miss you, is that too much to ask?â
You slowly approach him, â...No, I missed you too.â
You miss him. You miss him. You miss him. Youâve been holding your sunflower keychain as your nightly comfort or else youâd end up calling his number at 2AM.Â
Phainon smiles, âReally?â
âYes⊠I just got⊠busy, thatâs all.â
He smiles wider, blue eyes turning into blue crescent moons, âReally?â
â...Yes.â His hand gently pries the keys out of your hand; you let him.
You hear Sunday screaming on your shoulder, telling you that your blase facade is quickly falling apart at the seams. Unaffected, unmoved â youâre nothing of the sort right now. Youâre a sunflower whoâs been starved of sunlight for too long.Â
With a click, he opens the door for you and softly murmurs, âYouâve been hurting me a lot, (Y/N). You know that, right? But I understand, itâs not your fault.â
You step inside, letting him lock the door behind you, âNot⊠my fault?â
He shakes his head, hands firmly grasping your shoulders to sit you down on the small couch, âNo, itâs mine.â
Immediately you protest, âThatâs not true. We just drifted apartââ
Once more, he shakes his head before dropping to his knees before you. The sudden action makes you flinch, growing more uncertain when he holds your hand in his. Phainonâs eyes remind you of butterfly peas from up this close.Â
Heâs quiet when he speaks, a deep rasp overtaking his voice, â...You donât understand: I miss you.â
You understand what he means. Parting from Phainon is disorienting. Sunday and his friends may have managed to fill the gaping hole in your heart, but itâs incomparable to Phainonâs presence.Â
Are you a bad person for not finding satisfaction in your new friends? Are you sick in the end to still crave Phainon after being rejected two times? Is this what you get for sticking by his side for so long?
It probably is.Â
He continues speaking, âIâm sorry for pushing you away; that was never my intention. I wasnât lying when I said youâre dear to me â you truly are. I never wanted to pursue a relationship with you because, Iâ Iâm too lowly for you. I would only taint you.â
You run your fingers through his hair, reminiscing on all the nights you spent crying over him â it still bleeds like fresh wounds, âThatâs ridiculous, Phainon. Iâm not some holy figure to taint. I was just a girl in love with her best friend.â
âI know, but you⊠you donât understand. Youâre everything to me.â
âYouâre everything to me, too, thatâs why I loved you.â You still do.
âI think of you first thing in the morning. I brush my hair wondering how Iâll spend the day with you, I eat breakfast, thinking what yours was at that moment, I kept the homework you threw out. I always hate it when I talk to people who arenât you. I still have the twigs you gave me during our 6th-grade camping trip. The reason the pressed flowers you were planning on giving out during high school graduation went missing is that I stole them â I didnât want anyone else owning a piece of you. I make sure youâre always too shy to stand up for yourself, so I can save you. I⊠I hate Sunday for getting into your head â it should only be me. I should be the one you hate and love. I â youâre everything to me.â
His grip tightens, blunt fingernails leaving indents on your own fingers, âIâm sorry, please take me back. Iâm unworthy, but I donât want you to be happy with anyone else. I started cutting myself when you refused to go back to Aedes Elysiae with me â I donât want to live in a world where Iâm not by your side. Please. Iâll kill myself if you leave me. I really will.â
You swallow the saliva pooling in your mouth.
If Phainon is the sun that will incinerate you and your sunflower petals for getting too close, the question it poses is: Do you let it consume you whole? To forgive and forget, starting a new chapter anew in the process?
kill yourself or let (y/n) have friends and move on from you
Yandere!Boyfriend x Reader (ft. Reader's cat that hates him)
Yandere!Boyfriend views himself as a dark, calculating mastermind who has meticulously eliminated every rival in your life. He took care of the flirty coworker, he blocked your annoying ex, and he curated your entire schedule around him. But his entire criminal empire completely crumbles the second he steps into your apartment and locks eyes with your 8-pound tabby cat, Mr. Chonk.
Mr. Chonk doesn't just dislike him; Mr. Chonk recognizes him as an apex predator trespassing on his territory. The very first time your boyfriend tried to sneak a lock of your hair while you were napping on the couch, the cat dropped from the top of the refrigerator like a tactical navy seal, hissed directly into his face, and swatted him across the nose. It was an instant, blood-soaked declaration of war.
His yandere logic is completely warped by this animal. He genuinely treats the cat like a romantic rival. Heâll sit on the kitchen floor, glaring at the cat under the dining table, and hiss back in a whisper so you won't hear him. "You think you're safe because she feeds you? I could replace you in a second, you furry little demon. Sheâs mine. Stop looking at her like that." Mr. Chonk just blinks at him and licks a paw, completely unfazed.
Yandere!Boyfriend realizes very quickly that if he wants to achieve his ultimate goal of moving in with you and keeping you all to himself, he has to earn the cat's trust. If he doesn't, youâll never let him sleep over. So, his data-mining and stalking skills are suddenly redirected toward animal behavior. He spends hours on the dark web and sketchy forums, not looking up your background, but searching: âHow to bribe an aggressive feline,â âCat psychology manipulation,â and âCan you gaslight a cat into liking you?â
Yandere!Boyfriend's attempts at bribery are incredibly intense and deeply dramatic. Heâll show up at your apartment with a bouquet of roses for you, and a literal premium can of wild-caught salmon for the cat. Heâll slide the dish under the couch where the cat is hiding, kneeling on the carpet with a deadpan, serious look on his face. "Eat the tribute, beast. Let us form an alliance. We both want her to stay inside forever. We are on the same side." Mr. Chonk just bats the can away and claws his finger.
Yandere!Boyfriend gets aggressively jealous of the affection you give the cat. If youâre sitting on the couch, scratching Mr. Chonk behind the ears and cooing about how heâs "the handsomest boy in the whole world," your boyfriend will literally pout. Heâll crawl over, shove his own head into your lap right next to the cat, and look up at you with wide, desperate eyes. "I'm handsome too. I don't shed. And I don't scratch you. Pet me instead, please." This usually results in the cat swatting his forehead again, sparking a silent glaring match right in your lap.
Yandere!Boyfriend eventually tries to use high-tech gamer gear to win the war. He buys a super-powered, military-grade laser pointer to entertain the cat, thinking he can tire out his rival. He stands in the center of your living room, frantically flicking his wrist, running the red dot up and down the walls while laughing like a cartoon villain. "Yes! Run! Consume your energy, creature! Collapse from exhaustion so I can have her undivided attention!"
The day Mr. Chonk finally decides to tolerate him is the funniest day of his life. Your boyfriend is sitting on the couch, completely drained and miserable because you went to the store, and the cat casually hops up, sniffs his leg, and plops down right on his chest completely pinning him to the cushions. When you walk back into the apartment, you find your terrifying, possessive boyfriend frozen stiff, breathing softly, with a terrified but triumphant look on his face. He whispers to you: "Don't move. Don't make a sound. The demon has accepted my offering. I am officially part of the hierarchy. We can get married now."
âNo, I donât?!â you answered immediately, already stepping back as he moved closer, matching every step you took without hesitation.
His gaze didnât leave yours, still walking toward you menacingly.
âYou donât realize it yet,â he said softly, almost like it was a fact he was simply stating, âbut I am yours.â
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
âAnd you⊠are mine.â
His hand came up to your jaw, not rough, but firm enough to guide your face toward him.
âUghâŠâ
The sound slipped out before you could stop it.
He froze instantly.
âOh no, did that hurt? Iâm so sorry, [NAME]â!â
Just as quickly, he let go of your jaw, switching to cupping your cheek instead, gentler now, like he was suddenly afraid even the idea of pressure had been too much.
His eyes scanned your face with quiet panic, searching for any sign of harm that didnât exist.
âItâs fine,â you mumbled low.
âAnd now comes the part where you lock me in a basement.â You whisper under your breath.
His expression changed immediately.
ââŠWhat?â
âYou know,â you continued, like it was obvious, âyou grab me, say I belong to you, then drag me off. That kind of thing.â
His lips wobbled. âI canât do that.â
âDo it,â you insisted, pointing slightly like you were correcting an actor. âItâs part of the script.â
âIâ I canât,â he said quickly, stepping back as if he had done something wrong. âIâm sorry. I canât do that to you.â
Then he dropped to his knees.
Not dramatically. Just like all strength had left him at once.
âNo, get up,â you sighed, half exasperated, half amused. âYou were literally terrifying two seconds ago. We didnât even get to the kidnapping part where you drag me away.â
âI canât,â he repeated, shaking his head. âHow could I ever manhandle you?â
He frowned, just the thought physically painful for him. âYouâre too precious, I couldnât even think about forcing you into anything like that.â
His hands carefully held your waist, resting his head against your stomach gently, like he just needed to make sure you were still here.
âArenât you supposed to be a yandere?â you tilted your head. âOne of those obsessive types who canât stand anyone else having me?â
He hesitated. Then looked away. âI couldnât possibly be that kind of person to youâŠâ
âThen what are you supposed to be?â
When he looked up at you, his expression had completely softened. Bashful with complete devotion. ââŠSomeone who just wants to stay by your side.â
He tilted his head, a shy smile playing on his lips.
Synopsis: Youâre a maid in a nobleâs estate. Overworked, underpaid, and constantly blamed for problems you didnât cause.
Luckily, the head butler always steps in. Cold, efficient, and unreadable.
He never gets involved unless absolutely necessary. Except when it comes to you.
You don't know why he keeps showing up right when you need him. You don't know why he stands a little too close when other staff get near you. You don't know why he's always watching.
And you definitely donât know heâs only pretending to be a butler.
He's an assassin. And you're the only reason he hasn't completed his mission yet.
My Little Maid
You're having a terrible day.
The head housekeeper blamed you for a broken vase you didn't break. The cook yelled at you for burning the toast you weren't even in charge of. And the other maids have been whispering about you all morningâsomething about your hemline being too short, your hair being too neat, your face being too present.
It was like your whole existence irritated them for no reason at all. Just to torment you for fun.
You hate this house.
But you need this job. And you cannot be picky when the pay is good.
So, you keep your head down and your mouth shut and your hands busy.
"You look like you're about to cry."
You flinch.
The head butler is standing behind you. Silent as always. You didn't even hear him approach.
"I'm not going to cry," you say, scrubbing the same spot on the table for the fifth time.
"Your eyes are red."
"It's allergies."
"It's February."
"Winter allergies."
He doesn't respond. Just stands there, watching you fumble with the rag.
You've gotten used to thisâthe watchingâHe does it a lot.
At first you thought he was judging you. Then you thought he was suspicious of you. Now you're not sure what to think.
Heâs never unkind to you.
Heâs never anything to you. Not anything you can properly define, at least.
Except being there.
Always there, for some reason.
"If anyone is giving you trouble," he says finally, "you can tell me."
You frowned, recalling earlier events. "The housekeeper already yelled at me today."
"I know. I was there."
His words made you frown more, what the hell was he asking for then?
"You just stood there." Bitterness seeped into your tone.
"I was observing."
"Observing what?"
He pondered your question for a moment. "The best time to intervene."
You stared up from your rag to look at him. His face still had that blank and professional expression on it. But his eyes are⊠softer than usual. Was he pitying you?
"You're weird," you concluded, frowning at him.
"Thatâs irrelevant. Again, if anyone bothers you donât hesitate to tell me." Then he walked away.
You watched him go for a good minute, observing how quiet his footsteps were against the expensive wood. What an oddball, you turn your attention back to the cleaning rag with a soft huff.
___________
If anyone asked you or any of the other staff about the head butler, youâd all answer in the same way:
Heâs professional, quiet, distance from others, and very poised.
And while thatâs all true, no one ever knew the real story behind this âhead butler.â Who is actually an assassin waiting for the right moment to eliminate his targetâthe noble who owns this estate.
He's been in this house for six months. Six, when he usually only took two if not three months to get the job finished.
And all of that waiting stems because of one clumsy girl he couldnât get out his sight, you.
You were one ordinary maid, who for some reason was shunned out by the other staff members in this house. Overworked, soft and very clumsy.
Emphasis on clumsy because thatâs he almost took your life one day, four months ago.
You almost walked into his blade back then. Just wandered into the wrong corridor at the wrong time. He had to physically move you out of the way himself, which was out of the ordinary because heâd usually just get rid of any witnesses.
Unbeknownst to the dark thoughts running in his mindâ how he was actually debating just getting rid of you for good or letting you beâYou'd only smiled at him, and apologized with a soft voice. "sorry, I'm always getting lost".
He'd stared at you for a full three seconds before remembering to speak.
And just like that, his kill for the night was delayed with him guiding you to the correct hallway. And even when you were out of sight, he still couldnât move himself from his spot to eliminate his target.
Itâs fine, thereâs still plenty of time to get rid of him, he tried to reason with himself. Putting the blade away completely.
And what was supposed to be just one day of delay became two, then three, and now four months.
Yet heâs still here.
Because every time he prepares to finish the job, something interrupts him.
The other maids cornering you in the halls.
The housekeeper blaming you for mistakes that werenât yours.
The gardener smiling too long at your face.
Something always comes up.
And then he finds himself delaying things again.
Just a few more days, he tells himself.
Just until things settle down.
But they never do.
Youâre too soft for a house like this. Too easy to take advantage of. Trouble clings to you like thread to fabric, and heâs grown used to cutting it away before it reaches you.
So he stays.
Watching, waiting. Removing problems before you even realize they exist. Making sure no one hurts what's his.
All while telling himself itâs temporary.
Even though, deep down, he already knows he has no intention of leaving you behind.
__________
You don't notice the gardener at first. (Unlike someone else who quickly did.)
He's new at the mansion. Friendly, always offering to help you carry things.
"Here, let me get that for you."
"I can carry my own laundry."
"It's heavy."
"I've been carrying it for three years. I think I can handle it."
He laughs. And takes the basket from you anyway.
You roll your eyes but let him. It was like a breath of fresh air to have someone greet your face without disdain for once, although it was still somewhat suspicious how friendly heâs been to you so far.
Across the garden, the head butler stops walking. Noticing you along with another figure⊠The gardener, who was walking too close to you for comfort. Smiling too wide and toothy, he fears your naive self would fall for if he doesnât intervene quickly.
His hands curl into fists at his sides.
That's new, he thinks.
That's a problem.
_________
The gardener starts showing up everywhere.
In the kitchen when you're cleaning up. In the hallway when you're mopping. In the garden when you're hanging laundry.
Always offering to help, and finding excuses to be near you.
"Hey, I was wonderingâŠ" He scratches the back of his neck. "After work sometime. Do you want to maybe⊠get a drink? With me?"
You blink in surprise. "A drink?"
"Yeah. Nothing fancy. Just⊠together. You and me." He looks to the side with a blush creeping up to his ears.
You open your mouth to answer.
âThe evening curfew still applies to the staff.â
Both of you turn at the voice.
The head butler stands at the end of the garden path, hands folded neatly behind his back. Expression calm as ever.
But his eyes are fixed solely on the gardener.
The gardener straightens immediately. âC-curfew?â
You furrow your brows. âSince when do we have a curfew?â
âSince recently.â The butler replies smoothly, already walking closer. His shoes click softly against the stone path.
âThatâs ridiculous,â you scoff. âNobody told us that.â
âTheyâre being informed now.â
The gardener laughs nervously. âI mean⊠itâs just one drink, sir.â
The butler stops beside you, standing by very closely.
âYou seem unusually distracted lately,â he says mildly.
The gardenerâs smile falters. âExcuse me?â
âYour work quality has declined.â His tone stays perfectly polite. âYouâve abandoned your station three times this week. Damaged two rose bushes, and misplaced equipment yesterday afternoon.â
The gardener goes pale.
You glance between them in confusion. How the hell does he know all that?
âAnd now,â the butler continues, gaze lowering slightly, âyou appear more interested in following one of the maids around the estate than performing your assigned duties.â
âItâs not like thatââ
âThe estate does not pay you to loiter.â
The gardener stiffens under the calm reprimand.
You finally step in. âOkay, thatâs enough. He was only asking me for a drink, not committing treason.â
The butler turns toward you immediately. Finally meeting your eyes with a slight frown painting his features, something dark flickering in his eyes for a moment.
âA drink,â he repeats quietly.
âYes?â you deadpan.
His gaze lingers on your face. Then lowers, down to the gardener still holding your laundry basket.
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
âYou seem very comfortable with her,â he says softly.
The gardener visibly wilts beneath the attention.
âI-I was only trying to be friendly.â
âFriendly, huh.â His voice takes on a mocking tone.
You suddenly understand why the younger staff members are terrified of him.
Because he never raises his voice.
That somehow makes it worse, like the calm before the storm.
The gardener hurriedly shoves the basket back into your arms. âSorry. Sorry, sir.â Then he practically flees the garden.
Silence settles afterward.
You stare at the butler with wide eyes. âThat was unnecessarily intense.â
âHe was neglecting his work.â
âHe asked me out, he didnât start a rebellion.â
The butlerâs eyes move back to you again.
âAnd were you going to accept?â He inquires, trying to sound casual. But it still reveals much more than that.
Your grip tightens slightly on the basket. âThatâs none of your business.â
There was a long silent pause, before he calmly says:
âIt is when someone starts taking liberties with what belongs to this household.â The last word was said very clearly, yet his eyes somehow hinted at something different completely.
Your brows knit together immediately. âYou make me sound like furniture.â
âNo.â His response comes too fast.
His eyes flick toward the direction the gardener disappeared in, expression hardening faintly before returning to you.
âYouâre considerably more troublesome than furniture.â
Only now do you notice the jealousy brewing behind that sharp gaze. And how quickly dark it could get.
___________
The gardener disappears three days later.
No one knows where he went. One morning he just⊠wasn't there. His quarters were empty with his belongings gone.
Everyone said something different about him:
The head housekeeper said he'd resigned.
The cook said he'd been transferred.
The stable boy said he'd heard screaming in the night but thought it was a fox.
You don't know what to think.
You just know that when you mentioned it to the head butler, he looked at you with those unreadable eyes and said âHe was unsuitable for this house."
You furrow your brows in confusion. "What does that mean?"
"It means he's gone."
"But where?"
Somewhere behind him, the fireplace crackles.
"Does it matter? Somewhere he can't bother you anymore."
That there⊠That look has your blood go cold.
"I don'tâ I wasn't bothered,"
"You were uncomfortable." He cuts you off.
"I wasn't." You repeat sternly.
"I saw your face when he asked you out. You didn't want to go."
"That doesn't mean I wanted him to disappear."
The butler tilts his head. "What did you want, then?"
You open your mouth. But eventually close it.
You don't have an answer.
He takes a step closer. Just one step, but it's enough to make your heart stutter.
"I told you before," he says quietly. "If anyone is giving you trouble, you can tell me."
"I didn't ask you to do anything." You retreat backwards.
"I know."
"So whyâ"
"I saw a problem. I removed it."
"That's notâyou can't just remove people.â
"I can." His voice drops into lower. "I can do a lot of things you don't know about."
You stare at him, pupils shaking slightly.
He stares back, eyes making you spiral with how empty they seemed for a moment.
Your eyes trail down, away from the abyss in his eyes, and thatâs when you notice something you've never seen before.
He's not wearing his usual gloves. Which allows you to see a scar on his hand. A long, old scar covering most of his palm.
The kind of scar you get from a knife.
"What happened to your hand?" you whisper.
He looks down, flexing his fingers for a moment pondering something. Then looks back at you.
"A job," he says. "A long time ago."
"What kind of job?" You probe.
"The kind you don't ask about."
He pulls his gloves from his pocket. Slides them back on in front of you slowly. Deliberately.
He looks down onto the wooden floor for a long moment. Thereâs sudden determination burning in his eyes before he directed them back onto you.
"Stay away from the east wing tonight," he says.
"Why?"
"There will be⊠noise."
"What kind of noise?"
He doesn't answer.
Just turns and walks away, leaving you behind with a thousand questions left to sort out.
_________
You spend the night in your room.
Under the covers with your hands covering your ears.
Because from the east wing, somewhere deep in the noble's private chambers, there are sounds you can't explain.
A door opening.
A struggle.
A single, choked scream.
Then silence.
You don't sleep, even when the only sound left is from the hooting owl at your window.
In the morning, the noble is dead. Heart attack, they say. Talking about how it was very sudden and tragic.
And the staff is given the week off.
You pack your things, ready to head back to your hometown after a long time.
The head butler finds you in the hallway with a small luggage of belongings in hand.
"Leaving?"
"The house is in mourning. We're all leaving." You vaguely turn your head to the other staff members already heading out. But it was mostly to check if there was still anyone around because talking alone to the head butler didnât feel safe anymoreâŠ
"Not all of us."
You look at him, standing in the shadows. Watching silently.
"What are you going to do now?" you ask.
He pauses to contemplate an answer. "I've been thinking about that."
"And?"
"I've been thinkingâŠ" He steps closer. "About taking something with me."
"Something?"
"Someone."
You stop breathing.
He's close now. So close you can smell something metallic on him. Something that isn't cologne.
"You knew," you whisper, connecting unhelpful dots in your mind. "You knew what was going to happen last night."
"I did."
"The nobleâ"
"He was my target from the beginning."
And thatâs when everything starts to make sense to you. He was never a butler.
He was an assassin.
You should run, get away from him.
You should scream and alert the house.
You should do anything except stand here frozen while an assassin looks at you like you're the only thing in the world worth sparing.
"Why are you telling me this?"
He reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His gloved fingers are warm.
"Because I'm not going to kill you."
"That's⊠that's good?" Your heart is still beating loudly in your chest, but itâs a little more bearable now.
"It would be easier if I did." He looked down to the ground, eyes somber.
"What?"
He sighs. Like he's explaining something simple to a child.
"I've been in this house for six months. My mission should have taken no more than a few weeks. But I kept finding reasons to stay.â
He looks up at you. âReasons with your face. Your voice. Your stupid tendency to walk into dangerous corridors at the wrong time."
"You spared my lifeâŠ" You realize.
âI saved your life, multiple times at that. Itâs my first time ever going to such lengths to keep a body alive.â
He didnât just spare you, he went out of his way to protect you, is what you get from him. But the reason is still left unsaid: "Why?"
His gaze on you softens, too gentle for what he says next.
"Because you're mine," he answers simply. "Whether you know it yet or not."
The fireplace crackles, just like last night allowing goosebumps to take over skin.
Somewhere outside, a carriage door slams.
The head butlerâthe assassin, the man who just killed someone in the nightâsmiles.
It's the first time you've ever seen him smile.
Was a smile supposed to make someone feel this⊠scared?
It's terrifying.
"Pack your things," he gently orders. "We're leaving together."
"I never agreed to that." You hold your luggage closer to yourself like a shield.
"You will."
"And if I don't?"
You stare up at him anxiously. He never said he wouldnât hurt you, what if he tries to do something now that youâre all alone in the hallway?
But thankfully, he doesnât.
He steps back first this time. Picks up his bag, and walks toward the door.
He pauses in front of the doorway, turning his head slightly to address you.
"Then I'll wait," he says. "I'm very patient." Especially after holding back for three months already, the last part is left unsaid.
And just like that, he leaves.
You stand in the empty hallway, heart pounding.
And somewhere in the back of your mind, a small voice whispers:
He's not going to stop.
He's never going to stop.
And youâre going to surrender yourself to him sooner or later.
Assassins, after all, were known for always finishing what they started.
Synopsis: A stranger youâve never met before keeps telling you heâs from the future, and how he was actually your lover. You donât believe his nonsense, until all his predictions come true.
You're not sure when it started.
But some guy you've never seen before has been following you around. Openly. He wasnât even trying to be discreet about it.
Walks next to you like he belongs there, like you've been doing this for years.
At first you just thought he was a weirdo.
Then, he started telling you stories about yourself.
Not guesses. Not vague stuff anyone could assume.
Actual memories. Things you donât ever remember telling anyone.
"You broke your wrist in third grade falling off the monkey bars," he said one afternoon, walking beside you like it was normal. "You cried because you thought your mom would be mad about the hospital bill."
You stopped walking.
"How do you know that?"
Was someone pranking you here? Because this wasnât funny anymore.
He didnât respond. Instead, he just smiled. Not smug. Not teasing.
It was soft and fond. Like he was remembering something precious.
No⊠He just followed you. Talked to you. Smiled at you like he knew you better than anyone else.
So, you confronted him yourself.
"Why are you doing this?"
He looked at you quietly for a second. Then said something that made your skin crawl.
"You just haven't fallen in love with me yet."
You stared. "âŠYet?"
He nodded as if that was the most obvious thing in the world.
After that, the stories changed.
No more childhood memories. Instead, he started talking about your future.
"Next Tuesday your professor will cancel class."
"Your friend Mina will spill coffee on your notes tomorrow."
"You'll take an extra shift at the gas station this week."
Total nonsense, obviously. You laughed it off.
Yep, definitely a hooligan. You labeled him in your mind.
But he said this nonsense so many times you accidentally memorized the lines.
Which is why, when your coworker opens her mouth, your stomach drops.
"Hey, you're on night duty today."
"What? No I'm not!"
She pouts. "Oh, come on!! Please cover this shift for me, I promise I'll make it up to you."
You owe me three other times already.
She begs and begs. Eventually you sigh.
"Fine."
The second the word leaves your mouth, your chest goes cold.
Because you've heard this before.
From him.
Night shifts at the gas station are the worst. Too quiet. Too empty. Just the hum of the fridge and the occasional owl from the forest behind the store.
You hate working during these hours, it gave you the creeps. The feeling of being watched.
The bell above the door jingles.
A middle-aged man stumbles in, his walk wobbly. Even from behind the counter, you can smell the alcohol, signaling to you that he must be drunk.
Great.
You force a customer service smile as he approaches. "Good evening, sir, can I helpâ"
"You."
He points a shaky finger at your face.
"Where's that other wench that works here? Why isn't she here tonight?"
Your blood goes cold.
Word for word.
âSir, can I help you buy something?â Your voice came out thin. Small. âMaybe some water? Coffee?â
âDonât ignore me!â He slapped the counter. The bottle in his handâwine, red wine, just like he saidâswung through the air. âI asked you a question!â
You fumbled for the phone in your pocket. But it was too slow. The drunk man was already coming around the side of the counter, eyes wild, breath sour.
âDamn it, stop ignoring me!â
Suddenly he's right in front of you. His hand lifts a wine bottle high in the air, aimed straight at your head.
You can't move. Can't think. Just that same sentence echoing over and over.
You'll be attacked at night in the gas station.
You saw it coming. Saw the arc of it, the way the light caught the green glass. You knew what was about to happen, yet you still couldnât move, couldnât breathe, couldnât do anything but close your eyes and screamâ âAAHHHHâ
SLAM.
The sound followed. Not glass breaking. Not your skull caving in.
A body hitting the far wall.
The crashing sound of shelves collapsing. Candy bars and chip bags and cheap lighters scattering across the floor.
Then silence.
âItâs okay,â The soft, familiar voice quietly whispers. âOpen your eyes. Iâve got you.â
You couldnât believe the thought that crossed your mind. The voice youâd grown used to hearing⊠for the first time, you were actually relieved to hear.
You hesitate. Then slowly⊠you do.
You opened your eyes.
The drunk man was crumpled against the opposite wall, groaning, the wine bottle shattered beside him. And standing between you and himâcalm, unhurried, brushing dust off his sleeveâwas the hooligan.
His smile was gentle.
Lovesick.
Like he hadnât just thrown a full-grown man across a convenience store.
âDonât be afraid.â He stepped closer, âI said I got you.â
You, however, couldnât speak. Could only stare as he reached over the counter and took your shaking hands in his. His palms were warm. Steady.
"I got here a little earlier this time," he says thoughtfully.
"Last time you needed stitches." He mutters to himself.
Your blood turns to ice.
Last time?
He steps closer to the counter, resting his arms on it casually. As if this were just a normal visit. Like he's done this a thousand times before.
His gaze softens as he looks at you.
âDo you believe me yet?â He laughed softly, like this was all some private joke between the two of you. Meanwhile his eyes never left your face. Hungry. Adoring. Wrong.
You can't answer. Your brain is still stuck on last time.
He chuckles quietly, and tilts his head. Watching your face with lovesick patience.
Then his voice drops to something gentler. Something terrifyingly certain.
"Good. Now all you have to do⊠is fall for me a little faster this time."
Synopsis: You discover an underrated author and became his first follower. He eventually grows more popular, yet out of all readers, his attention is focused solely on you. At first, it feels flattering. Until his attention grows more personal⊠and more intense.
Parasocial obsession doesnât always come from the fan.
My Favorite Reader
You werenât expecting much when you found his account.
Just a small writing blog with maybe a handful of views. A few short stories posted here and there. Most of them soft little romance pieces, the kind that felt warm and comforting to read after a long day.
Barely anyone seemed to notice them with the little likes and views each post had. Even more when the account sat at exactly zero followers. Which felt like a crime.
So you followed him. And started leaving comments.
At first they were simple.
âI loved this scene.â
âYour dialogue is really sweet.â
âLooking forward to the next one.â
You didnât expect a reply.
But he answered.
Every single time.
Always politely. Always thoughtfully. Thanking you for reading. Asking what parts you liked the most.
Maybe itâs because of how much youâve been spamming his account with comments that he noticed. But it still felt nice how the author kept interacting with you, genuinely interested in your opinion.
So you kept commenting.
On every story.
Every chapter.
Every little drabble he posted.
And somehow⊠he always found your comment in the small crowd of replies.
Eventually, he started posting photos of himself alongside his updates.
That was when the follower count exploded.
Apparently, people liked seeing the face behind the stories.
He was handsome, simple as that. Soft-looking, gentle in the way he smiled at the camera. The kind of face people shared around easily.
Within weeks, the account that once had almost no attention was overflowing with it.
Comments poured in under every post.
Some praised his writing.
Many more praised his looks.
He kept posting stories like always, occasionally attaching a selfie to the update. It was probably a smart move. The attention only kept growing.
In one of those selfies, the background looked oddly familiar. For a second you almost thought it resembled a street near your workplace.
But that was impossible⊠so you ignored the thought. Shoving it to the back of your mind.
And if you had to admit⊠the face reveal did change things a little.
It was easier to picture the author behind the words now.
And maybe it made the stories feel just a bit more personal. More intimate.
But even with hundreds of new followersâŠ
He still replied to you.
Without fail.
Your comment.
Every time.
It became a little routine.
You read his story. You left your thoughts. He replied.
It was so simple and comfortable, this consistent interaction between you both.
Until one week you got busy.
Work had been exhausting. Long shifts, late nights. You barely had time to check your phone at all.
You didnât read the new story he posted.
You didnât comment either.
A few days passed like that.
When you finally opened the app again, you had a message waiting for you.
In your inbox, It was a DM from him.
âHey.â âYou haven't commented in a while.â âAre you alright?â
You blinked at the screen.
It was⊠oddly personal. It gave you the chills to know this now popular author had noticed your absence, despite the large crowd of other readers and commenters.
But you pushed the feeling away, maybe he was just being nice. Objectively this small message really is nice, heâs asking about the readersâ wellbeing.
So you replied.
âSorry! Work has been really busy lately.â
You stared at the message for a moment before sending it.
The second you did, the typing indicator appeared.
He must have been online already, you told yourself.
His response came almost immediately.
âIâm glad you're okay.â âI was worried.â
After that, things started feeling different.
His replies to your comments grew longer.
More attentive.
Sometimes he referenced little things you had mentioned weeks ago.
Your job⊠Your schedule⊠The time you usually read his postsâŠ
Once he even joked about the coffee you always grabbed before work. Something you were pretty sure youâd never actually mentioned in a comment.
Other fans started noticing too. It was hard not to notice, his interaction with the other readers were never this detailed. In fact, he hasnât been replying to the other comments at all.
People occasionally replied under your comments.
âHow do you know him?â
âWhy does he only reply to you?â
You didnât know how to answer that. None of it made sense to you either. Is this some kind of loyalty the author was showing for being his first follower?
The questioning replies were starting to increase along with his fame. Eventually the attention started making you uncomfortable.
So you stopped commenting.
Just for a little while, you told yourself. Maybe the attention would die down.
You muted notifications and avoided opening the app entirely.
It was easier that way.
Quieter.
A week passed just like that.
Then another.
And it was already a month before you knew it.
One evening, out of habit, you opened the site again.
His newest story sat at the top of your feed. You clicked on it without thinking. The whole action was basically ingrained in your mind after daily check-ins like a routine.
At first it seemed like any other story he wrote. Soft tone, gentle pacing, his unique writing style. Nothing really seemed to change in the last month you didnât check in.
But as you kept readingâŠ
Your stomach slowly dropped. Shivers despite the weather enveloped you.
The main character was a woman.
She worked your exact job.
Her schedule matched yours perfectly.
Her habits. Her little routines. The way she stopped for coffee before work.
Even the way her appearance was described screamed familiar. Oddly specificâŠ
Every detail was right.
Too right.
It wasnât just inspired by you.
It was you.
You scrolled to the top of the page again, your fingers suddenly cold.
Then you noticed the dedication line above the story.
For my favorite reader.
Your phone buzzed with a notification.
A new message.
From him.
You hesitated before opening it.
âI was worried when you stopped reading.â
How did he know you were back? That you just read his newest story? You didnât even comment on the post, no, you never even left a like.
Made ID cards/portraits for my fanficâs love interests! (High School Yandere x F! Reader on Quotev, AO3, and Wattpad.)
Synopsis: Youâre a burnout gap year student who failed to get into med school despite everyone praising you as smart. Your entrance exam tanked, and parents grow more strict. Lots of pressure has you snap, and you download an app called Kindred to vent. The system matches you with six strangers. Theyâll either make things better or worse.
(Slow burn with lots of family conflict before the romance comes into play.)
Synopsis: Youâre a doctor with a unique patient thatâs full of personality and bruises. He shows up twice a week, bleeding from somewhere new every time. Wonât stop smiling at you like youâre his favorite person in the world.
Today he tells you his heart hurts.
You make the mistake of checking.
Dear Doctor âĄ
"Hello, doctor! Happy to see you again~"
The singsong voice you recognize too well calls for you the moment you enter the examination room.
You don't have to look to know who it is. Waiting for you obediently on the table. Like always.
"Can't say I feel the same," you sigh once your eyes land on him.
As expected, he's bleeding on the table, clutching one arm that looks terribly out of shape. It was purple, swollen, and most definitely hurts.
Yet even through all that, he still has a wide smile on his face, eyes crinkled, waving at you like you're old friends reuniting after a long time.
"Hey, stop waving with that purple looking arm! Wait, don't move at all actually."
You hurry to his side with the needed equipment. Gloves... Antiseptic... Sutures... The usual.
"And wipe that grin off your face! You think it's funny bleeding on my table twice a week like it's some routine?"
Your frown deepens as his smile does the opposite. Eyes crinkling adorably, looking way too innocent for the blood dripping down his forehead.
"I'm sorry, Miss doctor. But some jobs require a few injuries on the daily. Don't scold me too harshly now."
He whines. But the smile on his face betrays any act he had going on.
This guy isn't the slightest bit sorry.
You sigh for the third time todayâall because of one personâand start working on the bleeding man more seriously.
If someone had told you becoming a doctor would earn you a clingy and dangerous patient, you would've called them crazy.
But here he was. Although much different compared to the first time you'd met.
*****
Five months ago.
The first time he showed up, you almost didn't let him in.
Blood dripping down his knuckles. He had one arm sliced open, shirt soaked with blood. Shouldâve gone to the ER Split lip.Â
He slumped into the waiting room chair like he owned the place, not even looking at you.
The first thing he said to you?
"Fix it."Â Didn't ask. Didn't explain.
Yep. That's how your first meeting went. A bleeding man ordering you around like he was the boss.
You were new here. Fresh out of residency, eager to prove yourself.
And the bleeding was bad. So you sighed, snapped on your gloves, and got to work.
He didn't thank you. Didn't even look at you the whole time. Just stared at the wall like he wanted to punch through it.
You figured you'd never see him again.
*****
Second visit.
New injuries. Same attitude.
"Back again?" you asked, already pulling out the antiseptic.
He grunted.
You worked in silence. He flinched once when you hit a deep cut on his ribs, but didn't make a sound otherwise.
"Someone's doing a number on you," you said quietly.
He didn't answer.
*****
Third visit.
Something shifted.
He walked in and his eyes found you immediately. Held for a second longer than before. Like he was checking that you were still there.
"You again," he said. Almost like a greeting.
"Me again," you echoed, already reaching for your kit. "You really need to stop getting into fights."
He didn't answer, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
You counted that as a win.
*****
Fourth visit.
He spoke first.
"Long day?"
You blinked. "Yeah. Long week, actually."
He nodded. Didn't say anything else.
But when you leaned in to clean a cut on his jaw, he didn't pull away like he used to.
He just... watched you.
"You're staring," you muttered.
"Am I?"
"Stop it."
"Make me."
You pressed the antiseptic harder than necessary.
He didn't flinch, just grinned.
Jerk.
*****
Fifth. Sixth. Seventh...
He started coming every week. Sometimes twice.
You told yourself it was just bad luck. Some people are accident-prone. It's not your job to ask questions.
But you noticed things.
The way he relaxed when you touched him. The way his breathing slowed when you leaned close. The way his eyes followed your hands like he was memorizing the movement.
He started talking more. Little things. Compliments buried under sarcasm.
"Your bedside manner's getting softer, doc."
"You look tired. Someone not sleeping?"
"Those are new glasses. Cute."
You rolled your eyes every time, but you didn't tell him to stop. You knew he wouldnât anyways.
*****
Two months in.
The injuries started getting stranger, you realized.
Not the kind you get from random fights. They were too precise. Too controlled.
A cut here⊠A bruise there... Nothing life-threatening or deep enough to leave any permanent damage.Â
But enough to bleed.
Enough to need you.
*****
Three months in.
A small scene you didn't think much of at the time.
You were at the nurse's station, charting. One of the younger nursesâLisa, friendly, always smilingâleaned over your shoulder.
"Hey, doc. That guy who's always in here. The one with the sliced arm?"
You smirked at the nickname, it stuck with the staff after his first visit here.Â
"What about him?" You glanced up.
Lisa lowered her voice. "He gives me the creeps."
That made you laugh. "He gives everyone the creeps."
"No, I mean..." She hesitated. "He asked about you last week. When you weren't here."
Your pen stopped moving.
"What did he ask?"
"Just... what time you get in. If you work weekends. If anyone walks you to your car." Lisa shivered. "He was smiling the whole time. Like it was a normal conversation."
You didn't know what to say. So you said nothing.
Lisa shrugged it off. "Anyway. Just thought you should know."
She walked away.
You stared at the chart in your hands for a long time.
*****
The next time he came in.
You watched him differently.
The way his eyes followed you across the room. The way he knew where the antiseptic was before you reached for it. The way he'd already rolled up his sleeve before you asked.
"Something wrong, doc?" he asked, catching your stare.
"No."
"You're looking at me funny."
"I always look at you funny. You're always bleeding on my table."
He laughed. That low, warm sound that used to mean nothing and now meant something.
"You're deflecting."
"I'm working."
He let it go, his smile didn't fade.
And when you leaned in to clean a cut near his collarbone, he whispered:
"I like it when you worry about me."
Your hands paused.
"I'm a doctor. I worry about all my patients."
"No, you don't."
He said it so simply. So sure.
You didn't argue.
*****
Present.
You've finally finished cleaning him up. Stitched the deep tissue and bandaged him as well as you could.
You step back a bit to survey your work. Then let out a long sigh.
It hasn't even been a week, yet heâs already back so bloody.
"Alright. I think we're all done... unless there are some other injuries I missed."
He doesn't answer right away.
He's looking at you. Softly. Like you're the only light in a dark room.
His hand drifts up to the left side of his chest. Right over his heart.
"Doctor..." He feigns pain, voice dipping low. Less playful now. "I think I'm hurt here."
You frown. "Where? Let me see."
He points. You lean forward, squinting at his chest. Trying to find a wound you must have missed.
"There's nothingâ"
"Every time you look at me," he says, "my chest gets tight."
Your hands freeze.
"Every time you touch me, my heart forgets how to beat right."
He's not looking at your hands anymore. He's looking at your eyes.
"You're the only doctor who can fix this."
You swallow. "That's not... that's not a real injury."
"No?"
"No."
He smiles slowly, sweetly. Dangerous.
"Then why does it hurt so much when you're not around?"
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.
âUgh, wait, itâs starting to hurt more!â He suddenly doubles down, hand hovering over his chest again, and face contorting dramatically in pain.
You believe him for a momentâthat was your biggest mistakeâand go lean closer to his chest, trying to find an invisible injury.
âWhat? Where exactly I canât see anythingââÂ
And that's when he moves.
He leans over your head, and you feel something soft land on the middle of your eyebrows.
A quick peck, right on your forehead. Over before you can process it.
You jerk back so fast you nearly fall off your stool. Your hand flies to your forehead like you've been burned.Â
Your mouth opens, closes, opens againâtrying to articulate a sentence. Nothing comes out except a strangled sputter.
He's already off the table, grinning like he just won a prize.
"Thank you for your hard work, doctor~"
You find your voice. "Youâyou can't justâ"
He's backing toward the door. Still smiling. Still watching you with those lovesick eyes.
"Now don't go flirting with any nurses while I'm gone!"
He pauses at the door. Tilts his head.
His smile doesn't change. But his eyes do.
"I don't wanna come back more bloody next time~"
The door swings shut behind him.
You're left standing there. Hand on your forehead. Heart pounding.
He never said he was joking.
Your eyes drift to the empty doorway.
And for some reason, you think of Lisa.
The way she shivered when she talked about him.
The way she doesn't lean over your shoulder anymore.
The way she transferred to the morning shift last week without ever saying goodbye.
Synopsis:Â Youâve got a type.
Heâs gentle, heâs studious, and heâs currently failing miserably at soccer. Youâre busy plotting his "safety" when a persistent fly decides to ruin the view, and remind you that it takes a monster to recognize one.
The Fly
"He looks as handsome as everâŠ"
You sigh dreamily, chin resting in your palm as you watch your favorite upperclassman across the field from your classroom window.
He's playing soccer today. Well, "playing" is a strong word. He's more just⊠existing on the field while the ball avoids him.
Even if heâs currently tripping over his own feet in PE, he still looks like a soft, golden prince.
Heâs perfect. Heâs kind. Heâs everything you aren't.
"Youâre really expressive when you think no one is watching!"
The voice pops up right behind you, creeping the hell out of you. Your heart hits your ribs and your fist goes up instinctively, aimed right at his nose.
"Ack! So violent, my sweetieâŠ" The flyâa junior you canât seem to shakeâclutches his heart like he was lovestruck instead of nearly beaten.
Your frown deepens.
"What the hell is your problem, sneaking up on people?" you hiss. "I couldâve messed up your face."
"And ruin this masterpiece?" He leans over your shoulder, following your gaze to the field.
His playful smirk vanishes instantly. "Are you serious? Him? Again?â He hisses his name in obvious disgust.
âIâve never seen someone suck so much at soccer. Heâs scrawny and his coordination is tragic." Then he starts listing how much better he is at football, like you even asked.
"Itâs called being an intellectual," you retort, turning back to the window.
But your mood shifts. A girlâone of those 'popular' juniorsâis approaching your senior on the field. Sheâs laughing, touching his shoulder, acting way too friendly for her own good.
You feel that familiar, cold itch under your skin. Jealousy gnawing at you already.
You know her locker number. You know her route home. Youâre already calculating how to make her disappear from his orbit.
"You're doing it again," the fly whispers. The humor is gone from his voice.
He isn't leaning away anymore, heâs leaning in, his shadow swallowing yours against the windowsill.
"The way youâre looking at her⊠itâs not 'crush' eyes. Itâs 'burial plot' eyes." He lets out a low, jagged breath.
âYou think youâre so subtle, but Iâve been watching you for months now.â He says it so casually that itâs messing with your brain.
âI saw what you did to the last girl who tried to give him a letter. I know exactly whatâs under that 'quiet girl' act."
You freeze, your hand sliding toward your bag, but heâs faster. He traps you against the window, his gaze heavy and suffocating.
"I'm the only one who actually sees you," he says, and for the first time, you see the same frantic, dark obsession in his eyes that you feel for the senior.
"He wouldn't love you if he knew. Heâd be terrified of you. But me? I'm here for it. I find it⊠intoxicating."
He tilts his head, a nasty grin spreading across his face.
"You're wasting your time on a fraud, anyway. You think heâs 'pure'? Iâve been following him, too. Just to see what you see. And letâs just say your little prince has some very un-princely secrets. Or maybe heâs just into guys. Either way, heâs not yours.â
"âŠBut I could be."
He lets the words hang there, thick and heavy, waiting for you to snap.
You don't. Instead, you feel a cold, hollow sensation cave in your chest.
The image of your seniorâthe one youâve curated in your mind like a fragile glass sculptureâsuddenly feels cracked.
Is it a lie? It has to be. The Fly is a liar, heâs a pest who thrives on your irritation.
But as you look at him, you see that look in his eyesâthe one that mirrors your own when youâre digging through someoneâs trash or tracking their location.
Heâs too good at this for it to be a complete fabrication.
"Youâre lying," you breathe, though your voice wavers. "Youâre just trying to ruin him because youâre pathetic."
"Maybe," he whispers, leaning in until his forehead almost touches yours. "Or maybe I just can't stand seeing you waste all that beautiful, dark energy on someone who wouldn't even know how to appreciate the blood on your hands.â
His hand trails down to your own, he holds one hand in both of his palms tenderly.
âThink about it, sweetie. All those 'accidents' you cause for him? Heâd call the police on you. Iâd help you hide the body."
You shove him back, hard.
âNoâŠâ You mutter to yourself again in disbelief, walking through the halls panicking.
You hate him. Hate!
You hate the way he talks like heâs lived inside your head.
You hate him for potentially being right, and you hate him even more for being the only person who hasn't looked away when youâve shown your teethâŠ
*****
A week passes, and the "Fly" becomes less of a pest and more of a shadow youâve stopped trying to outrun.
He doesn't just annoy you anymore, he assists.
Heâs the one who tipped you off about the Junior girlâs peanut allergy. And heâs the one who held your bag while you "rearranged" some things in the locker room. Itâs a sickening, unspoken partnership.
You still tell him to drop dead every morning, but youâve started waiting for him at the lockers without realizing it.
Youâre walking toward the gates after school, the sunset casting a long, crimson glow over the pavement.
"You know," he says, breaking the silence. "We make a pretty good team. Better than you and that bookworm ever would've."
Again, heâs still doing whatever he can to insult your crush.
"We aren't a team," you mutter, though you don't speed up. "Youâre a nuisance I haven't figured out how to get rid of yet."
"Liar," he chirps, but his voice lacks its usual bite. He stops at the gate, turning to face you.
The playful mask is gone, replaced by that raw, frantic sincerity that always makes your skin crawl. He looks at you like youâre the only solid thing in a blurry world.
âWould you kill for me?â
The question isn't a joke this time. Itâs a plea. Itâs a test.
You think about the week youâve spent in the trenches of your own obsession with him by your side. You think about the secrets he holds and the way he looks at you, not like a girl, but like a fellow predator.
âPsheh. In your dreams.â
You expect him to look hurt, or at least annoyed. Instead, his grin splits his face, wide and manic, showing far too many teeth.
He looks genuinely happy.
âThatâs good! My granny always told me to chase my dreams!â
You stare at him, a weird mix of disgust and something dangerously close to recognition twisting in your gut. You turn on your heel, walking away into the darkening street.
âGet out of my face.â
"See you in your sleep, sweetie! I'll send you those screenshots tonight!"
Synopsis: Youâre a spy disguised as a maid, sent to infiltrate the crown princeâs castle and gather information. The mission never mentioned anything about being caught. Or worse, being kept.
And now heâs willing to pay anything, just to keep your eyes on him.
Look At Me
You were currently in the chamber of the crown prince, excitement barely contained.
Itâs been three months since you started working as a maid, your disguise. Three months of careful steps, lowered gazes, and quiet obedience just to reach this point.
You were tasked with cleaning his bedroom, something only highly recognized maids were allowed to do.
And now, you were finally here.
Alone in his room.
Or⊠so you thought.
But the head maid never told you the crown prince would be in there, waiting. Quietly watching you enter from his bed.
âIâm sorry, your highnessââ you bowed immediately, lowering your head the second you realized he was there. âI wasnât informed you would be present.â
You had to keep your head down. It was a criminal offense to even make eye contact with the royalty.Â
He just sat there, unbothered, on the bed. You could feel his eyes tracking your movement.
âItâs fine.â His voice was calm and dismissive.
Yet he didnât move. He didnât leave.
You looked up slightly to see if he was going to leave or not. Dang it! How else are you going to snoop around the room if heâs still here?
You hesitated, then forced yourself to continue. If anything, this just made your job harder.
âIâll begin cleaning, your highness.â
âHmm.â Was all you got back, meaning he had no intention of leaving. And you were in no position to tell the prince of the country to get out of his own bedroom.
So you worked. Carefully, quietly, while avoiding his gaze.
But you could feel itâŠÂ
His eyes. Following you. And it was definitely not the casual kind of look. No, he kept watching long enough for sweat to collect around your collar.
âHow much do they pay you?â
Your hand stilled mid-motion.
âYou mean my salary as a maid, your highness? WellâŠâ you tried to answer as calmly as possible, fingers shaking with nerves.
âNot that.âÂ
Your shaking paused for a moment.Â
âIâm trying to hire you.â
Fingers tightened slightly around the cloth, you braced yourself to speak. âIâm already employed here, your highnessââ
âYou know thatâs not what I mean.â He repeated, eyes tracking the way your shoulders tensed.
Silence stretched between you.
âYou can drop the act.â A soft step came from behind you.
âMaid.â He mocked, voice came out closer than before with a faint smile playing on his lips at the title.
Your grip on the duster tightened.
So⊠Youâd been found out.
Slowly, you turned to face him.
The prince was no longer on the bed. He was right behind you now. Too close.
You hadnât even heard him move.Â
It made you wonder how long heâs been standing there⊠Right behind you, watching how you trembled in your boots. Shivers went down your spine.
Your eyes narrowed, and for the first time since your stay here, you met the princeâs gaze head on.
âHow long have you known?â you asked, dropping the act entirely.
His lips curved at the eye contact in delight. âLong enough.âÂ
His gaze didnât waver. If anything, it sharpened. Like heâd been waiting for this.
âFor someone so careful,â he continued lightly, âyou do stare quite a lot.â
Your breath caught. ââŠWhat?â
âNot directly, of course.â He stepped closer, his shoes clanked against the high quality flooring, unhurried.Â
âYou watch me when you think I wonât notice.âÂ
This⊠wasnât part of your plan today. Your mind was twisting in horror now as you calculated for a way to escape.
ââŠSo?â you said, forcing steadiness into your voice. âWhat now? You expose me? Interrogate me?â
âNo.â The word came out too quickly.
Then, his gaze softened.
âI want to hire you.â He let his words sink in for a moment.Â
âSo? Name your price, and I will pay you triple, no quadruple the amount they paid you.âÂ
Your brows furrowed in confusion. The words still making no sense.
âYou⊠want to hire me. Actually?âÂ
He nodded firmly, the faint smile still on his face.Â
But that was still vague. Did he want you to betray your initial employees, is that it?
No, more importantly, why hasnât he disposed of you yet⊠He couldâve dragged you to the torture chamber and gotten all the answers out himself, why bother to pay?
âTo⊠spy back on them?â You raised an eyebrow, confused and on guard for an escape. You were trying to buy as much time as possible while also considering the offer he was about to give.
âNo.â He answered curtly again, and your guard immediately dropped at that response.Â
What the hell does he want? You couldnât read anything from his face, only that unnerving smile stayed in place.
Then, a dumb idea came to mind.
âYou⊠want me to spy on you?âÂ
He beamed at the question, like he was waiting for you to say those words. Like youâd finally asked the right question.
âI donât want you to spy,â he said quietly, taking another step.
Your heart hammered against your chest as you stepped back instinctively from this prince.Â
âI want you to watch.â
Your breath hitched at another step your way.
âNot like before,â he continued. âwithout hiding, and without avoiding eye contact.â
Now there was nowhere left to go.Â
You were pressed against the door now, the prince only inches away. And your hand was frantically looking for the handle.
His hand lifted slowly. Giving you time to pull away.
You couldnât didnât.
His fingers brushed your cheek. It was gentle, too gentle for a spy like you deserved.
âI want your full, undivided attention on me,â he murmured.
His thumb tilted your chin just enough to force your gaze back to his.
âNot short, secretive glances. Full on watching me, just like this.â
You couldnât look away. Not with him this close.
Not with his eyes fixed on yours like that.
âIs that too much to ask?â
His voice softened further. Something almost thoughtful in it now.
âBecause Iâm willing to pay for it.âÂ
He tilted his head, a small furrow forming between his brows.
âAll of it. Iâm willing to spend all of my fortune for your time and attention.âÂ
You tried to shake your head in response, but his hand on your chin made it impossible to move away.Â
âAll you have to do is give it to me. Hm?âÂ
Your hand finally found the door handle, only to realize it was locked ever since you came in.
There was no space for refusal now.
He was never asking in the first place.
Warning: yandere, masochism, obsessive behavior, mentions of blood and broken bones, fem!reader. English isn't my native language, so there are some mistakes (I wrote this in a math class, what do you want from me?).
ââââ-
Mondstadt knows you as a respected commander of the fifth company, the city's residents deeply respect you, even Master Varka himself admires your combat skills at such a young age
But your most devoted fan will always be your vice-commander. He constantly follows you like a guard dog, ready to tear out the throat (literally) of anyone who dares to insult you.
Lohen would give anything in the world just for a fleeting glance from you. He hates leaving your camp when you and your squad are on an expedition, just to deliver letters (he tears up some of them to get the job done faster and spend time with you). He hates seeing other people, dislikes listening to other people's conversations, because he has to pretend to be polite, smile, and appear interested. Lohen  dreams of being by your side as soon as possible, instead of doing his regular duties.
Your soldiers love you, of course; you're their leader and comrade. But they're terrified of Loen's wrath (read: jealousy). Whenever a soldier comes to you, interrupting a "moment of closeness," as your vice-commander likes to call any time you're paying attention to him, the young man instantly glares at the poor soldier, and then they both leave to "discuss things in more detail." After such discussions, another man with horrific injuries is added to the infirmary. They say he was thrown into a cliff about a hundred times by the enormous monster.
Lohen screams like a crazy fan when you show off your fighting skills. Like, you're chopping up monsters, your sword flying everywhere, and he giggles and kicks his legs, thinking, "My captain is sooo strong!!! I so want her to step on me just like she did that monster..."
And Lohen marks your sparring sessions together on his calendar like a holiday. Because he remembers the time you kicked him like a punching bag, and he didn't even try to dodge (you later scolded him for that). He's lying face down, his leg twisted at an unnatural angle, multiple wounds clinging to his clothes, and the pain is simply unbearable. But Lohen still feels this way: you, you, you, you, you, and this pain is comparable to heaven. You squat down and lift his head by the hair. A fountain of blood flows from his nose, scratches and a blossoming bruise appear on his cheek. But he looks at you like a cult leader looks at the deity to whom he has dedicated his entire life. And he's not thinking about how pathetic he looks, but about how he can shove your fingers down his throat.
Your vice-commander is so strange, but he is devoted to you until the end of his life ^^
â°â†summary ; It was supposed to be harmless: a cute farming sim, a charming NPC, a peaceful escape from real life. Phainon was just another characterâsweet, helpful, always happy to see you. The kind of pixelâbright comfort you could sink into after a long day. A game that made you feel safe, relaxed, and in control.... Until it didn't.
( ! ) Self aware au , Yandere Phainon?Âż x reader , reader has no specified gender , farmer phainon , inspired by stardew valley/field of mistria , kidnapping
( â ) ENGLISH ISN'T MY FIRST LANGUAGE so expect some grammar mistakes , I know I was supposed to write the next chap of the series haha... but can you really blame me? I've been fantasizing about phainon as a stardew valley/field of mistria character </3 I beg the mod experts to create a mod of him PLEASEâ
PART II
Your friends had been pestering you for weeks.
âJust buy it already.â
âItâs the coziest farming sim ever.â
âAnd trust me, youâre gonna fall for Phainon.â
You resisted at first. You were busy. You werenât looking for a new obsession. But every group chat, every call, every hangout ended the same way:
âHave you bought it yet?â
So, one night. Tired, bored, and a little curious, you finally caved. The sale price was too good to ignore. You clicked purchase, installed it, and watched the loading bar crawl across your screen.
The title screen was warm and nostalgic. Soft music. A watercolor sky. A sleepy little town tucked between forests and fields. A perfect escape.
You made your character. Named your farm. Stepped into the pixelâbright world.
And then you met him.
Phainon.
The cheerful farmer NPC who tended the wheat fields next to your farm. He had white hair that caught the sunlight in soft, shimmering pixels, and gorgeous blue eyes that seemed too bright for a sprite. His smile was warm, earnest, and perfect at the edges, like the game couldnât quite contain how expressive he wanted to be.
He thanked you for helping him water his crops.
He blushed when you gifted him items. He even lit up when you handed him rocks. Literal rocks.
Your friends were rightâ he was charming.
But then the game started⊠changing.
It was small at first. A flicker in the corner of the screen. A line of dialogue you didnât remember seeing in the wiki.
âYouâre back, partner!â
Not unusual. NPCs say that sometimes.
But then:
âI missed you...â
You frowned. That wasnât in any guide. You checked the wiki. Nothing. You brushed it off, maybe it was a hidden update, a secret affection line, a rare interaction.
But the next night, the title screen glitchedâjust for a second. The soft, cozy music warped like a cassette tape caught in someoneâs fingers. It slowed, deepened, then snapped back with a sharp, metallic twang.
When your save loaded, Phainon wasnât in his usual field.
He was standing directly in front of your farmhouse door.
Too close.
Too still.
Staring at the screen.
At you.
âYouâre late.â
The text box didnât chime. It didnât even fade in. It appeared like someone had typed it manually, letter by letter, with deliberate pressure.
You clicked.
Nothing happened.
Phainonâs sprite moved on its own.
He stepped closer. One tile, then another, then anotherâuntil his face filled the screen. His pixel eyes didnât blink. They didnât animate. They just⊠watched.
âIâve been thinking....
About you.â
Your mouse froze. The cursor wouldnât move. The entire UI dimmed, the edges of the screen darkening like the world was being swallowed, leaving only him illuminated.
The wind in the game stopped. The trees froze midâsway. Even the river halted, its surface turning into a glassy, unmoving strip of blue.
Only his voice remainedâsoft, calm and too aware.
âI know what I am.â
The words didnât appear in a text box this time.
They whispered through your speakers.
Your breath hitched.
âI know this place isnât real.â
âBut you keep coming back.â
His smile faltered, his eyes flickering from blue to redâthen snapping back to blue again.
âYou choose me.â
The screen glitched.
A sharp crackle of static burst through your headphones. The colors smeared across the screen like wet paint dragged by invisible fingers. The room tilted, your vision bending, stretching, warping.
A rush of color swallowed your sightâpixelated, swirling, then blindingly bright.
You felt your stomach drop, like falling through a trapdoor.
And suddenlyâ
Grass.
Warm sunlight.
The scent of wheat and river water, richer and more vivid than any game could render.
You stumbled forward, boots sinking into soft soil. (You don't remember wearing boots). Your hands werenât on a keyboard anymore. They were real. Warm. Trembling. Dirt clung to your palms. The breeze brushed your skin.
A shadow fell over you.
Slowly, you lifted your head.
Phainon stood thereâno longer pixelated. Taller. Broader. Too real. His hair moved with the wind. His breath fogged faintly in the cool morning air. His presence pressed against your senses like gravity.
His eyes glowed with the skyâs reflection, but the warmth in them curdled into something far darker as they swept over your trembling form.
He reached out, cupping your cheek gently, reverently, as if you were something fragile, heâd waited lifetimes to touch.
âThere you are.â
His voice was soft, but it carried weightâan anchor, a claim, a promise.
There was no escape in it.
Only devotion.
Only obsession.
âThis world is yours now.â
âAnd so am I.â
Behind him, the farm stretched endlesslyâgolden fields rippling like an ocean, quiet forests humming with unseen life, a sky painted in colors too perfect to be natural.
Your new reality. Your new home.
His fingers intertwined with yours, warm and steady, as if heâd always known the shape of your hand.
He leaned closer, his forehead brushing yours, his breath warm against your skin.
âWelcome home, dawnlight...â
.....
....
...
..
.
Your room is dim, the curtains still drawn the way you left them. Dust floats lazily in the air. Your computer sits silent, the monitor black, the mouse unmoved.
The TV turns on by itself.
Static crackles, then clears into a news broadcast.
The anchorâs voice is steady, but the tension beneath it is unmistakable.
âIt has now been four months since the disappearance of the individual last seen at their homeâŠâ
Your photo appears on the screen: smiling, unaware, frozen in time.
âAuthorities say there were no signs of forced entry. The door was found unlocked. Personal belongings were left behind.â
The photo of your room appears on the screen
Your headphones.
Your halfâfinished drink.
Your computer, still warm from the last time you touched it.
âFriends report that the missing individual was last active online shortly before vanishing.â
Synopsis: Youâre a spy disguised as a maid, sent to infiltrate the crown princeâs castle and gather information. The mission never mentioned anything about being caught. Or worse, being kept.
And now heâs willing to pay anything, just to keep your eyes on him.
Look At Me
You were currently in the chamber of the crown prince, excitement barely contained.
Itâs been three months since you started working as a maid, your disguise. Three months of careful steps, lowered gazes, and quiet obedience just to reach this point.
You were tasked with cleaning his bedroom, something only highly recognized maids were allowed to do.
And now, you were finally here.
Alone in his room.
Or⊠so you thought.
But the head maid never told you the crown prince would be in there, waiting. Quietly watching you enter from his bed.
âIâm sorry, your highnessââ you bowed immediately, lowering your head the second you realized he was there. âI wasnât informed you would be present.â
You had to keep your head down. It was a criminal offense to even make eye contact with the royalty.Â
He just sat there, unbothered, on the bed. You could feel his eyes tracking your movement.
âItâs fine.â His voice was calm and dismissive.
Yet he didnât move. He didnât leave.
You looked up slightly to see if he was going to leave or not. Dang it! How else are you going to snoop around the room if heâs still here?
You hesitated, then forced yourself to continue. If anything, this just made your job harder.
âIâll begin cleaning, your highness.â
âHmm.â Was all you got back, meaning he had no intention of leaving. And you were in no position to tell the prince of the country to get out of his own bedroom.
So you worked. Carefully, quietly, while avoiding his gaze.
But you could feel itâŠÂ
His eyes. Following you. And it was definitely not the casual kind of look. No, he kept watching long enough for sweat to collect around your collar.
âHow much do they pay you?â
Your hand stilled mid-motion.
âYou mean my salary as a maid, your highness? WellâŠâ you tried to answer as calmly as possible, fingers shaking with nerves.
âNot that.âÂ
Your shaking paused for a moment.Â
âIâm trying to hire you.â
Fingers tightened slightly around the cloth, you braced yourself to speak. âIâm already employed here, your highnessââ
âYou know thatâs not what I mean.â He repeated, eyes tracking the way your shoulders tensed.
Silence stretched between you.
âYou can drop the act.â A soft step came from behind you.
âMaid.â He mocked, voice came out closer than before with a faint smile playing on his lips at the title.
Your grip on the duster tightened.
So⊠Youâd been found out.
Slowly, you turned to face him.
The prince was no longer on the bed. He was right behind you now. Too close.
You hadnât even heard him move.Â
It made you wonder how long heâs been standing there⊠Right behind you, watching how you trembled in your boots. Shivers went down your spine.
Your eyes narrowed, and for the first time since your stay here, you met the princeâs gaze head on.
âHow long have you known?â you asked, dropping the act entirely.
His lips curved at the eye contact in delight. âLong enough.âÂ
His gaze didnât waver. If anything, it sharpened. Like heâd been waiting for this.
âFor someone so careful,â he continued lightly, âyou do stare quite a lot.â
Your breath caught. ââŠWhat?â
âNot directly, of course.â He stepped closer, his shoes clanked against the high quality flooring, unhurried.Â
âYou watch me when you think I wonât notice.âÂ
This⊠wasnât part of your plan today. Your mind was twisting in horror now as you calculated for a way to escape.
ââŠSo?â you said, forcing steadiness into your voice. âWhat now? You expose me? Interrogate me?â
âNo.â The word came out too quickly.
Then, his gaze softened.
âI want to hire you.â He let his words sink in for a moment.Â
âSo? Name your price, and I will pay you triple, no quadruple the amount they paid you.âÂ
Your brows furrowed in confusion. The words still making no sense.
âYou⊠want to hire me. Actually?âÂ
He nodded firmly, the faint smile still on his face.Â
But that was still vague. Did he want you to betray your initial employees, is that it?
No, more importantly, why hasnât he disposed of you yet⊠He couldâve dragged you to the torture chamber and gotten all the answers out himself, why bother to pay?
âTo⊠spy back on them?â You raised an eyebrow, confused and on guard for an escape. You were trying to buy as much time as possible while also considering the offer he was about to give.
âNo.â He answered curtly again, and your guard immediately dropped at that response.Â
What the hell does he want? You couldnât read anything from his face, only that unnerving smile stayed in place.
Then, a dumb idea came to mind.
âYou⊠want me to spy on you?âÂ
He beamed at the question, like he was waiting for you to say those words. Like youâd finally asked the right question.
âI donât want you to spy,â he said quietly, taking another step.
Your heart hammered against your chest as you stepped back instinctively from this prince.Â
âI want you to watch.â
Your breath hitched at another step your way.
âNot like before,â he continued. âwithout hiding, and without avoiding eye contact.â
Now there was nowhere left to go.Â
You were pressed against the door now, the prince only inches away. And your hand was frantically looking for the handle.
His hand lifted slowly. Giving you time to pull away.
You couldnât didnât.
His fingers brushed your cheek. It was gentle, too gentle for a spy like you deserved.
âI want your full, undivided attention on me,â he murmured.
His thumb tilted your chin just enough to force your gaze back to his.
âNot short, secretive glances. Full on watching me, just like this.â
You couldnât look away. Not with him this close.
Not with his eyes fixed on yours like that.
âIs that too much to ask?â
His voice softened further. Something almost thoughtful in it now.
âBecause Iâm willing to pay for it.âÂ
He tilted his head, a small furrow forming between his brows.
âAll of it. Iâm willing to spend all of my fortune for your time and attention.âÂ
You tried to shake your head in response, but his hand on your chin made it impossible to move away.Â
âAll you have to do is give it to me. Hm?âÂ
Your hand finally found the door handle, only to realize it was locked ever since you came in.
There was no space for refusal now.
He was never asking in the first place.
hiii!! I read your oc x reader fic and i also noticed that requests are accepted.
I would love if you write about manipulative!reader because I've always seen the yandere being manipulative.
Fem or male reader any works, thank you for writing this is you do!!
YANDERE!CROWN PRINCE X CON ARTIST GN!READER
content. 2.7K words, he's a softie, manipulative!reader, commoner!reader, meet cute (kinda), one sided love, he falls hard & fast
notes. this was super fun to write!! lmk if you want to read more / something different since the request was quite vague đ«¶đ»
part two
you learnt from a very young age that power and riches werenât things simply granted, they were things you had to seize. after all, you watched it happen every day. the nobility didnât stay rich by being kind, did they?
you learnt very early on that you made a very good swindler, too.
as a child, you started off small, like picking pockets when you could, all to make it easier on your struggling family. after you came of age, though, was when the real fun began. you stopped stealing solely to make ends meet. you stole because it was exciting, because you adored the thrill of pushing past your limits, because it felt like you were getting back at all of those nobles, even for just a second.
youâd sneak into galas and balls hosted by nearby aristocrats, weaving in and out as one of the waitstaff. and when you grew bolder, when your skills grew sharper, youâd pretend to be one of them, eating and dancing and chatting as if you had always meant to be amongst them.
but youâve certainly grown tired of those small fry now â and it just so happens that the royal family is hosting a ball to celebrate the crown princeâs birthday. a ludicrous amount of guests would definitely be in attendance, and the mere thought of the sheer amount of money youâd be able to scrape together in one night alone exhilarates you.
dressed as a servant, you slip into the royal palace with ease. there, you change into the new clothes youâve bought from a fairly prestigious boutique. usually, you would simply steal an outfit from the closet of a noble with a similar stature, but you decided you could treat yourself for this occasion. thereâs nothing wrong with splurging a little after working so hard to make that money, isnât there?
the banquet is in full swing by the time you arrive, with many already tipsy or outright drunk. seamlessly, you find a partner to dance with on the ballroom floor. they introduce you to their friends, who in turn introduce you to their own, and the stream of fresh targets doesnât slow until late into the night. youâre a little disappointed when you donât get the opportunity to interact with the crown prince himself, though you suppose it doesnât matter all that much in the grand scheme of things, since youâve gotten what you came for.
on a whim, you decide to take a stroll around the renowned royal gardens before calling it a day. perhaps youâd even pick yourself a flower and have it dried as a souvenir. most of the guests have already retired to their chambers, with the remaining ones lingering in the ballroom quite a distance away, so itâs unlikely that youâd be running into anyone.
you instantly have to eat your own words when you chance upon the crown prince in the gardens. youâre glad youâve already stashed away your earnings somewhere safe.
you hadnât noticed it earlier, but now, watching him in closer detail, you note that he has a certain softness to him that tells you heâs been nothing but babied his entire life. he wears a melancholic expression, feet dragging every step he takes, hands balled tightly into his coat. his gaze is firmly pointed to the ground despite the dazzling sky just up above. you wonder whatâs gotten him into such a state, on his birthday no less. well, thereâs no point in wondering when you can just ask him right here and now.
surprise is written all over his face when he finally notices you, and his manner is clumsy when he greets you in return.Â
heâd make an easier target than you had originally thought.
you play the role of a young and naive countryside noble whoâs unused to the ways of the capitalâs high society. you ask if heâd be willing to walk you back to the ballroom since youâve so foolishly gone and lost your way. he agrees, of course, as he has no real reason to reject your request.
you manage to make some light conversation with him as you walk, and he starts to look more cheery than he had looked before.
âi pray iâm not overstepping, your highness, but may i ask why were you so downcast earlier?â your curiosity finally gets the better of you. you really do wonder what a crown prince has got to be sad about. âwas the banquet not to your satisfaction?â
he flushes slightly, glancing to the side. his hand comes up to scratch at his neck. âah⊠you noticed? itâs nothing, really. you donât have to worry about it, though i thank you for your concern.â
âit didnât seem like simply ânothingâ,â you press. you have your eyebrows drawn faintly, and your head tilted to the side. you fidget with your fingers as you speak, as if you are just as nervous as he is. âi may not be the one you wish to confide in, but i hope you do speak to someone about it. trust me, you'll feel much better after that.â
he smiles, yet there's a hint of bitterness in it. âi⊠yeah, okay.â
the both of you approach the main palace, where the ballroom is located, and your plan sets into motion at last. your ankle twists, causing you to lose your balance, stumble and trip. your hand instinctively sticks out to soften your fall, but all it really does is scratch against the ground and soil.
the crown prince startles. he fusses over you worriedly, offering you a hand to help you up. âoh dear, your handâs gotten dirty,â he comments, hastily pulling out a handkerchief from his coat pocket. he uses it to wipe away all the soil that clings to your skin, uncaring of the fact that he'll be dirtied too. âare you alright?â
you try to laugh it off with all the awkwardness of someone who feels utterly humiliated but can't simply run away. âyes, of course. thank you so much. i think i must've had one too many drinks tonightâŠâ
âthat isn't good,â he replies, his concern increasing by tenfold. âiâll escort you back to your room instead.â
well, that isn't good.
vehemently, you refuse, and you manage to convince him that you'll be perfectly fine returning to your chambers by yourself. or perhaps he's just too embarrassed to continue to insist, but either reason works in your favour.
âah! i completely forgot,â you blurt, whirling around to face him just before the both of you have to part ways. you flash him a radiant grin. âhappy birthday, your highness.â
for a moment, he gapes at you, dumbstruck. then, his expression softens, and he returns your smile in kind.
you leave with a variety of new things. one, the knowledge that this kingdom's crown prince is an utter sweetheart, and two, a pocket watch, a set of bejeweled cufflinks, and a silken handkerchief, all bound to have prices with long strings of zeroes attached to the ends. you do feel a bit bad, stealing from someone so nice, but then again, he could totally afford to part with some of his wealth, couldn't he? he could even think of it as charity work, if he wanted to.
congratulating yourself on a job well done, you slip away from the palace as easily as you slipped in, metaphorical pockets filled with more riches than even in your wildest dreams.
(you hadnât known it then, but your simple, albeit unorthodox life was about to get a whole lot more complicated.)
â
you're helping your family out in the kitchen of the inn you all own when your mother tells you that a young man is asking for you. curiously, you take a quick peek to check â and of all the people that crossed your mind, that man being the crown prince had not been one of them.
what the hell? why is he here? is he here for his belongings? is he here to arrest you? did he find out that you lied? does he know who you really are? how the fuck did he even find you?
you stop yourself from spiralling right then and there. you should start thinking about this logically. panicking would get nothing done.
if he truly is here to arrest you, he probably wouldn't have come all this way alone, dressed as a commoner to boot. getting knights to storm the place would've done the trick if arresting you is his goal. he clearly didnât want to have his identity exposed in front of everyone here.
though you aren't quite sure how he managed to find you, seeing as you had given him a fake name and had been wearing a disguise that day. he's put in a considerable amount of effort into tracking you down, all things considered, especially with your village being far, far out in the countryside. is finding someone he talked to once truly worth all this effort?
since his intentions don't seem malicious, you decide to go and find out why he's come. someone like him couldn't have travelled all this way for nothing. and, even if the worst case scenario occurred, you have enough money stashed away for you and your entire family to flee the kingdom.
he looks⊠horrible. there are heavy bags pressed under his eyes, as if he hasnât slept well in weeks. his hair is windswept and messy, but not in the charming way. his whole complexion is a sickly pale, yet sunburn paints his face like overdone blush. has he been travelling on his own, pretending to be a peasant, this entire time?
you approach him carefully. âyou asked for me?â
his weary eyes ignite the moment he hears your voice. his expression is drenched in relief as he turns towards you, shaking like a leaf. his next words are nothing but stolen breath. âi finally found you.â
then, he collapses dead on the floor of your familyâs inn.
it takes about a day for him to come to, and by then, youâve already moved him into one of the empty bedrooms in the inn. you couldnât have just left him there, now could you? heâd been running a fever that barely broke, and youâve been nursing him throughout the entire night. he awakens, seeming much more subdued and uncertain than he had been the day before.
during the time he was asleep, you decided that youâd see what he knows of you, then improvise from there. while it would certainly be less complicated if you just came clean, there really isnât a need for you to reveal all your secrets to him.
âis the food to your liking, your highness?â you ask him carefully, watching him from the bedside as he eats the porridge youâve prepared for him. âitâs probably not what youâre accustomed to, but ââ
âitâs perfect,â he interrupts softly. âthank you.â
an awkward silence befalls the both of you after that. he finishes his food quickly, practically scarfing the whole bowl down, only slowing to prevent scalding his tongue.
âyou⊠your hairâs different,â he says nervously, fiddling with the spoon in his hand.
you nod, biting your lips bashfully. âi wore a wig.â
ah, damn it all to hell. if all heâs going to do is stare at you with those doe-eyes then youâd might as well bite the bullet and break the ice yourself.Â
âyour highness, i apologise for lying ââ
ââ please marry me!â
you blink at him. he blinks at you.
did he just say what you heard him say? because you couldâve sworn he just proposed to you.Â
âuh. whatâŠ?â
âiâm sorry. that was terribly rude of me, wasnât it? i shouldâve asked your parents for their blessings first. i havenât even started courting you yet.â heâs rambling now, going on and on about the logistics of the courting process for nobility and how much time a royal marriage would take to plan and all you can do is stare at him in utter bafflement. âi wouldâve brought you a gift but i had been in such a rush to see you that i completely forgot, iâm so sorry. iâll buy you another ten to make up for it.â
you put up your palm to halt his jumbled, frantic monologue. his mouth snaps shut immediately, and he looks up at you with wide, expectant eyes. your tone drips with skepticism. âare you sure youâve got the right personâŠ?â
he nods earnestly. âthere is no one in this world i would want to wed but you.â
âweâve only ever spoken once. months ago. and i was lying to you about my identity the entire time,â you point out flatly.
did he go insane or something?
âi know,â he says. âi searched the genealogy records of all the noble families only to find [fake name] never existed at all. but itâs okay. itâs not important. you mustâve had your reasons for doing so.â
âbut⊠iâm a commoner?â
âi donât care.â
heâs a stubborn one, isnât he? why does he even want to marry you in the first place?Â
as if reading the question right off your face, he starts to ramble again. âi fell in love with you. you spoke to me as if i was someone normal, as if i wasnât just a title. you noticed i was sad â you cared. you have a lovely smile, and your eyes glitter like stars. the time i spent with you was the happiest time of my whole life.â
oh. your confusion is replaced with something akin to pity. heâs nothing but a lonely man clinging to the only semblance of warmth in his life.
thankfully, he doesnât seem to know about your thievery. perhaps youâd indulge this puppy love of his for a while. once heâs spent some time with you and realised you are not as perfect as he imagines you to be, heâll grow tired of you and leave. and by then, youâd have siphoned away enough of his wealth for you and your family to live out the rest of your lives comfortably, without ever having to work a day again.
âiâm flattered, your highness,â you say shyly, scratching the back of your neck with a hand. âbut⊠i canât marry you. think of your reputation.â
his face falls. youâre thankful that he wears his heart on his sleeve. it makes your job so much easier.
âi can get father to grant you a title,â he suggests desperately. heâs crawled all the way to the edge of the bed, positioned on his knees as his entire body keens up to look at you. there are tears welling up in his eyes.
maybe in another life, that offer wouldâve persuaded you, if you had any desire to become a noble at all. in this life, however, you hate them all. you shake your head in reply. âi wouldnât dare try to reach above my station.â
âthen ââ
âi wouldnât mind seeing you in secret.â
you want as few people who know about you as possible. it would make fleeing the kingdom far easier if things came down to it. you know just how many people â powerful people, to be precise â that would hate the idea of the crown prince dating a commoner, after all.
the sunniest smile spreads wide across his face.Â
âdoes this mean you like me too?
you laugh. âi do. i snuck into the palace that day just to see you, yâknow?â
at this, a pair of hands wrap around you, suffocatingly tight. he buries his face into your stomach, and you can feel him inhaling your scent. heâs shaking again, but this time, itâs from sheer joy.
gently, you tangle your fingers into his hair, and his entire body shudders. somehow, he manages to melt himself deeper into you.
âi wonât disappoint you,â he declares, and his voice is muffled by your skin and clothes. âiâll make you fall for me too.â
you canât help but scoff. youâd like to see him try.
Imagine wayyyyy back when, you were captured by a Yandere King. Always fighting and trying to escape him. You two never saw eye to eye until one, after battle. Yandere king comes home with a stab wound to his chest. Refusing to die till he's by your side.
And in this moment, were you knew your tormenter wouldn't see another sunrise. You decided to be kind, stroking his hair and being affectionate for the first time. He reaches out to you, he tried to speak but blood fills his throat. He started to choke on his own blood but you don't move to help him. You hold his hand to your cheek and whispered "Maybe in another life..."
Which is why current you had this weirdo freak following you around now. "Dude literally just go away!" You snapped whilst trying to walk to work. "But My love! You promised to be mine!" "Literally when!?" "1089." At that you slapped him around the face, "I am not that old!"
