Hii!! I love your writting so much girl I just read the yan one and!!!! Omggg it was so good. I was wondering if i could request more of the yan boys, but now imagine if they set up this situation for you to escape, only for you to not try it? Like they 'let' their guard down, and you do notice, but when you have the chance, you are waiting for them or just went to see the flowers in the garden, didn't even tried to escape, like you already have stockholm... or you are just as crazy as they are! Anyway if you are uncomfortable with this don't worry, thank you for all your work!!!!! <3
𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb
𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ Yandere, Stockholm syndrome for some, drugging? Reader is also kinda crazy i think, Fluff.
> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ You don’t wish to leave them
The estate is too quiet today.
No footsteps echoing down the marble halls. No scent of your favorite rose tea drifting from the kitchen. No staff scurrying. No security cameras blinking. Not even Rafayel humming some obscure melody as he paints.
You notice immediately. Of course you do. You’ve been trained, conditioned, adored into noticing everything. How the air shifts when he walks into a room. How the windows are always locked. How he never forgets to check the east wing door.
That door is wide open. Just… swinging there, catching the wind like a taunt.
You sit on the edge of your pink velvet chaise, manicured fingers frozen over your embroidery hoop. Your eyes flicker toward the open door, then to the hallway mirror, your reflection calm, well-dressed, flawless. You’d worn the sundress he likes. The one with tiny ribbons down the back and cherry blossom print.
For a moment, you just stare.
But what you do next is not what any “normal” woman would do after six months of captivity in a gilded cage. Not what a victim should do after being stolen from her life, stripped of freedom, and carefully, tenderly rewired.
You pick up your little parasol and your matching lace gloves. You step out through the open door, sandals crunching softly on the stone path. And instead of bolting toward the gates… you walk to the garden.
To the rose arbor he planted for you.
The breeze is warm. Bees hum lazily in the lavender. You kneel down and begin plucking petals from the newest bloom, a blush-colored hybrid he named Pearl’s Kiss after you.
“You noticed,” comes the soft voice behind you.
You don’t startle. You don’t scream. You only smile.
“Of course I did,” you murmur, twirling a petal between your fingers.
Rafayel steps into view, barefoot, still in his linen shirt, half-buttoned, paint on his fingers. Watching you with those unreadable eyes.
“You could’ve left,” he whispers, almost a little pouty, like he wanted the drama.
“I did leave,” you answer, tone sweet and airy, gaze still fixed on the flower. “I left the house and came to my garden. That counts.”
You look up at him now. Really look. And your expression, soft, glazed, gentle, is identical to the one he painted last week. The one he titled Devotion.
“I like it here,” you say. “I like being yours. I don’t want the world, Raffy. It’s ugly and loud.”
He drops to his knees in front of you.
“And if I did it again? Left the gate wide open tomorrow?”
You lean forward, press your lips to his forehead, smiling like a doll who finally loves her box.
“I’d simply make you take me on a walk around the beach.”
And oh… he laughs. Wild and breathless and delighted. He’s trembling with it.
“Oh, you are sick,” he says, cradling your face.
“You made me sick, Raffy,” you whisper, eyes gleaming. “Don’t you love it?”
He kisses you then, messy and obsessed and so proud of what he’s done. Of what he’s created. His perfect wife. Not broken.
Just rebuilt in his image.
You notice it the moment you wake up.
The monitoring panel on your nightstand, off.
The smart lock on the balcony door, disengaged.
Your daily pill case, missing your mood stabilizers and the soft pink ‘calmer’ capsules he always hands you with water and a kiss.
You sit up slowly in your silk chemise, the one he insists you wear to bed so you’re “comfortable and sweet and his.” The soft filtered morning light paints the bedroom gold.
Not in the ensuite. Not in the dining room. Not in the garden conservatory where he usually has your breakfast tray waiting.
And the entire estate security system?
Your heart flutters, not with fear. Not anymore. That stopped around month four.
And you know that because Zayne doesn’t forget things.
He’s the youngest surgeon in Linkon, the man who tracks your vitamins, your ovulation, your skincare cycles. He knows how much water you drink, how many steps you take, how many calories your brain consumes when you think too hard. He taught you not to worry about any of it.
He does the thinking for you.
You glide to the balcony door, open it without resistance. Step onto the veranda. The gate at the far side of the rose maze? Also open.
He wants to see if you’ll leave.
If all his quiet training, his gentle coos, his indulgent kisses, the soft velvet cage he wove around your soul, held.
And maybe, maybe, the old you would’ve run.
No, this version of you is soft, clean, spoiled rotten, and chemically dependent on his affection. The kind of girl who forgets how to cook. Who only wears the dresses he lays out. Who doesn’t know her bank password anymore.
You turn back into the bedroom, wrap yourself in your coat—the one he always leaves draped over the chaise when it gets a little windy.
You pad barefoot into the master bathroom, curl up on the marble bench beside the tub, and wait.
And when he does, you’ll throw your arms around him and whisper:
“I passed, didn’t I? I didn’t want to go. Not without you.”
And Zayne, who had watched everything from a hidden monitor, walks into the room with soft steps.
“You didn’t even hesitate,” he murmurs, kneeling down and pressing a cold hand to your cheek. “My sweetheart really is mine now, hm?”
You nod eagerly, leaning into his touch like a perfect pet.
“I just wanted my husband. I always want my husband.”
He kisses you, slow and firm, clinical and obsessive.
And when he carries you back to bed, murmuring how proud he is of your obedience, your loyalty, your complete dependency…
You smile into his chest, dizzy and warm.
Because there’s no door anymore.
The house is unusually quiet.
No slow piano. No hum of the ceiling vents that usually circulate your lavender mist. The curtains aren’t drawn. The lights aren’t set to their usual warm morning hue. The AI voice doesn’t greet you when you get out of bed.
No half-asleep husband tangled in your arms. No silver hair trailing down your chest. No mumbling about “ten more minutes.”
You call out. Soft at first.
You pad barefoot through the penthouse, your satin robe swishing gently behind you. You check the garden, where he sometimes dozes under the lilac trees he landed for you. Nothing.
For the first time in six months… you could leave.
You stand there. Eyes wide. Heart quiet.
You don’t even step toward the elevator.
Because something inside you knows.
This is the dream within the dream. The test you’re not supposed to know is happening. You hear his voice in your head, warm and teasing:
“If you could leave… would you still stay?”
And now, here’s your answer.
You turn from the door. Float back through the quiet home like a princess walking through a sleep spell. Back to your bed, no, your nest, of soft silk and cooling sheets that still smell like him. You pick up the plush of Lumiere he had custom made. Curl into the spot where he usually lies.
Because you know he’ll come.
You don’t even flinch when the elevator hums.
You’re already smiling when he appears, barefoot, hoodie hanging off his frame, silver hair tousled from sleep.
He stands in the doorway for a moment, watching you. As if to ask: Why didn’t you run?
You don’t answer with words.
He crosses the room in two slow steps. Climbs in beside you, wraps his limbs around you like a star pulling in gravity.
“…You saw the door, didn’t you?” he whispers, eyes fluttering closed against your skin.
“I saw it,” you murmur, brushing your lips against his collarbone. “But the outside world didn’t look like home.”
“…Good girl,” he breathes, voice glazed with sleep and something darker. “My bunny always knows where she belongs.”
You drift off in his arms, cradled in warmth and silence and starlight.
Twisted, soft, all-consuming love.
You don’t remember exactly when it happened.
When the arguments stopped. When you stopped telling him he was insane. When you stopped demanding to “go home.”
It was somewhere between the day he installed a throne-like vanity just for you and the night he made you wear diamonds to dinner, alone, in your private dining hall, like some adored queen with no court but him.
You just started enjoying the palace.
Today, he wants to play a game.
You wake up and your private guards are gone.
The keycard to the outer gate?
Left on your makeup tray.
You’re not stupid. You’re not naïve. You know him.
So you go through the motions.
You take the keycard. Swipe the gate. Step out into the garden, past the statues he had carved to look like you. You take a car. You leave the estate.
You don’t even see a tail.
Not a drone. Not a camera.
You reach the city. You walk past windows. You see people. Billboards. Life.
It’s loud. Ugly. Messy. Everyone looks rushed. Broke. Tired.
You thought you missed this?
You thought this meant something?
You sit on a bench for a while.
You don’t even remember your old friends’ names. You couldn’t find your old apartment if someone paid you. You don’t want to go back.
You left the estate, but not him.
You return before nightfall.
You don’t sneak in. You strut into the grand hall like the queen he calls you. Toss the keycard at his desk. Climb into the leather armchair opposite his.
He’s already sipping his wine, legs crossed, crimson eyes gleaming like blood-lit rubies.
“Enjoy your little walk, kitty?”
“I did. Just enough to remember why I stay.”
You stand, slow and deliberate. Walk over. Sit in his lap like a spoiled thing, arms draped around his shoulders, nose brushing his jaw.
“Because I’m yours,” you whisper. “And the rest of the world? Boring. Loud. Disposable.”
“I knew you’d break eventually.”
You smirk against his neck.
“I didn’t break. I evolved.”
His fingers tighten around your thighs. You feel it. That burning pride. That hunger.
He wanted this. Not a pet. Not a puppet.
A partner. Twisted and loyal and his.
“That’s my girl,” he whispers into your ear.
The morning light in Skyhaven is always soft, tinted gold by the dome that covers the estate. It never burns, never glares. Caleb planned it that way; he said natural light should be calm, not cruel.
When you wake, he isn’t in the room.
Usually you feel him before you open your eyes, his weight at the edge of the mattress, the faint hum of his prosthetic arm adjusting temperature, his steady breath. But today there’s only the hush of the air system and the echo of your own heartbeat.
The tablet on your nightstand glows with a new message.
CAL: Running checks at the flight bay. Don’t wait for me, baby.
Under it sits your keycard. Real access clearance, not the house‑only one.
The kind that opens everything.
He left the doors unsealed.
For a long minute you just stare at it, the silver tag gleaming against the black glass. Your pulse doesn’t spike; your throat doesn’t tighten. You simply… think.
He told you once, months ago, that the world outside Skyhaven was noisy, hostile, impatient, that everyone is out to get you. You believed him. Or maybe you just liked the way he said ours when he talked about this place, our sky, our silence, our world.
The elevator hums when you approach. Its panel shows “Unlocked: Exterior Access.”
You could step in, press a button, and the sky‑bridge would take you down to the city.
Instead, you walk past it.
Through the glass corridor, into the garden. The apple tree he grafted from the one in your childhood yard is blooming again. You sit beneath it, the air filtered and warm, and think about how strange it is that you never ask what month it is anymore.
When he returns, the magnetic door whispers open behind you.
“You saw the keycard,” Caleb says. Not a question.
He stands a few paces away, hands in the pockets of his uniform trousers, eyes unreadable violet.
You pluck an apple blossom, twirl it between your fingers.
“It felt… far,” you admit. “Like something that used to matter to someone I don’t remember.”
For a heartbeat he says nothing. Then he crosses the grass, kneels down, and takes the blossom from your hand.
“You understand now,” he murmurs. “Why I built this for you.”
“Because the world doesn’t fit me anymore.”
He studies you, searching for deceit and finding only calm. Finally he exhales, the faintest smile pulling at his mouth.
“Come inside. It’s getting cold.”
You rise, slip your hand into his. The door seals behind you with its quiet magnetic sigh, and Skyhaven hums again, soft, constant, eternal.
Because there’s nothing out there worth running to.
Only the life he built, and the man who never really let you go, because he never had to.
