synopsis; The door is open. So why aren't you running?
pairing; mafia yoongi x female reader
genre; psychological thriller, angst, smut
warnings; +18, dead dove: do not eat, noncon/dubcon, coercion/manipulation, power imbalance, yandere themes, obssesive behaviour, kidnapping, suicidal themes
notes; uh so like. I finally have a serious plot planned for this fic. A very rough idea but it's going to be more than just dark dom mafia daddy yoongi. My stories are usually filled with action after action so i tried to slow things down a bit lmaooo. I always feel like I'm rushing the plot? But I promise shit is going to get real crazy in the next chapter. Thank you everyone for your sweetest comments :( i love reading your theories, reviews and critique it's making me so so so so so happy!!! has me kicking my feet and shit. I wonder what do you think about the white room?
wc; 4.3k
<< prev. | index | masterlist | playlist | next >>
A few flecks of toothpaste scattered across her shirt, little white stars against the dark fabric. One hand braced against the counter, the other humming with the electric buzz as she stared at her reflection. As if it might confess something if she waited long enough.
This morning, Yoongi wasn’t there. No arm draped heavy over her waist. No warm breath against the back of her neck. No low murmur reminding her to take her medication. No breakfast waiting on the nightstand.
Just a glass of water. And the pills.
Y/N leaned over the sink and spat. Her eyes lingered on the tablets, laid out in a row, white against the dark counter. She tipped them into her mouth and swallowed dry. Today, she didn’t even pause to consider not taking them. She’d stopped a few weeks ago, back when she’d convinced herself she was doing better. Didn't need them anymore. Because they dulled everything until feelings arrived late and violently, crashing all at once. Because they pulled her out of her own body. Because they filled her sleep with dreams that felt more real than the mornings she woke up to.
Maybe the therapist had been right, in that quiet, irritating way professionals often were.
Yesterday, she couldn’t breathe unless he was close. Today, the space around her felt too wide.
Bitterness clung to her tongue. She rinsed her mouth, wiped her lips with the back of her hand, and left the bathroom with the stubborn certainty that he had to be somewhere close. Maybe downstairs. Maybe already eating.
But the kitchen greeted her with silence. Her steps slowed as she crossed the room. The absence pressed even harder here. He would’ve told her if he’d left. Right? He had before.
Her fingers skimmed the black matte counter as she walked, the stone cool under her skin. The kitchen was immaculate without tipping into sterile. Dark surfaces, muted metal, a stone backsplash that swallowed light instead of reflecting it. No harsh overhead lamps, only a warm glow tucked under the cabinets. Controlled. Dim. Like the rest of the house.
“Good morning, miss.”
Y/N startled violently, heart kicking hard against her ribs as she spun around. A woman stood a few steps away. Middle-aged. Short hair neatly pulled back. An apron tied snug at her waist. Hands folded in front of her like she’d been there longer than Y/N was comfortable imagining.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” the woman rushed, concern flashing across her face. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Are you alright, miss?”
“Yes. Yes,” Y/N breathed, palm pressed to her chest. “I’m okay. I just… I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
The woman smiled, gentle, apologetic. A smile that asked for forgiveness. “Of course. That’s my fault. I should’ve announced myself better.”
She turned toward the sink to wash her hands, movements efficient and unhurried. The subject changed as seamlessly as the water running over her fingers.
“Since you’re up early,” she said over the sound of running water, “what would you like for breakfast?”
Y/N crossed her arms, leaning her side against the counter, her bare toes curling against the tile. “I’m fine with anything. I’m not picky.”
The woman glanced over her shoulder, considering “Pancakes?”
The word stirred something small and uncomfortable in her chest.
“Sure,” Y/N said, forcing a polite smile.
She climbed onto one of the tall barstools. The leather seat was cool under her thighs. She rested her elbows on the counter and let her gaze drift, cataloguing details she hadn’t noticed before. Knife block arranged by size. A green plant in a tall pot. Modern black-and-white artwork that didn’t make sense to her. A vintage-looking radio. Spice jars labeled in a minimalistic print. A coffee machine with a single dirty cup left behind.
“So…” Y/N hesitated, pitching her tone to sound casual. “Where’s Yoongi?”
The woman’s hand hovered over the refrigerator’s handle for just a beat too long.
“Mr. Min should be back before dinner,” she said, pulling it open.
Something in the woman’s voice was off. Sharper than everything else she’d said before. As if it was the only line she hadn’t had time to rehearse. Y/N nodded slowly, watching her move. Batter whisked smooth. A pan warming on the stove. A Smeg kettle beginning to pop.
The whole day.
Y/N rested her chin in the hollow of her palm, watching batter pour into the pan. It sizzled softly, bubbles rising and popping. What was she supposed to do with all this time? Yoongi hadn’t planned the day for her, and she didn’t know what to do with that absence. Back home, a day off meant cleaning, cooking, catching up on everything she never had time for. But here? There were no chores. Nothing that needed her hands. Nothing that gave her purpose.
Such emptiness wasn’t restful. It was suffocating.
Y/N shifted on the stool. “He usually tells me when he leaves.”
The woman hummed, noncommittal. “Mr. Min mentioned he had a busy day. Most likely didn't want to bother you.”
A finished pancake slid onto a plate. Round. Golden at the edges. Steam rising in soft curls.
“You look much calmer today,” the woman observed, flipping the next pancake with a smooth flick of her wrist. “Mr. Min will be happy.”
Y/N stared at her plate. Three pancakes stacked neatly. A pat of butter in the center, already softening.
“Did Yoongi tell you to watch me?” she muttered, eyes stuck on the melting butter.
The woman didn’t look offended. If anything, she seemed faintly amused the corner of her mouth lifting. She set a cup of tea to Y/N’s right, the handle turned outward, exactly where her hand would fall if she reached without looking.
“He worries,” she said. “That’s all.”
She turned back to the stove, wiping down the counter that didn’t need cleaning. The cloth moved in slow, careful circles, erasing nothing but time. Y/N picked up the fork. The metal felt heavier than usual. She cut into the pancake, steam lifting gently. The inside soft and airy. She took a bite. It was good. Better than the ones she burned at home.
“How long have you worked here?” Y/N asked, chewing slowly.
“A while,” the woman replied. The mixing bowl was rinsed, polished, set aside. “Long enough to know the house.”
Y/N’s jaw tightened. “Is avoiding answers part of the job?”
The woman chuckled, shaking her head. “No, not at all.” She dried her hands, folding the towel into four squares. “I’ve been taking care of this house for many years. I don’t remember exactly when I started.”
Y/N nodded, a bit embarrassed at how sharp her tone had been. Out of politeness, she should have asked what the woman’s name was or what to call her—but she didn’t. It wasn’t like she was planning to stay here much longer.
Y/N nudged a piece around her plate. “Am I allowed to go outside?”
The woman blinked, genuinely surprised. “Of course.”
“Out of the house,” Y/N clarified.
“You’re not locked in.” she said calmly. “Just let someone know before you leave.”
“And if I don’t?”
The woman smiled, the same soft expression as before. “Then someone might worry.”
Y/N decided to test that.
She told one of the guards she was going for a walk. He stared at her for a moment. The same man who had chased her down the hallway that night. She waited for him to ask where. For how long. To remind her of something she forgot. Of what she owed.
Instead, he nodded.
“Of course, miss.” he said, stepping aside to clear the path.
No warnings. No conditions.
The front door resisted when she pushed it open, heavy under her exhausted, fragile body. When it finally gave, the wind bit into her cheeks immediately, sharp and dry. Freedom smelled like frost and pine. She zipped her jacket up to her chin and stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind her.
Was that it?
Was this how she would escape?
Her boots sank into the snow, leaving deep prints behind. The driveway stretched wide. At the far end, by the gate, a man shoveled. Metal scraped against stone in a steady rhythm.
“Good morning, miss,” he called, pausing to lean on the shovel.
“Good morning.” Y/N replied dryly, passing him without slowing.
The word miss followed her like a curse.
Did everyone here already know who she was? Or worse, what she was supposed to be?
Up close, the gate looked less ornamental than she’d thought. Thick metal bars. Old rust blooming at the hinges. Her fingers closed around one. Frozen metal bit instantly, numbing her muscles. The raised details had been smoothed down by time, by hands that had tested it before. The gate moved when she pushed it. Easily. Too easily. Almost eagerly, as if it had been waiting for her to try. Inviting. Daring. It swung open with a soft creak, wide enough to let her pass without squeezing through.
The first step beyond it made her breath hitch. The snow crunched louder there. She kept glancing back over her shoulder, expecting someone to run and call her name. To tell her she’d misunderstood. To laugh. To catch her. To punish her for being stupid enough to try.
Still, no one followed. The man at the driveway didn’t even look up.
The road stretched ahead of her. It sloped downhill, curving gently out of sight. On the opposite side, a forest stood dense and dark, conifers packed close together like they were conspiring. The uphil looked barely used, marked only by a few tire tracks already fading under fresh snow.
Only two cars passed. Both times, she stiffened, heart screaming, convinced Yoongi would step out and drag her back with that calm smile. Neither even slowed. Worse, they seemed to accelerate once they noticed her standing there alone.
Far below, tucked into the valley, the town sat quietly. Roofs dusted white, smoke lifting lazily from chimneys. Close enough to see. Far enough to feel untouchable.
Maybe she could make it before evening.
Y/N kept walking, hands buried deep in her pockets. Each step carried her farther from the gate. Farther from the house. And closer to the questions she’d been avoiding.
What would she do if she reached town?
She had no money. No phone. No idea where she was. No documents. No proof. No bruises that told a clean, convincing story. The police wouldn’t believe her. Not when everything looked so… reasonable. They would listen, nod, exchange glances. They would look at her the way Dr. Shin had.
Her pace slowed.
Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe Yoongi really was trying to help. Protect her. Help Taeki. The loan sharks were gone. Taeki’s debts erased. On paper, everything looked solved.
Maybe it had just… gone wrong.
Why had she even let that thought in? Why did that thought feel so tempting? She had been kidnapped. Sold. Reduced to a solution that fit neatly into someone else’s life.
The cold sank deeper into her bones, joints screeching. Snow soaked through her shoes, each step squeezing icy water from the soles. Her breath fogged thick in front of her, each exhale shorter than the last.
The gate wasn’t there to stop her. It was there to prove how pointless leaving was.
If she kept going, she’d freeze to death.
Or beg.
Or be returned gently, officially, with paperwork, sympathy and a diagnosis.
She pictured it too clearly. Standing in town, shivering, pockets empty. Explaining and explaining, words tumbling over each other, desperate to sound coherent. Watching phones get picked up. Names spoken.
Her throat closed.
If she stayed, she’d be safe. Fed. Warm. Protected.
Touched.
Y/N wrapped her arms around herself, the fabric of her jacket squeaking. She stood there until her knees locked.
Until the cold turned her feet into stupid, distant objects.
Until the thought of explaining herself to strangers felt more violent than anything Yoongi had done so far.
Until she hated herself so thoroughly that going back felt like mercy.
Water pooled beneath her shoes as she stepped inside, ice melting onto the wooden floor in dark patches. She slipped her boots off and left by the door like evidence of her failed escape. When she turned around, she flinched, pulse jumping—the housekeeper was behind her again.
“Miss, you're back.” The woman said, already reaching to help her out of her damp jacket. “You’re shaking.”
Y/N opened her mouth. When—? How—? The questions hovered, but she swallowed them down.
“Yeah,” she managed instead. “Thank you.”
The woman nodded, hanging the coat in the wardrobe, satisfied, as if Y/N had answered the right question.
“I prepared a warm bath for you,” she added. “It’ll help.”
Help what? Y/N wondered. The cold? The walk? The thinking?
Her steps felt heavy on the stairs, each one landing with a dull thud that echoed too loudly in the quiet house. In the bedroom, she paused long enough to glance at the clock. She’d been gone for over an hour. An hour of walking in circles. Of starting and stopping. Of standing at the edge of freedom long enough to feel foolish before turning back.
The bathroom was warmer than the rest of the house. The tub waited, already filled, steaming. The water faintly clouded with milk, still hot when she tested it with her fingers. Delicate yellow-white flowers floated across the surface, scattering like freckles, drifting apart and coming together again with the smallest movements. Her clothes peeled off slowly, fabric heavy and icy against her skin. She climbed into the bath carefully, one leg at a time, until the water rose around her hips, her stomach, her chest. She exhaled. Heat melted her from the inside out. Loosening things she hadn't known she’d been holding so tight. Shoulders dropped. Fingers unclenched. Stomach relaxed. Her head tipped back against the smooth edge of the tub. For a moment, there was nothing but warmth and quiet.
They knew she’d come back.
Not guessed. Not hoped. Expected.
The flowers drifted lazily around her, brushing her skin when she moved. The water stayed hot. Perfectly so. Like it had been waiting for her to stop pretending she wouldn’t return.
She sank deeper until the water kissed her chin.
A thin layer of body oil hugged her skin, leaving it soft and radiant. She should have felt calm. Instead, without him nearby, her anxiety climbed, restless and hungry. Waiting made her chew at her nails until her fingers bled.
She hated the mansion and what it did to her. She hated being alone even more.
Was Yoongi with Taeki now? Was Taeki even alive? Had Yoongi kept his promise? Or was it only ever meant to sound convincing? Something said to keep her obedient, pliable, grateful?
She told herself she let him touch her because it saved Taeki. Because this was the price. Because there had never really been a choice. At least not for her. As if her hips hadn’t tilted toward his mouth on instinct. As if her body hadn’t chased his attention faster than her mind could object.
Y/N expected cruelty. To wake up tied up naked and gagged in a moist basement. To be broken slowly, methodically, until there was nothing left in her to resist. Instead, she was treated like something fragile. Like a flower that bruised easily and required constant care. Watered. Watched. Never left unattended.
Yoongi hadn’t touched her since that night. Not like that. And still, she caught herself appreciating the occasional weight of his hand on her back. The low vibration of his voice against her ear. His lips lingering where they shouldn’t have. Being cared for felt good. Being loved felt even better.
The cage was too warm for what it was.
Later, she wandered around the mansion without purpose. Bathroom after bathroom. Guest room after guest room. Everything stripped of personality, cleaned into emptiness. She opened doors, looked inside, and closed them again with a quiet sigh. Empty. So many of those rooms were empty. What was the point of building a house this large just to let it echo?
She nearly passed the last door at the end of the corridor. Something tugged at her. Not curiosity, but instinct. The kind that makes your body pause before your mind understands why.
The handle didn’t move when she tried it. For a moment, she felt relieved. Then annoyed. Then unsettled by how much she wanted it open. She braced her shoulder against the wood and pushed harder. The metal resisted, then finally gave with a reluctant jerk.
This room was different.
The walls were white. A color she hadn’t seen anywhere else in the house, not even a bath towel. The air smelled of dust and old drying paint. Light poured through one massive window, falling across the floor in a sharp grid.
She closed the door behind her quietly, heart thudding like she’d done something wrong just by crossing the threshold.
A wooden bookshelf stood against one wall, packed tightly with books. A green lounge couch beside it, the fabric worn in the place where someone’s body had returned to again and again. Near the window, something large and rectangular rested beneath a gray cloth. More shapes along the wall, all hidden the same way.
Her hand trembled as she reached for the fabric. It was fuzzy with dust. She hesitated, fingers hovering, a strange guilt crawling up her spine. The cloth slid slowly, whispering as it fell away.
An easel.
And an oil painting.
Two lilies bloomed at its center. Pale and luminous. Petals catching a harsh light from above, surrounded by absolute darkness, flowers emerging from nothing. The contrast between light and dark was dramatic. Extremely detailed. The veins in the petals were mapped with the kind of care that hurt to look at. Someone had counted every ridge. Memorized the way one bloom curled protectively over another.
It wasn’t amateur. It wasn’t even hobbyist. This wasn’t talent.
It was obsessive. The kind of painting that took hours of staring. Of longing. Of wanting.
Something about it made her skin prickle in a way she couldn’t name.
Under the largest lily, nearly lost in black paint, there was a faint signature. Something delicate and unreadable. Dated three years ago.
She uncovered the rest. A small rolling table with a glass palette. Paint hardened like cracked skin. Brushes stiff with dried color. A drawing desk cluttered with sketches.
Flowers.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Lilies. Roses. Peonies. The same shapes repeated from different angles. Some blooming. Some rotting. They were the same flowers she’d seen in the garden. It wasn’t practice. It was prayer. Or punishment.
The bookshelf pulled her next. Romance novels. Self-therapy. Trauma recovery. Psychology. She pulled a random one and flipped through it absently, eyes skimming words without absorbing them.
A line near the center of the book stopped her.
This cycle will never end.
Handwritten in indigo ink, pressed hard enough to scar the page, bleeding slightly at the edges.
Outside, an engine growled.
Her fingers went cold. She slid the book back exactly as she found it, aligning the edges with military precision, the way Yoongi did. She moved fast now, not carefully. Urgent. She smoothed the cloths back over furniture. Pulling the gray fabric until the room erased itself again.
By the time she reached the stairs, Yoongi was already there, shrugging out of his long coat. The sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his forearms, as if he’d never quite finished leaving work behind.
“Hey.” He looked up and smiled. “You’re up.”
She nodded, fingers brushing the banister. “The housekeeper said you’d be back before dinner.”
A breathy laugh left him. He stepped closer, blocking her path without meaning to. Or maybe very much meaning to.
“I try to keep my promises.” His hand rose, knuckles grazing her cheek. “Did you eat?” he asked.
”Not yet.”
“Good.” He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, as if arranging her. “Let’s have dinner.”
With a hand resting on her back, Yoongi guided her inside the dining room. The table was already set. Gleaming under the glass chandelier. Every surface polished to a sterile shine. A single candle flickering at the center. Two plates sat opposite each other, pasta arranged with obsessive symmetry, green sauce spiraled. The wine glasses filled to a precise line. Not too much. Not too little.
Yoongi pulled out her chair. Waited until she sat before taking his own.
”How was your day?” he asked, wine already halfway to his lips.
“It was…good.” Her shoulders stiffened as she spoke. “I went outside. Walked around the house.”
His hand paused. Barely. Then the glass lowered and met the table with a soft click.
“I found a lot of empty rooms,” she added when he didn’t respond.
“Did you?” His tone stayed even. Almost bored. He twirled pasta around his fork, tangling the strands methodically. Holding the fork between his thumb and index finger.
“It’s a big house.”
He hummed. “It is.”
She watched his face closely. Nothing shifted. No flicker of alarm. No tension. Nothing.
“There’s a room at the end of the east corridor,” she pushed, biting the inside of her cheek. “It was locked.”
This time, he set his utensils down, completely pausing mid-meal.
”As it should be.”
“Why?”
He folded his napkin once. Then again. Smoothed the crease with his thumb.
“Some rooms are closed for a reason.”
His jaw finally sharpened, the vein under his jaw tensing. She imagined the air coming out of his nose in heavy, controlled bursts.
Her brows furrowed. “That’s not really an answer.”
A faint smile grew on his lips. “It is,” he said. “Just not one you’ll like.”
“What are you hiding in there?” She forced a dry laugh. “Something dangerous? A corpse?”
“You could call it that.”
She scoffed, arms crossing over her chest as she leaned back in her seat. “It’s just a room.”
“For you,” he corrected. “It should stay that way.”
The candle popped between them. Y/N stared at him, confusion tightening into dread. Why was he so defensive? It was only flowers. Not a torture room. Not weapons. Not chains. Not blood. Nothing worth hiding.
“Did you go inside?” he asked quietly when he picked up his fork once again.
Her throat tightened, heat crawling up to her cheeks.
“No.”
“Good.”
Her appetite was gone now, replaced with a new kind of tension in her stomach.
“You said I could explore the house,” she muttered as she played with pasta with her fork. “ You didn’t mention rooms I wasn’t allowed to enter.”
Yoongi exhaled slowly, sinking lower in his seat. “You’re right,” he admitted. “I forgot about it. That’s my fault.” He dragged a hand down his face, smoothing the tension away. “I should’ve been clearer.”
He leaned forward and reached across the table, closing her hand in his. His thumb traced slow circles on her skin, careful as if she might shatter if he pressed too hard.
“We’ll talk about it another time,” he said gently. “Finish your dinner.”
Y/N stared at their joined hands like they belonged to someone else. She couldn’t feel the heat or the pressure of his fingers.
She forced herself to eat. Twirled pasta. Lifted it. Chewed. Swallowed. Then repeated it, though the food started to feel like stones in her throat.
Yoongi didn’t push. He didn’t scold her for the half-full plate. Only watched her with that trained patience. He sipped his wine slowly, like the bitterness was something to savor instead of tolerate.
“You’re quiet.” He tilted his head.
“You told me to.“ she replied stiffly. “And I’m eating.”
His mouth twitched, amused. “I can see that.”
A heavy exhale fell from her lips. “What did you do today? “ she asked, trying to sound normal, like this was a dinner between lovers instead of… whatever nightmare arrangement this was.
“I dealt with some things.”
Of course. Skipping neatly over the subject.
“What things?” she pressed.
Yoongi’s eyes met hers. The shadows beneath them looked darker tonight. “Things that needed to be dealt with. “
Y/N huffed a short laugh that didn’t carry ny humor. “You talk like an edgy movie villain.”
His smile deepened slightly, “Do I?”
“Yeah.”
He leaned back in his chair, spine straightened, one arm resting lightly on the back of the chair next to him. “Then I should probably start giving longer speeches. Something about destiny and traumatic childhood. Maybe a monologue with thunder outside.“
She didn’t smile. Yoongi’s amusement faded once he realized she wasn’t playing.
“I walked outside.” she confessed. “walked past the gate.”
“And?”
Her fingers curled around her fork so tightly she felt the metal bend. “And nothing. I walked. I looked. And came back.“
She waited for his expression to change to rage. For the mask to crack. For punishment. For proof that he was a monster.
“Why did you come back?”
Her lips parted. For a second, she couldn’t speak. Because what answer could she give that didn’t humiliate her?
Because I’m scared.
Because I don’t know what to do once I get there.
Because even the idea of freedom makes me sick.
Because being safe in your cage feels better than freezing outside of it.
So she said, “It was cold.”
Yoongi nodded once with a hum. “It’s dangerous to walk out there without gloves. Or proper boots.”
Like she’d simply made a bad weather decision.
“You’re not going to… punish me?” Y/N asked carefully.
Yoongi blinked. Then he laughed, quiet and breathy.
“Punish you? “
“Yes!” she snapped. “Like this isn’t insane? Like you didn’t kidnap me? “
He leaned forward slightly, eyes heavy-lidded. “Did you want me to punish you?”
annaxmalina
2087
gummygunk
theartofmadeline
origamiaround
discoholicmusic
dededos
dailybridgerton