MY MAD DOG (ALL MINE).
yandere male oc x male reader
mob boss x guard dog reader
— chapter one.
to start things off, it’s been like three months since I posted the prologue and I have no way to defend my actions. I simply forgot. like the story kept running through my head all day and night, and I did write; the later parts of the story, lol. i really didn’t want to write the starting parts. i was just lazy, nothing else.
warnings: illarion, illarion’s dad, Y/N, mentions of blackmail and violence. nothing much, really. tame compared to what I’ve planned.
previous chapter - prologue
next chapter - chapter two.
series master list - my mad dog (all mine)
Y/N arrived like a storm—unwelcome, unasked for, and impossible to ignore.
He did not come with a wagging tail or soft eyes full of devotion. He was not the obedient, noble creature Ilarion had longed for, the one he had begged his father to give him. No, Y/N was something else entirely. A stray, all sharp edges and untamed wildness, the kind of animal that bit the hand that tried to feed it.
But he was Ilarion’s now. That much was clear.
At first, they danced around each other like two creatures who did not yet know if they were predator or prey. Ilarion, raised in silk and shadow, did not know what to do with this boy who walked into their mansion with his hands in his pockets and a scowl carved deep into his face. Y/N was nothing like the children Ilarion had grown up with—those glass-fragile boys in ironed uniforms who spoke softly and moved like ghosts, always careful, always cautious, as if the wrong step might shatter them into pieces.
Y/N was fire where they were mist, solid where they were air.
And at school, he was a disaster (his father had enrolled Y/N into his school soon after their next meeting).
He never sat up straight in class. He never raised his hand or took notes. The teachers despised him for his indifference, for the way he lounged in his seat like he had better places to be. The students feared him, though they never said it aloud. He did not belong in their world of wealth and whispered politics, where power was measured in quiet cruelty and the sharp cut of words. No, Y/N fought with his fists, with blood on his knuckles and a scowl on his lips.
And yet, he never strayed far from Ilarion.
At first, Ilarion did not question it. He did not acknowledge the way Y/N’s presence had become something of a constant, like the low hum of an approaching storm. He did not ask why Y/N always seemed to be near, lingering just close enough to catch the words others whispered behind Ilarion’s back—the jealousy, the envy, the resentment.
He did not ask why those whispers always stopped so suddenly, why the boys who spoke too loudly found themselves with bruised jaws and swollen lips.
He did not ask, because he already knew.
And he never told Y/N to stop.
By the time they were thirteen, an unspoken understanding had settled between them: Ilarion was the golden boy, the untouchable heir to a legacy written in blood and empire, while Y/N was his shadow, the mad dog at his heels.
It was inevitable, then, that when Ilarion spoke, Y/N listened.
And when Ilarion needed something done, Y/N was the one who did it.
Time did not soften Y/N. If anything, it sharpened him.
By sixteen, he had become something fierce, something untamed. He was taller now, broader, his face no longer round with childhood but carved with something sharper, something crueler. The fire in his eyes had not dulled, but it had learned patience. His rage no longer burned bright and reckless—it simmered, waiting, coiled beneath his skin like a beast ready to strike.
He was still the same boy, the same stray Ilarion had been given all those years ago. But now, he was something else too. Something dangerous.
And Ilarion—perfect, golden, untouchable Ilarion—had grown into the role his father had carved for him. He was flawless, the kind of boy people whispered about in admiration and envy alike. He had the world at his feet, the teachers singing his praises, the students bending beneath his presence. He was the sun around which their little kingdom revolved, and he played the part beautifully.
But the sun has shadows, and Ilarion’s shadow had a name.
Y/N.
The school called him a delinquent, a lost cause. He skipped classes, smoked behind the gym, walked into rooms like he owned them and stared down teachers like they were beneath him. He broke rules like they were made for him, and he did not care.
Or rather, he only cared when Ilarion did.
“I swear to God, Y/N,” Ilarion muttered one afternoon, arms crossed as he leaned against the old brick wall behind the school, where they always met when no one else was watching. “Could you at least pretend to be a functioning member of society?”
Y/N, perched on the ledge with a cigarette dangling lazily from his lips, barely spared him a glance. “And why the fuck would I do that?”
Ilarion scoffed, his irritation as sharp as the autumn wind. “Because you look like a damn criminal.”
“I am a damn criminal,” Y/N shot back. “Your criminal.”
Ilarion exhaled, long and slow, tilting his head back to look at the sky. He hated that Y/N was right. Hated that, despite his exasperation, despite the lectures and the sighs and the sharp-edged glares, he still found himself here. Still found himself asking.
Because there were always people who needed to be put in their place.
Boys who thought power came from their fathers’ wallets. Men who thought they could speak without consequence. People who thought that just because Ilarion wore his power with silk and smiles, he would not use it.
Ilarion never laid a hand on them himself. He didn’t have to.
Not when he had Y/N.
And Y/N—his mad dog, his stray, his shadow—never needed to be told twice.
“You’re impossible,” Ilarion muttered, shaking his head.
Y/N exhaled smoke into the air, grinning. “And yet, you keep me around.”
And Ilarion, despite himself, did not argue.
The afternoon sun filtered through the academy’s courtyard, golden and soft, casting long shadows against the pristine marble floors. It was a quiet hour—one where only the desperate or the foolish found themselves loitering with trembling hands and fragile hopes.
Ilarion had not been searching for anything. He had been making his way toward the student council room, mind preoccupied with the endless obligations of a golden boy, when he saw it.
A girl.
Standing before his dog.
She was pretty, delicate in the way all high-society daughters were raised to be, with neatly pressed ribbons in her hair and the scent of expensive roses lingering in her wake. The picture of polished elegance. And yet, there was something almost pitiful about the way she stood there—wringing her hands, voice unsteady as she whispered the words.
“I like you, Y/N. Please go out with me.”
Ilarion stopped.
Y/N stood before her, detached and distant, the very image of disinterest. His uniform was, as always, a mess—tie loose, shirt half-untucked, a cigarette tucked behind his ear like an afterthought. He had not bothered to meet her eyes, his gaze instead fixed somewhere past her, as if she were nothing more than background noise, a dull murmur in a world he had long since stopped caring for.
Ilarion knew that look.
Knew it because Y/N never looked at him that way.
The girl swallowed, gathering what little courage she had left. “Y/N?”
Silence stretched.
And then—finally—Y/N tilted his head, as if acknowledging her presence for the first time.
“You like me?” he echoed, voice flat.
The girl nodded quickly, a spark of hope igniting in her gaze.
Y/N exhaled sharply through his nose, something close to amusement but far colder. “What is it that you like, exactly?”
The girl hesitated. “I—I think you’re… cool.”
A pause.
Then, slow, deliberate, Y/N smirked.
It was not a kind expression.
“You ever wonder why I don’t have a girlfriend?” he asked, voice dripping with something unreadable.
The girl stiffened. “…No?”
Y/N yawned, stretching lazily. “It’s because I get bored easily.”
The spark of hope in her eyes flickered.
Ilarion, still watching from the shadows, clenched his jaw.
“I might still say yes, though,” Y/N added, tone mocking. “Could be entertaining for a little while.”
Ilarion turned on his heel and walked away before he could hear the rest.
He found her in the library.
She was seated by the window, absentmindedly flipping through a book she clearly wasn’t reading. Her expression was distant, her mind likely still lingering on the conversation from earlier.
Ilarion did not bother with pleasantries.
“You will stay away from him.”
The girl startled, looking up at him with wide, doe-like eyes. “What?”
Ilarion stepped closer, looming over her. His expression remained polite, refined—unshakable—but there was an undeniable edge beneath it.
“Y/N,” he said, as if explaining something very simple to a very slow child. “You will stay away from him.”
She blinked, confusion flashing across her face before something like realization took root.
“I—I’m not trying to—”
“You don’t understand,” Ilarion cut in smoothly, tone unwavering. “He is not what you think he is.”
Her lips parted, a protest half-formed, but Ilarion did not let her speak.
“You think you want him,” he continued, voice calm, “but you don’t. He isn’t kind. He isn’t gentle. He will not love you, nor will he pretend to. He is cold, detached, and endlessly cruel when he grows tired of things.”
The girl paled.
“He would ruin you,” Ilarion said, smiling faintly. “And he wouldn’t even care.”
A beat of silence.
Then—quiet, barely above a whisper—she asked, “Then why do you want him?”
Ilarion stilled.
The question was simple. Innocuous, even. And yet, it lodged itself into his throat like a blade, sharp and unrelenting.
Because Y/N was his.
Because Y/N listened to him.
Because Y/N—who cared for nothing, who met the world with disinterest and apathy—only ever looked at him.
Ilarion exhaled slowly.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Leave him alone.”
The girl said nothing.
She did not need to.
By the next morning, the girl was gone.
Oh, she was still at school, still walking the halls with her pristine uniform and perfectly tied ribbon. But she no longer looked Y/N’s way.
No more stolen glances. No more waiting outside his classroom. No more confessions in the courtyard.
Y/N noticed. Of course he did.
He caught Ilarion’s eye across the cafeteria, something unreadable flickering across his face.
Then, ever so slowly, he smirked.
And Ilarion—golden, untouchable, innocent Ilarion—simply picked up his fork and took another bite of his meal.
Y/N was smoking behind the school when Ilarion found him.
The sky was overcast, the air thick with the scent of rain and tobacco. Y/N was seated on the ledge, one leg hanging lazily over the side, the other bent at the knee. His blazer was discarded beside him, and his cigarette burned low between his fingers.
Ilarion did not say anything as he approached.
Y/N exhaled a slow curl of smoke before flicking the cigarette away. “That was fast.”
Ilarion’s brows furrowed. “What?”
Y/N turned his head slightly, gaze sharp, unreadable. “The girl.”
Ilarion froze.
“She’s scared of me now,” Y/N mused, tilting his head. “She wasn’t, before.”
Ilarion’s jaw tensed.
“Did you do something?” Y/N asked, voice void of curiosity.
Ilarion scoffed. “I should be asking you that.”
Y/N smirked. “I didn’t do anything.”
A pause.
Then—slowly, deliberately—Y/N turned to fully face him, expression unreadable.
“But you did.”
Ilarion said nothing.
Y/N exhaled sharply through his nose, something almost resembling amusement flickering across his face. “You’re ridiculous.”
Ilarion scowled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t,” Y/N muttered, standing. He stepped closer, movements slow and deliberate, the scent of smoke and something faintly metallic clinging to his skin.
Ilarion held his ground.
Y/N’s gaze flickered over him, detached but keen, like he was seeing something Ilarion had yet to recognize.
Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.
Ilarion exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
That evening, Ilarion sat in his father’s study, the scent of aged whiskey and old books lingering in the air.
Across from him, Rylan stood beside Y/N, his expression a mixture of irritation and exhaustion.
“I hear you’ve been getting into fights,” Ilarion’s father murmured, swirling his glass.
Y/N did not react. He merely sat there, blank-eyed and silent, detached from the world in a way that made it impossible to tell if he even heard the words.
Y/N’s mouth curled in an unflattering way. “You say that like it’s a problem.”
Rylan sighed, rubbing his temples. “He doesn’t listen.”
“I never do,” Y/N agreed.
His father exhaled, long-suffering. “And you,” he said, glancing at Ilarion. “You’re supposed to keep him in line.”
Ilarion met his gaze, expression impassive. “I don’t control him.”
“No,” his father mused. “But he listens to you.”
Y/N finally moved, tilting his head slightly, gaze flickering toward Ilarion.
The room was silent.
Then—quiet, unbothered—Y/N said, “Only when I feel like it.”
Ilarion’s father sighed.
Rylan pinched the bridge of his nose.
And Ilarion—who had spent his entire life untouched by want—realized, with a slow, sinking certainty, that he was no longer as immune to desire as he once thought.
unedited. unrevised. y’all get it raw and fresh. just finished writing. posted it as soon as I was done, really. took more time to add the pics and align everything and paragraph everything really. anyways, here’s chapter one.
i feel like the next chapter will actually start picking up the pace. i just wanted to set the scene a bit and like just cause. anywhore, stan illarion for better skin (even if he’s a lil shit).
also recommend some names for illarion’s dad 🧍🏽♀️