#mafia x reader

[ghostiewritings]

I Need You Pt.3

Yandere Mafia OC x Fem!Reader

⚠︎ Warning: Not proofread, stalking, possessive behavior, slightly suggestive ⚠︎

Word Count: 1K

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

ding

The sound of your phone wakes you. You grab it from your nightstand and look at the time displayed on the bright screen. 2:00 AM. Who would be messaging you at this hour?

You unlock your phone and open your messaging app to see that an unknown number has messaged you.

Hello.

That's all it says. Do you know this person? Did one of your friends change their number? You quickly type out a message.

Who is this?

A message comes back almost instantly.

The guy from the bar. You know, the really handsome one.

Wow this guy had an ego. You don't even have an idea on who he could be considering there's a lot of "handsome" people that come into the bar every night.

I don't know what you're talking about

Really? I thought I had made an impression on you after I'd spent the whole night ordering drinks from you.

Oh. It's that guy. The guy that would only buy a drink if you were the one making it. The guy that was calling you sweetheart all night.

How'd you get my number?

So now you remember. Your manager gave it to me, sweetheart.

He did? Why would Max give out your number to some stranger? That didn't make sense, in the short time you'd known him Max had always been strong on the safety of his employees.

And why would he do that?

Maybe because I own the damn bar.

Wait. That guy was the owner? The guy that couldn't stop ogling you all night. The way Max had described him made him sound like a sleaze. So either he wasn't at all how Max described him or he wanted you to be his next hookup. Was that even allowed? Even if he's rarely around isn't he technically your boss?

From the way Max described you I thought you'd be different

How so?

Older

But you look like you're around my age

And exactly how old are you, sweetheart?

Twenty Five

I'm not that much older. I'm thirty two.

Are you gonna tell me why you're messaging me?

This time there was no immediate response. He started typing, then stopped, then started, then stopped again. This lasted for a couple minutes until he finally sent a message.

You interest me.

All that time spent for just three words. Pushing down your slight annoyance you typed back.

Why?

And that was it. He didn't text you for the rest of the night, leaving you to dwell on the strange interaction.

────﹒♡﹒────

It's been a week. A whole week since that night at the bar and Matteo hasn't stepped foot in it since. He wouldn't say he's nervous to see you again, a man like him doesn't get nervous. His interaction with you over text had gone okay, but you didn't seem particularly fond of him. Usually getting girls was easy for him, a few flirtatious lines, maybe some lingering touches, he'd have them in his bed within the hour.

That was the problem. He didn't want this to just be a one and done kind of thing. He wanted to have you, all of you. He wanted you to be his and for him to be yours. He didn't know how to make someone fall for him.

So he went to the only person he knew could help him. Max. He'd been in a long time relationship with his girlfriend for a few years now. Matteo figured he'd be able to help him with his predicament. So now he's sitting in his office with Max across from him. He looks terrified, he probably thinks he's going to get killed or something.

"Y-You said you wanted to talk to me about something...?" Max's voice slightly wavered, but he tried to keep it steady.

"Yes. I need help." Matteo said, calm as ever.

Max straightened, Matteo never asked for help from anyone. He was the kind of man that wanted to do things himself.

"Help with what, sir?" he asked, all traces of fear gone now.

"I want to make Y/N fall in love with me. How do I do that?"

"Y/N? The same Y/N that works at the bar?" Max looks utterly confused now

"Is that a problem?" Matteo asks, his tone now sharp.

"No no! Of course not! I'll help you!"

"Good choice."

────﹒♡﹒────

Lately you can't help the feeling that you're being watched. It started out small. Just that icky feeling that you get when you feel someone's eyes on you, but then you'd turn around and no one would be there. Sometimes you'd be walking alone and hear footsteps behind you, but when you'd turn there would again be no one behind you.

Today though? You're pretty sure the car behind you is following you. It's been at it for the past 15 minutes. Trailing behind you slowly when you know damn well they're going way below the speed limit.

Your thoughts drift back to the bar owner. Could this be his car? Is he stalking you? No, don't be ridiculous, he doesn't even know where you live. Besides, he hasn't stepped foot in the bar for weeks and he hasn't texted you since the first night.

Finally, you make it to your apartment complex. When you step inside you turn to see if the car is parked outside or if the people driving stepped out to continue following you. You turn to look and just like every other time no one is there.

You make your way into the elevator and step out when you reach your floor. You're about to start digging through your purse for your keys when you spot something in front of your door.

A large bouquet of roses already in a vase with a fluffy teddy bear right next to them. On top of the bouquet you see a red envelope with your name written on it. You pick it up and tear it open to reveal a card. When you open it you're met with just a few words.

"For my Sweetheart ♡"

A/N: Really enjoyed writing this part! Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist for this series!

[tinkerleaf]

i could just go on and on about this one, don't even get me started. cw: mention of blood, weapons, typical mafia stuff

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨ ♱ ୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Mafia!Boyfriend who keeps his line of work far out of your reach, though he knows that won't keep you safe on its own. He constantly keeps you within his or his men's line of sight, primarily in public settings. He keeps a firm hand your lower back or waist when he walks with you in larger crowds to not only to soothe you in the midst of chaos, but to hold you close to him.

Mafia!Boyfriend who doesn't have too many rules for you, except for two major ones. Never lie to him, and never leave without him or one of his guards with you. He doesn't typically care where you go, he trusts you completely. However, he knows how scary the city can be, and needs you to understand that. He's a little traumatized, so it's only natural.

On a brighter note, you've become close friends with your guards. it's like having a small unit of armed besties.

Mafia!Boyfriend who can just be so paranoid sometimes. You ran into the wall earlier and have a bruise on your arm? Definitely questions you about it. Your location pinged a little too close to the hospital? Expect a quick phone call, just to be sure. He doesn't see himself as overbearing and he wouldn't care if you see it that way. He's does what he believes is best for you (with actually good intentions).

Mafia!Boyfriend who teaches you how to properly use a gun, but doesn't ever give you one or allow you anywhere near his own weapons. He flinches when you find one of his good knives and you taunt him by just barely poking the tip. What you don't expect is just how sharp it really is and draw a little blood, and that pisses him off. He punishes you by pouring rubbing alcohol on the tiny wound, which you squeal from. Afterward he might give you another lecture on not touching his stuff.

Mafia!Boyfriend who is absolutely enamored by you. He calls you things like, "darling", "sweetheart", etc. He doesn't allow you to speak ill of yourself, and will call you out on it. If someone even dares to be rude to you, they will be dealt with accordingly. Someone once made a snarky remark about how you made him "weak", but couldn't even finish the sentence before the barrel of his gun was pressed against their temple. It was just a warning, but he never had any issues after the incident.

A dangerous man and a heavy emotion like love is not a healthy mix, but he can't live without you. He will do whatever it takes to keep you in his life, whatever the cost may be.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨ ♱ ୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

[namseoksarmy7]

Channel 707

paring: stalker!mafia san x reader ft. Jungkook

word count- 1.7K

smut -_- and not proofread on the last half because I want to post!

prompt: San was the sexy powerful mafia. He often ordered coffee from the cafe you worked out and you made it to the best quality. Late at night, he would wind down, relax and turn on his large screened tv to watch his favorite channel…his favorite channel being no other than you. genre: dark romance, smut, very creepy, horror, mafia au, stalker

content: 18+ content (mdni), stalking, difference in power, masturbation, very dirty smut… pathetic! San, Stalker! San, Mafia! San, Creepy! San, perverted, ect. low-key female worker but also both can work ngl

a/n: hi my loves! I really want to do part 2s for all of my previous fanfics that yall have been asking for…but I have so much better fanfics on the way that I can’t forget! I will complete all of the other fanfics I have in the way and then I will write added parts for my other fanfics which you guys seemed to love, okay? please enjoy this and thank you for reading💕

Listening to -> Sour Switchblade, Coquette Habit, Streets

Choi San has always been one of the extremely powerful and elite mafias in all of Busan City. To the public, he kept his identity under wraps for the most part, but if somebody were to meet him for the first time, they would feel his commanding and icy presence.

His sharp looks certainly gave his already deadly aura a boost. Carefully groomed jet black hair, siren umber brown eyes, masculine jaw that people would kill to have, and soft heart shaped lips that contrasted from everything else.

If someone recognized him, they would show their respect by bowing deeply and quickly getting out of harm's way. They certainly did not want to get on his bad side, nor be on his mind at all, because everybody knew that once the Choi San was fixated on you, you had a bigger problem.

Unfortunately, you seemed to be one of those unlucky people. Probably the only unlucky person if anything. Maybe it was all in your head, but you could have sworn San would always show up at Chimmy’s Café only on the days when you worked there. Why would the powerful mafia boss show up to a simple Café every Mondays and Wednesdays? Was he actually fixated on a simple Café shop worker like yourself? Were you fucked over?

His voice was always low and deep whenever he spoke. It was almost impossible to hear what he was even ordering, but luckily, San would always order the same thing. Black Coffee, no sugar, and a pink cake pop. He would dress in a black huddie and sweats. Simple. Not too obvious on his status.

His stare was cold and calculating, as if his dark sharp eyes were constantly trying to read your mind and find the intentions of your soul. It was very unsettling and stalker-ish. The worst part was, you felt those eyes almost every time you stepped outside of your apartment. At least you felt safe inside the comfort of your home. Felt.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

“Room 707! Open up for drug inspection!” Called out a deep male voice from behind your front apartment door. Drug inspection? What made anyone think that there were drugs in your apartment? Whatever. The best choice is to let them in and show that they’re no drugs in your home.

You jogged over to your front door and nervously opened the door with shaky hands so that the man, whom you assumed to be a government official of some sort, could check your apartment for drugs. Lucky for you, you didn’t have any. You were never the type to take drugs, you didn’t really have time for those.

As you opened the door, you were met with the sight of a tall man, dark shaggy hair and a serious look on his pretty face.

“My name is Mr. Jeon and I will be searching your apartment. There has been a report made specifically for apartment room 707. I am assuming that is you.”

You didn’t want to seem suspicious as he checked your apartment, so you decided to remain in the kitchen and make yourself some tea, playing causal while giving Mr. Jeon space. You certainly did not have any drugs, but you definitely did not want to make him think otherwise.

The strange government official decided to search your room first, but since if you had drugs it would most likely be kept there, you didn’t question him much and you didn’t bother to see what he was doing.

That was a big mistake.

Ever since that strange and sudden day, Choi San was able to watch you every night. Of course, he has always watched you. In fact, San has seen you walk to work every monday and every wednesday, has seen you clock in at the cafe, and has seen you take the bus after 5 back to your apartment. But now with the cameras added, he could finally watch you properly as you lay in your room, vulnerable and alone.

He was grateful to have the privilege, power and connections that he did to be able to install cameras into your room. It was a new source of entertainment and thrill he got from just watching you, but from a more personal view. San seemed to never get bored and never missed a day with looking at your room through the cameras.

After long days of working in the mafia, when he’d get home he’d turn on his tv and open the camera app to you, observing you fully on his big screen. This would happen obsessively for weeks until two months passed.

——

Sunday.

It was routinely for him to watch you every night, but this night seemed to be different for you. You struggled to sleep this night for whatever reason and decided to do something about it. Your hands trailed lower and lower into the night until they met your core. You whimpered at the sensation and laid further back onto your bed. Though it was late, San was still observing, and he sat closer on his bed to get a closer look. Today seemed to be his lucky day. Or night.

He watched in awe as your hands moved. He couldn’t see much from the side angle of the camera, but luckily there was a microphone installed, so he could hear every moan, every whimper, every pant and every breath.

Suddenly, a wave of heated rage came over him. Why wasn’t he touching you like that? Why couldn't he be the one that made you moan and shake? He couldn’t help his reaction to the sound though. His body tensed, and his pants grew tight, warm n wet.

"Ah Fuck!" You moaned out to yourself behind the cameras. San's hips roughly jerked forward as he couldnt control his dick from reacting to your sounds. Goodness, what was he going to do?

Then he realized he could just pretend it was him in you the entire time. Not a bad idea since that was the closest he would get to actually fucking you, putting in all the pent-up desire that he has been holding back for weeks into your beautiful body. Well for now at least...

San scooted closer to his television and continued to watch your hand move with efficiency. His own rough, large hands frantically unzipped his pants before pulling his wet hard cock out with a guttural moan.

"Mmmh yes..." He whimpered before teasing his own cock to you in slow strokes. He was truly savoring the moment. It was not everyday he watched you through the cameras (lie) and saw you masturbating. San wished his nights after work were always like this. Watching you desperately touch yourself behind the cameras, not knowing he was there the whole time.

"Ahhm~" You whined as you suddenly squirted, spill making a mess all over your clean bedsheets. His strokes desperately quickened at the sight. "Mmm I bet that pussy is so tight..." He groaned to himself.

Even though what he was doing was sick, perverted and illegal, it felt so good, and he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes, but he couldn't close his eyes with having the privilege to see you like this. All vulnerable and spent after touching yourself. He wondered if you were thinking of him the way he was thinking of you.

"Fuck fuck..." He cried pathetically. His orgasm soon followed as his fluids spilled onto his hand, thick and warm. You would think that he would have stopped there, but he only kept going, eyes rolling back as the image of you twitching and whimpering after squirting in your bed replayed in his mind over and over again. Its like he couldn't stop thinking about it, wouldn't stop wanting to feel you wrapped around him, couldn't stop wanting you for himself to use as he pleased.

After that night, he knew he needed you, and he was going to find a way to get you.

Monday Morning.

You walked into Chimmy's Cafe and quickly went to the bathroom to change into your work attire. Usually, which didn't happen often, you felt refreshed after you masturbated. It was a time when you could relax and explore your body without any distractions. Strangely, last night you didn't feel alone during the moment you usually had alone. Was it good or bad? Didn't matter. Work now and think about whatever presence you felt later.

When you finished dressing up and jogged over to the service counter, you already had a customer waiting.

Of course it was him.

Grey sweat pants. Black Huddie. Dark eyes and sexy face. It was no other than Mr. Choi, that Mafia guy. But why was he just staring. Was he going to order or?

You didn't know it, but he saw everything last night. Heard everything and watched intently. He loved every second of it and finally made a decision to keep you for himself. Claim you for him only. And he knew exactly how he was going to do it.

[pomegranatelifethis]

The Weight of Silence

Introduction - Chapter

Every family has one.

The child who doesn't quite fit the mold. The one who's a little too quiet, a little too easy, a little too self-sufficient. The one who learned early not to ask for too much, not to demand attention, not to make waves. The one everyone assumes is "fine."

The invisible child.

In ordinary families, this dynamic can last years before anyone notices—if they ever do. In a family like the Waynes, where every member is either a vigilante, a genius, a trained assassin, or some combination thereof, where every night is a battle for Gotham's soul and every day is recovery from the night before... in a family like that, an invisible child can disappear entirely while still living under the same roof.

This is the story of one such disappearance.

You might think a family of detectives would be immune to this. That people who solve the world's greatest mysteries for a living would notice a girl slipping away right in front of them. You'd be wrong. The skills that make someone an excellent vigilante—hyperfocus, compartmentalization, the ability to prioritize city-wide catastrophes over personal matters—are the same skills that can make them a terrible family member.

Bruce Wayne collected broken children the way some people collect stray cats. Each one came with their own trauma, their own sharp edges, their own desperate need for purpose and belonging. And one by one, he gave them that purpose. Gave them a mission. Gave them a place in his war on crime.

But war is all-consuming. And in a house perpetually at war, the child who isn't bleeding, isn't raging, isn't visibly breaking... that child becomes background noise.

Her name doesn't matter for this story, because names imply identity, and identity requires being seen. For two years and seven months, she lived in Wayne Manor as a ghost haunting her own life. She attended family dinners where no one asked about her day. She existed in group photos cropped just slightly too tight. She orbited a family that never quite made space for her in their constellation.

And the most heartbreaking part? She tried.

God, how she tried.

She studied their interests, hoping for common ground. She stayed up late, thinking maybe she'd catch them coming back from patrol, earn a moment of connection. She made herself useful, helpful, invisible in her usefulness. She performed the miracle of asking for nothing while needing everything.

Until the night she stopped trying.

Until the night she made herself truly, permanently invisible.

This story takes place over the course of one day—her last day—but it's built on the foundation of a thousand small rejections, a thousand moments of being overlooked, a thousand tiny deaths that preceded the final one.

You'll meet her at dinner, at the end of a long series of silent meals. You'll follow her to a bedroom that never became hers. You'll read words she wrote to people who never learned to read her.

And if you're very honest with yourself, you might recognize something familiar in the way she disappears. Maybe you've been her, the one who learned to need nothing. Maybe you've been them, the ones too busy to notice. Maybe you've witnessed this exact tragedy playing out in slow motion and told yourself it wasn't your place to intervene.

The Batfamily will survive this story. They're survivors by nature, by training, by necessity. They'll grieve, they'll grow, they'll change. They'll become better.

But she won't be there to see it.

That's the price of learning some lessons too late: the teacher doesn't get to witness the graduation.

So before we begin, before you meet a girl who exists in the margins of her own life, ask yourself: Who are the invisible people in your world? Who have you been too busy to see? Whose silence have you mistaken for contentedness?

Ask yourself now.

Because this story ends with asking too late.

And that ending, once written, cannot be revised.

I҉̡̯̺̜̅́͋̃͢͜t҉̷҉̢͖͔̹͛̌͊͘͜͢͠͡͡ b҉͙̺̻̥̅̎͋̕͜͝͡͞͠e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞g̷̵̸̡̼̱͎͎̞ͤͬ̅͢͟͞i҉̧̯̤̙͔̑ͧ̅̔ͦ́͜͟͢͝͠n̸͐̈́͟͟͝s҉̝̭̦͚̑ͯ̌͡ o҉̢̡̲͇̌͗̀͢͝n̸͐̈́͟͟͝ a҉͖̟̜̞̂̃̑̽͢͢͠͡ p̷̸̷̨͙͙͇ͨ̌ͣ͋͟͢͠a҉͖̟̜̞̂̃̑̽͢͢͠͡g̷̵̸̡̼̱͎͎̞ͤͬ̅͢͟͞e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞, o҉̢̡̲͇̌͗̀͢͝n̸͐̈́͟͟͝ a҉͖̟̜̞̂̃̑̽͢͢͠͡n̸͐̈́͟͟͝ o҉̢̡̲͇̌͗̀͢͝r҉̵҉̛̠̩̥̋ͦ̆͆͟͞͡͞͠d҉̴̷̧̢̛̖͔̤ͯ̔̑̄͢͟͡͠i҉̧̯̤̙͔̑ͧ̅̔ͦ́͜͟͢͝͠n̸͐̈́͟͟͝a҉͖̟̜̞̂̃̑̽͢͢͠͡r҉̵҉̛̠̩̥̋ͦ̆͆͟͞͡͞͠ȳ̸̵̩̜͔͍̔́͟͟͢͡ e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞v҉̨̊͢͠͠e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞n̸͐̈́͟͟͝i҉̧̯̤̙͔̑ͧ̅̔ͦ́͜͟͢͝͠n̸͐̈́͟͟͝g̷̵̸̡̼̱͎͎̞ͤͬ̅͢͟͞, i҉̧̯̤̙͔̑ͧ̅̔ͦ́͜͟͢͝͠n̸͐̈́͟͟͝ a҉͖̟̜̞̂̃̑̽͢͢͠͡n̸͐̈́͟͟͝ e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞x҉̣ͫͧ̕͘͜t҉̷҉̢͖͔̹͛̌͊͘͜͢͠͡͡r҉̵҉̛̠̩̥̋ͦ̆͆͟͞͡͞͠a҉͖̟̜̞̂̃̑̽͢͢͠͡o҉̢̡̲͇̌͗̀͢͝r҉̵҉̛̠̩̥̋ͦ̆͆͟͞͡͞͠d҉̴̷̧̢̛̖͔̤ͯ̔̑̄͢͟͡͠i҉̧̯̤̙͔̑ͧ̅̔ͦ́͜͟͢͝͠n̸͐̈́͟͟͝a҉͖̟̜̞̂̃̑̽͢͢͠͡r҉̵҉̛̠̩̥̋ͦ̆͆͟͞͡͞͠ȳ̸̵̩̜͔͍̔́͟͟͢͡ h̷̶̘̘̬ͭ̏͞͡o҉̢̡̲͇̌͗̀͢͝u̶͖̖͆̊̈́͡͡s҉̝̭̦͚̑ͯ̌͡e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞, w҉̢̡̹̮͌̄ͦ͜͟͟͞͠͞i҉̧̯̤̙͔̑ͧ̅̔ͦ́͜͟͢͝͠t҉̷҉̢͖͔̹͛̌͊͘͜͢͠͡͡h̷̶̘̘̬ͭ̏͞͡ a҉͖̟̜̞̂̃̑̽͢͢͠͡ g̷̵̸̡̼̱͎͎̞ͤͬ̅͢͟͞i҉̧̯̤̙͔̑ͧ̅̔ͦ́͜͟͢͝͠r҉̵҉̛̠̩̥̋ͦ̆͆͟͞͡͞͠l̶҉̰͚͖͕̍̈́̅͗̏̇͢͜͜͝ n̸͐̈́͟͟͝o҉̢̡̲͇̌͗̀͢͝ o҉̢̡̲͇̌͗̀͢͝n̸͐̈́͟͟͝e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞ i҉̧̯̤̙͔̑ͧ̅̔ͦ́͜͟͢͝͠s҉̝̭̦͚̑ͯ̌͡ w҉̢̡̹̮͌̄ͦ͜͟͟͞͠͞a҉͖̟̜̞̂̃̑̽͢͢͠͡t҉̷҉̢͖͔̹͛̌͊͘͜͢͠͡͡c̷̶҉̵̢͚̣̻̲̬͑̑͛͐̀͜͜͜͝͡͝͠h̷̶̘̘̬ͭ̏͞͡i҉̧̯̤̙͔̑ͧ̅̔ͦ́͜͟͢͝͠n̸͐̈́͟͟͝g̷̵̸̡̼̱͎͎̞ͤͬ̅͢͟͞. B̵̴҉̞̠̘̩͍̱́͊͗͜͠͠͠͠ȳ̸̵̩̜͔͍̔́͟͟͢͡ t҉̷҉̢͖͔̹͛̌͊͘͜͢͠͡͡h̷̶̘̘̬ͭ̏͞͡e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞ t҉̷҉̢͖͔̹͛̌͊͘͜͢͠͡͡i҉̧̯̤̙͔̑ͧ̅̔ͦ́͜͟͢͝͠m̴̵҉̸̲̗̰̼͗͌̃̇͟͟͟͠͞͠e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞ t҉̷҉̢͖͔̹͛̌͊͘͜͢͠͡͡h̷̶̘̘̬ͭ̏͞͡e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞ȳ̸̵̩̜͔͍̔́͟͟͢͡ f҉̴̥͎̰̰̒͌͛͐ͧ̕͜͝͡͞i҉̧̯̤̙͔̑ͧ̅̔ͦ́͜͟͢͝͠n̸͐̈́͟͟͝a҉͖̟̜̞̂̃̑̽͢͢͠͡l̶҉̰͚͖͕̍̈́̅͗̏̇͢͜͜͝l̶҉̰͚͖͕̍̈́̅͗̏̇͢͜͜͝ȳ̸̵̩̜͔͍̔́͟͟͢͡ s҉̝̭̦͚̑ͯ̌͡e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞ h̷̶̘̘̬ͭ̏͞͡e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞r҉̵҉̛̠̩̥̋ͦ̆͆͟͞͡͞͠, s҉̝̭̦͚̑ͯ̌͡h̷̶̘̘̬ͭ̏͞͡e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞ w҉̢̡̹̮͌̄ͦ͜͟͟͞͠͞i҉̧̯̤̙͔̑ͧ̅̔ͦ́͜͟͢͝͠l̶҉̰͚͖͕̍̈́̅͗̏̇͢͜͜͝l̶҉̰͚͖͕̍̈́̅͗̏̇͢͜͜͝ b҉͙̺̻̥̅̎͋̕͜͝͡͞͠e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞ g̷̵̸̡̼̱͎͎̞ͤͬ̅͢͟͞o҉̢̡̲͇̌͗̀͢͝n̸͐̈́͟͟͝e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞. L̴҉̴͙͖̞̳̜̖ͣͧ̑̑͜͞͠͞͠e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞t҉̷҉̢͖͔̹͛̌͊͘͜͢͠͡͡ t҉̷҉̢͖͔̹͛̌͊͘͜͢͠͡͡h̷̶̘̘̬ͭ̏͞͡i҉̧̯̤̙͔̑ͧ̅̔ͦ́͜͟͢͝͠s҉̝̭̦͚̑ͯ̌͡ b҉͙̺̻̥̅̎͋̕͜͝͡͞͠e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞ t҉̷҉̢͖͔̹͛̌͊͘͜͢͠͡͡h̷̶̘̘̬ͭ̏͞͡e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞ l̶҉̰͚͖͕̍̈́̅͗̏̇͢͜͜͝e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞s҉̝̭̦͚̑ͯ̌͡s҉̝̭̦͚̑ͯ̌͡o҉̢̡̲͇̌͗̀͢͝n̸͐̈́͟͟͝ t҉̷҉̢͖͔̹͛̌͊͘͜͢͠͡͡h̷̶̘̘̬ͭ̏͞͡e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞ȳ̸̵̩̜͔͍̔́͟͟͢͡ l̶҉̰͚͖͕̍̈́̅͗̏̇͢͜͜͝e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞a҉͖̟̜̞̂̃̑̽͢͢͠͡r҉̵҉̛̠̩̥̋ͦ̆͆͟͞͡͞͠n̸͐̈́͟͟͝. L̴҉̴͙͖̞̳̜̖ͣͧ̑̑͜͞͠͞͠e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞t҉̷҉̢͖͔̹͛̌͊͘͜͢͠͡͡ t҉̷҉̢͖͔̹͛̌͊͘͜͢͠͡͡h̷̶̘̘̬ͭ̏͞͡i҉̧̯̤̙͔̑ͧ̅̔ͦ́͜͟͢͝͠s҉̝̭̦͚̑ͯ̌͡ b҉͙̺̻̥̅̎͋̕͜͝͡͞͠e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞ t҉̷҉̢͖͔̹͛̌͊͘͜͢͠͡͡h̷̶̘̘̬ͭ̏͞͡e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞ l̶҉̰͚͖͕̍̈́̅͗̏̇͢͜͜͝e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞s҉̝̭̦͚̑ͯ̌͡s҉̝̭̦͚̑ͯ̌͡o҉̢̡̲͇̌͗̀͢͝n̸͐̈́͟͟͝ w҉̢̡̹̮͌̄ͦ͜͟͟͞͠͞e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞ a҉͖̟̜̞̂̃̑̽͢͢͠͡l̶҉̰͚͖͕̍̈́̅͗̏̇͢͜͜͝l̶҉̰͚͖͕̍̈́̅͗̏̇͢͜͜͝ l̶҉̰͚͖͕̍̈́̅͗̏̇͢͜͜͝e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞a҉͖̟̜̞̂̃̑̽͢͢͠͡r҉̵҉̛̠̩̥̋ͦ̆͆͟͞͡͞͠n̸͐̈́͟͟͝. B̵̴҉̞̠̘̩͍̱́͊͗͜͠͠͠͠e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞f҉̴̥͎̰̰̒͌͛͐ͧ̕͜͝͡͞o҉̢̡̲͇̌͗̀͢͝r҉̵҉̛̠̩̥̋ͦ̆͆͟͞͡͞͠e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞ o҉̢̡̲͇̌͗̀͢͝u̶͖̖͆̊̈́͡͡r҉̵҉̛̠̩̥̋ͦ̆͆͟͞͡͞͠ o҉̢̡̲͇̌͗̀͢͝w҉̢̡̹̮͌̄ͦ͜͟͟͞͠͞n̸͐̈́͟͟͝ s҉̝̭̦͚̑ͯ̌͡i҉̧̯̤̙͔̑ͧ̅̔ͦ́͜͟͢͝͠l̶҉̰͚͖͕̍̈́̅͗̏̇͢͜͜͝e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞n̸͐̈́͟͟͝c̷̶҉̵̢͚̣̻̲̬͑̑͛͐̀͜͜͜͝͡͝͠e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞ b҉͙̺̻̥̅̎͋̕͜͝͡͞͠e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞c̷̶҉̵̢͚̣̻̲̬͑̑͛͐̀͜͜͜͝͡͝͠o҉̢̡̲͇̌͗̀͢͝m̴̵҉̸̲̗̰̼͗͌̃̇͟͟͟͠͞͠e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞s҉̝̭̦͚̑ͯ̌͡ s҉̝̭̦͚̑ͯ̌͡o҉̢̡̲͇̌͗̀͢͝m̴̵҉̸̲̗̰̼͗͌̃̇͟͟͟͠͞͠e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞o҉̢̡̲͇̌͗̀͢͝n̸͐̈́͟͟͝e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞ e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞l̶҉̰͚͖͕̍̈́̅͗̏̇͢͜͜͝s҉̝̭̦͚̑ͯ̌͡e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞'s҉̝̭̦͚̑ͯ̌͡ e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞n̸͐̈́͟͟͝d҉̴̷̧̢̛̖͔̤ͯ̔̑̄͢͟͡͠.

It begins on a page, on an ordinary evening, in an extraordinary house, with a girl no one is watching. By the time they finally see her, she will be gone. Let this be the lesson they learn. Let this be the lesson we all learn. Before our own silence becomes someone else's end.

[twomelatonins]

yan mafia boss x detective reader

summary: you swore to arrest him if it was the last thing you do, but little did you know, you were walking straight into his trap.

mafia boss who has control over all the drug and weapon trades in and out of the country, who’s well-known in the black market. in the public eye, he’s simply a successful CEO who runs a large tech firm.

mafia boss who learns of a rookie detective stirring up trouble and snooping into places they shouldn’t be going anywhere near. he barely bats an eye; this wasn’t the first time he encountered an overzealous cop. he tells his men to carry out the usual— bribes, threats, and rough them up until they learn their place.

but what surprises him is that even after all the threats, even after sending his henchmen to scare you off, you remained unaffected. you sent back the bribe money with a note: “save it for your bail”, and fought off the men he sent to your house even landing some of them in the hospital. now he was intrigued.

he became curious about you. background checks, hacking the cctv in your office, searching everything there was to know about you and what made you tick. monitoring your every move, wondering what you’ll do next. will you uncover something else? will you call him into the precinct and interrogate him? he almost wished you did, so that he can hear your voice and see how bright the fire in your eyes burns.

he begins to leave little clues for you to lead you to him. well hidden enough so that none of your incompetent colleagues would pick up on, but just obvious enough for you to notice. all fake leads, of course. nothing that would actually land him in jail, but a string of misleading evidence so that it would bring you barging through his door.

and when you connect the dots he laid out in front of you? that’s when the game really begins. he watches you constantly-every move that you make, he quietly observes and waits. even during his business meetings and dealings, he’ll leave his laptop open, keeping an eye on the live feed of you.

he thinks several steps ahead, predicting and planning accordingly. although knowing you, the plan wouldn’t be carried out as flawlessly as he anticipated but nonetheless the outcome would remain the same.

all he needs to do now is wait.

Your move, little detective.

——————

Tap.

Tap.

The sound of your pen tapping against the papers in front of you filled the room.

You glanced ahead, at the two-way mirror that took up most of the wall. Even without the visual confirmation, you knew that you were being watched.

You turned your gaze back to the papers in front of you. Now that you finally got the man you’ve been hunting down for nearly four months, you couldn’t mess this up.

“Mr Gray,” you greeted, finally looking up from the documents and meeting his gaze. After four months of staring at photographs of the man, seeing him in front of you still left an unpleasant feeling in your stomach.

His features were sharp and polished, but his eyes held a mix of emotions you couldn’t decipher. His posture was relaxed with his hands on the table and fingers interlinked. If not for the handcuffs, he would’ve looked like he was here for a regular business meeting, not an interrogation.

“Just Killian will do. And you are?” A ghost of a smile crossed his face. It didn’t slip past your notice how effortlessly he gained control over the conversation.

“Y/N, L/N. Now, I’m just going to get to the point here— there have been a few incidents surrounding you and your company.” You paused, scanning his face for any reaction. His expression did not waver. “Any idea what I’m talking about?”

He barely blinked at the accusations you threw at him. His shoulders lifted an inch, and he returned your question. "I don't know, Y/N. You tell me." A hint of a smirk beginning to show.

Don't let it show. Slow your breathing. Don’t punch himdon’tpunchhimdon’t-

The rest of the interrogation went down in a similar manner. You trying to pry any sort of useful information from him, and him tactfully steering the conversation as he liked. By the time you were called out of the room, you could barely restrain your anger and frustration.

“You seem a little… troubled. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help much.” He sent another fake smile your way.

You stabbed your pen through the stack of pictures you placed in front of him earlier, barely avoiding his hand. “This isn’t over, Killian Gray.” You gritted out, the pen cracking under your tight grip.

His posture remained as relaxed as before, unbothered by the fact that you nearly stabbed him with a pen. He only smirked as he leaned in, his warm breath brushing across your cheek.

"I certainly hope not, my little detective."

[kryllia]

Mine to Protect, Mine to Own

art from pinterest

yandere mafia classmate x reader

Pt 1 - Pt 2 - Pt 3

Nicolò Dellabarca had always been a mystery.

You weren’t close. You had only worked together on a class project once. He was efficient, quiet, and surprisingly attentive, but the partnership ended without much conversation.

Still, something always felt off about him.

He was cold with others but different around you. He never spoke unless necessary, yet his presence loomed over you like a shadow. Whenever you turned your head, you found his sharp blue eyes watching you, unreadable but focused.

At first, you ignored it.

Then, small things started happening.

One night, when you were leaving campus late, a stranger had followed you for a few blocks—until a black car pulled up, and the man suddenly disappeared. The next day, a few guys from your class who had been bothering you stopped showing up. And once, when you almost tripped on the stairs, Nicolò had been there, catching your arm before you even realized he was close.

"Careful."

His voice had been deep, steady. He had let go quickly, looking almost flustered.

You should have put the pieces together then.

But you didn’t—until the night you were taken.

It happened fast. A car pulled up. A group of men stepped out. Before you could scream, a hand covered your mouth.

You fought, kicking and struggling, but everything faded into darkness.

Your first thought upon waking was: This is too comfortable to be a basement.

A thick blanket covered you. A fireplace crackled nearby. The room smelled of expensive wood and something faintly floral.

For a second, you thought you were dreaming—until the door opened.

"Mom, what do you mean you have a surprise for me? It better not be another—"

The voice stopped.

You turned your head—and froze.

Nicolò.

His blue eyes went wide. His usual cold expression shattered, replaced by something you had never seen before: panic.

He slammed the door shut behind him.

"Mom..." His voice was sharp, but there was something almost desperate beneath it. "What did you do?"

From behind the door, a light, cheery voice replied.

"Oh, relax, sweetheart. I just helped you a little."

Nicolò let out a shaky breath. "This is not helping."

He turned back to you.

You met his gaze, your body rigid.

"...What the hell is going on?"

The door opened again, and a woman stepped inside.

She was beautiful—dark-haired, elegant, and radiating control. She held a glass of water and smiled at you as if you weren’t just kidnapped.

"You must be thirsty," she said, offering the glass.

You didn’t take it.

"Who are you?"

Her lips curled. "You can call me Isabella. I’m Nicolò’s mother."

Your stomach twisted.

"And why did your men kidnap me?"

She sighed as if this were a mild inconvenience. "Because my son is terrible at taking what he wants."

You turned to Nicolò, waiting for him to deny it.

He didn’t.

His fists clenched at his sides, his breathing shallow.

You took a slow step back. "You let this happen?"

"I—I didn’t know—" He cut himself off, rubbing his face. "Mamma, why would you do this?"

Isabella chuckled. "Oh, Nicolò, don’t be so dramatic. You were never going to make the first move, so I gave you a little push."

You scoffed. "Push?! You kidnapped me!"

Isabella tilted her head. "And yet, you’re perfectly safe, aren’t you?"

Your blood ran cold.

She stepped closer, her voice soft but firm. "Do you know how many people have been watching you? Waiting for you to be alone? Do you really think walking home alone at night was ever safe?"

You swallowed hard.

She smiled. "You needed to be taken, darling. If not by us, then by someone worse."

You clenched your fists. "That’s bullshit."

Nicolò finally spoke, his voice low. "It’s not."

Your chest tightened.

You turned to him, searching his face. "Then let me go."

His jaw clenched.

He didn’t answer.

Because you both knew the truth.

There was no leaving.

-

The Dellabarca estate was suffocatingly grand. Every hallway was lined with paintings, every door guarded.

And now, you were seated at an impossibly long dining table, facing the people who had stolen you.

Nicolò sat stiffly at the head of the table, shoulders tense. Across from him sat a man you had yet to meet.

Giovanni Dellabarca.

His father.

The room felt colder with him in it. His presence was overwhelming—calm, composed, and dangerous.

"So," Giovanni finally said, swirling his wine. "You have fire. I like that."

You set your fork down sharply. "I don’t care what you like."

Nicolò inhaled sharply beside you.

Giovanni smirked. "Feisty. Just like your mother, eh, Isabella?"

His wife chuckled. "Oh, absolutely. I see so much of myself in them."

Your stomach churned. "I am nothing like you."

Isabella smiled knowingly. "Oh, but you are." She leaned in slightly. "You think I wanted this life? That I chose it?"

You stilled.

"I hated Giovanni at first," she continued. "I fought, I screamed, I ran—but in the end, I understood."

She turned to her husband, her gaze softening. "Love in this world isn’t sweet. It’s fierce. It’s possession. And once you understand that..."

She looked back at you, her expression almost pitying.

"...it’s easier."

Your hands shook.

Giovanni exhaled, setting down his glass. "You’ll come around. She did."

Your skin burned with anger. "I am not her."

For a moment, Giovanni studied you.

Then—unexpectedly—he laughed.

Nicolò stiffened.

"You know," Giovanni mused, "when Isabella first entered my life, she hated me just as much as you hate my son now."

You clenched your fists. "Good."

His smirk didn’t falter.

"Yet, here we are."

Your blood ran cold.

Nicolò suddenly stood. "Enough."

Giovanni’s brow lifted. "Touched a nerve?"

Nicolò’s hands curled into fists. "They don’t need to hear this." His voice was sharp, controlled—but his eyes flickered with something desperate.

He turned to you, his voice lower. "Come on. I’ll take you back to your room."

You hesitated.

Then, without another word, you followed him out.

As soon as the door shut behind you, Nicolò let out a sharp breath, running a hand through his dark hair. His shoulders, always so rigid around his family, slumped slightly.

"Dio mio, that was a disaster."

You folded your arms. "That’s an understatement."

He turned to face you. For the first time since you woke up in this house, he looked directly at you—really looked at you. His piercing blue eyes, usually so cold, held something else now. Something desperate.

"...Are you okay?"

The words were so quiet, so gentle, they made your stomach twist.

You wanted to lash out. To scream at him. To tell him no, I am not okay, you psychotic bastard—your family kidnapped me!

But something about the way he was looking at you—like he was hurting just from seeing you upset—made your breath catch.

You clenched your fists. "...No. I’m not."

His jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists at his sides like he wanted to punch a wall—or worse, like he wanted to hold you but didn’t know if he was allowed.

"You—" His voice caught. He exhaled through his nose, composing himself before trying again. "You don’t understand."

Your eyes narrowed. "Understand what, Nicolò? That you let your mother steal me? That I’m being held hostage in your house?"

His expression twisted.

Then, before you could react, he moved.

Fast.

He was in front of you in an instant, his large frame towering over yours. One of his hands slammed against the door beside your head, caging you in. The other reached for your wrist, wrapping around it—not tight enough to hurt, but firm enough that you couldn’t pull away.

You sucked in a sharp breath.

His eyes, those sharp, ice-blue eyes, burned into yours.

"You think I wanted this?" His voice was low, rough, almost shaking. "You think I wanted them to touch you? To take you before I could—before I—"

He cut himself off, his breath ragged.

You swallowed hard. "Before you what, Nicolò?"

His fingers twitched against your wrist.

His lips parted like he was going to answer—but he hesitated. His breathing was heavy, his jaw tight.

Then, quietly—so softly it sent a shiver down your spine—he whispered:

"Before I could make you mine."

Your stomach dropped.

His grip on your wrist tightened slightly, his thumb brushing over your pulse. He could feel how fast your heart was racing. His expression darkened, something dangerously close to satisfaction flickering across his face.

"You don’t get it, cara mia." His voice was almost gentle now, a sick contrast to the possessiveness dripping from his words. "You were never safe outside. They were watching you. Waiting for an opportunity."

His free hand rose, his knuckles grazing your cheek.

"I was the only thing keeping you safe."

Your breath hitched.

His fingers trailed down to your jaw, tilting your chin up so you couldn’t look away.

"You hate me now," he murmured. "That’s fine. You can hate me all you want." His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, slow, deliberate. "But you belong to me, whether you like it or not."

Your entire body tensed. "I belong to no one."

His expression flickered—hurt, frustration, something deeper—but it was gone in an instant. Instead, his lips curved into something that made your blood run cold.

A smirk.

"Say that again in a few months," he murmured, voice almost teasing. Almost sweet.

He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear.

"We’ll see if you still believe that then."

And just like that, he let go.

You stumbled back, heart hammering, but he just straightened his posture, rolling his shoulders like nothing had happened.

His cold mask was back in place.

He turned away from you, walking toward the door.

"I’ll have someone bring you food," he said casually, as if he hadn’t just claimed you as his own. "Get some rest."

You gritted your teeth. "I’m not staying here."

Nicolò stopped.

For a moment, he didn’t move.

Then, slowly, he turned his head to the side—just enough for you to see the dangerous glint in his eyes.

"You don’t have a choice, amore."

And with that, he walked out, locking the door behind him.

This is inspirated by c.ai bot and it was made by @Strawberry_88

[ozzgin]

I'm getting a little too worked up over Boss.

Imagine being the yakuza boss' beloved Darling. He's always in a good mood, always relaxed. Nothing seems to startle him. You sometimes think it's foolish for someone in his shoes to be this careless. But then you remember this man has murdered his way to the very top. He doesn't take shit from anyone. People follow him like obedient dogs out of fear and admiration, because they know he's the real deal. They know he'd take a bullet for them without a second of hesitation.

And now you're in his care. He's almost afraid to handle you, too frail and precious compared to someone like him.

"Are you sure it's safe to be seen together?" you ask, fidgeting in his lap.

"Hmm? Did Kazuya put nonsense in your head again? Let me guess, something about you getting me in trouble, being kidnapped, used as leverage, all that crap?"

You shake your head hesitantly. He grabs your chin, gentle yet firm. His fingers are harsh, save for the prosthetic one.

"Miss, have you forgotten who you're dealing with? Do you think I'd let anyone touch you? Answer me."

You can only nod. It’s not indifference and foolishness that you see, but the confidence of a man who is aware nothing can get past him.

[hypnoism]

Yandere! Mafia boss who you've got wrapped around your finger. So much so that all the workers are starting to get annoyed.

What used to be trillions of dollars of income has disintegrated into billions. It's still a hefty amount but not enough to operate the business.

Every month arises a new problem that the boss throws away simply because of you. First, it was the missing packages then it was the delivery of illegal drugs being paused for a little too long that buyers opted for substitutes.

All the workers have noticed a significant drop in their paychecks, but you seem to be enjoying your life. In fact, in all this mess, you're probably the only one that has experienced the opposite of all the struggles. But that's because you're keeping all the "lost" profit.

For every decrease in the business's pocket is another extra dime in yours.

It won't stop, not if the boss is too busy smothering you with love every day.

Many of the others have started feeling something off about you but as long as he hasn't, it's all okay.

If it makes it any better, you're not pocketing all the difference, you're sharing a bit of it with some other "rats" that people would call "traitors" but it's really called "business". There's nobody in this world that's even close to clean, not even the sweetest looking one (you).

Don't trust anyone who says beauty over brains, because they always prove to be a liar.