Pairing: Yandere!Actor x Reader
Description: The television flickers with Caelum Ashford's triumph, but even in his absence, his shadow looms, a dangerous obsession seared into your every breath.
Warning/s: YANDERE | IMPLIED NONCON | possessive behavior | obsessive behavior | emotional manipulation | power dynamics | psychological abuse | implied violence | toxic relationship
Note/s: Apologies for not posting yesterday. Anyway, here's something for today. Might post something later or I might work on Callixto's story the rest of the day, Oh, also, Dark Roast is currently on sale for those of you interested. We're also about to hit 900 followers. Yay! Anyway, let me know what you think about this one!
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The television glows like a portal in the otherwise shadow-soaked room. The air is still, heavy with the scent of rosewood and Caelum—his cologne clings to your skin like fingerprints, still damp with sweat, bruised in all the places he left his mark. Your robe slips over your shoulder with each shallow breath, but you’re too sore to adjust it. The ache in your body is a ghost of how he claimed you before leaving, whispering that you belonged to no one but him.
The TV is the only light in the room. He left it on intentionally.
“Even when I’m not here, you’ll watch me. You’ll remember who you belong to.”
His voice is still in your ear, etched into your spine.
The crowd on the screen roars, dressed in designer gowns and thousand-watt smiles. Glitter rains from the ceiling of the grand theater. The host opens the envelope with ceremonial flourish.
“And the award for Best Actor in a Drama Series goes to… Caelum Ashford!”
You flinch.
Applause. Standing Ovation. Camera Flashes.
You grip the arm of the velvet couch tighter, the pressure grounding you. You’d known he’d win. Of course he would. The world is in love with him. They believe his portrayal of Lord Severus—the dangerously obsessive noble who would kill, steal, burn the kingdom down just to keep his wife—was the role of a lifetime.
But you know the truth.
He wasn’t acting.
The screen cuts to him rising from his seat. Hair immaculately styled. Sharp black suit hugging his tall frame. He walks with that haunting grace only Caelum possesses—like he owns the air around him. When he smiles, women in the audience swoon. Men clap harder. Critics nod, impressed.
But you—you freeze.
Because you know that smile is the same one, he gave you last night, when he held your wrists down against silk sheets and murmured, “Even if the world saw you naked in my bed, they wouldn’t know you like I do. Not like this.”
He takes the mic at the podium. Lifts the trophy. Looks straight into the camera.
“Thank you,” Caelum begins, voice velvet-smooth. “Portraying Lord Severus was… easy. Too easy, some might say.”
The crowd chuckles, charmed.
“When love consumes you… when it becomes your religion, your obsession, your purpose—it doesn’t feel like acting.”
A pause. Just long enough for you to notice the shift in his expression.
“You live it.”
There it is. That subtle smirk. One only you recognize. A private performance.
“I dedicate this award…” he continues, his voice softening. “…to the one who anchors me. My muse. My wife in heart, if not in law.”
Your stomach twists.
Your name is never spoken. It never is. Not even your shadow is allowed to touch the world outside these walls. But the message is for you. Always for you.
The camera zooms out. Applause. Cheers. Ovation.
And then—
Chime.
You go still.
It’s not a knock. Not a doorbell. It’s the discreet code-triggered chime that signals the villa gate has opened. A sound only those who live in this exclusive riverside estate would ever hear.
You scramble to your feet, heart hammering. You’re trembling before you even make it halfway across the room. The ache in your legs pulse like a warning. Your body knows before your mind accepts it—
He’s home.
Keys.
Click.
The door swings open.
Caelum Ashford steps into the villa, the golden trophy gleaming in one hand, a bottle of expensive wine in the other. His jacket drapes over his arm, hair tousled just slightly from the breeze outside. But his eyes—his eyes are on you the moment he crosses the threshold.
Predatory. Possessive. Burning with hunger.
“You watched, didn’t you?” His voice is low, silk around a blade.
He sets the bottle down, places the award beside the others on the black marble shelf. Unhurried. Precise. He undoes the top two buttons of his shirt, sleeves already rolled up.
He doesn’t wait for your answer.
“Don’t make me ask twice, sweetheart.” His smile is all teeth now. “Did you see what the world gave me tonight?”
You nod.
“Good,” he whispers, stepping closer, his voice darkening. “Because now it’s your turn to give me what I really want.”
i've been thinking a lot about a jjk hunger games au... gonna add content warnings just in case
cw: mentions of sex work, implications of noncon/trafficking, references to gore, canon typical violence and discussions for hunger games stuff
if satoru were a victor in the hunger games, he'd be a capitol darling. he'd be so adored and so admired. he's so handsome, so charismatic, that even some folks in one and two find him completely captivating.
he's a career from district four, who won his games with all the savvy of someone who was born to do it. when he volunteered, there was very little doubt that he was the most promising tribute. strong and surly. 18 years old with a long, lithe body and smile that screamed winner.
so of course he had sponsors and allies. of course he was highly sought after by the other careers. his district partner, a pretty person with a quiet and stoic disposition, was simultaneously proud of him and deeply threatened. they'd trained in the same class and she knew what he was capable of. no one remembers her name anymore, they just remember that he hadn't killed her. he'd spared her from what he could until someone else took her from this world.
it seemed that after she passed, satoru flipped a switch. that was it. the games would end and he'd come out on top.
after his victory, satoru had all the wealth he could need. no family anymore, hardly any friends save for the other victors, but money and wealth beyond what he'd ever imagined. it was dazzling even for him and his district was better off than most. career districts tend to be.
he disconnects from the world, lets snow sell his body and keeps playing the game. that's all there is left to do. to just keep playing. fame isn't all he thought it would be and satoru realizes now that he was too naive in volunteering. he dreamed of a kind of glory that doesn't exist and with every passing year, he grows more and more bitter internally of the kids after him who make the same mistakes.
then, three years after his games, an 18 year old from district 7 miraculously wins. you're an underdog, an unexpected victor from an outlying district with little to no chance of winning. but you did.
satoru meets you on your victory tour, when the fear of the arena hasn't fully worn off, and he's struck by the quiet stoicism you have within you. you're sweet, but with a bitter edge, given to you by your district and the unlucky hand dealt to you. he finds himself a bit in awe.
he thinks you hate him at first. satoru gets the impression that you hate him so much that you can hardly stomach being around him. it isn't until he pulls you to the side and warns you about what comes next, that you start to humanize him. that defensive glint wavers for a moment, leaving nothing but a pretty person with an unlucky lot in life. he's not sure why he warns you, but he does. he feels some sort of kinship with you. you've endured something similar, felt the same fear he felt, and you don't revel in it. instead, you quietly chew up the hand dealt to you and spit it out, something he never thought he could do.
satoru, a victor from district four with nothing left in this world, is awestruck by the idea that he can love someone this much. suddenly, it's not just about playing their game, it's about winning it. just surviving isn't enough anymore. with you in the equation, he needs to thrive.
Warnings: sub-ish Oikawa, bondage, blue balls, tyrant!Bokuto is back, fingering, possessiveness (from Oikawa and Bokuto), betrayal, war is coming
“All the guests have left, Your Majesty,”
“Fantastic. Especially Bokuto?”
“Yes,” Iwaizumi agrees, nodding his head and leaving with a wave of Oikawa’s fingers. It’s time to go back to you, who is probably asleep. The discussion that took place was mostly boring, continued talks from Ushijima and Bokuto about marrying to expand territory or gain a political advantage. Quite boring in Oikawa’s opinion, seeing as he wasn’t going to budge on his decision to marry a commoner. Well, a commoner to most. A sadistic smile appeared on his face as he walked the corridor to his quarters, finding entertainment in how Bokuto seemed to get so irrationally angry for just a simple loving marriage, even needing to be hushed by his own queen. It was almost sad, seeing Bokuto be so obsessed with you and you having chosen a different side.
The smile fell from his lips when he remembers how three of his guards had been knocked out. He decided to keep it quiet until everyone left, leaving Iwaizumi to look to the cause or problem while he checked on you. You, who happened to leave and then three of his guards were knocked out. While Oikawa was positive you wouldn’t do such a thing, Iwaizumi and Hanamaki were much more.. worried about you.
“You can’t just readily trust her! She was a prisoner less than a week ago!” Hanamaki had shouted, sword ready to be drawn as he paced in the throne room. “Queen to be or not, she is still a threat,”
“Makki, I understand,” he had said, eyes void of emotion. “But I trust her. That is final. After all, King Bokuto left to use the restroom shortly after her departure, wouldn’t he be the most likely threat?”
“Sir, with all due respect, King Bokuto may be an idiot at best but he is no fool. The action is suspicious and he wouldn’t dare do such a thing,” Iwaizumi words backed up Hanamaki’s. But Oikawa refused to budge.
“Ask the guards. I’m sure [Y/N] is completely innocent. She’s been in crystal chains for almost three months, I doubt she’d do something so dangerous while knowing the consequences,” Oikawa finally had said, getting both men to quiet down. Iwaizumi and Hanamaki understood the assignment and went to work on who exactly knocked out the guards. Asking around, questioning King Bokuto’s whereabouts, even if they had every reason to believe it was your doing.
Oikawa sighed at the memory, rolling his shoulders back as he looked forward to undressing. The layers of clothing were lightweight but couldn’t keep it from getting heavier as the day dragged on. With the moon high in the night sky, Oikawa could only hope to undress and sleep before he has to put them on again. Entering the room, he noticed your figure asleep on the bed, dressed in a silk nightgown he had recently requested for you.
“Dear, are you awake?” He whispered, waiting for any movement or acknowledgement. When he received none, he quietly shut the door to get into his own nightly clothes.
When he crawled into bed with you, that’s when you stirred awake, rolling over to see who enters the bed. “Oikawa?”
“Who else? This is my bed,” he laughs, watching as you sleepily made an acknowledgement and rolled over. “How you feeling?”
“Better. Nauseous a bit still, but nothing like when I left. I’m sorry for leaving so early,” you say, Oikawa deciding your words hold truth to their weight. He’s gentle, placing his hand on your arm and rubbing it.
“Nonsense. That tyrant was eyeing you ever since you walked in. No need to apologize when he made you uncomfortable in your own home,” he said, leaning over to give your temple a kiss. “Not to mention, he’s gotten too comfortable in my home.”
“The guards, huh?” You offhandedly mention. “I was wondering where they were when he followed me into the garden,” you roll over when you finish speaking, looking up to Oikawa. He has a bit of a smile on his face, fondly looking at you. “What?”
“I can’t wait to say ‘I told you so’ to Iwa-chan and Makki. What did Bokuto need from you?” Oikawa’s smile then drops, his hand moving from your shoulder to your chin, making you look at him. “What did he do to you?”
“Asked me what I was doing. Told me he can still grant me freedom. I told him to leave me alone and I was fine here in Seijoh. When I threatened to call for help, he told me there weren’t any witnesses. He left after I mentioned the dinner, then I came back here and bathed, then fell asleep.” You decided to not mention the bit about still ‘on your mission’ bit you told Bokuto. It was a lie when spoken to Bokuto, but you wonder if perhaps it wasn’t. After all, there were no witnesses.
Oikawa smiles again, though it’s a bit more sad. Then he kisses you, a short kiss that shows a large amount of affection. “That’s my girl. I’m sure if you screamed loud enough, Mattsun would’ve heard you. He was roaming the corridors outside the banquet room,”
“Wish I’d have known that. But, I am trained to kill. I could at least beat Bokuto long enough to flee. After all, I’ve.. had experience fighting him in the past,”
“Yes, you mentioned how you came to be at Fukurōdani. Fighting a powerful warrior that ended in your defeat and then you were bound to his rule,” Oikawa hummed in thought, remembering your words. You nodded and agreed, rolling back over. Giving enough information for context, but not all. Oikawa had a vision of you that Bokuto didn’t. Had he known precisely what happened—
“Oikawa, what are you doing?” You say, voice no longer quiet and groggy. Oikawa’s hands had slipped under your nightgown, cold fingers trailing up your sides. “Are you not satisfied with simply sleeping next to me?”
“Not quite. After all, you may not have mentioned it outright but Bokuto put his hands on you, didn’t he?” His hand tightened its grip on your hip. “He thinks he’s still entitled to what is mine. I want to remind you that your place is beside me,”
“How—“ you whispered, gasping as Oikawa’s hand slithered between your legs, fingers rubbing your folds over the panties.
“I’ll remind your body of my touch, replacing his. While doing so, I’ll get your mind off of that fool and onto me, sounds like a good deal, no?” He whispers, fingers moving past the barrier and diving between your folds. You bite your lip as on hand scrunches the bedsheets and the other grabs Oikawa’s arm, not pulling him away not encouraging him. “You’ll need a reminder of just which king is beside you,”
“Oikawa, please,” you breathed out, unsure just what you’re asking for. Oikawa seems to take it one way, adjusting his fingers to rub at the special spot inside you instead of teasing brushes. You hiss at the feeling, legs tightening around his hand as he does. “There’s no need to te-tease,” you gasp out, nails digging into his arm.
“Are you sure about that? Are you still thinking of another while my wedding band is on your finger? Thinking of another man while my fingers are inside of you?”
“No! I’m not, I promise!” You shout, covering your mouth when your back arches to muffle a moan. Limp in Oikawa’s arms, you feel his fingers finally remove themselves from you, coated in your essence that leaves strings between his fingers. Rubbing his fingers together, he presses them against your lips as you easily part them for him, no thought behind the action.
“Good girl,” is all he says, abruptly taking his fingers out of your mouth only to rub them along your lips, then sucking on his own fingers. Your eyes never strayed from his fingers when he took them away from you and only when he took them in his mouth did your eyes trail up to his. “I’ve a need to devour more of you,”
Before he’s able to crawl on top of you, you roll on him and straddle him, pressing a finger to his lips. With one orgasm under your belt, you’re fully awake and willing to take charge. “How about you let me please you this time? After all,” you smirk, leaning back as you slip the nightgown off, “I’m yours as much as you’re mine. You’ve marked your claim on my body, but I haven’t done the same. Not quite fair, is it?” With a tilt of your head, you let his eyes roam over your body. You’re not referring to touches and throes of pleasure, but the marks on your body that haven’t left. The hickeys on your neck, the bruises on your hips, the lashes on your skin that have simmered down, each mark that’s arose once you were under his control.
As his hands went to touch you, your hands covered them and guided them where you wanted his touch. Over your breasts, along the expanse of your stomach, around to your sides and hips, you let him roam but never for too long. “What do you want to mark me with? Besides your teeth, of course,”
“I want you bound by my will,” you grin, quickly grabbing his wrists and pinning his arms to the headboard. Expecting him to deny your request or even lash out in anger, but instead he smiles as he simply looks at you. “Do you.. Are you okay with that?”
“I’ll take any lashing from you if it means you’re thinking about me and only me,” Oikawa says, eyes looking to the belt he took off. Understanding what his eye movement meant, you get off of him to grab the belt and tie him up. With a bit of force, you’re able to securely tie him up. With a show of effort, Oikawa proves he can’t leave the bindings. “Have your way with me,”
“As you wish, Your Majesty,” you smirk, dragging your nails down his chest. A hiss comes from behind gritted teeth, but the red streaks show up on his skin. With your hands moving down to his pants, undoing them, your lips attack his neck and leave love bites along the expanse of it, using your teeth to pull on his skin while he moans. Open mouthed kisses adorn his collarbone, ending your kissing spree with a dark hickey when your hands finish undoing his pants. You decide to tease him a bit as he did you, hand pumping his cock before only one finger even graces his erection.
“Don’t tease me so—“
“Oh? Only you can tease? Is that what I’m hearing? Darling, that’s now how it works now that I’m in charge,” you croon, licking the tip of his cock to see his reaction. “I dish out damage equal to the amount you gave me. I need to know you’re only thinking about me, after all,” you repeat back his words, seeing him flush as they leave your lips.
“All I ever think about is you,” he breathes out, his teasing tone no more as you wrap your lips around him, gently sucking as your tongue laps at his slit. “All I can think about is you and our future together. I don’t want anything else,” he finishes, closing his eyes as you bring him closer to an orgasm. Guilt builds up in your stomach, until you’re releasing his cock from your mouth and giving his tip a kiss. “[Y/N]?”
“There isn’t a future with me, Oikawa. It’s not a future you’d want. I’m meant to deceive and destroy, not love,” you somberly say, getting off the bed. Oikawa doesn’t say anything, stunned as you get off of him. When you go to dress, he finally starts to try and say something, but you cut him off. “I’m sorry. But I’m not qualified to be a queen of anything, especially not your queen.”
“Wait, no, you don’t—“ Oikawa begins, attempting to get up but he’s held back by the bindings. When he tries to get out of it, he struggles.
“I have to go, so please move on. Make up a story. Tell everyone I died, I fell, I betrayed you, I don’t care. Just let them know I won’t be around anymore,” you say, adding the finishing touches. Taking a black cape to cover the stolen clothes, you take one more look at Oikawa. “I want to believe I love you as you say you love me, but I’m not meant to do so.”
With those parting words, you’re leaving Oikawa as he sits on his bed, struggling to get free from the bindings. When you’re completely out of his sight out the window, he finally loosens the belt to free his wrists, getting from his bed. When he can’t find you in the night, he quickly tucks himself back into his pants as he goes to exit the bedroom, finding Iwaizumi patrolling the halls.
“Oikawa, what’s wrong?” He says, on high alert. Oikawa just looks at him before saying the words he was dreading.
“She’s left. Find her.”
With each member of the guard searching and on alert for someone similar to your attire and build, they ended empty-handed as the moon illuminated the streets better. The darkness the clouds gave off was easy to help you leave, the guards at the bridge and gateway not receiving a word of your departure until you had passed. When they told of your departure, Iwaizumi had to tell Oikawa, knowing the guard could not go looking outside of the jurisdiction.
You were tired and feeling sick with each step closer and closer to Nekoma. You’d have to stop there for the night, most likely, until you noticed a group of wanderers in the forest. Sighing, you debated your options. Unable to successfully knock out the man standing guard at the camp with your bare strength, you picked up a heavy rock and knocked him out with that. With him on the ground, you turned from the body, deciding to not bother checking if you accidentally killed him or not. Using a knife you found nearby, and taking a sword, you freed a horse and quietly calmed it down.
On horseback, the ride to Fukurōdani is easily done. A day on foot through the dark forest, but you’re climbing the rocky mountain path within hours of leaving Aoba Johsai. Sane people don’t dare going through the forest, but a bloody sword has done its job in keeping you alive. After all, you know the forest better than most, knowing the pathways that have been treaded by people long since dead and which animals you can encounter.
The moon is still in the night sky when you come to gate of the kingdom, sighing to yourself as the bridge is lowered. Guards come to greet you, but recognize you almost immediately once the hood has been removed. They take the stolen horse as you’re left alone to make your way to the castle.
Where Aoba Johsai was painted greens and blues, chirping birds and a brilliantly blue sky, Fukurōdani was almost the exact opposite. Against the night sky, the rocky scenery added grey gloom to the kingdom with hints of white and black strewn about. Crows and owls were common sights, cawing and looming over businesses and watching you walk through the empty streets. Cobblestone was harsh against your bare feet, you cursing yourself for not taking Oikawa’s shoes, despite the fact they’d be much too large. Bruised and exhausted, you finally make it to the doors of the castle, the guards saluting you as one guides you to where Bokuto is.
The halls are darker, the moonlight shining on the black marble flooring as you pass by golden curtains and decor. Up stairs and past so many areas, you’re in front of Bokuto’s bedchambers, opening the doors to see him sitting on his bed as if he was waiting for you. “Hello, songbird,”
“My lord,” you say, bowing, “I have returned,”
“And I assume good news-“
“I’m back for good. But that’s all the good news I can give. Oikawa lives and I fear he will be willing to fight for my return. I understand any consequences of my actions,” you continue, only standing up right when you finish. Bokuto seems to be in thought, serious in his demeanor before nodding.
“I’m sure you have more details to tell me. But how about we discuss that after you’re cleaned up and dressed in something more comfortable? After all, you are still wearing clothes from a filthy foreign kingdom. I’ll even help you out,” he says, standing from the bed. You say nothing, instead letting him guide you to the bathroom. A luxurious bathroom which suits the moonlit night rather than the setting sun of Oikawa’s bathroom. With Bokuto’s hand on your waist, eagerly diving under your clothes to take them off, you wonder if you should have left.
Oikawa paces in front of his throne, aware of the position you’re in now. Not only are you back beside Bokuto, but you’re definitely a threat to the kingdom. Hanamaki and Iwaizumi are rightfully angry, but Oikawa tells them to relax. With a declaration of war on Fukurōdani, Oikawa needs an ace up his sleeve. With you back in Bokuto’s clutches, he’s almost glad he didn’t tell you everything about his venture into the dark forest.
When the doors open, Oikawa looks up and smiles, stopping his pacing. “Glad you could finally join us.”
Pairing: Yandere Boyfriend × Reader
Description: You thought Iori’s love was safe—until you tried to leave and realized you were never free to begin with.
Warnings: Yandere | Psychological Horror | Manipulation | Isolation | Coercion | Gaslighting | Power Imbalance | Stalking | Obsessive Behavior | Emotional Manipulation | Mild Threats | Intimidation | Implied Non-Con/Dub-Con | Unreliable Narrator
Note: This one's been sitting in my drafts since last December. Was planning to release it before New Year but... hehe... anyway, didn’t remove my OG note. 🤣 ALSO! I'm not busy yet so, hello! Hahahahaha! ENJOY!
(note: happy new year, everyone! thanks for hanging around despite my inactivity most of the time. enjoy!)
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Iori Ishimoto was your boyfriend.
The perfect one, at first.
A man so impossibly kind, so utterly devoted, that it seemed like the universe had crafted him just for you. He was attentive in ways no one else had ever been, watching you with a quiet, unwavering focus that made you feel seen. Cherished. Safe.
At least, that’s what you had believed.
You used to think his devotion was something tender, something precious—how he memorized your coffee order after the first date, how he always pulled you closer on crowded sidewalks, how he texted good morning and good night without fail. He paid attention. To the little things, the fleeting moments. If you sighed after a long day, he already knew what to say to make you smile. If you shivered, his jacket was already around your shoulders before you could even register the cold.
At first, it had been sweet. Then, it became inescapable.
Three months into the relationship, the world around you began to shrink.
At first, it was just your friends cancelling on plans—apologies sent in rushed texts, one after the other, until it became a pattern too obvious to ignore. Then, it was Iori’s misfortunes, so conveniently timed. He would get injured, sick, called away for an emergency right when you were supposed to meet someone.
At first, you dismissed it as coincidence.
But coincidences don’t happen every time.
And so, you tested it.
You didn’t tell him about the next meetup.
Left your phone at home, used cash instead of your card, picked a small café off the beaten path—one he’d never taken you to, one you’d never mentioned before.
And for the first time in months, you felt free.
The café was quiet, filled with the rich aroma of coffee and warm pastries, the soft hum of conversations blending into the background. The familiarity of your friends’ faces brought a deep, forgotten sense of normalcy, of comfort.
But that comfort lasted only a few fleeting minutes.
Something was off.
You noticed it in the way your friends hugged you—warm, but stiff, their hands lingering on your shoulders a second too long, as if checking for something. Their smiles didn’t reach their eyes. They kept glancing at each other, communicating in small, unspoken gestures, their voices light but their shoulders tense.
Then there was Gio.
He sat beside you, close, but not in the way a friend usually would. It was protective. Guarded. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached for his glass of iced tea, his other hand sliding under the table.
A crumpled napkin pressed into your palm.
Confused, you smoothed it out beneath the table.
Your breath caught.
"Don't look behind you. He's in the café."
A chill crawled up your spine.
You swallowed hard, hands suddenly clammy against the paper.
The urge to turn around was overwhelming. The weight of unseen eyes pressed against your back, an unnatural heaviness in the air making it hard to breathe.
Your grip on the napkin tightened.
He was here.
He had always been here.
Gio’s voice was barely a whisper, drowned out by the forced conversation around you. "Are you sure about staying with him?"
Your fingers curled tighter around the napkin.
Iori was kind to you. Gentle. He had never raised his voice, never hurt you. But still, something dark and nameless slithered beneath your skin, something that had been growing for months but had never fully taken shape until now.
"You don't have to stay," Gio murmured. "If things ever—" He exhaled sharply. "If things ever get bad, call me. Call any of us. We'll come for you."
The words should have comforted you.
But instead, they felt like a warning.
And then—
A hand brushed against your shoulder.
You flinched.
One of your friends laughed, the sound loud, abrupt—too forced. A distraction. A diversion. You knew it before you even heard his voice.
"Hey," Iori greeted warmly.
The world around you dimmed.
Slowly, carefully, you turned.
He was smiling.
Calm. Casual. Like this was any other day, like he had just happened to find you here by chance. His dark eyes met yours, unreadable, unwavering.
"I thought you were home today," he said softly.
Your pulse was a deafening roar in your ears.
"I—" The lie caught in your throat, sticky and suffocating.
Iori tilted his head, expression unreadable. Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached out and plucked the napkin from your hands.
Unfolded it.
Read it.
The smile never left his face.
But his fingers curled slowly around the paper, crumpling it again.
For a moment, everything was too quiet.
Then he chuckled. "You always were easily spooked."
The tension shattered with the ease of his voice, like glass breaking in slow motion.
And just like that, the moment passed.
Your friends forced laughter. Someone made a joke. You smiled, pretended.
And yet, when Iori placed a hand on your back, guiding you out of the café, you didn’t resist.
Didn’t even try.
Because somehow, you knew—
It was already too late.
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
You shouldn't have lied when he asked about your day.
Iori had already known. He had always known.
The last thing you remembered was dinner—the soft clink of silverware, the rich taste of wine, the warmth spreading through your body.
Then—nothing.
When you woke, everything was soft. The sheets smelled of fresh linen, the room quiet, dimly lit.
But your body ached.
A deep, lingering soreness, as if you hadn’t moved in days.
Iori sat beside you, fingers idly threading through your hair.
"The pests wouldn’t stop calling," he murmured, his voice light, casual. "So I had to block them all."
Your throat was dry.
He turned your phone over in his palm, watching you. "Oh, and your mother called. She was surprised to hear about me."
The words sent a deep, suffocating dread curling around your ribs.
"You never mentioned me to them." His fingers smoothed over your cheek, deceptively tender. "Are you ashamed of me?"
You swallowed.
"Or..." His grip tightened, fingers curling into your hair.
A sharp pull.
Your gasp barely escaped before his hand yanked your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze.
"Are you afraid of me?"
Your breath shuddered out. His eyes searched yours, waiting. Watching.
Then, after a long moment, he released you.
"I’ll let this pass," he murmured, smoothing your hair back into place. "This time."
Your entire body trembled.
"But there won’t be a next time."
You nodded frantically, a pathetic, desperate movement.
Iori smiled.
"We're visiting your family this weekend," he continued, as if nothing had happened. "I’ll prepare everything for you. As usual."
And deep down, you knew—
You would never truly leave him again.
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
The drive to your family home was quiet.
Too quiet.
Iori’s hands rested easily on the steering wheel, his posture relaxed as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t drugged you. As if he hadn’t pulled your hair back so hard you had to check for bruising at the base of your skull.
He hummed softly, the tune familiar but distant, like something you’d once heard in a dream. The world outside the window blurred past—gray skies, passing cars, the skeletal remains of trees shedding their leaves in the cold.
You didn’t speak.
Neither did he.
But every now and then, his fingers reached across the console to brush against yours.
A gentle, lingering touch.
A reminder.
Your stomach twisted, nausea curling deep in your gut.
You had considered running.
Last night, when he finally fell asleep beside you, you had shifted your aching body to the edge of the bed, inch by inch. His breath had been slow and steady, his warmth suffocating against your side. If you could just make it to the door—
But then his hand had curled around your wrist, fingers tightening.
Even in his sleep, he didn’t let you go.
And in that moment, you had known.
There was no escaping him.
Not now.
Not ever.
The car slowed as he turned onto the familiar street of your childhood home. The sight of it—warm light spilling through the windows, the faint outline of your mother in the kitchen—should have comforted you.
Instead, it made the air in your lungs feel like lead.
Iori parked the car, put it in park, and turned to you. His dark eyes softened, his lips curving into something affectionate.
"Ready, sweetheart?"
You forced a nod.
He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple, his breath warm against your skin.
"Good girl."
The words made your stomach churn.
You stepped out of the car, legs stiff, body tense.
The moment the front door opened, your mother beamed, wiping her hands on her apron before pulling you into a tight hug. "Oh, sweetie! It’s been so long!"
Her embrace should have felt safe. Should have felt like home.
But all you could feel was Iori’s presence behind you.
Standing close. Watching.
His hand found the small of your back, warm and claiming.
Your mother’s attention shifted, her eyes lighting up as she turned to him. "And this must be Iori!"
He smiled—charming, polite, the perfect son-in-law.
"Thank you for having me, ma’am," he said smoothly, bowing his head slightly. "It’s an honor to finally meet you."
Your mother practically swooned. "Oh, you’re just lovely! Come in, come in! I was just finishing up in the kitchen. Your father is in the living room."
She ushered you both inside, the scent of roasted meat and warm spices thick in the air.
Iori's fingers never left your back.
You could feel them through the fabric of your sweater, tracing slow, absent patterns.
Possessive.
The living room was warm and familiar—framed family photos lining the walls, the soft hum of classical music playing from the radio. Your father sat in his usual chair, newspaper in hand.
He looked up, eyes narrowing slightly as he took in Iori. A brief pause. Then, with a small nod, he stood, extending a hand.
"You must be the boyfriend," he said gruffly.
Iori shook his hand, his grip firm but respectful. "It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir."
Your father grunted in approval before turning back to his paper.
Your mother, already smitten, pulled Iori toward the kitchen, gushing over how "handsome" he was and asking if he wanted tea.
You stayed in the doorway, fingers digging into the sleeves of your sweater.
Your father glanced at you over his paper, his brow furrowing slightly. "You okay, kid?"
The words nearly cracked something inside you.
Your lips parted. The truth sat heavy on your tongue, a leaden weight pressing against your ribs.
No.
I'm not okay.
Help me. Please, help me.
But then—
A shadow shifted in the corner of your vision.
You turned your head just enough to see Iori in the kitchen, talking with your mother, his posture relaxed.
And yet—
His gaze flicked to you.
Just for a second.
A brief, fleeting glance.
But it was enough.
Your throat closed.
Your fingers clenched tighter in your sleeves.
And the words never left your lips.
Instead, you forced a smile. "Yeah. Just tired from the drive."
Your father grunted again, already losing interest.
And just like that, the moment passed.
Dinner was a blur of laughter and conversation, your mother practically feeding Iori herself, gushing over how wonderful he was, how lucky you were to have found such a devoted man.
Iori played the part effortlessly.
He smiled at your mother’s jokes, answered your father’s questions with perfect humility, refilled your drink before you even realized it was empty.
And through it all, his hand never left yours.
Lacing your fingers together beneath the table.
Tight.
Restraining.
A reminder.
By the time dinner ended, the air felt thick, suffocating.
Your mother clapped her hands together, eyes twinkling. "Why don’t you show Iori your room while we clean up?"
The words sent a spike of cold terror through your spine.
Iori turned to you, his smile soft, expectant.
You forced a laugh. "Oh, that’s—uh—probably not necessary. Iori’s probably tired from the drive—"
"Nonsense," your mother said, waving a hand. "We wouldn’t want to overwhelm our guest!"
Your stomach churned.
Iori’s grip on your hand tightened ever so slightly.
"Come on, sweetheart," he murmured.
Your mother beamed.
And just like that, you knew.
There was no getting out of this.
Your legs felt heavy as you led him down the hallway, past framed childhood photos, past the memories of a life before him.
You opened the door to your room, stepping inside.
The second the door shut behind you—
His hands were on your hips.
His breath warm against your ear.
"You almost slipped," he murmured, voice light, teasing.
Your pulse pounded in your throat.
"I—"
His fingers trailed up your spine, slow, deliberate.
"But you didn’t," he praised, pressing a soft kiss just beneath your jaw. "Good girl."
Your stomach twisted violently.
His arms circled around you, pulling you against him, his chin resting atop your head.
"You belong with me," he whispered. "You know that, don’t you?"
You swallowed thickly.
He exhaled, content.
"Now," he murmured, "let’s practice what you’re going to say when they ask about us."
Your heart sank.
Because you already knew—
By the end of this night, whatever pieces of yourself you had left wouldn’t be yours anymore.
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
You didn’t sleep that night.
The bed beneath you felt foreign, the childhood blankets that once brought you comfort now stifling, tangled around your legs like shackles. Iori’s warmth pressed against your back, his arm draped over your waist, his breath steady, unbothered.
You stayed still.
Motionless.
Even though every nerve in your body screamed at you to move.
Your parents were just down the hall. A locked door was the only thing keeping them from seeing what was really happening. You could run. You could scream.
But Iori’s fingers rested just over your ribs, his grip lax but ever-present. Even in sleep, he held on.
You had tried once before, after all.
The weight of that failure still ached in your bones.
The night stretched on, the darkness thick and suffocating. The faint glow from the streetlights cast long shadows against the walls, distorting the familiar childhood posters, twisting them into something sinister.
Time crawled.
You counted the hours by the distant chime of the grandfather clock downstairs. The whisper of wind against the window. The soft creak of the house settling.
Then—
A shift.
Iori’s fingers twitched against your side. His breath, once even, stuttered slightly before resuming its slow, measured pace.
Awake.
You knew it before he even moved.
His grip on your waist tightened—just enough for you to notice, just enough to remind you he knew you hadn’t slept either.
"Still awake, sweetheart?" His voice was soft, thick with sleep, his lips brushing against the back of your neck.
You swallowed hard.
A long pause. Then—
"I don’t blame you."
His fingers traced idle patterns against your stomach, slow, languid movements that sent a shudder crawling down your spine.
"It must be overwhelming, right?" His voice was gentle, affectionate. "Being back home. Seeing everyone."
His arm curled tighter around you, drawing you impossibly closer.
"But you’re not really home anymore, are you?"
Your body stiffened.
His lips pressed against your temple, slow, deliberate. "Your home is with me now."
Something cracked deep inside you.
And you hated that part of you that almost wanted to believe him.
The next morning was suffocating.
Your mother’s warmth, once comforting, now felt like a trap. She smiled so easily, beaming as she served breakfast, blissfully unaware of the noose tightening around your neck.
"Iori, dear, you have to try this!" She placed a plate in front of him, her eyes practically twinkling with delight. "This was always her favorite growing up!"
Iori chuckled, the sound light, natural. "Well, if it’s her favorite, then I’m sure I’ll love it."
Your stomach twisted.
Your mother wasn’t just charmed by him—she adored him. Every word from his lips was met with praise, every small courtesy met with gushing appreciation.
She had no idea.
No idea what he was.
No idea that you weren’t eating because of nausea, because the mere act of swallowing felt impossible under his watchful gaze.
"You two are just so adorable," your mother continued, pouring more tea into Iori’s cup. "I can tell how much he loves you."
The words sank into your skin like knives.
Iori turned to you then, his dark eyes soft, filled with something gentle—something manufactured.
"Of course I love her."
His hand found yours beneath the table, lacing his fingers through yours.
You couldn’t pull away.
Not here.
Not now.
He squeezed lightly, an encouragement.
Go on.
Say it back.
Your throat closed.
"She’s always been independent," your mother mused. "I worried she’d never find someone who truly understood her."
Iori’s smile didn’t waver. "She doesn’t have to do everything alone anymore."
There it was.
The final thread being cut.
Your mother—sweet, oblivious—nodded approvingly.
And just like that, you knew.
No one was coming to save you.
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
The drive home stretched on, the silence between you thick and pressing, a weight that sat heavy on your chest. The hum of the engine was steady, unbroken, but each passing mile felt like another nail being driven into the coffin of your freedom.
Iori’s hand rested on your thigh, a steady presence, his fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles against your skin. He hadn’t spoken in a while, but he didn’t need to. His silence was calculated, deliberate—a leash wrapped around your throat, tightened just enough to remind you it was there.
Your family was behind you now. The warmth of your childhood home, the smell of your mother’s cooking, the feeling of safety that had once existed there—it was all gone. Or maybe it had never truly been there at all.
Because no one had seen it.
Not your mother, who had beamed at Iori like he was the best thing to ever happen to you. Not your father, whose watchful gaze had lingered, suspicious, but not enough to say anything. Not your friends, who had tried—who had warned you—but were now little more than distant voices blocked from your phone.
They had all let you leave with him.
And now, here you were, returning to the place you had once thought of as yours.
You swallowed hard, keeping your gaze fixed out the window, watching as the familiar city streets blurred past. The closer you got, the harder it became to breathe. The walls of your apartment—his apartment—were waiting for you. The locked doors. The carefully controlled world he had built around you, where every choice was his to make, every movement his to dictate.
"You did well today," Iori said suddenly, his voice smooth, warm, like the words were meant to soothe.
A chill crawled up your spine.
"You played your part beautifully," he continued, his fingers pressing just a little firmer against your thigh. "Your mother adores me now." A soft chuckle. "Not that I ever doubted she would."
You kept your mouth shut.
His thumb stroked your skin absently, a quiet, rhythmic motion. "And your father… well. He’s still watching, isn’t he?" Another laugh, quiet, amused. "But that’s alright. He’ll stop, eventually. They always do."
A lump formed in your throat.
You wanted to tell him he was wrong.
That your father wouldn’t stop watching. That he had seen something, even if he hadn’t said it aloud. That maybe—maybe—this wasn’t over yet.
But you knew better than to hope.
Iori never let anything slip from his control.
And if there was even the slightest chance of a problem—he would take care of it.
The realization settled in your bones, cold and heavy.
"You almost slipped up," he murmured, so casual, so easy, like he was commenting on the weather.
Your breath caught.
"You thought about saying something, didn’t you?"
The streetlights flickered through the windshield, painting his face in sharp shadows. You couldn’t see his expression fully, but you didn’t need to. You felt it.
Felt the weight of his eyes on you, waiting.
Judging.
Your stomach twisted, nausea curling in the back of your throat.
"I—I wasn’t going to," you managed, your voice hoarse.
Iori hummed, tilting his head slightly. "Mmm." A sound of consideration. Thoughtful. "You’re lying."
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
The fingers on your thigh tightened.
Just enough to make you flinch.
The car slowed slightly, a deliberate action, as if he was giving you time to think.
"You wouldn’t want to disappoint me, would you?"
There was no malice in his tone. No anger. Just soft, patient expectation.
A choice—one that wasn’t really a choice at all.
Your nails dug into your palms.
"No," you whispered.
The car accelerated again.
His grip on your thigh loosened, returning to slow, gentle strokes.
"That’s my girl."
The city grew closer, buildings towering, the streets narrowing as he turned onto the familiar road leading home.
Home.
The word felt foreign now.
The apartment complex loomed ahead, its windows dark and reflective, revealing nothing beyond the tinted glass. You used to find comfort in the sleek, modern structure, in the quiet anonymity of the place.
Now, it felt like a mausoleum.
Iori pulled into the garage, the overhead lights flickering as the car came to a smooth stop. He shifted into park, then turned to you fully, his gaze steady.
"We won’t be doing this again."
It wasn’t a question.
It wasn’t a warning.
It was a fact.
His fingers reached for your chin, tilting your face toward him. His touch was deceptively gentle, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, a ghost of a smile tugging at his own.
"Tell me you understand."
The breath in your lungs felt too thick. Your skin burned where he touched it, every fiber of your being screaming at you to run—fight—do something.
But you didn’t.
You nodded.
"I understand."
His lips curled, satisfied.
"Good girl."
A quiet click.
The car doors unlocked.
And somehow—
That sound was more terrifying than anything he had said.
Pairing: Yandere!Priest x Reader
Description: You are not his lover—you are his altar, his sacred ruin, the pulse beneath every prayer he’s ever whispered into bloodstained hands. To Enoch, devotion means worship through possession, and he would rather see the world burn than let anyone else touch what he believes is divinely his.
Warning/s: Yandere | Obsessive Devotion | Home Invasion | Implied Poisoning | Religious Delusions | Emotional Manipulation | Implied Kidnapping | Psychological Horror | Implied Noncon
Note/s: Enjoy reading! Also, I fucked up a bit irl and behind some bills. Dark Roast is still on sale until end of the month. Also, commissions are still open. Either send me an email or message me on discord (noirscrypt) if interested.
Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar | Dark Roast 50% Off
You feel the roses before you see them. Not the soft, powdered perfume you’d expect from a bridal bouquet, but something heavier—dense and humid, like breath trapped in a crypt. The scent clings, viscous and sweet with decay, steeped in overripe petals and the sharp sting of old blood. They’re waiting for you on the kitchen counter when you return from the final wedding tasting: twelve roses so dark they drink the light, packed in a box too tight, like wet organs stuffed into ribs.
No card. Just an envelope. Sealed.
The wax is unmistakable—red, cracked, pressed with the imprint of an ecclesiastical ring you last saw on the hand of a dead priest. You know that seal. You know that theft. You know who sent it before your fingers even dare to tremble over the parchment.
You were always the altar.
I only ever wanted to kneel.
Let me wash the dust from your feet, one final time.
—E.
James asks who it’s from. You lie. Something about a florist’s mix-up. He hums an off-key tune as he pours wine and scrolls through reception playlists, his fingers brushing yours on the stem of the glass. But you barely feel it. Your skin still remembers the seal—still pulses from the echo of it. That wax might as well have branded you.
Enoch Saintclair.
You haven’t spoken his name in years. Not aloud. Not since you taught yourself not to dream about thunder and stained glass. Once, he was just the silent boy in church with a spine like a cathedral beam and eyes like holy water spoiled in a silver chalice. He smelled of old hymnals and myrrh, always one shadow too still. A former altar boy turned antique dealer with the uncanny grace of someone who never quite belonged to this century.
You sang in the same youth choir. You shared breath in the same confessional box. He once handed you a rose during Lent and carved your name into the wax of a votive candle. You laughed at something small during a storm once—just a joke—and he wrote an entire psalm about the curve of your mouth when you said the word forgive.
He didn’t see you as a girl.
He saw you as a sacred thing.
And instead of running, you smiled.
• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •
The night before your wedding, you lock the door. Bolt the windows. You place James’ wine on the nightstand and watch him drink too deeply, his lips loose with affection and slurred vowels. He falls asleep to the sound of your silence.
You don’t listen for footsteps. You listen for the places where silence folds in on itself. For the way the air changes when something holy goes rancid.
At 2:18 a.m., it arrives.
The temperature dips. The stillness thickens, syrupy and strange, like breath caught in prayer. And you know. Before you open your eyes, you already know.
He’s here.
And when your eyes do open, he’s standing at the foot of the bed—not entering, not arriving, simply being, as though he was never outside the room at all. As though he’s been sleeping somewhere deeper inside you, waiting for this moment like a sacrament.
Enoch stands in the half-light with a porcelain basin in his hands. Ornate. Victorian. Its rim is chipped, kissed by time, and filled with water so dark it gleams like oil. Steam curls from it in rich spirals. The scent of roses hits you first—roses drowned in something metallic, something older, something wrong. Like rust and salt and the slick sweetness of rot.
You don’t scream.
You sit up, throat tight. “You drugged him.”
He waits. Then, calm as candlelight: “He was unclean. He would’ve touched you without reverence. Without worship.”
He moves closer, slow and barefoot, robes of shadow swaying as he kneels beside the bed. The basin rests between you like an offering. He folds his long body into the posture of devotion—head bowed, spine bowed, hands trembling in the space between sin and surrender.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper.
He lifts his eyes to you, and it’s like drowning in sanctified ink. “You don’t believe that.”
Your pulse kicks like a trapped bird. “I’ll call the cops.”
“You won’t.” His voice is velvet, soaked in certainty. “You’re already wondering what’s in the water. Whether it’s holy oil, or rose water, or something redder. You’re wondering if it’s blood.”
You flinch. Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out.
He reaches for your ankle. You jerk back.
He doesn’t chase. He waits.
“Don’t touch me.”
“You said those words once before,” he murmurs. “And then you kissed my hand.”
“I was seventeen—”
“You anointed me.” His smile is the ghost of something unholy. “You touched me, and I bloomed into reverence.”
This time, when he takes your foot, you don’t resist. He dips it into the basin. The water is hot—intimate, obscene, like a mouth against your skin. You feel the heat ripple through you, feel it curl into places untouched. His hands tremble again, but not with hesitation.
With restraint.
He lifts a cloth. Begins to wash you. Slow. Painfully slow. His fingers trace over your arch, between each toe, up the soft skin of your heel like he’s mapping scripture. With every pass, the act becomes more than cleansing. It becomes adoration.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” he says, voice rasping at the edges. “To carry someone in your mouth for years. To speak their name at dawn and dusk. To whisper it into your own skin. To kneel at altars and know—know—that none of them hold your divinity.”
His breath warms your calf. He presses his lips there, a kiss so slow it feels more like a vow.
“I would’ve torn out my tongue if you’d asked. I would’ve burned down every church that dared take your name in vain.”
“Why now?” The question cracks from your throat. “Why not let me go?”
“Because he doesn’t kneel,” Enoch whispers. “He fucks. I worship.”
He switches feet.
You don’t stop him.
The water has gone darker, laced with crushed petals and something thicker. When he lifts the cloth again, it’s already stained red. Beneath the surface, a shimmer of gold catches your eye—a bracelet. Yours. The one you lost your senior year. A single charm dangles from it: a heart, split and hollowed.
“I followed you to college,” he says. “Sat through lectures. Counted how many times you laughed. Knew when it was real. Knew when it wasn’t. I memorized the sound of your lies.”
He kisses your foot again. Slower. Deeper. His lips barely part, but the heat lingers.
“I made a shrine,” he breathes. “Books filled with your notes. Clothes that smelled like you. Hair I gathered from your brush. It was never desecration. It was sacred.”
“You’re sick.”
“I’m yours.”
He rises. The motion is fluid, reverent. His shadow drapes over you as he leans forward. Your back hits the headboard. There is nothing between you but breath and trembling will.
“You’re not afraid of me,” Enoch says, low. “You’re afraid of how right this feels.”
“I’m marrying him.”
“No.” A slow smile spreads across his lips. “He’ll sleep for days. The doctors won’t find a thing. And when they ask, you’ll say you don’t know what happened. Because you’re merciful. Because you’re kind. Because somewhere in you, I’m still the boy you never stopped blessing.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m in love.”
He leans close. You feel his breath in your ear—hot, humid, consecrated.
“I’ve worshipped you in silence long enough.”
Then softer. Deeper.
“Let me serve you in sin.”
• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •
He leaves before dawn. No threats. No chains. No rage.
Only stillness.
You sit there, unmoving, the sheets heavy with him. When you finally rise, your feet leave damp, red prints on the wood. You scrub them. Again. Again. Until your skin peels.
But they stay red.
His scent clings to the sheets—roses and rust and old churches. You light candles. You pray. You try not to tremble.
When you glance out the window, you see it.
A cloth tied to the iron fence.
White. Folded. Bloodied.
An offering.
You want to look away.
But your eyes find the words, stitched in bruised thread along the fraying hem:
Blessed are the broken things...
...for they bend easier to worship.
Pairing: Yandere!Preacher x Reader
Description: You’ve been paraded before the world as a miracle—reborn, beloved, and serene—while inside, you ache with the silent horror of knowing he’s not done with you yet. Beneath white silk and hollow smiles, you brace for the future he’s already decided: one where even your womb belongs to him.
Warning/s: Yandere | Implied Noncon | Implied Breeding | Captivity | Psychological Manipulation | Emotional Trauma | Forced Worship | Identity Erasure | Dissociation | Religious Delusions
Note/s: Yaay! We're finally about to return to regular programming. Jk. I'll be very busy in the next couple of days to work on Sovereign's Reign's ebook as well as Runes of Escape. Still commissions are open (I'm broke af at this point T^T)!
Prequel: The Procession
Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar | Dark Roast 50% Off
The sunlight doesn’t warm you—it presses. Heavy, white-hot, blinding. You feel it baking into your scalp through the veil they pinned too tightly this morning. A cluster of pins digs into your temple, and for a moment, all you can focus on is the slow bloom of pain behind your left eye. But you don’t flinch. You’ve learned stillness. You’ve been taught the performance.
They call it rebirth.
They call it a miracle.
But all you feel is a kind of quiet horror, rising beneath your ribs like cold water.
The air is thick with rose petals and incense. Both cling to your skin, powdery and sweet, making your lungs ache. Your dress—white, of course—is long and flowing, the silk too heavy for the spring heat. Sweat beads at your lower back, slipping slowly beneath layers of fabric. You breathe evenly. You smile faintly. You do not fidget. Not when cameras flash like strobe lights. Not when people cry at the sight of you.
Victor’s hand is wrapped around yours. Gentle. Possessive. His thumb strokes slow, adoring circles over your knuckles. To the crowd, it’s tenderness. To you, it’s the leash.
“My children,” he says, voice rising like a hymn. “We have waited. We have wept. We have wondered if light could ever return to us…”
His voice is music. You’ve heard it in your sleep, through speakers in the walls. You’ve heard it through doors and drugs and dreamless nights. It no longer shocks you how easily he can weep for others. How his eyes glitter with conviction.
“But love,” Victor continues, lifting your joined hands toward the sky, “is stronger than despair. Love cannot die. And today—before you all—this love is returned to us in the flesh.”
The crowd erupts. Cheers. Cries. Chants. Some collapse to their knees, hands outstretched, desperate to touch your hem like you’re a saint. A few are pressed so close to the gate that you wonder if they’re breathing. The gates stay shut. Security lined along the perimeter, robbed in white and gold like angels armed with silent weapons.
You smile on cue.
“My beloved,” Victor says, turning to you, voice soft now, almost reverent. “Tell him what love has given you.”
Your mouth opens, and the words come, slow and deliberate. The same lines you’ve whispered into the dark a hundred times. The same lies you’ve polished into prayer.
“I was lost… and he found me.”
“I was broken… and love made me whole.”
“I was nothing. Now I am reborn.”
They weep.
You breathe.
Victor leans in, so close only you can hear. His breath brushes your ear like a benediction. “You sound perfect.”
You feel hollow. You feel like glass. And yet you stand there, radiant beneath the burning sun, while strangers fall to their knees and call it grace.
They don’t know the price.
They don’t know the pit you climbed out of.
They don’t know it was him who buried you in the first place.
And you smile.
Because if you don’t—if you slip—there are things worse than dying again.
• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •
Later, when the sun has mellowed and your smile is no longer needed, they allow you to walk the garden. The “Sacred Garden,” Victor calls it. A secluded space framed by marble columns and flowering trees, its gravel path winding like a labyrinth. You know the security team lingers somewhere behind the hedges. You’ve seen their shadows, caught the glint of lenses in the leaves. They never stop watching. Even now.
The scent here is real. Less perfumed, more organic. Soil. Leaves. The pale bloom of jasmine climbing the trellis. The wind moves through the trees in a whisper, lifting your skirt and teasing loose strands of hair. You cling to that breeze like it might carry you away. It doesn’t.
Ahead, a young woman kneels by a rosemary bush. She startles when she sees you, then quickly bows her head.
“My lady,” she says, breathless. “You’re walking.”
You nod, hands folded neatly at your front. “Only for a little while.”
“I didn’t think I’d ever see you,” she says, still kneeling, eyes bright with awe. “You’re real.”
You want to say yes. You want to say no. You want to take her by the shoulders and ask her how long she’s been here, how long she’s believed. If she remembers who she was before this place filled her lungs.
Instead, you kneel beside her, carefully, smoothing your dress as you lower yourself. The ground is warm beneath your knees.
“What’s your name?” you ask.
“Evi.”
“Evi.” You let her name roll across your tongue like something fragile. “You have kind eyes.”
She blushes furiously. “I pray for you. Every night. I—I hope that’s not wrong. I just want to be near your light.”
You force yourself to hold her gaze, to let her see kindness in your eyes. “It’s not wrong.”
Evi smiles, and you feel her faith press against you like a vice. Not because she’s naïve—but because she’s certain. She believes in you more than you ever did in yourself.
You reach for the rosemary, pluck a sprig, and press it between your fingers. Its scent is sharp, earthy, real.
“When I was in the dark,” you say quietly, “I dreamed of a garden. I didn’t know it was here. Maybe your prayers led me to it.”
Evi’s eyes shine with tears.
You leave her there, clutching rosemary, bowing her head like she’s touched God.
And all you can think as you walk away is: I have to keep pretending. For her. For everyone. If I stop pretending, I’ll shatter. And if I shatter… he’ll build me again. But worse.
• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •
The night, the room is cold.
It always is. Victor claims it helps you sleep better. “Still air,” he calls it. “Holy air.” You think it’s just another way to keep you quiet.
He brushes your hair at the vanity. You sit silently, watching him in the mirror. His fingers are careful, almost gentle, like he’s afraid you’ll fade if he’s too rough.
“You were breathtaking,” he says softly. “When you smiled… I felt the whole world pause.”
You don’t respond. You focus on the pressure of the brush against your scalp, the cool metal of the chair under your thighs.
“Do you remember what you said?” he asks. “When you first woke up?”
You don’t.
“You said, ‘Am I new?’” His voice softens even more. “You were.”
He sets the brush down, turns you to face him.
“You are.”
Victor takes your hands and kisses your knuckles, one by one. “Everything before… it was just the womb. Pain. Noise. Emptiness.”
He presses your palm flat against his chest. His heartbeat is steady. Real. Human. Terrifying.
“But now,” he whispers, “we’re going to create something that lives forever.”
Your stomach twists.
He leans in, lips at your temple.
“Next Easter,” he says, his voice soaked in awe, “they won’t just witness resurrection. They’ll witness a birth.”
You go still.
Victor smiles against your skin, reverent.
“It’s time for the world to know what our love can create.”
And just like that, you silence becomes a scream you cannot release.
Pairing: Yandere Preacher x Reader
Description: You breathe in the rose-thick air, the gate within reach—freedom close enough to touch—until Father Caelestis’s voice cuts through the silence, warm and terrible, pulling you back into the lie.
Warning/s: Yandere | Emotional Manipulation | Cult | Implied Noncon
Note/s: Enjoy reading! Last chapter tomorrow! Thank you for your continued support!
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Chapter Six | The Breaking of Bread and Will
“To become sacred, one must be shattered.”
• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •
The gardens breathe with life, vibrant and intoxicating in their perfection. Every rose seems impossibly red, their petals gleaming with dew that shimmers like tiny stars. The air is saturated with the smell of earth and blossoms—rich, heady, almost suffocating.Sunlight filters through the trees, golden and soft, casting shadows that dance across the stone paths.
You trace the edges of the roses with your fingers as you walk, the velvet texture grounding you even as your thoughts race. This place is beautiful, meticulously crafted to radiate peace, to make you forget that every step you take is monitored, measured, controlled.
But you haven’t forgotten.
The recorder’s message echoes in your mind, its fractured words gnawing at the edge of your resolve.
“He lied… he lied to all of us. He made me disappear…”
You turn sharply, your gaze sweeping over the garden, searching for cracks in the illusion. The paths are orderly, the flowers perfect, but beyond the walls—beyond the gates—you can almost feel the pull of freedom. You ache for it, crave it, the thought of escape filling your chest with something desperate and wild.
• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •
Mia’s footsteps fall lightly behind you, her presence familiar yet suffocating. She’s humming a soft melody, something sweet and unassuming, as though this moment is just another carefree walk between sisters.
“You’re quiet today,” she says, catching up to you, her smile wide and warm.
You glance at her, your own expression guarded. “Just tired,” you reply, the lie sticking in your throat.
She doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, she loops her arm through yours, steering you toward the fountain. Her touch is light, but you feel the weight of her expectations in every step.
“You’ll feel better after prayers,” she says, her tone soothing, almost maternal. “Father says doubt is just a shadow—it fades when we let the light in.”
You force a nod, your gaze drifting to the far end of the garden. The gate is visible, its iron bars gleaming faintly in the sunlight. You’ve seen it before during your walks, always locked, always guarded. But today, there’s something different—a crack between the bars, a faint sliver of air pushing through the gap.
Your pulse quickens as you study it, the possibility of escape suddenly tangible.
“It really is beautiful here,” Mia continues, her voice breaking into your thoughts.
“It is,” you murmur, though your focus remains elsewhere.
She stops walking, her fingers tightening around you arm, catching your attention.
“You still trust me, don’t you?” she asks softly, her tone laced with vulnerability.
You hesitate, the weight of her question pressing against your chest. You want to trust her, to believe in the friend who once held your secrets, who fought for you, who loved you. But that sister feels so far away now, replaced by someone whose devotion blinds her to the chains tightening around you both.
“Of course,” you say finally, forcing a smile.
Her expression softens, and she exhales, her shoulders relaxing. “Good. Because we’re in this together. Father knows what’s best for us. For all of us.”
Her words linger as she walks away, her pace light, carefree, as though she hasn’t noticed the cracks widening beneath your feet.
• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •
The gate looms ahead, closer than ever, its iron bars cold under your fingertips.
The air outside feels sharper, cleaner, free from the suffocating weight that clings to the compound. You push the gate open just enough to slip through, your movements quick but cautious. Every step forward feels like a victory, the pull of the world beyond filling your chest with hope.
You crave it—freedom.
You crave the chaos of the outside world, its unpredictability, its imperfections. You crave laughter that isn’t measured, love that isn’t conditional, life that isn’t bound by scripture and surveillance.
The wind brushes against your skin, cool and invigorating, and for the first time in weeks, you feel alive.
Then, his voice cuts through the silence.
“Beloved.”
You freeze, dread clawing its way up to your spine as you turn slowly.
Father Caelestis stands a few paces away, his golden robe catching the light, his presence radiant yet oppressive. His posture is relaxed, his expression calm, but there’s something in his eyes—a dangerous intensity that makes your heart race.
Behind him, Mia and Grace follow in silence, their heads bowed, their hands folded in front of them. Their presence feels like a knife twisting in your chest, their betrayal sharp and unrelenting.
“Were you going somewhere?” Caelestis asks, his tone gentle, almost indulgent, like a parent addressing a disobedient child.
You open your mouth, searching for an excuse, but the words refuse to come.
“There’s no need to explain,” he continues, stepping closer. His movements are slow, deliberate, unthreatening, but his presence suffocates you all the same. “I understand.”
His hand reaches for your arm, his grip warm yet unyielding.
“Come,” he says softly. “Let me bring you home.”
You try to step back, but Mia moves behind you, her hand brushing against your shoulder.
“Trust him,” she whispers, her voice trembling slightly.
You glance at her, your breath catching in your throat as you see the reverence in her eyes—the unwavering belief, the blind devotion.
Your gaze shifts to Grace, her expression serene, untouched by guilt or hesitation.
“Mother belongs with us,” she says quietly, her words cutting deeper than any blade.
The walk back to the compound is excruciating. The air feels heavier, the scent of roses suffocating, their sweetness now cloying. Caelestis’s hand remains on your arm, his grip firm but patient, his silence more oppressive than any words. Mia and Grace follow closely, their footsteps echoing in your ears like a chorus of betrayal.
Every step feels like a nail driving into the coffin of your freedom.
• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •
That night, Caelestis doesn’t leave your side.
He sits beside you on the edge of the bed, his shoulders hunched, his face buried in his hands. His tears fall silently at first, but then he lifts his head, his gaze locking onto yours.
“Why?” he whispers, his voice trembling, cracks. “Why do you run from salvation?”
You stare at him, the weight of his presence pressing against your chest, making it difficult to breathe.
“I’ve given you everything,” he continues, his tone rising, shaking with emotion. “I’ve shown you the truth, the light, the path to freedom. Why do you still cling to the darkness?”
His hands reach for yours, his grip warm but trembling.
“Please,” he begs, his voice breaking further. “Let me save you. Let me show you what it means to be whole.”
Your hands tremble in his grasp, your breath uneven as you try to form a response.
“You don’t understand,” you say softly, your voice barely audible.
“Then help me understand,” he pleads, his grip tightening around your hands. “Please, beloved. Show me how to bring you back to the light.”
He doesn’t let go. His fingers tighten around yours, his breathing heavy, uneven. He holds you through the night, whispering vows of devotion, promises of love, and pleas for you to stay.
You are not chained, but the weight of his presence makes it feel as though you are.
• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •
The announcement comes the next morning, his voice carrying through the main hall with the weight of finality.
“The Vessel has been tested,” he proclaims, standing tall on the raised platform. His golden robes gleam in the candlelight, his arms outstretched as the congregation watches in rapt silence. “She has endured purification, reflection, and the trials of doubt. She is ready.”
The devotees erupt into chants, their voices rising in unison, their faith overwhelming, oppressive.
Caelestis turns to you, his gaze steady, his smile impossibly tender.
“The conception is near,” he says softly, his words echoing in your mind like promise—or a threat.
The room hums with devotion, the weight of their belief pressing against you like chains. As their voices grow louder, their faith drowning the air, you feel something inside you crack—ready to break.
