note: i miss writing something for yandere hotline.
MASTERLIST | SERIES MASTERLIST | COMMISSION | TIP JAR
The office is nearly empty at this hour. Only a handful of agents work the late-night shift, and most of them are stationed in separate rooms. Fewer employees mean fewer distractions, and fewer distractions mean higher pay. It’s the trade-off for working at 2 AM, for willingly isolating yourself in a job where disappearances are just another workplace hazard. But the money is good—too good to pass up. And so, you endure.
“And that’s why you’re the only one for me, darling! You get it, right?”
You force a bright laugh, leaning back in your chair as you twirl a pen between your fingers. “Of course, of course. You’re very… devoted.”
The caller on the other end giggles, their voice laced with exaggerated glee. “Right? Ugh, I wish I could just scoop you up and keep you forever!”
Fake.
Like so many others, their words lack the weight of true obsession. You’ve handled enough calls to tell the difference. The ones who call the Yandere Hotline for fun—playing pretend, enjoying the fantasy—are harmless. It’s the real ones you should fear. But, strangely, you never seem to get those.
“Unfortunately, our time is up,” you say, glancing at the timer on your screen. “Thank you for calling.”
“Aww, already? Well, I’ll call again soon, my love! Mwah!”
The line goes dead. You exhale, rolling your shoulders as the weight of another empty interaction slips off of you. The pay is good, but the work is draining. Playing the role of someone’s darling for hours on end wears at you in ways you don’t want to acknowledge. It’s why you’ve been looking for a way out.
You minimize the call interface and pull up the job listings you were browsing earlier. Nothing great. Mostly low-paying positions that won’t cover your expenses. Still, anything is better than this place. The way management ignores the disappearances. The way you feel eyes on you even when you’re alone. The way—
Your headset beeps. A new call. No caller ID.
Your stomach tightens.
You hesitate for just a second before answering. “Hello, and thank you for calling the Yandere Hotline. Who am I speaking with today?”
Silence.
Then, a soft sigh crackles through the line. “You’re still here.”
The voice sends an odd shiver through you. Familiar. Low, smooth, and intimate in a way that makes your skin prickle. You shift in your chair, eyes flickering toward the CCTV camera in the corner. The red light glows steadily, watching.
“I thought you’d be gone by now,” the caller continues, voice lined with something almost… relieved. “I saw what you were searching for.”
Your breath stills. The job listings. The open tabs on your screen.
He knows.
“I—I don’t know what you mean.”
A soft chuckle, almost sad. “Don’t do that. Don’t lie to me.”
Your fingers tremble over the keyboard. There’s no flagging system, no way to report calls. The company doesn’t care what happens to you, as long as you keep answering. The only way out is to leave, but even that feels impossible now.
“I get it, you know,” the caller—no, Elias—continues. His voice is so gentle, so coaxing, like he’s trying to soothe a frightened animal. “You need money. You need stability. I understand. That’s why I’ve been helping.”
You swallow hard. “Helping?”
“I’ve been keeping you safe,” Elias murmurs. “Blocking the real ones. Letting the fakes through. They can pretend all they want, but they’re harmless. I made sure of that. I made sure you only had to deal with the easy ones.”
Your heart pounds. The rerouted calls. The strange drop-offs. The fact that you never—never—get the ones who are truly dangerous. It all makes sense now.
“How?” you whisper.
“I have access to the system,” Elias admits. “I wasn’t going to interfere at first. I was going to take down this whole disgusting place. But then… I heard you.”
His breathing stutters, as if just remembering that moment is too much. “I found you.”
Your mouth goes dry. He’s been there all along. Watching from the other side of the line. Pulling strings. Keeping you in a controlled bubble, away from those who would actually take you.
And now, you’re trying to leave it.
“I tried to be good,” he says, voice shaking. “I thought I could just listen. Protect you from afar. But you’re slipping away from me.”
A pause. A raw, desperate inhale.
“Please don’t leave.”
His voice is barely above a whisper now, reverent, pleading. “You don’t understand what it’s like for me. Knowing you’re there, but not being able to reach you. Not being able to hold you. I can’t—” He cuts off, his breath coming ragged. “I don’t want to do anything extreme. But if you go… if you disappear from me, I won’t have a choice.”
Your fingers curl into a fist. “You wouldn’t.”
Silence.
Then, so soft you almost miss it—
“Try me.”
A sharp shiver races down your spine. You glance toward the CCTV camera again, half-expecting something—someone—to be standing beneath it. But there’s nothing. Just the blinking red light.
Elias exhales shakily. “Say my name again.”
You hadn’t even realized you said it. But now, the air between you feels heavier, thick with something suffocating.
The line crackles.
“I could make it so no one else gets to hear you.”
The line hisses, the static thickening like something alive, slithering into your ears. The light on the CCTV flickers once. Twice.
Then, for the first time, it turns off.
And the screen of your computer—your only tether to the outside world—goes black.
A new message appears.
LOOK BEHIND YOU.
The office lights flicker—then cut out entirely.
The room plunges into darkness, the only glow coming from your now-useless monitor. Your breath catches, ears straining for any sound beyond the hum of the dead air.
A faint creak.
The hairs on the back of your neck rise.
Shadows shift against the dim glow of your screen. There shouldn't be anyone here. You're the only one working this late—
Then, the dim reflection on your blacked-out monitor shifts.
A shape. A figure standing just behind your chair.
tw:yandere, implied abuse, implied isolation, implied kidnapping, implied past punishment, waka and omi being the most terrible human beings, shin and benkei softly gaslighting, non-consensual tattooing, murder mention, reader doesn't have a good time, objectification, marking, cigarette burns, scars, swearing, sexual themes implied
note: poly!yandere!1st gen black dragons has a grip on my stupid brain
no proofreading
comments and reblogs are appreciated <3
english isn't my native language
this is for my beloved @p-antomime <3
based on this post and this post <3
In the dark of your room, or prison as you call it, you lay on the bed. Your body is sore, your throat hurts for how much you screamed a few hours prior, you couldn’t feel anything other than soreness and fatigue.
How many hours passed? Sincerely you don’t care anymore. Even if you try to guess the hour, nothing could change. you would still be there, in that damned room, alone and tired.
On your cheeks there are still traces of your tears, now dried and a symbol of your despair.
You look at the wall trying to receive some kind of comfort but in vain.
Closing your eyes, your mind makes you recall all the happy memories you experienced in all your life before them…
They took everything from you: your freedom, your autonomy, your dignity, your dreams and your hope.
Now you can only feel despair and nothing else. Still lost in your thoughts, you don’t hear the door opening and various footspes reaching the bed.
“Waka maybe it's best, if we don’t bother her. Her body hasn’t recovered yet.” protests Keizo worried about you.
“Oh, like I care about what she likes or not.” Wakasa remarks codly.
Shinichiro sits next to you on the bed, caressing your head, kissing gently your stained cheeks.
“Princess are you awake? Do you need something?” Shinichiro asks, shaking you a little.
“Oi (y/n) you ungrateful brat, you better respond if you don’t want to get hurt once again.” Takeomi interferes, threatening you.
Optining for not making them angry, you open your eyes and with the help of, oh-so-kind Shinichiro, you sit up.
“I’m awake, Omi-kun.” you quietly respond. You try your best to not cringe after calling him like that.
You loathe calling them by their nicknames, acting like you are in some kind of relationship.
One time you had the brilliant idea to lash out on them, saying that you five didn’t have and never will have a relationship. You screamed that you despise all of them and they will never be your lovers but only captors.
Bad idea
Takeomi and Wakasa didn’t take your little outburst really well, and that same night, they punished you badly. Really bad.
Keizo and Shinichiro stayed on the sidelines, they thought you acted like a fucking brat. They don’t understand what you want, you can have everything you want. Just a word and the entire world will be at your feet.
Maybe you just need more time, so you can fall in love with them and then you five will be happy forever.
Your body still has the bruises of that dreadful night.
“Me and Benkei cooked your favorite dish, aren’t you hungry princess?” Shinichiro questions smiling.
You nod quietly, while Benkei covers your body with his gang jacket.
“Now let’s eat before it becomes cold.” he smiles before leading to the dining room.
Takeomi and Wakasa watch every movement ready to attack at your first error. Like predators ready to pounce on their prey.
You gulp, feeling their harsh gazes on your back, and stay as near as possible to the other two.
You ate as quickly as possible, so you could be alone in your room, without feeling their eyes on your body. It disgusted you so much, you felt dirty and violated in your intimacy.
Today luckily you can sleep alone, because they have to do something with the gang. Not that you care but that means you can be free for a few hours.
As soon as they got out of the house, not after reminding you what will happen if you even dare to think of escaping, you bolted in your room.
Collapsing on the bed you begin to cry and let out all your emotions. You can’t do this anymore, you can’t live like this. Waking up every morning with the fear of upsetting them at every chance, it’s tiring and you are tired of fighting against them.
You are all alone in this world, your parents are probably dead, your friends either dead or missing or abandoned you.
You sit up on the bed and make contact with the mirror near your bed.
You…
You’re the former shell of your old self, you’re a mess both physically and mentally.
Your dull (e/c) look at your injured body. Cigarette burns, scars, purple bruises, hickies, bites decorate your body alongside your new "present" from your so-called "boyfriends".
They tattoed their fucking names and their fucking gang’s logo on your body.
Between your breasts there’s Shinichiro’s name. He chose that place because “it’s my favorite place in the whole world”. He loves marking your chest with hickeys and now that there’s his name, he feels even more proud of his mark on your body.
Wakasa’s name is on your tummy right above your pussy, a reminder as Wakasa says “whose pussy is this”.
Takeomi loves seeing his little property uncomfortable, so he tattooed personally his name on your inner thigh, also a reminder of who fucks that sluttish cunt.
Keizo, oh sweet Keizo, he chose your hip so you could feel less hurted. He loves having his big hands on your smaller body and his name written on your hip is perfect.
If you close your eyes, you can still hear your screams when Keizo had to physically restrain you, while Shinichiro tried his best to calm you down. Takeomi and Wakasa prepared everything, and the bastards took great time listening to your screams and pleas to let you go.
If it wasn’t enough, they also inked their fucking gang’s logo on your back.
You are marked entirely as theirs and you can just despair.
Sobbing you plop down once again on your bed. Exhausted you fall asleep, hoping that when you will wake up you would be anywhere else but not there with them.
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!Botanist x Reader
Description: You thought you were just pulling away, reclaiming your space—but to Elijah, your silence was a symptom, your distance a sickness. And now, as the world withers around you, he offers the only cure: himself.
Warning/s: Yandere | Emotional Abuse | Psychological Manipulation | Gaslighting | Isolation | Implied Stalking | Codependency | Unhealthy Relationship | Coercion
Note/s: Enjoy reading! Let me know what you think about this one. Oh. Also, I'll be posting the next chapters of sanctum on my ko-fi in advance while updating the holy week special on a daily basis.
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The first time you meet Elijah, your hands are buried in dirt and your hair sticks to your forehead under the heat of an early summer sun. The community garden is smaller than you imagined—two raised beds, a few vertical trellises, and a compost bin that smells like fermented greens. You’re there because you wanted something wholesome. Something grounding. Something real.
He doesn’t say much at first.
You glance over, catching him crouched by the snap peas, methodically checking their growth. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing pale forearms speckled with soil. A pair of glasses slide down the bridge of his nose, and his hair is slightly too long, curling at the nape. You can’t help staring when he gently touches one of the vines, his thumb brushing along its fragile tendrils like he’s afraid to bruise it.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low and smooth, like soil soaked in rain.
“You’re digging too shallow. The roots will struggle.”
You blink, startled. “Oh. Sorry—I haven’t really done this before.”
He tilts his head, eyes soft but scrutinizing. “No need to apologize. You’re just new.”
He shifts closer and takes the trowel from your hand, demonstrating the motion with slow, deliberate precision. “Think of the plant like a child. It won’t thrive unless it feels safe. You have to give it enough depth to breathe, but not so deep that it drowns.”
You’re a little embarrassed at how seriously he takes it, but something about the way he talks—the reverence, the quiet care—it draws you in.
Over the next few weeks, he keeps his distance. But he always watches. Always helps when you’re struggling. The first time he smiles at something you say, you feel like you’ve coaxed a sunflower to bloom in winter.
“Elijah’s like a Victorian ghost,” your friend Lila jokes one evening when you meet for coffee. “Are you sure he’s real?”
“He’s… interesting,” you admit. “I think he just takes time to warm up.”
Nathan, your other friend, raises a brow. “He’s hot in that tortured poet way. Just don’t let him convince you that sadness is sexy.”
“He’s not sad,” you say, a little more defensively than intended. “He’s thoughtful. He talks about plants like they’re people.”
Lila sips her drink. “Okay, but does he talk to people like they’re plants?”
You laugh with them then. But a part of you remembers the way he’d touched your wrist last weekend, gently turning your hand over to examine a burn you hadn’t even realized you’d gotten from the kettle.
“You need tending,” he’d murmured. “You bloom better under the right care.”
You hadn’t known what to say, so you just smiled.
• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •
Your visits to the garden become regular. Every Saturday morning, sometimes Sunday afternoons. Elijah’s always there before you, already working. You bring him iced tea once. He accepts it with a quiet nod, then takes exactly one sip before going back to trimming a stubborn vine.
It’s not romantic. Not yet. But there’s a rhythm to it. You talk about your week. He listens without judgment. Sometimes he says strange things—asks you what kind of soil you think your heart would grow best in. Wonders aloud if your sadness feels more like drought or frost.
But he’s never cruel. Never impatient.
Until you stop showing up.
It isn’t intentional. Work gets busy. You’re offered a freelance project and you start seeing someone new—briefly. Elijah texts you once: Missed you today. Then again, two days later: The lilies drooped without you.
You don’t respond.
Lila invites you to a birthday dinner, and Nathan brings his newest situationship. You sip wine and listen to them complain about dating apps and flaky coworkers and overpriced rent.
“So, have you seen your ghost gardener lately?” Nathan teases. “Or did he finally return to the soil?”
You hesitate, twirling your glass. “He texted a couple times, but I’ve been swamped.”
Lila leans in. “You ghosted him, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t mean to.” You laugh. “I just got caught up in things.”
“You should probably clear the air,” she says. “Guys like that? The quiet ones? They internalize everything. He’ll think it’s his fault.”
You glance down at your phone. No new messages.
Later that night, as you unlock your apartment door, you pause.
There’s a package on your welcome mat. Wrapped in plain brown paper and twine. Inside: your basil plant. The one Elijah helped you grow. Its leaves are shriveled. The soil is cracked and dry.
There’s no note. Just the plant. Dead.
You bring it inside anyway. You tell yourself it’s nothing.
But the next morning, your heater breaks.
• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •
It starts slow.
Lila stops responding to your texts. Nathan leaves your messages on read. You think they’re just busy—until your name is quietly removed from the group chat. Your landlord claims your rent was late, even though you paid early. Your emails to HR vanish into the void. Your favorite café closes down without notice.
You tell yourself it’s all coincidence.
But when you return to the garden one cold, gray Sunday, Elijah is there—waiting.
“You look paler,” he says, setting down a watering can. “Thinner.”
“I’ve been stressed.”
He nods, like that explains everything. “I noticed the apartment building next to yours has mold in the foundation. Black mold. Very dangerous.”
You freeze. “How do you know that?”
“I keep up with things.”
He hands you a cup of tea—your favorite blend. You take it without thinking, hands trembling slightly.
“I didn’t mean to ghost you,” you say. “I just needed space.”
He watches you over the rim of his glasses. “Space is a myth. Even the stars are drawn to gravity.”
“Elijah—”
He touches your wrist. Not forcefully. Just enough to stop your words.
“I let you go,” he murmurs. “I let you wilt.”
“You’re not responsible for me.”
He tilts his head. “Then why are you here?”
You don’t have an answer.
You sip the tea. It’s warm. Soothing.
But the aftertaste is bitter.
• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •
You start seeing him more.
Because when he’s around, things work. Your electricity stays on. Your fridge hums. The walls don’t creak at night. The outside world feels far away—muted, distant. You stop trying to reach Lila. Your calls never connect.
One night, Elijah brings soup. You haven’t eaten all day.
He sets the bowl on the counter, then steps closer. “You look tired.”
“I haven’t been sleeping.”
He frowns, brushing a thumb beneath your eye. “Insomnia is a symptom. Lack of care. Dehydration. Depletion.”
“Of what?”
He doesn’t answer.
He just hands you the spoon.
Later, when you try to call Nathan, your phone screen glitches. The number says disconnected.
You turn to Elijah, who’s watching from the doorway, calm and unreadable.
“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” you whisper.
He steps forward, places his palm over your chest like he’s testing the pulse of a root system. “You’re not dying. You’re just malnourished.”
“I feel like I’m disappearing.”
“No,” he says, with that same quiet reverence from the garden. “You’re just being… repotted.”
• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •
The worst part isn’t that he keeps you.
It’s that you let him.
Because when he holds you, you’re warm. When he murmurs to you in the dark, you forget what loneliness feels like. He tells you that you’re doing better. That you’re stabilizing. That your eyes are brighter now, and your spirit more rooted.
He brings you a mirror one morning, tilts it toward you.
“See?” he says softly. “No more drooping. No more decay.”
You stare at your reflection. Skin paler than you remember. Cheeks hollow. Lips dry. But your eyes—yes. They shine. Not with life, but with devotion.
He touches your chin. “You needed pruning. That’s all. Just a little guidance.”
“I… don’t remember who I was before.”
“You were starving,” he says. “And no one noticed but me.”
You start to cry.
He pulls you into his arms.
“There, there,” he whispers. “Don’t cry. You’ll waste water.”
You clutch him tightly, because you’re afraid.
Afraid that without his hands, you’ll collapse.
Afraid that he’s right.
That all along, you were just a flower planted in the wrong garden.
Pairing: Yandere!Attorney x Reader
Description: You didn’t realize you were being sanctified until love felt like confession and every loss smelled faintly of lilies. To Desmond, you’re not a person—you’re a temple he’s cleansing, one sin at a time.
Warning/s: Yandere | Psychological Manipulation | Emotional Abuse | Gaslighting | Obsession | Implied Stalking | Religious Delusions | Isolation | Non-graphic Violence
Note/s: Regular yandere stuffs will return after holy week. Also, updating Sanctum later. I'll just cook something in a bit ^^ Anyway, enjoy!
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The first time you meet Desmond Vale, the city feels like it’s trying to wash itself clean.
Rain slams against the sidewalks in sheets, relentless and metallic. Your breath fogs in front of your face, fingers gone numb from clutching the remains of your broken umbrella—its ribs twisted like bones, nylon clinging to the frame like a soaked shroud. A gust of wind steals it from your grasp, flipping it inside-out and sending it tumbling down the curb like trash. You let it go. You’re already drenched.
Desperation guides your steps more than logic. You duck into the nearest building without reading the plaque out front. Warm air brushes against your face the moment the heavy doors shut behind you, cocooning you in silence. The chill clinging to your clothes doesn’t leave, but the calm wraps around your spine like a soft-spoken command: Be still.
The lobby is grand—cathedral ceilings, dark wood paneling, gold inlays on marble floors so polished they gleam like oil-slick water. A single chandelier hangs above, its light diffused and low, almost reverent. No one’s rushing around. It’s not that kind of place.
And then you see him.
He stands by the reception desk, speaking quietly with a woman in a crisp blazer. He’s turned halfway toward her, posture regal and untouched by the mundanity of things like weather or chaos. His gloves—yes, gloves, even indoors—are black leather, unwrinkled and fitted like a second skin. Silver cufflinks wink at his wrists. His hair slicked back with the kind of discipline that demands hours, and not a strand is out of place. Everything about him is meticulous.
But it’s his eyes that still you.
Deep-set. Intense. Quietly devout.
They settle on you the way a confessional draws out sin.
You feel… seen.
Not noticed. Not admired. Seen, in the biblical sense—naked and bare and judged, all at once.
He takes a single step forward.
“Are you lost,” he asks, voice low and measured, “or just in need of sanctuary?”
The question is absurd. You’re dripping all over the imported marble. You look like a stray dog dragged in by the storm. But he speaks with a kind of weight that makes you want to answer. It’s not kindness. It’s invitation—solemn, unspoken, already half-written in your name.
Your lips part before your mind catches up. “Just… waiting for the rain to pass.”
He inclines his head, just slightly. “It always does. But in the meantime…” He gestures to a leather bench near the window. “No one deserves to weather a storm alone.”
• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •
You return the next week.
This time, on purpose.
You tell yourself it’s because of the law library upstairs. Free to the public. That’s what the sign outside says. But you find yourself glancing down corridors you have no reason to explore, eyes searching for a flash of silver cufflink or a slow-turning silhouette.
And he’s there.
Desmond Vale. Defense attorney, philanthropist, local saint.
He greets you like you’re expected. Offers coffee in porcelain cups with saucers. Talks in low, thoughtful tones about justice, about morality, about the sacredness of truth.
“I defend the fallen,” he says one evening, as you sit with him in a small reading room that smells of old pages and cedarwood polish. “Even the guilty deserve someone who sees them.”
You nod. You don’t know what you’re agreeing with. But his voice threads through your chest like incense smoke, warm and dizzying.
You talk, and talk, and talk.
You don’t realize how much it’s too late.
You tell him about a professor who used to humiliate you in front of your peers. How he’d sneer at your work, call your insights “juvenile.” You laugh it off, say it’s in the past.
Desmond doesn’t laugh. He watches you, silent and still.
“Did he ever lay hands on you?” he asks.
You blink. “No. Nothing like that.”
He nods, slowly. “Pain doesn’t always bruise the skin.”
He doesn’t say anything else that night.
But two weeks later, your phone lights up with news alerts. The professor has resigned. Accusations of misconduct. Unverifiable claims. Whispers of scandal. Nothing that sticks.
No one can prove anything.
But he’s gone.
You sit there in your apartment, phone heavy in your hand, heartbeat drumming an unfamiliar rhythm.
When you bring it up to Desmond—half-laughing, half-nervous—he simply smiles.
“God works in mysterious ways,” he says.
• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •
A pattern emerges, and you try not to see it.
A coworker teases you about your wardrobe. “Trying to dress up for someone? Someone important?” You roll your eyes and joke about it to Desmond that night over dinner—he started inviting you more regularly now, preparing candlelit meals in his unnervingly pristine townhouse.
“She mocks what she envies,” he says, carefully slicing into his food. “You wear your spirit plainly. It unsettles the weak.”
You smile, uncertain.
A week later, she’s gone. Fired. Some internal HR complaint. You never learn the details.
Then your friend Tara—sweet, messy, always late Tara—starts acting strange. She doesn’t return your calls. She avoids your eyes when you run into her on the street.
You remember the last time you saw her, how you’d told Desmond about her flaking on your birthday. You said it didn’t matter, but something in his eyes flared then—like a lit match held to wet paper.
Now Tara’s gone cold. You try to reach her again, but it’s like she disappeared.
“You’re too trusting,” Desmond says one evening as you sip wine by his fireplace. The flames reflect in his eyes, casting long shadows on his face. “You let the unworthy nest in your soul. I’ve simply… cleared the rot.”
You freeze, glass trembling in your hand.
He leans in.
“I’m just removing what doesn’t belong in your temple.”
• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •
You try to distance yourself.
You make excuses. Say you’re busy. Say you’re reconnecting with other friends. You stop answering his texts right away. You shut your phone off one night and stay out late—something you haven’t done in weeks.
The next day, your friend tells you her apartment was broken into. Nothing taken. Just drawers ransacked. Underwear disturbed. Cabinets opened and left ajar like someone was cataloging her life.
You feel nausea twist through your gut.
Desmond shows up at your door that evening with white lilies and a look of quiet concern.
“Rebirth,” he says, handing you the bouquet. “It’s what comes after decay.”
You don’t speak. He kisses your forehead gently, and for a second, you think you might collapse in his arms from the sheer weight of everything you can’t prove.
• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •
One night, you gather the courage.
You stand in his impossibly clean kitchen, heart in your throat, words buzzing like flies under your tongue.
“I need space.”
He doesn’t react at first. He’s polishing a wine glass, the sound of the cloth against crystal a soft, slow rhythm.
When he sets it down, he turns to you.
His face is unreadable. But not blank. Never blank. There’s always something simmering beneath—like embers under stone.
“Do you know what happens when you remove a candle from the sanctuary before it’s ready?” he asks.
You don’t answer.
“The flame weakens. Sputters.” His voice drops to a near-whisper. “Dies.”
Your mouth is dry. “I’m not a candle.”
“No,” he agrees. “You’re the altar. And I’ve scraped every blasphemy from your surface.”
You feel cornered. There are no locks on the door. No cages. And yet, when he takes a step closer, you feel the walls press in.
“You would desecrate your temple for them?” he breathes, hurt laced in his disappointment like barbed wire dipped in honey. “After all I’ve done to purify it?”
“I didn’t ask you to!” you snap, the words trembling out of you.
He cups your cheek, gloved thumb brushing your skin. “You didn’t need to. Deliverance is never begged for. It’s granted.”
• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •
You try to leave.
But your family misses your calls. Messages you swore you sent are never received. Friends forget plans. Doors close. Desmond’s world remains open—welcoming, warm, untouched by the static of outside life.
You sit in his garden one afternoon, surrounded by trimmed hedges and white roses that smell like cleanliness. He kneels nearby, trimming thorns with delicate precision.
You speak without looking at him.
“What if I’m still… tainted?”
He doesn’t pause.
He sets the sheards down, removes his gloves. His bare hands are scarred, as though he’s bled for you a hundred times over.
He kneels in front of you, lifting your hand to his lips. His kiss is featherlight.
“Then I will cleanse you too.”
You close your eyes.
And somewhere in the distance, in a place you’ve forgotten how to reach, a part of wails.
Pairing: Yandere!Architect x Reader
Description: You survived the fire, but Magnus Wren won’t let the world know that. To him, you’re safest buried beneath his home—tucked in silk and candlelight, where no one can hurt you but him.
Warning/s: Yandere | Obsession | False Death | Captivity | Gaslighting | Psychological Horror | Manipulation | Isolation
Note: Enjoy reading! Let me know what you think. Also, if you can, buy me a coffee? We're almost done with this special TuT
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The ceiling never changes.
Soft beige stone—polished, artificial, too perfect to be real—curves above you in an unbroken dome, as if you’ve been laid to rest inside a snow globe. Not a chip, not a crack, only brushstrokes made to mimic age and erosion. He even carved water stains into the corners where no water will ever touch. A mausoleum preserved in stillness. A stage set for grief.
The worst part is that it’s beautiful.
Everything is.
The walls, lined with shallow recesses and flickering candlelight, cast dancing shadows that never seem to flicker the same way twice. The bed you lie in is made of hand-carved oak, the posts sanded smooth, wrapped in white silk and gauze like a bridal veil. The air always smells faintly of lavender and cedar—like preservation. Like embalming.
You’ve counted the seconds between the door’s opening and the sound of his footsteps. You've memorized the rhythm of Magnus’s breath when he lingers just outside, as if working up the nerve to see you again. Sometimes he waits for minutes. Long ones. But he always comes in eventually.
This time, it takes thirty-seven seconds. The hinges creak, soft and slow, as if he’s easing open a sanctuary instead of a cell.
You don’t move. Not yet.
You stay curled under the weight of the blankets, your hand curled around the hem like it might tether you to yourself. It doesn’t. He walks in with reverent steps, carrying a tray that doesn’t clatter even once. Always the same ritual—porcelain, linen, the scent of tea steeped just long enough.
“Still pretending to sleep?” he murmurs, voice low and affectionate. “You always used to do that when you didn’t want to go to school.”
Your chest tightens.
You feel the mattress shift as he sits on the edge, his presence heavy with tenderness, suffocating in how familiar it is. He places the tray on the nightstand with a gentle clink, then runs his hand down the length of the blanket until his fingers find your wrist.
“I brought chamomile. It used to help with your breathing,” he says, stroking your pulse with the pad of his thumb. “You had that cough last week. Remember?”
You remember coughing so hard you retched. You remember the blood at the corner of your mouth, and the way he looked at it like it was proof of something. Like it made you more fragile. More his.
You swallow and slowly turn your head toward him, eyes catching the golden flicker of candlelight reflected in his.
“I’m not sick anymore.”
His face changes almost imperceptibly—eyes narrowing just slightly, lips pressing into a thoughtful line. “No,” he agrees. “But it doesn’t mean you’re well.”
“Let me outside.”
His smile is calm. As gentle as it is dismissive. “You don’t want that.”
“I do.”
“No,” he says again, almost tenderly. “You think you do. But that was before. Before the fire. Before everything fell apart. You’ve been through so much. It’s all right to rest now.”
You shift upright, propping yourself on an elbow, the silk blanket sliding off your shoulder. The air down here is always warm. Just warm enough to remind you that it isn’t natural. That something’s wrong.
“I’m not tired,” you lie, though your bones feel hollow. “And I don’t need rest. I need—”
“What?” Magnus’s eyes flick up, just briefly. He doesn’t raise his voice, but something in his tone sharpens. “To run again? To claw your way through ash and ruin just to be alone again? To burn?”
You flinch, and he softens instantly, reaching for you. You jerk your arm away before he can touch your cheek, and he withdraws with a slow, patient sigh, hands folding in his lap like he’s praying.
“I didn’t burn,” you say, voice trembling. “I survived. There’s a difference.”
He stares at you for a long moment, eyes distant. Then, so quietly you almost miss it, he says, “Not to them.”
“What?”
“They all think you’re dead.” His gaze returns to you, quiet, devastating. “There was nothing left to bury. Just a shoe. Melted metal. Blood. It wasn’t yours, but they didn’t know that. The coroner didn’t ask questions.”
You feel the color drain from your face.
“You’re lying,” you say.
“No.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled. “Your mother collapsed when they told her. Your father didn’t speak for days. And your coworkers… they just assumed it was an accident. A tragic one. No one looked harder. No one questioned it.”
He pauses, then adds with chilling gentleness, “Except me.”
A cold silence stretches between you.
Then he rises, slow and graceful, like a man leaving a shrine. He walks to the far side of the room, where the walls are lined with models—miniatures of churches, cathedrals, sanctuaries. Some of them you recognize from his portfolio. Others are stranger. Subtler. You realize one of them is this room, rendered perfectly in stone and glass and wood, right down to the placement of the candlesticks.
He stands before it in silence.
“You remember when we were kids?” he says suddenly. “You told me your dream house would be underground. A place no one else could find. ‘So no one could get in unless I wanted them to.’” He turns, eyes glassy. “I listened.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s what I heard.” His voice breaks slightly, not with emotion—but with certainty. The kind of break that comes when a man’s convinced the world has already proven him right.
“I never wanted this.”
“But it’s safe,” he insists. “No more pain. No more strangers. No more fear. You don’t have to perform anymore. You don’t have to wake up wondering who will leave next.” His voice lowers, turns almost childlike. “You don’t have to be afraid of being alone. Not anymore. I’m here.”
Your throat tightens.
You try to summon rage. Grief. Anything but this creeping, terrible fatigue that has followed you since the night he pulled you from the smoke. Not carried. Dragged. You remember choking on your own breath, and the last thing you saw was his face—calm, soot-smeared, eyes lit with something you couldn’t name.
He didn’t ask if you wanted to be saved.
“I can’t live like this,” you whisper.
Magnus crosses the room in two strides. He kneels beside your bed, takes your face in his hands, and presses his forehead to yours with devastating gentleness.
“You don’t have to live,” he breathes. “You just have to stay.”
note: saw some bonten!michi drawing on twt and i couldn't stop thinking about him <3
also no proofreading
Thinking about platonic yandere!bonten!Michi, who after seeing his beloved big sister, you, dying over and over, decides for your well-being to create bonten with mikey, so he can protect you.
By "protect you" he means kidnapping you and keeping you in his luxurious penthouse, away from society and any type of harm <3
He just wants to keep you safe <3
Uhm? Why are you crying and screaming at him?
He swears he won't hurt you, he just want you to be safe and sound, you deserve to live and he can't and couldn't stand you dying again
You still want to rebel...
Well he will ask Sanzu to drug you, don't worry you just need time to accept your new life <3
tell me more about yandere!manipulative!shin aria i beg
rekha sweetie i can make 10 essays about yandere!manipulative!shin
warning: yandere, no proofreading, mention of psychological torture, isolation and blackmail, manipulation
first of all, shinichiro as yandere is highly manipulative, he can exploit your weaknesses as he likes, he can mould your words and make you doubt of yourself.
and you can’t even think that he could do something like that, shin is such a good guy. he has a cool job, he quitted his delinquent phase, he takes care of his siblings, how he can be a terrible guy?
shin was the leader of black dragons for a reason, he may be not strong enough but he is a charmer and can attract people (as takeomi himself said during chap. 230)
he has no problem using dirty ways to obtain his darling, he is a sore loser and he hates losing. he will win no matter what.
if his darling misbehaves, shin will not physical punish her (it can happen only if his darling really pissed him off which is a big problem) but rather he would lock her in a room with little food and water. this isolation can last a few days or weeks, depending on his darling’s behaviour. after that he will manipulate her saying that he didn’t wanted to do that, but she forced him to do that.
