hey hi! Can you do yandere France x reader romantic headcanons where reader who's considers themselves a loser? Like they're not really outgoing, doesn't really have social life, doesn't really leave their house. Just basically a girlfailure. Thanks! And I really enjoyed your writing ^v^
Characters/fandom/pairing : François Bonnefoy — France 🇫🇷 [Hetalia] x Fem! Reader
Warning : [YANDERE] character · unhealthy creepy behavior · stalking · gaslighting · manipulation · physical assault
》 Note 》 ahem.... i went quite for a long long time, a year that is oh my goodness, apologies for taking so much time with my writings ┐(-。-;)┌ writer's block was being very blocky recently and i have just been losing my grip on creativity !!! I promise to start posting more.
《 Introduction | Guidelines | Masterlist 》
The shrill beeping of the antique alarm clock you’d haggled down to a humiliatingly low price in a damp, stone-walled underground shop sliced through the quiet of your bedroom.
You jolted upright, shoulder knocking hard against the wooden desk you’d fallen asleep at sometime during the night.
Your cheek lifted from scattered notebooks and loose papers, faint ink smudged along your wrist where your pen had slipped from your hand. Your room carried the familiar scent of paper, dust, and laundry you kept meaning to fold, the chill from the old stone building lingering stubbornly in the air.
For a moment, you just stared at the clock — brass dulled with age, glass slightly scratched — as it continued its relentless, mechanical shriek from your bedside table.
You’d insisted it worked perfectly when you bought it.
You drag a hand down your face and silence the alarm with a dull slap.
For a moment, you just sit there.
Your room greets you in all its underwhelming glory of slanted ceiling, pale walls chipped near the corners, stacks of books colonizing every flat surface. A laundry chair that hasn’t been an actual chair in months. Your desk lamp still glowing faintly over last night’s unfinished notes.
You yawn, long and graceless, stretching until your spine pops. The curtains are still drawn. Of course they are. You never open them before sleeping. It feels too exposed.
You shuffle over and tug them apart anyway.
Grey light spills in. Saint-Malo looks half-asleep — slate rooftops damp from sea mist, gulls wheeling lazily over the harbor, the ocean a flat sheet of pewter in the distance. The wind nudges at your window like it expects you to do something meaningful with your day.
You squint at the horizon and think about your university schedule.
Modern literature. European political theory. That seminar you keep meaning to participate in but never quite do. You always rehearse what you’ll say in your head. You’re eloquent there. Brilliant, even.
Out loud, though, your tongue betrays you.
You sigh and head to the bathroom, phone already in hand.
While brushing your teeth, you scroll mindlessly through notifications. Instagram you don’t post on. Emails you’ll read later. A university app ping. WhatsApp group messages from classmates who actually hang out with each other.
You raise a brow at the cluster of unread messages.
Memes. Someone complaining about a professor. A blurry photo of lecture slides. Then—
“Rappel : le cours d'aujourd'hui a été avancé à 9h00 au lieu de 11h30".
(Reminder: today’s lecture moved to 9:00 instead of 11:30)
Your toothbrush stills mid-brush.
You have less than thirty minutes.
You stare at your reflection — toothpaste foam at the corner of your mouth, hair doing whatever it wants, eyes still heavy with sleep — and feel that familiar, sinking realization.
Of course this would happen on a day you fell asleep at your desk.
You spit, rinse, move faster.
Your wardrobe doesn’t offer choices so much as variations of the same stuff: oversized sweater. Baggy coat. Something neutral enough to disappear into. You barely brush your hair — just enough to make it look intentional instead of a bird's nest.
Books are shoved into your bag with the delicate care of someone who will reorganize them later. Notes half-folded. Pen nearly lost. Charger tangled like seaweed.
You hesitate only long enough to glance around your room, unmade bed, curtains still half-open, the antique clock ticking smugly.
Then you grab your keys and bolt.
The stairwell echoes with your rushed footsteps as the cold coastal air hits your face outside, sharp and bracing.
The cobbled streets of Saint-Malo gleamed wet under the low February sky, each uneven stone ready to snag your ankle if you let your guard down. You half-ran, half-stumbled downhill toward the university quarter, bag thudding awkwardly against your hip, breath coming in short, raspy bursts. The harbor wind carried salt and the sharp metallic hint of more rain; every gust felt like it was mocking you personally.
You didn’t notice him until you were almost on top of him.
He stepped into your path at the street’s sharp turn — not blocking you, just suddenly there, as if that spot had always belonged to him. Tall, blond hair pulled back with a silk ribbon the soft color of faded roses, navy coat impossibly dry in the drizzle. The umbrella opened the instant the rain thickened, tilting smoothly to cover you both as you skidded to a halt, knees threatening to give.
“Careful, mon trésor,” he murmured, voice low and warm, cutting through the cold like candlelight. “These streets have a gift for humbling anyone in a rush.”
You blinked up at him, cheeks burning from the run, the wind, and now the weight of his gaze. Blue eyes bright and steady, unnervingly focused. He smiled — easy, patient, like he was watching something small and endearing struggle.
“Sorry,” you squeaked, stepping back. The umbrella moved with you. “I’m… really late.”
“I know,” he said softly, no judgment, just quiet certainty. “You often are in the mornings.”
Your brows drew together. Had you ever mentioned that?
He tilted his head, studying you with the gentle curiosity one reserves for fragile things. “You run like you’re trying to outpace your own thoughts. It’s endearing.”
The word sat strangely, not cruel, but a soft echo of everything you already told yourself: clumsy, always scrambling, perpetually behind.
His gloved fingers reached out then, brushing the uneven edge of your scarf. He straightened it with a small, precise adjustment — just long enough for you to register warmth and care where there’d been only mess.
“There,” he said quietly. “The wind off the water is merciless today.”
You swallowed. Touches like that usually sent your stomach into freefall. Usually you’d flinch away. This time… it just felt noticed. Like someone had seen the tiny chaos you couldn’t fix and decided to fix it for you.
“I was heading to the university anyway,” he continued, drawing a small, neatly folded paper bag from inside his coat. “And I thought you might need something before your early lecture.”
“Almond croissants,” he said gently, like it was the most obvious thing. “Still warm.”
Your stomach let out a small, pitiful growl right on cue.
His smile deepened, amused, but soft. “I thought so.”
The bag was in your hands before you could protest, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest second, leather-warmed skin against your cold ones.
“You’ll feel steadier,” he added. “That seminar room is always draughty. You like the seat by the window, non?”
Your grip tightened on the bag. Heat crawled up your neck. How did he—
The question dissolved under the shelter of the umbrella, the buttery almond scent curling up, the way the grey morning felt fractionally less punishing with him beside you.
He fell into step as you started moving again, matching your uneven, hurried pace without effort. The umbrella stayed angled to keep the drizzle off your coat.
“You look tired,” he observed after a moment, voice gentle. “Late night again?”
Your throat closed. How could he tell?
“Your eyes get that distant look when you’ve been up too long with books,” he went on, almost thoughtful. “Like part of you is still lost in the pages.”
Words tangled uselessly in your mouth.
“There’s a little café near the ramparts,” he added casually. “Quiet. Open late. You might like it.”
Might. It sounded kind. Considerate.
As the university gates came into view, rain tapped steadily on the umbrella.
“I’ll see you after your seminar,” he said, as if it were already settled. “You shouldn’t walk back alone in this weather.”
He leaned in just close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath near your temple — no contact, just presence. Overwhelming presence.
“Don’t rush the whole day away,” he murmured. “It unfolds better when shared.”
Then he stepped back, tipping the umbrella so the rain found him instead. You passed through the gates, croissant bag crinkling in your fist, legs still shaky. Behind you, he lingered a beat longer.
Quiet. Patient. Undeniably there.
And the strangest thing wasn’t his appearance.
It was how easily you already accepted he’d appear again.
By the time you reached the lecture hall, you were breathless and painfully aware of how disheveled you must look. The door was closed. Through the narrow glass panel: neat rows of students, laptops open, notebooks ready. The professor already mid-sentence, glasses low on his nose.
You eased the door open as quietly as humanly possible. It still creaked like a betrayal. Heads turned. Embarrassment bloomed hot across your neck, your back, your arms — familiar, suffocating.
“Désolée,” you whispered, slipping inside.
The professor flicked a glance at the clock, then at you. A small sigh escaped through his nose.
You nodded jerkily and hurried to your usual spot by the window. The familiar draft slipped under the old frame and brushed your sleeve as you sat. Predictable. Safe, in its own miserable way.
Your heart hadn’t slowed.
You looked down at the crumpled paper bag still clutched in your hands.
You opened it carefully under the desk, movements small. Warm butter, toasted pastry, sweet almond rose up immediately.
Your stomach twisted. You broke off a piece and took a hesitant bite, more necessity than appetite. To calm the hunger pang.
Then the flavor unfolded.
Almond, yes — but laced with orange blossom. Soft floral notes, bright citrus threading through the sweetness.
The exact variant you’d once rambled about in passing during last semester’s seminar on regional French desserts — that kouign-amann style from near Quiberon, the one most places didn’t even bother with. You hadn’t thought anyone had been listening — least of all someone like him, someone impossibly polished, who somehow appeared at exactly the wrong or the right moment.
You froze, fingers curling tighter around the bag. Warmth spread from the pastry, but it wasn’t comforting anymore; it coiled low in your gut, equal parts delight and quiet alarm.
Maybe coincidence. Maybe the bakery just happened to make it that way today.
But the thought pressed against your ribs anyway.
Warm. Sweet. Intentional.
You swallowed slowly. Your pulse thrummed louder than the drizzle outside the window.
For a fleeting second, you felt a little less of a failure — seen, cared for, almost wanted.
Then the feeling twisted.
The rest of the day dragged on in a haze of half-heard lectures and wandering thoughts. The seminar on modern literature blurred into European political theory; words floated past like distant gulls over the harbor. You caught yourself staring out the window more than once — grey sky, slate roofs slick with drizzle, the ocean a muted line in the distance.
The professor called on you twice. The first time, your answer came out mumbled, trailing into awkward silence.
The second, you froze entirely, jaw clamped tight, until someone else jumped in. Heat crept up your neck, along your ears, and settled like a badge of shame. You sank lower in your chair. Just… background noise, you thought. Failing at even the smallest things.
By the time classes ended, light already thinning to February dusk, your notes were a tangled mess, your bag a jumble of papers, pens, and crumbs from the almond croissant you’d barely had time to taste. You’d already tripped over the corner of your desk twice today, and spilled water on your sleeve. The lingering taste of orange blossom almond was one of the few pleasant things you could cling to.
You should have left through a side exit, quietly vanished into the back streets. Instead, you trudged across campus — uneven flagstones, small puddles, wet gravel that threatened your shoes at every step.
The drizzle had thickened to a fine, persistent mist. Your coat was damp at the shoulders, shoes squelching, hair sticking to your neck. Your thoughts were still half on him — the umbrella, the croissant, the way he seemed to know — and you weren’t watching where you were going.
Of course, you caught your toe on a raised stone.
You pitched forward. Arms windmilled helplessly. Wet gravel and a shallow puddle rushed toward you.
And, of course, your bag swung forward, one notebook tumbling to land with a soggy thud inches from the puddle. Papers splashed, your shoe slid, and you let out an undignified squeak.
A firm hand caught your elbow. Another steadied your waist.
Francis pulled you upright like it was the simplest chore in the world. His coat remained immaculate. The faint scent of rain-soaked roses and cologne surrounded him.
“Mon pauvre petit cœur,” he sighed, voice rich with theatrical sympathy. “These stones are positively treacherous today. Are you all right?”
Your cheeks burned hotter than ever. Water dripped from your hair onto your nose, bag half-sliding off your shoulder, notebook dangling in a soggy mess.
He didn’t let go. His grip was steady, warm through layers, as he righted your bag and brushed a stray lock of wet hair from your forehead with the back of his gloved knuckles.
“You must be more careful,” he murmured, eyes soft, amused, fond. “The world is unkind to those who drift too far into their thoughts. Lucky for you, I was nearby.”
The word lodged in your chest like a bitter, sweet stone.
He produced a crisp, monogrammed handkerchief and dabbed at the damp spot on your cheek. Ridiculous, intimate, absurdly kind.
“Come,” he said, voice dropping to that velvet register. “No more wandering alone in this weather. That little café near the ramparts I mentioned? Warm inside, excellent tea, dry seats, and — most importantly — no puddles to betray you.”
You hesitated. Sensible you screamed: thank him, run, disappear, go home.
But your shoes squelched, coat heavy, drizzle relentless. And his hand still rested lightly on your arm — not restraining, just… steady. A lifeline.
“…Okay,” you whispered, voice trembling, embarrassed.
His smile bloomed slow and radiant, like sunlight breaking through clouds.
He reopened the umbrella, angled it over you both, and guided you toward the gates with a hand at the small of your back — protective, proprietary, impossibly gentle.
You walked beside him, heart hammering, telling yourself it was just tea. Just warmth. Just one small kindness on a miserable day.
Francis, however, knew better.
As you passed under the old stone archway and campus faded behind you, he allowed himself a small, private smirk — lips curving with quiet triumph, eyes half-lidded in satisfaction.
One small step. One shared moment.
And soon — very soon — the rest would follow.
Because treasures like you didn’t wander far once they learned how perfectly they fit in careful, attentive hands.
The café near the ramparts was tucked into a narrow street that smelled of wet stone and fresh bread. Warm light spilled from mullioned windows onto the drizzle-slicked cobbles; inside, it was all dark wood, low beams, mismatched chairs, and the low hum of a few locals murmuring over tea and pastries.
No students. No crowds. Exactly the kind of quiet that usually felt safe to you.
Francis held the door open with a small flourish, umbrella folded and dripping discreetly beside the entrance mat. You stepped in first, suddenly hyper-aware of how damp and rumpled you looked next to him.
He was… striking, up close like this.
Taller than you’d registered in the rush earlier — broad-shouldered, long-limbed, the kind of height that made doorframes feel incidental. His blond hair, still perfectly tied back despite the weather, caught the lamplight in soft honey tones; a few strands had escaped near his temples, curling slightly from the damp. There was faint stubble along his jaw — not unkempt, just enough to sharpen the elegant lines of his face, make him look lived-in rather than statuesque.
The navy coat hung open now, revealing a cream cashmere sweater underneath, the kind that probably cost more than your entire wardrobe.
Everything about him radiated effortless expense: the subtle gleam of a watch peeking from his cuff, the faint scent of bergamot and something darker (sandalwood? leather?), the way the café owner greeted him by name with a deferential nod.
You followed him to a small table near the back, tucked beside a window streaked with rain. He pulled your chair out — actually pulled it out — before seating himself opposite. You sat, hands fidgeting in your lap, coat still dripping onto the floorboards.
Where had you seen him before?
The question kept circling. Not in class — he wasn’t a student. Not in the library stacks, not at the harbor cafés you sometimes haunted when you couldn’t face your room. Yet his face felt… familiar. Like a half-remembered dream, or someone glimpsed once through a crowd and filed away without meaning to.
You stared at the menu without reading it. Your mind was still scattered — lecture fragments, the orange-blossom croissant, the way his hand had caught your elbow like it was nothing. The way he’d known exactly where you sat. The way he’d known you’d say yes to tea.
A waitress appeared. Francis ordered for both of you without asking — thé à la bergamote for him, chocolat chaud with a whisper of cinnamon for you (“She prefers it warmer than most,” he added softly to the waitress). He did it all in flawless, lilting French, voice low and melodic.
You felt small. Not just physically — though he dwarfed the chair, the table, the room — but in every other way too. Your damp sweater clung uncomfortably; your hair was a frizzy disaster from the mist. He looked like he belonged in oil paintings. You looked like you belonged in laundry piles.
The drinks arrived. Steam curled up. He watched you over the rim of his cup, eyes half-lidded, smile faint and knowing.
“You’re quiet,” he observed gently. “Still thinking about the day?”
You managed a small shrug. “Just… tired.”
A lie. You were alert now, painfully so. Every small sound felt amplified: the clink of porcelain, the rain tapping glass, the soft rustle of his sleeve as he reached for sugar. You kept glancing at his hands — long fingers, elegant, no calluses — then away, embarrassed at yourself for noticing.
He leaned forward slightly. “You don’t need to be perfect here, mon trésor. This place is for breathing. For relaxment from the outside world.”
The words landed soft. Too soft. You wrapped your hands around the mug, letting the heat seep in, trying not to think about how much he seemed to see.
Francis, meanwhile, was cataloguing every flicker.
How your ashes lowered when you were nervous. How you tucked one foot behind the other ankle under the table, as though trying to make yourself smaller. How the steam from your chocolate made your cheeks flush pink, softening the tired shadows under your eyes. How you kept stealing glances at him — quick, guilty, curious — then looking away as though caught.
Utterly, heartbreakingly adorable.
You had no idea how perfectly you fit the shape of his obsession: all soft edges and quiet retreats, a little creature who’d spent too long hiding in plain sight. No one else had noticed. No one else had cared. But he had. From the first time he’d seen her hurrying across the quad, late again, head down, books clutched like armor — he’d known.
His to unwrap, slowly, until you forgot what it felt like to be anything but adored.
The tea was perfect. The conversation stayed light — he spoke of the ramparts at dusk, of old Breton legends, of nothing that demanded answers. You listened, nodded, sipped. When the cups were empty and the rain had eased to a faint patter, he paid (typically. being the chivalrous man to a lady), then offered his arm like it was the most natural thing.
“Come. I’ll see you home.”
You didn’t argue. The walk back was quiet, his umbrella over you both again, his stride slowed to match yours. The streets felt shorter with him beside you. When you reached the old stone building — your familiar, chipped doorway — you paused on the step.
“Thank you,” you said, small. “For… everything.”
He smiled — warm, radiant, a little too knowing.
“Anytime, chérie. Sleep well.”
You slipped inside. The door clicked shut behind you.
Francis stood on the wet pavement a moment longer, breathing in the salt air, the faint trace of your shampoo still clinging to his coat sleeve.
Then he chuckled — low, pleased, almost tender.
A single tap opened the feed.
Grainy, intimate, perfect.
The camera discreetly tucked behind the vent in your room weeks ago, when you’d left for a rare grocery run and forgotten to lock the outer door — showed everything.
You cursing softly under your breath as you kicked off soaked shoes.
Shrugging out of the damp coat, flinging it haphazardly into the cupboard with a frustrated huff.
Wiping rain from your face with the sleeve of your sweater, cheeks still flushed from cold and chocolate.
Then — jeans unbuttoned, zipper tugged down with an impatient little jerk. The denim slid over hips and pooled at your ankles. Plain cotton panties — soft grey with delicate lace trim along the legs and a tiny satin bow at the front — clung slightly from the damp walk home.
The fabric cupped you gently, outlining the plush curve of your lower hips and the soft swell where thigh met body. Nothing provocative, nothing meant for eyes other than your own mirror. Exactly the kind of understated, everyday intimacy that made his pulse slow and deepen.
He tilted his head, gaze tracing the faint shadow of lace against skin, the way the cotton stretched just enough when you shifted your weight to step free of the jeans.
You bent to retrieve the discarded denim — the motion pulled the panties taut for a heartbeat, revealing the subtle dip at the small of your back, the gentle fullness he already knew by heart from stolen angles and now claimed in high definition.
The top came next. yanked over your head in one hurried motion. A simple beige bralette, straps slightly worn from too many washes cradled your chest; the sudden freedom made everything bounce softly once, twice, settling with a natural heaviness that drew another quiet exhale from him.
You reached for the oversized hoodie — fur-lined, baggy, the one that skimmed mid-thigh and swallowed you whole. You disappeared into it like armor, like safety, the hem brushing just above where the grey cotton still hid beneath.
Francis exhaled slowly, thumb brushing the screen as though he could reach through glass and time to trace every hidden curve.
“Mon dieu,” he murmured to the empty street, voice velvet and reverent. “Even the smallest secrets you keep are poetry. So beautiful… so perfectly mine.”
He lingered on the frozen frame a second longer — you now padding toward the bed in fuzzy socks, hoodie drowning everything again — then locked the screen.
A breath of sea air. A low, pleased chuckle.
“Sleep well, chérie. I’ll be watching over you.”
He turned and melted into the February dark, coat swirling like a cape, already planning tomorrow’s “chance” meeting.
Back in your room, you crawled under the covers, hoodie still carrying the faint warmth of the café chocolate on your skin. The day replayed in soft fragments: his steady hand, the bergamot steam, the way he’d said your drink order like he’d known it forever.
Then a thought : sharp, sudden, like ice water down your spine —
You never told him your address.
Not your building. Not your street. Not even the neighborhood.
Your eyes snapped open in the dark.
The antique clock ticked smugly on the bedside table.
And for the first time all day, the silence in your stone-walled room didn’t feel safe at all.
⚜️ He adores how “pure” and untouched your world is. To him, your quiet, shut-in life isn’t pathetic — it’s a blank canvas only he gets to paint on. You’re not tainted by crowds, shallow flings, or noisy friends. You’re his little secret treasure, fragile and hidden away like a rare vintage wine cellared in darkness for decades, waiting for the perfect moment to be uncorked. He sometimes stands in your doorway just watching you exist in your small routines — reading, scrolling aimlessly, breathing — and feels a reverent ache. This untouched stillness is mine to fill.
⚜️ He loves that your phone is always dry. No constant notifications. No mysterious names lighting up your screen. When it finally buzzes, it’s usually him — a soft “thinking of you, mon trésor” at 2:17 a.m., or a photo of the moon over the ramparts captioned “wish you were here with me.” He pretends not to notice the pattern, but inside it thrills him like victory. Your world is small — deliberately, painfully small — and he sits comfortably at its center, the only voice that still reaches you. Sometimes he sends messages just to watch the little delivered tick turn to read, knowing your eyes are on him and no one else.
⚜️ When you call yourself a “loser,” he frowns like you’ve insulted a masterpiece. He’ll tilt your chin up with two fingers, thumb brushing your cheek in slow, deliberate circles, and murmur that you’re not a failure — you’re delicate. Untouched. Rare. A porcelain figurine the world was too clumsy to appreciate. He reframes every insecurity into something romantic until the word “loser” starts tasting bitter on your tongue when you say it alone… but sweet when he says it with that fond, aching smile. “My perfect little disaster,” he’ll whisper, kissing the corner of your mouth. “How beautifully you break.”
⚜️ He starts leaving subtle marks that escalate over time. At first it’s hickeys hidden under your collar, then faint bruises on your hips from “passionate” grips during sex. When you cover them with makeup or long sleeves, he pouts dramatically: “Why hide my love letters, chérie? They’re proof you’re cherished.” If you protest too much, he pins your wrists above your head — gently at first, then with bruising force — and murmurs against your throat, “Struggle all you like. It only makes me want to mark you deeper.” The pain mixes with pleasure until you stop fighting the marks altogether.
⚜️ Gaslighting becomes an art form. When you mention feeling watched or that things in your apartment have moved, he laughs softly, cups your face: “Darling, you’ve been so stressed lately. Your mind plays tricks when you’re tired. Remember how you forget where you put things? I’m here to help you remember reality.” He’ll “prove” it by recreating scenes — placing an object exactly where it “disappeared” from — until you doubt your own memory. Soon you apologize for “being paranoid,” and he kisses your forehead: “See? I would never lie to you.”
⚜️ During one of his “surprise” visits (he has a spare key he duplicated months ago, claiming you “must have given it to him in your sleep”), he lingers in your bathroom while you’re out. He opens the hamper, lifts your discarded panties (the soft grey ones with the lace trim), and presses them to his lips — not kissing, just breathing in the intimate warmth still clinging to the cotton. His eyes flutter shut; a low, reverent groan escapes him. “You have no idea how perfectly you taste even here,” he whispers to the empty room. He returns them exactly as found, folded just so. You never notice the faint crease or the way the fabric feels inexplicably warmer when you pull them on later.
⚜️ He adores visiting your home because it feels like entering your mind. The dim lighting, the half-finished hobbies scattered like abandoned thoughts, the blankets you hide under when the world feels too loud. He memorizes it all — the exact spot on the couch where the cushion dips from your weight, the faint coffee ring on the windowsill where you rest your forehead when you’re overwhelmed. This is the world you built to survive in — chaotic, soft, defensive — and he feels honored to be allowed inside. He never cleans up. He rearranges. A book moved closer to the lamp. A candle lit in the exact corner where the shadows pool deepest. Small proofs that he belongs here now.
⚜️ He keeps some of your unwashed laundry — the oversized grey one you wore for three days straight during a depressive episode folded neatly in a locked drawer at his own apartment. Late at night, when the obsession burns hottest, he presses his face into the fabric and inhales deeply: the faint mix of your shampoo, sweat, skin oils, and the stale coffee you spilled on the sleeve. He exhales with a shuddering sigh, murmuring “Mon dieu… even your exhaustion smells divine.” It’s his private ritual, a way to feel you wrapped around him when you’re not physically there. He never washes it. The scent is proof of your real, unfiltered existence — messy, human, his.
⚜️ He becomes your reason to go out… but only with him. Cafés with low lighting and velvet booths, quiet art galleries where no one speaks above a whisper, evening walks along the ramparts when the fog rolls in thick enough to hide you both from the world. He keeps every outing intimate. Controlled. His hand at your waist, his coat draped over your shoulders, his voice low in your ear explaining a painting or pointing out a gull.
The outside world feels less overwhelming when he’s guiding you — almost bearable. Soon, leaving the house alone feels unnecessary. Pointless. Why would you? He handles everything — the route, the timing, the small talk with strangers so you don’t have to. You start forgetting what it felt like to navigate streets without his arm looped through yours.
⚜️ Your lack of dating experience secretly delights him. He gets to be your first real romance — your first slow kiss that makes your knees weak and your breath hitch, your first dramatic confession whispered in French against your hair while rain taps the window. He savors teaching you how to be loved, molding your expectations gently (and permanently) around himself. Every trembling “I’ve never…” becomes fuel. He’ll guide your hands to his chest, murmur “Feel how fast you make my heart race, chérie,” and watch your eyes widen with wonder. He wants your every romantic memory to wear his name like a brand.
⚜️ If you ever start gaining confidence elsewhere, a new online friend who makes you laugh, a hobby that pulls you out of the apartment without him — he smiles… but something sharp and cold flickers behind his eyes. He’ll never forbid you outright. He’s too refined for crude jealousy. Instead he’ll subtly remind you how exhausting other people are.
How misunderstood you feel with them. How their attention always comes with strings, judgment, expectations. “With me, you never have to perform,” he’ll say softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “With me, you can just be” And slowly, without a single argument, you’ll find yourself choosing him again. And again. Until the other voices fade to static.
⚜️ Physical “corrections” start small but grow. If you try to leave the apartment without telling him, he appears at the door — calm, smiling — and gently but firmly pushes you back inside by the shoulders. “Non, non, chérie. It’s too dangerous out there without me.” If you push back, his grip tightens to the point of pain; he’ll pin you against the wall, body flush with yours, voice velvet-soft: “Do you want to hurt me by leaving? Or do you want me to show you why staying is safer?” The line between restraint and assault blurs until you stop testing it.
⚜️ He finds your “girlfailure” habits unbearably endearing. Oversized hoodies that drown your frame, hair perpetually messy from running anxious hands through it, staying up until dawn chasing rabbit holes of thought, forgetting to eat unless hunger becomes pain. He steps in seamlessly, bringing warm almond croissants still fragrant from the oven, adjusting your collar with careful fingers, tucking stray strands behind your ear while murmuring “There, now you look like my little dream.” He wants to feel necessary. Indispensable. The only one who notices when you’re spiraling, the only one who knows exactly how to pull you back.
⚜️ You think you’re lucky someone like him noticed you. That a man so polished, so worldly, so impossibly beautiful chose someone so small and quiet and broken. And he encourages that belief just enough to keep you clinging — not cruelly, never cruelly, just softly. Carefully. “The world overlooked you, mon amour,” he’ll say, voice velvet and low, “but I saw. I always see.” He lets you feel chosen. Worshipped. Safe. And in doing so, he quietly erases the possibility that anyone else could ever make you feel that way again.
⚜️ The kidnapping isn’t violent or sudden, it’s inevitable, elegant. One rainy evening, after you’ve had a particularly bad day (a failed exam, a classmate ignoring you, the creeping sense that something’s wrong), he arrives with wine, candles, and a soft “Let me take care of you tonight.” You drink. You relax. You fall asleep in his arms on the couch. When you wake, you’re not in Saint-Malo anymore.
You’re in a secluded countryside chateau he owns — stone walls, roaring fireplace, windows barred with decorative iron that looks romantic until you realize they don’t open. Your clothes are already there — your hoodies, your books, your messy notebooks — arranged neatly as if you’ve always lived here. He enters with breakfast on a silver tray, smiling like nothing’s changed: “Good morning, mon amour. No more running late to lectures. No more cold streets. Just us. Forever.”
⚜️ In the chateau, he’s even more tactile. He bathes you himself (“You’re too tired to do it properly”), dresses you in silk lingerie he bought (“It suits your softness better than those baggy things”), and holds you for hours while reading poetry aloud. If you cry or beg to go home, he strokes your hair and whispers, “This is home now. The world outside hurt you too much. I won’t let it touch you again.” Resistance earns gentle restraints, silk ties around your wrists, a locked door, always framed as “protection.” He never hits you, never screams. He just removes every option until surrender feels like love.
⚜️ He starts with your hair. Every evening he sits you on the edge of the bed between his knees, legs bracketing yours, and works a silver-handled brush through the tangled mess you’ve ignored all day. His strokes are long, deliberate, almost meditative; he gathers each section gently, fingers combing through knots without a single tug of pain.
When strands fall across your face he tucks them behind your ear, letting his fingertips linger along the sensitive shell, tracing the curve until your breath hitches. “Such beautiful hair,” he murmurs against your nape, lips brushing skin as he leans in to inhale the faint scent at your scalp. By the end your hair gleams, smooth and obedient, and you feel strangely exposed — as though he’s stripped away one more layer of your camouflage. Sometimes, he prefers it untamed and wild tho, makes you look adorable.
⚜️ The wardrobe shift begins innocently enough. A silk camisole “to replace that threadbare tank top you sleep in — it’s far too cold against your skin, chérie.” Then a soft cashmere cardigan “to keep your shoulders warm when you read by the window.” Each piece arrives wrapped in tissue paper with a handwritten note: Wear this for me tomorrow. Gradually the oversized hoodies and stretched cotton tees disappear into the back of the closet (he never throws them away; he folds them away like relics of your old, hidden self).
He replaces them with dresses that skim rather than swallow — fluid midi lengths in deep jewel tones, fabrics that cling lightly to the curve of your hips and the softness of your thighs when you move. He buttons silk blouses himself, standing close enough that you feel the heat of his chest against your back. His knuckles graze your collarbone with every fastening, slow and reverent, until the last button sits just below the hollow of your throat. “You’ve been dressing like you want to disappear,” he whispers, breath warm against your ear. “I want you seen. By me. Only me.”
⚜️ Eventually he stops asking for permission. Before any outing, he lays the outfit across the foot of the bed like an offering: lace-trimmed chemise, sheer stockings, a velvet dress with a neckline that dips just low enough to show the tops of your breasts when you breathe deeply. He watches as you change, eyes dark and unblinking, never rushing you.
When the fabric catches on your hips he steps forward, hands sliding over yours to help smooth it down; his palms linger on the swell of your ass for a heartbeat longer than necessary, thumbs pressing into the plush give of flesh. He adjusts straps with careful fingers, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles across your stomach, your waist, the curve of your ribs. In the full-length mirror he stands behind you, hands settling possessively on your hips, chin resting on your shoulder. “There,” he breathes, voice husky with satisfaction. “Perfect. Exactly how I imagined you every night when I couldn’t touch you.”
⚜️ Mornings begin with Francis drawing a warm bath scented with rose and vanilla; he lifts you into the water as though you weigh nothing, washes you with languid, soapy strokes—palms gliding over shoulders, down the soft swell of your breasts, along the curve of your waist—then dries you with thick, heated towels, every touch deliberate and unhurried.
Still naked and damp, skin flushed from the steam, you’re led to the dressing room. He selects the day’s ensemble himself: silk slips that cling to damp curves, lace-trimmed bralettes that cradle the gentle weight of your chest with barely-there support, garter belts he fastens with reverent precision while kneeling before you.
His fingers roll sheer stockings up your legs, trailing the sensitive hollow behind your knees, skimming the plush inner thighs until your breath catches and your knees threaten to buckle. When the final dress—fluid, jewel-toned, skimming rather than hiding—slips over your head, he steps back to admire his creation, then closes the distance again.
He presses you gently against the vanity, one hand cupping your breast through silk, thumb brushing the peaked nipple beneath, while the other tilts your chin so you’re forced to meet his gaze in the mirror. “You don’t need to choose anymore,” he says softly, lips brushing your temple, voice thick with possession. “I’ll think for both of us. I’ll decide how soft, how exposed, how utterly mine you are today.”
⚜️ Nights are the most intimate and the most overwhelming. He undresses you with the same unhurried worship he used to dress you that morning: buttons undone one by one, straps eased down shoulders, lace peeled away until you stand bare before him, trembling under the low lamplight.
His reverent fingertips trace every inch—the faint stretch marks on your hips he kisses like sacred scripture, the gentle curve of your stomach he caresses with slow circles, the way your thighs instinctively press together when you’re shy. “Look at you,” he whispers, voice husky with hunger, “hiding all this beauty under layers of cotton and shame. Never again.”
He lifts you onto the bed, arranges you like a living still-life—hair fanned across the pillow, limbs positioned just so—and worships with mouth and hands: slow kisses along every scar, every “flaw,” murmuring how perfect you are while you tremble and gasp. If you freeze or pull away, he pauses, eyes darkening with quiet intensity: “Don’t be afraid, chérie. This is how I show you belong to me.” he teases and strokes and tastes until you come undone again and again, shaking, breathless, completely surrendered.
⚜️ He keeps mementos from your old life — a lock of hair from your pillow, dresses you in sweatshirts, flannels, hoodies etc, messes your hair, photos printed from the hidden cameras, your old phone (now wiped except for his messages). He shows them to you sometimes, smiling fondly: “Remember how lonely you were? How small? Look how far we’ve come.” You realize escape is impossible — not because of locks, but because he’s rewritten your entire reality around himself.
⚜️ Every day he draws you flush against him, one hand splayed possessively over your heart so he can feel every unsteady beat, the other tangled in your hair to keep your head tilted just enough for his lips to find your ear. His voice is velvet, low, almost tender: “You were never meant for the world, mon petit échec. You were meant for this—for me. And I will love you until the stars burn out… whether you want it or not.” He presses a slow, lingering kiss to the pulse beneath your jaw, then stills completely—listening to your breathing slow, feeling your body soften into reluctant surrender—until the antique clock chimes midnight and the room falls silent except for the rhythm of his heartbeat against your spine.
