SOCIALS ♡
@yandrer on quotev , ao3 , wattpad
@yandrerer on tumblr
dms open.
╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ i do not have any accounts other than the ones listed.
quotev + tumblr are where i am most active.
╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ you are open to dm me about oneshots/drabbles/imagines, however, it is not guaranteed it will get written—my main priorities are sincerely, lucille + MUSE.
⤹ all my drabbles + oneshots are gender neutral. main stories are ✘ f! reader.
╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ I WILL NOT WRITE . . . [including but not limited to. . .]
⤹ NON-CON, EXPLICIT SCENES, INCEST, PSEUDO-INCEST OR INAPPROPRIATE AGE GAPS. yandere content only, implicit + suggestive scenes are permitted.
╰┈➤ˎˊ˗YANDRER'S WORKS . . .
╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ I DO NOT CONDONE THE PRACTICE OR ROMANTICIZATION OF OBSESSIVE BEHAVIOURS IN THE REAL WORLD.
。.../)__/)
Ƹ̵̡\ ( ˶• ༝ •˶) /Ʒ
o ( ⊃⊃) *⛥*ﾟ・。*.
p.s, i do not have any accounts other than the ones listed.
quotev + tumblr are where i am most active.
I just wanted to say that I really love your writing. your style, the way you build emotions, and the whole atmosphere of your stories are amazing.
If you don’t mind, I wanted to ask if you have any blogs that write similar themes or whose work you really enjoy. I’d love to check out some of your personal recommendations, if you have any to share.
Thank you so much!
Hello!
Thank you! I enjoy focusing on interactions and atmosphere, but mostly the latter. As someone who get easily overwhelmed, I used to think it was a curse, but I've received compliments regarding the setting and atmosphere recently. Maybe that's why I can establish and describe settings fairly well? I tend to observe and focus on minute details.
As for works I enjoy, I'll tag the authors and a fic I enjoyed if I have a favorite. Most of them are buried deep in my likes, so I'll update as I find them ^^; (If you don't want to be tagged, please dm)
| yan! lawyer x fem! reader |
Second part to Original Story not AU
You should have laid low after Ferris hollowed himself for you. After you saw him on that sidewalk, looking like roadkill with the soul peeled out of him, you should have taken a hint. Should have vanished into the crowd for a while. Should have stilled your hands.
But control has never been your virtue, and so, your tenth arrest is glamorous. It happens that same day. It isn’t clever. It isn’t worthy of the mythology you sometimes tell yourself you’re building.
It starts with a bender. You drain the stollen wallet to purchase cheap drugs and liquor, entry into a bad club, neon lights smearing into colors that don’t exist in the natural world. You wake up on a stranger’s carpet with a headache splitting your skull and the taste of cheap cologne on your tongue, diamonds scattered around.
You’re barely standing when the cops swarm the apartment, guns drawn, flashlights slicing open the dark.
Someone smashed up a jewelry kiosk two blocks over. Someone beat the old, ailing clerk. Someone fled the scene. Someone lifted a wallet belonging to a city councilman’s nephew. Someone roughed him up, too.
You can name the crimes they will accuse you of. Vandalism. Burglary. Assault. Criminal mischief. Grand larceny.
But it wasn’t you. For once, it really wasn’t you. Besides the wallet of course, but the stranger you woke beside has already thrown your name to the officers like chum to sharks, and you’re too hungover to run.
So they take you to a place you’ve been before. The county holding cell the officers joke has your name. You know the drill. The metallic stink. The recycled air. The wide-eyed first-timers clutching their elbows and staring at nothing.
You expect the same thing as always. Ferris Monroe, crooked tie, trembling hands, gentle reprimands, sliding into the chair across from you.
You wait.
And wait.
And keep waiting until your stomach sinks to your shoes.
Ferris doesn’t come. A public defender does, an exhausted woman with a frizzy ponytail and the deadest eyes you’ve ever seen. She mispronounces your name. She calls you “sweetheart” like she’s already apologized for losing.
She looks at your file and sighs so deeply it seems to fold her in half.
“This is not a good one,” she mutters, as if you’re a child.
You shrug. You’re used to that, but how it hurts. After Ferris’ gilded promises, his sweet words, the absence worms under your ribs like a wire.
You pretend it doesn’t. You pretend you don’t want to ask for him. You pretend you don’t need him to save you. You pretend you like the person you’re destroying.
You tell yourself that until the words erode.
Your other courtrooms always felt like plays. You were the lead actress. Ferris was your tragic supporting role.
Without him, it feels like the fluorescent lights are too bright. Like everyone can see you for what you are. Alone, hungover, and out of miracles.
The DA doesn’t offer a deal. Your PD doesn’t fight hard. The judge doesn’t bother disguising her boredom. The jury doesn’t hide their scorn.
“Given the defendant’s extensive history,” the judge says, “and the escalation in severity, bail is denied.”
You blink. Even you didn’t expect that.
Then, she strikes you with “Sentence: five years, mid-security.”
The words don’t hit you all at once. They land like hail. Sharp. Cold. Cutting. Almost abstract.
You’re shackled before you can process it. Ferris still doesn’t appear. The absence this time hurts. You hate that it hurts.
Prison is not like jail. Jail is a waiting room. Prison is thick air and concrete. Metal beds bolted to walls. Guards who speak in grunts or monosyllables. Women with eyes like razors sizing you up before you’ve crossed the threshold.
You’re escorted through intake like an object. Stripped. Showered. Searched. Assigned ID numbers and cheap cotton clothes that smell faintly of bleach and dust.
A guard tells you your cell number, bored and blunt.
“Watch your step,” she adds as you trip.
You climb to your bunk, knees trembling with delayed hangover.
You think of Ferris for half a second. You imagine him at his desk with undone tie, eyes red, hands shaking, realizing you’re gone. You imagine him collapsing into a chair. You imagine him seeing your case file and flinching. Tucking it away. Into the trash. Him, deciding to do nothing.
You try to shake it off, but guilt creeps up your mind, foreign and unwelcome. A parasite wearing empathy like a mask.
You lie back on your thin mattress. You stare at the ceiling. It is all you can do to convince yourself to start the day.
You don’t know how, but you adjust. Not gracefully. Not smartly. You adjust the way weeds grow through concrete. Sort of sideways, sort of stubborn, sort of stupidly alive despite the people trampling on you.
You were never built for this place. You’re a petty hedonist, a thrill-chaser, an artist of the con. Not a hardened mastermind. Not a careful white-collar embezzler who knows how to navigate lawyers and loopholes. Not a desperate mother stealing for her kids.
You’re here because you liked the shine of other people’s wallets. Prison is allergic to scum like you, but you survive by learning routines. The morning lineup. The sour coffee that no one drinks because it tastes like burned dirt. The guards who look past you like you’re fog. The best shower and shift rotations. The places in the workshop where you can hide smuggled items or steal them. The women who don’t smile unless it’s a warning.
You live this dull existence, so to feel alive, you pick up small cons. Tiny, stupid things that make the days pass. Nabbing, then trading extra dessert cups for better soap. Stealing an inmate’s book and selling it back to her through a guard. Forging signatures on laundry slips to get better clothing rotation. Pretending you know someone on the outside who can wire money for favors.
It gets you enough goodwill to avoid the worst of it. Not enough to avoid everything, but enough that you fall in with people who tolerate you because you’re funny when you’re scared and useful when you’re sober.
Again, you make yourself useful, but not safe. You are only a tool. Your sleight of hand. Your knack for reading a room and knowing how to charm it. Still, there are wild cards you cannot bluff on.
It happens on a Thursday. You lift a hair tie from the wrong woman. A simple thing. A stupid thing because one of your friends needs one. You didn’t know it was her gang’s color, her belonging and pride.
You barely tuck it into your pocket before a fist slams into your jaw so hard you taste copper. The world tilts. You go down fast. Then comes a flurry of boots. Knees. Hands in your hair. On your throat. Striking everywhere.
Someone hisses in your ear. “Touch my shit again and I’ll cut those fingers off.”
Someone pulls her off of you. A guard jabs a baton. At you. At her. Mostly you, until you’re thrown aside.
The damage is done. Your cheek swells. Your ribs ache. You can’t laugh without wincing. For the first time in your life, the thrill feels distant. Blunted. For the first time, fear settles into your bones like a disease.
The pain makes your nights feel longer.
Swathed in thin blankets, sour air. The faint scrape of someone crying in the next cell. The sound of laughter farther down the hall, too sharp to be kind. You lie awake on your thin mattress, staring at the dark ceiling.
You think, briefly, bitterly, of Ferris. You imagine him still hunched over a case file that no longer matters. You imagine him sleeping badly in his too-perfect house. He must have one of those, with a manicured lawn or rose garden. You imagine him pricking himself on the blooms, and you imagine that it reminds him of you.
On your twenty-seventh day inside, the guard at mail call stops at your cell.
“You got something.”
You blink. Nobody sends you anything. Nobody cares enough.
The guard shoves a plain, cream-colored envelope through the slot. Already opened, revealing a sliver of high-end stationary that you unfortunately recognize.
Your stomach flips. You sit on your bunk, tearing it open with careful fingers. There’s no long message. No preamble. No plea. No messy apology. Just a single line in that tight, precise handwriting.
Can I visit?
Your throat tightens. Your pulse climbs your spine.
You didn’t list any approved contacts. Prior to your arrest, you moved counties, didn’t answer, never slipped up. You were careful. You were so careful.
Your hands begin to shake anyway, trembling around the little square that suddenly feels heavier than anything you’ve stolen in your life.
You don’t know how he found you. Your hands tremble despite yourself.
Outside, someone shouts. Someone laughs. Someone is getting beat. A metal door slams. But you don’t hear any of that. All you hear is the quiet echo of a man who swore he’d stop saving you and hasn’t stopped at all.
The visitation room smells like disinfectant and nerves. Guard towers. Plastic chairs bolted to the floor. A wall of vending machines. Inmates in faded jumpsuits sitting across from the ghosts of their former lives.
You’re escorted in by a guard who walks you in with a kind of boredom that borders on contempt. Your body throbs, swollen in mottled yellows and purples. Your ribs ache through the fabric every time you breathe.
You check your reflection in the metal panel by the door. Your lip is split. Your cheek is a ruin. Your arms stained by the press of angry hands. You straighten the collar of your jumpsuit and hate yourself for it. You need to look good.
You smooth your hair. Old instincts die like cornered animals, snarling, refusing to go quietly.
When you finally step into the room, Ferris is sitting near the back, folded small in a metal chair. His hands are clasped too tight. His knee bounces with a tremor that makes the table vibrate. He looks wrecked. Cheeks hollow, hair unkempt, shirt buttoned unevenly, tie crooked like he got dressed in a car mirror. There are bruised half-moons beneath his eyes. He looks like he hasn’t slept since you were booked.
He hasn’t seen you yet. For a moment you stand there, silent, framed by the bars, watching the shape of him through metal gridwork. He’s thinner than before. Hungrier. Like something in him is slowly eroding.
Then he looks up. The tremor stops. His whole body goes still, rigid, then trembling for a different reason entirely. His mouth falls open. His eyes widen in horror, then something deeper, darker. When he rises, he grips the table like he might be sick.
“Why did you move so suddenly?” he blurts, voice already fraying. “Why didn’t you answer my calls? Why didn’t you stay put? You know what happens when you run, why can’t you ever just listen?”
He cuts himself off the moment the bruises register. The welt on your cheek. The way you hold your ribs.
His voice dies. He looks like a man watching a building collapse in slow motion.
“Who did that to you?” he whispers, stepping closer to the glass. His reflection splits in the barrier between you, two versions of the same man, both on the verge of breaking. “Oh God. What did they do?”
You sit down carefully, the pain flaring, but your face stays composed.
“Occupational hazard.”
“I’m so sorry,” he says, voice cracking. “I should’ve been here sooner. I should’ve done more. I should’ve got you out sooner.”
“Mr. Monroe!” You lift a hand, stopping him. “Calm down.”
He doesn’t. He leans forward, elbows on the table, fingers twitching.
“You’re hurt. Someone hurt you.”
“It happens,” you say, shrugging again. “I messed with the wrong people. Made some enemies.”
His face crumples. He shuts his eyes tight.
“You shouldn’t be in here. You’re not built for this. You’re too—”
“Mr. Monroe.” Your voice is firm, steady. “Why are you here?”
“Call me Ferris.” He opens his eyes. The devastation is still there, but something else shines through now. Conviction. “Because I needed to see you. I needed to see for myself.”
“See what?”
“That you’ve learned your lesson.”
Your stomach drops.Cold floods your veins. The chair suddenly feels like ice beneath you.
“My what?”
He exhales like he’s revealing a secret he’s been dying to share.
“You never would’ve stopped. Never. No matter how many times I saved you. No matter how much I begged you to let me help. So, I realized you needed consequences. Real ones.”
Your mouth goes dry.
“Ferris,” you say carefully, “what are you implying?”
He smiles. Not warmly. Not kindly. But with the serene satisfaction of someone who finally believes the world is making sense.
“I pulled your last judge’s tax records. And your public defender’s disciplinary history. And the DA’s donation list. Met some of those jurors. Lovely people, but they fold so easily.” His eyes gleam, tired yet triumphant. “I didn’t have to do much. I just had to direct the right people toward the right concerns.”
You stare at him.
“You’re telling me,” you say slowly, every word tasting metallic, “that you put me in here.”
Ferris meets your eyes without flinching.
“I helped the system see the truth,” he answers. “You were headed toward disaster, so I intervened.”
Your pulse hammers in your ears as he leans closer, lowering his voice to something tender and terrifying, lips almost pressing against the glass. Too sweet and tender for his words.
“I didn’t want to lose you to the streets or to some man who didn’t care whether you lived or died. And now...” His gaze flicks to your cheek. “Now maybe you finally understand.”
You pull back in your chair, breath sharp. He watches you not in guilt, but in hope. Smiling radiant. Unhinged.
“Please don’t be angry,” he murmurs, a hand tentatively reaching to cup your cheek. But he can’t. His fingers skim the glass. “I’ll still get you out when you’re ready. You just need to show me that you’ve learned your lesson.”
The guards should be charging. Shouting reprimands. Making him pull away. They don’t.
He grins, soft and shy, as if surprised by his own actions. Your blood runs cold. Ferris Monroe, the soft, ethical man who knelt and begged for you, is smiling like a man who has finally taken control of his world.
And of you.
@donat-senpai I remember your comment asking if he'd lock reader up, and here's how that would go. DM if you want the tag removed, just thought I'd alert you ^^
Just wanna say I love your stuff! You’re writing is always so creative and I really appreciate how you write the y/n character as a real person with their own wants and desires instead of someone who just goes along with everything the love interest says no questions asked.
thank u so much!! i try to have some variation in my reader-inserts so its very nice to hear people can see that ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡ as for creativity im glad you find my ideas interesting!! it makes me giddy that people enjoy reading my works just as much as i love writing them ♡♡♡♡♡
yan! loser ✘ convenience store worker! reader . . .
╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ AUGUST ADA, who was so thankful. ᒡ◯ᵔ◯ᒢ
note—im planning to spend this month writing two specials that i am several thousand words behind in ahem...apologies in advance for the lack of updates during the remainder of the year (っ- ‸ - ς)
yan! loser and his not-so-subtle obsession with you, a convenience store part-timer.
Somewhere along the way he found routine in sputtering air conditioners and blue-ish fluorescence. Mechanic hums, miscellaneous whirrs, filmy chills. August warmth vanquished by artificial coolness and the chime of a doorbell.
yan! loser, who'd linger by the register of the local mart with clammy palms and rosy cheeks, giddy with thievery after each stolen glance. He'd flit his lashes to yours, and sometimes, a rarity, you'd catch him. A fleeting moment that laced his lips with euphoria, a dizzying romance built upon unspoken words and undefiled fervor. The small things, the subtleties.
yan! loser, who couldn't hide his adoration had he tried.
At first, he'd stop by once a week or so. Then twice, thrice. Soon enough, daily. Several times a day. Always searching for you and the look in your eye that quickened his breaths. He never said anything. A wordless commitment, a warm summer, a cool haven, a one-sided love. He kept it up until the sunlight dimmed and fall rolled around.
yan! loser, who had his first conversation with you late September. With twiddled thumbs and an awful stutter he willed himself an introduction and asked you about the weather. A rather uninteresting opening, he'd admit, and you hadn't seemed to care at all outside your cordiality required as an employee.
That hadn't mattered to him, though. None of your disinterest in him held any weight in his heart when the sound of his name from your lips feathered his feet and gave him value. Every stolen glance, each smile worth biting back. All the days spent browsing energy drinks to bask in your presence.
You acknowledged him, finally, so it was only a matter of time you acknowledged all of him, right?
yan! loser, who interpreted the fine line of tolerance as acceptance, and from that moment on spent the entirety of his days either with you or wishing to be with you. No longer did he feel burdened by secrecy or the hue of his cheeks when you looked his way.
No longer was there shame about his far-too-frequent visits, or the way he'd trail close behind as you worked your shift. How he'd gotten your number from your manager and would pester you into the late hours of the night. Only to be up the following morning, shivering with glee, awaiting you under the fluorescent.
Sometimes you'd yell at him. He didn't know what to feel when that happened. Ecstasy, at first. To him, anger to such a potent degree was no less passionate than love. It was something that bested indifference in every aspect possible, even if your lips only ever curled in scorn, even if the words that slipped were reserved for curses. To him, it was every bit just as intimate. Just as worthy of reverence.
Then, however, came dread. A sharpness in his chest, an ache in his heart. Terrible tremors writhed underneath his skin. The swell of bile and the threat of vomit. Whatever perverse elation that burned the surface of his cheeks was smothered and done away with by pooling shame, tear-shaped and cooling down his face.
yan! loser, who both revered and cried.
The mere thought of your displeasure with him was enough to kill him three times over, so to look at him with such ire, however minor, was nothing short of excruciating. From several times a day to your entire shift, he'd linger with tired eyes and a hopelessly pathetic disposition. Profuse apologies murmured from parched lips, chocolate and cards handed from quivering fingers. Longing by the store window when you kicked him out.
He loved you. So much, at that. His devotion, his love had to count for something. It had to.
yan! loser, who, despite your cruelty, couldn't muster a morsel of hatred towards you. It went against all he stood for, and he only stood for you. Rather, he was thankful.
Thankful that you'd so much as speak his name, thankful you'd let him stand outside, thankful for your sneers, for your mockery when came his wails. It wasn't love, at least not yet, but you acknowledged him. And for that, he was so thankful.
I'm the anon who asked about SL. It's quite alright tho! Don't feel pressured to continue it. I just really liked the premise so if you do decide to continue it or rewrite or even scrap it all together I'm okay with that! I just want you to know that I really love your writings and the stories you come up with! ❤️
Have an amazing day!
-🌊
again, thank you so much for enjoying my work!! it means so much to me ( ⸝⸝´꒳`⸝⸝) if i do end up working on a rewrite, which is fairly likely, i'd probably start drafting sometime early next year when there's a little less on my plate haha!! sincerely, lucille was my first attempt at a full-length book (an ambitious endeavor, seeing as i only made it four chapters in Σ (˶•˶˶•˶) !! ) but i genuinely think the premise is solid, most of my qualms were with pacing + how i developed my characters/character philosophy. but then again i love me a historical romantasy hehe so theres another pro!!
the only reason i think i'd have for abandoning SL for good is the fact that larger projects tend to intimidate me, which is why i find it easier to be consistent with short drabbles. regardless, a goal of mine is to complete a full-length book, so even if it's not project SL it'll be some other work of mine.
i sincerely appreciate your kind words, they definitely inspire me to push through!! thank you for reading and have an even better day (>///<)
╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ ANUL TABET, the hunt concluded, yet he kept you by his side. ✩₊˚.☾
note—got lazy at the end hehh...inspired by howl's moving castle + beauty and the beast!! (,,>ヮ<,,) considering a oneshot based on this in the future..
yan! cursed! grand duke and the milky white he felt festering in the fissures of his eyes, slow churning something awful. An ivory foulness clotted into porcelain. Some days he could see better than others, and yet, he refused, because within reality lay a truth he could not will himself to face.
yan! cursed! grand duke, who was going blind.
On days when will didn't seem to matter—after a glass or two, perhaps late at night throughout the hours he could not rest. During the wintery northern blizzards, when the tempest and all its ire directed its fervor to his manor. And he, ever so sheltered by its warmth, felt fearless. A false sense of security.
yan! cursed! grand duke, who'd stand before the mirror, rigid and quiet-like, witnessing his irises while an invasive white rotted the blue and conquered its territory. The remnants to prevail, rimmed thin around a colony of chiffon, nothing more than mockery. For it soon, too, would be no longer.
A parasite, it was. He, a mere host.
yan! cursed! grand duke, who searched all the land for the sorcerer responsible, who sought clarification on the words he was told.
A poor ruler, a foul soul.
Over time he grew older, somber. His blue rims never stopped thinning, and the white, plaguing. Rare were the days of adequate vision. Oftentimes of which, he refused to see at all: to delude himself into control, and that the imminent darkening of his world was of his ordinance. That sight was a privilege and he was disciplined enough to deprive himself of it.
And yet, the hunt continued. He hid the world away and fled north. The people whispered. Sorcerers and physicians, royal guards and their suspects. They came and went, all bearing bad news. A cowardly ruler, consumed by the foulness of his own soul.
And yet, the hunt continued. The blue thinned. The parasite swelled. Until he stumbled upon you.
yan! cursed! grand duke, who's only company prior was the hum of winter winds and its occasional whip or rumble. The cackle of the fireplace, the hoarse murmur of quill upon paper.
Gingko biloba, fennel, saffron, bilberry. You'd scuttle in all quivering—he could hear the roll of the cart and the tremble of glass—only to scamper out just as hastily. He'd feel for the corner of his desk what you always placed the tray upon. Sometimes it ferried aromatics, other times bitter soups. Seldomly, hardly ever, was it spiced baked goods. He liked those occasions.
yan! cursed! grand duke, who had found himself wound up by your unconventional approach and the quiet routine the two of you had built. He couldn't quite comprehend why, either. His vision continued to deteriorate.
Perhaps it was the very fact of being thieved of his sight and condemned to blindness that you were so appealing to him. Him and his sensibility, you and your scent of cedar and cinnamon and peppermint. Your potent herbs and tart stews, the muted grumble of the lavender you'd grind, your quiet huffs as you worked the pestle.
His irises solidified into ceramic, muddled its border along the whites. And yet, somehow, he felt the treatment was working. Like the looming panic beneath his ribs hushed into a lull.
The hunt concluded.
yan! cursed! grand duke, who'd reach out to map your face with his fingers and piece together your appearance in his mind. The commoner herbalist who smelt of spices and scurried off all mouse-like when came their daily visit.
As much as it amused him, he found solace in your presence, so you were to stay by his side while he worked. And ate. And walked the garden, arms interlocked—the way he insisted. As you prepared his medicine, as you collected said herbs. From the moment you awoke to the moment you laid rest, you were to be by his side.
yan! cursed! grand duke, who silently mourned, not his blindness in itself, but his inability to see you. Quite frequently, he'd demand you meticulously detail your countenance to him. But it was never enough. His blue rim thinned, and the subtleties were lost.
The manner what your ears flushed in the chilly northern climate—if they flushed at all. The way you styled your hair, your lips and how you curled them. How your irises caught light, unblemished by pools of white. He wanted to know all of it, and he had ever the patience and eagerness to learn.
The blue rim was no more. A poor ruler, a foul soul. The hunt concluded, and yet, he kept you by his side.
I just read Sincerely, Lucille and I'm so excited for the next part! You remained very cryptic in your chapters so far (especially around the yanderes in question) and I'm just so excited to see the reveal! Is there anything you could share to tide me over? 🥺 pretty please?
Super excited for when this comes out of hiatus! ❤️
apologies for how long this took to respond to, and this may not be the answer you'd like to hear, but im contemplating a discontinuation of the series entirely (,,>﹏<,,) frankly, i had began project SL as a distraction from my personal life, but now that the bulk of my stress has ebbed off, i lack interest in continuing, at least for how the story is now. · °՞(˃ ᗝ ˂)՞°·
i went in without much of a plan, so loss of motivation was inevitable unfortunately. even if i harbored the same feelings for the series as i did when it was first created, i don't feel happy with its structure + i hadn't planned for the future entirely.
however, i truly enjoy the premise and im very very very open to a remaster with a concrete planning in the near future!!
it's all only mere contemplation, though, and ill clarify my decision whenever it is i make it.
╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ LU/KA, what was heroin to his beloved manager? ‧₊˚♪
note—another shitter. just wanted to get something out ( • ᴖ • ｡) apologies for inactivity the past month, currently trying to get back into the feel of writing :ccc.
yan! popstar, who hadn't realized, until now, just how bad it had gotten.
How saliva would pool on his tongue and coax the acid what his stomach churned, when his skin—smooth and sheened by sweat—coagulated a chill beneath the flesh within the bone, something serious, fatal.
yan! popstar, who felt his knees buckle under the intensity of the stage lights, hyper-sensitive to the way it brewed his blood and boiled the surface of his skin, left him panting like a mutt.
All because he didn't have you with him.
yan! popstar, who had tried every drug on the market, legal and illegal alike. Waltzed into every pharmacy, every therapy institute, every psychiatrist office. Benzodiazepine to heroin, none of it soothed him like you did.
yan! popstar, who needed his dear manager present with him continually if he were to be functioning.
You were the only one to soothe his troubles, pacify the pound of his heart. Wheedle euphoria like no other by mere presence, even when the thought of performing threatened vomit.
yan! popstar, who lived for moments when it'd all be too much and he'd wreathe his gloved fingers into yours backstage—to which you'd reluctantly accept—and all would be made right again. Too often, you'd scold him for his reliance on you, but, truly, this was his best attempt. He had half a mind to bring you on-stage with him, but alas.
yan! popstar, who's dependency not only now seeped into the fissures of his career, but the facets of his life. No longer could he fathom an existence where you weren't fettered to his side, he needed you. When he performed, when he ate, and if it were up to him: when he slept.
For he had trouble simply closing his eyes without promise of your lull to console him to rest. How every night, he'd lay with the bitter company of his silken sheets, haunted by the agony of your absence. How every night, it'd almost kill him.
yan! popstar, who couldn't help but fantasize domestic life with you. The home you'd share, beachside maybe. Lazy mornings supervised by the lap of the sea and the love he'd nurture so delicately. Or maybe a sheltered cottage up north, and when came the cold winter months, there'd be his arms to warm you.
A fantasy so intricately curated he was physically wounded at the inevitability what was reality.
yan! popstar, who'd, more often than he'd admit, find himself wailing shamelessly up into the solitary hours of night and all throughout the hushed ambience of morning. Nothing but white wine down his throat and silence for solace. He'd call you—once, twice, a hundred times and then more. Until his battery died and he'd move onto his landline. Until the scorch in his chest dwindled.
Until you came home.
yan! popstar, who did away with any morsel of indignity and shame when you stumbled upon his front door, all disheveled and sleepy. Like you always did, you scolded him. Something about boundaries, his image. His dependency. He couldn't bring himself to listen.
How could he? No matter how he wept and sobbed, you never seemed to understand. Neither his career nor his fans meant anything in the face of you. His costly manor was nothing more than a hollow husk of wood and metal without you in it. His beauty only vain if it weren't you who gazed upon it.
An eccentric one he was, but you accepted him and all his flaws, and so wholeheartedly. So, how could he?
yan! popstar, who couldn't will himself to tell you he relished when your co-workers would joke the two of you were dating—how greatly he wished for you to assume that role in his life. He couldn't say he'd purchased your fragrance and showered it along his pillow to delude himself of your presence, or that his skin would break out into hives when you weren't in his line of sight, in his range to touch.
He couldn't say that he loved you.
But so long you continued to be there for him like you did, he could wait a little longer. As long as you'd continue to indulge him of the little things to keep him going, keep his withdrawal at bay. He'd be okay.
╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ HARLOW HENRY, a fella’ much too rotten for the sweetness what you were. 𐚁₊⊹ 𓃗
note—apologies for inactivity. currently working on a super hefty oneshot 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯
yan! outlaw, who didn't much like the taste of city-brewed beer—mild and fruit-like down his throat, headache inducing what with the lousy company the saloon bar issued. Bankers, lawmen, cowboys and their wranglers. All of which he couldn't care less for.
But an outlaw had little place else, and gunfighting took out of him what it did, so he was left to shucking wooden stools and lusterless ale.
yan! outlaw, who told himself it was the circumstances of his profession what herded his two feet like that of a cattle every night to the establishment. He who told himself it was either that or his tawdry motel suite, that it was the dull warmness of saloon beer and not you, the bartender.
A quarter a bit, was what it cost him. A mere coupla' cents for a commonplace beverage, and yet it impacted him so remarkably.
yan! outlaw, who'd heart sweltered the pump of adrenaline, the kind what when he'd aim his revolver to his bounty and his fingers—rugged and calloused, would hover over the cool metal of the trigger. When his pupils went jittery and the beat in his ears overwhelmed all else.
yan! outlaw, who just about keeled over right where he sat whenever you sauntered over with his drink.
yan! outlaw, who'd subconsciously, in all his stature, shift his bearings n' walk light when around you, as if your skin was born from porcelain and the full weight of his soles would shatter it.
yan! outlaw, who knew there was no space for somethin' sweet what you were in his life, yet found himself wondering. Wondering if you'd spare a fella' like him the time of day, wondering if he'd let you, if he'd like it.
If you'd like it.
He wasn't a fool, he knew it was your job to lasso in genteel folk and bastards alike, serpentine them in your clutches and wring them of any coin what you could muster about your fingers, smooth and unsuspecting.
A ruthless gunfighter who very well knew the nature of his job, and the nature of yours. Who insisted he was no fool, yet was ever so eager to wonder like one.
yan! outlaw, who had never once regret his chosen direction in life, not the revolver what he carried on his hip nor the whispers what followed. Never sought repentance for the blood he'd puddle by his boots in exchange for a copper coin and its pretty luster.
yan! outlaw, who had never more wished for normalcy, dignity and all other conventions he hadn't concerned himself with when he saw the manner what the candlelit warmth of the saloon would settle on your cheeks, and how you'd curl your lips at him all sincere and gentle-like. Spoke at him with honeyed tones what had no business stirring what it did in his gut, and once again, he found himself wondering.
Had he become some law-abiding ranch hand instead of what he was, would you consider him? Would it be acceptable for him to offer you all he could, be the only one to kiss you sweet-like and give you what you need? An intimate wedding, a pretty house by the lake.
But alas, he was sensible. For he was not a lawful rancher, not your doting husband—but an outlaw what did outlaw things.
yan! outlaw, who'd cup your cheek and run the pad of his thumb along its bone, whispering assurances as the two of you long slipped out of reach of the lawmen what pursued.
Even what with the thick ropes around your limbs and the tears painted upon your skin he felt a sense of romance under the moonlight and as his horse trotted about—a new beginning between a cruel gunman and his pretty fiancé.
It hadn't mattered what gunfighter they sent after him, which sheriff from what county, the amount of zeroes they marked onto his bounty.
CARMINE CLARKE ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ Your cruelty did things to him. °˖⚜ ✧
note—i've only just realized i never describe the appearances of the yanderes i write, so here's this. also this one's pretty short.
yan! prince, who had established himself as the incarnation of cruelty within the palace—a mass of brutality fatal and refined, interwoven into the laws of the nation.
The people spoke of him: a beauty what had no business harboring the foulness he did, a foulness what had no rights sat haughtily upon the throne. With the prettiest pools of carmine, the silkiest strands of flaxen, the softest lips what'd have little trouble singing poison, calling for the heads of his subjects. A charm he held most did not want to admit, a charisma lovely and biting.
But his heart—oh his heart, in the hollows and crevices, void of feeling or warmth, remained quite unsalvageable. No matter the mighty sight what was his face nor the flutter of his lashes, his heart sustained a heartlessness unjustified, even in consideration of the allure of his exterior.
yan! prince, who had shamelessly bedridden the former king and ravaged his lingering authority—done away with the days of peace and pacifism, born anew the era of power and pillaging.
To foster a nation there was no room for humanity. To lead and prosper, he needed brutality. And to him, that was you.
yan! prince, the embodiment of inhumanity, who'd swelter a euphoric delight when he'd demand the head of an unruly court official and you'd perform for him ever so impassively. When their blood would spill and smear atop the marble tile, and you'd stand yourself back by his side, by his throne without a moments hesitation.
yan! prince, who'd perch his cheek upon his palm while you coordinated the plunder of a near nation, much too blissed out to comprehend the words what poured out the softness of your lips.
yan! prince, who couldn't get enough of the thought of your cruelty in the name of him.
yan! prince, who'd gag at the sickly saccharine what of his suitresses, a sweetness insulting that'd hurt his teeth and curl his lip. The mere thought of wedding such fools bleared his sight with rage.
But then there was you—mellow and bitter like chicory down his throat, authentic and unapologetically callous.
yan! prince, who'd lay his head atop your lap and pull your fingers to his hair—you, who would acquiesce apathetically. His shallowed breaths and yours rhythmic. The blood in his eyes what'd flicker with the upmost pure ecstasy.
A cruel prince, smitten by the cruelty of his advisor.
note—this one's kinda clunky. just wanted to get something out. apologies.
yan! CEO, who never truly knew of the heartache that was to yearn, until he met you.
yan! CEO, who had never wanted for anything, never knew the anguish of longing, the potency of passion, the sorrows of envy, the joys of love. Nurtured in an environment brutal and bitter, relentless and demanding—his youth spent severed from anything remotely human.
And so, inevitably, his skin grew supple, clay-like, fit to be chiseled into whatever it was the ceramist—his father—desired. It was easier that way. A vase, a coaster, a sculpture. A leader, a businessman, a husband.
yan! CEO, who thought nothing of the life he led, the world he built and the people who filled it. Nothing of the woman he lay in bed with, nothing of the shared kiss at the altar.
yan! CEO, who's skin grew tough with the years, no longer pliable and docile—replaced with a distinct coldness, a barrier of cruelty from the reality he fostered. The reality of aimlessly stringing along the supposed pieces to a meaningful existence.
yan! CEO, who despite his successes, his marriage, his wealth, his life—felt nothing but duty and profound nothingness.
yan! CEO, who learned the complexities of emotion and the experience of humanness through the spilling of coffee, through you.
yan! CEO, who had never in his life endured a feeling so absurdly passionate his head swirled, his vision bleared. A fervor so demanding it couldn't be conceptualized over the ear-splitting thump of blood in his ears, the flush of red at the base of his neck.
And you, who frantically wiped his desk and cleared it of its papers, unbeknownst to the subtle brush of your fingers against his own, heedless of the way he quivered in response.
yan! CEO, who, for the first time, yearned. He who had never been exposed to such an intensity, let alone one so hungry and eager, a romance so plaguing. A tenderness so strange, seductively primal, possessive and ugly. Nothing could encapsulate its extent accurately, nothing needed to. For it didn't matter, he'd greedily welcome it all.
yan! CEO, who didn't believe in the shallow sentiment of love at first sight—no, what he had with you was far more meaningful, and there wasn't a soul to tell him otherwise. He wouldn't let them.
What he had with you, what this happenstance meant to him, was purpose, fate. All the agony he had sustained, the torturous circumstances of his life prior led to this—you and him. He had found his purpose, his clutch was tight, and he would not let go.
yan! CEO, who had eagerly endorsed your promotion as his personal assistant, who made haste to keep you pocketed by his desk, tucked near his heart. Where you could coax the innate humanness he thought he hadn't had, make him feel things.
yan! CEO, who couldn't bear that you made others feel things, too. By no fault of your own, you had found yourself captured—wound up by a corrupt fool what had no right being with you as he did. He saw of him occasionally after hours when you left for home, he saw of him so vividly the planes of his face were seared into the surface of his retinas and boiled a loathing thick in his gut.
It was always you, you, you. Before you, he had never a hatred so blazing, a love so concentrated. There was no envy, none to be periled by.
And then there was him—that foul man, a rotten, ugly extension of you, a crooked mass of evil who had also taught him to feel. Not of the intricacies of devotion, but a dense contempt what whitened his fists and drew them of liquid red.
yan! CEO, who not only yearned for you, but for the extermination of your boyfriend.
yan! CEO, who was infuriated beyond measure at the man so impudent you kept by your side, and the woman so foolish he kept by his.
No longer could he stand to look at the face of his wife, a reminder far too cruel to bear. When came mornings, his heart longed for when you'd tempt him into your embrace, and he'd gently nose the skin of your neck. He'd kiss you soft and tender, nothing like the hollow affection what of an arranged marriage. And you, ever so benign, would welcome him pleasantly.
It was excruciating when he so greatly wanted for your presence beside him as the sun stirred and its light pooled in, only to find some other sat in your place.
yan! CEO, who'd await the inevitable day you'd remain unfettered to your burdens, and he to his. When you'd entwine each other so intimately, so profoundly, and the circumstances of his life would be made right.
CAEL KACY ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ Like a siren, you've bewitched him 𓇼 ༄.°
yandere violinist, who's infatuation with you couldn't at all be rationalized.
yandere violinist, who for the first time, failed, in all his academic prowess, to comprehend the circumstances of the gnaw and swell that bubbled in his gut whenever he visited the rehearsal room. The scorching thump beneath his ribcage that'd muddle his thinking and dilate his pupils and thieve his quickened breaths.
yandere violinist, who was outraged by the matter and his inability to fathom it, all the while there was you and your witchery, who went about as though you had naught to do with the hex cast on his soul. On his body and in the hollows of his heart, on the slimmed fingers what he'd use to perform that now quivered when came cue for your solo.
yandere violinist who, under the scrutiny of the blistering stream of sunlight—felt his cheeks fever, vision blur, knees buckle. It was infuriating, the way you'd wring his heart of its blood with each and every hum, even in the wake of all its imperfections. How your shaky inaccuracies were overwhelmed by the spellbinding lull of passion, and doomed him all the same.
It was infuriating, demeaning, when he had to excuse himself amidst your performance to quell the throbbing slam in his chest, even more so given what it implied.
yandere violinist, the affluent musical prodigy, threatened by an opera-singer on scholarship. A fraud who hadn't the posture to justify the potency of their voice, the effects it stirred within him.
When he was young, his mother spoke fables of the accursed souls of the sea, beings of beauty what with mellowed lulls to lure the unsuspecting sailor. It was only too akin to the subtle coos of your own that enraged and disgraced and baffled him so. It was the only explanation how you so readily altered and mutated the structure of his physiology.
yandere violinist, who condemned you and all your rottenness.
yandere violinist, who, under normal circumstances, hadn't an issue articulating his cruelty and refining his ego, struggled so much as to fix you a scowl what he'd have no problem fixing anyone else.
yandere violinist, who's heart would clutch under the weight of his name, spoken by your voice, on your lips, and his eyes what'd linger. How he had wondered their fit on his own, wondered if they were as plush as they appeared, if the feeling against each other would rationalize his longing for you.
A longing foreign from his pursuit of musical success, alien to the pieces he'd compose. A passion hungry and burning, subtle and fluid—far more symphonic than anything he'd ever played.
yandere violinist, who'd now and forever, and all the forever's to come, remain entangled in your trap—but no longer was the certainty he desired release.
