⊹ ࣪Mica! .ᐟ.ᐟ ˖

don't get me wrong, its ok to use it and i use AI too, but i think your fic would be great if it doesn't show too much

:)

(i might be wrong tho, and u didn't use it, if i was, sorry about that)

Hello, thank you so much for reading and taking the time to write to me! ♡ I promise that I don't use AI in my stories at any time. Perhaps what has happened is that I write my stories in Spanish first (it's my mother tongue) and then I try to translate them in my own way. To check that everything is spelled correctly, I run it through an English translator, because I don't want the story to be poorly written in any part. That's probably why the spelling is so perfect. Next time, I'll put a note in my stories! Anyway, I'm very sorry if there's anything in my stories that's not understandable :(

(I am responding publicly in case anyone else had the same question about my stories)

Warnings: yandere themes, stalking, murder (implied/off-screen), emotional manipulation, gaslighting, non-consensual surveillance, possessive/obsessive behavior, isolation, power imbalance, toxic relationship, dub-con (dubious consent in intimate scenes), explicit sexual content, psychological abuse.

He was born for it, to be a model. Everywhere he went, he dazzled with his beauty. His skin, pale and without a single imperfection, seemed to reflect light like polished crystal; every pore was invisible, every shade a work of art. His eyes, an blue so intense it hurt to look at them directly, were framed by thick black lashes that curved with feline grace. His hair fell in dark, shiny strands, perfectly disheveled, as if the wind itself refused to mess it up. His jaw was sharp, and his lips full.

People might say that every time they saw him, he exuded a mysterious yet elegant energy, that with every step he took, you couldn't stop staring. His shoulders moved with an almost hypnotic cadence, as if every muscle had been trained to strut in silence, to claim space without raising his voice. The spotlights, camera flashes, even the dim lighting of any random café surrendered to him: they bathed him in soft halos that outlined the straight line of his nose, the perfect arch of his eyebrows, the subtle shadow under his cheekbones.

And yet, there was something in his gaze that didn't fit the perfection. A cold, calculating glint that appeared when he thought no one was watching. It was as if that inhuman beauty wasn't a gift, but a trap. One he'd woven himself with threads of obsession, ready to snap shut around anyone who dared look at him too long.

The street was a chaos of flashes and shouts. Kai ran with his hood up, his black coat billowing like a torn flag. The paparazzi chased him in a pack, cameras slung over their shoulders, voices barking his name like he was a prize dog.

“Kai! One photo!” “Smile, king!”

He turned the corner without thinking. Pushed the first door he saw.

A rusty bell jingled. It was a neighborhood store: crooked shelves, a cat sleeping on cans of tuna, the smell of stale bread and cheap detergent.

You were behind the counter, counting coins for closing. Gray uniform, dark circles you didn't hide, and a bitter smile with every good morning.

Kai stood still by the drink fridge, barely panting.

You didn't even look up. You kept counting. One… two… three…

He waited. Waited for you to recognize him. Waited for the gasp, the phone, the selfie, the “Oh God, it's you!” But nothing.

Just the sound of coins clinking. Then you spoke, without looking:

—“If you're gonna stand there, you have to pay, friend. Boss's rules.”

Your voice sounded tired, like you hadn't slept in a long time.

Kai blinked. Friend?

No one had called him friend in years. They called him god. Icon. Millions of compliments and praises. But friend…

He approached the counter. Slowly. You kept counting. Four… five… six… He pulled out a hundred-dollar bill, placed it on the scratched glass.

You took the bill without looking him in the eyes. Not once. Gave him the bottle and his change.

—“Thanks” —you said, automatic. And went back to the coins. Seven… eight… nine…

Kai stood there, bottle in hand.

The feelings he had in that moment—he couldn't explain them even if he wanted. Incredulity? Shock? Or maybe… hurt.

Kai stayed a few more minutes, still as a stone, staring at the cashier in front of him. Meanwhile, she kept counting.

The paparazzi pounded on the window from outside. You didn't flinch, and he slipped out the back door.

But before leaving, he glanced at the name on your badge.

He memorized it. And on the street, amid the flashes, he smiled for the first time in months.

Not like a model. Like someone who'd just found his one flaw.

You'd started noticing him a few weeks ago, though at first, you didn't think much of it. He was just a shadow across the street, a figure that always appeared during the dead moments of your shift: when you restocked the cold drinks and the hum of the fridges filled the silence, or when you wiped the counter with a rag that smelled of cheap lemon and built-up sweat. He was there, leaning against a wall, or sitting on the bench in the plaza across the way, or under the awning of the closed pharmacy. Black hood, long coat, hands in pockets. Motionless.

He didn't cross the street. Didn't come in. Didn't buy anything. He just watched the store. Or, more precisely, watched you.

You felt him before you saw him: a weight on the back of your neck, like the air thickened when he arrived. The store cat, that fat gray one that curled up on the tuna cans, started hissing every time the figure showed up, arching its back and hiding under the counter. You pretended to ignore it, serving customers with your automatic smile—the one you used for complainers about bread prices or kids begging for gum. But inside, the knot in your stomach grew.

One afternoon in a light drizzle, while sorting the back shelves, you called your friend in a low voice, cupping the phone so the boss wouldn't hear from the storage room.

—“There's this guy who shows up every day. Across the street. He doesn't do anything, just… stands there. Watching.”

—“Does he follow you when you leave?” —she asked.

—“No. He stays until I close, then vanishes.”

—“Take a picture, idiot. Or tell your boss.”

—“What's the point? He doesn't cross. Doesn't talk. Cops won't come for someone who stares.”

You hung up, but the knot didn't go away.

As the days passed, he got closer. First the closed bakery, then the light pole, then pressed against the window. Always at the same distance that let you see him without details: the hood hiding his face, the coat soaked on rainy days, hands that never left his pockets. The corner streetlamp flickered and died when he arrived, like the light itself rejected him. You started closing earlier, making excuses to the boss: “Headache,” “Doctor's appointment.” But he was still there, patient, like time meant nothing to him.

You talked to your friend again one night, walking home fast, glancing over your shoulder.

—“He's still there. Getting closer. Yesterday he was so close I saw his reflection in the glass. Gives me goosebumps.”

—“What if he's a creep? A thief casing the place?”

—“I don't know. But the cat hates him. And I… don't want to close alone anymore.”

She said you were overreacting, to switch shifts, file an anonymous report. But you did nothing. You needed the job. The pay barely covered basics, and the boss already had you on edge for “being late” even when you arrived fifteen minutes early. You stayed quiet, biting your lip until you tasted blood, because what could you say? “There's a guy who stares.” It sounded ridiculous.

And so the weeks passed: a constant, silent presence that slipped into your thoughts even at home. You checked the locks twice. Peeked out the window before bed. Dreamed of cold eyes under a hood. But you said nothing at work. You couldn't risk the job over a shadow.

The boss started changing, like something had snapped inside him overnight. At first, it was small things: side-eye glances when you counted the register, mutters about “lazy employees” even when you arrived early and stayed until the last customer left. But soon it escalated.

One morning, he stormed in furious, eyes bloodshot, breath reeking of cheap booze. He yelled at you in front of a customer buying cigarettes:

“$500 missing from the register! You stole it, for sure!”

You checked the logs three times. It was $50, and he'd taken it the night before to “pay a supplier.” But you didn't argue. Bit your lip, tasted the metallic blood, and kept mopping the floor even though it already shone.

The following days were hell. He blamed you for everything: the “dirty” floor even if you mopped twice a shift, the “messy” shelves even if you aligned them with a ruler, the customers “who stopped coming” because of your “sour face.” He made you stay late for “inventory checks,” just to yell more. Once he shoved your shoulder hard as he passed, muttering:

“If you don't like it, leave. But no one will want you with that attitude.”

You didn't cry in front of him. You stayed silent, because the paycheck was the only thing keeping you afloat: overdue rent, empty fridge, landlord calls. You talked to your friend on the phone, hidden in the store bathroom during a five-minute break:

“The boss is unbearable. Yells at me for nothing. I think he's gonna fire me.”

“Because of the guy outside? Did you tell him?”

“No. It'd be worse. He'd say I'm paranoid.”

And the figure was still there, outside, getting closer. But now the boss seemed nervous too: glancing at the window, sweating, lighting cigarettes one after another. One night you saw him talking to himself, kicking the curb.

Until one morning… he didn't show.

The store opened late. You arrived at 8, as always, but the shutter was down. You knocked. Nothing. Called the landline. It rang empty.

By noon, the police came.

Two officers, one tall, one short, with routine faces. They asked neighbors. You.

“See anything weird last night?”

You shook your head. But you remembered: the boss stepping out for a smoke at 10:30, as always. The figure approaching. Shadows. Nothing more.

They found him the next day, in an alley two blocks away. Throat slit. Clean, professional cut. The fingers of his right hand… severed. Tossed around the body like fake coins.

The news spread through the neighborhood: “Murder in the area.” Police questioned everyone. They held you for an hour:

“Enemies? Debts?”

You knew nothing. Just that the boss had no family. No partners. No one who wanted the store.

By the third day, the sign: CLOSED DUE TO DEATH.

The landlord took the keys. They auctioned what little there was.

And you… unemployed.

The cardboard box with your things: wrinkled gray uniform, prickly cactus, broken mug they gave you on your first day. You walked under torrential rain, the box falling apart in your arms, water soaking everything. The neighborhood felt emptier. Colder.

The tears came without warning, hot against the cold rain lashing your face. At first you tried to hold them back, swallowing sobs as you slogged along the slippery sidewalk, but it was useless. The weight of it all crashed down: rent you couldn't pay, empty fridge at home, sleepless nights from that stalking shadow, and now this. The boss dead—throat slit, fingers cut off, rumors poison through the neighborhood. Why? Debts? A botched robbery? You didn't know, but the void was brutal. That job was your anchor, even if it sucked: the yells, the shoves, the made-up blames. Now nothing. Just you, alone, with a box disintegrating like your life.

You cried hard, hiccups shaking your chest, tears mixing with rain until you couldn't tell what was what. What am I gonna do? How do I pay this month? What if I find nothing? You thought of your friend, who'd say “cheer up, there are other jobs,” but she didn't get it. Thought of your mom, far away, who'd worry if she knew. Thought of the gray cat that ran off, how everything faded. The cactus pricked your hand, but you didn't let go; it was the only green thing, the only living thing in that cardboard box turning to mush. Your shoes splashed in deep puddles, icy water rising to your ankles, cold seeping into your bones, but the crying was stronger: a knot in your throat that wouldn't loosen, sobs coming out hoarse, like screaming at the gray sky without a voice.

You walked head down, hair plastered to your face, the world a blur of hazy lights and cars splashing more water. You saw nothing. Didn't want to see. Just keep going, get home, lock yourself in and let the world end.

Crash.

Your shoulder slammed into something hard, solid. The box flew from your arms. You fell into a huge puddle, water splashing like a cold whip that soaked you completely. The cactus rolled along the sidewalk, sinking into a puddle. The mug shattered into a thousand pieces, the uniform unfurled like a dirty rag on the wet ground. Your things… destroyed.

You looked up, through tears and endless rain.

It was him.

No hood now. Black coat open, white shirt translucent from the water, clinging to his body, outlining every perfect muscle. Dark hair dripping, but impeccable, as if the storm didn't touch him. Blue eyes fixed on you, intense, absorbing your crying like a private show.

He offered his hand.

You didn't take it. You kept crying, sobs louder now, shock mixing with pain. You hiccuped, wiping your face with your soaked sleeve, but the tears wouldn't stop.

He crouched slowly, ignoring the rain pouring down his face. Picked up the cactus with delicate fingers, like it was precious. Placed it in your trembling palm, pricking you just a bit.

His fingers brushed yours.

Cold as ice.

—“Don't cry” —he said, voice low, soft, but with an edge that cut through the storm's noise.

You hiccuped again, vision blurry.

—“You… do you have something to do with this?” —you blurted between sobs, voice broken, the question burning from deep down: the stalking, the boss's yells, the death, the closure. Everything.

He smiled.

Slow. Not like in magazines. Like someone who knew everything.

—“Now you never have to count coins again.”

He stared at you, eyes trapping your tears.

—“Job. For me. Personal assistant. Triple pay. An apartment. Close by.”

You blinked, rain washing new tears, but the crying didn't stop. The cactus weighed in your hand. Your things destroyed at your feet.

—“I… I don't understand” —you murmured, voice drowned in sobs.

—“Kai” —he said, like the name explained it all.

And he extended his hand again.

Waiting.

The rain kept falling, relentless. You still crying, cold piercing you, but his gaze… stopping the world.

His blue eyes pinned you, deep, hypnotic, like they could see into your chaos and order it with one blink. Perfect lashes caught drops, sparkling like diamonds on a face that didn't belong in this gray neighborhood. His smile was subtle, patient, the kind of someone who always got what he wanted without raising his voice.

You trembled. The cactus pricked your palm, a sharp reminder of your broken life: the ruined box, soaked uniform, shattered mug. What choices did you have? Rent, hunger, loneliness. And him… he was the way out. Or the trap.

You took his hand.

Cold. Firm.

He lifted you effortlessly, pulling you close but not too close: a hug that wasn't a hug, a professional gesture with an intimate edge. His black coat draped over your shoulders, heavy, smelling of luxury and something metallic underneath.

—“Good” —he said, voice low, calm, like a boss approving a report—. “No more crying. I'm taking you home.”

Home?

The black car waited, engine silent. The driver opened the door without looking at you. You got in, cactus in your lap, tears calming in shock. Kai sat beside you, at a respectful distance. Pulled out his phone, typed.

—“Look.”

He showed you: your bank account. In the red… now $15,000.

—“Advance. So you start easy. Rent paid. One year.”

You blinked, hiccuping.

—“How… how do you know my account?”

He pocketed the phone, expression serene.

—“I research my employees. You're efficient. Real. Not like the others.”

The car pulled away. Not to your old apartment. To a tall building, glass and lights.

—“Your new place. Temporary, until you sign. Close to my studios.”

They rode a private elevator. The apartment: minimalist, cold at first. White floors, views of the twinkling city below. Kitchen with empty fridge, but a note: “Delivery tomorrow. Whatever you want.”

He left you there.

—“Rest. Tomorrow at 8. Suit in the closet. Right size.”

—“Suit?” —you asked, voice small, confused. Why did he know your size? Why pay everything like a savior… but talk like a distant boss?

—“For the shoot. Assistant. Schedule, coffees, emails. Triple pay. Digital signature. I sent the link.”

He left. Door closing with a soft click.

Alone. You explored: closet with office clothes—blouses, pants, all new, expensive tags. Bathroom with basics. New phone on the table: “For work. Contacts preloaded.”

Notification: transfer $5,000. “Initial expenses.”

You tried calling your friend with your old phone: dead battery. The new one: only “Kai team” numbers.

Confused, you sat down.

The next day: he arrived on time. Impeccable suit.

—“Good morning. Coffee ready?”

He treated you like an assistant: dry instructions. “Organize my schedule. Answer emails.” But… paid for your online groceries. “So you eat well.”

Days like that: real work, but money flowing. $10,000 more. “Productivity bonus.”

Your old bank: closed. “Transferred to secure account. Protected.”

You tried buying something personal: approved. But statements went to his email “for audit.”

One night, he dined with you. “Informal meeting.” Served you pasta, brushing your hand.

—“You're doing well” —he said, eyes gleaming—. “Stay.”

Boyfriend? Boss? He kissed your cheek as he left. Casual. Confused, you smiled. The money soothed.

But… locks changed “for security.” Card tracked. Friends messaging “Lucky you with that boss!”

Kai smiled perfectly.

—“All for you. Star employee.”

And you… doubted, but stayed.

Because who leaves a life like that?

Months had passed since that night in the rain, months in which Kai had woven you into his web with infinite patience, like a craftsman molding virgin clay. At first, you were his “star assistant”: flawless schedules, perfect coffees, whirlwind trips to cities you'd only seen in magazines. “Black coffee, no sugar,” he'd say, voice firm, blue eyes fixed on his reflection as a stylist adjusted his perfect hair. But then came the gestures that didn't fit: a hand on your waist passing through narrow doors, a “good job” whispered too close to your ear, an “accidental” brush in the elevator that left your skin tingling.

You earned his trust—or so you thought. He started sharing “personal details”: how he hated the crowds that adored him, how his beauty was a prison. “You're different,” he'd say, looking at you with that intensity that made you look away. “You don't see me as a god. You see me as… Kai.” He bought you “practical” gifts: a gold necklace that “matched the work uniform,” fancy dinners where he served wine and brushed your knee under the table. Strange things popped up: notes in your bag—“I watch to protect you”—that he dismissed as “team jokes.” Or nights you woke feeling watched, but he swore it was “work stress.”

The money flowed: bonuses for “outstanding performance,” bills paid, clothes arriving unasked. Your friends, skeptical at first, now sent envious messages: “Kai's perfect! Don't let him go!” Your mom got “anonymous” transfers. You doubted, but luxury wrapped you like a warm blanket. Employee? Friend? Something more? He never crossed the line… until he did, with a cheek kiss that lingered too long, a “celebratory” hug that pressed you against his hard chest.

And then the day came.

It was a charity gala night, Kai in a black tux, you in the outfit he chose: red silk clinging to your curves like a second skin. “My muse,” he called you to the cameras, arm around your waist, flashes exploding. They returned to the penthouse—your “temporary home” that already felt permanent. He poured whiskey, eyes shining brighter than the city lights below.

—“You've been perfect” —he said, voice low, stepping closer—. “Months watching you grow. Trusting me.”

He took your hand, cold as always, but this time he didn't let go. He led you down a hallway you'd never noticed, a biometric door opening with his fingerprint.

—“I want to show you something. Proof of how much I… value you.”

The forbidden room.

It was a hidden chamber, black walls, dim lights illuminating an improvised altar. Photos of you everywhere: stolen over months, from the store, in the rain, sleeping in the apartment. Enlarged, framed like art. A jar with strands of your hair, labeled “First day.” Another with dried drops: “Rain tears.” Videos on screens: you crying on the sidewalk, you sleeping, you showering—cameras you'd never seen. A mannequin with your underwear folded carefully. A notebook: dates, times, “Day 47: She smiled for me.”

—“Kai… what… what is this?”

He closed the door with a final click. Pressed against your back, arms wrapping you, hands sliding up your stomach, pressing your body to his. His hardness already evident against your ass, hot breath on your neck.

—“Obsession” —he murmured, lips grazing your skin, nibbling your earlobe softly—. “Eternal love. I've desired you from the first second. Every photo, every video… it was for this. To have you. Completely.”

He turned you, blue eyes burning, jaw tight with months of repressed desire. He kissed you with pent-up hunger: lips crushing yours, tongue invading deep, cold at first but warming with your muffled moan. His hands, expert, unfastened your clothes in seconds, red silk cascading to your feet like a waterfall. He left you in lingerie, exposed under the dim lights, his gaze devouring you like living art.

—“God, how I've waited for you” —he growled, voice hoarse, shattering his perfect facade. He lifted you against the photo wall, legs wrapping his waist, his sculpted body pressing yours. Kisses trailing down your neck, bites leaving red marks, tongue licking your racing pulse. His cold fingers sliding under your bra, pinching hardened nipples, twisting until you arched with a gasp.

—“Kai…” —you whispered, confused but burning, months of subtle touches exploding into fire.

—“Say it again” —he ordered, ripping the bra with a yank, mouth descending: sucking one breast, teeth grazing, tongue circling slow and torturous. His other hand lowered, tearing panties, cold fingers finding your wet heat. He parted you slowly, one, two fingers plunging deep, curling, rubbing that spot that made you tremble.

—“Kai… please…”

He smiled against your skin, eyes dark with lust. He carried you to the central bed—black sheets, mirrors above reflecting everything. He laid you down, stripping you bare, his body covering yours like a perfect shadow. Kisses everywhere: stomach, hips, spread thighs. His mouth between your legs: cold tongue licking slow, savoring every fold, sucking your clit until you screamed, hips bucking on their own. Fingers inside again, three now, stretching you, preparing while his tongue never stopped—circles, sucks, soft bites taking you to the edge over and over.

—“I've dreamed of this for months” —he confessed, voice vibrating against you, rising to kiss you, sharing your taste—. “Your flavor… your scent… all mine.”

He stripped fast: shirt flying, pants dropping, revealing his inhuman body—defined muscles, pale flawless skin, hard, veined erection ready for you. He entered slow at first, inch by inch, eyes locked on yours, watching every reaction.

—“Look at me” —he ordered, thrusting deep, filling you completely. You gasped, overwhelming pleasure. He started the rhythm: slow, torturous, pulling almost out to slam back, hitting that spot again and again. Hands on your hips, marking you, mouth on your neck biting, tongue licking sweat.

He sped up, passion unleashed: hard, deep thrusts, bed creaking, mirrors showing it all—you arching, him dominant, dark hair cascading. He switched: you on your knees, entering from behind, hand tugging your hair gently, other rubbing your clit in fast circles.

—“Moan for me” —he growled, voice broken with desire—. “I've waited months for your sounds.”

Climax after climax: he made you come once with fingers and mouth, another with savage thrusts, a third riding him, your nails raking his perfect back, leaving marks he kissed later. Sweat mixing, cold and hot, his chill contrasting your heat. He filled you once, twice, but didn't stop: flipped you, legs over his shoulders, thrusting deeper, eyes never leaving yours.

—“You're mine” —he repeated with every thrust, pent-up passion exploding—. “From the beginning. Forever.”

The end was eternal: he held you tight, thrusting erratic, your name on his lips like an obsessive prayer. He exploded inside again, you following in an orgasm that left you shaking, vision blurred, body limp.

He collapsed on you, kisses soft now, fingers tracing your marked skin.

“Perfect,” he whispered, his blue eyes satisfied. “My eternal muse.”

And in the mirror, you… smiling. Surrendered.

Yandere Forgotten God x reader

Warning: Possessive behavior, psychological obsession, emotional manipulation, implied violence, supernatural elements, themes of fear and control, intense emotions.

At first, they were just empty words thrown into the sky.

Every night, with a broken throat and a heavy heart, you’d sit by the window, hugging your pillow like it was the only thing left to hold, whispering with hope:

“I wish someone would love me so much they’d never leave me alone...”

All your past relationships had failed. You were losing hope anyone could love you as intensely as you loved them.

You didn’t expect an answer. It was just a habit. A desperate attempt not to feel alone.

But one night, something changed.

The candles in your room blew out on their own. No drafts.

Your dreams grew deeper. You never remembered what you dreamed, but you woke up exhausted, like something—someone—had invaded your mind.

You began to feel watched.

At home. In the shower. Even with your eyes closed.

Dead plants came back to life.

Your reflection sometimes didn’t move when you did.

And every night, after your prayer by the window, you felt an invisible pressure on your chest. Not painful. But intimate. Like something—or someone—was holding you from another plane.

One morning, you woke up with pale marks on your arms.

Strange symbols, as if someone had written them on your skin while you slept.

You ignored it. Maybe it was just a coincidence.

One night, while washing your face, you looked up at the mirror… and saw it.

A figure behind you.

You didn’t turn around. You couldn’t. Terror froze you.

Light hair flowing down to the floor. White eyes. A still silhouette.

Too beautiful to be human. Like a living statue. Like a god.

When you finally turned around, no one was there.

From that moment on… you knew you weren’t alone anymore.

You saw it in reflections. In puddles. In windows.

Always for a second. Always motionless.

Until one night, as you finished your usual prayer, the room filled with an impossible wind. The walls creaked. The lights flickered.

And he appeared.

Kael.

Standing barefoot in front of your bed. Without a shadow.

His skin so pale it seemed translucent, marked by symbols moving softly beneath the surface like living ink. His hair floated as if untouched by air. And his eyes… empty. Eternal.

“I heard you,” he whispered.

“W-what are you…?” you stammered, trembling.

“I am Kael. A forgotten deity. I heard your prayer.”

His hand rose, barely brushing your cheek. A chill ran through your body, as if your soul shrank.

“Your prayers fed me. They brought me back. Now I exist because of you. And you… will exist only for me.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” you whispered. “I was just… alone…”

“You begged for it. With tears. With desperation. Your words were a pact. A call. And I… obeyed.”

Kael leaned in. His lips brushed your forehead.

You couldn’t help but shudder.

“Keep praying, my beloved. Every night. If you stop… I will disappear. And if I disappear… I will take you with me.”

He said no more.

But since then, every night, you sit in silence, hands clasped, heart racing… and pray.

No longer out of love.

But out of fear.

Days passed since his arrival.

Kael didn’t always show himself, but he was always there.

In mirrors. In your mind. In your ragged breath each time you felt watched.

So when you finally left the house and saw an old friend, you felt a glimpse of relief.

For a few minutes, you could breathe without him looming over you.

You laughed. You talked. The sun touched your skin.

For the first time in weeks, you almost forgot you were trapped.

Until a cold shadow crossed your back.

That night, as you closed your door… you knew.

Kael was angry.

The room grew heavy. The lights flickered.

The air no longer felt like yours.

“Did you have fun?” His voice came from behind you like a cursed thought.

You turned slowly. Kael stood there. Tall. Motionless.

But his gaze… was not empty this time. It was sharp.

“He was just a friend,” you tried to explain.

Kael tilted his head slightly.

“And what does that matter?”

He walked toward you slowly.

Each step echoed endlessly.

“Do you really think you can talk to whoever you want? Look at someone else… when I’m here, watching you all the time?”

His words were soft. His gaze wasn’t.

He took your chin between two fingers, lifting your face to meet those soulless eyes.

“I don’t need you to lie. I just need you to remember this:

Anyone who comes near you. Anyone who makes you laugh. Anyone who even looks at you tenderly…

I will make them disappear.”

His smile returned. Slow. Crooked.

Without another word, he leaned in and kissed you.

Not gently.

Possessively. As if claiming you for eternity.

The next day, you saw it on the news:

Breaking News: Elías Ibarra has been reported missing. Last seen yesterday around 5:00 p.m. No cameras, witnesses, or clues. If seen, please contact the police.

Your stomach churned. Your heart sank.

He was your dear old friend.

Kael did it. Kael made him disappear.

Tears welled up in your eyes. You ran to your room.

It was no longer sadness. It was despair.

You stood by the window where it all began, your chest burning with rage and fear.

You shouted:

“I’M NOT GOING TO PRAY FOR YOU ANYMORE, KAEL!”

Silence.

“I don’t want this! I don’t want you! You’re a monster! Get out of my life!”

And once more, the world shook.

Lights exploded. The air turned icy.

And he appeared.

Kael.

Tall. Beautiful. Motionless.

His smile darker than ever. Without emotion. Without regret.

In an instant, he was on top of you.

He pinned you against the wall, one hand on each side of your head.

His body close. Too close.

His long hair covered you both like a veil.

“Did you think you could leave me like that?” he whispered mockingly.

“After everything you did?”

His gaze soulless. His smile devoid of tenderness. Only dominance.

“I was born from your desire. You shaped me. You fed me. You brought me back. And now… you want to abandon me?”

He held your chin, lifting your face to meet his.

“I am a deity. And you… you are just a fragile human.”

He laughed softly.

“You’re very funny. You’re not going to stop praying to me.”

“You think I’m not capable?” you stammered.

“No. Because if you stop praying... It’s not me who will disappear.

Warning: Emotional manipulation, obsessive behavior, psychological dependency, possessive actions, intentional induction of illness.

All you could think about was your headache. When you opened your eyes, everything looked blurry—white lights, like in a hospital.

“Hey...” a soft, low, beautiful voice sounded. “You’re awake... Stay calm, you’re safe.”

Un joven estaba sentado junto a tu cama, con una sonrisa amable y un ligero rubor en las mejillas. Vestía un uniforme blanco de enfermera con una franja azul a los lados.

“Who are you?” you asked in a raspy voice.

“My name is Noah. I’m in charge of your care. You were a little unstable when they brought you in... but I’m here for whatever you need.”

He helped you sit up, a firm hand on your back. He had honey-colored eyes and light brown hair, tousled in a way that looked natural, almost planned. He smiled at you.

“What’s wrong with me?” you said, fearfully.

He looked away for a split second.

“We’re still evaluating. It could be a combination of stress, fatigue... maybe something neurological,” he said, tucking the blanket around your legs. “But don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re okay.”

You spent your days in that white room. Visits were restricted. Noah said your family couldn’t come. Or that they weren’t allowed in. You didn’t know. Time was blurry.

It confused you that the only nurse or doctor you saw was Noah, but you had nothing to complain about. He was kind and always by your side. He brought you warm tea. Checked your vital signs. Talked to you while brushing your hair. Left chocolates hidden in the drawer.

In the end... he was the only visitor you had.

You started to feel strange. Weak. Confused. But when you were scared, all you wanted was him, as if he were an addiction.

“Noah... why do I feel like this?” “Your body is fighting... but I promise I won’t leave you alone.”

His fingers lingered a second too long on your cheek.

Los días se repetían entre la blancura de las paredes y la silenciosa calma de la habitación. Noah siempre estaba ahí, observando cada uno de tus movimientos, cada respiración. Te traía comida personalmente, se aseguraba de que bebieras suficiente agua y de que descansaras. A veces, cuando te veía inquieto, susurraba:

“You don’t have to try so hard. You’re safe here. Everything in its own time, dear.”

Notaste que no llegaban visitas, aunque lo pediste varias veces. Siempre tenía una excusa preparada: «Las visitas están restringidas por protocolo» o «Tu familia está muy ocupada, lo siento».

Cuando intentabas contactar con alguien, los teléfonos no funcionaban o no había señal. Noah siempre aparecía ofreciéndote su celular con una sonrisa tranquilizadora.

“If you need anything, you can talk to me. I’m always willing to listen!”

As days went by, you felt your world shrinking, and he became the center of it. When you had an anxiety attack or your headache got unbearable, Noah was there, with his warm hands and soft words that seemed to heal you.

One day, you wanted to walk down the hall. He approached quickly, his voice low but firm:

“It’s not a good idea yet. You could make it worse.”

“But I just want to stretch my legs a little, Noah. Don’t be dramatic.”

“I forbid it.”

Su mano se posó sobre la tuya. No era agresivo, pero el mensaje era claro: no podías salir sin él.

And you, weak, just nodded. Because, in the end, who else was there if not him?

One afternoon, as you rested with your eyes closed, you felt a small prick in your arm. You opened your eyes and saw him there, syringe in hand, his fingers trembling slightly.

“Don’t worry, this is just to ease that headache that bothers you so much,” his voice was sweet, almost a whisper. “I couldn’t let anything hurt you...”

You felt a slight dizziness, and although something inside you doubted, his honeyed gaze anchored you to reality.

“I promise it’s for your own good.”

But that night, the pain returned, stronger than before. And when you tried to ask, Noah simply said:

“It’s normal, don’t worry. It always happens with these kinds of injections,” he said with a warm smile.

Months passed, and the day you were discharged arrived. You felt a strange emptiness in your chest. The doctors you had never seen before smiled at you, told you you were better, that you could go home. But in your mind, there was only one image: Noah, waiting for you.

When you walked down the cold, white hallway, there he was, with his warm smile and that look that seemed to say he had been waiting for you. In his hands, he held your coat and a small bag with your things.

“I missed you so much,” he whispered, taking your hand gently.

You couldn’t help but feel a lump in your throat, a mixture of relief and fear.

“What now?” you asked, unable to hide your insecurity. Would you not be able to see Noah anymore?

“Now,” Noah said, “we really begin. Out there, no one understands you, no one cares for you like I do. You’re mine and I’m yours. Forever. Right?” — For a moment, when he said the last word, you felt possessiveness in his gaze.

People passed by you, chatting and looking at the hospital, but you only saw Noah.

And even though your heart was beating fast, and that little voice inside you screamed that something was wrong, at that moment you realized he was your only home.

“Please... don’t ever leave me,” you whispered, tears in your eyes.

“I never will,” he replied, squeezing your hand firmly.

And then he kissed you. Slow, intense, as if you were the only thing that existed in the world. As if sealing a pact that you were both willing to make.

And in that kiss, with your heart surrendered and his fingers on your cheek, Noah whispered, barely audible, with that smile you know all too well:

Warning: Kidnapping, manipulation, emotional abuse, psychological violence.

They met online. He sent a message, and you replied. From that moment on, you started talking. The chemistry between you was undeniable. You liked the same things, vented together... you could talk until dawn.

He was sweet, but not in an overbearing way. He made you laugh and listened like no one else ever had.

After getting to know each other more deeply, you decided to meet in person for a casual outing. He offered to pick you up, but even though you liked him, you preferred to go on your own—just to be safe. He understood without hesitation.

You agreed to meet at his house. He sent you the address. It wasn't a sketchy place or anything that raised red flags. Actually, it was a nice, ordinary, clean house, with plants at the entrance and a stone path leading to the door.

You rang the bell, and within seconds, he opened the door with a smile. He was wearing a light hoodie, and his hair was a bit messy.

"I'm so glad you came," he said, eyes shining.

He invited you in. A faint scent of lavender lingered in the air. The inside of the house was neat and nicely decorated, which surprised you a little.

You first sat in the living room. He offered you coffee—you accepted—and you both sat on the couch. The conversation flowed just like it did online. You laughed, joked, enjoyed yourselves.

Once you finished your drinks, he offered to show you his room. You smiled and agreed.

You went upstairs. The hallway walls were lined with framed photos, probably of his family. When you reached the second floor, you noticed it was dimmer than downstairs. His room was tidy, with a few posters and plants. What stood out most was his computer setup—a large, expensive-looking, professional station.

While looking around, something caught your eye: a collectible figure you had seen online weeks ago but couldn’t afford.

“Wow! It’s beautiful,” you said, stepping closer.

“You like it?” he replied, smiling as he joined you. “Then it’s yours.”

You were surprised and immediately declined. You knew how expensive something like that was.

“Is your room always this clean?” you asked, teasing.

“No,” he admitted, lowering his gaze shyly. “I cleaned it because you were coming.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or blush. So you did both.

You sat on some cushions on the floor next to the bed. He crossed his legs, resting his hands on his knees, and you leaned back in a more relaxed pose. You talked about everything. Work or school frustrations, shows you were watching, memes. He listened as always, attentively, occasionally tossing in a comment or a joke.

You felt calm with him. He seemed like a good guy.

“I’m gonna use the bathroom. I’ll be right back,” he said, standing up. You nodded.

He left you alone in his room. You sat in silence for a moment, simply looking around. Everything was in perfect order. The plants well-kept, the posters aligned. No tangled cords, no stains on the carpet.

You got up—not out of curiosity, just to stretch a bit. You walked around. Approached a shelf filled with figures, programming books, tech manuals, sci-fi novels...

Then you noticed his desk. A shiny mechanical keyboard, gaming mouse, a closed laptop, and three monitors—all turned off. You wondered what kind of job could afford him all that.

And then... a sound.

A notification.

One of the monitors lit up on its own. Nothing too odd—maybe it was set to do that. But the screen that popped up wasn’t random.

You weren’t one to snoop through people’s stuff. You knew it was wrong. But it was a folder. And it had your name.

You didn’t open it. Didn’t even get close. Just stared at it. Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe it referred to someone else. But what if it was about you?

You stepped forward. Just one step. Curiosity took over.

You clicked. The folder opened. At first, it didn’t look strange. There were subfolders. Some dated. Others labeled: “Voice,” “Photos,” “Chats,” “Favorites.”

You froze. Your instincts told you to sit back down and act like you hadn’t seen anything. But something in your chest twisted, and you opened one of the folders.

Photos.

That’s when the chill hit you. Every image was of you. Screenshots of conversations, pictures you’d sent him, photos with friends or family. But the worst were the ones you didn’t even know existed. One was clearly taken in your room—from your laptop’s camera. You were changing clothes.

You closed the photo immediately.

You opened another folder: Voice. Dozens of audios. You listened to one. It was you. Laughing, singing, saying meaningless things.

You covered your mouth with one hand. The other still held the mouse. Your breathing quickened. Your heart was racing.

You backed out to the main folder. There was another subfolder. No name. Just a number:

"003"

Videos.

You opened one. It started with the interface of a phone camera. It was you—in your bathroom, showering. Singing as you washed yourself. Filmed from above. As if the camera had been placed on the ceiling.

Your stomach twisted. You felt like throwing up.

When had he recorded that? How?

You closed everything as fast as possible—just before he came back.

“You weren’t supposed to see that.”

You spun around. He stood at the door. But he wasn’t smiling anymore. His eyes, once warm, were cold now. Empty.

“Why did you touch my computer?”

You didn’t answer. You stepped back.

“I can explain,” he said softly.

Another step back. Still, you said nothing. He stepped toward you—and the last thing you felt was a dull thud to your head.

You woke up to a loud buzzing in your ears and an uncomfortable tightness in your wrists. You were tied to a chair. Ankles, too. The lights were dim, warm. The air smelled of lavender... and metal. It didn’t take long to realize: this was a basement.

Then you saw him.

He knelt in front of you, smiling—just like he used to.

“Finally awake, sleepyhead,” he whispered, like everything was normal.

He gently caressed your cheek with his knuckles. The touch sent a shiver down your skin.

Fear grew inside you. Your vision blurred. Tears welled up.

“Shh... don’t cry,” he said, wiping your tears. “It didn’t have to end like this, you know? But you made me do it, darling.”

His fingers traced the side of your neck slowly.

“Who told you to look at things you weren’t supposed to? To snoop?”

He stood and walked behind you. You felt his breath at your ear.

“But it’s okay... I forgive you. Just because you’re the love of my life.”

He came back into view, crouched down to your level, and smiled. That twisted, sickeningly sweet smile.

“From now on, I’m going to keep you here. With me... forever.”

He lifted your chin with two fingers. His gaze locked on yours—so intense it felt like it could reach into your soul.

“Do you like that idea? Just you and me, my love. No one else. Ever again.”

And without waiting for a reply, he leaned in. His lips met yours—soft at first, almost reverent... but then it turned hungry. Desperate. A wet, possessive kiss. His tongue slid into your mouth without resistance.

You felt trapped. Not just physically. Emotionally, too. Because deep down, a small part of you shivered at that kiss. Even though you knew it was wrong.

When he pulled away, he looked at you with gleaming eyes. His thumb brushed across your lips—now red and wet.

Synopsis: Cater invites you to a picnic to upload photos together to Magicam, but what starts as a fun outing ends up being the perfect moment to confess your feelings. Does he feel the same way?

Genre: Fluff, Romantic

fem!reader

♡ It all starts with Cater suggesting a picnic day so he can post some cute photos with you on Magicam. A red-and-white checkered blanket, snacks, and the two of you together… everything is perfect.

♡ The location is somewhere far from the hustle and bustle—quiet, beautiful, and filled only with the sound of birds singing. You carefully spread out the blanket, brush away the dry leaves that fell from the trees, and smooth out the wrinkles. Meanwhile, Cater takes the food out of the basket and snaps a few photos of how everything looks to post later.

♡ You both sit down and start chatting about Magicam trends, funny stories, school… everything and nothing at once. Time passes, and the sun begins to warm your faces. You take photos together and laugh, enjoying each other’s company.

♡ At some point, without realizing it, silence falls between you as you sit side by side watching the sunset. Cater rests his head on your shoulder, and you glance at him. The sunlight bathes his face, letting you take in every detail: the way his lashes flutter when he blinks, the red diamond-shaped mark on his cheek… but what stands out most are his green eyes, glowing like precious gems. You had to admit it—Cater wasn’t just someone you liked. You liked him a lot. But… did he feel the same way?

♡ You’re caught up in your thoughts until his voice gently pulls you back—he’s asking if you’re okay, smiling at you. You nod, a little embarrassed.

♡ You start talking again, and at some point, without you even noticing, he gently takes your hand in his and intertwines your fingers. You glance down, blushing. Your eyes meet for a few seconds, but then he looks away, clearly flustered. A soft giggle escapes you—it's not every day you see the king of Magicam nervous, without his usual confident charm.

“You know... I really like spending time with you, Cater.”

♡ He looks at you, a bit surprised by your sudden words, but then he smiles. Not like the smiles he puts on for Magicam. This one is different—sincere, warm. The kind of smile that tells you everything without needing to say a word.

♡ You move closer, until you're face to face. You might regret this later… but there’s no better moment to speak your heart.

“I have something to tell you,” you say, nervously playing with a strand of your hair. “I don’t know how you’re going to take it, but I just hope nothing changes between us…”

♡ Cater looks at you, a small knowing smile on his lips. He gently squeezes your hand, encouraging you to keep going.

“Um… What I want to say is… I love you,” you stammer. “You’re really special to me, and I understand if maybe you don’t fee—”

♡ You don’t get to finish. Cater suddenly pulls your hand, making you fall onto him. You’re about to speak again, but he hushes you with a soft kiss on the lips.

“I’ve been waiting for you to say that!” he says with a bright laugh. “You have no idea how happy you make your Cay Cay every single day.” He hugs you tightly, rubbing his cheek against yours with pure joy.

♡ Then he takes his phone out of his pocket and pulls you close for a selfie. He kisses your cheek just before snapping the photo. You both look at each other and smile.

“You don’t know how much all of this means to me…” he says after a pause, looking down. “Sometimes I feel like I have to pretend everything’s okay for everyone else. But when I’m with you… I don’t. I can just be myself, because I know you won’t judge me.” His hand gently caresses your cheek. “I love you.”

Warnings: emotional manipulation, bullying, obsessive possessive behavior, emotional dependency, toxic relationships.

Aiden was always perfect.

You knew it from the first day he sat next to you in class, deliberately dropped his pencil case, and said with a bright smile, “Oh, can you grab that for me? I’m so clumsy!”

From that moment on, you were stuck to him like you had no choice. But the truth is, you didn’t want one.

Aiden was addictive.

You never realized when he stopped being just a friend and became a light that followed you everywhere. He’d wake you up with voice messages at 7 a.m.:

“Good morning! Time to wake up! You look tired today… did you dream about me, or did you cry because I wasn’t by your side?”

And even though he said it jokingly, there was always something more. A pause. A “laugh” that didn’t sound amused.

He bought you things you never asked for. He took photos of you without you noticing. He introduced you as “his favorite person” to others—but if you so much as talked to someone else, he’d go silent and serious for hours.

Once, you told him you liked someone. Just as a joke, to see how he’d react. And he smiled. Not a nice smile.

A small, tight-lipped smile with a clenched jaw. You could feel his gaze drilling into you. He slung his arm around your shoulders and said,

“Glad you have some hope. But no one’s ever going to love you like I do, right?”

Then he kissed your cheek, hard. You could still feel the smear of his lipstick afterwards.

After that day, something changed.

Aiden wouldn’t let you walk home alone, even if you lived close by. He always had a reason. That he was just passing by. That he wanted to talk. That you looked sad.

“Don’t lie to me. I know you better than I know myself.”

He’d send you pictures of his meals, his outfits, even his bed.

“I miss when you used to sleep over… you haven’t come by in forever” He’d say it with cute emojis. But it never felt cute.

And when you started talking to that other person—the one you only shared classwork with—Aiden’s gestures became even softer. Sweeter. More perfect.

But the messages didn’t.

One night, you found one that said:

“So that’s what you’re into now? God, how basic. Did you seriously lower yourself like that? I wonder how long he’ll be interested once he realizes it takes you HOURS to reply.”

You didn’t answer. And the next day, that person never looked you in the eyes again.

You didn’t get it at first.

You thought it was a coincidence. That people were just busy. That the weird comments were misunderstandings. That canceled plans were just bad timing.

Until you noticed how people looked at you— With a mix of pity, discomfort… and distance.

Aiden, on the other hand, was shining more than ever. Surrounded by people. Smiling radiantly. Speaking in that sweet, angelic way that made everything sound like poetry.

“Don’t tell her I said anything, okay? I’m just… worried. She’s been acting so strange lately.”

A soft laugh. A touch on someone’s arm. A downcast look, like he was really hurting.

And that was all it took. A sad little smile and a concerned tone. Everyone believed him.

He was so beautiful. So perfect it felt unreal. But without a doubt—he was the best at playing the victim.

And you, without even realizing it, started to lose everything.

One by one, people drifted away. They stopped texting back. They avoided you in the hallways.

But Aiden was always there to comfort you.

“Poor thing… Nobody wants to talk to you anymore? That’s so cruel. But it’s okay, you don’t need them. You’ve got me, and I’m not going anywhere. Ever.”

He’d say that while brushing a tear from your cheek with his soft palm, that delicate smile of his making him look like an angel who had just fallen from heaven.