#corys.whispers

manga : the obsessive maniac is trying to confine me

cw : yandere tendencies, obsessive behavior, reader is gender neutral, guilt tripping, manipulation

wc : 600+

sparkle divider credit : @anitalenia

“don’t…”

the sound comes out small and wounded before you even manage to push yourself halfway off the bed.

a second later, his arms are around your legs. he drops to his knees like it’s instinct, like gravity forces him there, forehead pressing into your lap. his fingers lace behind your calves, warm and firm, holding you in place.

you freeze.

at first, it had been adorable.

the way he’d cling to your sleeve. the way he’d pout when you stood up. the way he’d say he just liked being close to you.

now your keys are in your hand and you’re calculating how much force it would take to pry him off without making him cry.

“hey, just… let me up for a second,” you murmur, trying to shift your weight.

his arms tighten.

“why?” his voice is tight. “where are you going?”

you swallow, chest aching.

“i told you. we’re out of a few things,” you try.

he lifts his head slowly, gaze bleary and eyes glassy.

“we bought food two days ago,” he mumbles, half to himself. not accusing, not yet. just confused. “you remember that, right? you’re not lying, right?”

your grip tightens around the keys.

“i just need some air,” you try instead.

the change is instant.

his brows knit together, fingers digging in just a little more. not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you he’s… there.

“air?” he repeats. “without me?”

you hesitate for half a second too long.

his expression crumples.

“is it me?” he whispers. “did i do something wrong?”

guilt hits fast and heavy. you hate that it does.

he lowers his head again, cheek pressed to your thigh like you’re something fragile and he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

“i just get scared,” he admits, voice small. “you know how i am. when you leave, my head starts… thinking things.”

his thumb rubs absent circles against your calf.

“what if you realize you’re happier somewhere else?” he continues. “what if you meet someone who isn’t this clingy?”

your heart twists.

he isn’t yelling, he isn’t snapping, he just sounds afraid.

and you can’t punish someone for being afraid. can you? no.

you sigh, shoulders sinking.

“i’m not going anywhere,” you murmur quietly. “i’m here.”

he looks up at you through his pale lashes. hope flickers in his periwinkle gaze, desperate and bright.

“really?” he whispers.

you nod, another sigh falling from your lips. you concede to him.

“i’ll stay today,” you start, brushing his bangs away from his eyes. they’re soft against your fingers. he leans into your touch instantly. “okay? we can just… stay in.”

relief floods his face so fast it almost startles you.

“thank you,” he breathes, squeezing you tighter before easing his grip just enough to shift closer instead of restraining. he rests his head against your stomach now, arms wrapping around your waist to settle you back down.

“i love you,” he murmurs, his voice warm and sincere.

you run your fingers through his hair comfortingly.

“i love you too,” you return, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

his lips curve against your shirt where you can’t see.

he counts it as a victory. small, but a victory, nonetheless.

he doesn’t need to forbid you from leaving. he doesn’t need to lock doors or hide your keys.

not when guilt works so much better. not when all he has to do is tremble a little, look wounded enough, and you fold for him every time.

he’ll keep being soft. he’ll keep being scared. he’ll keep making you choose him. again. and again. and again.

because one day, you won’t even think about leaving anymore.

and when that day comes, he won’t have to hold onto you to keep you there.

you’ll stay on your own.

manga : sweet delusions of love with my childhood friend

cw : reader is held captive, yan tendencies, fluff, angst, manipulation, codependency

wc : 500+

sparkle divider credit : @anitalenia

it’s almost scary how much he takes care of you.

every morning, you wake up to the smell of breakfast. 

something warm. 

something sweet. 

something made from scratch.

you never have to get up for it.

he brings it to you. 

every single morning. 

tray balanced carefully in his hands, smile soft, voice softer.

“don’t move,” he coos.

not like you can, with your ankle cuffed to the bed.

he sets the tray over your lap, adjusts your pillows, like you’re something delicate. his fingers always drift down to that cuff eventually, thumb brushing over the skin beneath it.

if there’s even the slightest redness, he notices. he always does.

he massages that poor little sore spot like it’s the greatest injustice in the world.

“i don’t want it hurting you,” he murmurs, frowning at the mark like it personally offended him.

isn’t he just the sweetest?

you don’t even have to like what he cooks.

you can tell him you’re not in the mood for pancakes. or eggs. or whatever he woke up early to make. 

and he won’t get mad.

he’ll smile.

he’ll ask, “then what do you want?”

and when you tell him—no matter how unreasonable, no matter how far—he’ll lean down, press a kiss to your forehead, and say it again.

“don’t move.”

like you ever could.

he’ll drive out himself. he won’t trust delivery drivers. he won’t risk someone else touching your food. he’ll bring it back warm, fresh, placed carefully in your hands while he watches you take the first bite.

once you’re done laying in bed for the morning, he always asks what you want to do.

he says it like you have endless options.

like you have freedom.

but every option is a two-person activity.

a walk in the park?

he’s coming.

of course he is. his hand firm around yours, his arm secure at your waist, his eyes scanning anyone who looks a second too long.

playing video games?

he’ll hold you the entire time. 

chin on your shoulder. arms wrapped around your middle. watching the screen, but mostly watching you.

doing something mundane, like washing dishes or folding laundry?

he won’t let you.

you shouldn’t worry your pretty little hands with chores.

he’ll guide you gently back into your seat, smile never faltering.

“just sit there,” he tells you softly. “let me take care of it.”

and he does.

he washes every plate.

he folds every shirt.

he makes the bed, fluffs the pillows, vacuums the floors, cooks every meal.

all while glancing at you every few seconds to make sure you’re still there.

still safe.

still exactly where he left you.

the cuff around your ankle sometimes shifts when you move. it makes the faintest little sound.

he always hears it.

he’s always kneeling in front of you a moment later, hands warm against your skin, thumbs pressing gently into that sore spot like he can massage away the reality of it.

“does it hurt?” he asks tentatively, every time.

like he doesn’t know.

like he isn’t the one who locked it.

his touch is so careful. 

so attentive. 

so loving.

“i’m just taking care of you,” he whispers, resting his forehead against your knee. “you don’t have to do anything anymore.”

he looks up at you with that adoring expression. that soft, devoted smile.

“all you have to do,” he starts gently, tightening his grip just enough to remind you, “is stay.”

…no matter how much you don’t want to.

manga : the tomboy girlfriend can’t escape her ruthless boyfriend’s training

cw : yandere king, older man yandere, yan tendencies, manipulation, reader is gender neutral, reader is a peasant, reader is going through some serious imposter syndrome

wc : 800+

a/n : feels like i haven’t written for him in soooo long

privacy doesn't exist here.

not with him.

you think that is the only thing you truly miss about being a peasant—the comfort of being invisible.

no one watched you when you needed water. no one listened when you sighed. no one cared enough to notice if you slipped away just to breathe.

you used to resent that. now you crave it.

his hands are always on you. always heavy, always warm, always possessive.

they settle over your shoulders as if they were made to rest there, fingers splaying across the curves. his beard brushes the shell of your ear when he leans down, voice low and pleased.

“look at you,” he murmurs. “see how far you’ve come.”

you don’t know how to answer that.

the palace mirrors are too tall, too polished.

the person staring back at you in it wears silk and gold and jewels that press cold against their collarbone. their skin smells of oils you cannot pronounce. they look like a stranger.

sometimes you wait for someone to tap your shoulder and tell you there has been a mistake.

you of all people.

a peasant pulled from the dirt and placed beside a throne.

you have asked him before — quietly, cautiously, as if the question itself might offend. “why me?”

there are children of dukes with perfect posture and honeyed words. there are foreign royals with education and elegance.

so, why settle for someone like you?

his expression never changes. his thumb tilts your chin up until you are forced to meet his eyes.

“i know what i want.” that’s all he ever says.

and somehow, it silences you every time.

everything changes after he chooses you.

you bathe every evening now, submerged in clear, warm water with steam instead of river water and cold air. the first time, you ask if he will leave.

he smiles knowingly. he dismisses the attendants with a flick of his hand and kneels beside the bath as if it is the most natural thing in the world. he tests the water with his wrist. he pours scented oil between his palms and works it into your skin slowly, reverently.

your face burns with embarrassment.

he calls it devotion.

you call it control.

you dress in elegant clothes—fabrics heavy and luxurious. you don’t pick them.

he does.

he stands behind you while servants hold up fabrics, his chin resting lightly atop your head as he analyzes each option.

“not this,” when a neckline dips too low.“not that,” when it’s not a color that would flatter you.

when you ask which one you should wear, he answers without hesitation. “the blue. i like you best in blue.”

you wonder what you like. only sometimes, though.

you are never alone now. the complete opposite of your upbringing.

there are guards outside your doors. maids in the corridors.

…and him. always him.

his presence fills every breath of air. even when he is not speaking, you feel him there — watching, judging—always pleased.

and yet, sometimes, standing on the balcony overlooking a kingdom that is not yours, you feel lonelier than you ever did in the fields.

because at least there, the sky belonged to you.

here, even the air feels borrowed.

you argue with him more than you mean to. they’re small. a request to walk in the gardens alone. a suggestion that you could bathe yourself tonight. a quiet mention of the village you left behind.

his jaw tightens, just barely.

“you can leave whenever you wish,” he tells you. he speaks it gently and reasonably. he even gestures toward the doors.

they’re tall, carved, and, most of all, unlocked.

the terrifying thing is that… he’s right.

the doors are open. the guards do not move to stop you.

you stare at the doors. you imagine stepping through them. you imagine silk dragging over dirt and stones, fabric getting caught. you imagine the small village, and the thin blankets, and the empty cupboards. …you imagine returning with nothing.

no protection. no warmth. and most of all, no him.

you make no effort to move.

behind you, he exhales softly, pleased.

it’s a quiet sound, but you hear it.

later, when he pulls you into his lap as if the argument never happened, his arms wrap around you in a cage disguised as affection.

“you see?” he murmurs into your hair. “you stay because you want to.”

do you? or do you stay because it’s more beneficial to you? one where you are chosen, adorned, cherished beyond reason… and one where you are nothing at all. two sides of the same coin, somehow.

his fingers trace idle patterns along your waist.

“without me,” he starts thoughtfully, not cruelly, “no one would look at you twice.”

you hate that he’s right. you hate that it feels good, right even, sometimes.

no one would put up with you like he does. no one would elevate you like this.

you should be grateful. that’s what you tell yourself, at least.

even if you never asked to be elevated or chosen, you should still be grateful. you’re sure other peasants wish to be in your situation.

and as he kisses along your nape, you understand that what he wants… is for you to never want anything else.

cw : reader is held captive, yandere tendencies, obsessive behavior, yandere is an older male, reader is gender neutral

wc : 1.3k+

mdni divider credit : @anitalenia

the door to his room is cracked open.

your feet carry you forward, socks quiet against the hardwood as if the house itself is listening.

you hesitate only a moment before leaning in, pushing the door just enough to see inside.

the room is empty.

his bed is perfectly made.

not just neat… but precise.

the sheets are stretched smooth, corners sharp, the pillow placed dead center like it was measured twice before being set down.

the nightstand holds only what’s necessary: his reading glasses folded neatly, a book aligned parallel to the edge, a handkerchief tucked beneath it like an afterthought that was still carefully planned, a bookmark nestled in between the ivory pages.

there’s no sign anyone even slept here.

the air smells faintly of lavender and other dried herbs. nothing out of place. nothing that catches your eye. it’s unsettling in a way you can’t quite name. it’s so… normal. it’s perfect. just like him.

a beat passes.

you don’t care where he is. you don’t care if he left. you have one thought, hammering against your skull with relentless urgency.

get. out.

you turn away from the room, pulse thudding im your ears as you retrace your steps down the hall—the place you watched helplessly as he walked down.

you don’t even bother to glance at the room—“your room” as he put it—behind you. last night, you tried the window in it until your fingers ached. you remember standing there in the dark, pressing against the glass, testing the latch over and over as if persistence alone might loosen it. it never did. the frame didn’t budge. the window didn’t rattle. it might as well have been fused shut.

all you managed were a few shallow scratches in the glass itself—and the sinking realization that it was never meant to open. not for you, at least.

but… maybe that’s just “your room.” maybe the others are different.

you cling to that thought—the only thing keeping you grounded—as you slip down the stairs, one careful step at a time.

the house creaks softly beneath your weight, every sound magnified in the silence.

your gaze darts left, right, then behind you, expecting—no, dreading—movement. a sound. a breath. a presence.

…nothing.

the living room is empty. the furniture sits exactly where it belongs, arranged with quiet symmetry. the kitchen beyond it looks the same. clean counters, no clutter, no mess. and just as before—he’s not there.

your heart pounds harder. not with fear, but with anxious energy.

did he really leave? the idea feels wrong the moment it forms. he wouldn’t. not after last night. not after the way he smiled at you as he poured wine, red as blood. the way his blue eyes lingered just a second too long when you laughed at something he said. he’s smarter than that. …right?

no. stop. you scold yourself sharply.

don’t think about him. don’t try to understand him.

…that’s how you got here in the first place.

focus.

your eyes catch on the fireplace.

the fire poker rests beside it, long and metallic, its surface catching the morning light as it filters through the tall windows in narrow bands of amber.

for a moment, you just stare at it as if it’s a hallucination.

then—

you move.

your fingers close around the cool metal, grip tightening as the sense of purpose steadies your shaking hands. you turn toward the nearest window, heart racing as you lift it—

“good morning.”

the sound of his voice snaps through the room like leather that is pulled taut suddenly.

you freeze, the poker hovering midair. your breath stutters, chest tightening as you turn slowly, that same dread crawling up your spine.

he stands behind you.

you don’t know how long he’s been there—maybe the entire time.

he holds a mug in one hand, steam rising lazily from its surface. his other rests at his side—turtleneck nestled just under his chin.

his posture is relaxed, unhurried, as if he hasn’t just caught you in the middle of trying to escape. his expression is calm. pleasant, even.

he takes a short sip of his tea.

“i sincerely hope,” he continues gently, “you weren’t planning to damage my property with that.”

your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. your pulse is loud in your ears again, drowning out everything else.

he steps closer and the distance between you disappears in seconds.

you barely have time to register the suffocating warmth of his presence before his hand closes around the fire poker, fingers firm but careful as he eases it from your grip.

he doesn’t scold you. doesn’t raise his voice. he simply places it back where it belongs, aligning it neatly beside the fireplace. then he looks at you.

“come,” he urges softly, “sit.” the russian accent curls around the word, smooth and heavy. he gestures toward the dining room.

you hesitate.

every instinct in you screams not to follow him, but your feet move anyway. your body betrays you, carrying you forward.

what real choice do you have? did you have any real chance in attacking him?

he’s tall—and muscular, you assume—so maybe fighting him won’t be the best idea.

as you near the table, the weight of familiarity settles over you like a rotting smell. it’s arranged almost exactly as it was last night. the same chair pulled out. the same place setting.

…the same awful normalcy.

you should have said no. you should have trusted that knot in your stomach when he invited you to stay. when he smiled and said it was late, that the roads were dangerous, that he’d hate for something to happen to you—

a mug is set in front of you.

tea… the same he’s drinking. the steam carries the scent of citrus and spice, warm and inviting.

however, your hands stay firmly on your thighs. you don’t touch it.

he sits across from you, sipping his own in silence. every few moments, his eyes lift to you, sharp and attentive beneath pale lashes.

finally, you speak, “you can’t keep me here.” the words feel small and fragile.

he sets his mug down carefully before folding his hands together neatly.

“my apologies,” he seems to ignore your words, “you must be starving, my dear. i’ll make you something to eat.”

panic flares hot—but it’s not even just panic now, it’s a mix of multiple emotions. you find yourself standing from your seat now.

“sebastian,” you start, your tone louder, “don’t ignore me. you can’t keep me here.”

he turns away from you, already reaching for ingredients. eggs are already set on the counter and a large bowl is taken out. the sound of him getting settled in the kitchen fills the room.

it’s like your words don’t matter.

you open your mouth again—

then—

he exhales. the sound is slow and long—as if he’s explained this a million times already.

“my darling,” he doesn’t even look at you as he speaks, “repeating yourself won’t make your point stand any more.”

he pauses, then finally meets your gaze. his eyes are calm.

“i understand that you don’t want to be here,” he continues, “but what you want isn’t always what’s best for you. i’m confident you’ll realize i am doing this because i love you.”

your stomach twists into that same knot you felt when he offered to let you stay.

“if you loved me,” you quietly whisper, voice tight and clipped, “you would let me go.”

there’s a beat of silence.

he doesn’t answer right away. for a moment, for one, foolish moment, you almost hope that your words reached him.

then he shakes his head.

“neglecting you,” he starts slowly, “leaving you alone, allowing anyone access to someone as remarkable as you—no.” his voice lowers, “that would be cruelty.”

something inside you crumbles. maybe it’s your resolve. maybe it’s your hope. maybe it’s yourself.

you don’t cry. you don’t scream—you doubt you’d even be able to find one in your throat.

you simply sink back into your seat, staring ahead as the reality settles into your chest, sinking like a weight into your stomach.

he isn’t letting you go. he’s going to keep what never truly was his to have.

and you were never meant to have a say at all.

manga : reverse thinking

cw : yan tendencies, obsession, killing mention, possession, delusions, reader is gender neutral, reader is in college

wc : 450+

a/n : I’M SO TIRED UEUEUEUE SNIFF sOBS

but im trying to bring all my boys back again and go into their lore and the way they think…. this one is about vicktor

his nose is buried in his books. focused.

his attention is drawn away from the world. negligent.

why would he need to pay attention anyway? the world is boring. and yet… so unpredictable.

…

no.

humans are boring and unpredictable. loud when they shouldn’t be. bothersome. a nuisance.

honestly, he’s embarrassed to even be partly associated with such a species. much less, have to exist in an ecosystem of such.

books are never loud. books are never boring. books are never predictable.

and if they are? that is the fault of the human that wrote it.

books feel safer than humanity.

their shape. their smell. their words. their sounds.

books don’t make his chest tight. not like humanity does.

if he had the chance, he would give it all up, just for books. it would be worth it. at least, to him it would be.

…but. then you came.

unpredictable. but, in a good way.

in a way that makes his heart skip beats. that makes his cheeks hot. that makes him lose track of what page he’s on. that makes him… feel.

he listens to you. really listens.

you’re like a book. each time you speak, it’s like a turn of a page. each time you speak, he discovers something new.

he’s addicted to it. addicted to you.

and you don’t even know this.

he rather you not, actually.

it’s better that you don’t know.

its better that you don’t know how much he thinks about you. how much he draws you. how much he… feels about you.

he gets angry at things he never thought he’d care about.

he wants to kill anyone who even dares to speak to someone as special as you.

you’re the reason he gets out of bed in the morning. the reason he smiles. the reason he’s stopped reading books as often. the reason he cries. the reason he dares to brush his fingers along your hand, your arm, your knee. the reason he leans in a fraction closer—taking in your scent, your essence, you.

unassuming actions to you. absolutely everything to him.

and they want to take that from him. want to take you from him.

no.

he can’t let that happen. he can’t let you leave. he can’t let you make the biggest mistake. he can’t.

you need him as much as he needs you.

that’s a fact.

he sees it in your eyes. hears it in your voice. feels it in your touch.

you feel the same about him. you have to.

you’re like a book, he knows that. but… it’s like you have endless pages. waiting to be read. waiting for him. and you make it so easy.

you’re just an open book.

cw : reader is held captive, yandere tendencies, killing mention, obsessive behavior, reader is gender neutral

wc : 1.1k

sparkle divider credit : @anitalenia

“where you goin’?”

his voice is husky, tone thick with sleep.

you stop with your hand an inch from the door. the metal is cold. you don’t turn around. you don’t breathe.

“…out,” you curtly answer, not daring to look at him.

it’s the smallest answer you can give without sounding like a lie.

behind you, the couch creaks and fabric shifts.

a low groan follows—long and rough, like standing costs him something every time.

it used to make you feel bad for him. now it just makes your heart pound harder against your ribs.

you risk a glance.

he’s already upright.

he moves toward you with the lazy certainty of someone who knows the space belongs to him. baggy cargo pants hang low on his hips—the waistband of his underwear peeking out as one hand slips under his shirt to scratch at his stomach. the sleeves of his shirt are pushed up, exposing thick forearms. his hair is an organized mess, eyes half-lidded, but there’s nothing groggy about the way he looks at you.

he steps into your space.

you step back.

fear hits you all at once—hot, sharp, blooming in your chest like a thorned rose.

“well…” he drawls, and then his hand lifts. your keys dangle from his fingers.

they chime softly and your stomach drops so hard it almost makes you dizzy.

“y’can’t be leavin’ without these, now can ya?”

for a second, you can’t speak. you stare at them like they might just appear in your hands if you look at them long enough. your mind scrambles, searching for a version of this where it isn’t happening.

this can’t be happening.

you twist the doorknob anyway.

this can’t be happening.

it doesn’t budge.

this can’t be happening.

locked.

this can’t be happening.

your throat tightens.

your place. your house. your home.

“and without your car,” he adds casually—too casually—like he’s pointing out the weather, “you ain’t makin’ it far.”

your home. yours.

something snaps in you then.

not courage—but defiance. raw and ugly and desperate. you lunge for the keys, fingers stretching, nails scraping the air—

he doesn’t even flinch. he just lifts his hand higher—like you’re reaching for something you were never meant to touch—which was ironic since that something was for you. his other hand closes around your wrist, warm and solid. it doesn’t hurt and that makes it worse.

he looks down at where he’s holding you.

a beat passes.

then, he slips the keys—your keys—into his pocket.

his hand comes up fast and your breath stutters. every nerve lights up, screaming that this is it, that you pushed too far—

but instead of pain, his palm cups your face. his fingers press into your cheeks, not enough to bruise…. just enough to make you feel how easily he could. his thumb brushes under your eye, rough finger against your softer skin.

you tremble.

he leans in, squinting like he’s inspecting something.

then, his other hand reaches up and plucks a piece of cotton from your hair.

“…what, have ya been rollin’ in fuckin’ dust?” he mutters. another piece comes free. then another. his focus narrows, attention drifting away from your fear like it’s background noise. he picks at your clothes, your shoulder, your sleeve, brushing lint away with careful fingers.

you stand there frozen, breath shallow, while he cleans you up like you’re something precious that got dirty. which… you are.

his precious little reward for his patience.

when he’s done, his hand drops.

he finally looks at your face again. actually, no, that’s a lie. he finally focuses on your face again. he sees it—the fear. the way your eyes shine too bright, the way your lips part like you’re bracing yourself.

he doesn’t seem to react, nor does he seem to even care. his thumb brushes that same spot under your eye.

“if i wanted to hurt you,” he starts calmly, “i could’a done that when i got you.”

he lets the words sink into the room, his tone heavy and deliberate despite the calmness. a statement of fact.

a reassurance, in his mind. a threat, in yours.

he steps away before you can respond, though you doubt you’d even be able to find the words to. his back turns to you like nothing just happened. he crosses the room and collapses back onto the couch, stretching out, one arm slung over his eyes.

the television murmurs quietly, late-night static and reruns bleeding into each other.

you’re still by the door, alone. your legs move before your thoughts catch up.

upstairs. the bedroom. is it even yours at this point? it’s the only place that feels even remotely safe, but you know better.

you climb the steps slowly, every step sounding too loud, like it might call him after you.

the door clicks shut behind you. you slide down it, a shaking hand pressing to your mouth.

downstairs, he lets his mind wander. he hates how quiet you are, how you don’t soften when he touches you, how your tone stays flat and guarded. it irritates him in a way he doesn’t like to think about too much. it’s different here than it was at the college.

…but it also thrills him. the idea of being so close to you—not emotionally just yet, but physically.

he is inside your home and you can’t do anything about it. it makes his mouth water.

resistance means you’re still here and still real.

meaning you’re still something he can work with. something he gets to take the time to slowly break down.

he remembers the first day he saw you. the way you laughed at something small, something stupid. the way the world seemed to… make sense around you. he remembers thinking that someone like you shouldn’t be left alone. not in a world that careless, with people that can be so careless.

no one will know how to treat you—not like he does. the mere idea of anyone getting close to you makes him sick and angry—like he could kill them (and he will).

he’s protecting you. keeping you close, keeping you safe from bad influences, bad people.

…from making a mistake. a choice. a decision that you’ll inevitably come to regret.

he knows what’s best for you.

time is the key. time and patience.

you’ll soften eventually. you always do, even if you don’t realize it.

people get tired of fighting a fight that they’ll never win.

he doesn’t need to rush. he shifts on the couch, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

all he has to do is wait.

eventually, you’ll understand.

and if you don’t… well… having you here, breathing the same air, existing in the same enclosed space as him—it might be enough.

knowing himself?

it probably will be.

manhwa : reverse thinking

cw : angst, yan tendencies, reader is gender neutral

wc : 2.1k+

sparkle divider credit : @anitalenia

part two of this fic

a/n : justice for the nerdy guy that i gave no name to :((

off topic, but it’s my birthday tomorrow! ๑•͈ᴗ•͈๑

you’re angry.

…no, that’s not enough.

you’re livid.

every fiber of your being is buzzing with it, and it’s all because of braxton and scout. ever since that fake “study session,” you’ve been cold toward them, icy in every glance, every step.

and honestly? they deserve it.

every time they try to talk to you, you shut them out. every attempt at small talk, every fake smile—they get nothing.

you don’t even want to look at them. you don’t want to be reminded by the fact that they used you to pass the time. as if you aren’t human. you don’t have any motivation to report them—that’ll be more difficult than the situation you’re in already. you just want them to disappear…

and yet… somehow, they’re always around. waiting and watching.

“you’re ignorin’ me again,” braxton mentions one afternoon, leaning against the wall near where you eat, arms crossed. his voice is low, clipped, just enough to make you tense.

it’s a side you’ve never seen before—a dangerous one.

you glance past him, not even meeting his eyes. then, you turn your attention back to your food.

scout steps closer, grinning like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“oh, come on, doll,” he drawls, “don’t be like that. we’re just trying to talk.”

you don’t answer. you stand with your food, turning, and walking past them, shoulders stiff. every step is deliberate, a silent punishment. you don’t want to talk to them. not now, not ever.

but that doesn’t stop them. they’re persistent.

scout tries jokes, braxton tries intimidation, and you bite back every urge to snap. every day is a minefield.

you feel your jaw tighten just thinking about them.

and then, the world decides to make things worse. the professor pairs you with a guy in class—a guy who’s shy, soft-spoken, a guy most girls in your college wouldn’t be interested in because he’s too “scrawny” or “weird”.

“hey… um… looks like we’re partners,” he tries to coyly chuckle, fumbling with his notebook, voice tight with nerves.

you blink at him, taken off guard. you’re so adamant on hating all men, that… you forget that they’re not all the same…

he’s not like braxton or scout. he doesn’t smirk. he doesn’t lean too close. he doesn’t make everything about him. he just… smiles politely, waiting for your answer.

“…yeah,” you answer finally. “looks like it.”

your voice is flat, but inside, something tight in your chest loosens just a little.

you start working together on projects, on homework, on afterschool activities you volunteer for.

there’s something addictive about his quiet attentiveness. the way he laughs at things that are actually funny, the way he listens instead of interrupting, the way he looks at you like you’re… enough.

but braxton and scout notice. they always notice.

braxton leans against the doorway one afternoon while you’re cleaning up after working. his eyes are sharp.

“so… you really like workin’ with him, huh?” he questions you—as if he deserves an explanation.

you don’t answer. you don’t have to. you know you’re making them squirm.

scout snorts from behind him. “yeah, easy to work with, easy to stare at, easy to fall for, huh?”

your chest grows tight. you don’t care if they bother you. but… you want them to stay away from him. the first good thing that ever happened to you.

your hands tighten around your notebook.

“don’t start,” you warn, voice low.

“‘start’ what?” braxton interrogates, stepping closer. “pointin’ out the obvious?”

you swallow, furious and frustrated.

scout grins, leaning closer like he’s enjoying every second of it. “he doesn’t even know what he’s walking into. poor guy…”

you don’t answer. you just grit your teeth, wishing you could be angry at your partner instead of… feeling protective, feeling drawn to him, feeling something you haven’t felt in a long time. though, it is nice to see them squirm.

inside, you try to convince yourself it’s nothing. you don’t want to talk to any men, remember?

not braxton, not scout, not anyone.

yet here you are… seeking your partner out for projects, offering to stay after class to work together, laughing more than you have in weeks.

and somewhere behind you, braxton and scout watch, silent but patient, like predators. and it hurts them. the way you smile at him, the way you linger in conversation—it makes scout’s chest tighten, makes braxton’s fists clench.

you still belong to them. surely you know that.

…but, maybe they need to remind you of who they are.

especially now… because, that guy—your partner, the one you keep volunteering to work with—finally gathers the nerve to ask you out, your chest lifts.

“uh… so, i was wondering… maybe you’d like to grab lunch tomorrow?” he asks, voice cracking slightly, eyes hopeful.

your cheeks grow hot.

was this really happening?

were you allowed to be happy?

you grin and answer without thinking, “i’d love to.”

his face brightens, the kind of bright that makes your stomach flutter.

finally, a reason to get out of your dorm, to breathe, to… just exist outside the tension that follows braxton and scout.

lunch the next day is supposed to be perfect. it’s your plan, your moment.

you sit down at the outdoor tables provided by the lunchroom, tray in front of you, trying to steady your hands.

the sun’s warm on your back, but it doesn’t help.

your chest is tight, a mix of nerves and excitement, because he’s here—he’s really here—and it feels like the first time in forever you can just… breathe.

“so… uh… do you usually come out here for lunch?” he asks softly, fidgeting with his tray, eyes flicking to yours.

“sometimes,” you answer, trying to sound casual and failing miserably, “depends on the mood.” you push your food around on your plate, face hot.

he nods, cheeks pink. “yeah… me, too.”

the moment stretches comfortably. for the first time today, you feel… normal.

then it hits.

“hey, doll! whatcha eatin’?”

you freeze.

you look up, and there they are—scout walking over before leaning casually on the table’s edge, braxton standing just behind him.

both tall, both lean, both dangerous, and… both completely unavoidable.

scout grins like he knows exactly what he’s doing; braxton’s eyes are sharp, unblinking, and furious.

your stomach drops. your heart freezes. you can’t move. you can’t even think.

“daamn…” scout whistles, loud and shameless. “looking good today.”

your face goes hot. you look at your partner.

he’s frozen too, staring at them with wide eyes.

he swallows hard, voice barely above a whisper, “i… i—i should—maybe—” he fidgets with his tray, hands twisting nervously. he wants to stay, for you, to not make you feel alone in front of them—but he doesn’t want trouble. not with them.

braxton leans slightly forward, shoulders tense, jaw tight, like he’s trying so hard not to snap. “so… you’re really okay sittin’ here with him?”

you don’t speak. not because you’re stunned, now. but, because you’re furious.

who are they to think they can interrupt you? keep you?

your fingers dig into the edge of the table. your chest feels too tight to breathe. you don’t want to snap. you don’t want to—

scout smirks, tilting his head. “aww… look at the little nerd. trying to be brave.”

“scout!” you snap. your face is burning. “stop it!”

braxton steps forward, voice low and sharp. “watch it. or you’re next, doll.”

you grit your teeth, heart pounding, furious and scared all at once.

the nerdy guy fidgets, avoiding their eyes, trying to stay invisible.

you slam your hands on the table before suddenly standing, the chair loudly scraping on the concrete.

“i’m next for what?” you snap, stabbing a finger at him. “go on. i dare you.”

you glare up at him, your entire body feeling like it’s on fire.

he’s bigger than you—much bigger—he looks down his nose at you. with narrowed eyes, he lets out a sharp huff of breath, a triumphant smirk forming on his face. “you’re so damn sexy…”

you’re so livid, you can throw your chair at braxton’s stupid face.

now, there are people watching. not that there’s many outside, but the ones who are try to listen in.

your partner swallows again, lips trembling.

he wants to stay, really, just a little longer—just for you—but the weight of braxton and scout presses down on him like gravity. he hesitates.

“i… i… i don’t want to intrude,” he starts quietly, looking at you. his eyes are soft, apologetic. “but… i just wanted… to eat with you.”

“wait—“ you stammer, reaching for his hand—but he’s already standing, gathering his things.

there’s a small beat of silence.

he swallows, nods to you, and mutters quietly, “i… i’ll see you later, in class.”

and just like that, he’s standing, tray in hand, slowly retreating from the table.

your heart drops and your stomach twists.

one chance—one… small, perfect moment—and it’s gone.

you want to say something, to call him back, to stop him—but you’re frozen from sheer guilt.

“seriously?” you finally manage, voice tight, trembling with anger and frustration. “you’re not going to leave him alone?” you can barely find the energy to even worry about yourself.

they both just simply… stare at you. with those same cocky, triumphant eyes. nothing about them has changed. nothing will ever change with them.

you’re absolutely sick of them. …but, you can’t cause more of a scene than you already have. you grab your tray without another word, walking toward your dorm, heart hammering, chest tight, feeling absolutely defeated.

you don’t know if braxton and scout are following you. you don’t bother looking back. you just want to go home…

…

when you finally reach your room, you shove the door open and just stand there. the halls are quiet, emptier than usual. everyone else has class, leaving only you with the echo of your own thoughts.

and then, scout’s voice cuts through the silence, soft but deliberate.

“aww… don’t look so upset, doll,” he starts, placing a hand on your shoulder.

you jerk back instinctively, swatting his hand away.

“what the hell, scout?” you snap, voice trembling. “what is wrong with you!? both of you!”

you glare at the both of them—absolutely seething.

“i was happy for a second. and now… now—” your voice breaks, eyes falling shut as you swallow a lump in your throat. tears prick at your eyes. “why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“leave you alone?” scout tilts his head, feigning confusion, though his eyes are sharp. “we’re just looking out for you. he didn’t know how to treat you. we do.”

“look out for me?” you laugh, sharp and bitter. “you think you’re helping? if it weren’t for you two, maybe i wouldn’t be sitting here crying over someone who actually made me happy!”

braxton steps forward from the shadows of your doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“happy?” he mutters, voice low, dangerous. “y’weren’t gonna be happy. he doesn’t know how to handle ya. he can’t. we just saved ya from your biggest mistake. least y’can do is be grateful.”

“saved me?” you spit the words out, anger boiling up through words. “you call this saving? forcing me to watch someone leave because you won’t let me have a moment of happiness? do you even hear yourselves?”

braxton’s gaze is steady, unflinching. then, he clicks his tongue, folding his arms. “if y’stopped fightin’, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much.”

you blink, stunned. the words make your stomach drop.

“i… i never asked for this. you don’t get to decide who i care about!” your voice cracks, and the tears start falling freely. “you— i— you can’t just—” you splutter, a sob wrenching itself from your throat.

you feel utterly defeated.

scout steps closer, sighing softly, and wraps his arms around you. your own arms hang at your sides, frozen.

“shhh… don’t worry,” he murmurs, voice low and comforting against your hair. “we’ll take care of you. we always do.”

“i… i don’t need your ‘care’,” you whisper, chest tight, voice almost a sob. “i just… i just wanted… a normal day. a happy day. why is that so hard?”

you stare at the floor, feeling small, trapped, furious at yourself for letting them in, furious at them for never letting go. the quiet hum of the dorm presses against you, broken only by their steady presence.

it’s your fault. it is—you should’ve never trusted them. you should’ve pushed them away—you shouldn’t have cared. if you would’ve never let them in, this would’ve never happened.

…at least, that’s what you think.

in reality, this would’ve happened regardless if you let them in. you didn’t have to let them in when you’re so easy to break.

…for a nerd, you sure are stupid.

manhwa : painter of the night

cw : reader is gender neutral, reader is a nursing student, yan tendencies

wc : 2k+

sparkle dividers : @anitalenia

part one of this fic

a/n : forgive me if none of the medical stuff is correct i just used google and reddit to look up terms i didnt know 🥀🥀🥀

credit to @eroqista for this idea :3

yes i am planning to make this a series but i do need some names for said series so i’d love some help with that 💔💔

you’re two years into your nursing degree when you decide that resting is for people without ambition.

summer classes are optional.

money nor experience are not.

so you apply for the hospital mentorship program and get accepted before you can talk yourself out of it.

they send you the name of the doctor you’ll be shadowing.

dr. vincent beaumont.

you practice saying it in your head. formal. distant. professional.

it’s competitive. supervised directly under a physician.

that’s all.

you don’t expect it to change the trajectory of your nervous system.

…

the hospital feels colder than campus ever did.

more serious. more… real.

fluorescent lights reflect off polished floors. the air smells faintly like antiseptic and coffee.

you check in at the nurse’s station and smooth your scrubs for the third time.

“you must be my summer student.”

you turn. and immediately regret every life decision that led to this moment.

he’s taller than you expected. composed. dark hair neatly styled back, sleeves of his white coat rolled just enough to expose strong forearms. his badge reads: vincent beaumont, md

you stare at it like you need confirmation he’s human.

“i—yes,” you manage. “i’m—” you give him your name and hope your voice doesn’t crack.

his mouth curves slightly.

“relax,” he muses. “i promise this isn’t an exam.” it feels like one.

he steps closer and extends his hand.

you hesitate for half a second before shaking it. big mistake.

his grip is firm, warm, steady.

yours is clammy.

he notices. of course he notices. he doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t have to. all he needs to do is notice.

“welcome,” he greets smoothly. “tell me. why give up your summer to work under fluorescent lighting with me?”

you prepared something impressive. something about clinical exposure and skill development.

instead, your brain panics.

“they’re paying me,” you blurt out.

silence.

then he laughs, the sound low, warm, and amused.

“honest,” he chuckles fondly. “i appreciate that.”

your face immediately burns. nice one.

“i mean—experience too. obviously. and mentorship. and—”

“of course,” he’s still faintly smiling. “but financial motivation is refreshingly straightforward.”

he studies you a second longer than necessary.

“don’t worry,” he adds. “i’ll make it worth your time.”

the way he says it makes your stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with career advancement.

…

the first week is structured and controlled.

he lets you practice and learn in the simulation lab. rows of medical training dummies line the room—plastic torsos, injection pads, airway trainers.

“we’ll start with intramuscular injections,” he removes his coat, setting it aside on the rolling chair, “show me what you know.”

you try not to stare at his forearms. you fail miserably.

he positions the dummy’s arm carefully, explaining landmarking and needle angle. his hands move with calm precision, long fingers steady as he demonstrates.

“ventrogluteal site is preferred in most adults,” he explains, glancing at you occasionally to make sure you’re paying attention, “less risk of any nerve damage.”

you nod quickly, forcing your eyes to stay on the anatomical markers instead of his hands.

“your turn.”

you step forward. you’re aware of him standing just behind you. too close.

“relax your grip,” he murmurs. his hand covers yours briefly, adjusting your fingers on the syringe.

your brain practically short-circuits.

“like this,” he guides you quietly. his voice is closer to your ear than necessary.

he smells faintly of antiseptic and coffee—just like the hospital.

you swallow a lump in your throat.

“right,” you whisper.

“why do we aspirate?” he tests.

“to ensure we’re not in a blood vessel,” you answer automatically.

“good…” he praises, writing something down on his clipboard. his approval hits harder than it should.

you finish the demonstration without dropping anything, which feels like a victory.

but when you step back, he doesn’t move away immediately and you lightly bump into him.

his body is firm, unmoving, it makes your heart jump into your throat.

“ah—sorry, i—“ you start.

“you’ve been staring,” he introduces casually.

your heart drops so fast, it makes you dizzy.

“i—no,” you deny instantly.

“my hands,” he clarifies. “you watch them every time i demonstrate.”

heat floods your face. think of an excuse—quick.

“i-i’m observing technique,” you stammer.

“mm,” he tilts his head slightly. “is that all?”

you pause for a moment. a fraction of a second. but, it’s enough. “yes.”

dr. vincent hums, stroking his chin. “…interesting.”

his gaze lingers just long enough to make you question your entire composure.

“don’t apologize,” he adds softly when you open your mouth. “i don’t mind.”

that somehow makes it worse.

…

over the next several days, the pattern continues. mornings in the simulation lab. afternoons shadowing him during mock checkups and chart reviews.

he quizzes you constantly, but never cruelly.

he questions. you answer. he questions. you answer. he questions. you answer.

it’s painfully distant. clinical. you shouldn’t find it painful. you should be glad. it’s appropriate.

and, yet…

every time he demonstrates something—suturing practice on synthetic skin, airway insertion on a mannequin, even simple hand positioning during examinations—your focus drifts.

his hands are steady and deliberate. …controlled.

you shouldn’t find that attractive. you absolutely do. the idea of being controlled by him—

“you’re distracted again.”

you blink up from the chart you’re pretending to read. “…no, i’m not.”

he raises a brow. “tell me the maximum dose for lidocaine without epinephrine.”

your mind blanks. you know this. you do.

his mouth twitches faintly. something that mimics a… smirk?

“focus,” he coaxes softly.

after a moment, you force the answer out.

he nods approvingly, praising you with a satisfied, “better.”

a beat passes.

“it would be unfortunate if your grades suffered because of poor concentration,” he mentions casually. too casually. he knows what he’s doing.

you stiffen again, a frown tugging at the corners of your lips. “they won’t.”

he studies you for a long moment. not clinically, like he studies the dummies, but really studies you, like a painting—something beautiful.

“good. i’d hate to see you… struggle,” he softly adds.

something about the way he says struggle makes your pulse jump.

…

two weeks in, he’s closer. not physically, necessarily, but in other ways.

you notice he assigns you to every one of his cases.

when another intern asks if you can assist on a different floor, dr. beaumont answers before you can.

“they’re with me today.”

they’re with me. the phrasing lingers.

in the simulation lab one afternoon, you’re practicing sutures on a synthetic pad while he observes.

“your spacing is uneven,” he points out.

you frown, looking down at the silicone pad. “no, it’s not.”

he steps behind you again, close enough that you feel the heat from his chest through the thin fabric of your scrubs.

“it is,” he murmurs, studying your work. his fingers gently adjust your wrist. “slow down.”

you inhale sharply.

“i am slowing down,” your voice is tinged with the faintest taste of annoyance. you’re trying so hard to stay professional, distant, clinical.

your needle slips slightly.

he steadies your hand instantly.

“if you keep staring like that,” he starts, breath too close to your ear, “i’m going to assume it’s intentional.”

you nearly drop the instrument.

“i am not staring!” you suddenly snap, turning to face him so fast that you nearly cut him with the needle. your tone is louder than you intend. it comes off as defensive—it makes you cringe.

he is simply silent for a few long moments. he doesn’t seem phased at your outburst—in fact, if you looked hard enough, it would’ve seemed like he was hoping for that.

you exhale, placing the needle down as you rub your temples.

“you’re right. i am staring. at technique,” you correct yourself tightly.

he hums softly. “is that what we’re calling it?”

your jaw opens before it closes—seemingly dumbfounded. you can’t find a good response.

then—

“does it distract you?” he asks suddenly.

you blink, swallowing a lump in your throat.

“what? does… what distract me…?”

“me.”

your jaw hangs open again—before you close it. what’s there to say?

“i’m trying to be professional,” you manage—throat tight.

“and succeeding?” his muses, tone almost gaining a teasing lilt to it.

you glare at him, absolutely mortified. “doctor, you—

“it’s mutual,” he interrupts your protest, a smile now across his face.

you blink. “what is?”

“the distraction,” he hums.

your heartbeat skips.

“i-i’m sorry?” you quietly question him. “i-i don’t understand—“

“i’m your supervising physician,” he continues evenly. “i shouldn’t notice the way you look at me.”

your throat goes dry as you manage a small, “but you do?”

“constantly,” his admission isn’t flustered. it’s calm, controlled, and certain.

“…that’s not appropriate,” you whisper, fingers digging into your sleeves now.

“no,” he agrees. “it isn’t.”

he steps closer, closing the space between the two of you.

there is a beat of silence.

“you want to finish your degree early,” he thinks aloud. “accelerated placements. strong recommendations.”

you nod faintly.

“i can make that happen,” he offers, hands sliding into his pockets.

your breath catches. that sounds too good to be true. you’re rightfully skeptical. “why would you?”

his gaze sharpens slightly. “because i invest in things that interest me.”

…interest. something about that word just… doesn’t feel right.

“you barely know me,” you quietly manage.

“i know your academic record. your clinical evaluations. the fact that you skip lunch when you’re stressed,” his eyes flick briefly to your hands, before he takes a step towards you, “…the way your breathing changes when i stand too close.”

your heart practically jumps into your throat.

“i observe,” he adds calmly, as if that makes it any better, “it’s my job.”

it doesn’t sound professional. it sounds… personal. too personal.

“dr. beaumont—” you start.

“vincent,” he corrects gently.

you hesitate. it feels wrong…

“…vincent,” you test the taste of his name on your tongue.

his expression shifts to one of satisfaction.

“good,” he praises.

the air feels thin.

“are you going to fail me?” you ask quietly, tone one of shame.

there’s a tense pause.

“no,” he casually replies.

“then, what are you doing?” you ask again, this time, your tone tighter. “i will not let you out my career into jeopardy…”

he holds your gaze. “darling, i’m ensuring you succeed,” he reassures you, his hand reaching out. it hesitates for a moment before those hands that you’re so infatuated with gently cup your face. “…and, ensuring you stay assigned to me. ensuring you have a spot in this hospital with me. permanently.”

he lets out a small laugh. “don’t you get it? i’m not putting your career in jeopardy. i’m saving it… saving you.”

“i—…” you trail off, face burning with blush as your hands ball up into fists. “i don’t… i don’t need saving…”

there’s a pause.

then, he laughs again. not mocking, but as if he’s listening to a petulant child refuse their guardian’s orders over and over that will lead them to success.

“trust me, darling. you do,” he reassures as if he has your whole life planned out before you can even try and start.

“you need me more than you think. i can tell by the way you look at me. and, not just in a professional sense. you need me…” he hisses, his body too close, his breath too warm, his words… too real.

“th…” the words catch in your throat for a moment, “that sounds…”

you don’t even need to finish your sentence.

he doesn’t even hesitate.

“get used to it,” he continues gently, hands lingering on your face a moment more before sliding away.

a distant intercom announcement breaks the moment.

he steps back smoothly, composure snapping into place like nothing happened.

“we have rounds,” he continues evenly. “try to focus.”

you swallow. focusing… is completely off the table, now.

he picks up his coat from that same rolling chair, slipping it on.

then, he pauses at the doorway.

“and try not to stare,” his tone has a teasing lilt to it. “it makes it difficult to remain professional.”

your entire body practically feels like it’s on fire.

“you’re the one teasing me,” you croak out.

was this even teasing anymore?

he sounded so serious…

his eyes darken slightly. “yes,” he nods, raising his brows. “i am. keep it that way.”

and then he walks out. leaving you alone in the simulation lab, surrounded by silicone pads and sterile lighting… …and the very real realization that this summer is no longer just about graduating early.

…it’s about surviving him.