↳ ❝ EVERY INCH OF YOU IS MINE TO TOUCH. ❞
⎯⎯ ୨ ୧ ⎯⎯ yandere!mafia boss x male!reader
「 Once upon a time, Y/n saved an injured boy and nursed him back to health. And now years later, the same boy comes back to Y/n, now the leader of a powerful syndi...
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Will contain: Violence, Gore, Obsessive Behavior. This is a work of fiction and none of this is to be condoned in real life. If someone near you emulates such behavior, do not hesitate to seek help. The yandere in question will not do anything without consent.
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Y/N'S MOTHER HAD ALWAYS WARNED HIM ABOUT THE DANGERS OF POWERFUL MEN.
They could do anything, she had said, her pretty lips pursed into a grim line, they can take anything from you. They can hurt you. Torture you. Kill you. They can take away your most beloved person in the whole entire world; make you grovel at their feet. They can make your life a living hell. They are the devils. They will prowl like a predator waiting for the prey: and they will pounce. Sink their fangs in.
They were the ones that tore your father away from us.
Y/n had been young, then. He hadn't understood where his father was. He hadn't understood the meaning of what dangerous meant. He didn't know that his father had died—at the hands of the Ivanov group. Had been tortured, killed by the Russian Mafia, whom he had foolishly loaned money from.
Y/n L/n had forgotten about her warning.
And yet now, it all came back in a flash: zipping to his kind, flooding it, making shivers crawl down his spine. Goosebumps pricked his skin; along with an unsettling sort of coldness that made his body tense all over, made him physically recoil.
No.
The door slammed open; with such great force that Y/n was sent tumbling back from where he had been desperately hiding.
Father's debt collectors—! Was the sole thought that echoed in his mind amidst the bustling panic—my father is dead, yet his sins still haunt me.
Fuck—
—Fuck!
"Are you Y/n L/n?"
Y/n wanted to shake his head no. He wanted to somehow desperately claw his way out of this situation; pretend like he was just a naive, innocent person. But instead his answer came out from his trachea, scratchy, coarse, fearful: "yes."
There were six, seven, eight men in front of him, towering before him. They were dressed in suits; all bulky and muscled, clad with dark glasses. They were intimidating. They were the powerful men his mother had warned him about.
And now they were here for him.
"Come with us." One stood before Y/n, and Y/n could read his name tag: Ivan. Ivan grabbed his arm, making Y/n hiss in agony. It felt like the flesh could have so easily been ripped off from his bones. That the skin that once cradled his organs could have been forcibly torn apart. They were powerful. Strong. Y/n had no chance of defeating them. Not even one in a million.
