He’ll destroy you—because that’s how much he loves you.
❤︎ Synopsis. Trapped in a twisted game of obsession and desire, you become the prize in a love that isn’t meant to be. With every breath, you’re pulled deeper into a darkness that promises nothing but your total ruination.
♡ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.
♡ Pairing. Yandere! Scar x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Geshu Lin x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Jiyan x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Xiangli Yao x Fem. Reader
♡ Headcanons. Unholy Possession – Part 1
♡ Word Count. 4,184
♡ TW. dom + top yandere, non con, psychological manipulation and conditioning, suggestive themes, fear play, emotional manipulation and abuse, hints at rough play and sex, psychological and emotional trauma, isolation, monitoring, lack of boundaries, non con kissing and touching, forced relationship, BDSM
♡ A/N. No yandere WuWa and MLBB x reader content? Fine, I’ll do it myself.🫰🏻 As an author, I’m saying it now, Scar is my favorite yandere to write, third is Geshu Lin. WuWa Yanderes Supremacy.
♡ Scar.
Scar was the kind of man whose touch didn’t just linger—it consumed. Searing, unrelenting, and threaded with a cruelty so precise it felt surgical, his every movement seemed designed to carve his presence into your very being. He didn’t love, not in any way that resembled humanity. His idea of affection was a twisted theatre of chaos, where he choreographed the fear and desperation of his chosen prey like an artist crafting a masterpiece. And now, you were his magnum opus.
When Scar’s eyes found you, it wasn’t with the gentle curiosity of someone discovering a potential partner. No, his gaze was an oppressive weight, a predator’s fixation dissecting every inch of you with the cold precision of a scalpel. To him, you weren’t a person—you were an anomaly, a lamb that had strayed into the wrong flock. His lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach his mismatched eyes, a smile that promised nothing but ruin.
“Do you know what happens to lambs when they wander too far?” he had asked that first night, his tone light, almost conversational. But there was no mistaking the undercurrent of menace that crackled in the space between you.
His voice wrapped around you like smoke, suffocating yet intoxicating. And when he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear, the world seemed to shrink until it was just the two of you—the hunter and the hunted.
“They meet the shepherd,” he whispered, and you could hear the grin in his words, sharp and cruel.
From the moment he chose you, the rules of your existence shifted. He didn’t need to announce his intentions; they bled through in every lingering touch, every knowing glance. Scar didn’t pursue—he ensnared, weaving an invisible web around you that tightened with every passing moment. Your defenses, meticulously constructed over a lifetime, crumbled beneath the weight of his attention.
His hands—gloved, yet uncomfortably warm—lingered too long against your throat one night. Not to harm, not yet. Scar was a man who enjoyed the build-up, the anticipation. He pressed just firmly enough to feel the erratic rhythm of your pulse, quickening under his touch. His mismatched eyes locked onto yours, the coldness in them a stark contrast to the heat of his breath against your skin.
“You look at me like I’m the monster hiding under your bed,” he murmured, his voice silken and laced with something sinister. His grip tightened, just slightly, enough to steal the air from your lungs and leave you gasping. “But darling, monsters don’t dream of you the way I do. This isn’t monstrous… it’s devotion.”
And devotion, in Scar’s hands, was a weapon. It wasn’t the warmth of an embrace or the gentle security of love. No, his devotion was smothering, a fire that consumed everything it touched. When he finally claimed you, it wasn’t an act of love but a declaration of conquest. He stripped away your defenses with the precision of a predator toying with its prey, savoring every crack in your resolve. His touch was a dance between extremes: slow and deliberate, then sudden and overwhelming. He wanted to see how far he could push you, how deeply he could carve his presence into your mind and body.
Scar wasn’t a man in those moments; he was a force of nature. Wild, unrestrained, yet disturbingly calculated. His mismatched eyes glinted with an intellect that never stopped analyzing, even in the throes of his most primal desires. He spoke to you throughout, his words a double-edged sword that cut deep into your psyche.
“You’re perfect like this,” he’d whisper, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. His breath came uneven from exertion, but his voice remained steady, unyielding. “Fragile, trembling, still trying to fight. Don’t you see how beautiful that is? It’s why I chose you.”
Scar’s passion left its mark on you—bruises blooming like macabre flowers across your skin, bite marks that ached with every movement. He traced them afterward with a reverence that bordered on obsession, his gloved fingers skimming over the evidence of his control. Yet his praise was never without a barb, his words designed to bind you tighter to him.
“You’ll never leave me,” he’d say, his grin sharp enough to cut. “Not because I won’t let you… but because you’ll realize no one else will ever know you like I do. No one else can.”
And he was right, wasn’t he? Scar didn’t just see you; he dissected you, peeling back the layers of your mind and exposing every hidden thought, every buried fear. It wasn’t just physical—though his dominance there was absolute. He infiltrated every corner of your being, reshaping you into something uniquely his.
Resistance, he said, was the spice of the game. Submission, however, was his art. He didn’t demand it outright; he coaxed it with a skill that made you question if it had been your idea all along. Scar didn’t break you; he remade you. Every fragment of your will bore his mark, every thought and breath tied irrevocably to him.
Even in the rare moments of reprieve, his presence lingered. The scent of him clung to your skin, his words echoed in your mind like a brand burned into your psyche. Solitude brought no relief—it only amplified the weight of his shadow, a constant reminder that you could never escape him.
“Run, little lamb,” he’d taunt, his voice a velvet caress that sent shivers down your spine. From the shadows, he’d watch, his mismatched eyes gleaming with dark amusement. “You can try to leave the flock… but you’ll always belong to your shepherd.”
In the end, it wasn’t the physical chains that held you. It was the labyrinth he built in your mind, the web of terror and desire that left you questioning where he ended and you began. Scar wasn’t just a man—he was a storm that unraveled you, a force that consumed and remade you in his image. And no matter how far you ran, no matter how fiercely you fought, you knew one thing with terrifying certainty:
Scar would always find you.
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♡ Geshu Lin.
The rain had not relented for hours. Each droplet crashed against the shattered stone walls of the forsaken outpost like a drumbeat of despair. The relentless downpour seeped into the cracks of the ruins, merging with the decay and isolation that enveloped the place. Inside, the wavering glow of makeshift lanterns painted jagged shadows across the damp, cold room. The light danced erratically, reflecting the fractured reality of your situation—and the man who loomed over you.
General Geshu Lin. His name lingered in hushed tones among his own troops, spoken with reverence and fear alike. A specter on the battlefield, wielding a greatsword wreathed in black flames that had devoured countless lives. Yet, in this moment, he seemed almost more apparition than man. The rain streaked down his angular face, his eyes—dark, calculating, and haunting—fixated on you with an intensity that bordered on inhuman. It was as though he wasn’t looking at you but through you, dissecting your very essence.
“Do you know what this rain is?” he asked, his voice low and rough, a chilling whisper that slipped under your skin like a blade. He didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s not just water. Each drop is a fragment of the past, a memory dragged from the depths of time. The Retroact Rain is merciless. It unearths what should stay buried. Cruel, isn’t it?”
Your throat tightened as you tried to form words, but nothing came. The weight of his presence pressed against you, suffocating and unyielding. He chuckled softly, a sound devoid of humor, and crouched down, his face perilously close to yours. The faint scent of smoke, rain, and something metallic clung to him, a grim reminder of the battlefield he never truly left behind.
“No need to answer,” he murmured, his gloved hand brushing your cheek with a touch that was as unsettling as it was deceptively gentle. “Your silence speaks volumes. Fear. Hatred. Maybe even a flicker of defiance. It’s all written on you, plain as day. But don’t worry. I’ll strip those away soon enough.”
His fingers trailed down your jawline, leaving a burning imprint in their wake, before tilting your chin upward, forcing your gaze to meet his. The chains wrapped around his greatsword rattled faintly, as if stirred by an unseen force. The weapon rested against the wall, its dark flames pulsating softly like a living thing. The glow of his Tacet Mark on his neck shimmered faintly, an ominous sigil of the power he wielded with unnerving ease.
“They called me a monster,” he said, his voice conversational yet laced with an edge that made your pulse race. “And maybe they were right. Monsters are necessary. Someone has to shoulder the burden of sacrifice. Someone has to do what others can’t. What others won’t.”
His lips curved into a smile, but it was cold, predatory, devoid of any real warmth. He leaned closer, his breath ghosting against your ear. “Someone has to take control.”
Your wrists throbbed against the restraints that bound you, the coarse material digging into your skin with every futile struggle. He noticed, of course. He always noticed. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he straightened, towering over you like a judge preparing to deliver a sentence.
“Still fighting. Good,” he remarked, his tone almost amused. “I’d hate for this to be too easy.”
The air in the room grew heavier, oppressive, as though the very atmosphere conspired against you. He reached for his greatsword, lifting it with a casual grace that belied its massive size. The black flames licked at the blade’s edges, casting eerie, shifting shadows across the walls. The chains coiled around the hilt moved slightly, their motion serpentine, as if alive.
“You remind me of the soldiers who followed me into the Battle Beneath the Crescent,” he mused, his gaze distant for a moment, lost in memory. “Brave. Loyal. Utterly doomed. I told them to stand firm, and they did. To the bitter end. Do you know why?”
You couldn’t speak. You wouldn’t. And he didn’t need your answer. His smile vanished, replaced by a chilling resolve that sent a shiver down your spine.
“Because they trusted me. Just as you will.”
The room seemed to darken, the flickering lanterns dimming until only his eyes shone in the gloom, twin beacons of dominance and inevitability. He crouched once more, his free hand reaching out to brush a strand of damp hair from your face. The gesture was grotesquely intimate, a mockery of tenderness.
“The Retroact Rain,” he murmured, his voice soft, almost coaxing, “has been kind to you. It’s shown me glimpses of who you are—or who you were. I’ll keep those pieces, you know. The ones worth saving.”
His hand slid to your throat, resting there with a possessive weight that left no room for misinterpretation. His thumb pressed lightly against your pulse, feeling the frantic beat beneath his touch.
“This fear,” he said, his gaze piercing yours, “is exquisite. But it’s wasted if you let it control you. Surrender it to me. Surrender everything.”
The rain outside intensified, the relentless pounding against the walls echoing like a war drum. His grip tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you of his strength. His lips quirked into a smile that was equal parts wicked and triumphant.
“By the time this storm ends,” he promised, his voice a dark caress that seeped into your very soul, “you won’t remember who you were before me. You won’t want to.”
The greatsword’s flames surged, casting long, writhing shadows that seemed to consume the room. And as the rain continued to fall, a terrible realization settled over you. The Retroact Rain wasn’t just dredging up the past. It was carving a future—one shaped entirely by him.
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♡ Jiyan.
The silence of the night is a palpable thing, a viscous shadow that clings to the edges of your consciousness. It seeps into your lungs with every breath, thick and unyielding, and it presses against your chest as though some unseen force is trying to carve you out from within. Outside, the wind howls, a mournful dirge that scrapes against the walls of the crumbling refuge you call home. Its wails weave through the cracks and crevices, whispering unspoken fears into your ears. But it is not the wind that holds you captive in its thrall.
It’s him.
Jiyan.
Even his name feels heavy on your mind, a weight that anchors you in the pit of your dread. He is a force of nature, an unyielding constant in a world reduced to chaos and decay. Like the stubborn weeds that grow through fractured concrete, he thrives where nothing else can, his presence unshaken amidst the ruins. His quiet authority, once a source of fragile comfort, now feels suffocating. Where you had once seen stability, now lies control—unyielding, inescapable.
The walls shudder faintly, as if they too sense the storm approaching. The sound of footsteps—measured, deliberate, each one echoing like a death knell—draws closer. When the door finally groans open, it feels as though the room itself inhales sharply, bracing for his arrival. There he stands, framed by pale moonlight. The faint silver glow spills over him, casting sharp lines across his features. His gray-turquoise hair, tied back with meticulous care, gleams like a blade’s edge in the dim light. Shadows seem drawn to him, coiling at his feet like loyal hounds, elongating his already imposing figure.
His eyes, a piercing yellow that cuts through the gloom, find yours immediately. They do not waver, do not soften. Instead, they bore into you, dissecting and cataloging every nuance of your expression. His gaze alone is enough to pin you in place, your pulse pounding in your ears as though your body is trying in vain to escape his presence.
“You’re awake,” he says, his voice a deep, resonant murmur that vibrates in the hollow spaces of the room. It’s soft, but it carries a weight that makes your skin prickle. His tone is not accusatory, not overtly threatening, yet there’s something about it that freezes the words in your throat.
You manage a stammered reply, barely audible over the suffocating quiet. “I couldn’t sleep.”
The faintest shift in his expression—a flicker of displeasure—is enough to send your heart racing anew. He steps into the room, his movements precise, economical, like a predator conserving energy before the pounce.
“Lying does not suit you,” he says, his voice as calm as ever, though the edge beneath it is unmistakable. “You forget how well I know you. The tension in your shoulders, the way you avoid my gaze…” His steps bring him closer, each one shrinking the space between you, each one pressing his presence deeper into the air around you. “Your body betrays you.”
You shrink back, instinct overriding rationality. But the room offers no refuge, its corners bending to his will. He watches you with an intensity that borders on clinical, his head tilting slightly as though he’s analyzing an intricate puzzle.
“You’re pushing yourself again,” he says, softer now, though the quiet in his voice is no less oppressive. His hand rises, and you flinch, though his touch is surprisingly gentle as he brushes a stray lock of hair from your face. The juxtaposition of his tenderness against the weight of his presence sends a shiver down your spine. “You think I don’t notice?”
Your lips move, forming a protest that never finds its voice. His fingers linger for a moment before retreating, but the impression of his touch feels burned into your skin.
“You’re fragile,” he continues, his words laced with a kind of reverence that feels more like a warning. “This world would devour you, piece by piece, if I weren’t here to stop it. You have no idea how close you come to the edge, every time you push yourself too far.”
“I… I’m fine,” you manage, though the tremor in your voice betrays the words.
He’s closer now, close enough that the warmth of his breath ghosts across your skin. His lips curve—not into a smile, not quite. The expression is something darker, something that feels like possession. “Fine?” he echoes, his voice low, dangerous. “Is that what you tell yourself when you wake up shaking? When you stare at the walls as though they’re closing in on you?”
Your breath hitches, the truth of his words striking too close. He notices, of course. He notices everything.
“Do you think I don’t hear you at night?” he asks, his voice dropping to a whisper that coils around you like smoke. “Do you think I don’t know every fear, every nightmare that haunts you? You’re an open book to me. I’ve studied every page.”
He reaches for your wrist, his grip firm but not painful. It’s a restraint, a reminder, an unspoken assertion of his control. “You’re precious to me,” he says, and though the words are soft, there’s a fervor in them that makes your stomach churn. “Too precious to destroy yourself with your stubbornness. Too precious to risk… anything.”
His other hand rises, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw with almost unbearable tenderness. The contrast between his touch and the darkness in his gaze is dizzying.
“Do you understand?” he murmurs, his voice now so quiet it’s nearly lost beneath the sound of your own heartbeat. “I won’t let anything harm you. Not this world. Not the monsters that lurk in its shadows. Not even you.”
His words sink into your mind like jagged hooks, their implications too terrible to ignore. He’s not speaking of protection in the way you once believed. This isn’t about safety. It’s about ownership, about the lengths he’s willing to go to keep you tethered to him.
The room feels smaller, the air heavier. His presence is an all-encompassing force, leaving no room for resistance, no room for thought beyond the relentless weight of him. You can’t look away, can’t even breathe without feeling his control tighten around you like a vice.
“You don’t need to fear anything,” he says finally, his voice soothing in a way that only makes it more terrifying. “Not when I’m here. Not when I’ve already decided that nothing will ever take you from me.”
The finality in his tone is absolute, a decree etched into the fabric of your existence. And as his shadow stretches further, swallowing the fragile light of the room, you’re left with the chilling certainty that this safety he offers is a cage from which there will be no escape.
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♡ Xiangli Yao.
He didn’t mean to frighten you—not at first.
Xiangli Yao prided himself on control, a rationality that pulsed through every measured action, every carefully enunciated word. It was this precision, this disarming grace, that had first lured you into his orbit. His quiet smile when he explained the intricacies of Metalmorph, the way his prosthetic hand moved with unnervingly organic fluidity, had been hypnotic. The gleaming alloy, cool and unyielding, had brushed against your skin more than once—too close, too familiar. It had always been under the guise of work, of science, of truth. And you… you had believed him.
Until the moment you realized you couldn’t leave.
He had always been gentle. That was what you clung to as the door slid shut behind you with a hiss, the locks engaging with an audible click. The room was silent save for the soft hum of his machinery, the faint, otherworldly glow of his prosthetic casting spectral shadows on the walls. It was cold. Too cold. You wrapped your arms around yourself, but his gaze pinned you in place. Those sharp, discerning eyes, glinting like a scalpel under sterile light, carved through the facade of normalcy you’d so desperately tried to maintain.
“You’ve been avoiding me.” His voice was calm, almost conversational, but there was a weight beneath it that made your pulse quicken. “Why?”
The question hung in the air, unanswered. You opened your mouth to respond, but his head tilted, a predator’s patience glinting in his eyes. He didn’t want an excuse. He wanted the truth—or rather, what he’d already decided was the truth. Xiangli’s entire existence revolved around dissecting enigmas, peeling back layers until nothing but raw, trembling essence remained. And now, you were the puzzle laid bare before him.
“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” he asked softly, his steps intentional as he closed the distance between you two. “The hesitation in your voice. The way your eyes dart to the door when you think I’m not looking. I’ve studied systems more complex than you, my dear. And none of them have ever escaped me.”
The air grew thick, suffocating. He loomed over you, his prosthetic fingers brushing your cheek with a paradoxical tenderness that sent a shiver down your spine. You flinched, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand curled under your chin, tilting your face upward to meet his gaze. The metallic whir of his joints was almost imperceptible, but in the stillness, it sounded deafening.
“Do you understand what happens to machines when they malfunction?” he murmured. “We don’t discard them. We repair them. We make them better.”
There was a flicker of something in his eyes—something dark, unyielding. A promise. He’d make you better, too.
When he kissed you, it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t romantic. It was an invasion, a claiming. His lips were cold and relentless, his grip on your jaw unbreakable. You pushed against his chest, your palms meeting the unyielding surface of his prosthetic plating. But he didn’t move. He was an immovable force, and you were nothing more than a variable to be corrected.
“Shh,” he murmured against your lips, his breath hot in contrast to his frigid demeanor. “You’ll understand soon enough. This… this is necessary.”
The room spun as he guided you to the edge of his desk, his movements precise and practiced. Every touch, every press of his body against yours, was calculated. He didn’t rush. He was a scientist, after all, and you were his latest experiment. The trembling of your hands, the quickening of your breath, the way your pulse thrummed beneath his fingertips—each reaction was cataloged and dissected in the labyrinth of his mind.
“Do you recall what I told you about the Court of Savantae?” he questions lightly, his warm lips brushing the shell of your ear. “About the secrets I uncovered there? The sacrifices required to unlock the universe’s truths?”
You whimpered, a sound that only seemed to spur him on. His prosthetic hand traced the curve of your neck, the metal cool and unyielding against your fevered skin. He’d designed it himself, every joint and plate a testament to his brilliance. And now, that brilliance was turned against you, a weapon wielded with terrifying precision.
“Sacrifice is inevitable,” he continued, his voice a low murmur. “But don’t be afraid. I’ll be by your side every step of the way. Guiding you. Shaping you.”
His hand slipped lower, the cold metal sending jolts of sensation through your body. You hated the way your body betrayed you, the way his touch elicited a response you couldn’t control. He noticed, of course. He noticed everything.
“Fascinating,” he muttered, his lips curving into a faint and gentle smile. “Even now, your body’s reactions align perfectly with my predictions. You truly are extraordinary.”
Tears blurred your vision, but he didn’t stop. He pressed closer, his breath hot against your skin, his words a cruel mockery of comfort.
“Don’t cry,” he chided gently, his prosthetic hand wiping away a tear that had escaped down your cheek. “This is all for the greater good. For our future. For you.”
The room seemed to close in around you, the shadows deepening as his presence consumed you. There was no escape, no reprieve. He was everywhere—in the air you breathed, in the trembling of your limbs, in the relentless cadence of your heart.
And as he leaned in, his lips capturing yours once more, you realized with chilling clarity that he wasn’t just your captor. He was your architect. Your creator. And he wouldn’t stop until every piece of you belonged to him.
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𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭 