“I have 843 powers and choose violence exactly zero times. You‘re welcome.“
♡ Yandere! Superpowers AU x Fem. Reader. Deep Cover Agent, Forensic Operative, Tactical Specialist, Covert Operative
♡ Word Count. 3,054
The problem with being smarter than everyone else is that everyone else is stupid.
No, seriously. Not in the cute, romantic comedy way where the hot genius protagonist sighs and adjusts their glasses, gently correcting their friends’ mistakes with a patient smile. No. You have to understand. Everyone is really, really stupid. Dangerously stupid. It’s honestly impressive that humanity hasn’t collectively choked on its own tongue yet.
You’re not a main character. You’re not even a side character. You’re the NPC in the background that people think is just scenery.
Which is great, really. Because the main characters in this world are idiots.
Your name? Irrelevant. Your role? Background furniture. Your existence? A cosmic joke.
Currently, you have roughly 843 different abilities stored in the metaphorical fridge that is your brain. From teleportation, to god-tier telekinesis, to talking to animals (which is a curse because now you know pigeons are racist).
But you don’t use them. Not unless you absolutely have to. Like when your favorite fanfiction site went down last week and you bent time to go to a timeline where it still existed. Or that time you erased yourself from the national census to avoid school group projects.
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There are also many problems with being the smartest, most powerful person alive.
One: You have to pretend you’re not. Constantly. Which is exhausting, by the way, especially when people keep trying to bully you into submission or corner you like you’re the one who’s a side character in their origin story. It’s like—get a clue, Jeremy. If I wanted to, I could erase your entire existence with a thought and use your soul as a footrest.
Two: You’re still expected to go to school. Like some kind of peasant. A normal day for you involves vaporizing interdimensional parasites before brushing your teeth, mentally stabilizing tectonic plates with a yawn, and dodging death cults on your walk to the convenience store. But because you’re “just a kid” and legally alive, society demands you sit through Algebra II.
Three: You can’t even tell anyone. Not that you’d want to—ew, social interaction—but if, say, you tried to casually mention you just nullified a planetary catastrophe with your telepathic fingersnap, you’d either be:
- Institutionalized,
- Worshipped by a Twitter cult,
- Forced into some government program where you’re ethically waterboarded for national security.
And four: People think you’re weak. That’s the real kicker. Because you don’t show off. Because you don’t perform like some glitter-covered TikTok hero. They think you’re Giftless. Talentless. Powerless. You.
You—the girl who once accidentally turned a god’s mind into oatmeal because he annoyed you during your nap.
You—the one who, by the age of eight, had already copied and stored every existing gift, mutation, ability, technique, and curse in your brain like a glorified USB stick with depression. All because your actual ability, your true, deeply overpowered, world-breaking main gift is Ability Theft and Perfect Replication.
They never even realized it happened.
Not the time you touched that one pyrokinesis kid and spent the rest of the day internally screaming about heat differentials. Not the time you brushed shoulders with a telekinetic and had to spend two days reprogramming your own brain to stop levitating your bedroom against your will.
But it’s fine. You’re fine. Everything’s fine. You have your fanfiction. You have your body pillow of that one problematic villain everyone cancelled last year. You have your thousand-yard stare and your emotionally supportive snacks.
You live with your guardian. A slightly unhinged ex-villain who decided to raise you because, quote, “You looked like you’d be too powerful to kill as an adult and I wanted insurance.” You respect that. He leaves you alone. You leave him alone. He brings you games. You don’t vaporize him in his sleep. Mutual respect.
And so, every day, you put on your oversized hoodie, your noise-canceling headphones, and your dead-fish expression, and you trudge through your miserable, gloriously average school life, ignoring:
- The jocks who throw paper at you (you once turned one of them inside-out in a dream. Just for fun).
- The girls who whisper about how weird you are (as if your complete psychological detachment isn’t obvious to the naked eye).
- The teachers who think you’re failing (you finished the textbook five years ago. You only attend to keep up your sleep schedule).
Your daily problems include:
- The lunch lady mistaking your silence for politeness and giving you extra portions.
- Teachers trying to be inspirational and calling on you to answer things you already solved five minutes ago.
- Avoiding mind-readers because your brain is 80% horror story, 10% fanfiction, and 10% pure existential dread.
There’s no point to proving yourself. No reason to. Not when you’ve already seen the end of this world seventeen times in seventeen different timelines and in all of them, the outcome is the same:
You live.
Everyone else doesn’t.
Unless, of course, you decide to change something. Which you won’t. Because you simply don’t care.
Not in an edgy, brooding, I’m secretly waiting for someone to understand me kind of way. But in a deeply apathetic, I would rather drown in a septic tank than engage with the plot kind of way.
You’ve been dodging main character status since birth. You faked having no powers. You avoided every fateful encounter. You ignored every call to adventure.
And the worst part? You’re starting to get noticed.
It’s subtle. A glance too long. A villain who hesitates. A hero who twitches near you like his sixth sense just pinged the Apocalypse. That one brooding student who keeps sitting near you during lunch with that look that screams “I could fix her.”
Joke’s on him. You’re not broken. You’re just done.
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Somewhere, in a dusty file cabinet in a bunker under the Hero Commission, there’s a red folder with your name on it. It’s marked “DO NOT ENGAGE.”
You once visited that bunker. You didn’t break in, you just walked through the walls. Read the file. Stole a pen. It was a nice pen.
They classified you as:
Subject: [REDACTED]
Threat Level: God-tier
Abilities: Unknown (estimated dozens to hundreds)
Behavior: Non-hostile. Possibly indifferent. May be asleep.
Suggested Protocol: Let her be. Seriously. Leave her alone.
Note: We don’t even know if she breathes oxygen. Stop assigning agents. She will just make them cry.
You hung that on your bedroom wall. Next to a poster of Cthulhu in a maid outfit.
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Yandere! Deep Cover Agent who’s been embedded in universities longer than he’s willing to admit. Who’s learned how to blend in by copying the energy of Golden Retrievers with trauma.
He watches you from behind a well-practiced, boyish grin, all sunshine and chaos and “oops, dropped my books again!” Meanwhile, inside, he’s plotting seventeen different ways to non-lethally neutralize you by third period.
It’s not personal. It’s never personal. It’s just that someone up top decided you were an existential threat wrapped in a tragic hoodie, and now he’s here, tasked with “making friends” until he can slip a suppression collar around your neck like a choke chain on an unruly demigod.
Easy, right?
Except you’re weird.
He tries to corner you in the hallway once, doing the whole “oops bumped into you!” routine with a dumb little apology already loaded up. His hand grazes your wrist—
—and for a second, his entire bloodstream tries to flow backwards.
He stumbles. Coughs. Tries to laugh it off. You don’t even glance at him. You keep walking like gravity is a mere suggestion and human contact is a mortal sin.
He breathes through the ache in his bones, sweat dripping cold down his spine.
Right. New plan. Definitely not touching you again.
He switches to surveillance instead. Watching you doodle eldritch horrors in the margins of your math homework. Watching you eat cafeteria spaghetti with the dead-eyed solemnity of a WWI soldier. Watching you pet a stray cat outside school and mutter something that makes it start vibrating with rage and vanish into the astral plane.
It would be cute if it wasn’t so apocalyptic.
Every day, he tells himself he’ll find a way. He’ll complete the mission. He’ll collar you, contain you, save the world.
But every night, he goes home, lies awake, and wonders:
What happens to me when she finds out?
Because you will. You always do.
And when you do… he’s not sure there’ll be enough left of him to scrape into a body bag.
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Yandere! Forensic Operative who’s seen things. Horrible things. The kind of things that haunt you in the spaces between heartbeats.
He’s meticulous. Clinical. Obsessive in a way that makes other agents edge away during briefings.
He gets assigned to you like it’s any other threat profile. “Observe. Analyze. Contain.”
Contain, right. Like any jail cell could hold a black hole.
He starts by collecting samples. Strands of your hair left on your desk. Fingerprints from the library door. Residual psychic echoes from your abandoned water bottle. He builds a psychological profile the way some men build shrines.
The findings are… disturbing.
You don’t fit any known metric. Your fear response is non-existent. Your brainwave patterns fluctuate between “vegetative coma” and “Elder God having an intrusive thought.” Your biological readings sometimes suggest you’re not metabolizing oxygen, but entropy.
He watches you doodle Cthulhu in history class and correct the spelling with clinical precision. Watches you dodge a speeding car by stepping sideways into an alley that wasn’t there a second ago.
His first attempt to neutralize you is textbook: poisoned cupcake on your desk, charming smile from a “concerned upperclassman.”
You don’t even look at it. You stare through him. Like you’re reading the ending of his life before it’s written.
The cupcake goes untouched.
He burns it in a dumpster behind the school that night. Watches the flames gutter and writhe like something trying to escape.
It was never going to be that easy, was it?
He sharpens his scalpel. Not because he thinks it will help.
But because he needs something, anything, to convince himself he’s still the predator.
And not the prey.
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Yandere! Tactical Specialist who’s got swagger for days and enough combat accolades to drown a lesser man.
He doesn’t stalk you like the others. No. He treats this like a game.
Because you’re interesting. Fascinating. Dangerous in a way he’s only ever dreamed of.
He leans back in his chair at the ops center, files your profile under “Challenge Accepted,” and grins like a man about to set himself on fire for fun.
First plan: Blitz attack. Drop in from the skylight during gym class, subdue you before you can blink.
He lands perfectly. Kneepads screeching against the polished floor. Flash grenade in one hand, shock cuffs in the other.
You don’t even look up from your book.
A heartbeat later, he’s upside-down, his pants have caught fire, and the gym teacher is screaming about Satan.
He calls it a learning experience.
Second plan: PsyOps. Discredit you socially, isolate you, break your mind before breaking your body.
He starts rumors. Slanders your nonexistent reputation. Spins lies about you being unstable, a ticking time bomb.
The rumors mutate into urban legends overnight.
Within 24 hours, the student body genuinely believes you’re a Lovecraftian horror disguised as a girl. That you once made a kid spontaneously combust with a glare. That you don’t blink because your real eyes are on a different plane of existence.
No one dares touch you now.
Perfect.
Except… you don’t seem to care.
You still eat lunch alone, content. Still sleep in the library between classes. Still walk through the world like it’s a museum and you’re the last living thing that knows the exhibits are fakes.
He watches you, increasingly obsessed, increasingly manic, and thinks:
I have to have her. I have to.
Not to kill. Not anymore.
To keep.
Because once you shatter someone like him, there’s no putting the pieces back without you.
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Yandere! Covert Operative who doesn’t exist on any paper trail. Not anymore.
He drifts between black ops teams and unsanctioned missions like smoke slipping through cracks.
Officially? He’s not assigned to you. Unofficially?
He’s fascinated.
Not because of your threat profile. Not because you’re dangerous.
Because you’re bored.
Utterly, cosmically, bone-deep bored.
He recognizes it. That yawning existential horror of being trapped somewhere too small for you to stretch out your mind.
He watches you pull stunts that should be impossible, treating reality like silly putty, not because you want anything — but because it’s something to do.
He watches you sleepwalk through life like death is a favor you’re too lazy to call in.
He watches the others — the agent, the operative, the specialist — throw themselves against your indifference like waves against a monolith.
He thinks it’s funny.
He tries, once, to intervene.
Materializes in your path during your usual 2AM stroll through abandoned city streets. Cloak of shadows, air of menace, all the trimmings.
You don’t react.
Not even when he flickers out a blade of condensed nothingness from his wrist and holds it at your throat.
You keep walking.
The blade snaps. The shadows peel away from him like burnt paper.
You don’t even blink.
He stands there, stunned, as you disappear into the night without a single glance back.
He thinks he might be in love.
Or at least… something close enough.
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You’re not sure what’s dumber: the fact that there are government agents tailing you like bargain bin Scooby-Doo villains, or the fact that they think it’s working.
You sit in the cafeteria, stabbing aggressively at a tray of something that might legally qualify as lasagna, while across the room, Deep Cover Dumbass — aka Golden Retriever with a badge — “accidentally” knocks over a stack of napkins for the sixth time today.
You watch him out of the corner of your eye as he flails around, red-faced, boyish, charmingly incompetent, which is obviously supposed to make you think he’s harmless.
You’re supposed to feel bad for him.
You’re supposed to like him.
Instead, you calculate the exact velocity required to launch a spork into his eye socket from your current position.
Just in case.
Across campus, Forensic Freak is loitering by the vending machines, probably trying to collect “samples” of your “psychic residue” or whatever the hell helps him sleep at night. You’d watched him try to pick up a half-eaten granola bar you threw away yesterday. He’d treated it like he was handling radioactive waste.
Honestly, you’re half-tempted to start leaving cryptic eldritch inscriptions in your trash just to fuck with him. Maybe draw a couple ancient curses in Sharpie on your banana peels.
The Tactical Specialist is worse. At least the others try to be subtle. This guy spent a full hour last week staring at you from across the quad while twirling a butterfly knife like he was auditioning for a low-budget action movie.
You didn’t even look up from your book.
You could feel him getting increasingly sweaty about it. Like somehow if he flipped the knife fast enough, you’d be so impressed you’d immediately lay down and let him put a GPS tracker on you.
Sorry, champ.
You already have commitment issues with the laws of physics. You’re not about to pledge allegiance to some jackass with a “women fear me, fish love me” tattoo energy.
And then there’s the one you’ve taken to mentally calling “Ghost Dumbass.”
You don’t know where he comes from. You don’t know what agency he’s with.
But he’s the only one who’s not trying to get your attention. Not trying to trick you. Not trying to collar you like a bad dog.
No.
He just watches.
And sometimes — rarely — he tries to test you.
Little tests.
A shadow flickering where there shouldn’t be one. A blade brushing your skin like a mosquito bite. A whispered threat in an empty corridor.
You ignore him too.
Partially because it’s the fastest way to make someone like that spiral into existential crisis.
Mostly because you genuinely don’t care.
You’re too tired to care.
The world is a clown parade of idiots in ill-fitting shoes, honking their existential dread at each other until the heat death of the universe.
You’re just here to get a passing grade in Math 205 and maybe nap in peace between dimensions.
You sigh into your lasagna, which glistens with an ominous, plasticky sheen.
Across the cafeteria, Deep Cover Dumbass “accidentally” knocks over his own lunch tray, showering himself in mystery meat and orange juice. He shoots you a pitiful, lopsided grin like, “Haha, isn’t this relatable?”
You consider, briefly, folding him into a Mobius strip and leaving him on the janitor’s cart.
But that’s effort.
And frankly, he’s not worth it.
You watch as Forensic Freak darts in with military precision to “help,” plucking a wet napkin from Deep Cover’s sleeve with tweezers like he’s recovering shrapnel from a corpse.
Tactical Specialist leans against the wall like he’s posing for an energy drink ad, arms crossed, smirk wide.
You’re pretty sure he thinks he’s intimidating.
You’re also pretty sure he couldn’t outfight an aggressive goose.
Ghost Dumbass, meanwhile, is perched somewhere just outside visible reality, probably watching all this unfold with the silent despair of a Victorian ghost trapped in a sitcom.
You shovel another forkful of lasagna into your mouth.
Chew. Swallow. Sigh.
This is your life now.
Government agents.
Failed assassination attempts.
Spaghetti that might be a hate crime.
You know they’re planning something bigger.
You can feel it in the way the air hums wrong around you. The way Tactical Specialist’s cocky facade is getting tighter. The way Forensic Freak keeps sharpening his scalpel in increasingly public settings.
The way Deep Cover Dumbass keeps almost reaching for you and pulling back at the last second, like a kid trying to pet a sleeping bear.
You tap your fork against your tray. Once. Twice.
A simple, practical thought crosses your mind.
Maybe you should just let them try.
Maybe you should see what happens when these idiot moths finally hurl themselves at the bonfire.
Maybe — just maybe — it’d be funny.
You smile for the first time in weeks.
It’s not a nice smile.
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♡ A/N. Was in the mood to write some OP! Reader fics.
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General TAG LIST of “Whispers In The Dark”: @keisocool , @elvabeth , @elloredef , @mjsjshhd , @lem-hhn , @yuki-istired , @yandreams-storageblog , @tiffyisme3760 , @songbirdgardensworld , @yune1337 , @astreaaaaaa6 , @poopooindamouf , @esther-kpopstan , @iris-arcadia , @hopingtocleaemedschool , @doncellaescarlata , @neuvilletteswife4ever
❤︎ Fang Dokja’s Books.
♡ For Reader-Inserts. I only write Male Yandere x Female (Fem.) Reader (heterosexual couple). No LGBTQ+:
♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology
♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.
♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I’d Burn the World.
♡ Book 4 [you are here]. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.
♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.
♡ Library MASTERPOST 1. The Librarian’s Ledger: A Map to The Library of Forbidden Texts.
♡ Notice #1. Not all stories are included in the masterpost due to Tumblr’s link limitations. However, most long-form stories can be found here. If you’re searching for a specific yandere or theme, this guide will help you navigate The Library of Forbidden Texts. Proceed with caution
♡ Book 6. The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood.
♡ Notice #2. This masterlist is strictly for non-con smut and serves as an exercise in refining erotic horror writing. Comments that reduce my work to mere sexual gratification, thirst, or casual simping will not be tolerated. If your response is primarily thirst-driven, keep it to yourself—repeated violations may result in blocking. Read the RULES before engaging. The tag list is reserved for followers I trust to respect my boundaries; being included is a privilege, not a right. You may request to be added, but I will decide based on trust and adherence to my guidelines. I also reserve the right to remove anyone at any time if their engagement becomes inappropriate.
♡ Book 7. Corpus Delicti (CD): Donum Mortis.
♡ Book 8. Malum Consilium (MC): Primordial Hunger.
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