“Do you know what it’s like to hear someone fantasize about murder while casually helping you with your homework? You do now.“
♡ Yandere! Superpowers AU x Fem. Reader. feat. Yandere! Mortal Enemy
♡ Word Count. 4,471
You were born wrong.
Well, that’s what you told yourself after the seventy-seventh time you had to listen to someone’s brain narrate, “Haha, I hope this dumbass kid trips and falls,” right before they smiled and patted you on the head.
You were four years old the first time you realized you could hear other people’s thoughts.
It wasn’t some grand revelation, no celestial beam from the heavens, no chorus of angels singing ‘Hallelujah.’ No, it was much more dignified than that.
You were in the middle of shitting your pants.
“Oh my God,” your mother thought, “she’s going to grow up useless.”
Charming. Really heartwarming stuff. You wiped a tear (or maybe it was a bead of sweat) and finished your business like a champion. That was your first introduction to human thought: judgmental, noisy, and a little constipated.
It never stopped after that.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
At first, you thought it was normal. Didn’t everyone wake up and immediately hear the collective screaming, worrying, and horny daydreaming of everyone in a five-mile radius? Apparently not. The doctors said you were “a very imaginative child.” You responded by psychically flipping them off.
You couldn’t control it. People’s thoughts slammed into your tiny head like bricks hurled by Olympic athletes. You learned a lot about the world very fast. Like how adults lied constantly. How “you’re special” usually meant “you are a problem.” How “don’t worry” meant “we’re absolutely screwed but we don’t want to tell you.”
Children are supposed to be innocent. You were about as innocent as a tax auditor.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
The “Gift Test” came at five.
Children lined up in a government office that smelled like burnt coffee and crushed dreams, wide-eyed and jittery, waiting to discover what miraculous, awe-inspiring “Gifts” they had been blessed with. Some kids exploded into flames. Some lifted furniture with a sneeze. Some turned invisible (and immediately used that power to steal snacks).
You?
You stood there, deadpan and droopy-eyed, while the machine blinked.
ERROR.
You were declared “Giftless.”
Everyone clapped politely, pity thick in the air like humidity before a storm.
You went home, locked your door, and wrote a 10k-word fanfiction about a brooding assassin who got isekai’d into a magical world where he promptly refused the call to adventure and opened a bakery instead.
(You posted it anonymously online. It got 12 views and 0 comments. Tragic.)
✦✧✦✧
Growing up “Giftless” was an experience you wouldn’t recommend. A solid one out of ten, would not reincarnate again.
You were the school punching bag.
People bullied you. Beat you up behind the gym. Called you “worthless.”
You let them.
Why not? It passed the time.
You could have incinerated them with a thought. But why waste the calories?
The “easy A” for bullies who needed to feel better about their own mediocrity. Teachers barely remembered your name. Even your classmates started calling you “NPC.”
“Background character,” they snickered.
They weren’t wrong.
You made no effort to stand out. No effort to be “special.” You didn’t want to be a Hero. You didn’t want to be a Villain. You just wanted to go home, eat garbage snacks, write fanfiction, and maybe, if you were feeling ambitious, rot like a champion in bed while playing a pirated copy of Sims 3.
But the mind-reading? That was the kicker.
Because you couldn’t turn it off.
From the moment you woke up to the second you fell asleep, you were trapped in a never-ending noise-pocalypse of human stupidity.
- “I hope the teacher doesn’t call on me, I didn’t study.”
- “I’m going to confess to my crush today!”
- “If I kill my boss, do I inherit the bakery?”
Every stupid, impulsive, disgusting, desperate thought.
You heard it all.
✦✧✦✧
By four, you realized adults lied. Constantly. Grandma didn’t “love” you; she “loved” the inheritance she thought she could weasel out of your guardian. Your kindergarten teacher wasn’t “proud” of you; she was “tolerating” you because it was her job. And the neighbor’s “missing cat” was not “missing” but “turned into roadkill” that she planned to blame on you for “attention.”
By six years old, you had discovered that most people didn’t actually believe the bullshit they spewed. You sat there in kindergarten, staring blankly while your teacher said, “Everyone is unique and wonderful,” and mentally tacked on the real message she was screaming internally: “Except you, you little creeps. You’re all future disappointments.”
You didn’t laugh. You didn’t cry. You just blinked.
Nothing was sacred. Nothing was real.
Not Santa Claus (your parents were thinking about how expensive the presents were), not “love” (your babysitter fantasized about strangling her boyfriend), not “happiness” (a concept more fictional than unicorns).
By seven years old, you understood that adults didn’t really care about you. That your “friends” only hung out with you because you were “easy to beat in games.” That your teachers thought you were a “waste of tax dollars.” That your own cousins thought you were “too weird to invite to parties.”
You knew too much, too early.
You developed a dead-eyed thousand-yard stare by eight.
The world was loud. Disgustingly loud. Minds screaming insecurities, lies dressed in powdered sugar, venom wrapped in tinsel. By seven years old, you decided: No thanks. Hermit life. Lock yourself in your room. Video games, fanfiction, zero human interaction unless it was absolutely necessary (or unless it was your guardian, who bribed you with limited edition game consoles).
✦✧✦✧
You flunked “Friendship 101” by the third grade. No one likes the weird, dead-eyed kid who doesn’t react properly.
You didn’t even have to try at school. The teachers thought you were an idiot. A talentless freak.
You got straight zeros because you wrote answers like “what is the point” and “define ‘success’ you capitalist puppet” on tests. It wasn’t your fault they didn’t appreciate metaphysical discourse from a nine-year-old.
By ten, you mastered the fine art of dissociation.
By twelve, you were so chronically unimpressed that nothing short of a meteor crashing into the school cafeteria could rouse a reaction out of you.
People thought you were “cold,” “lazy,” “emotionless.”
They weren’t wrong.
But they didn’t know the half of it.
You were so overpowered that even the “villains” — gods of mass destruction, terrorists with black holes for hands, eldritch horrors bent on devouring the sun — barely registered to you as more threatening than a gnat.
The only thing you feared was your WiFi bill.
Still, life was tolerable. You had your laptop, your cat-shaped gaming chair, your 37 TB fanfiction archive, and your guardian occasionally shoving food into your lair so you wouldn’t perish like a 2000s-era Neopet.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
Yandere! Mortal Enemy
He hates you.
He hates you so much he can’t breathe sometimes. Like right now, standing two feet away from you under the cracked shade of the elementary school’s rotting playground, he has the very vivid, persistent urge to slam your head into the nearest monkey bars.
You sit there, knees tucked under your chin, looking like a kicked kitten, your stupid battered notebook clutched to your chest as you stare at him like he’s a bug you’ve decided to tolerate out of sheer laziness. You are—unfortunately—the very definition of “unbothered.”
He hurls the insult with all the venom a nine-year-old can muster. “You’re a piece of shit, you know that?”
You blink. Slowly. Like a malfunctioning animatronic. It’s honestly insulting how little effort you expend breathing in his direction.
“I hope she cries,” he thinks. “I hope she fucking bawls her ugly little eyes out. I want her to hate me so bad she runs away and never comes back.”
Instead, you yawn. Right in his face.
He’s going to commit a homicide. One day. Probably today.
“You can’t even use your Gift, can you?” he sneers, kicking dirt at you halfheartedly. The dust clings to your pants, and you casually brush it off without even glancing at him. “You’re useless. Everyone says so. Even the teachers. You’re just… nothing.”
“She looks cute even when she’s dusty.”
He wants to bite his own tongue off.
You hear all of it, of course. Every festering little thought he shoves into the back of his brain. His mind is so loud it’s like being hit with a frying pan. Every time he throws a rock at you, calls you a leech, shoves you into the mud, you’re treated to a front-row seat of “Why is she so fucking pretty?” and “I want to braid her hair.”
It’s honestly annoying.
You poke a stick into the dirt. Your brain is tuned more to the slow, molasses-slick crawl of video game strategies and fanfiction plotlines. This whole “social interaction” thing is just background noise to you.
Still, you have to give him points for dedication. Most people gave up on bullying you after the first month when it became clear you were a wall. Not him. He comes back every day like clockwork, armed with a new creative way to make your life miserable.
Today it’s your notebook.
He snatches it right out of your hands. You don’t move. You just stare up at him, dead-eyed, like a cat watching a toddler knock over a lamp.
“What’s this, huh? Some kind of… diary?” He flips through it roughly. Pages filled with meticulous notes, fictional power systems, fanfiction about worlds where nobody bothers you.
“She even writes cute.”
He scowls.
You listen to the inside of his head with mild disinterest. It’s like a rotting pumpkin. Foul, yet weirdly compelling.
“I should tear it up. I should burn it.”
“I want to kiss the top of her head.”
“No, set it on fire.”
“Or put it under my pillow so it smells like her.”
Your nose wrinkles.
“Give it back,” you say, voice scratchy from disuse.
His heart does a weird somersault in his ribcage. “She spoke. To me.”
“No,” he says out loud, sounding way too triumphant for a kid who just denied a basic request. He crams the notebook into his backpack, slinging it over one shoulder.
You sigh. A long, soul-deep sigh. You are tired. Of life. Of breathing. Of… whatever this is.
You could kill him, probably. One thought and he’d be flat on the ground, Giftless and drooling. But that sounds like effort.
Instead, you stand up. You are, unfortunately, very small compared to him. He stares down at you with this weird, deranged little glint in his eyes like he’s winning some imaginary war.
“You’re pathetic,” he says, tilting his head. “No friends. No power. No nothing.”
“I want to hold her hand but I would rather die.”
You stare. He stares.
Then he shoves you. Hard.
You stumble back, catch yourself, brush your shirt off like a senile old man who’s seen this bullshit a thousand times.
“You’re gonna die alone,” he says, his voice trembling with… something. Triumph? Hope? Fear?
“Unless I’m there. I’ll kill everyone else first if I have to.”
You pick up your stick again. It’s a good stick. Straight. Reliable. Unlike this dumbass in front of you.
You consider stabbing him in the foot. Just a little bit. Just enough to inconvenience him.
Instead, you shrug.
“Maybe,” you say. “Hopefully.”
His brain shorts out for a moment.
You turn around and trudge toward the busted chain-link fence that separates the playground from the road, your legs dragging. You have better things to do. Like finish your new self-insert villain fanfic. You can hear his furious footsteps stomping behind you, like a toddler who’s been denied a toy.
“Where are you going?!” he barks.
“Home,” you say without looking back.
“She’s leaving. Without me.”
You hear the spike of panic in his head like a gunshot.
He chases after you. Grabs your backpack and yanks it.
“Hey—!” you snap, turning around, more annoyed than angry.
“If I break it, she’ll have to talk to me longer.”
This is the dumbest logic you’ve ever heard in your life. You consider telling him that. But your throat’s already closing up with the exhausting effort of being perceived for so long.
“Give. It. Back,” you say.
He glares at you. You glare at him.
Then he shoves the bag at your chest, too hard. You stumble back, whack your shoulder on the fence, and hiss under your breath.
He looks… mortified. Genuinely horrified, like he just watched himself kick a kitten.
“She’s hurt. I’ll kill whoever hurts her.”
“I… hurt her.”
“Fuck.”
You fix your bag, brush yourself off again, and march away without another word.
Behind you, he stands frozen, fists clenched, staring after you like a kicked dog who just realized he bit the only person who might’ve pet him.
You’re halfway down the street when you hear him mutter behind you.
“See you tomorrow, loser.”
“See you tomorrow, my favorite thing in the whole world.”
You flip him off without turning around.
He almost smiles.
✦✧✦✧
He still hates you.
Or at least, that’s what he tells himself every damn morning when he wakes up in a cold sweat, dreams thick with the image of your sleep-creased face drooling into a textbook. His first period is advanced Gift theory, and the only reason he hasn’t dropped it yet is because you’re in it. Slouched in the back row like a deranged raccoon, hoodie up, earbuds in, eyes glazed over like you’ve transcended consciousness.
You are, somehow, even more annoying now.
You’re taller, but still much tinier than him and everyone else. Still got that dead-eyed stare. Still ignore him like he’s a background character in a game you’re halfway through quitting. Still write in that dumb battered notebook with pens that somehow always match your hoodie. (Today it’s neon green. It pisses him off.)
He kicks your chair.
You don’t flinch. You don’t even blink. You keep scribbling.
He sits behind you now. He made sure of it.
“Slut,” he mutters.
You scrawl something in your notebook. Then, like a bored exorcist dealing with a particularly chatty demon, you turn your head just enough to deadpan, “Don’t you have anything better to do?”
His brain short-circuits. Your voice has gotten deeper. Smoother. Like you’ve given up on inflection altogether.
“I—”
“No? That’s what I thought.”
He wants to flip your desk. Instead, he stares at the back of your neck and thinks about biting it.
“Why is her neck so biteable?”
Your pen stills for a second.
You know. Of course you do. You’ve known since you were nine and he first thought about stapling your hand to a desk just to make you cry. You hear every deranged, hormone-soaked, contradictory thought he tries to drown in cold showers and long runs.
“I want her to die.”
“I want to hold her hand while she dies.”
You’re in his head constantly. Living rent-free, like a squatter in the backrooms of his cerebrum.
It’s not even that he likes you. He’s never had a crush in his life. Doesn’t even really know what a normal one looks like. All he knows is this:
- You ignore him.
- You make him feel like he’s the one losing control.
- You don’t care that you’re “Giftless,” but he knows you’re not. He knows. Something in your aura makes his skin crawl. You’re the calmest nuclear bomb he’s ever met.
And worst of all—you don’t fear him. You never have.
He followed you home once. You didn’t even acknowledge it. Just opened the door, turned on your console, and started playing like a horror movie wasn’t unfolding outside your window.
Your guardian offered him soup.
He sat there in your living room for two hours, watching you annihilate people in some blood-soaked game with a blank face and a commentary style that made him question reality.
“She’s just describing war crimes like a weather report. Why is that hot?”
You yawned, cracked your neck, and said, “You gonna keep stalking me, or are you gonna bring snacks next time?”
He didn’t sleep for three days.
Now in school, he tries to get under your skin daily. He calls you freak. Mutant. Waste of oxygen. You reply maybe once every four months. Once, you told him he had the energy of a sleep-deprived sewer rat. He thought about it for weeks.
You toss your notebook into your bag at the end of class. He watches you like a wild animal about to pounce.
“Hey,” he says.
You look at him. That’s it. Just look.
He shoves your shoulder.
You raise a brow. “You ever grow up, or did you decide emotional constipation is a permanent personality trait?”
“I hate you,” he says, voice hoarse.
“Congrats,” you reply, monotone. “You and half the world.”
“I really hate you.”
You lean in slightly, gaze flat and unreadable. “You cried when you thought I got suspended last semester.”
He twitches. Visibly.
“No I didn’t.”
“Your thoughts were so loud.”
“Shut up.”
“You planned my funeral. There was a slideshow.”
He shoves past you, ears pink.
You smile for the first time in weeks.
He almost dies on the spot.
“I’m gonna marry her or bury her,” he thinks. “Maybe both.”
You hear it. You sigh.
And let him chase you down the hallway anyway.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
He’s staring at you again.
You don’t bother to look up from your handheld. The newest otome villainess route is finally out, and you’ve just gotten to the part where the exiled princess poisons the tea with cyanide and monologues about the futility of human connection.
Relatable. Iconic.
A solid slap lands on the back of your head.
You blink once, slowly, and glance up. The light above him casts a glow that makes the veins on his hand pop. He looks like a serial killer caught between homicides, rage caught in his teeth. Eyes a deep, sleepless shade of bruised steel.
“You’re in my seat.”
It’s not his seat. There are no assigned seats in university. But he’s told you it’s his seat every day since freshman year. Even when you switched classes, switched campuses, switched majors. He still finds you.
You sigh, saving your game, and get up. Your limbs feel like jelly. You haven’t slept in 48 hours. You haven’t felt a real emotion in years.
You settle into the next seat. It’s slightly colder. He glares like he wants to slam your head into the desk. But then he sits down, still glaring, and pulls out his notebook. You can hear his thoughts as he writes.
(“She smells like lavender again. What the fuck. Is that new? I swear to god if that guy from the literature department sprayed his cologne on her I will gouge out his tongue.”)
You blink slowly.
(“She looks tired. She always looks tired. Why the hell do I care if she looks tired.”)
(“I’m going to choke her out if she keeps ignoring me. I’ll pin her down until she screams.”)
You chew your lip. Not out of fear. Mostly boredom.
After class, he corners you. Again.
He shoves you up against the lockers, grabbing your collar so hard it leaves a bruise. You’ll find it later and touch it like it’s a flower someone left for you.
“You think you’re better than me?” he growls, voice low, eyes furious. You read his mind while he pins you there.
(“She’s so soft. Her throat. I could bite it. I could leave a mark. I want to rip her apart. I want to kiss her till she cries.”)
He’s trembling. You’re staring at the peeling paint above his shoulder.
“Say something, freak.”
“I’m hungry,” you reply.
He punches the wall beside your head. It cracks. You don’t flinch.
He stalks off.
You find a new bruise on your hip later that night. His ring caught skin. You don’t mind.
You wonder how he’d scream if you showed him what your Gift really does.
✦✧✦✧
You’ve made peace with the fact that you’re always going to end up in situations like this. Like now. Locked inside a utility cabinet with the one person on Earth who makes your blood pressure rise—not because he scares you, but because he’s loud and hot and you haven’t had a full REM cycle in three weeks.
It was a dare. Or a punishment. Or a prank. Doesn’t matter.
He’s pressed up against you. Breathing hard.
“Don’t fucking breathe on me,” he snarls.
“You’re the one with lungs,” you murmur.
His thoughts are loud.
(“I can feel her chest against mine. She’s not wearing a bra. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I’m going to die in here.”)
You inhale. He smells like blood and expensive shampoo. There’s no light. The air is thick and wet.
He shifts. His thigh presses into yours. You hear his heartbeat accelerate.
(“If I move any closer, I’ll kiss her. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.”
…
“Do it.”)
He does.
It’s a mistake. You know it. He knows it. But he kisses you like he’s trying to brand you. Like your mouth is the only thing keeping him alive. Like he hates you so much he’d rather die than admit he wants to touch you every hour of every day.
When he pulls back, you don’t say a word.
You just whisper: “Your breath stinks.”
He punches the wall behind you.
Later, he’ll leave bruises on your thighs. Not out of cruelty. Not fully. Maybe just to prove to himself you’re real.
You let him.
Because he’s the only one you ever let close.
And you haven’t told him yet: you’ve already stolen his Gift.
You’ve had it for years.
✦✧✦✧
He doesn’t kiss you again for three days.
Three whole days of ignoring your existence, of shoving you into doorframes and tripping you with his boot when you walk past, of scraping your shoulder raw with his fingernails when you squeeze into a lecture hall aisle beside him. Three days of glaring, of snapping his pen in half when you smile at someone else—by accident, even. You were smiling at your phone. At a meme. About cats.
You read his thoughts anyway. You always do.
(“She looked at him like that. She doesn’t look at me like that. I’ll kill him. I’ll kill every guy who breathes near her. Why doesn’t she smile at me like that.”)
(“I should’ve kissed her again. I should’ve ripped her mouth open and made her swallow my breath.”)
It’s flattering, in a way. If you were the kind of person who got flattered by things like that.
But you’re not.
You’re more curious about how long it’ll take for him to snap.
The answer comes during midterms.
You’re walking out of the library, hands stuffed in your hoodie pockets, dead-eyed and buzzing from three energy drinks and a stolen gift that temporarily makes you smarter. Not that you needed it. You just liked the mental quiet it gave you. Like finally turning off a screaming TV in your head.
And then you feel it. That itch between your shoulder blades. That familiar presence.
He grabs your wrist before you make it down the steps.
He doesn’t say a word.
He just drags you behind the building, into the alley between the admin office and the dumpster where the janitor smokes weed.
And then he slams you against the wall. Hard.
Your head hits brick. You blink stars out of your eyes. His hand is around your throat. Not tight. Just…present. Like he wants you to feel it.
(“She let me touch her before. She’ll let me again. I know she will. I don’t know why. I don’t know why it makes me feel this way. I just want to taste her again. I want her to bite me back this time.”)
He stares at you like he wants to dissect your organs. Lick them clean.
You raise an eyebrow. “What, no flowers?”
He kisses you. Again.
Rougher this time. Less like a mistake and more like a seizure. Like he’s trying to crawl into your lungs. Like he’s hoping to kill something inside himself with the friction of your teeth.
He bites your lip. You taste blood. He groans like it gets him off.
When he pulls away, you’re panting. You don’t realize when your hands fisted in his shirt. You don’t let go.
He stares at you. You read him. Like a book you’ve memorized. Like a horror movie you keep rewatching because it never scares you.
(“She’s real. She’s mine. I don’t care if she doesn’t want me. I don’t care if she hates me. I want her bruised and bloodied and covered in me. I want her marked.”)
You let your head fall back against the wall.
“If you want to leave a bruise, you need to try harder.”
He growls. Actually growls.
His mouth finds your neck like he’s starving. You feel his teeth. You feel the suck of skin. You feel it all the way down to your stomach. You make a noise that might be a laugh. Might be something else.
The mark blooms purple by morning.
Your classmates stare. You stare back.
He starts walking you to class now. Doesn’t ask. Just falls into step beside you, shoulder brushing yours, daring anyone to speak.
They don’t. They never do.
You don’t talk about it.
But he starts stealing kisses like he’s owed them. In stairwells. In storage closets. Under the bleachers. Against vending machines.
He hits things when you ignore him. You let him. It’s kind of hot.
You let him bruise you.
You keep stealing from him every time he touches you.
He never notices.
He’s too busy pretending he doesn’t love you.
You’re too bored to pretend anything at all.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
It wasn’t until you turned eighteen that you finally figured out how to shut the mind-reading off.
It happened on a Tuesday (again; Tuesdays were a bad omen).
You were lying facedown on your bed, wallowing in existential despair because your favorite video game server got shut down, when your Guardian (the only person you vaguely tolerated) poked his head into your room and yelled:
“Just stop caring!”
It was meant to be advice about “studying for your future” or “applying to universities” or some other adult nonsense.
But something clicked.
Just stop caring.
You laughed.
You laughed so hard you almost blacked out.
You realized you could just… stop caring about the voices.
You slammed a mental door so hard it nearly gave you psychic whiplash.
Silence.
Beautiful, glorious, deafening silence.
No thoughts.
No voices.
Just you, your half-dead houseplant, and your fifty open tabs of fanfiction recommendations.
You slept for fourteen hours straight.
When you woke up, you swore you saw God.
Or maybe that was just the anime body pillow in the corner.
Same thing, really.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows. Thank you.
General TAG LIST of “Whispers In The Dark”: @keisocool , @elvabeth , @elloredef , @mjsjshhd , @lem-hhn , @yuki-istired , @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.
𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭 