𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

🔞He wanted to fuck her brain. Not metaphorically.

♡ Yandere! Superpowers AU x Fem. Reader. feat. Yandere! Pervert

♡ Word Count. 4,334

You read the way normal people breathe. Constant, automatic, and laced with the occasional wheeze of corruption. While the rest of your classmates were debating whether that one blonde twink in the hero course was top or bottom (as if it mattered in the face of national terrorism), you were deep in a 300k-word manhwa fanfic about a yandere CEO who mutilates his stepdaughter for looking too sexy in his proximity. It wasn’t good, obviously. The grammar was shit. The pacing was worse. But you read it anyway, because like all tragic heroes, you were built to suffer.

Not emotionally. You were far too dead inside for that.

No, you suffered in that detached, academic way people suffer through Renaissance paintings of hellscapes. You’d study the writhing bodies and think, “Fascinating. I wonder how long it takes a person to bleed out from the neck when suspended by piano wire.”

And that’s why you write.

You write smut the way surgeons perform dissections. Clean. Clinical. Purposeful. While other girls blushed when their classmates mentioned the word “orgasm,” you were calculating the physics of certain positions and the psychological ramifications of predator-prey power dynamics. You’d test tropes the way lab techs test new pathogens. Non-con? Interesting. Dub-con with identity erasure? Compelling. Tentacle erotica where the MC slowly loses her humanity and becomes an eldritch broodmare? An award-winning thesis waiting to happen.

You once read a 120k fic called Breed Me Daddy Alien Slug Emperor. Twice.

For science.

When people stared at you on the train, it wasn’t because you looked particularly odd. You wore the uniform right. Your hair was always brushed. You didn’t smell like a basement goblin who lived off Mountain Dew and repressed fetishes. No, people stared because you would sit in full daylight, kindle in hand, and calmly read smut that could cause a priest to burst into flames.

Your current read? Chains of Consent: A Non-con Anthology. Your review thus far? “Chapter 7 had good psychological breakdown pacing but lacked anatomical consistency.”

You were banned from three fanfiction forums for your reviews.

It’s not that you were mean. You were accurate. Uncomfortably so.

“The rape scene lacked realism—try inserting a character response rooted in trauma physiology.”

“The MC shouldn’t be enjoying this if she has CPTSD.”

“This needs more blood.”

They called you a pervert.

They didn’t know the half of it.

Because the truth is—you weren’t turned on. You never had been. Porn bored you. Vanilla smut made your soul peel out of your flesh suit and say, “Why the hell are we here just to suffer?” You didn’t like sex. You studied it. Observed it. Like a scientist observing particularly dumb monkeys smashing their genitals together and thinking it meant intimacy.

You didn’t believe in love.

You believed in behavioral patterns. Dopamine, oxytocin, and evolutionary programming. Trauma-bonding. Obsession as a misfire of attachment conditioning. Love? That was a social construct wrapped in Disney marketing and pheromones. You’d dissect it all in your fics, play with it like a child playing with matches. Not to burn anything down. Just to see what catches fire.

Every day you sat in class with the rest of your classmates, who still hadn’t realized that your permanent dead-eyed expression wasn’t a trauma response—you were just bored. Deeply, fundamentally, cosmically bored.

So you wrote.

During lunch, you sat alone. Not because you were lonely. Loneliness requires a desire for people. You didn’t have one. You had your kindle and a new 400-page fanfic titled Yandere Idol Boy Group: Trapped in the Basement and Breeding for the Nation. You were twenty pages in and already noting character inconsistencies and grammar errors.

When your deranged bully screamed in the background about how someone messed with his locker, you didn’t blink.

When the annoying host club leader sat beside you one day and said, “You’re always reading. What is it?” you tilted the kindle so he could read the title himself. His silence was delicious.

The next day, he didn’t sit near you.

You weren’t offended. You found it funny. A little flattering. Like watching a cat back away from a cucumber. You were the cucumber. Dangerous. Unexpected. A threat to their reality.

They thought you were a freak. But you weren’t.

You were the sanest person in the building.

Because while they played make-believe about morality, about good and evil, about friendship and teamwork and dreams—you were living in truth. That human nature was disgusting. That people were cruel. That the only thing separating a hero from a villain was state sponsorship and PR.

You just wrote about it with more dick.

One time, a girl in your class peered over your shoulder and whispered, “Are you reading porn in public?”

You didn’t look up. “It’s not porn. It’s a socio-psychological examination of power dynamics between a demon general and the cursed nun he keeps chained in his castle basement.”

She backed away like you had the plague.

You went back to highlighting the good lines.

You were misunderstood. Not because you were a pervert. But because you weren’t. You could write the most horrifyingly erotic smut scene known to man and feel absolutely nothing. The only thing that made your heart skip was a well-executed twist, a character breakdown so real you could taste the mental illness.

You liked stories where no one got out alive.

You liked fics tagged with “dead dove: do not eat” and ate the dove anyway, bones and all. You were the reader fanfic writers warned about in the tags. And you always left reviews.

Helpful ones.

“Chapter 12 was peak despair. Loved the character regression. Suggest more violent hallucinations. Maybe a dismemberment?”

You had 10k karma on Reddit and a waiting list of beta-readers.

You were a connoisseur. A curator. The Morticia Addams of smut fiction.

People talked about you behind your back. Called you scary. Called you gross. Called you lonely.

You were none of those things.

You were free.

And when a teacher once confiscated your kindle and opened it only to find a fanfic titled Bride of the Blood Moon Cult: Forced Marriage, Human Sacrifice, and Unexpected Feelings, you were called to the office.

They said it was inappropriate.

You tilted your head. “Why? It’s not like I masturbate to it.”

Silence.

You blinked. “It’s for study. Fictional trauma recovery arc. For research.”

They didn’t know what to say. They gave your kindle back and told you to go to counseling.

You brought the counselor a copy of your WIP. A dark erotic thriller featuring a cursed prince with PTSD and the emotionally numb necromancer assigned to seduce and destroy him.

She requested chapter 5 early.

You were not normal.

But you were never meant to be.

You weren’t built for this era. You were built for leather-bound grimoires and bloodstained parchment. For heretics and exorcisms and fairy tales where the witch wins. You wore your disinterest in social conventions like armor, and your fanfic collection like a badge of intellectual superiority.

Because while they cried over dead anime boys, you were in the trenches, writing depraved soul-shattering fanfiction about corrupted heroes choking on their own sins.

And when people asked, “Don’t you ever want a boyfriend?”

You laughed.

“Why? So I can be disappointed in 4K?”

No thanks.

You had your smut. Your trauma tags. Your 500k word powerplay masterpieces.

You didn’t need love.

You had literature.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

You never asked to be interesting. That was the first problem.

The second problem was existing in a world where everyone had a gimmick. Super strength, laser vision, cryokinesis, exploding sweat glands—abilities, gifts, whatever they wanted to call it. You had one too. A pretty big one. But like all good nihilists, you kept that shit to yourself.

Why? Because it wasn’t worth the hassle. Power invites attention. Attention invites conversation. Conversation invites expectations. Expectations lead to emotional disappointment, and that, in your opinion, was worse than death.

So you coasted. Pretended to be Giftless. The class freak. The loner. The weird smut-reading loser in the corner who smelled like sarcasm and sleep deprivation. It was easier that way. Let them underestimate you. Let them believe you were harmless. Let them project their fantasies, their disgust, their sympathy, whatever helped them sleep at night.

But then there was him.

The pervert.

No one knew his real name. He transferred mid-year, something about a disciplinary relocation, but the details were redacted. Literally. Redacted. The school file was blacked out like he worked for the psychic CIA. His presence was chalked up to ‘special case integration.’ Whatever the hell that meant. The teachers smiled too hard around him. The principal’s eye twitched when he spoke. The guidance counselor developed a drinking problem three days after his arrival.

And you? You took one look at him and decided to walk the other way.

Because he was the first person who disgusted you.

Not because of his power. No, you could nullify that in a heartbeat. Steal it, twist it, dismantle it from the inside out. But because of the way he looked at you. Like he saw past the dead eyes and the kindle full of torture porn. Like he understood you. And worse—like he wanted to crawl inside your skin and wear you like a jacket.

You weren’t used to being prey. It was an interesting role. But it didn’t suit your face. Every time he passed you in the hall, licking a cherry lollipop like it owed him child support, you felt that cold drop of unease trickle down your spine.

He introduced himself on a Tuesday.

You were rereading a fanfic about a villain who harvested the organs of her enemies to create a blood harp. Light stuff. And then there he was. Slouching in your desk’s peripheral vision. Hair a little too fluffy. Smile a little too sharp.

“Whatcha reading, sweetheart?”

You didn’t look up. “Brain enrichment material.”

He chuckled. It was soft. Erotic, in a way that made your pancreas tighten. “Ooh. A little brain play. Kinky.”

You marked your page, closed the kindle. Finally looked at him.

His eyes were wrong. Not the color. Not the shape. The texture. Like a cracked mirror coated in sweet caramel. Glinting. Hungry.

You blinked slowly. “Do you talk like that to everyone?”

He tilted his head. “Only the ones I want to dissect.”

You were not blushing. You were not flustered. You were, in fact, compiling 27 methods of murder in your head. Three of which involved the mechanical pencil in your hand.

“You’re weird,” you muttered.

He grinned. “Takes one to know one.”

He sat beside you the next day. And the day after. And the one after that. Like a parasite. A leech in human form. He brought snacks and offered you gum. He asked invasive questions. Not the normal ones. Not your favorite color or what you wanted to be when you grew up. No, he asked:

“How many words per minute can you type when you’re writing noncon?”

“Do you think strangulation is more intimate than kissing?”

“What’s your Gift? You’re hiding something delicious, aren’t you?”

You didn’t answer. You’d mastered the art of disassociation long ago. Your body would go on autopilot while your mind slid into a warm, comforting void where people like him didn’t exist.

But he was persistent.

He wasn’t like the others. The bullies, the pick-me girls, the annoying group project extroverts who thought a smile could force you into socializing. He didn’t want you to open up. He wanted to peel you apart. Like a fruit. Like a cadaver. He wanted to see.

The worst part? He didn’t hide it.

He told you once, in the back of the library, while chewing on a candy cane he pulled from god-knows-where:

“I think about you when I touch myself.”

You didn’t flinch. But your eye twitched.

He continued, voice casual, amused. “Not in the normal way, y’know? Not because of your body. That part’s boring. But your brain—fuck, your brain makes me hard. The way you analyze things. The way you don’t feel things. It’s like watching a beautiful machine pretend to be human.”

You turned the page of your book. “You need a therapist.”

He leaned in, breath warm against your ear. “I’d rather have you.”

You did not move. Did not blink. You simply activated your Gift—silently, invisibly—and absorbed the essence of his. A quick taste.

And immediately regretted it.

His Gift was madness. Not metaphorically. It was a psychic virus, a contagious obsession that infected the people he fixated on. It rewrote behavioral codes. Bent logic. Like being stalked by desire itself. And he wanted you. Badly.

You spat it out like spoiled milk.

He gasped. “You touched me.”

You glared. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was trying to figure out what kind of freak juice you’re running on.”

He smiled. Licked his lips. “And did you like it?”

You stood up. “You’re disgusting.”

“I know,” he whispered. “Isn’t it fun?”

From then on, he followed you like a devoted cultist. Always a few feet behind. Watching. Whispering. Asking hypothetical questions like, “If you had to be chained to one of your characters for eternity, which one would you let kill you first?”

You pretended he wasn’t there. Most days, it worked. Most days, your disassociation and sheer god-tier OP power level kept the nightmare at bay.

But sometimes, late at night, you’d look out your window and see him sitting on the sidewalk. Cross-legged. Smiling. Like a patient puppy waiting to be let inside.

One day, he handed you a fanfic.

It was hand-written. Bound with red ribbon.

Title: My Necromancer Wife: A Love Story in 47 Dismemberments.

You flipped through it. Bloody hearts. Sex scenes dripping with violence. A twisted, unhinged MC that bore an uncomfortable resemblance to you.

You sighed. “This is derivative.”

He beamed. “You inspired me.”

You dropped the manuscript in the nearest trash can. Lit it on fire. He moaned softly as it burned.

You wanted to be left alone.

He wanted to be devoured.

You were the world’s most powerful psychic. A living void with a kindle and a caffeine dependency. And somehow, he was the only thing you couldn’t delete from your life.

He winked at you in class. Whispered things like, “Ever wonder what your brain tastes like?”

You ignored him.

But deep down, a tiny, shriveled part of you—a sliver of curiosity you hadn’t killed off yet—wondered what would happen if you unleashed your power on him.

Just for fun.

Just to see if madness could be infected in reverse.

Because if you were built to be alone…

He was built to be your problem.

Forever.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

He knew from the moment you didn’t look at him, you were it.

You know, it. The endgame. The final boss. The nuclear warhead disguised as a scraggly gremlin with bad posture and eyes like cosmic ennui. The girl who read fanfiction like it was scripture, whose hoodie was five days unwashed, and whose mere aura screamed, “I would rather drink battery acid than hold a conversation.”

It was fucking hot.

Not in the usual way. No. He didn’t care about tits or thighs or whatever pathetic metric the rest of the hormonal meat-sacks used to measure lust. No, his cock twitched at something deeper. Something darker. Something ineffable.

Your Gift.

It was there—he knew it was there. Buried under layers of carefully cultivated mediocrity. You hid it too well. Too perfectly. And the only people who hid things that well were the ones who could burn the world down in a fit of boredom.

He watched you like a scientist watched a bomb that hadn’t gone off yet.

He tried the normal shit first. Smile. Flirt. Lick a few lollipops and drop a few innuendos like cum-stained breadcrumbs. That worked on everyone else. Made the fangirls squeal and the faculty sweat. But you? You didn’t blink. Didn’t look. Didn’t care.

That was step one to his psychotic obsession.

Step two was when he finally sat beside you and felt it.

That void.

You weren’t just disinterested. You weren’t pretending. You were absent. A human being operating on autopilot with all the emotional resonance of a corpse in a hoodie.

Delicious.

He poked. Prodded. Got under your skin like a parasite with a boner. Asked fucked-up questions just to see what would stick. What would make you blink. Smile. Flinch. Nothing worked. Until he said the thing. The one about touching himself to your brain.

Your eye twitched.

Victory.

That’s when he knew. You weren’t immune. You were just too smart to react. Too powerful to play the game.

He got hard right then and there.

And then—God bless you, you fucking freak—you tasted him.

He felt it. Like a psychic kiss. A soft flick of your ability brushing against his Gift, testing the waters, sampling the filth. And oh, sweetheart, it got in. Not for long. Not deep. But deep enough.

You got a sip of his madness. And you recoiled like you’d swallowed a live centipede.

He nearly came in his pants.

You called him disgusting. He agreed. He wanted to be worse. For you. Because of you.

He started writing fanfiction that night.

My Necromancer Wife: A Love Story in 47 Dismemberments.

You burned it. In front of him. He got hard again.

He didn’t want your affection. He didn’t need your validation. He wanted your power. Your truth. He wanted to strip you bare, not physically—though, yes, that too—but metaphysically. He wanted to peel your brain apart like a tangerine and taste each individual neuron.

You didn’t understand what you were. Not really.

They called them Gifts. Powers. Abilities. But what you had—what you were—was a black hole in the shape of a sad girl with social anxiety. You didn’t have power. You were power. A dormant apocalypse pretending to be a gremlin with a wifi addiction.

And he wanted in.

Every day, he watched you pretend. You let them bully you. Call you Giftless. Useless. Weak. It made him want to commit federal crimes. It made him want to scream. Because the way you stared blankly at those idiots, like you were watching bacteria attempt calculus, was the hottest thing he’d ever seen.

He fantasized about it.

Not just fucking you—though that was a given. He wanted to chain you to a wall and watch you. Ask you questions until your dispassionate voice cracked. See if he could make you feel anything. Make you snap. Rip off the leash and let the monster underneath devour him whole.

God, he wanted to be destroyed by you.

But first, he had to know. Know what your Gift was.

He tried all the usual tricks. Psychic probing. Aura scans. Reverse-engineered Gift modeling based on your sleep schedule and the way you never carried a bag. He even stole a few hairs off your desk and licked them, just in case your power was flavor-coded.

Nothing.

You were a blank space. A glitch in the Gift system. Not null. Hidden. Masked so well, he thought about hiring an exorcist.

So he tried temptation.

He left little things. Obscure fics. Psychological horror novellas. Annotated essays on the philosophy of power and intimacy. You never acknowledged them, but he knew you read them. Knew you understood.

And then he caught it. A flicker.

A moment, in the hallway. A flash of emotion. Someone had shoved you. Laughed. Called you a slur. And for just a second, the air around you cracked. Like reality didn’t quite hold together.

His mouth went dry.

You could unmake the world.

You could delete a person from existence with a thought.

You could make him come with a glance if you wanted to.

He started sleeping outside your house.

Not in a creepy way. Okay, yes, in a very creepy way. But in his mind, it was romantic. You were the moon, and he was the wolf waiting for permission to howl.

He imagined knocking on your window. Asking to come inside. To be dissected. To be studied. To be used like a test subject while you practiced being human.

He wanted to die for you. Or kill. Whichever came first.

One day, he was going to touch you.

Not sexually. Well. Not just sexually. He was going to touch your mind. Your Gift. Your soul. He was going to crawl inside your head and leave fingerprints on the walls. Leave claw marks. Graffiti. Proof that someone else had been there.

He wanted to break you open and pour himself inside like cement.

He smiled at you in class.

“Ever wonder what your brain tastes like?” he whispered.

You didn’t reply.

But you didn’t ignore him, either.

And that meant he was winning.

You were his apocalypse.

And he was going to fuck the end of the world until it begged for mercy.

Or until you finally snapped and killed him.

Either way?

It’d be the best day of his life.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

He waited until 3:06 AM. That was when your bedroom light usually flickered off.

Not because you were asleep—he knew you didn’t sleep. Not really. You just laid there, sometimes reading, sometimes writing, sometimes staring blankly at the ceiling like you were waiting for God to die. It made his dick twitch.

Tonight, he was camped under your window. Again. Hoodie pulled tight over his head, his cock already half-hard before he even unzipped his pants. The cold air bit at his skin, but it only made everything sharper. Better.

You, in your fucking oversized hoodie and threadbare pajama pants. You didn’t know he could see through the gap in your blackout curtains, didn’t know how your posture—curled like a dying spider on your bed—made him ache. Not because you were sexy in the normal sense. No, no. It was your disinterest. Your divine apathy. The way you picked your nails and chewed on pen caps and looked like you’d rather drown than make eye contact with a living being.

He started slow.

Palmed his cock through his sweats. Imagined you glaring at him with those eyes—black hole eyes, eyes that knew too much, saw too much, and gave less than nothing back. You looked at people like furniture. Like they were inconvenient stains in your line of vision.

He moaned softly.

Because fuck, what would it take to make you cry? To make you beg? What would it take to ruin that perfect deadpan? To break that porcelain mask and see what lived underneath?

He gripped his cock tighter. Let the image bloom.

You on your knees, not because you wanted to be, but because he forced you. Face pressed into a puddle of your own blood and spit, hoodie bunched around your ribs, hips trembling while he whispered things into your ear that would make a priest retch. You, sobbing—not from pain, but from humiliation, from the sheer overload of sensory input your Gift usually blocked out.

You, flinching.

Finally.

He pumped his cock, a slow, agonizing rhythm. Imagined your voice breaking. That monotone cracked into something real. Screaming his name—not out of desire, no. That would be too easy. Screaming it like it was a slur. Like he was your worst fucking nightmare. Because he was.

He licked his palm and spat on his cock, then jerked harder.

The fantasy deepened. You bound to a chair, drugged not into unconsciousness, but into clarity. Gift nullifiers flooding your veins, just enough to make you feel. Just enough to make your god-brain vulnerable.

He’d stand over you with a knife and a hard-on. Not to cut. Not yet. Just to see the moment your eyes filled with that emotion you never let show.

Terror.

“C’mon,” he whispered to the vision of you in his mind. “Break for me. Cry. Scream. Fucking feel.”

You whimpered.

No, not really. Just in his head. But it was enough.

He bit down on his fist to muffle the groan, hips bucking into his hand now, fast and brutal. Like he was fucking the version of you that hated him so much, you’d rather die than give him the satisfaction.

God, he loved it.

Because he wanted to make you hate him. Hate him enough to kill. Hate him enough to look at him like he mattered. Like he was a threat. A rival. An obstacle. Because you didn’t hate anyone. You didn’t care. You existed in a realm above love, hate, disgust.

He wanted to pull you down.

“You think you’re better than me,” he breathed, eyes fluttering as the image of you snarling filled his brain. “You think you’re safe.”

He was close.

He imagined you chained to a wall in a lab, Gift dissected, neurons mapped, twitching in sensory agony while he narrated his fanfiction into your ear—My Necromancer Wife: Chapter 38, The Anal Resurrection Arc—just to see the twitch of confusion, the horror.

He came.

Hard.

The orgasm tore through him like a violent psychic seizure, hot cum painting his fist as he trembled in the dark, breath stuttering. He leaned against the wall of your house, forehead pressed to the cold brick, panting like a feral animal.

He didn’t wipe off right away.

Instead, he looked up.

Through the window.

You were still curled on the bed, but your head had turned. Slightly. Just a fraction. Eyes open. Looking straight at the curtains.

He froze.

Not in fear. In exhilaration.

Had you known?

Had you felt him?

Had your Gift brushed his again, like a fingernail across his spine?

He grinned.

Sticky cum cooling on his skin. The ache still deep in his balls. He whispered your name like a prayer and bit down on his lip until it bled.

You didn’t get it.

You would.

He’d make sure of it.

Because you were a black hole in a hoodie. And he wanted to be swallowed.

───────── ♛ ─────────

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 , @shyo-urlvrx , @bitchpleaseeeeeeeeee , @yoyoik , @hereticdance , @nickibunny23 , @tea-leaves-and-cheeze , @onixsky , @avietnu

❤︎ 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.