This is what happens when a gifted kid grows up unloved and unmedicated.
♡ Yandere! Superpowers AU x Fem. Reader. feat. Yandere! Fiancé
♡ Word Count. 9,214
You were born on a Sunday. He was born on a Monday. That should’ve told them everything.
They told your mother to keep you away from him. Said your pulse dropped whenever he entered the room. Your brain activity flatlined. You were two days old. Didn’t cry, didn’t scream, didn’t breathe when he touched your hand. They thought you died.
You hadn’t. You just didn’t feel like responding. Because you knew. Even then.
He, on the other hand, wailed for you like a mourning widow. Fat, pink, cherubic face turning purple with rage. As though someone had torn the moon from his crib. “She’s mine,” he hissed—first words before his teeth came in, with a grin they thought was adorable. It wasn’t. It was the grin of someone who knew he’d already won.
They told you it was fate. An arrangement sealed with ancient blood and government contracts. A secret deal. Groomed since birth like royal pets. You didn’t care. You just wanted a locked door and a charged console.
He always found the key.
The mansion was fifty rooms too big. You counted every one just to avoid him. Didn’t work. He counted faster. Found you by the sound of your silence. Trained to hear your breath. Your heart. The shift in air when your eyes blinked. He called it affection. The staff called it devotion. You called it hell.
You were four the first time he tried to drown you. Said it was a game. The shallow koi pond, filled with overpriced fish and serenity. He held your head under like he was baptizing you. You didn’t scream. You just stared. Eyes wide, bubbles leaking out. Still didn’t die. He pulled you up, laughed like you’d told a joke. “You’re no fun,” he said. “Why won’t you react?”
You spat a fish at him.
He loved that. Claimed it was your first gift to him.
By five, he’d memorized the pitch of your footsteps. Had a journal filled with every twitch, blink, scowl you ever made. Your silence became symphonies to him. His room—covered in sketches of you. Half were grotesque: melted eyes, sewn lips, broken limbs. The others were wedding portraits.
He gave you a ring once. Said it was your engagement. You threw it down the garbage disposal.
He tried to cut off your finger the next day. Said if you didn’t want the ring, he’d keep the part of you it touched.
You didn’t cry. You bit his hand.
Another gift, he said.
You’d see him practicing smiles in the mirror. Different types. Loving, sly, apologetic, seductive. He labeled each one with your name. Every one failed. You always saw the teeth beneath.
Your tutors avoided eye contact. They weren’t scared of you. They were terrified of him. One of them went missing after giving you a gold star. Another developed a sudden, unexplained phobia of children. The maid who hugged you got a full bouquet of dead roses, petals replaced with taxidermy mice. They all said nothing. You were the ghost. He was the holy child.
Sometimes he’d ask you questions like, “If I killed your cat, would you finally talk to me?”
You didn’t answer. You stared.
So he killed your cat.
Stuffed it. Put it on your bed with a tiara.
“Princess Meow-Meow. She’ll watch over you when I’m not around.”
He was always around.
He kissed your forehead with blood on his hands. Hugged you like it was a funeral. His room smelled like antiseptic and sugar. He wore cologne at five. It was your father’s. He told people he wanted to be just like your dad.
He broke your dad’s leg with a croquet mallet.
“Oops,” he said. “Guess I’m one step closer now.”
You still didn’t speak. Why would you? The moment you did, he’d call it love. He’d say your first word was his name. He’d brand it into his chest.
On your fifth birthday, he gave you a scrapbook of all your “memories” together. All the near-death incidents he orchestrated. All the moments you blinked slower than usual—he circled those. Said that meant your heart skipped for him. He narrated each page like a bedtime story. Half the photos were you passed out. The other half were just him.
“We’ve come so far,” he whispered. “A lifetime of love already. And you haven’t even kissed me yet.”
You shoved the book in the fireplace.
He cried. Legitimately cried.
Then offered to let you carve his eyes out. As an apology.
You didn’t. Mostly because the butler stopped you. And because you knew he’d like it.
He kissed your cheek while you slept. Every night. They had to install motion sensors in your room. Not to stop him—just to record how many times he came in. They lost count after 300.
He carved your name into the dining table. Every chair. The front gate. The wall beside the piano. He told the world you were his muse.
You shoved a crayon in his ear.
He still has hearing problems in that side. Says it was worth it. Calls it your mark.
Sometimes he talks to your baby photos.
“She’s an old soul,” he tells them. “Always knew what I was. Still stayed. That’s loyalty.”
You weren’t staying. You just hadn’t figured out how to escape.
One day, you drew a picture. You never did that. But you were five. You were bored. It was of him—burning.
He cried again.
Framed it.
Said it was proof of your bond. “She sees me.”
No. You just hated him.
He calls it fate. Soulmates. Divine punishment. He says you’re two halves of the same rotten coin. He says he was made for you. You think he was made to torment you.
He tells you every day: “If you die, I’ll die too. But not before killing everyone you’ve ever made eye contact with.”
You still haven’t said a word.
It drives him insane.
And that’s the only thing that makes you smile.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
He pushed you down the stairs when you were three and a half.
Not even with malice. It was casual. Boredom, maybe. A Wednesday. You were holding a juice box. Blinked once. Then gravity. A full spiral staircase of antique mahogany, your spine making a sound like bubble wrap against the steps. You didn’t cry. You just laid there, staring at the ceiling, juice straw still stuck in your mouth.
He stood at the top, giggling.
“You fell so gracefully,” he said. “Like a leaf. A stupid, clumsy little leaf.”
You gave him the finger.
He framed the security footage and gave it to you for Christmas.
You burned it in front of him. He made three copies. Said it was his favorite memory. “You looked so helpless. So cute. And that little crunch your neck made at the end? Music.”
You hated him.
Which meant he was in love.
You shared a bathroom. That was protocol, apparently. Paired children. A matched set. Yin and yang. Angel and demon. You, the ghost girl with no voice. Him, the demon prince with a personality disorder and a God complex. It worked on paper. It didn’t work when he pissed in your shampoo bottle to “mark his territory.”
You shaved his eyebrows off in retaliation. While he slept.
He woke up, stared into the mirror, and said, “Bold move. I love a girl with initiative.”
You stole all the forks in the kitchen and built a perimeter of self-defense. He crawled under it like a cat burglar in a museum. Had a rose in his mouth. Thornless. He bit all the thorns off himself.
“Do you like it?” he asked. “I chewed it special.”
You threw it in the blender. He drank it.
Said it tasted like you.
He’d hold fake funerals for your stuffed animals. Slit their throats, stage the bodies, light candles. Give long, emotionally manipulative eulogies. “She was a fine bear. Never told on me. Unlike some people.”
You stapled his shoelaces to the carpet. He called it affection.
Sometimes he’d make paper dolls of you. Then set them on fire. Then cry. Then tape them back together and whisper secrets to them.
“Shhh,” he’d say to the charred scraps. “She’s just shy. She doesn’t mean it. She loves me back. She has to. That’s how fate works.”
You dropped a toaster in the bath with him once.
He installed a surge protector.
“Smart girl,” he said, coughing through the smoke. “Really keeping me on my toes.”
You had no friends. Not because you were weird. Not because you were quiet. But because every time someone made eye contact with you for longer than six seconds, they’d either disappear, move countries, or suddenly develop aggressive diarrhea at their own birthday parties.
He always shrugged.
“You don’t need friends. You have me.”
You once tried to befriend a caterpillar. Named it Greg. Fed it leaves. Made it a tiny house out of matchboxes.
He put it in a jar and mailed it to NASA.
“Greg’s an astronaut now,” he said.
You threw a rock at him. Missed. He caught it and kissed it. Carried it in his pocket for weeks.
“I’ll give this back on our wedding day,” he said.
You started planning your funeral.
Once, he crawled into your bed during a thunderstorm, said the lightning reminded him of your eyes. You kicked him off. He came back with duct tape and a pillow.
“I brought restraints this time,” he whispered.
You bit his arm. Drew blood.
He smeared it on the wall in the shape of a heart.
He tried poisoning your tea. Repeatedly. Never enough to kill you—just enough to “test your tolerance.” You switched cups with him once. He drank the whole thing with zero hesitation.
Then vomited in your shoes.
“Now we’re even,” he said.
You set his bedsheets on fire.
He slept in the ashes. Smiled the whole night.
“I like it warm,” he said.
You once cut his hair in his sleep. He woke up, looked in the mirror, and said, “We’re married now.”
You locked yourself in the attic for a week. He slept outside the door the entire time. Left you snacks. Notes. Sketches of what your children would look like. Half angel, half demon, all teeth.
You tried pushing him off the roof during hide and seek. He held your hand the whole way down.
“Romantic,” he said through the broken bones. “Just like a movie.”
He had a notebook labeled “Your Weaknesses.” It was mostly blank.
Just one line: She actually has a conscience. Gross.
You hated how he smiled when people cried. How he laughed during funerals. How he tore wings off butterflies just to see if you’d react. You hated how the world loved him. Called him charming. Gifted. Golden.
You were the freak. The ghost girl. The one they whispered about.
He never whispered about you. He screamed. From rooftops. Into megaphones. On national television.
“She’s mine,” he said once, live on air. “You can’t have her. Even if she hates me. She will love me eventually. And if not—” he grinned, teeth all sugar and knives, “—she’ll die trying.”
They laughed. Called it childhood romance. Called you cute.
You spat on the lens.
He made it his screensaver.
When you refused to eat dinner with him, he hired a chef to carve your face into every dish.
You ate in the pantry with the rats.
He joined you there.
“See? Intimate.”
You poured salt in his eyes.
He said it made you closer.
You stopped sleeping. He started talking to your reflection in the mirror. Said you were prettier when you weren’t conscious.
He built a doll out of your clothes. Slept with it. Introduced it to his parents.
They asked if you two were planning the wedding yet.
You cut your hair short. He shaved his head in solidarity. Said it was a metaphor. “We’re shedding our pasts. Rebirthing into love.”
You were five years old.
You considered committing a felony.
Once, he held a knife to his throat and said, “If you don’t say my name, I’ll do it.”
You stared. Blinked once.
He cut just a little. Smiled.
“Still counts.”
You tried moving to the east wing. He built a tunnel under the house. Crawled out of your closet like a demon raccoon. Stole your pillow and whispered nonsense until sunrise.
You stopped using pillows.
He found a way to rig the intercom system so every time you walked into a room, it played your heartbeat.
Said it was his favorite song.
You got a therapist.
She disappeared after one session.
He showed up wearing her glasses and doing a bad impression of her voice.
“How did that make you feel?” he asked.
You punched him.
He bit his tongue and called it foreplay.
You told the maids you wanted a new roommate.
He set the dining room on fire.
“Now there’s nowhere else to eat,” he said. “Guess you’re stuck with me.”
You started sleeping in the wine cellar.
He bought a wine glass with your face etched into it.
Started drinking grape juice like a bastard king.
“Cheers to my one true love,” he said. “May she never escape me.”
You didn’t. Not before five.
And somehow, despite all logic, despite all murder attempts, all the stalking, poisoning, arson, and ritualistic stuffed animal slaughter, he was still considered the good kid.
And you?
You were just the quiet girl who “had issues.”
He told them he was helping you.
He told them you needed him.
He told you he’d kill gods if it meant making you smile.
You flipped him off.
He proposed again.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
You were a thing in the corner.
That was his first thought.
A little corpse. Limp. Pale. Staring at nothing like you’d already seen everything and decided it wasn’t worth it. No noise. No expression. No presence. Just there. Like a stain on the velvet of the world.
He loved you instantly.
Of course he did. You looked like him.
Not the smiling him. Not the “model child” him. Not the genius, not the legacy, not the golden, starry-eyed prodigy they paraded around like a trophy on a leash. No, not that.
You looked like him.
The empty one. The one behind his eyes. The one who never got hugged without gloves. The one who slept with his shoes on, just in case someone tried to murder him in his sleep and he wanted to chase them down personally.
You looked like that him. The real one.
So he smiled.
Big and toothy. Grin like a boy-shaped bear trap.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m your new partner.”
You blinked.
He almost started crying.
Because you didn’t scream.
You didn’t look at him like he was a bomb, or a rabid dog, or a sharp thing too clean to touch. You just blinked. Like you were waiting for him to go away. Like maybe he was a hallucination. Like maybe you didn’t care if he was God or Death or both.
That’s when he knew.
You were his. Obviously. Why else would they put you here?
You were mute. No one told him. He just figured it out. You didn’t say a single word. Not even when he poked you in the cheek. Not even when he licked your crayon drawing to assert dominance. Not even when he peed on your blanket and told the teachers you liked it.
Silent.
Still.
Beautiful.
A doll with broken glass eyes and a soul-shaped hole in your chest.
He crawled into your life like a roach under a door.
Followed you everywhere. Sat beside you during lunch and whispered conspiracy theories into your ear. Drew hearts with your name in pig’s blood on your shared desk. Asked if you wanted to be buried or cremated.
You didn’t answer. He took it as a yes.
You were perfect.
You didn’t try to fix him. You didn’t flinch when he dissected frogs for fun. You didn’t cry when he brought you a dead bird in a shoebox and called it your engagement present. You didn’t tell anyone when he put a hit list under your pillow labeled “For You <3”.
You just stared at him.
God, he loved that.
The way your gaze pierced through him like you were already trying to figure out the fastest way to kill him. Like you were trying to figure out if he was worth the trouble. Like maybe—just maybe—you saw him.
Really saw him.
Not the smiling golden boy. Not the polite, terrifying prodigy who could kill without blinking and still get extra dessert.
But him.
The rot underneath.
The blood that never came out of his nails no matter how much he scrubbed.
The screaming in his head he drowned out with music and murder.
You saw it. You didn’t run.
He wanted to marry you.
You were four. He didn’t care.
“I’ll wait,” he said one night, as you silently tried to drown him in the toilet. “It’s romantic, right? The waiting.”
You kicked him. He kissed your ankle. Said thank you.
Because no one had ever hated him properly before. Not really.
Everyone was scared of him.
You despised him.
He made a chart. “Stages of Her Love,” he called it. Step one: hatred. Step two: continued hatred. Step three: inexplicable tolerance. Step four: marriage. Step five: murder-suicide pact.
He updated it daily.
You set it on fire. He laminated the ashes and framed them.
“You’re shy,” he said. “That’s okay. I’m patient.”
He wasn’t. But for you? He tried.
He tried to be soft.
(Which meant only strangling people who insulted you after school hours.)
He tried to be sweet.
(Which meant leaving you notes like: “I watched you sleep for five hours and memorized your breathing pattern. You’re most vulnerable at 3:12 AM. I’d never exploit it. Probably.”)
He tried to be normal.
(Which meant he only threatened to stab the nurse twice for giving you a flu shot.)
But most of all—he tried to understand love.
Because he’d never felt it before. Not once. Not really.
People said they loved him. They had to. He was brilliant. Beautiful. Special. They loved the idea of him. The concept. The shiny, polished version with no sharp edges.
But you?
You hated all of him equally.
The mask. The monster. The mess.
It made him feel warm. Like swallowing bleach and liking the burn.
He started drawing pictures of your future house. A castle. A dungeon. A pit.
“Anywhere’s romantic if you’re in it,” he said.
He wrote your name a thousand times. Burned it into his arm once.
“It’s branding,” he explained. “Like cows. You should try it.”
You stared. Walked away. He followed, grinning.
He made voodoo dolls of everyone who looked at you too long. Stabbed them with forks. Set them on fire. Buried them in the backyard and did little dances around the graves.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I only imagined killing them. That’s growth.”
You shoved him down the stairs.
He proposed on the landing, blood dripping from his nose.
You didn’t say no.
He took it as a yes.
He knew you were different. Special. Holy, even.
He liked being judged by you. It made him feel real. Seen. Alive.
You were the first color in a grayscale world. A scab he kept picking. A wound he didn’t want to heal.
He thought about genuinely killing you. Once.
To keep you perfect. Untouched. Preserved.
But then you bit him. Drew blood. Glared at him like you wanted him dead and resurrected just so you could kill him again.
And he knew.
No. He couldn’t kill you.
He’d live for you instead.
Break the world open like an egg and paint it in your name.
He carved your name into desks. Into doors. Into skin.
He whispered it in his sleep. He dreamed of it. He said it so often the other kids started saying it too. You didn’t say a word.
Didn’t need to.
You were the sun. And he was the idiot who stared directly at you until his retinas burned into a smiley face.
And when the teachers asked why he was obsessed—
He smiled. Too wide. Too sharp.
“She saved me,” he said.
No one questioned it.
You never spoke.
He filled the silence for both of you.
He didn’t need your words. Just your eyes. Just your heartbeat.
Just you.
Alive.
For now.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
You didn’t hate emotions.
You hated what they did to people.
Emotions made people stupid. Irrational. Weak. They made people scream when silence was safer, cry when water only made blood harder to clean, laugh when there was nothing funny about existing in a world this broken. Emotions made people loud. Messy. Predictable in the worst possible way.
They made people like him.
You didn’t hate him because he was violent. You hated him because he was emotional about it.
Because when he killed things, he smiled like he was in love. When he laughed, it was the sound of something breaking on purpose. When he cried—once, stupidly, dramatically, bleeding and grinning with a knife in his hand—it wasn’t because he was sad. It was because he was happy.
That was worse.
You hated that.
You were raised in a place where emotions were considered a defect. A virus. You learned early that anything you felt could and would be used against you. Hunger made you easy to manipulate. Anger made you easy to provoke. Love made you easy to kill.
So you stopped feeling.
It was easy.
You were good at shutting things down. Turning things off. Holding your breath in your own skull and waiting for it all to go quiet.
You learned how to mimic. Tilt your head just right. Blink on cue. Nod in perfect intervals. Let them think you were present while your mind observed everything from a rooftop twenty feet above your body.
You weren’t born emotionless. You were refined that way. Polished like a knife.
You didn’t speak, not because you couldn’t—but because speaking implied engagement. And engaging meant participating. And participation implied you gave a shit.
You didn’t.
You didn’t give a single shit.
Not about the kids crying in the hallway. Not about the teachers pleading for attention. Not about the monsters who wore badges or the angels who bled on command. Not about the boy who followed you like a plague with glitter and murder in his smile.
You were fine alone.
You liked being alone. It made sense. The math was clean. The input always matched the output. There were no unexpected variables. No bloody surprises. No long-winded conversations or dramatic death threats disguised as declarations of love.
Then there was him.
He was everything you hated wrapped in the shape of a boy.
Emotions leaking out of his pores like radiation. Too much noise. Too much presence. Too much damn feeling.
He didn’t make sense.
He’d kill a frog in the morning, give it a funeral by lunch, and offer you a bloodied heart-shaped box of its bones before naptime. He said things like, “If anyone hurts you, I’ll flay them alive and make you a friendship bracelet out of their ligaments.”
You threw the bracelet into the trash. He fished it out and kissed it.
Everything he did was illogical.
When you ignored him, he smiled. When you tried to escape him, he giggled. When you hit him, he clutched the bruise like it was a love letter.
You tried to quantify him. Categorize him. Contain him.
You couldn’t.
He broke every rule. Defied every law of social engagement. He didn’t behave like a boy. He behaved like a singularity. Warped everything around him. Bent people to his orbit. All while spinning like a comet full of knives and sugar.
You were the first thing that didn’t bend.
You didn’t look at him like he was brilliant. Or beautiful. Or terrifying. You looked at him like he was a math problem. A long one. With no clear answer.
You were unaffected.
He liked that.
You hated that he liked that.
You liked systems. Patterns. Equations. You liked people when they fit into boxes and labeled themselves properly.
Teacher: easily manipulated, easily bored.
Peers: gullible, loud, reward-based behavior.
Him: ???
The question marks annoyed you.
He annoyed you.
He made your life inefficient.
He ate your lunch to see if you’d react. You didn’t. He made a voodoo doll of your pet rock. You decapitated it and handed it back without blinking. He told people you were married and went around correcting them if they mispronounced your name—even though you never told him what it was.
He should’ve lost interest.
But he didn’t.
Because every time he tried to provoke you and failed, he got more obsessed.
“Your silence is so sexy,” he whispered one day, while you stared at a dead moth. “It’s like you’re always threatening me.”
You were.
You always were.
You didn’t like him.
He knew that.
He didn’t care.
He kept calling you his soulmate. Kept slipping dead things into your desk drawers. Kept writing poetry in ketchup on the bathroom walls about how your eyes reminded him of morgues and eternity.
You couldn’t get rid of him.
You’d tried.
You locked him in a closet once. He carved a heart into the wall and wrote your name in his blood.
You poured glue into his hair. He styled it into a mohawk and said you had an artistic eye.
You fed him a crayon dipped in hot sauce. He swallowed it whole and said, “Taste-tested. I’d die for you.”
You didn’t want him to die for you.
You wanted him to go away.
But he wouldn’t.
Because in his head, this was love.
Every poisoned snack. Every disturbing note. Every little prank that resulted in the hospitalization of a class pet. It was all love. Twisted. Loud. Chaotic. Emotional.
And that was the worst part.
Because no matter what you did, no matter how cold or violent or detached you became—he felt for you.
Felt too much.
Felt all at once.
And you couldn’t measure that. Couldn’t count it. Couldn’t cut it open and study it until it made sense.
You loathed emotions. But more than that, you loathed the uncertainty of them.
They were unpredictable. Volatile. Prone to spontaneous combustion.
They reminded you of him.
He called himself a lover.
You called him a malfunction.
He told you he was your fate.
You decided if fate had a neck, you’d strangle it.
Because people like him made the world dangerous. Not because they were evil. But because they believed they were right. Righteous. Romantic. Holy.
You saw the madness behind his eyes every time he looked at you.
He didn’t want to hurt you.
He wanted to love you.
But he didn’t know the difference.
And that was disgusting.
Not because he was strong. Or smart. Or scary.
But because he thought he was kind.
He thought you were the only thing worth saving in a world full of trash.
He thought his obsession was affection.
He thought stalking you was endearment.
He thought your silence meant you understood him.
You did.
That’s what made you hate him more.
Because he was a mirror. A distorted one. All the potential you could’ve been, if you’d let your emotions rot you from the inside out.
He was you, unrestrained.
And you were him, refined.
He saw that.
So he smiled.
You didn’t.
Because you knew the truth.
Love wasn’t chaos.
Love was order. Trust. Measurable, observable, testable actions over time.
Love wasn’t peeling the wings off butterflies and naming them after your soulmate.
Love was not war.
But he didn’t believe that.
And he never would.
So you stayed quiet.
And waited.
Because even if you couldn’t out-feel him…
You could outlast him.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
He didn’t understand morality.
Not because he couldn’t—but because he never had to.
He was powerful. That was the root of it. Power didn’t need morality. Power didn’t need rules or lines or conscience. Power just needed permission. And if no one gave it? He took it anyway.
He was born into a system that rewarded violence disguised as heroism, obedience dressed as charm. From day one, he was told he was special. Sacred. Untouchable. His crimes were “misunderstandings,” his cruelty was “charisma,” and his destruction was “inevitable brilliance.”
No one ever told him no.
Except you.
And you never even said it out loud.
You just were the no. You existed in opposition.
He knew it, too. Called you his conscience once, smiling like it was romantic. Said something like, “If you ever die, I’ll have to kill everyone else to shut you up permanently,” and giggled like it was a joke.
It wasn’t.
You never laughed.
You were mute, not stupid.
You watched what he did when no one was looking. You watched what he did when everyone was looking. How he grinned through interrogation drills. How he made other kids cry during sparring just to see their expressions change. How he walked through fire with a lollipop in his mouth and called it “character building.”
You hated him most when he pretended to care.
Because he didn’t.
Not about people. Not about right or wrong. Not about the badge they trained you both to wear one day.
He was never going to be a hero.
You were.
You were made for it. Conditioned for it. Not in the glittery PR way they fed the masses—but in the real, brutal sense. The kind where you knew exactly how many seconds it took someone to bleed out. Where you memorized the weight of guilt per corpse, per mission, per failed rescue. You knew what sacrifice meant. You understood what restraint required.
And he didn’t.
You hated that.
You hated how he wasted it—the gift. All that talent. All that skill. He was the strongest, everyone knew it, but he used it to cause messes. Break bones because he was bored. Destroy training bots so they had to delay class. Replace tranquilizers with amphetamines just to see what the deer would do.
He didn’t use his strength for justice.
He used it for fun.
You knew kids like him. Born with fire and no fireproof gloves. Let loose because no one wanted to clip their wings. He was a disaster of unchecked brilliance. A bomb disguised as a blessing.
You were the opposite.
You weren’t supposed to be kind.
But you were.
Not in the soft, pathetic way the others were—but in the quiet, calculated way only someone like you could be. You cared because someone had to. Because if people like him were the future, then someone had to make sure the world survived long enough to see it.
You weren’t kind because it was easy.
You were kind because it was necessary.
You didn’t want people to suffer.
He wanted them to beg.
He didn’t even hide it.
Once, they put you both on a team-building exercise. Save the civilians from a simulated collapsing building. You went straight for the ones trapped in the rubble, calculated the structure’s weight load, began triage. He floated above the chaos and said, “Let’s make it harder. They’re not even screaming yet.”
You glared at him. He dropped a beam on purpose.
Three broken legs. Six reset timers. A week-long suspension.
He spent it making paper dolls of the victims and blowing them up in the dorm kitchen.
You don’t even cook anymore.
You kept a record of everything he did. Not for revenge. For statistics. Patterns. You were trying to understand him. Prove, maybe, that there was a reason for what he did. That he wasn’t just chaos. That something somewhere in the programming had failed.
But the results never changed.
He didn’t need to kill the rabbit.
He wanted to see it twitch.
He didn’t need to push that girl into the acid pit during a simulation.
He wanted to see if you’d jump in after her.
He didn’t need to draw a heart in entrails across your notebook.
He wanted to see if you’d throw it away or keep it.
You burned it. He kept the ashes in a locket.
You were the only thing he didn’t destroy. The only thing he treated with a modicum of control. The only line he almost didn’t cross.
He didn’t touch you.
Not because he respected your boundaries.
But because he enjoyed not touching you. The tension. The space. The idea of earning it one inch at a time through games you never agreed to play.
He didn’t want your consent.
He wanted your inevitability.
That was worse.
You didn’t hate him. Not really.
You hated what he represented.
The ease of power with no consequence. The luxury of cruelty with no guilt. The smile of a boy who would rip out someone’s spine for looking at you too long and still expect a kiss after.
You trained every day to protect people.
He trained to see how fast he could break them.
You kept first-aid kits in every pocket.
He kept poisons and hand-drawn valentines written in bone.
You knew the difference between fear and respect.
He didn’t.
That was the line.
That was always the line.
And the worst part?
He loved you for it.
He adored that you had a line. That you stood for something. That you were everything he wasn’t.
He didn’t want to break you.
He wanted to own you without breaking you.
You were a monument to his obsession. A temple he built out of patience, menace, and very specific restraint.
You thought about killing him once.
Sat awake at night, imagining the equation.
Cost-benefit ratio. Outcome prediction. Blood analysis. Security override.
You could do it.
You’d have to bury the body. Twist the narrative. Disappear afterward, because the higher-ups would never believe you. He was their golden boy. Their future. Their weaponized messiah.
But you didn’t.
Not because you couldn’t.
Because you shouldn’t.
Because you were moral.
Because you were different.
He knew that too.
And that’s why he never worried.
Because you’d save him.
Even if you hated him.
Even if he hurt everyone else.
Even if he was the reason you never had a single real friend.
Because he knew the truth.
That under all your logic and silence and order—
You still believed the world was worth saving.
And that made you predictable.
He weaponized your goodness. Smiled when you pulled him out of flames. Laughed when you bandaged his wounds. Called you his little nurse, his war bride, his apocalypse saint.
You didn’t smile.
But you stayed.
Not for him.
For the mission.
For the others.
For the idea of a future where people like him weren’t the architects of fate.
You knew he wasn’t going to stop.
But neither were you.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
The board took three hours to set up.
Twenty-nine layers of strategy, twelve simultaneous playfields, a hybrid fusion of chess, shogi, wei qi, mahjong, Othello, Go, and—because he was an asshole—a single rotating Uno deck dead center. Color-coded. Booby-trapped. Quantum-triggered.
Every piece moved under a different rule set. Every rule set obeyed a different language. Some of them were dead languages. One was whale song.
He’d written the manual in blood.
Yours or his, even he didn’t remember anymore.
You sat across from him in silence, as always. Expression flat, spine straight, one hand moving without pause across the endless labyrinth of tiles and tokens. Calculating. Assessing. Plotting futures.
He chattered like a crow on speed.
“—and then I carved a smile into his stomach. You should’ve seen it. Real anatomical accuracy. I was very proud. The intestines were trying to fall out but he kept trying to hold them in, like that was going to save him. Cool, right?”
You slid your knight across the layered board without flinching. Shogi tier. Three moves from check. You knew he’d sacrifice the rook next. He always did when he started monologuing.
He sighed happily, watching your profile. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
He said it like a compliment. Like you weren’t the single stubborn equation in a world of volatile variables. Like you being the same automaton he met years ago—rigid spine, unblinking eyes, soul sealed like military-grade hardware—was romantic.
You moved again. Trap laid. He wouldn’t notice until it was too late. He never did when you played like yourself.
“And you never ask how I’m doing,” he pouted, draping an arm around your shoulders, leaning into your silence like it was his favorite pillow. “Most people do. Y’know. After I burn down a town or two.”
You didn’t look at him.
You rarely did.
He didn’t mind. He was made for staring.
He traced the edge of your sleeve. Same uniform, same posture, same air of quiet disinterest. Like the bombs never dropped. Like the massacres weren’t monthly. Like your very existence wasn’t stitched into the fabric of an international conspiracy so brutal entire countries whispered your codename like a curse.
He loved that you didn’t react to anything.
Even him.
Especially him.
He wasn’t easy to be around. Not without losing a limb. Or your mind. Or your last shred of legal immunity.
But you? You just sat there. Unshaken. Unmovable. Emotionally invincible in a way he both admired and wanted to rip open with his teeth.
“Y’know, it still pisses me off that you’re the one everyone underestimates,” he murmured. “They think just ’cause you’re quiet, you’re weak. That you don’t kill because you can’t. Not because you won’t. Idiots.”
You rotated the next section of the board. Hexagonal logic grid. Pre-algorithmic phase. His favorite part. You placed one white stone.
He froze. Stared.
“Oh. You’re pulling that route. Okay. Okay. I see how it is. You’re in a petty mood today. I like it.”
You blinked once. He grinned.
He leaned closer, breath warm at your ear. “But seriously, I wish you’d snap just once. Just once, go full moral breakdown, rip someone’s spine out and dance with it in the moonlight. You deserve it. After everything. And it’d be so hot.”
Your gaze slid to him, finally.
He beamed like a crime scene in love.
“I mean it. If anyone’s earned a psychotic break, it’s you. I read the file again last night. You know the one. The part where the council stripped you of credits for saving that village because it wasn’t strategically valuable. They gave the reward to the guy who set it on fire. And you just took it.”
You placed a stone. Endgame sequence triggered. He blinked at the board. Realized he’d lost five turns ago.
He laughed. Loud. Proud. “You’re such a bitch.”
You didn’t smile, but your eye twitched in the way he’d learned to interpret as satisfaction.
“You don’t even get mad,” he said, watching you reset the pieces. “They kick you, starve you, bury your work under someone else’s name, and you just keep going like none of it touches you.”
You began organizing the backgammon half. He started balancing a pawn on his nose.
“I’ve skinned entire regiments for less,” he continued, voice cheerful. “You remember the Nordstein ambush? The girl with the red braid who tried to lie to me about her intel? God. I turned her into modern art. You should’ve seen the general’s face when I mailed it to him.”
Your hand paused mid-placement.
He leaned in closer. “You hate that part of me, huh?”
You finished your setup.
He exhaled a laugh. “I know. I know. I keep thinking, maybe this time she’ll approve of one, but you never do. Not even the clean kills. Not even the ones that save lives.”
You picked up your die. He caught your wrist mid-roll.
His voice dropped.
“You think I waste my power.”
You didn’t deny it.
He leaned his forehead against your temple. His voice was almost tender. Almost.
“You’re wrong.”
You didn’t pull away.
“I save more people this way,” he whispered. “You just don’t like how I do it.”
You looked at him then. No judgment. No fear. Just… silence.
It drove him insane.
He craved your disapproval like a starving man craved poison. It was the only part of you that ever made him feel anything real. That subtle flinch when he crossed a line. That quiet pause after he confessed another unholy act like it was pillow talk.
He wanted you to scream at him. To fight. To call him a monster and mean it.
But you never did.
You just looked at him like you always did.
Like he was a function in a failing system.
Predictable. Dangerous. Contained.
He hated that look.
He loved that look.
He kissed your cheek and called it affection.
You let him.
Not because you liked it.
But because it didn’t matter.
Nothing he did ever changed you.
And that terrified him.
“You’re gonna be like this forever, huh?” he murmured. “Never gonna break. Never gonna kill me. Never gonna love me.”
You picked up the dice. Rolled a five. Moved your piece.
He laughed again. “God, I missed you.”
He said it every time. Once a year. Like a ritual. Like the blood never dried on his boots and the world wasn’t quietly rebuilding around your chessboard.
You were two disasters from different corners of the map. Engaged by law. Bound by treaties. Obligated to meet like two nuclear bombs swapping tips on annihilation.
And you played board games.
Every time.
He told you stories of death and crime and hell.
You beat him in silence.
Every time.
He’d kill for you.
Already had.
Would do it again.
You wouldn’t kill for anyone.
Not even yourself.
That was the difference.
That’s why you’d never agree.
That’s why he’d never stop trying.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
He set the pouch on the table with two fingers, like it was diseased.
Pink. Sequined. Glittery little cartoon mascot smiling on the front like it didn’t contain the kind of drug cocktail that would short-circuit a god. You watched him unzip it, pull out a vial, and hold it to the light.
He scoffed. “You’ve been drinking this crap again.”
You said nothing. Picked up a piece. Rolled your dice.
He turned the vial over between his fingers, liquid catching the light. “Why? Seriously. Why this? You know it doesn’t fool me. You think I don’t notice when you start batting your lashes and acting like some polite little honor student? I made you. I know when it’s fake.”
You placed a stone. Moved your piece diagonally.
“You don’t even like people,” he muttered. “And you think it’s cute, pretending to be one. What do you get out of it? Huh? What, some pats on the head? A few idiots thinking you’re soft and dateable? A round of applause for being emotionally available?”
You rolled again.
He snorted. “Is that it? You want friends so bad you’re drinking personality juice to get them? Fucking tragic.”
You didn’t look up, but your brow twitched—subtle, annoyed.
He grinned, sharklike. “Oh, there she is. I touched a nerve.”
He dropped the vial back into the pouch and zipped it shut, pushing it toward you like a dead mouse left on a doorstep.
“You know,” he said, voice slipping low, “I could kill you. Right now.”
You nodded, calm. Obvious.
“I won’t,” he added. “But you know I want to.”
Another nod.
He leaned on his elbow, eyes drilling into you like scalpels. “Why the fuck do you keep pretending?”
You blinked at him.
He kept going. Of course he did.
“I’ve killed so many people trying to be what you already are. People clawing up to be someone important, someone useful. You already are. And you’re using that god-tier brain and world-ending power to play dress-up with emotions you don’t actually feel.”
You slid a piece across the shogi tier.
“I’m not mad,” he added. “Not really. Just…” He exhaled, tapping the board, tapping your hand. “It’s pathetic.”
You finally looked at him.
He stared right back. For once, no grin. No joking.
“Pretending you’re weak. Pretending you’re human. Humble. Kind. All of that self-sacrificing garbage. Drinking these stupid vials so you can blush when someone compliments your hair. Laughing at their jokes like you don’t see through every one of them. Playing nice. You’re playing nice. With them.”
You didn’t blink.
He leaned closer. “You could kill anyone in this room without moving.”
There was no one else in the room.
“You could end this whole facility, this whole country, with a thought. You don’t even need those vials. You invented them as a joke, remember? I turned them into a product. You? You took the prototype and started chugging it like a fucking chaser.”
You shifted a piece. Set a trap. He didn’t move.
“You know what I think?” he said. “You’re afraid.”
You rolled.
He laughed. Cold. “Yeah. I said it. You. Scared. Of what, though? Of being alone? Of being loved? Of realizing you’re not meant to be some glassy-eyed background extra? You’re afraid of being seen for what you are.”
You tapped the board.
He slammed his palm down over your hand.
“You want peace. You want that shiny utopia, don’t you? That happy, fluffy world where nobody gets hurt and everyone’s friends and your kitten doesn’t die and your tea never gets cold. I know what you want. And I know what you’d do to get it.”
You said nothing.
His voice darkened. “You’d kill yourself to make it happen. Wouldn’t you?”
You tilted your head.
He leaned in. “Because that’s what they want you to do. Play the part. Pretend. Be the good girl. The mascot. The one who forgives. The one who sacrifices. The one who makes it easier for them.”
You looked at the board again. He didn’t let go of your hand.
“You know what villains are?” he asked. “They’re the people who get caught. The real ones? They’re in suits. They’re giving speeches. They’re getting awards. I sit in meetings with top-ranked heroes who’ve killed more civilians than I have. At least I make art out of it.”
You raised an eyebrow.
He chuckled. “But you—You wanna be a ‘real’ hero, right? Selfless. Noble. Invisible. You wanna die quietly for a cause that doesn’t even deserve you. That’s what you think being a good person is. Letting them step on you until you snap.”
You slowly pulled your hand back.
He let you.
“And when you do,” he said softly, “they’ll still hate you for it.”
You picked up the pouch. Looked at it. Shiny. Harmless. Plastic mask in a bottle.
He watched you like a man watching a funeral.
“You’re not like them,” he said. “You never were.”
You opened the pouch. Pulled out a vial. Twisted the cap.
His jaw clenched. “You really gonna drink that shit in front of me right now?”
You held the vial, untouched.
He bit his lip. Smiled bitterly. “I should kill you for this. For being this fucking stupid.”
You tilted the vial to your lips.
He slammed the board off the table.
It shattered against the wall. Shards of shogi and go and chess exploding like confetti. The room went dead silent.
You stood there. Vial half-lifted. Calm.
He stepped closer.
“What are you so scared of?” he whispered.
You didn’t answer.
He reached out. Touched your face. Thumb at your cheek. Not lovingly. Not cruelly. Just… confused.
“You’re everything,” he said. “Everything I ever wanted. And you waste it. Every day. Like it means nothing.”
You closed the vial.
Not drinking it.
Not yet.
He breathed out slowly. Frustrated. Heartbroken. Furious.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Pretend. Be normal. Blush when they flirt. Cry at funerals. Fake your way into humanity.”
You stepped over the ruined board. Sat back down.
He followed.
He always followed.
“Just remember,” he said, sitting next to you, shoulder to shoulder, hand over yours again. “You’re not one of them. And if you ever start to believe you are—I’ll kill you. Just to prove you’re not.”
You nodded once.
He smiled, closing his eyes.
“God, I love you.”
You rolled the dice again.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
You set down the dice. He didn’t move his piece. Just stared.
Serious again.
That same kind of quiet like right before a natural disaster hits, where the birds go dead and the air smells like metal.
He leaned back in his chair and exhaled like a man about to start digging his own grave.
“Okay,” he said. “Real talk now.”
You looked up. Your face, as always, blank.
He stared at the broken board between you. “You still want that perfect world. That peace crap. Hugs and rainbows and fuckin’ world harmony, right? You haven’t said it, but you do.”
You rolled your eyes. He continued anyway.
“Don’t even try to lie. I know you. You want love, sure, but not like the rest of us. It’s not about getting laid or holding hands or whatever shit romcoms sell. You love the world. Like—the whole world.”
He laughed. Dark. “You even love the fucking monsters.”
You tapped the board with a knuckle. A cracked bishop tilted off the edge. He watched it fall like it symbolized something. Probably did.
“That’s the shit that gets me,” he said. “You don’t look like someone who gives a fuck. You walk around like you’re made of TV static and Prozac, but deep down? You’ve got empathy levels that’d make a nun cry.”
You looked down. Picked up a knight. Replaced it sideways.
“Like, what is that?” he said, gesturing wildly. “Who loves monsters? Who sees the worst parts of people and doesn’t vomit? You do. It’s like your curse. Or your fetish.”
You shrugged.
He pointed at your chest. “You’ve got the purest heart I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen actual hearts. On plates.”
You smirked. Barely. He grinned back, sharp-edged.
“But here’s the kicker,” he said, leaning in, “you’re gonna fucking die for it.”
You blinked.
“That stupid, beautiful ideal of yours? That selfless utopia? That idiotic fantasy? That shit’s gonna get you killed. And not in a cool way either. It’ll be some poetic bullshit. I’ll find your body buried under your own goodwill, and your last words will probably be something fucking saintly like ‘it’s okay.’”
You gave a thumbs-up.
“I’m serious!” he snapped, slapping the table. “You keep loving a world that doesn’t give a single fuck about you. It hates you, actually. Hates what you are. Hates that you’re stronger, smarter, better. And you keep giving it more.”
You tilted your head. Unamused.
“You think you’re building something good,” he continued. “You think if you just keep giving, if you just keep being good enough, soft enough, kind enough, the world will finally change. But it won’t. It won’t.”
He dragged a hand down his face. “You know what the world does to people like you? It uses you. Then it kills you. Slowly. Righteously. Then it rewrites the story like you were just another dumb bitch who didn’t know better.”
You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to. He already knew you agreed and didn’t care.
“And still,” he said, quieter now, eyes narrowing, “you drink your happy-go-lucky people juice and keep going. Like some kind of Disney tragic lord.”
He picked up the pouch. Flipped it over in his hand.
“I know what this is,” he muttered. “It’s not just a drug. It’s not about blending in. It’s your leash. You leash yourself. You humble yourself. Because if you didn’t, you’d become something the world really couldn’t ignore. You’d be untouchable. Divine.”
He tossed the pouch back to you like trash.
“And that scares you.”
You stared at him. He stared right back. You hated when he got like this. Not because he was wrong—he wasn’t. That was the fucking problem.
“You love this shitty world more than anyone ever has,” he said, eyes cold now. “And the truth is, it doesn’t deserve you. But you keep showing up for it. Like some battered wife in a divine relationship.”
He stood, pacing now. Dark humor bleeding in.
“You know people like me—we rot the system from the inside. We lie, we kill, we build empires out of teeth. But you? You actually believe it can be good.”
He stopped. Looked down at you.
“And I hate that you’re right.”
You didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just kept playing your pieces.
He sat back down. Slower this time.
“I’ve had demons offer you everything,” he said. “Whole empires. Families. Thrones. Blood deals and devil rings and sugar-daddy mentorships. And you turned them all down. You still talk to them. Still tolerate their shit. But you never chose anyone.”
You nodded once.
He leaned forward. “But I see you.”
You stared at him.
“I know the way your brain works. I know what breaks you. I know what holds you together. I know the difference between when you’re actually annoyed and when you’re just mimicking it to make others comfortable. I know how much you’re faking. All of it.”
Your fingers paused on a piece.
He smiled. But it wasn’t nice. “I see you. Every inch of you. I know what you really are. And I’ll wait.”
You looked away.
“But not forever.”
The smile dropped.
“I’m not gonna watch you die for this fantasy. I’ll wait as long as I can. But you and I both know what you are. And if you don’t choose soon—” he shrugged. “—I’ll choose for you.”
You picked up a pawn. Set it down.
He stared.
“I’m serious,” he said. “You’re indecisive. You stall. You float through life with that dead look on your face like none of it matters. But it does. You matter. More than anyone else in this whole miserable fucking planet.”
You drummed your fingers against the board. No rhythm. Just noise.
“You’re the only one left with a real heart,” he said. “And it’ll kill you. I know it’ll kill you. Because you won’t give up. Even when it’s burning you alive.”
He looked down at your hand. The one still holding the vial.
“I’ll say it again,” he murmured. “Stop pretending. Stop playing this human game. Take the leash off.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
The silence was heavy. Thick with things neither of you said.
Then he leaned forward. Close. Too close. Voice low enough to press against your ribs.
“I love you,” he said. “And I’ll break the whole world if it means keeping you breathing.”
You didn’t speak.
You didn’t need to.
Because he knew you wouldn’t stop. You’d keep giving until you were empty. Until the monsters you loved tore you apart. Until your dream was soaked in your own blood and no one remembered your name.
And he knew.
One day—
He’d have to decide if he was going to let that happen.
Or kill the dream himself.
So you could finally live.
───────── ♛ ─────────
♡ A/N #1 (April 23). Genuinely enjoyed this. I always love writing virtuous readers.
♡ A/N #2. Oh shiz, he actually turned into a compelling character. Considering I was messing around at first. I thought Yandere! Brother-From-Another-Mother and Yandere! DILF! CEO cooked. But this actually cooked.
♡ A/N #3. broooo that ending. like, I’m always just writing for fun and stuff. so I never have a fixed schedule anymore. but like… when the characters have synergy like yes please.
♡ A/N #3. 9k words?!
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
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.
𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭 