You’re poison. He’s the antidote. Sort of.
❤︎ Synopsis. Heinrich’s job is to watch you—mostly so you don’t kill him first—while you treat him like your personal chew toy, and somehow neither of you are dead yet. Welcome to a love-hate mess where murder threats and awkward affection go hand in hand.
♡ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.
♡ Pairing. Yandere! Etheria Restart x Fem. Reader ~ feat. Heinrich
♡ Novella. Dysfunction: The Series – Part 1
♡ Word Count. 8,982
You don’t shut up.
He’s aware of it the moment you step into E-07 again—boots dragging on the floor like you own the damn place, humming some stupid melody you probably made up just to irritate him. There’s nothing in your hands. There’s never anything in your hands, no clipboard, no weapon, no datapad. You walk like you’ve already won. Every damn time.
Heinrich doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. Not to you.
You make it your mission to fill in the silence anyway.
“You know,” you say as you circle him like a lioness, fingers tucked behind your back, “for someone with the codename Godslayer, you’ve got the social charisma of a corpse. No offense. Actually—wait, full offense.”
His jaw tightens. Still says nothing.
You smile.
There’s always a smile on your face, like you’re performing a joke only you understand. You speak to him in riddles, mockery, and dangerous implications. You treat classified operations like casual errands. You flirt with disaster. You’re not a soldier. You’re something else entirely. Top brass won’t even give him your full designation.
All they told him was to watch you.
That was months ago.
You haven’t made it easy.
You lean in just enough to test his limits, fingers ghosting toward the guns holstered at his hips, not to touch but to hover. Like you’re daring him to react. “Do you even know how to smile, Heinrich? You’d probably break your face.”
His eyes meet yours—sharp, cold, and calculating. But silent.
You grin wider. “Ah, there it is. The patented Heinrich look of loathing. I’ve missed it. Really, I have. RC-77 was getting boring.”
Mentioning the scientist makes his fingers twitch.
RC-77 is a walking war crime. And your best friend.
Heinrich wonders what that makes you.
You spin on your heel and drop lazily onto the nearest console, legs swinging, head tilted toward the ceiling like you’re bored of the whole facility. Like it’s just another playground for you to stomp through. “So. Heard you blew up a Hyperlinker base last week. Killed seventy-four. That’s hot.”
He doesn’t rise to it.
You sigh, exaggerated and long. “C’mon, Heinrich. I’m trying to bond. I know you’re babysitting me and all, but we could at least pretend to get along. It’ll make the HR files look better.”
His expression doesn’t change, but his grip shifts, subtle.
You notice.
You always notice.
You hop down and walk right up to him—closer than anyone else ever dares. Your eyes glitter with the kind of dangerous mirth that makes him think of ticking bombs and cracked glass. “You hate me,” you whisper, like it’s something precious. “But you don’t know why yet. Isn’t that fascinating?”
He doesn’t blink.
Doesn’t move.
You do.
You tilt your head. “Want me to guess?”
No answer.
You smirk. “Because I’m better than you?”
Still nothing.
“Because I don’t fear you?”
Closer.
“Because you don’t understand me?”
A pause.
A flicker—just a shift of his stance, almost imperceptible, but you catch it.
You always catch it.
“Bingo,” you whisper, voice low and satisfied. “You don’t know what I am. And that drives you insane, doesn’t it?”
He should kill you.
He’s thought about it. A lot. The way you laugh when things explode. The way you defy Helkid’s orders until the last second and still come out unscathed. The way you speak to people like they’re already dead. Like nothing matters. Like you’re just waiting to be entertained.
He should kill you.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he watches. Always.
And that’s the worst part. Because he sees things no one else does.
How your hands never shake.
How your eyes scan the room, every second, calculating.
How you never blink when someone dies in front of you.
You’re not untrained. You’re not careless.
You’re just pretending.
It’s an act.
And no one else notices.
But Heinrich does.
You notice him noticing.
Which makes your smile curve into something darker.
“Ah,” you murmur, voice sweet like venom. “You’re starting to get it.”
He doesn’t respond.
You lean in.
Too close.
Your breath touches his cheek, and it should be harmless, but it isn’t.
“Don’t worry,” you say softly. “You’ll figure it out eventually. I’ll even help. I like you more than most.”
He’s not sure if that’s a threat or a promise.
You pull away with a laugh, the kind that echoes off the sterile metal walls like a gunshot. “Anyway. RC wants me for another brain-picking session. Something about war crime strategies and nuclear butterfly effects. You’d hate it. It’s great.”
You start to walk away.
Then stop.
You turn your head, just slightly, enough for your voice to carry back.
“Oh. By the way. You shouldn’t leave your left flank open so much. Makes you predictable.”
You vanish down the hall, humming again.
And Heinrich stands there.
Still silent.
But his heart is no longer still.
Because you’re right.
He did leave it open.
And you saw it.
He’s not sure if he should be impressed.
Or disturbed.
Maybe both.
He watches the spot you stood a moment longer before finally turning away.
Later that night, he watches the surveillance logs of your conversation with RC-77. The two of you laugh over a diagram of a collapsed civilization, giggling like schoolchildren over mass destruction. You suggest improvements to the plague deployment. RC asks if the corpses should be arranged for aesthetic appeal. You both agree on spirals.
It’s… unhinged.
But it’s not what unsettles him most.
What unsettles him is the way you laugh. Not because it’s cruel. But because it’s genuine.
You laugh like you’re free.
Like you’ve never been chained to anything in your life.
Even though he knows you’re an experiment. A walking anomaly. An Animus.
Even though you’re supposed to be in containment.
You aren’t contained.
No one can hold you.
Not even the system.
And that means one thing.
You’re playing a different game.
Heinrich doesn’t like games.
But you do.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
You always lean too close.
Like now—your breath just behind his ear, voice lowered to a whisper meant only for him. “You tense up like I’m going to bite you. Want me to?”
He doesn’t flinch.
But he also doesn’t move away.
You laugh, soft and slow, like you already know the answer. Like you’re just waiting for him to crack. You’re always like this—like everything’s a game. Every interaction, a button to press. Every conversation, a loaded wire, and you’re the child daring to touch it with wet fingers just to see what explodes.
“You’re fun,” you purr. “Not because you talk. Because you don’t. You let me fill in the blanks.”
He’s sitting in the corner of the E-07 outpost command room, boot resting on his knee, posture lazy but eyes always alert. Cold. Unforgiving. You see the way his jaw tightens. The twitch in his knuckles when you’re too close. He thinks you don’t notice.
But you always notice.
“Relax, Reaper,” you murmur, dragging a nail along the sharp edge of his shoulder plate. “I’m just teasing. Unless you want me to stop.”
You never intend to. That’s the fun of it.
He doesn’t answer. He never does. But you don’t need him to.
His silence is its own language.
And you speak it fluently.
You press your lips close to his neck—not touching, never touching, that would be too easy—and exhale a single warm breath against his skin before stepping back with a grin. “No reaction,” you coo. “Godslayer indeed. I’ll have to try harder.”
He doesn’t follow your retreat with his eyes.
But you know he watches you.
Always.
You leave the room like you own it, swaying like you’ve just won something no one else understands.
Later, you find him in the maintenance corridor, head bent over a weapon he’s cleaning with surgical precision. He doesn’t look up.
You drag your fingers along the wall as you walk past, boots echoing loud, obnoxious. “I was bored,” you announce. “RC’s dissecting a corpse and wouldn’t let me help. Said I get too enthusiastic.”
Still nothing.
You crouch next to him, too close again, chin in your palm. “You ever kill someone just to see how long it takes them to die?” you ask, casual, like you’re asking about the weather.
His hand freezes for half a second.
Then continues wiping the barrel.
You smile. “No? Shame.”
You let the silence stretch, then tilt your head and whisper, “Would you kill me if I asked you to?”
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak.
“Would you enjoy it?”
His grip tightens.
“Would you—”
He stands suddenly. Looms.
His eyes meet yours, full of that same quiet hatred, like he’s weighing a million ways to silence you permanently.
But he doesn’t touch you.
You smile wider. “Knew I could get you to look at me.”
He turns, walks away.
You trail behind him like a shadow.
“I flirt with you more than anyone else here,” you say. “Feel special.”
He doesn’t.
But he listens.
Because you don’t flirt with anyone else. Not really. You joke, you tease, you provoke, but you don’t linger. You don’t follow.
Except him.
You show up at his training drills and critique his technique. You sit across from him at the mess and narrate imaginary thoughts in his voice. You call him ridiculous pet names—Reaper-boy, Gunner-daddy, Silent-Tsundere. Every time he ignores you. Every time he stays.
RC once asked you what the hell you see in him.
You just smiled. “He hates me. And I think that’s beautiful.”
You find him again later, during a late patrol shift. The corridor is quiet, lights flickering low, power fluctuating again. You lean against the wall and watch him in silence for a full minute before speaking.
“You know,” you say, voice soft this time. “You could tell me to go.”
He doesn’t.
“You never do.”
Still no response.
You take a step closer. Then another. Until you’re right in front of him, blocking his path. You reach out and trace a slow circle against the cold metal of his chest plate. “Is it because you like this?” you whisper. “Me. Messing with you.”
He doesn’t move.
You press closer, body nearly flush against his, your voice a breath. “Is it because you don’t want me doing it to anyone else?”
That earns you something.
A flicker of tension in his jaw.
A storm behind his eyes.
He says nothing.
But you can feel it.
That restraint. That hate. That crack forming slowly, deliciously.
“You wouldn’t admit it,” you murmur, dragging your fingers up to rest against his neck, not touching skin, just hovering. “But you’d rather me be here. With you. Even if you hate me.”
Stillness.
And then—
He steps forward.
Just one step.
You don’t move.
His face is inches from yours, breath slow, steady, controlled.
His hand lifts—grabs your wrist, firm but not hurting. And holds it away from him.
You look up into his eyes.
“Done?” he asks, voice low, lethal.
You smile like a razor. “Never.”
He lets go.
You don’t drop your hand.
“You know,” you say, softer now. “If you ever kissed me, I think the whole facility would explode.”
He says nothing.
But you see it.
The pause.
The calculation.
The ache he buries beneath hate.
You lean in again. Close enough for your lips to ghost against his. Not touching.
Not yet.
“You’re curious.”
He doesn’t deny it.
He steps away.
And you laugh—loud and full of something wild.
Because that was all the confirmation you needed.
He hates you.
You haunt him.
And he’ll never admit it.
But he doesn’t want you gone.
No.
Not yet.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
You don’t look at him when Helkid’s in the room.
You don’t speak, don’t flirt, don’t linger in Heinrich’s shadow like you usually do. You sit beside that bastard like a tamed animal, eyes lowered, voice neutral, back straight. Composed. It’s like watching someone skin you alive and wear your face. It isn’t you. Not the thing Heinrich’s grown used to—mocking, maddening, grating.
Not the you that calls him Reaper-boy with that godawful smirk and demands his attention like oxygen.
You sit still.
You don’t even glance his way.
He shouldn’t care.
It should be a relief.
No babysitting. No noise. No scent of your skin too close. Helkid takes care of it. Of you.
Perfect.
He should be grateful.
He watches anyway.
Every time you follow Helkid down the hall like a loyal pet, he notices. Every time your eyes soften at the sound of the man’s voice—he sees it. That shift. That tilt of your head. That unbearable obedience. It’s unnatural. You’re not a soldier. You’re not even a person by most standards. You’re chaos in a pretty shell. You’re—
“You’re late,” Helkid says.
You bow your head. “I apologize.”
No jokes. No nicknames. No show.
Heinrich watches from the corner of the hall, arms crossed. Not hiding, not interfering. He doesn’t do interpersonal drama. He’s not here for politics or power. He’s a weapon, a tool, a necessary edge.
But you’re not doing what you always do.
You’re not crawling under his skin today.
You’re curled around Helkid.
And for some reason, it makes his grip tighten.
He keeps telling himself it’s because it’s suspicious. Because something’s off.
Your chemistry doesn’t make sense. Helkid never gets close to anyone. He commands. He controls. He doesn’t coddle. And yet you orbit him like gravity.
He asks you questions.
You answer obediently.
“Report.”
“Stability maintained. RC-77 completed the autopsy logs. I reviewed and reformatted.”
“Good girl.”
Heinrich feels the words crawl down his spine like a parasite.
You don’t flinch.
You don’t grin.
You accept it.
That tone. That praise. From him.
You’re not stupid. You’re one of the most dangerous assets alive. So what the hell kind of game is this?
He doesn’t ask.
He just watches.
And the next day, you don’t come find him during drills.
You don’t interrupt his smoke break. You don’t tap on the glass of the armory and make a face. You don’t insult his posture. You’re not there.
You’re with Helkid again.
Always Helkid.
Your file is sealed. Every request he’s made gets blacked out the second your name is involved. Anium-73. Hyperlinker-class. Experimental designation redacted. His orders were clear: don’t interfere when Helkid’s present. That man holds the leash, no one else.
He’s not sure what you are when Helkid isn’t holding it.
You’re not restrained.
You’re dangerous.
Unbound.
He liked that better.
You slip past him in the hallway that night, not even glancing his way. You walk behind Helkid, one step to the left. You don’t speak. You don’t even smirk. Helkid’s talking about logistics, some shipment delay. You nod.
Not once do you look at him.
He’s not even guarding you right now. Not on assignment. Not your handler today.
So why the fuck does it itch?
You’re not his.
He doesn’t own you.
But you’re acting like someone else does.
Later, when you finally pass by the observation deck where he’s posted, you stop. Just for a second. Your head tilts in that same infuriating way. But your voice isn’t your own.
“You’re assigned to B-wing tomorrow. Enjoy your free time, Reaper.”
Professional. Even. Unbothered.
He doesn’t answer.
But you don’t wait for one anyway.
You disappear down the hall.
He realizes later—he misses the way you bother him.
Misses the teeth. The chaos. The disrespect.
You’re not quiet because you’re calm.
You’re quiet because someone else is controlling you.
And maybe it should be a relief, but it isn’t.
It claws at him.
He’s watching you more often now. He can’t stop.
You smile for Helkid.
But it’s not real.
It’s plastic. Manufactured.
He sees the slight shift in your fingers, the delay before you speak, the way your shoulders stay just a little too tight. No one else would notice.
But he does.
You’re playing his game around Helkid. The manipulation. The performance. Just quieter.
He wonders what Helkid did to earn that compliance.
He wonders what he didn’t.
Later that night, he finds himself in the training simulation rooms. Alone. Lights low. Gun half-disassembled on his lap.
He thinks about your laugh. That reckless, biting joy. How you’d once told him you’d rather die on your feet than kneel for anyone.
And now you follow Helkid around like you’re owned.
Something doesn’t add up.
He hates that he notices.
Hates that it’s you he keeps watching.
That he wants you storming into his space, leaning too close, whispering things you shouldn’t. That he wants you flirting, teasing, touching.
That he wants your chaos where he can see it.
Not caged by Helkid’s voice.
He tells himself it’s strategy.
Pattern deviation.
Asset instability.
A threat vector.
But his fingers curl tight around the gun barrel.
And it burns like something worse.
Something hungry. Primitive. Ugly.
Possession.
The next time he sees you, you’re kneeling beside Helkid’s chair, whispering something in a tone too soft to catch. Helkid smirks. Rests a hand on your head like a master praising his pet.
And you lean into it.
He leaves.
Before he does something irrational.
Like drag you away and remind you who you used to be.
Before he starts to forget it himself.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
He didn’t even see you at first. Just a pressure. Wrong air. A blink too late—
You were behind him.
Heinrich turned slowly. You were crouched on the railing, head tilted, grinning like a cat with its claws already wet. The hallway was painted with silence, slick with artificial humidity and reinforced steel. Sector E-07, unauthorized perimeter breach. His breach.
You didn’t ask who he was. You didn’t demand credentials. You just stared, then dropped from the ledge with a lazy flick of your fingers like gravity belonged to you.
Your smile was small.
Your blade wasn’t.
He reacted on instinct. Bullet chambered mid-motion. Fire aimed center mass. But the shot never reached you.
The room warped. Bent. Broke.
A hole in logic carved open between you both and swallowed the bullet.
Then you were already in front of him.
Breath to breath.
“You’re trespassing,” you said. Voice calm. Curious. “Should I kill you for that?”
It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a threat.
It was a dissection.
He raised his gun again. You laughed.
And that was when Helkid’s voice split the air like a guillotine.
“Enough.”
You stilled.
Instantly.
Like a pet that heard the leash rattle.
Heinrich didn’t flinch when Helkid stepped between you. Didn’t lower his weapon either. Just watched.
Watched the way your grin dropped like a switch flipped.
Your eyes didn’t blink.
You took one step back, chin down. Composed.
Silent.
“Again?” Helkid asked, not even looking at him. “How many times do I have to remind you you don’t kill unless I tell you to?”
“But he trespassed,” you said. Still calm. Still docile.
“You knew he was coming.”
“…Maybe.”
“Don’t make more work for me.”
“…Okay.”
Helkid sighed and turned to him. “You’ll forgive her. She gets…excitable.”
You just stood there, relaxed, obedient.
And Heinrich, for the first time in a long time, felt something crawl down his spine.
Not fear. Not quite.
The next day, they assigned him to you.
To keep you in check, they said.
Because you liked him, apparently.
Because Helkid figured if you liked someone, you wouldn’t kill them.
Heinrich remembered thinking you must be some overgrown pet. Some hyper-trained cat Helkid fed too many treats. Maybe unstable. Certainly annoying.
You followed orders.
Only from Helkid.
And only Helkid.
No one else.
Certainly not him.
You spent the first week shadowing him through routine patrols. Talking. Always talking. Your voice filled the silence like a toxin. Never asking questions. Always commentary. Useless, irritating commentary.
“Why do you walk like that?”
“Are you always this serious?”
“Do you have any hobbies? Or are you just born angry?”
“You know, I could kill you if I wanted to.”
That one, you said often.
He never responded.
Didn’t need to.
You didn’t care.
You kept smiling.
He thought, at first, you were a brat. A little shit. A child in combat boots. You never stopped mocking. You flirted when you got bored. You draped yourself across the back of chairs you weren’t assigned to. You made obscene jokes in the debriefing room. You stuck paper notes to his locker that said things like Miss me, Reaper-boy?
He never laughed.
You did. Always.
You made noise because you could. Because no one else dared.
And Helkid let you.
That was what bothered him the most.
The way Helkid treated you like a person.
The rest of them were tools.
Soldiers. Commanders. Monsters, even.
But you?
You were his.
His shadow. His echo. His right hand.
RC-77 joked that you and Helkid shared the same brain cell. That wasn’t it.
You didn’t think like Helkid.
You thought sideways. Diagonally. Backward. You ran on no logic but your own. RC himself said you gave him headaches.
And that man stitched corpses together like puzzles for fun.
You broke protocols on a whim. You wandered the facility like a ghost. No one could tell you no. No one but Helkid. And you always listened to him.
Heinrich didn’t get it.
Didn’t get you.
Your power wasn’t documented. No logs. No files. Everything marked redacted, denied, denied, denied. Rumors said you once collapsed an entire training wing because someone pissed you off.
That you killed five researchers in one breath.
That Helkid made the higher-ups cover it up.
They called you a wildcard.
He called you a threat.
Even now, months in, you never made sense. One second you were annoying. The next, dangerous. He could never predict it.
And yet—
You kept following him.
Kept circling him like a wolf circling a campfire.
Even now, you were crouched in his doorway, upside down, poking at a gadget you probably stole from engineering.
“You ever think about dying?” you asked.
He didn’t answer.
You blew a puff of air upward. “I think about it all the time. Wonder how fast I’d go if I really wanted to. Wonder if I’d even see it coming.”
He cleaned his gun without looking at you.
You smiled. “You’re the only one here who doesn’t lie to me.”
He paused.
Briefly.
Then resumed cleaning.
You sat up. “I mean, Helkid doesn’t either, but he doesn’t talk to me. Not unless he’s giving orders. You just ignore me. It’s honest.”
You stretched like a cat, bored and loose.
“You’re not scared of me,” you said.
Still no answer.
“I like that.”
You crawled closer. Didn’t stand—just moved on hands and knees until you were beside his chair.
“Wanna know a secret?”
He didn’t.
You told him anyway.
“If I wanted to,” you whispered, voice low, “I could shut this whole place down. All of it. Every system. Every door. Every breath.”
You smiled.
He stared ahead.
“You think I’m bluffing?”
You leaned up.
Close to his ear.
“No one knows what I am,” you whispered. “But Helkid does. That’s why he keeps me.”
Your breath was warm.
He stayed still.
“You’re scared,” you said softly.
He turned, finally. Met your eyes.
“I’m not,” he said.
You tilted your head. “You should be.”
He watched the way your pupils didn’t dilate. The way you didn’t blink.
You were smiling.
But you weren’t joking.
You never were.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
He felt you before he saw you.
Clinging to his arm like some oversized parasite, cheek pressed against his bicep, humming under your breath. He didn’t need to look to know it was you. No one else in this hellhole was that brazen. That annoying. That warm.
“You’re heavy,” he muttered, voice flat.
You didn’t move.
You just exhaled like a cat in the sun, content, body slumped against his side while he sat trying to clean his rifle. You’d crept in—again. No knocking, no respect for privacy or space or boundaries, just you, shamelessly invading and making yourself at home like he was your personal furniture.
“I’m not heavy,” you murmured, voice muffled. “You’re just weak.”
He pushed your face away with one gloved hand, fingers digging into your forehead, forcing your head back like you were diseased. “Get off.”
“No.”
“You’re acting like a damn child.”
You blinked up at him, unbothered. “I never got to be one. I’m making up for it now.”
“Tch.”
Still, you didn’t move.
You wrapped your arms tighter around his elbow, clinging like a magnet, chin now resting atop his forearm, legs tucked beneath you on the bench like some wild animal that refused to be domesticated—but desperately wanted to sit in someone’s lap.
“Do you even know what personal space is?”
“No.”
“I’ll shoot you.”
“Go ahead.”
“You think I won’t?”
“I believe you won’t waste a bullet.”
He clicked the safety back on with a slow, grinding motion. You beamed.
The worst part? You didn’t flirt like you wanted anything. You flirted because you could. You draped yourself over him, whispered shit in his ear, traced your finger down the scar on his neck, and he knew—he knew—you weren’t trying to seduce him.
You were just playing.
You were always playing.
You wrapped around his arm again, nosing into the crook of his shoulder now like you were trying to fuse into his jacket. “You smell like gunpowder.”
“Get off.”
“No.”
“You’re like a leech.”
“I’m warmer than a leech.”
“You’re a brat.”
You smiled against his skin. “I like you too.”
He stilled.
You always did this. Said shit that sounded like it meant something, said it with that soft, innocent cadence that made it impossible to tell if you were joking.
But he knew you.
He’d watched you for months now. Every twitch. Every trick. Every grin that split too wide. Every knife you kept hidden behind your teeth. You weren’t innocent. You weren’t soft. But emotionally?
You were…off.
Not stupid. Not oblivious.
Just foreign.
Like you’d read the manual on how to be human but skimmed the chapters on emotional nuance.
You were brilliant. Terrifying. Naïve.
Not in mind. But in heart.
Like the world had never once held you the way you held it.
He knew you’d grown up here. In the labs. A project turned anomaly. Helkid’s wild card. You spoke six languages but couldn’t interpret a frown. Could kill a man in three moves but didn’t know when someone was lying.
You were all instinct and intellect, no filter.
And now you were crawling into his lap like you’d done it a hundred times.
He grabbed your wrist.
“You’re not a kid,” he said quietly.
You blinked at him, head tilted. “I’m not?”
“You know you’re not.”
You stared at him for a second too long. Then shrugged and melted into him anyway, now arms looped loosely around his neck, legs bracketing his thighs.
“Then you’re the adult. You deal with it.”
He wanted to shove you off.
He didn’t.
Your forehead pressed to his.
You smiled.
Not flirty. Not teasing.
Just…open.
And that pissed him off more than anything.
Because he didn’t want you to smile like that at everyone.
Didn’t want you throwing your weight onto anyone who let you. Curling into their side. Touching. Grinning. Nuzzling.
Didn’t want your affection to be meaningless.
Didn’t want it to be practice. Habit.
He didn’t know exactly what he wanted from you.
“Do you do this with everyone?” he asked, jaw clenched.
You blinked. “Do what?”
“This.”
You tapped your chin, thoughtful. “I mean, I climbed RC’s back last week. Does that count?”
His grip on your wrist tightened.
You stared at it, then at him.
“…Heinrich?”
He let go. Abrupt. Back to flat silence.
You tilted your head. “Are you mad?”
He said nothing.
You leaned in again, slower this time, and ran your fingers through the strands of his hair like he was a wolf you were trying to tame.
It made his skin itch.
It made him want to pin you to the wall and ask why you didn’t mean it.
Because if you did—
God help you.
Because then he wouldn’t let you leave.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
He noticed too late.
Your face was too close.
Breath warm on his cheek. Eyes too wide, too curious, too shameless. Like proximity was a myth to you. Like the concept of boundaries simply never existed.
“Back off,” he muttered, low and sharp.
You didn’t.
You tilted your head, studying him like a museum artifact. Like he was some ancient machine no one had figured out how to turn off.
He could feel the weight of your gaze moving over every detail—his brow, the scar above his lip, the shape of his nose. You didn’t even blink. You just looked. Shameless. Innocent.
“Are you even listening—?”
“You make me happy.”
The words dropped like a weapon. Simple. Calm. Utterly unhinged.
He stilled.
“What.”
“You make me happy,” you repeated, like it was obvious. Like the statement wasn’t crawling under his skin, rearranging his thoughts. “I think it’s the way you look. And move. And glare at me all the time. You’re fun.”
His jaw ticked. “You think I’m fun.”
“Mhm.”
“Are you screwing with me?”
You blinked, genuinely confused. “Why would I do that?”
He didn’t answer. Because the real question was why wouldn’t you?
You never did anything straight. You weren’t honest about anything. You were a walking contradiction—brilliant, chaotic, emotionally backwards. You clung to him like a parasite but didn’t seem to want anything from him.
But now—
“I think I know why,” you said suddenly, interrupting your own silence. “You remind me of my old toy.”
He stared at you.
You smiled faintly. “Stuffed black cat. It had this little bell on its neck and one ear was floppy. I used to hide all my video games in its back.”
He blinked once.
“You remind me of it. All serious, and a little grumpy, but soft inside.”
He choked on a laugh. “I am not soft inside.”
“You are. I decided.”
“You decided wrong.”
You leaned in again—closer, somehow, impossibly closer—until your nose was brushing against his and your voice lowered to a hum.
“More of a guard dog now, though.”
“I will throw you.”
“But you wouldn’t.”
He didn’t.
You went quiet again, gazing at him like you were cataloguing the entire universe through the squint of your lashes. Then you spoke. Soft. Like telling a secret.
“We used to have long nights, me and the cat. I played all my games with it. Hid under blankets, played pretend. It was my best friend.”
His fingers twitched.
“…you didn’t have a childhood,” he muttered. “You grew up here.”
You blinked slowly. “That doesn’t mean I didn’t have one.”
He didn’t know what to say to that.
You tilted your head again. “My stuffed cat never talked back though. You do.”
He frowned. “I’m not your toy.”
You grinned. “I know. That’s what makes you better.”
He looked away.
He wanted to get up. Push you off. Say something cutting, cruel. Make you stop looking at him like that.
But he didn’t.
You kept rambling. About the cat. About how its stitches came loose and you fixed it yourself. About how you named it everything and nothing. About how you thought it kept you sane when the lights in the labs turned off and the hallways got too loud with screams.
You said it all so casually.
Like it didn’t matter. Like you weren’t giving him a glimpse into the black box of your life. The place no one had ever touched.
You were smart. Genius level. Dangerous.
But you were also stupid.
Not with logic. But with people.
You didn’t even realize you were telling him something you shouldn’t. Something personal. Vulnerable.
Something real.
He didn’t respond. Just listened. Let your voice fill the silence like static. You smiled the entire time.
When you finally stopped, you looked up at him, eyes glassy but not crying.
“I think you’re better than the cat.”
His breath hitched.
“…idiot,” he muttered.
You didn’t deny it.
You just leaned into him again.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
He didn’t know what your deal was.
Not really. Not in a way that made sense.
You told him you loved him again today. Casually. Like you were asking for a drink of water or stating a weather report. “I love you,” you’d said, hands in your pockets, blinking at him with that vacant, unreadable stare.
Like you didn’t even care what the words meant.
Like you didn’t know.
But the way you looked at him—
He knew that look.
He’d seen it before. In broken children. In weaponized soldiers. In people who’d never had anything real, so they latched on to whatever felt real enough to pretend.
He didn’t want to be someone’s pretend.
Especially not yours.
Especially not when you were always smiling like everything was a joke. Flirting like it meant nothing. Saying intimate shit—vulnerable shit—like it was air and you didn’t even notice you were breathing it.
He kept ignoring you. Mostly.
Except when he didn’t.
RC-77 had teased him the other day. The psycho had tilted his head and grinned, elbowed Heinrich while running diagnostics on some broken Anium corpse. “So,” he’d said, full of teeth, “you and her, huh?”
Heinrich glared. “The hell are you talking about.”
“You’re the only one she says that weird, mushy shit to.”
“She says it to everyone.”
“Wrong,” RC-77 chirped. “She only says she loves you.”
Heinrich had gone quiet. Then barked out, “She’s screwing with me.”
“Probably,” RC said. “But also maybe not.”
That was the problem.
He didn’t know.
You treated him like he was your toy—no, worse. Your favorite toy. Like he was something precious you didn’t want to break. Like you trusted him not to disappear.
And that made him angry. Irritated. Confused.
He didn’t want your affections. He didn’t want your eyes on him like that. He didn’t want—
He didn’t want to think about it.
But then today—
He’d snapped. Called you out. Said bluntly, “You got a crush on me or something?”
You didn’t even hesitate.
“Yes.”
Like that. Just yes.
He stared at you.
You stared right back. Calm. Expressionless. But your eyes were glowing.
He couldn’t read you.
He couldn’t ever read you.
And he hated that.
He hated that the moment you left the room, his stomach twisted. That when you were gone too long with Helkid, he noticed. That he was starting to count your footfalls down the hall before you even appeared. That when you said “I love you,” his first instinct was to scoff but the second was—
…quiet.
He hated how familiar your voice sounded when you said it. Like you’d said it to someone before. Like you meant it. But only for him.
He hated that it didn’t sound like a lie.
He hated that you were smart. That you probably knew it would get under his skin. That maybe it was a long con. Maybe it was another game to you. Maybe you just liked to see how far you could stretch him before he broke.
But that look on your face…
When you said he made you happy.
When you compared him to your childhood toy.
That stupid black cat.
That stupid story you’d told with your eyes shining like starlight through the cracks of some horrible, bloodsoaked past.
He still remembered it.
He still thought about it.
And now, when you said “I love you,” it wasn’t funny anymore.
It wasn’t light.
It felt like you were offering a piece of your programming to him—some broken line of code you’d wrapped around the word love and called his name with it.
He didn’t want it.
He didn’t ask for it.
He didn’t need it.
But every time you said it, the silence after it lingered a little longer. Hung heavier. Laced through the air like smoke he couldn’t wave away.
He didn’t believe you.
But a part of him—deep, buried, sick—wanted to.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
Heinrich didn’t answer him. Not the first time. Not the second. Not even the third.
RC-77 leaned back against the lab wall, a scalpel twirling between his fingers like a fidget toy made of death. Grinning. The bastard always grinned. Too many teeth. Too much glee. Not enough fear.
“You know,” the doctor sang, eyes still glued to the open Anium cadaver in front of him, “most watchdogs don’t look like kicked puppies when their leash gets yanked.”
Heinrich said nothing. Just kept inspecting his weapon, cleaning it like RC-77 wasn’t talking. Like his fingers weren’t twitching for a reason that had nothing to do with blood on his gun.
RC continued anyway.
“I mean, come on. Helkid walks by and poof! She’s gone. Right after clinging to you like a parasite for three days straight.” He made a swooping noise with his mouth. “Like you don’t even exist anymore.”
Still nothing.
RC’s grin widened.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous, Godslayer.”
Heinrich’s eye twitched. A breath in. Measured. Sharp.
The scalpel hit the table with a satisfying clink as RC turned around fully, resting an elbow beside the corpse, chin in hand, mock sympathy dripping from his voice.
“Don’t worry,” he said sweetly. “Helkid keeps her on a tight leash. Practically glued to his side when he’s not locking her up. That man’s got ownership written all over him. She’s basically his property.”
Something cracked inside Heinrich’s chest. He didn’t flinch.
RC tapped a finger to his chin. “Huh. I wonder what that makes you. Guard dog? Or stuffed animal? She did say you reminded her of one.”
Heinrich finally looked at him. Slowly.
RC’s smile didn’t waver.
“Say it,” he said with a chuckle. “Say you’re not jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“See? Even you don’t believe that.”
Heinrich stared.
The lab was cold. Quiet, save for the hum of machines and the buzz of the lights above.
“You should kill me,” RC said brightly, standing upright and cracking his knuckles. “Really. Just once. End my suffering. Put me out of my teasing little misery.”
Heinrich didn’t take the bait.
He went back to his gun.
But he wasn’t thinking about it anymore. Not really.
Not about the weapon. Not about the lab. Not even about the corpse.
He was thinking about you.
About the way you smiled when Helkid entered a room. About how you followed him, obedient and weirdly calm, like some well-trained machine. The contrast between that and the version of you Heinrich got stuck with—clingy, bratty, arrogant. Touchy.
You never touched Helkid.
Not like you touched him.
You never curled around the bastard like you did Heinrich, never hugged him randomly or draped across him like a cat stretching on a windowsill.
No. You obeyed Helkid. But you only played with Heinrich.
He didn’t know what was worse.
The fact that you listened to Helkid like he hung the stars.
Or the fact that you only ever looked at Heinrich when you said, “I love you.”
He told himself you were messing with him. That it was part of your sick amusement. That there was nothing real behind it.
But that didn’t explain the look in your eyes. The softness. The quiet.
Like you were remembering something no one else could see.
Like you saw something else when you looked at him.
A memory. A toy. A thing you loved.
RC-77 chuckled again from behind him. “Just saying,” he said airily. “You might wanna tell her you don’t like being treated like a favorite chew toy before she starts getting the wrong idea. Or the right one. Who knows.”
Heinrich didn’t answer.
He didn’t say that he hated it.
He didn’t say that he liked it, either.
He didn’t say anything, because his silence was safer than opening a door that wouldn’t close.
Because maybe he wasn’t jealous.
Maybe he just hated being left behind.
Again.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
Heinrich can’t believe he’s doing this.
He’s watching you. Watching Helkid.
He doesn’t even realize how long he’s been standing there, jaw locked, something sour clawing at the back of his throat as Helkid leans too close again. The way the bastard touches your chin like you’re some fragile experiment he owns, that smug glint in his eyes like he knows you, like he gets to study you. As if he has the right.
You’re laughing.
Of course you are. That same teasing edge in your voice, that chaos dancing in your eyes. The way you always are. But Heinrich sees it now. The shift. That flicker in your eyes—uncertainty, maybe. Discomfort? Or interest? Either way, it’s enough. Enough to make something inside him snap.
Now he has you against the cold wall of the outpost, one hand at your jaw, tilting your face up like he’s studying prey, and the other on your hip, fingers digging in. You’re staring at him like a startled animal. Finally, he thinks. Finally, you shut the fuck up.
And before a word slips from that smug little mouth, he pulls your face with one rough, gloved hand and kisses you.
Hard.
You freeze.
And for the first time since he’s met you, you don’t move. You don’t fight. You don’t mock.
You just go silent.
He pushes in deeper, tongue forcing its way past your lips, rough and unrelenting, like he’s daring you to pull away. But you don’t. Your body locks up like you’ve been shot, breath caught in your throat.
And when he finally pulls back, you’re still frozen.
Your eyes are wide. Real. Human. Pink dusted across your cheeks in a way he never imagined you capable of. Mouth slightly open. No sharp retort. No insult. Nothing. Just stunned silence.
And fuck, that makes his lips curl into something sharp.
“Well, well,” Heinrich drawls low, eyes narrowing as he leans in close again, brushing your lower lip with his thumb. “Look at that. You actually shut up.”
You blink, finally breathing, stumbling back a half-step like the contact short-circuited you. Like you’re buffering. Like you can’t register what just happened.
“W-What the hell,” you mumble, voice cracking like a teenager’s. “You… why would you—”
“What? You thought I wouldn’t?”
You glare up at him, but it’s fractured. Weak. There’s nothing to hold onto inside you right now, is there? Not the usual sarcasm. Not the game. Not the baiting.
He steps forward, backing you into the wall like he’s closing in on prey, slow and cruel. You bump into it with a soft gasp, your body stiffening as his hands slam against the surface on either side of your head.
“You keep acting like you can handle this,” he says, voice husky, low. Dangerous. “Keep flirting, teasing, always running that bratty little mouth.”
His nose brushes yours.
“But one kiss and you’re completely fucked, huh?”
You flinch. Your eyes dart, like you’re trying to calculate. Escape. Think.
Too late.
“D-Don’t flatter yourself,” you spit out. But even your insults sound weak. Unsteady.
He snorts. “Cute. Still trying to play tough.”
Your face is still flushed. He can see it. Can feel the heat radiating off you. And your eyes can’t meet his for more than a second at a time now. You’re trembling. You don’t even realize you are.
He grins. And it’s not nice. Not even a little.
“Don’t tell me…”
His voice dips.
“You’re a virgin.”
You stiffen instantly. A small breath caught in your throat. Wide-eyed, cornered, flinching like the word slapped you.
“Oh, you are.”
He laughs.
“You’re kidding. You? With that mouth? All that fake confidence?”
You push him.
It barely moves him.
He grabs your wrist, twisting it just enough to make you gasp, dragging your arm over your head and pinning it against the wall.
“No wonder you’re stuttering like a damn schoolgirl.”
Your chest is heaving. You don’t know what to do with your free hand. Don’t know what to do with him.
Your thoughts are static. A buzzing that won’t stop. Every inch of your mind is screaming, screaming to do something, say something, anything—
But all you do is stare up at him, stunned and pink and dazed.
And Heinrich?
He loves it.
He leans in, mouth against your ear.
“You want to act like a brat? Then take responsibility.”
You squirm.
His grip tightens.
“Nah, don’t run now. This is what you wanted, right? This attention? Me putting you in your place? Or were you just bluffing?”
You can’t answer.
You can’t even think.
You try to shift away but it’s useless. His body presses harder into yours, trapping you against the wall. His thigh slots between your legs without warning, and you jolt.
“Oh,” he breathes, mock sympathy heavy in his voice. “That sensitive already? Damn. You’re even worse than I thought.”
Your hands are shaking. You can’t get words out.
You’re not in control.
You’re never not in control.
And now? Now you’re just—
“Look at you. All that genius talk and psycho little games,” he murmurs, tracing your jaw with the back of his finger, rough and slow, deliberate. “But this? This is what breaks you?”
You want to bite him. You want to scream. But the words are gone. Trapped in your throat like everything else that ever made you dangerous.
He chuckles darkly. “Didn’t think you’d be so cute like this. Kinda pathetic.”
He nips at your ear, sharp and fast, and your knees buckle. He catches you without effort.
“Tch. Can’t even stand? That bad, huh?”
You finally find your voice—but it’s the wrong one. High. Weak. “S-Shut up…”
His grin widens. “There she is.”
He doesn’t stop.
Doesn’t let you think.
His mouth is on your neck, teeth scraping deliberately rough, tongue hot. You shiver like a leaf. He presses closer. Grinds against you. There’s no mistaking it—he’s hard, and he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“I could do anything to you right now,” he says against your throat, voice gone darker, crueler. “And you’d let me. Wouldn’t you?”
You shake your head, eyes wide. “N-No—”
“Then stop me.”
You can’t.
You could kill him. Rip through bone and blood. Disintegrate the wall behind him with a flick of your fingers. But you’re not thinking of any of that.
You’re thinking of his hands. His mouth. The way your body is reacting like it belongs to someone else.
“You don’t know what you’re doing to me, do you?”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, really look at you.
And for once—for once—you see it in his eyes.
Not just lust. Not just cruelty.
Possession.
Jealousy.
He wants to own you.
Not like Helkid. Not like an experiment. Not like a specimen.
Like a woman.
You’re trembling.
And he’s eating it up.
“You’re seeing me now, aren’t you?”
He cups your jaw again, rough fingers pressing against your pulse.
“Not just some weapon. Not some idiot you can tease. Not some toy.”
You try to glare but it falters, collapses. You don’t know how to process this. You don’t know what to do. You’re exposed in every way that matters.
He brushes a thumb over your lower lip.
“That’s right. You finally see me.”
And his mouth crashes into yours again.
Cruel. Bruising. Dominant.
Your knees nearly give, but he holds you up, all muscle and heat and rage. You moan, humiliated by how desperate it sounds.
He doesn’t stop.
He bites your lip. Makes you gasp. Swallows it all.
And finally, when he pulls back again, panting, his eyes gleam.
“Now that…”
He licks his lips.
“That was real.”
You don’t know what to say. Your thoughts are a wreckage of static and heat and humiliation. You’ve never looked so disarmed. So weak.
He pulls back fully, finally letting go of your arm.
You slump.
And he looks down at you like you’re the most delicious thing he’s ever ruined.
“We’re just getting started.”
He walks away.
You’re left against the wall, legs shaking, heart hammering, unable to understand what just happened.
But one thing is clear.
You’re not in control anymore.
And he knows it.
✦✧✦✧
He moves like a ghost, and you should’ve seen it coming.
But you don’t. You miss.
The shot that should’ve hit center mass, the moment he should’ve crumpled—it doesn’t happen. You hear the click of your trigger, the sudden cold press of metal under your jaw.
His gun. His hand. His smirk.
He got there first.
“Tch,” he murmurs, like you’re disappointing him. Like this is boring.
But you can feel it. The edge in his voice. Satisfaction curling in the dark. The hunter finally has the little monster by the throat.
You’re flushed. Drenched in your own heartbeat. Your lungs pull too much air too fast. You’re blinking hard, body heavy, off-kilter. You never miss. But you did. And now you’re here—cornered, dazed, exposed.
He presses the gun in harder, just enough to make it hurt.
“What’s the matter?” Heinrich sneers. “Facility forget to teach you how to deal with someone getting a little close?”
You say nothing.
Because you can’t. Because if you open your mouth, you’ll fall apart.
His face hovers near yours, breath warm, slow. Teasing. You hate it. Hate that he’s right. You hate the way your fingers twitch, the tremble in your knees, how your mind won’t settle. Your thoughts are chaos, slippery, slipping through your fingers like steam.
And he’s watching every second of it.
“What, cat got your tongue?”
You flinch.
“No lecture? No smug monologue about how you’re three steps ahead? What a tragedy.“
You glare at him, but it’s shaky, half-there.
He laughs. Full-bodied. Cruel.
“You’re adorable like this. You know that?”
Your breath hitches.
“All soft and pink and pissed. Like you want to kill me and cry about it at the same time. Cute.”
He tilts his head, brushing his nose along your cheek, mock-sweet.
“Not used to being on the losing end, huh?”
You grit your teeth. Your muscles twitch. You want to move. Want to rip out of his grasp and shove your fist down his throat.
But he’s too close. The gun’s still at your jugular.
“You going to try again? Hm? Try to kill me this time for real? Not just for fun?”
You stay silent. But your body gives you away. The tremble in your lip. The heat behind your eyes. The sharp inhale you try to stifle.
He sees it.
And fuck, he loves it.
“Oh,” he breathes, voice dropping, viciously delighted. “You’re actually angry. Not just your usual annoying brand of bored murder-child chaos. You’re mad. At me.“
You don’t answer.
You can’t. Because if you open your mouth, you’ll either scream or beg or say something you can’t take back.
He exhales slowly, pulling back just enough to see you again, properly. Gun still pointed. Finger still on the trigger.
“I win.”
He says it flat.
Just that.
And it hurts.
You lunge.
He stops you easily. Slams you into the wall again, gun pressing against your ribs now, arm pinning yours behind your back.
“Naughty,” he growls, low in your ear. “And after I kissed you so nicely last time.”
You stiffen, face going hot.
He feels it. The way your body tenses. How your head ducks just slightly.
He smirks.
“Still thinking about that, huh?”
You jerk in his grip, face on fire.
“Don’t worry. I am too.”
He lingers. Lets the weight of his words seep into your skin. Then he clicks the safety back on and holsters the gun without ceremony.
You’re still pressed to the wall.
You don’t move.
He steps back slowly, giving you space. You just stand there, fists clenched, lips trembling, blinking too fast.
“I’ve got work to do.”
His tone shifts. Briefly.
Less cruel. Almost soft.
He reaches out again, and you flinch. He pauses. Then sighs and cups your chin, tilting your face up.
“Stay put.”
You stare at him, breath caught in your throat.
“I’ll come back for you. Don’t do anything stupid.”
And then, impossibly, he leans in and kisses you.
Soft this time. Slow. Mouth gentle. No mockery. No smirk.
Just a kiss.
You freeze.
Again.
Your hands stay locked at your sides, nails digging into your palms. He pulls away before you can react.
His eyes flick over your face.
“You’re a mess.”
Then he turns.
Walks away.
You stare at his back like a broken machine. Mind rebooting. Rewriting. Spiraling. You blink again. Hard. Once. Twice.
You can’t breathe. Can’t move.
And then—
You bolt.
Turn tail. Fleeing like a coward down the corridor, heart slamming, blood roaring in your ears.
You’re not running. You’re strategically retreating.
That’s what you tell yourself.
That’s what you repeat over and over like a mantra as you duck into the shadows, away from his heat, from his voice, from the ghost of his hands on your skin.
You’re not blushing.
You’re recalibrating. You’re building a new tactic.
Next time, you’ll kill him. You’ll get it right. You’ll crush his throat in your bare hands and erase that smirk forever. No more games. No more hesitation.
Your fists are clenched. Your eyes sting.
But deep in your gut, in the place you can’t silence—
You want him to kiss you again.
Far behind you, Heinrich watches you vanish.
He leans back against the wall, folding his arms. Exhales once.
Then brings his hand to his mouth and scoffs.
Just a breath. Just a flicker of something unnoticeable.
But his face?
Just a little red.
He won’t admit it. Not now. Not ever.
But you’re cute.
───────── ♛ ─────────
♡ A/N #1 (June 18). Status Update: Busy farming IRL EXP and gacha games. Honestly I’m more addicted to gaming than writing. lol… also now you know where I’ve been.
♡ A/N #2 (June 18). I’ve been wanting to write for Etheria: Restart ever since the first day it officially came out. Lol. But was deciding on how to go about it. This is more casual compared to my other current long-form serious works.
♡ A/N #3 (June 18). Actually, I do have a goated account. Patience and consistency is key. Lots of meta characters and really versatile ones from extremely low pity alone. Lily, Diting, Holden, to name a few. Ironically… I’ve only ever wanted one character and after 430+ pulls so far, and still no Heinrich? Yeah, alright. Granger doesn’t want to come home.
♡ A/N #4 (June 18). The fact I made both Granger and Heinrich both low-key green flag yanderes, ahaha. ha ha ha. might ruin it idk. u know me. no plans, just vibes. hm… maybe Heinrich more red flag than Granger though, idk, in terms of how I write them. anyways. back to red / black flags.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. Thank you.
General TAG LIST of “Forbidden Fruits”: @uniquecutie-puffs , @belovedoftheanemoarchon , @mokingbrd78k , @mimitk , @xileonaaaa , @purple-obsidian , @waterfal-ling , @jjune-07 , @jsprien213 , @crimson-kisses , @songbirdgardensworld , @tnsophiaayaonly , @starxvs , @iris-arcadia , @misscaller06 , @neuvilletteswife4ever , @takeyomikamakura , @alisteraille , @deanswifeyy
❤︎ 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 [you are here]. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.
♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I’d Burn the World.
♡ Book 4. 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 