YANDERE DOTTORE (SOULMATE AU) Early stages of obsession.
Warnings: This story explores darker themes, including obsessive attachment, psychological control, and societal rejection of individuals without soulmate.
In the world of Teyvat, love is not chosen, it is revealed. At fifteen, every person receives a soulmate mark, a sign of perfect belonging. Those without one are not envied. They are avoided. Unmarked individuals are believed to bring misfortune, instability, and quiet ruin to those around them. Society does not need to punish them. It simply stops acknowledging them. At twenty-one, you are still unmarked. And in a place where absence is treated like a disease, even survival becomes something conditional.
People talk like it’s something soft.
Like it’s something kind.
You sit behind your friend, Emma, fingers already moving before you really think about it—parting, smoothing, dividing her hair into three even strands. It’s easier when your hands are busy. Easier not to think.
“I didn’t even see his face at first,” Emma says, hugging her knees, smiling into nothing. “I just felt it. Like—like something clicked.”
“Same,” Anastasia, your other friend laughs quietly. “It was warm. Not scary at all.”
Warm.
Your fingers tighten slightly as you cross one strand over the other.
Left over middle. Right over middle.
“He knew my name,” Emma adds, softer now. “I never told him, but he said it like he’d been saying it forever.”
“That’s how it’s supposed to be, right?” Anastasia says. “Like you already belong to each other.”
Belong.
You pull the braid tighter.
Emma shifts. “Hey, gentler.”
“Sorry,” you say, but your hands don’t really listen.
They keep talking.
They always do.
About small things—how their hands brushed, how their marks appeared, how everything suddenly made sense. Their voices blur together after a while, soft and glowing and distant, like you’re listening from underwater.
You focus on the strands instead.
They don’t change. They don’t leave. They don’t fail to appear.
“You’re still… nothing?” Anastasia asks eventually.
You don’t look up.
"What do you think?” you answer, flat, continuing the braid.
A pause follows. Not long—but long enough.
“Maybe it’s just late,” Emma offers quickly. “It happens sometimes, right?”
“Yeah,” Anastasia agrees. “Some people just take longer.”
Take longer.
Right.
Twenty-one years.
Your fingers slow for just a second, then continue, more precise now. Tighter. Controlled.
“Or maybe—” Emma starts, then stops.Silence presses in.
“Maybe nothing,” she corrects quickly, laughing it off. “Forget I said anything.”
You tie off the braid.
Too tight.
Emma winces, reaching up instinctively. “Ow—”
“Sorry,” you repeat.
This time, you let go immediately.
You watch the braid settle against her back, neat and perfect and finished.
Unlike you.
Everything means something.
Especially what you don’t have.
You’ve learned that the hard way.
At eighteen, your parents stopped pretending not to notice. No shouting. No arguments worth remembering. Just a quiet decision made behind closed doors, followed by a bag left by the entrance and a door that didn’t open again for you after that.
No soulmate meant misfortune.
And misfortune spreads.That’s what people believe here.
You just learned to live inside it.
The Snezhnayan market is already awake when you arrive.
Steam rises from food stalls, voices overlap in practiced rhythm, and wrists—always wrists—are visible without effort. Marks curl across skin in different shapes, some faint and delicate, others dark and intricate, like signatures written directly into the body.
No one hides them.
There’s no reason to.
You keep yours covered anyway.
It doesn’t matter.
People notice.
They just don’t always show it.
A glance that lingers too long. A pause in conversation. A small, careful adjustment in distance as you pass.
Not cruelty.
Not openly.
Just correction.
Like you’re something slightly out of place in a system that otherwise works perfectly.
You stop at a bread stall.
The vendor greets the person before you easily, smiles, exchanges words, hands over food without hesitation. His sleeve shifts as he moves, revealing a mark around his wrist—clean, matched, certain.
When it’s your turn, the change is subtle but immediate.
“What do you need?” he asks.
“Bread,” you say.
Simple. Normal.
His eyes flick down—not to your face, but to your hands.
You don’t move.
The silence stretches just long enough to feel wrong.
“…your wrist,” he says after a moment.
Not demanding. Just expected.
You hesitate, then pull your sleeve back slightly.
Blank skin.
No mark.
No shape.
No answer.
The air shifts.
It’s almost unnoticeable unless you’re the one standing inside it.
“I can’t sell it to you,” he says.
You frown. “Why not?” He doesn’t look uncomfortable.
Just final.
“It’s not worth the risk.”
“Risk of what?”
He stops for a second, as if he doesn't want to be the one to say it.
“…misfortune,” he answers, like the word has already been decided for him long before you asked.
Around you, the market continues—but not around you, exactly. Around everything else. You can feel it in the spacing of people, the way movement avoids your position without ever directly acknowledging it.
You exhale slowly. “It’s just bread.”
“That’s not how it works.”
And that’s the end of it. He won’t look at you again.
You leave without buying anything. There’s no argument that changes a system people believe in.
Your chest feels tight as you stand there—not pain exactly, but something unfamiliar threading under your skin, faint but persistent, like pressure without direction.
You press your fingers briefly against your wrist.
Nothing. Still nothing. But the feeling sharpens anyway. Not randomly. Not scattered. Directed.
"You’re being corrected faster than expected.” The voice comes from beside you.
Close enough that you don’t need to turn to recognize it.
He doesn’t look at the people around you.He doesn’t need to.
They already know he’s there.
The change is immediate.
Movement slows. Conversations break off mid-sentence. Someone lowers their gaze too quickly. Another takes a step back without meaning to.
Fear doesn’t spread.
It just exists.
Already complete.
"I wasn’t aware she was—” the vendor starts from behind you, voice tight.
Dottore doesn’t look at him yet.
He tilts his head slightly. “You were aware enough to refuse service.”
Silence follows. Not empty. Pressurized.
“I… didn’t think—” the vendor tries again.
“Ah,” Dottore interrupts calmly.
“That explains it.”
The words are light. Almost polite. But something in them closes the conversation entirely.
He finally glances at the stalll.
Just briefly.
Not interested. Just confirming.
“Give it to her.”
The instruction is quiet. Unremarkable in tone. But it lands like something undeniable.
The vendor moves immediately. Too quickly.
Hands shaking slightly as bread is wrapped and pushed forward, eyes never meeting yours.
No one argues.
No one even breathes too loudly.
You take it slowly.
Nothing stops you this time.
The pressure in your chest eases the moment you hold it.
Not gone.
Just… reduced.
Enough that your breath steadies without permission. You notice it immediately. So does he.
“Interesting,” Dottore murmurs, almost to himself.
His gaze shifts to you properly now—not sharp, not soft, just precise. Like you’re a result that continues to confirm itself.
“Social rejection is consistent,” he says. “As expected.”
Then.
“However, proximity alters response efficiency.”
You don’t answer.
You can’t tell what would even be correct to say.
He steps slightly closer, and the relief returns again, subtle but undeniable, threading through the tightness in your chest like it belongs there more than the discomfort does.
You hate that your body reacts before your thoughts do.
He notices anyway.
Of course he does.
“Dependency is forming,” he says simple.
You tighten your grip on the bread.
Around you, the market continues carefully, like nothing important is happening, but nothing approaches either. Space bends around him without effort. People exist just far enough away to avoid becoming part of this moment.
You feel it clearly now.
Not just rejection anymore.
Separation.
And something that counters it.
He starts walking again.
You follow without deciding to.
And he doesn’t look back to check.
Because he already knows you will.
Requests are open! Please feel free to send some!