# pairings: yandere alien x reader
# synopsis: a weird alien comes to town but no one seems to mind. no matter what they absolutely no one minds. it’s like your the only one with common sense around here.
# warnings: this will contain dark themes such as obsession, possessiveness, and murder. if you are uncomfortable, please block me. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI.
# notes: reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated!
morgan arrived in town on a fog-choked evening, dressed in a black coat too thick for the season, their accent lilting and strange.
"french?" people whispered.
they spoke softly, moved elegantly, but something about them was off. their fingers lingered too long when they touched your hand. their eyes—too large, too dark—blinked too slow. but they were charming, hypnotic even. especially to you.
you never expected your life to go this way. one moment, you’re reading in your favorite bookstore, the next, morgan’s standing there like a weird french poet who didn’t quite read the “how to blend in with humans” manual.
“do you like baudelaire?” they ask randomly, like they just stepped out of a noir film, but their accent? definitely not french. probably not even earth.
you glance at them, considering the question. "he's cool, i like how his poems have a dark tone to them."
morgan grins. “darkness is the soul’s best friend.”
you’re pretty sure that’s not even a real quote. but hey, who’s judging? “right, right, darkness. got it. are you going through an emo phase. what the hell are you even talking about?"
talking with morgan makes you feel like you're trapped in some weird, alternate universe where nothing makes sense. it’s not just their bizarre behavior—it’s their presence. every time they speak, it feels like you’re being serenaded by an ancient, invisible force, like their voice is somehow filling the entire street with a weird, unspoken promise of things you don’t fully understand. honestly, you're too tired to be freaked out anymore. it’s late, you’re exhausted, and at this point, you’re just going along with it.
morgan stops suddenly, looking at you with those unnervingly large eyes. “can i walk you home?” they ask, their voice low and velvety, carrying a strange weight. it’s not the kind of question you expect from a random person you met in a bookstore. it’s more like the sort of offer someone makes when they already know where you live—and you’ve been unknowingly on their radar for much longer than you care to admit.
you blink, trying to shake off the feeling of impending doom. “sure, morgan. whatever. at this point, why not?” you say, though you’re already questioning your life choices. it’s not like you have a good reason to say no. you’ve heard worse offers in your life, and right now, morgan seems harmless enough. at least, that's what you keep telling yourself as they fall into step beside you, their odd, rhythmic gait making you wonder if they're in some kind of otherworldly trance. but hey, it’s just a walk home, right?
you’re convinced morgan’s going to do something absurd, like pop out a balloon animal out of nowhere. it's not that you think they’re really going to do it, but there's this weird vibe about them. they're dressed all dramatically, walking with way too much confidence, like they're auditioning for a role in a bad sci-fi film. every little gesture seems like it’s building up to some sort of grand reveal. you half expect them to pull a balloon out of their pocket and start twisting it into the shape of a dog, or maybe a giraffe, just to break the tension. but no, they just keep walking, looking completely serious about it.
you glance around at the other people on the street, who’re giving morgan that “what’s up with them?” look. maybe it’s the weird non-french accent, maybe it’s the fact that morgan looks like they stepped out of a supernatural horror movie. honestly, it’s probably both. you don’t know, but you’re starting to feel like you’re in a scene from a bad indie film, and you really wish you weren’t involved
as the days pass, weird things start happening. people vanish. a neighbor. a guy you met at the coffee shop. your cousin’s dog. no one seems to remember them, and you start to think, “okay, is this the part where i realize morgan’s a serial killer, or is this just alien abduction stuff?”
one night, you're jolted awake by a tapping on your window. it’s morgan, staring at you from the dark like they’re a vampire trying to get an invite inside. you sigh. “morgan, it’s 2 AM. i really need sleep.”
“i was drawn to you,” they say in that strange, hypnotic voice, stepping through the window like it’s a normal tuesday. “your soul… it sings.”
you blink. “so, you’re saying my soul is a musical? great. what’s the soundtrack? is it jazz?”
morgan tilts their head, clearly not getting the joke. “no, it’s more like… horrorcore rap.”
“ah,” you say, feeling oddly proud. “classy.”
then morgan does something truly weird. they hover in the middle of the room, skin shimmering like a bad 90s special effect. “i can’t stay away from you. your soul is mine now.”
you look at the weird shimmering creature. "is this what love is? because i gotta say, the whole 'hovering and glowing' thing? not exactly my vibe."
morgan grins, showing way too many teeth. “you’ll learn to love it.”
you back up. “i mean, i’m flattered, really. but could you take me out on coffee date first? you know, before the whole ‘taking over my soul’ thing?”
morgan looks confused, like they've never heard of a 'first date' before. “i don’t drink coffee.”
“oh,” you say, staring at their otherworldly figure. “so, we’re just skipping straight to the creepy alien stuff, huh? alright, cool.”
morgan has some very odd abilities, ones that should probably be a red flag, but honestly? you’re too tired to care at this point. when you mention them to anyone, they just shrug it off with some bizarre excuse that makes zero sense.
like the first time morgan disappears. one moment they’re standing next to you, the next, poof, gone. vanished. you’re standing in the middle of the street, blinking like you’ve just been hit by a low-budget magic trick.
you tell your friend jack about it the next day. “so, morgan… like, just vanished. like, completely disappeared. no trace.”
jack squints. “oh, yeah, they probably just walked behind one of those trees over there. you know, the ones that are definitely known for their, uh, time-bending properties.”
“time-bending properties? those trees?”
“yeah, didn’t you know? it's a thing. happens all the time around here. those trees… they’re ancient. very ancient.”
you stare at him for a good five seconds. “jack, there’s no way those trees are bending time. i think we’re dealing with an alien here.”
“nah, nah,” jack says, waving it off, “totally just the trees. trust me. my uncle once got stuck in a tree’s shade for six hours. time’s weird around here, man.”
you can’t even argue with that.
and then there's the time morgan made their eyes glow—glow, like some kind of radioactive glow-in-the-dark toy—and you're like, okay, this is definitely alien behavior. they tell you it’s because they’re feeling particularly passionate about whatever you’re talking about, but you’re not sure that explains the purple, pulsating light coming from their pupils.
so you go to the local bar and mention it to susan, the bartender. “morgan’s eyes were glowing. like… glowing. purple. i don’t think that’s normal.”
susan doesn’t even look up from her phone. “oh, sure, that's normal. you didn’t know? that happens when someone’s been, like, over-caffeinated. too much espresso. you get this weird glow in your eyes. totally a thing, happens to me all the time. probably nothing.”
“over-caffeinated? no. i’ve seen them drink like a gallon of water, and their eyes still looked like neon signs.”
“eh,” she shrugs, “people just have different reactions to caffeine. some people get shaky, some people turn into radioactive glow sticks.”
and when morgan does this thing where they lift off the ground—like, actually float, feet hovering a few inches above the floor—you don't even tell anyone anymore. what's the point? last time you did, your coworker brad, with all the seriousness in his voice, said, "well, yeah, everyone knows it’s the air pressure around here. it’s a thing. you’re floating, but in a way that makes it seem like you're floating. it’s hard to explain."
"oh. okay," you said. “right, brad, that makes perfect sense.”
and then there's that time when morgan just... opened a rift in space in front of you, like a glowing crack in the air, and you almost saw a different galaxy through it. it was kind of breathtaking, if you didn’t immediately pass out from sheer horror.
you tell your mom about it. “morgan... morgan opened a rift in the air. there was like... another world on the other side. it was so real.”
your mom, always the calm one, takes a long sip of her tea. “oh, sweetheart, that's just a trick of the light. you probably just ate something funny. remember when you thought the toaster was talking to you last year?”
“that was a different incident, mom.”
“sure, sure,” she says, patting you on the back like she’s comforting a child. “but listen, if morgan’s really an alien, why don’t you just invite them over for dinner? we’ll show them how we do things here. very normal, very human stuff.”
you stare at her. “you want me to invite an alien who can warp reality to dinner.”
“well, i’m sure they’d like mashed potatoes.”
you were sitting in a local café with morgan. you know, the one everyone talks about as “the place to be” because the coffee is terrible but the pastries are somehow life-changing. it’s also the place where everyone seems to know everyone else's business, so when morgan walks in, with their strange aura and unsettlingly calm demeanor, the entire room goes silent for a moment.
you brace yourself for the inevitable. morgan’s going to do something weird, you can feel it.
they glance around the café and then lean in to whisper to you in that almost-too-soft voice. “this place smells... like... oppression.”
“oppression. yes. the coffee beans are... shackled,” morgan says, their hand dramatically swiping through the air, like they’re conducting an orchestra.
you don’t even have the energy to respond. instead, you just sip your coffee and hope no one heard.
but, of course, they did. because the whole café has now gone quiet again, eyes glued to morgan. you're beginning to feel like you're in an art installation rather than a simple café visit. but then, without missing a beat, one of the regulars, todd (a guy who wears plaid shirts like they're a uniform), clears his throat and leans over to his friend.
“ah, it’s just the french thing, you know,” todd says, grinning and nodding knowingly. “they’re, uh, very in tune with the spirit of the place, right? super artistic.”
the friend, kelly, nods sagely, not even bothering to question why morgan’s hands are floating a few inches above the table. “yeah, totally. french people—so deep, right? it’s the whole... je ne sais quoi thing.”
you turn to morgan, who’s now staring at the sugar packets with the intensity of a psychic reading tea leaves. "you know, i think they're trying to feel the sugar’s essence," you say dryly, to no one in particular.
“oh, yes,” morgan replies, their voice dripping with theatrical gravitas. “sugar... must be free. unshackled.”
you stare. this is not how you imagined your afternoon would go.
someone else in the café—a woman with a nose ring and an overabundance of scarves—suddenly chimes in, offering the most unnecessary of explanations. “oh, don’t mind them,” she says with a laugh, waving her hand like it’s all perfectly normal. “they’re just being french. you know, that’s how they show they’re thinking deeply. it’s all a performance, really. totally avant-garde.”
morgan tilts their head, looking perplexed for a second before responding with a long, deliberate sigh. “it is not a performance. it is an awakening.”
“oh, right, right,” todd says, not missing a beat, “an awakening. yeah, that’s... super french.”
you give up. you really do. “morgan, are we... really going with this?"
but morgan just smiles and nods like this entire café is part of some grand cosmic plan. "yes. we shall all awaken."
“see?” todd says to his friend, tapping his temple. “awakening. they get it.”
the woman with the scarves chimes in again, her tone unbothered. “honestly, it’s just the french thing. i met this guy once who said the same thing about, like, a sandwich. called it ‘a metaphor for existential despair.’” she shrugs. “very french.”
“exactly,” says kelly. “don’t worry about it. it’s just... art.”
you glance at morgan, who is now staring at a croissant as though it holds the secrets of the universe. you wonder if anyone here even realizes how bizarre this is, or if they’ve all collectively decided that anything strange is just part of the charm.
“do you actually... eat?” you ask morgan, suddenly concerned they’re about to start chanting at the food.
“i consume... ideas,” they reply, taking a delicate sip of their coffee, which, honestly, looks like it’s made of existential dread. “the essence of being.”
the regulars? nodding. everyone is nodding like this is perfectly normal behavior. you start to think that maybe you’re the crazy one for questioning it.
“ahh, yes," todd sighs with satisfaction, "that’s definitely french."
you’re sitting in the café, trying to hold it together, but it's getting harder. morgan has been doing weird stuff this whole time, and everyone keeps making excuses for it. everyone. you start wondering if you’re the only one who can see how off they are. maybe you’re the one who's losing it.
the last straw? well, it happens as morgan calmly stands up, walks to the counter, and starts... gently caressing the espresso machine.
“what—what is happening?” you whisper to yourself, barely able to keep your voice from cracking. you look around. nobody seems to notice. the barista just gives morgan a polite smile. “hello! can i get you something?”
morgan doesn’t even respond. instead, they keep gently caressing the espresso machine like it's some ancient, sacred artifact.
“are you kidding me!” you want to scream, but you don’t. you’re frozen, your eyes glued to the sight in front of you. you look at the other people in the café, trying to gauge if they’re seeing what you're seeing.
there’s todd, sipping his coffee, completely unfazed. kelly’s typing something on her phone with one hand, casually flicking her scarf around with the other. no one seems to care.
“morgan,” you finally say, forcing the words out between clenched teeth, “are you—are you petting the espresso machine?”
“yes,” they say in a tone that’s so serene it’s almost alarming, “it is speaking to me.”
“IT’S SPEAKING TO YOU?!” you nearly shout, completely losing it. “IT’S A COFFEE MACHINE. IT DOESN’T TALK. WHY IS NO ONE ELSE QUESTIONING THIS”
kelly looks up from her phone, totally unbothered. “oh, don’t mind them,” she says, as if this kind of behavior happens all the time. “they’re just french. you know how it is. very... artsy.”
“artsy?” you repeat, voice cracking. “they’re petting a coffee machine like it’s a puppy! and you’re sitting here telling me it’s artsy?”
“yeah, totally,” todd says, looking over at you like you’re the one who’s out of place. “it’s like, they’re probably just feeling the energy of the coffee, right? the espresso machine’s got vibes, man.”
VIBES? you can feel your sanity slipping, one comment at a time.
morgan, still caressing the espresso machine, looks over at you with an eerie smile. “the machine’s energy... it is vast. timeless.” they turn back to the espresso machine like they’re in some kind of ritualistic trance. “it will grant me... the knowledge of the perfect coffee.”
and everyone? they just nod. like this is perfectly normal. like you’ve walked into some kind of strange art house film where the actors are pretending to be normal, but everyone’s so deep that you can’t figure out if you’re on the set of an alien invasion movie or a bad dream.
at this point, you can’t take it anymore. you stand up, shaking, trying to maintain your composure. “this is not normal. this is insane! i’m losing it here, and you’re all just sitting there like—like nothing’s happening!”
todd shrugs. “nah, it’s just the french thing, man. don’t worry about it.”
“i swear to god,” you mutter, “if you say french one more time...”
“very french,” kelly adds, with a smug smile. “you’ll get used to it.”
you look at morgan, who’s now humming softly to the espresso machine, eyes closed. you can feel your brain slowly unraveling as the room starts to blur. it’s all slipping away. everyone here is pretending like this is totally fine. you’re the only one who’s actually losing it.
“okay,” you say, putting your hands on your temples, “okay, fine. it’s fine. i’m fine. i’m losing my mind, but i’m fine.”
morgan looks up from their sacred ritual and smiles at you, serene as ever. “it’s okay. you’re awakening to the truth.”
and that’s it. that’s where it breaks. you start to laugh. it’s a crazy, manic laugh, but it’s all you can do. you can’t stop it. you’re losing it.
todd raises an eyebrow, but still, he just shrugs. “yep, definitely french.”
after that, you decided you needed to get drunk. you couldn't deal with this shit anymore. and of course, morgan decided to follow you.
currently, you’re at the bar, sipping on your drink, trying to avoid making eye contact with the guy across from you. he’s been glancing at you every few seconds like he's in a slow-motion romantic comedy, and you’re starting to feel weird about it. morgan’s sitting next to you, but they’ve been unusually quiet, staring at the guy with an intensity that’s definitely not normal.
“i swear, if he looks at you one more time, i’m gonna have to do something,” morgan mutters under their breath. you barely hear it over the background chatter, but the way they say it makes you pause.
“what?” you ask, half thinking it’s a joke.
“you don’t understand,” morgan says, their tone dead serious. “he’s been staring at you—that’s my person. and no one gets to look at my person like that.”
you shrug, rolling your eyes. “he’s just being friendly. it’s harmless.”
morgan doesn’t respond, just continues to stare at the guy like he’s the villain in their favorite horror movie. you don’t know if it’s because of the drink you had earlier or if something’s genuinely wrong, but the tension in the air is getting thicker by the second.
before you can even process what’s happening, morgan stands up and starts walking toward the guy. “morgan, what the hell are you—”
you don’t get to finish the sentence. morgan’s already standing in front of the guy, who’s still laughing with his friends, completely oblivious. there’s a moment of eerie silence, and you can see the poor guy’s smile falter as he realizes that morgan’s been standing there for a little too long.
“you’ve been staring at my person,” morgan says, their voice so calm that it shouldn’t be possible. “you think that’s acceptable?”
the guy blinks, obviously confused. “uh, what?”
“you’ve been staring at them. that’s mine,” morgan adds, tilting their head like they’re explaining the most basic concept in the world. “you don’t just get to look. not unless you want to join the club.”
the guy laughs nervously, thinking morgan’s joking. “uh, okay, dude. chill out.”
and then morgan grabs him by the throat. like, with no warning, no hesitation, just a firm, iron grip. the guy’s eyes bulge, his hands flailing, and he’s sputtering in a way that seems a little more... desperate than playful.
you stand up from your stool, but something’s wrong. morgan’s eyes are locked on the guy, and there’s an eerie stillness in the air. you’re starting to wonder if you’ve been stupidly underestimating morgan this whole time.
“morgan,” you say, trying to get their attention. “what are you doing?”
morgan doesn’t answer. instead, they look at you, still holding the guy up by his throat like he weighs nothing. “this is for you,” they say, voice sickeningly sweet, like they're gifting you a bouquet of dead roses. “he thought he could take you from me. but... no one takes my person.”
you start to speak, but morgan doesn’t even wait for your response. they twist the guy’s neck, a sound you can’t describe, not with words, just... a crack. he slumps to the ground.
you blink, trying to process what just happened, but before you can, morgan turns back to you, flashing a smile that’s so casual, it’s like they just helped you with your groceries. “that was for you,” they say, like they’re explaining how to make toast. “he didn’t understand the rules.”
the guy’s body is still twitching on the floor, but morgan just brushes their hands together, like they’re cleaning off some dust. “he was staring at you. my person. you don’t do that, right?”
you stare at morgan, utterly stunned. “did you just kill him? for looking at me? what the hell, morgan?!”
“what? it’s not that big of a deal,” morgan says, as if they’ve just told a joke. “besides, he was a total idiot. you saw the way he was looking at you. i mean, seriously—who stares at someone like that?”
you just stand there, blinking, trying to wrap your head around the fact that there’s now a dead body at your feet and morgan’s acting like they just set down a cup of coffee.
then, as if on cue, a random guy at the bar looks over, his eyes wide. “uh, is... is everything okay over there?”
morgan doesn’t miss a beat. “yeah, it’s just... you know, french stuff. we’re passionate. it’s complicated.”
the guy nods, like he’s just learned the most logical explanation in the world. “ah, yeah, of course. makes sense.”
you glance around. no one seems to care. no one’s even acknowledging the body. the bartender's wiping down the counter, like it's another tuesday. and the guy who was just staring at you? he’s being entirely ignored, like it’s all perfectly normal.
you take a deep breath. “this isn’t okay, morgan. this is beyond weird. this is insane.”
morgan smiles, their voice dripping with sweetness. “but i did it for you. don’t you see? I love you. i’d do anything to keep you safe.”
you stare at morgan, slowly realizing that there’s no escaping this. you are their world now. and they’ll kill anyone who threatens that.
“and that,” morgan continues, “is just how things work. we’re together now. no one else gets to look. no one else gets to want.”
you try to take a step back, but then you hear the bartender casually say to the guy next to him, “yeah, you know how it is with the french, right? gotta love that intensity.”
you roll your eyes. oh. yeah. of course.
