Story Idea:
Another yandere isekai fanfic
CW: hurt/comfort, angst, body horror, body disfiguration, torture, starvation, murder, death.
Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3
Picture this.
You wake up in your favorite game. You don’t know how but somehow you did…
Amazing! You’ve ALWAYS dreamt of being in one of those isekai stories you’ve lost sleep reading night after night without fail! You’ll make sure to not squander this chance and get as close as you could to your favorite character without being suspicious!
So you….. go ahead and do that.
And make the terrible mistake of pretending to be hurt, ending up on the doorsteps to your favorite character’s home. At first — you were ecstatic! spending days to literal months at his manor getting to……. ‘know’ him. Enjoying nightly suppers and evening walks with him by your side. He thinks of you as weird and peculiar while you thought of it as a growing romance, dreaming about ‘candlelit dinners’ where he professes his love for you.
Because there was no electricity yet.
All you wanted was to be close to him, your favorite character— from the very game you’ve played for months and years on end. Saving up to pull for his character banner without fail everytime he shows up in the gacha, spending whatever money you had left to purchase HIS limited skins because you love him that much!
but then….
You end up slipping,
You say too much, information you wouldn’t and should not know and now?
You’re in his basement. Beaten and tied up in a creaky chair, with nothing but the tattered clothes on your back and a dingy little light hanging above to keep you company. Wounds littered your body, some still bleeding and your eye hurts, you can still remember the feeling of his fingers digging in.
Tortured for days, you sit there, secured with chains. There’s no windows so you don’t know how long you’ve been down here. But you’re hungry, he seldom feeds you, only coming down to cause more pain. You beg for water and he grants it by feeding you a boiling cup of it.
You can’t tasted much anymore because of that.
Begging for mercy but he doesn’t listen. You’re in pain, so much pain, body aching from all the hurt he’s caused.
Please stop.
To you, he’s your favorite character, someone you admire, you learn to care for, love with all your heart, and….. hopefully wish to be with.
To him, you’re a stranger, a stranger that knows too much, a stranger that sees him as nothing but code and fiction, where all his experiences, all his pain and hurt. The trauma he’s had to witness, the past that made him who he was….
Was nothing but entertainment for you.
The thought leaves a bitter taste on his tongue.
He leaves you out to die with a gift,
And what better gift than to remove the very thing that started it all? Cutting off your tongue brought him satisfaction, a deed to make sure you don’t spill anything to anyone, he could kill you but you’ll die out there and he’ll feel better knowing you will die a painful and wretchedly awful death.
It’s what creatures like you deserve.
You run off into the deepest parts of the nearby woods. Up into the mountains where snow falls all year round, you know this place, having been here multiple times for daily quests and picture - taking. It was beautiful then but the biting cold does nothing but make you hate it all the more.
You find an abandoned hut, it’s somehow furnished, cozy and you decided—fuck it you’ll live here, i mean, where else can you go? He’s known everywhere. Any town will send you to hang in the gallows if you dare speak— not that you could anymore.
Dressing your wounds as best you can, the ice helps to stop the bleeding, Relief and surprise is all you feel everyday you wake up still alive, infection barely seeping into your wounds.
Was it mercy from whoever brought you here?
You don’t know.
————
It’s been 2 years and you learn to forage, picking up familiar plants you know are edible and exploring collection spots you remember from your days simply gaming.
Oh how simple it was then.
Learning to trap small critters and skinning them to make cloth comes naturally to you, sometimes you wonder who’s body is it you’re controlling. Yet the reflection you see is yours—no one else.
It’s easy to avoid the monsters when you time it right. It’s suppose to be peaceful, a life that’s quiet. You don’t know how to get back but you’re fine living here.
Then…
He appears in front of your doorstep.
It’s almost laughable, the irony,
But unlike you, he’s actually injured. Unconscious. Wounded, battered.
Like how he left you.
Probably bit off more than he can chew when he fought his enemies on these mountains you remember, Heart and Head fight each other, your body still aches. Looking down onto his blood that splattered when he fell and continue to bleed into the ground.
You grit your teeth….
And bring in him.
You nurse him back to health to the best of your abilities, checking on him day after day, sleeping next to him on the floor while he bled all over your little cot you call a bed. He wakes, but he doesn’t recognize you. You keep yourself covered, hoods and unkempt hair does the trick.
He tries to thank you but you urge him to leave, a lack of a tongue makes it difficult to say what you really want which is ‘Get the fuck away from me’ but he eventually does. You wish it was the last you’ll see of him but alas….
He comes back, this time bearing gifts, money, food, fabric but you refused everything, almost slamming the door in his face, telling him no again and again as best you could without a tongue.
A threat to your life but he doesn’t know that.
He doesn’t recognize you, a cloak almost permanently stiched to your body, effectively hiding your appearance from him, a mask you’ve fashioned out of animal skin that stays on the lower part of your face, never making eye contact.
To him, you were a lonely, broken soul. Left to fend for themselves all alone in the mountains, no family, no friends, an eye bandaged because you can barely see with it after he tried gouging it out, the other one thankfully still works— missing fingers on both hands. It was no doubt that you were crippled, walking around with a limp because your left foot never healed correctly. Using a stick to support your weight when it got too cold. It warmed his heart to know people like you still existed….
But of course that was before he knew of who you really are.
Following you to the river to leave you high-quality soaps, he accidentally saw you undressed, and with it—your identity. At first he was ashamed, then disgusted, and finally enraged. He recognized those wounds.
He caused them.
The deep anger he feels coursing through his veins that you managed to fool him twice with your ‘supposed’ kindness has him going back to the hut you’ve made your home to ambush you there. Walking back unknowingly to your death. Tackling you at your doorstep and ripping off your hood— showing your hair and features, he seethes curses at you and sneers at your feeble attempts to escape him.
Insults leaves his lips, ones he’s never uttered before, would never use because he was raised better, because he wasn’t the type to do so. Terrible words you wouldn’t expect to leave your favorite character's mouth…
Yet here you are.
With his final words wishing you would burn in hell, he stabs you in the face. It’s almost peaceful that you instantly die but he wasn’t satisfied, the dagger he holds—a family heirloom, plunges into your face multiple times long after your death, skull almost breaking apart from the sheer force of his strength.
It’s quiet.
Nothing but the sounds of the howling winds billowing through the poorly covered windows. The makeshift door still wide open. A sigh of relief leaves him, somehow your death brings him peace—like something has finally gone right.
He looks down at the corpse beneath him in disgust, immediately getting off. He rushes home to clean himself of the filth, leaving your body there to rot, laying uncaringly in those barren mountains, unknown to the world.
Just the way he would like it.
Yet….
Why is it—
It’s been months later—but here is he, plagued with nightmares of you. Why? The memories of your fear-filled face from the moment he mercilessly sliced off your tongue to the final moments of your life where he caved your skull in with that Dagger. The same dagger on his desk that he cleaned off with mirth— Mere hours after your death, satisfied. Memories of your time together in the snowy alps when he didn’t know it was you raced through his head every waking moment. No matter how much he tried to turn off his thoughts.
He resorted to drinking it away, night after night, locking himself inside his bedroom where no-one in the manor would notice, not his family, nor the maids. Drinking himself into a stupor until he can’t anymore and passing out only to repeat it again the very next day.
Why was he doing this?
What’s happening to him?
Did he….feel guilty? For what he did to you?
Impossible! You deserved it! Every waking moment of your life from when he met you that was spent in torture was well-deserved! You caused all his hurt, the decisions you made when playing his route that led to him experiencing every god awful memory that made him who he was!
Right?
He didn’t know anymore…..all he could recall was that you never took advantage of him, from the day you ‘met’ him, you never once used your knowledge of him for your own benefit. All he knows, you could’ve blackmailed him, threaten him—anything!
And yet you didn’t…
All you did was enjoy your time with him—whatever you could get, even time after when you were but a shell of your former self….you still cared.
After realizing this, he ends up sobbing and bawling all over his sheets, hours upon hours spent just sobbing until he finally plucks the courage to leave his room by escaping through his bedroom window—to avoid anyone’s questions. Never minding it was on the second-floor, He ran non-stop.
With only one place in mind.
Finally arriving at his destination, he stopped to take a breath, in front of him was your hut, The little home you made yours, what little semblance of safety you had left—until he took everything away from you. The second time.
The cold biting air of the snowy mountains feels like nothing compared to the feeling in his chest, taking slow steps forward, each feels like a heavy weight added to his back with each foot placed onward. He was afraid—-
But of what?
The entryway was snowed in, blocking his path but his abilities made quick work of it, revealing a cracked, moldy and deteriorated wooden door, shaky fingers reach out to push it open. He didn’t know what to expect.
But there you still were. Body left on the ground where he brutally murdered you. Falling to his knees almost immediately, mournful sobs racked through his body, but his eyes refuse to close, choosing to look at the macabre display he had made of you —only to never be found.
Using whatever strength he had left to crawl towards you, hands shaking as he reaches out to touch you—cold, god you were so cold. What was he even expecting? Face cracked open, body stiff and limp, the extreme weather an advantage as it kept your body preserved well after death, not a single maggot to be seen on your still corpse.
He doesn’t know if that made him feel better or worse.
It’s like he can almost see it—right there, on your lips, a sweet serene smile, if as you were happy. Not regretting a single thing. Maybe…. glad he was the one to kill you. To finish the job. An uncharacteristic scream echoes throughout the room and it took him a second to realize that it came from him.
Gently scooping you into his arms, he sobs into your no longer beating chest, begging for forgiveness, to come back, to hurt him, punish him—anything! He cries and wails for you like a child for hours into the white void until he couldn’t anymore, until all he could do was carry your dead body to the corner, to the small pathetic cot you called a bed—the one he laid in for days while you helped him back to health. He holds you there, throughout the snowstorms he held you. Whispering words of sorrow and agony, uselessly using whatever power he had to warm your cold body up—as thought it might magically bring you back.
As if the wailing, the screaming, the begging and whatnot could bring you back and mend the broken pieces of your face together. But nevertheless..
Lifeless you stay.
For he was the one to end it.
The one who left you there for months….
To rot.
—
Ever since that day, he started spending more time in your little space than anywhere else, still continuing his duties as normal, his nightly job of beating down criminals was met with even more ferocity—finding no remorse in slicing down actually bad people. A sick thought crosses his mind where you would be….proud of him for killing them. He would still visit his manor from time to time. To avoid the questions, continue to do his work in the towns and cities as the master on his house, still refusing the countless marriage proposals littering his desk. Ignoring the questions concerned for his behavior, they say he looked out of it but he feels fine—even his most closest companion asked if he was okay but he told them all with a warm smile;
That everything was fine and there was nothing to worry about. A man known to all to be cold and closed off—smiled at them. It unsettled them all—It was weird, but he didn’t care, let them think what they wanted. There are rumors going around that he has fallen in….. love, but they’ve seen neither hair nor tail of this supposed ‘lover’.
With time he had come to think of your home as his, taking care of it and sweeping away the accumulating snow and dust but he never dared to move the possessions or add to the home.
He liked it as is, didn’t want to disturb them in any case you wouldn’t like it. Everyday—like clockwork, he would sweep the floor and cook his meals in a little pot and bonfire you had prepared in the middle of the room, sleeping in the little cot in the corner. Water the plants that surprisingly survived the harsh climate. Everyday he would find something to fix, whether it was a crack in the walls or a hole in the floorboards he would patch it up, in delusional hope that you would come back happy to see that your home was well taken care of.
But his most favorite part of the day?
Was at night when he wasn’t doing his nightly duties of finding criminals to bring to their knees, gently caressing the little possessions you owned, little knick knacks here and there, kissing the books he knows your sweet and soft hands touched, he knows they were soft, remembering the feel of them when you tended to him while he was weak and vulnerable. He sees a figurine you carved from your time still alive, he watched your hands—when you thought he was asleep. Pretty fingers that though inexperienced, carve away into a piece of wood to create a familiar animal that he realizes is his favorite. It squeezes at his heart the first time he saw it, dusting at the shelves. He broke down crying, this session long and tiring. Only stopping when the blinding sun switched into the calm crescent moon.
And your body? The one he spent 3 whole weeks holding and caressing? Offering empty apologies and promises that couldn’t be fulfilled because you will not come back. Never he thinks.
After mourning you enough, he brings your body to a bright field full of flowers in every color—a place he remembered you telling him was your favorite spot.
In the dead of night, he dug your grave all by himself, buried you before covering it the prettiest flowers he can find. Coming back every 3 days without fail to replace the flowers, and then planting more seeds, Rare ones, ones with the prettiest blooms—to decorate your grave.
All for you.
It’s been a year and a half of this—from when he…killed you. He found himself feeling happier than ever, it was so strange he thinks. From hating a person’s entire existence enough to torture them for days on end—to crying to them for repentance after realizing all the wrong he did.
He didn’t even think falling in love was something he could do, much less with a dead body. It wasn’t an emotion he thought of. Too busy taking care of the people of his manor and the criminals that littered the streets of his home.
Never mind pursuing love or potential marriage, a feat even the locals thought impossible—usually because how he, a young, successful and handsome bachelor often shies away from the opposite populace, rarely gracing the public gatherings with his presence.
Yet now….all he thinks about is you, awake or sleeping you’re all he sees, and now he finds a small pile of bedsheets and blankets, something you either made yourself or found within the home he doesn’t care, what does is that they smell like you. pressing them to his nose, he breathes in the scent that is you.
Laying them down onto the cot, he presses his face down into it, breathing in until his ribs show.
His cock swells with desire.
You smelt so good—addicting, and before he knew it, there he was. Stroking his cock to your smell, rubbing his face here and there as though trying to cover himself in it. Imaginging you on this very bed, sleeping.
He whimpers—shit..ahn….!….he’s gonna cum…!
Creak..
He snaps towards the door, the door slowly opens and in the doorway was a perosn he didn’t think he’d see again.
You.
Part 2??
