Yandere! Fan x Idol! Reader
⤷ TW: This story includes psychotic delusion, parasocial obsession, mental instability, stalking, forced isolation, codependency, possessiveness, may be distressing to some readers. Yandere behavior and any form of violence or abuse against women are not condoned in real life.
Elian’s brain didn't work right when you weren't singing.
To him, it was like a radio station that had been cut from the frequency, filled with nothing but a loud, static screeching that hurt the inside of his skull until his ears bled. The doctors when he was a teenager used to give him little white pills to make the noise stop, but they didn't understand. The pills only made your voice sound muddy in his head. So he flushed them down the drain. He didn't need medicine. He only needed his beautiful, perfect idol.
He was nine years old when your agency dropped your debut teaser online. You were standing under a bright, gold spotlight, wearing a white dress that made you look like a holy angel sent down to cure him. The moment you opened your mouth to sing that first, fragile note, the static in his brain stopped. Completely. The world became quiet, and soft, and beautifully pink. He knew, with absolute mathematical certainty, that his body was built purely to consume you.
For twelve years, Elian had been your perfect shadow. While the other fans left comments demanding your albums or bought cheap plastic lightsticks, he was doing the real work. He had a hard drive containing every single piece of audio you have ever recorded, filtered to isolate the exact, rhythmic wetness of your tongue clicking against your teeth between verses. He built a replica of your dressing room in the basement of his house, using the exact same brand of mirrors, the same lightbulbs, and the same velvet chairs. He even bought the exact brand of laundry detergent your management company uses for your stage costumes, washing his sheets in it every single day so he could sleep inside your scent.
If he didn't see your face at least once every twenty-four hours, his lungs started to collapse. He literally could not draw oxygen. He was a machine, and you were the only current that kept him from breaking into pieces.
But tonight, the industry tried to break his machine.
During your world tour finale an hour ago, you stood on the massive stadium stage, your beautiful eyes swimming with exhausted, miserable tears. You held the microphone close to those trembling lips and announced your permanent retirement from the spotlight. You told the thousands of screaming idiots that the pressure had ruined your mind, that you were deeply depressed, and that you were vanishing from the public eye forever to live a normal, quiet life where no one would ever track you again.
You were crying. The world had bruised his angel. They had worn you down until you wanted to hide from the light. And more importantly... you were trying to stop singing. You were trying to turn off his electricity.
Elian's heart hammered so hard against his ribs he could feel the bone cracking. His hands shook with a frantic, feverish excitement as he watched you wave your final goodbye through his high-powered camera lens from the front row. He didn't scream like the others. He didn't cry. He just let out a soft, giggling murmur, adjusting the strap of his backstage pass—the pass he had spent three months cloning from a venue manager's digital file.
"You can't retire," he whispered to himself as he walked down the quiet, concrete corridors of the stadium's underground greenroom sector at 2:00 AM. "If you stop, I stop. My brain will rot. We can't have that, can we, my beautiful star?"
The heavy security doors were entirely unguarded after the crew left. The keycard he cloned slid into your private dressing room lock with a soft, mechanical beep. The latch clicked open, the sound echoing like music in his chest. He closed the heavy door behind him, sliding the security bolt into place. Click.
You were sitting in front of your vanity mirror, your head resting in your hands, your long hair falling forward over your shoulders. The heavy weight of the past twelve years felt like a physical anchor crushing your chest. You were so tired. Tired of the corporate handlers controlling your every breath, tired of the obsessive paparazzi, and tired of feeling like a hollow shell under the stadium lights. You had unzipped the top of your glittering stage gown, your bare shoulders pale and shivering under the fluorescent lights as a quiet sob finally slipped past your lips.
When you heard the lock turn behind you, your head snapped up. Your wide, terrified eyes locked onto his face through the mirror's reflection.
"Who... who are you?" your voice trembled, a ragged, exhausted gasp as you scrambled out of your chair, backing your spine flat against the wooden wardrobe. "The staff already left—how did you get in here? Get out or I'm calling security—"
"They won't hear you," he murmured softly, his voice incredibly low, sweet, and perfectly calm. He didn't move aggressively. He slowly dropped to his knees on the carpet a few feet away from you, keeping his hands entirely open and visible. He tilted his head, his eyes completely dilated as he drank in the sight of your skin in three dimensions. You were so much more delicate than the digital screen could ever capture.
He pulled a small, beautifully polished glass vial from his coat pocket, setting it gently on the carpet between you two.
"Elian..." you breathe, your eyes dropping to the vial, and then your face turns entirely white as your fingers freeze against the wardrobe. You recognize his voice. You recognize the specific, poetic rhythm of the handwritten letters he’s sent to your agency every single week since you were a child. "You're... the user from the official fan-board. The one who sends the lavender sweets."
"I am," Elian smiled, a wide, soft, completely unhinged expression breaking across his features as a single tear of pure, adoring relief slipped down his cheek. He crawled forward on his hands and knees, slowly, reverently, until he was resting right at the edge of your glittery stage heels. He reached out, his fingers shaking violently as he gently wrapped them around your ankles, anchoring you to the floor. His grip was an absolute, vice-like lock.
"Elian, please, you're scaring me, let go of me—"
"I saw you crying on the stage," he whispered, leaning his head against your knees, his frantic, hot breath ghosting through the thin fabric of your dress. The sheer proximity made his entire nervous system erupt into a heavy, intoxicating whiplash. "I’m sorry. I’m sorry I let the world make you feel lonely. But you don't have to be lonely anymore. I’ve already engineered our permanent duet."
He reached up with one hand, never letting go of your left ankle, and tapped the glass vial.
"It's a highly refined, painless neuromuscular paralytic," he murmured sweetly, his thumb obsessively rubbing the rapid, panicked thumping of the pulse point on your skin. "I put it in your water bottle twenty minutes ago before you walked off the stage. You've already swallowed it, my beautiful star. The absorption rate is exactly ninety-eight percent."
You stared down at him, your lips parting to scream, but only a quiet, hollow gasp escapes your throat. Your knees suddenly buckle, your motor functions dissolving into pure water as your body slumps forward. Elian caught you perfectly in his arms, pulling your limp, paralyzed frame tightly against his chest, burying his face into your neck.
"See? It's so quiet now," he giggled softly, his chest heaving as he inhaled the scent of your hair.
You couldn't move. You couldn't run. Your mind screamed in absolute, primal horror as he carried you out through the loading dock, slipping your unmoving body into the back of his van like a precious, delicate doll. The panic in your chest was blinding, a suffocating angst as you watched the stadium lights fade through the tinted glass. You were entirely at his mercy, trapped inside the quiet terror of your own frozen flesh.
But as the hours bled into the night, the paralyzing fog in your muscles slowly began to lift.
When you finally blinked your eyes open, the cold concrete of the stadium was gone. You were lying on an impossibly soft, plush bed covered in thick, velvet blankets that smelled overwhelmingly of your own favorite rosewater perfume. The room was dimly lit by a dozen glowing candles, casting a warm, amber light over the walls.
Beside the bed, Elian was sitting on a small stool. He had changed out of his dark coat and was now wearing an oversized, incredibly soft knitted cream sweater. He was holding a porcelain bowl of warm soup, blowing gently on the spoon with a look of pure, domestic concentration.
When he noticed you moving, his dark eyes lit up with a terrifyingly sweet, lovesick joy.
"You're awake," Elian whispered, his voice dropping into a low, comforting purr. He didn't grab you. He didn't lock you in chains. Instead, he carefully set the bowl down, leaned over the mattress, and gently tucked the heavy blanket right up to your chin, smoothing down your messy hair with a touch so reverent it made your skin crawl. "Don't try to sit up too fast, my angel. The medicine takes a little while to completely leave your system. I made you chicken broth. I made sure it wasn't too hot."
"Elian..." your voice came out as a weak, raspy whisper, your fingers twitching against the soft sheets as you desperately tried to map out an escape route. "Where... where am I? Let me go. Please."
"You're home," Elian murmured sweetly, a soft, completely innocent pout forming on his lips as he tilted his head, leaning down until his forehead was lightly resting against yours. He let out a soft, unstable giggle, his breath warm against your lips. "I bought this private cottage in the countryside last winter. I've spent months setting up your bedroom. Look, I even brought your favorite piano from your old apartment building. I paid the movers to bring it here while you were performing tonight."
You looked past his shoulder, your heart skipping a frantic beat. In the corner of the room sat your exact grand piano, surrounded by rows upon rows of pristine, carefully potted lavender plants.
"I deactivated your old phone, and I paid off your agency contract using my trust account," Elian whispered, his hands crawling up to tenderly, obsessively cradle your face, his thumbs wiping away a stray tear of shock from your cheek. His gaze was completely dilated, swimming with a frantic, unhinged devotion. "The outside world was breaking you. They made you cry. They demanded too much from your beautiful spirit. So I fixed the variables. I built a new audience of one. Just me."
He picked up the soup spoon, pressing it gently against your bottom lip, his smile wide, broken, and intensely adoring.
"You don't ever have to sing for the crowds again. You don't have to worry about deadlines, or cameras, or the cruel world outside these walls. I will take care of your body. I will feed you, I will brush your hair, I will keep you perfectly safe right where I can adore you every single second. I'm going to be your most loyal fan for the rest of our lives, my star. We can stay in this quiet room together forever... until we rot. You only need me. Right?"
You stared into his beautiful, terrifyingly soft eyes, the agonizing angst in your chest slowly settling into a heavy, numbing realization. The idol you used to be was officially dead—and as Elian gently fed you the warm broth, blowing on each spoonful with a sweet, suffocating tenderness, you realized you had been placed inside a golden, fluffy cage from which you would never want to run away.
author’s note: if you made it this far, thank you so much for reading! 🥹 this is officially my second post of the day! i’ve been busy writing a bunch of stories lately, so uploads on this blog might be pretty frequent from here on out.
please feel free to request stories! my ask box is always open for your ideas and prompts. as a growing blog, liking and reposting is highly appreciated and helps my writing reach more people. love u all! 💌
