Pairing: Yandere!Husband x Reader
Description: You don’t remember marrying Malcolm, but he remembers every version of you—and each time you try to leave, he brings you back. To be a good wife, he says, all you need to do is stay.
Warning/s: Yandere | Gaslighting | Memory Manipulation | Captivity | Non-consensual Surveillance | Emotional Abuse | Obsessive Behavior | Psychological Horror
Note/s: Heya! For those who have purchased Dark Roast so far, I'll be sending a better version once it's available. I can't provide the exact time, but in the future. ^^ Anyway, enjoy reading!
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The morning felt like any other—ordinary and mundane. You had kissed him goodbye like you always did, the scent of his cologne lingering long after the door clicked shut. His touch stayed too, warm and possessive as he cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing the hollow beneath your eye, pausing there just a moment too long.
“Be good, love,” Malcolm murmured, voice low and smooth, velvet laced with iron. There was a sweetness in it. But also, a quiet command, like the smile that never quite reached his eyes.
“I will. I always am, darling,” you replied, automatic and soft. The words tasted familiar, worn from use, yet strange on your tongue. You loved him. At least… you believed you did. You had to. There was no reason not to. Not really.
He chuckled—a quiet, amused sound that always pulled a smile from you. You were trained to respond to it, like muscle memory. “I know. But still. Behave, alright?”
You nodded. “Of course. I’ll see you tonight.”
And just like that, he was gone. The silence that followed felt deeper than usual. The house swallowed him whole, leaving only you behind.
You wandered through the quiet halls, trying to shake the feeling that had started to gnaw at the back of your mind. You were often like this lately—adrift, grasping at something you couldn’t quite name. He told you it was nothing. That it was normal, considering the accident. That your memory would return in time.
Except… it hadn’t.
You couldn’t remember the day you married him. Or the way you’d met. Or why you sometimes woke up gasping in the dark, drenched in sweat, your throat raw like you’d screamed your voice away. You’d asked him once. He had smiled and kissed your forehead, whispering, “Some memories are best left buried.”
That day, the weight in your chest didn’t go away.
It was there again now, heavy and suffocating, like invisible fingers tightening around your lungs.
You wandered to the bedroom—your bedroom. Or so he said. You barely remembered how to navigate the house without thinking. But your body moved on its own. Habit. Routine. Familiarity programmed into your bones, even when your mind resisted.
The drawer in the corner of the room called to you. You didn’t mean to open it. Not at first. But your hands were already reaching for it before your thoughts caught up. The compulsion was too strong. Something inside you needed to know.
And when the drawer opened, you froze.
Photographs. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. All carefully arranged. All tucked neatly between delicate tissue paper, as if they were precious artifacts. At first, the faces didn’t register. Different hairstyles. Different expressions. Different clothes.
But the same eyes.
Your eyes.
They were all you.
Laughter frozen mid-breath. Smiles that never reached your eyes. Dresses you didn’t remember owning. Bruises you couldn’t place.
Some photos were newer. Others older. You recognized none of them, and yet they were undeniably you. A collage of versions—happy, scared, serene, desperate. But all of them shared one common trait: they were being watched. In each frame, subtly blurred in the background, a shadow lingered.
Him.
Sometimes only his hands were visible, placed possessively around your waist or brushing your hair. Other times, he was fully in frame—close, always too close—smiling with a calm, calculated gaze. The kind of smile that made your skin crawl now that you saw it from the outside.
A ribbon. A perfume bottle. A dried rose, still tied with a bow. A necklace—broken at the clasp. A fingernail. You didn’t know whether it was yours, and that uncertainty was the worst part.
And then, the flash drive. Sleek. Unmarked. Black as night.
Your hands moved like they weren’t your own. You crossed the room, plugged it in, and opened the file. A single video.
The screen flickered. Static.
And when it played, you saw a familiar face.
You.
You were strapped to a chair. No… a bed. Bare shoulders trembling, your mouth gagged, eyes wild with terror. You writhed against the restraints, muffled cries choking in your throat. You didn’t remember this. You didn’t remember this. But it was you.
Then came the voice. Soft. Steady.
His.
“You always try to leave, my love. But you never make it far.”
The camera panned slowly, almost lovingly, to reveal him sitting beside the frame. Calm. Smiling. Watching you.
“I’m not angry,” he continued. “You don’t need to remember. You don’t need to understand. You just need to stay.”
He leaned closer to the lens, his eyes dark and glinting with something sharp beneath the surface.
“I’ve loved every version of you. Every time you run, I find you. And I bring you home.”
Your blood ran cold.
“I know you don’t remember. That’s alright. I’ll remind you. Over and over, if I have to.”
The screen flickered again. Another scene. Another you. This time crying. Another version screaming. Another begging. Another… smiling.
Each version more twisted than the last. You watched as he carefully recreated scenarios—like a director obsessed with a single actress. A thousand variations of the same obsession. A thousand attempts to preserve the perfect you.
You yanked the flash drive from the port, heart hammering. Your stomach churned, bile rising in your throat. You stumbled backward—
Knock knock.
A soft, deliberate sound.
You froze.
Another knock. Louder. Measured.
Your heart leapt into your throat. You turned to close the laptop, to hide everything—but you were too slow. The door creaked open.
And there he stood.
Framed in the hallway light, still in his work clothes, tie loosened, his smile too pleasant to be real.
“Love?” he called gently. “What are you doing?”
You swallowed hard, pulse racing. “I-I was just… cleaning.”
He took a step in. Then another. The door shut behind him with a quiet click.
“You never clean in here.”
You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.
He stopped behind you, his presence a wall of heat and silence. You felt his breath on your neck. Then his hand on your shoulder, light as a feather.
“You opened the drawer, didn’t you?”
You said nothing. But the tremble in your body gave you away.
He leaned in, lips grazing your ear.
“You always open the drawer eventually.”
Your blood turned to ice.
“How many times has it been, hmm?” he whispered. “Seven? Eight? I lose count. Each time you forget, and each time you find your way back. And I… I get to fall in love with you all over again.”
You whimpered, the sound dying in your throat. His hand stroked your hair with practiced gentleness.
“It’s okay,” he said sweetly. “We’ll start over. Again. Just like before. I’ll fix everything.”
You tried to move, but he tightened his grip. That same voice, that same gentle cadence, coiled around you like barbed wire.
“You’re mine, love. You’ve always been mine.”
And this time, you weren’t sure you’d ever escape.
