Pairing: Yandere Doctor x Reader ; Elias (son)
Description: Raised far from the dome, the eldest son of Anselm Faer returns with the siblings he raised, only to confront the obsession that turned their mother into a ghost—and himself into a witness.
Warning/s: Yandere (Father) | Emotional Manipulation | Coercive Control | Child Neglect | Generational Trauma | Psychological Abuse | Family Trauma | Toxic Family Dynamics | Captivity | Survivor Guilt | Institutional Abuse | Slow burn | Toxic Obsession | Implied Physical Abuse
Note: Apologies for the inactivity! I'm currently working on Sovereign's Reign's draft. Also, this one IS different from my usual works. Told from their child's POV. Let me know what you think! Enjoy!
Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar
He had been six when they sent him away.
You had kissed his forehead with trembling lips and pressed a poorly made bracelet into his palm, whispering that it would protect him. He didn’t understand then—how could he? The dome was the only world he knew. A place where everyone smiled with locked jaws, where the sound of weeping was politely ignored through paper-thin walls. Where fathers were gods and mothers were machines programmed to endure.
But even as a child, he had seen you break. Not with screams, but with silence. Your quiet pleas. The tremble in your body as you shielded him. The way you would tuck him under thin sheets and place your back between him and the door, whispering promises you didn’t believe. “Just a little longer. Just until you’re bigger. Just until I figure it out.”
At six, your mother-in-law took him in. Not Anselm’s idea, of course—Anselm Faer didn’t like his children forming alliances beyond his control. But she had insisted. “He’s too clever,” she had said to you, the night she smuggled him out with forged paperwork and cold fury. “He’ll end up like him if we leave him here.” You had only nodded, eyes hollow from childbirth and sleep deprivation.
Your first son—Elias—was raised in the city, in an estate too pristine to feel like home. The subdivision was for Altas—those who lived far above consequence. It had white walls, quiet streets, and surveillance so complete it gave the illusion of safety. It was there that he first understood who his father truly was, not just in title, but in reach. Anselm was revered. A doctor who saved lives. A man whose name carried weight heavier than justice.
At thirteen, Elias began to notice changes. One by one, infants arrived at the estate—his siblings. They were brought there after being weaned, as quietly as he had been taken out. He didn’t go near the dome. He wasn’t allowed. But they came to him, all of them, delivered like sealed letters with no return address.
He remembered the first—Isla—just a baby, eyes squinting at the light. Then Theo, then Eren. Mira. Baby Luan. All brought to the estate with little more than your scent lingering on their skin. All too young to understand why their mother didn’t follow.
He raised them.
He held Isla through her night terrors, the ones that began before she could speak. He distracted Theo with books and puzzles when the boy began pulling at his own hair. He shielded Eren’s gentleness, told Mira it was okay to cry, and promised Luan that he’d never let anyone hurt them. He kept them normal. Human. Not like Anselm. Not like the other men of their blood.
He became their parent in your stead. Not by choice, but by duty. By guilt. By the memory of you—your bruised arms, your trembling voice, your fading presence.
And when he was old enough to marry, when his fiancée asked about his parents and he could only speak of silence and distance, he decided to return once more. Not alone—this time with your children in tow. He needed them to see. To know. To remember, even if it hurt.
The facility was hidden within the dome. Sanitized. Fortified. His cousin met them at the checkpoint, eyes darting to the cameras.
“Don’t take too long,” she said. Her name was Ivelle—older by a few years, sharp in every way that mattered. “He’s here. He doesn’t let anyone near her for long. Not even staff. Not even me.”
Elias stiffened. “She’s still alone with him?”
Ivelle nodded. “No visitors. No advocates. Not even a nurse unless he permits it. The last woman who tried to get reassigned to your mother’s wing was let go within twenty-four hours.”
Mira looked confused. “Why would he keep her like that?”
But Elias didn’t answer.
Ivelle sighed, voice softening. “She never wanted you to see her like this. She tried to keep him calm, to keep him happy, just so you kids wouldn’t get dragged back into that place.”
Theo muttered, “He’s obsessed. I can feel it. The way he talks about her like she’s some... relic.”
“She was his,” Elias said hollowly. “In his mind, she was never supposed to be anything else.”
The facility’s hallways were cold, all soft lights and hushed white floors. And when the reinforced door opened, Elias could feel his heart stutter.
Inside, there was only you.
And Anselm.
No guards. No staff. Just you sitting in a plain chair, eyes unfocused, your fingers curling into the folds of your clothing as though to hide the skin he used to caress like a trophy.
He stood beside you, one hand ghosting above your shoulder, like a crown without weight. His eyes lifted the moment Elias entered.
They were sharp. Possessive.
“Why are they here?” Anselm asked, his voice like polished metal.
You looked up at the sound. And in that flicker—barely a second—Elias saw the memory in your eyes. Recognition. Fear. Hope, barely breathing.
Because the sight of Anselm hovering beside you was too familiar.
The way he had looked at you back then—not with love, not with hatred, but with hunger. The sick kind that devours without teeth. The possessiveness of a man who believed that love meant control. That devotion meant isolation.
And suddenly Elias remembered it all. The sound of your cries muffled by his pillow. The way you held him behind your back when Anselm’s voice rose. Not to strike, no. Anselm never bruised what he claimed. But he threatened. He cornered. He made you choose again and again—him or the children.
And you always chose them.
He looked at your wrist. The bracelet was gone. But the tan line remained, faint and barely there. Like the echo of a promise.
He wanted to run to you. To pull you away.
But Anselm’s stare made him stop. Because that stare said: "She’s mine. She was always mine. Not even you can have her."
And it was then Elias knew that you had never been freed. Not truly. Not even when you sent your children away.
