A Face She Never Saw
Yandere!Fake husband!Undercover agent oc x blind!wife! Reader
Warning: sexual intercourse, mention of death, kidnapping, yandere themes, attempt to murder
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Veryon lips swallowed her pants and whimpers as his freshly showered wet hair tickled your head. He was half dressed ready to go to work but as soon as his eyes locked on your form tangled in sheets hickey's and bite marks littered on your soft body he lost it. Foot steps striding back to the bed as you flinched at the sound he loosened his tie and captured your lips in a seering kiss.
He just can't get enough of you... Maybe.... His marriage with you was nothing but a sham but now he wants nothing but to marry you again and again till you forgive him for what he did.
You had been blind since birth, but you had never needed sight to love. You had fallen in love with him ... Your 'husband' through his voice, his touch, his scent—the only man who had ever held you with such warmth. Or so you thought.
He had come into her life suddenly, sweeping her off her feet with sweet whispers and gentle caresses. His voice was deep, teasing yet soft when it mattered. She never saw the mask he wore, never questioned the way he always avoided letting her touch his face. She was too in love to notice the distance in his heart.
For her it was her life... A chance to live like a normal person a husband a house maybe a few kids?? She used to blush on those thoughts...but now???
And for him it was nothing but a mission to spy on the person he needed and leave... He always did this to multiple people.. multiple identity... It's his job... And he is good at it...but this time??? He saw you as a trouble... Blind person?? Clingy... Demanding...it's hectic but he can complete his work...after all he is the best....
On their honeymoon, she had mewled his name so sweetly, so desperately, as she gave him her everything. And the next month, he was gone. Dissapeared.
She searched for him, waited, prayed. But he never returned.
Until tonight.
The air in her small studio trembled as a shadow moved inside. It's a saying that if god takes one thing he gives another .. which was same for you... You maybe blind but yound other senses were sharp, you instantly felt it .. another presence, now hollow and tired, clutched your cane but did not scream. You had no one to call for, no one who would come even if you did. Instead, you turned to the intruder with a broken smile and reached for the hidden drawer.
"Here… take it all," you whispered, pushing a bundle of money toward him. "Take whatever you need and leave."
The man....silent, frozen...watched her. He hadn’t expected this. She thought he was a thief ???He had only come back for a file he left, not for… this.
Not for her.
As she turned away, her cane tapping the floor lightly, she paused. Sniffed the air. Her brows furrowed.
That scent…His scent.
It was him.
But it couldn't be. Her husband was gone. Dead to her, if not literally. This man.....this thief .......was an impostor.
She reached out hesitantly, her delicate fingers brushing against his jaw. The second she felt bare skin, she flinched.
No that's not how his face has been.....Not him.
She backed away quickly, shaking her head, whispering apologies, as if she had made a mistake. As if her soul wasn’t screaming that her love had returned.
He didn't speak. He only followed.
Up the creaking stairs. Through the dim hallway. Into her private sanctuary.
And then he saw it.
A statue. Perfectly sculpted, detailed with devotion. A replica of himself—his masked self. He don't know why but the pang of jealousy he felt for that silicon mask at that time made his jaw tightened.
His breath hitched. His stomach twisted.
She had never seen his face. But she had memorized him. Every cut every puff ...Even in betrayal, she still held onto him.
And for the first time, he regretted ever leaving her......or more like using her.
He started coming back. Every night.
At first, he convinced himself it was just for the file he had left behind. Then, it was because he wanted to see if she was doing fine. And then......he stopped lying to himself.
He needed to see her. She knew...... It was him .....but also not him....
Y/N never said a word, but she knew. The way she brushed past him in the doorway, her shoulder lightly grazing his, never flinching, never hesitating. The way she poured an extra cup of tea, letting it sit on the table, untouched, until it went cold. The way she no longer locked the door.
But she never acknowledged him.
Not once.
She simply continued her routine. Every evening, she sat by the small wooden table, setting down two plates—one for herself, and one for the man she once called her husband.
And every night, after eating in silence, she would take his.... His masked self the identity he killed... of her husband plate and throw away untouched.
He watched from the shadows as she did it. Every. Single. Night.
One evening, he found a third plate placed carefully next to hers.
For him.
He stared at it for a long time, his chest tightening in something unfamiliar, something suffocating. She had never said a word, but she knew.
She accepted his presence, but not his existence.
That night, she took the stack of plates she had prepared for her vanished husband.....the ones she had been setting aside in foolish hope.....and with trembling hands, she shattered them one by one.
Tears slipped down her cheeks, silent but endless.
His hands clenched at his sides. His jaw tightened. He had thought she would forget him. He had hoped she would move on.
But seeing the broken plates, he realized something terrifying.......
She had never stopped waiting.
And now, she was trying to let go.
But could he let her?
Then one night, he found the door locked.
For the first time since he started coming back, he couldn’t step inside.
He stood there in the cold, staring at the wooden barrier that now separated them. His fingers twitched at his side, itching to knock, to demand entry.
He could easily break in without any efforts .....he have always been the best to crack codes and locks... But this time.
But he didn’t.
Because he knew.
She was closing the door on him.
Inside, Y/N sat by the table, running her hands over the smooth edges of the two plates she still used—hers and his. Her fingers trembled, but she didn't cry.
She couldn't cry anymore.
For weeks, she had let him linger in the space between knowing and pretending, between guilt and longing. She had let him exist in her world, let herself feel the ghost of the love she once cherished.
But now… it had to stop.
She wasn't the same woman who had once clung to him so desperately. The blind painter who had worshipped a man without a face. The foolish bride who had given him her everything, only to be left with nothing .......
She was done.
The next night, he returned.
And found the door locked again.
No brush of her shoulder in the hallway. No silent gestures of acknowledgment. No extra plate on the table.
She was shutting him out.
By the third night, he stopped coming.
And just like that—everything went back to normal.
Except for one thing.
She no longer cooked for two.
Because there was noone to cook for.
The first time he saw after this was a month later...at an art gallery with one of her paintings , he stopped in his tracks.
It was him.
Not his real face, of course—she had never seen it. But the masked version of himself. The man she had loved, the man who had abandoned her the identity he killed.
The piece was breathtaking. A faceless figure, wrapped in shadows, with hands that almost reached out, but never touched. Loneliness dripped from every brushstroke.
And it was sold.
He clenched his jaw. She was moving on.
More paintings began to appear in galleries, in shops, even in private collections. Her name was spreading.
She was thriving again.
He watched from afar as she transformed, her hands.....once delicate, trembling.... now steady with purpose. She no longer locked herself away. She went to exhibitions, met people, smiled more.
She painted without restraint, without sorrow.
One evening, he found himself outside her studio again, staring at the faint glow of light from her window. He shouldn’t be here. She had locked him out for a reason.
Yet, he couldn’t walk away.
Through the open curtains, he saw her.
Sitting at her easel, painting with quiet focus.
His chest tightened.
Because this time… she wasn’t painting him.
She was painting herself.
He wasn’t sure why he did it. Maybe it was instinct, maybe it was obsession, or maybe it was just guilt.
But the moment he saw the painting in the gallery....her painting....he bought it.
Now, he sat in his dimly lit apartment, a glass of whiskey in one hand, staring at the canvas propped against the wall.
It wasn’t a painting of him.
It was her.
She had painted herself sitting alone, bathed in soft golden hues, her blind eyes turned toward a sky filled with unseen stars. Her hands were folded in her lap, serene, as if she had finally found peace.
She looked beautiful. Ethereal and untouchable.
He took a slow sip of his drink, letting the burn spread through his chest, but it wasn’t enough to drown the ache inside him. She was moving forward. And he was left behind, watching from the shadows. The mask he had worn as her husband.....the mask she had once adored.....sat discarded on the table beside him.
Useless. Meaningless.
Because the man she had loved no longer existed.
And the man he was now…
Was nothing but a stranger....
The ring was still on her finger....
He noticed it when he saw a photo of her at another exhibition.....standing next to a critic, smiling faintly, her hands folded in front of her. The simple gold band still clung to her left hand, gleaming under the lights.
She hadn’t taken it off.
Even after locking him out. Even after selling their memories through paint.
He closed his eyes and took another sip of his whiskey, feeling the cold weight of metal against his chest.
His ring.
It hung from a thin chain around his neck, hidden beneath his shirt, resting against his skin like a ghost of the past.... He had tried to take it off once. Held it in his palm, stared at it for what felt like hours.
But he couldn’t let go.
Just like her.
They were both trapped in something neither of them dared to name. Not love. Not hatred. Just… unfinished.
He exhaled, tipping his head back, eyes drifting to the painting of her across the room.
Still out of reach.
Still his.
It happened so fast.
One second, she was walking down the quiet street, the cool night air brushing against her skin. The next, she collided with a solid chest.....strong, familiar.
A gasp left her lips as steady hands caught her arms, stopping her from stumbling. The scent of whiskey and something deeper, something achingly familiar, wrapped around her.
No.
She didn't want to know.
Didn’t want to confirm.
Her fingers, trembling, accidentally brushed against his shirt......just where the fabric dipped slightly. And there, against his warm skin, she felt it.
A ring.
Cold metal. Hanging from a chain.
Her breath hitched. Her fingers curled into fists, as if trying to erase the touch, erase the truth.
She knew that ring. She wore its twin.
Her body went rigid, and before she could think, she turned and ran.
She didn’t care that she couldn’t see. She knew these streets. Knew every crack in the pavement, every turn. But even as she sprinted, she could hear him behind her.
His footsteps. Following. Chasing.
"Y/N—"
She shut her ears, heart pounding, panic clawing at her chest....
No. He wasn’t real. He wasn’t supposed to be real.
But the ring....His scent.... His voice....
He had never left after all.
He had taken leave from work.... He just can't leave her when she looked so fuckable.... She was sitting on the dining table wearing on of his t shirts.... The marks on thigh visible... He was cooking humming.... She grabbed the butter knife and softly padded to him . But before she could strike he softly took the knife away..
"You cannot even cut vegetable with that thing honey ..."
He softly said as he kissed her fingers now.
She flinched at the touch of his fingers and lips on her own... And then a chill ran down her spine when he sat her on the counter bunching up the shirt.
"I thought you are so weak that you can't even walk... After all you were squealing like a dying goose as I fucked you...saying it was too much... But thinking you are still able to walk... I think I was wrong.... Let's change that hmmm??? Breakfast can wait ...
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