What Weapon Are Good Against A Yandere? A Book! (Drabble)
➻ Yandere Vs. Reader (Drabble)
- Warning: Yandere and depiction of attempted murder towards you (because there's a yandere, shockers.)
- Characters: You and unnamed characters ('coz this is just a drabble that I impulsively wrote while my country got attacked by a hurricane.)
- Note: Yandere vs. Reader, I'm tired of Yandere x Reader. Sometimes I got this primal thirst to be a yandere's rival and feel the horror of surviving a mind game with a lovesick psychopath (just like L vs Light, but make it yandere), but unfortunately such trope is rare. So fine, I'll do it myself...
- Yes, this is horror. Please enjoy!!
- Word count: 771
Divider by cursed-carmine & strangergraphics-archives
Enough yandere x reader. Imagine, how about instead of you being the darling–you are the “rival” that the yandere wanted to kill so badly?
You led a peaceful—albeit boring—life. No drama, no chaos. And honestly? You weren’t complaining. You were content. Everything about you was just... average. You weren’t popular on campus, but you had enough friends to never feel lonely. You weren’t a genius, but your grades were decent—good enough to pass, and not bad enough to get a lecture from your parents. Sometimes, it felt like you were just an NPC in your own story, blending into the background. But you know what? You were fine with that.
Then, out of nowhere, weird things started happening.
First, you slipped on the school staircase and nearly broke your neck. Luckily, you walked away with just a few bruises. Then came a rumor—something completely made up, but still unpleasant to deal with. Thankfully, it died down just as quickly as it spread. But the worst of it? A huge flower pot nearly crushed you while you were just minding your own business, walking home from school. You only ended up with scratches and a bruised shoulder, but still—what the hell?
You laughed it off at first, even joked that maybe this was karma for all those furry memes you liked back in 2017. Or maybe the universe was just targeting you for fun. Either way, the streak of bad luck was starting to get under your skin. Every night, you found yourself lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering: What did I do to deserve this?
You didn’t get your answer until you stumbled across a book during a secondhand sale with your friend. It looked too good to be true—hardbound with elegant gold detailing, like something straight out of a historical drama. The cover promised a sweeping romance, and the whole thing was still wrapped in plastic, like it had never been touched. And the price? Ridiculously cheap.
As a book lover, you couldn’t resist. Of course you bought it.
What could possibly go wrong, right?
When you got home, you wasted no time tearing the plastic off the book. The cover had that satisfying texture of new pages, and you flipped it open with excitement, settling into your favorite reading spot.
Chapter One introduced a typical schoolboy hopelessly in love with his classmate. He was shy, awkward, completely whipped—and it was endearing, in a cliché sort of way. You almost laughed at how predictable it was. Still, you devoured every word like it was your favorite guilty pleasure.
Then came Chapter Two.
It detailed how the two slowly grew closer—his nervous gestures, the bashful glances, the innocent, awkward attempts to impress her. It was sweet in a cheesy way, like the kind of fluff your best friend always gushed about during lunch. But as you kept reading, a strange feeling settled in your chest.
Because every moment in the story… mirrored her stories exactly.
You frowned.
Halfway through the chapter three, the tone changed. Lighthearted romance gave way to something colder, darker. The narrative shifted focus to a nameless extra—just some background classmate the male lead couldn’t stand. Someone who kept interrupting his moments with his beloved. Someone always there, always in the way.
Someone he quietly started to hate.
Then he began to act.
It started small: removing a “Caution: Wet Floor” sign from a freshly mopped stairwell.
Your stomach twisted.
Then came the rumors—petty lies, whispered just loud enough to spread.
Your breath caught.
You reread the paragraph slowly, heart pounding in your ears. Every “accident,” every “coincidence” the book mentioned… you’d lived through them. Slipping on the stairs. The whispers. The almost fatal fall from a flower pot that came out of nowhere.
These weren’t fictional events. These were yours.
And the worst part? The book recounted it all with a disturbing ease, like it was nothing more than a plot device. The nameless extra—you—was painted as a clingy nuisance. An obstacle. A disposable character not worth a name.
With shaking hands, you flipped to Chapter Four.
It opened to a list of names. Some you didn’t recognize. Others made your blood run cold. They were classmates—students who’d quietly transferred, dropped out, or disappeared without much explanation. The class president’s name was there too—the one who’d been hospitalized last month after a “freak accident.”
You turned the page.
Blank.
The next one? Still blank.
But that wasn’t the part that terrified you most.
What did—what truly froze you to your core—was that at the very top of that list…
