YANDERE! SU BONG/THANOS ALPHABET
choi su bong/thanos x fem! reader
warnings: DARK themes including dubious consent, hard drug abuse, forced drugging, kidnapping (thanos keeps reader locked in his apartment), accidental physical assault, murder, talk of suicide and death, sexual content, angst, stockholm syndrome, mind breaking, misogyny, mention of baby trapping/breeding, some fluff if you’d call it that, etc. this can be triggering content proceed with caution. do not engage if you’re under the age of 18. takes place outside of the games
a/n: darkest thing i’ve written by far. took me a bit but i’m happy with its outcome. potentially could start an alphabet series (not just yandere) so if yall have any suggestions lmk!
Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?
Affection with Su bong is sweaty and overwhelming. There’s nothing tender or soft about it—every action he takes is laced with urgency and possessives. His hands are always on you—he can’t resist touching you, not even for a second.
Su bong holds onto you tightly, as if you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world, whether his palms are gripping your ass, your waist, your throat, your hair, he’s always touching you in some way if he’s with you.
Even in public, he crowds your space, fingers splayed low on your hips, tugging you back into him whenever you try to step away. He talks close, voice a little slurred, teeth dragging against your ear when he calls you his.
Sometimes a warning more than a term of endearment.
“So goddamn beautiful, Señorita.”
“You’re my girl. All fuckin’ mine.”
Su bong marks you up without shame. Hickeys bloom like bruises across your throat, your collarbones, your stomach, the insides of your thighs—trails of ownership, reminders for you and anyone else watching. If someone stares too long, he’ll tighten his grip, jaw tense, nails biting into your skin like he’s daring you to entertain the idea of anyone else.
And when he’s high, spun out, or paranoid, it only intensifies—his affection multiplying by a thousand percent. He kisses you too fiercely, too often, speaking rapidly, his breath heavy between slurred declarations and possessive whispers. He craves to feel your desire for him. He needs evidence that you’re still his. Because if he senses you pulling away—even just a fraction—he’ll become manic.
He’ll weep into your neck after making love, demanding you promise repeatedly that you won’t leave. And if you hesitate—if you flinch—he’ll interpret it as betrayal.
“Say it again. Say you’re mine.”
“If I lose you, I’m nothing in this bullshit world. Don’t you get that?”
His love is a suffocating grip. And he thinks that’s romantic.
Blood: How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?
Su bong isn’t a fighter by nature—but when it’s about you, he snaps fast. One wrong look, one hand where it shouldn’t be, and he’s already swinging. Wild and twitchy, eyes red, knuckles already raw, lip split open, high as hell in the middle of the night. He’d absolutely kill for you—then crash hard after, vomiting from the rush, crouched in an alley with shaking hands and your name slurred into the phone.
“Fuck…I think I killed him.”
“Bastard thought he could touch what’s mine.”
If you react in a negative way, he’ll blame or threaten you.
“Don’t play innocent now. You should’ve stopped him from puttin’ his hands on you.”
“This? this is your fault too.”
“You want that on your conscience? Huh?”
You’d pause—stomach twisting with guilt.
“You’ll stay with me right doll? you have to stay…if you know what’s good for you.”
Cruelty: How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them?
He mocks you, but it’s gentle—twisted affection coated in sugar. “Still tryna be tough?” he croons, crouched next to the bed, eyes wide, lips forming a lazy smile. He caresses your hair as if you’re something fragile, something that belongs to him.
It started the night he didn’t let you leave his apartment after a hook up.
Su bong gripped your jaw, fingers pressing just hard enough to sting. A sleeping pill sat on his tongue before he pushed it onto yours.
“Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
And when you tried to turn your head away, he just laughed and forced it in anyway, hand clamped over your mouth until you swallowed.
Su bong kisses your tears while you sob and beg to leave. He calls it love, unwavering, as if your pain is part of the promise.
“You just don’t get it yet, my flower.”
“Gonna take care of you. Gonna fix everything. Just gotta stop fightin’ me, baby.”
You recoil from his touch, and he just stares at you, wounded—like you’re the one being cruel.
“You’ll understand soon.” he murmurs, brushing your cheek with ring-heavy fingers.
“You need this, you need me.”
Darling: Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will?
You don’t get a say—not really. Everything’s on his terms, his timing, his rules. You cry, you beg, you fight, but it doesn’t change a thing. Su bong only pulls you closer, murmuring in that slurred, syrupy voice while your body stiffens under his.
“I know flower, I know.” he breathes against your face, his grin sleazy, high, fucked-up.
“You don’t think you need this yet, but you will.”
He calls you his little addiction. His favorite high. Says nothing hits like you do—not the pills, not the coke, not the girl’s he used to waste time on. Says they were just noise. You’re the fix. The one that sinks into his bloodstream and stays.
Says being wanted like this should turn you on.
That it’s love—pure and raw.
“You keep me fucking alive, girl. I couldn’t quit you even if I tried.”
At first, you cried. Fought. Told him no. But it didn’t matter. He wore you down with kisses, drugs, and slow-spoken promises, feeding you just enough comfort to confuse your fear. Then he started getting you high, too.
Whispering love into your skin while your body melted into his, needy and too dazed to run.
Now you don’t know where the dread ends and the craving begins.
“Told you baby. You need me. You feel it now, don’t you?”
Exposed: How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?
At first, he’ll act like he doesn’t give a shit. Shrug off the look in your eyes with a muttered, “Don’t get all soft now, girl. I just like the way you bounce on my dick.”
But it’s a lie, and not even a convincing one. Especially when he starts getting more possessive—goes tense when you pull away, grabs at you after sex, refusing to let you leave the bed.
Once things are official between you two, it only deepens. His touches grow heavier, his stares longer. Something in him shifts, making him more dangerous now that you’re his.
Su bong doesn’t talk much when he’s sober. Not about real things. But when he’s high, when the drugs are still hot in his chest and the world finally shuts up, that’s when it spills—messy, slurred, honest.
“You don’t even know what you do to me, baby.”
“My girl. My fuckin’ girl.”
He says it like a spell, over and over.
“I’d be straight up lost without you, pretty girl.”
So no, he doesn’t hide it. Not really. His actions say everything you need to know.
Fight: How would they feel if their darling fought back?
At first, resistance doesn’t scare him—it thrills him.
You shove at his chest, spit curses through your teeth, and he just laughs—breathless, pupils blown, high as hell. “There she is,” he pants, catching your wrists and pinning you down.
“Knew you were a crazy bitch.”
He’s already grinding into you, hard and needy, his breath hot against your jaw.
“Shit just makes me wanna break you more.”
“Actin’ like you don’t love this. Like you don’t melt for me every time.”
But when you pull away one too many times, the switch flips. The high crashes down all at once and suddenly the adrenaline turns to ache.
His face twists, something raw flashing behind his eyes when you flinch. “What’s with that look, girl?” he mutters, quieter now.
His grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go. Just trails his hands down your arms, fingers shaky,
“Why are you crying, flower?”
Then softer, voice breaking right against your lips,
Game: Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?
To Su bong, it’s not a game, it’s a test.
He wants you to try and run. Not because he’s letting you go, but because it gives him a reason to chase. A reason to drag you back and remind you who you belong to.
There’s a sick thrill in it for him watching you scramble, breathless and panicked, slamming your fists on the door he already locked.
He lets you hide and run just long enough to get your hopes up. Then he corners you, catches you like it’s all part of the dance. And when you cry, when you scream, when you claw at him with shaking hands, he just laughs, breathless—eyes glazed, almost high off of your fear.
“You’re cute when you’re desperate, doll.”
“But you’re not goin’ anywhere. Never were.”
The more you try and escape, the more it proves how badly he needs to keep you his.
Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them?
It happens on one of his worst nights—when the drugs have him half-gone, eyes glassy, mouth hanging open. He’s twitchy, pacing, rambling under his breath like the walls are closing in. You try to calm him, but he’s already spiraling, too far from sober to recognize your voice.
“You’re lookin’ at me weird,” he says suddenly, heavily slurring his words.
“What—you scared now, baby? That it?”
You shake your head, but it doesn’t matter. Su bong isn’t really seeing you in this state.
“You think I don’t know what you’re planning?” he growls, stepping in closer, grabbing your wrist hard—too hard. His fingers dig into your skin, and when you cry out, he jerks you forward.
“You gonna leave me? That what this is? Gonna run off while I’m too drugged up to notice?”
You try to pull away. That only pisses him off more.
Then—he shoves you. Not across the room. Not dramatic. But hard enough to send you stumbling into the table. Your hip hits the corner. The pain shoots up your side. Your breath catches. You look at him, stunned.
The rage drains from his face all at once, replaced with wide-eyed horror.
He’s on the ground before you can even back away, on his knees, hands ghosting over where you’re hurt.
“I didn’t mean it, flower. Please. Please don’t look at me like that. I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t mean to do that.”
“I’m sick, I know I’m sick. You’re the only one that makes me feel real.”
“I’m trying so hard to love you right,” he whispers. “I’m sorry Im such a monster.”
He keeps apologizing, crying now, calling you his girl, his flower, his everything, holding you so tight it hurts. He tells you he’s nothing without you. That he’ll die if you leave. That this is love, even if it’s messy.
And the worst part? He believes it.
And maybe, in your lowest moments, part of you does too.
Because hell isn’t just the pain he causes. It’s the part of you that still reaches for him.
Ideals: What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?
Su bong doesn’t just want to keep you—he wants to build a life with you. Twisted, drug-hazy, obsessive love, yeah, but real to him. A future where he doesn’t have to beg you anymore because you’ve finally stopped fighting it.
He talks about it when he’s high (which is always)—muttering about kids with your eyes, a world where you wear his last name and never even look at another man. Not like he’d let you now anyway.
He wants that picture perfect family with you so bad it rots him. And yeah, he knows deep down it’s a fantasy—kind of hard to raise kids through the haze of pills and powder.
But that doesn’t stop him. Doesn’t dull the way he clings to you, convinced you’re the only thing holding the dream together.
He says he’ll clean up. Says he’ll be better for you.
His hand rests on your stomach like he’s already put something there.
“Gonna tie you to me for good. Dont you want my babies, flower?”
Baby-trapping isn’t a threat—it’s a plan. The fantasy he spirals into when he’s got you pinned beneath him, mumbling about love and forever. Breeding you is how he makes sure you stay. But honestly, he wouldn’t let you go either way—kid or no kid. If you’re his, you’re his completely.
He wants forever. Not just loyalty, but devotion. Not just control, but your heart. And if he has to get you addicted to him first, break you down and build you back up again—then so be it.
Jealousy: Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope?
Jealousy for him is a blaze—intense, uncontrollable, and impossible to ignore. He doesn’t just get jealous; he wears it like a badge, showing it through many behaviours.
When he lashes out, it’s unfiltered—sometimes words, sometimes actions, always a warning that you’re his and no one else gets to have you.
When pushed, he won’t hesitate to do whatever it takes—crossing lines most wouldn’t even think to approach—to keep you tied to him. It’s not just rage; it’s a brutal, all-consuming need that drives him to destruction, pain, even death. In his mind, you’re his, and nothing else matters.
He’ll do anything to keep you close before someone else gets the chance. Even if that means beating a man bloody or bashing his skull open without a second thought.
Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling?
We already know about Su bong’s clinginess—how he sticks to you like glue—but there’s a softer edge to it sometimes, too. When the drugs mellow him out or he’s had one of his rare moments of peace, he gets sweet. Almost boyish. Puppy like. Kisses all over your face, muttering half-coherent praises.
“Prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen,” he’ll coo, mouth brushing your eyelids, your cheeks, your jaw. “Can’t believe you’re mine.”
They’re sloppy, lingering kisses—his hands never still, always pawing at your waist or winding into your hair. He wants to feel you fall apart, wants you pliant under his mouth, some kind of proof he’s doing something right.
It’s dark, too—his love more dependence than anything else—but in those moments, it’s almost unbearably gentle. And maybe, just maybe, you genuinely believe he can love you soft.
Even if the next minute he’s gripping your throat and whispering loving threats into your skin, he still ends it with a sweet, tender kiss.
He even gets your name tattooed on him—permanent proof that you’re his girl.
And his shitty rap music? Every verse is soaked with you—his inspiration, his addiction.
Love letters: How would they go about courting or approaching their darling?
Su bong doesn’t court you—at least, not in any sane or traditional way. But he tries, in that cracked, chaotic way only he can.
When you first started hooking up, it wasn’t just a good fuck for him—not really. Even though he couldn’t say it to you at first. He was already obsessed.
Already writing for you. Lyrics scribbled on receipts, club bathroom stalls, even across his forearm in Sharpie when he’s too high to care.
Filthy bars and bleeding verses, some so raw they sting to read. Every line circles back to you. He didn’t hide it either—rapping them at you in that teasing tone, smirking as you roll your eyes.
He brought you things, too. Offerings. A silver chain, lipstick he swore was your color, one of his rings still warm from his finger or even an earring pulled right out from his ear while you were lying in his bed.
“Here,” he said, pressing it into your hand with vape smoke curling from his lips.
After he has you, though—really has you, locked away from the world—Su Bong’s idea of romance only gets more warped.
He still thinks he’s wooing you. Still thinks he’s earning your love.
He still raps for you—sometimes plays your old favourite songs, even plays them loud through blown-out speakers, watching your face for a reaction.
“Every word I spit, it’s always been you, girl.”
He still brings you gifts too, band tees he’s worn to death, a scratched-up mixtape he burned himself, even pieces of your old life he swiped long before he took you away from it all. Your perfume. A dress he liked on your curves. Something you left behind. Things he calls treasures.
The greatest treasure to him though is his devotion to you. He presses your hand to his chest, forcing you to feel the frantic rhythm beneath.
“Feel that? That’s yours. Always was yours.”
To Su bong, courting means proving no one else could ever love you like he does. No one would bleed, starve, or burn for you the way he already has.
Mask: Are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else?
To everyone else, Su bong appears to be nothing more than a washed-up ex-rapper with a bad drug habit. He’s loud, brash, full of talk and tattoos—easy to underestimate, even easier to overlook. Just another washed up loser with too many rings and not enough hits.
But when the doors close and it’s just you two, he’s even more unstable. All the madness is channeled into you, into this distorted version of possession he believes is true love.
His true self is ready to tear through everything—himself included—just to keep you near. The world sees a mess, a punchline in silver chains.
But you see the man underneath and he doesn’t care who else sees it, so long as you’re his.
Naughty: How would they punish their darling?
Punishment, to Su bong, isn’t just consequence, it’s intimacy. If you lie, disobey or try to leave him he takes it personal. He says he’s teaching you a lesson. Reminding you of your place.
Sometimes it’s emotional. The cold shoulder, days of silence, him pacing the room high out of his mind while you beg him to talk. He’ll ignore your tears until he breaks—until he’s dragging you into his lap, saying you made him act like this. That you need to stop scaring him.
“You think I like being like this?”
“You scared the fuck outta me. Had me thinking you were gonna run off with some weak motherfucker who doesn’t even know how to keep you.”
“Just be a good girl and stay put.”
But other times, it’s physical. A grip too tight, fingers around your throat, fucking you like he’s trying to erase the part of you that ever defied him. He’ll call it “reclaiming what’s his.” A reminder. He doesn’t stop when you’re begging him to, only slows down when he sees your fear.
Apologies slur like usual, kisses trembling against marked skin.
“But I forgive you, flower. Don’t make me have to punish you again.”
Oppression: How many rights would they take away from their darling?
Su bong doesn’t chain you to a wall, but he does keep you cut off. No phone. No internet. No way to reach the outside world. He says it’s for your safety, but it’s really about control.
“You don’t need all that shit,”
“You’ve got me. What more you want?”
He’s not strict about everything—he lets you move around the house, pick what you wear, even blast music if he’s in a good mood. But the second you act like you miss the world he took you from, He’s immediately pissed off.
“What, you miss the people who didn’t give a fuck about you?”
“I took you away ‘cause I care. ‘Cause no one else ever did.”
Patience: How patient are they with their darling?
Su bong’s patience is a ticking bomb.
At first, he tells himself he can take it—grinning through that hazy, too-high smile,
“S’alright, baby. You’ll get it soon enough.”
But his patience is also paper thin.
The second you push too far—pull away, snap back or even look at him with anything but surrender—it starts to crack a little bit more. You’ll hear it in the sudden stillness, in the way his voice drops into something colder
“I’ve been so fuckin’ patient, flower. Why are you making me beg for what’s already mine?”
Quit: If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?
If you leave or die, the pain would consume him entirely. The weight of losing you would crush him, twisting his mind into dark, desperate places. He wouldn’t find relief in drugs alone—he’d spiral faster, drowning in his own torment until the only escape he sees is a final, irreversible one.
In his broken state, he’d likely throw himself off a bridge—an act born not from courage, but from the unbearable ache of losing the one thing that tethered him to life. It wouldn’t be about giving up; it would be about ending the pain that no drug or time could ever heal.
Regret: Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go?
Never. Su bong doesn’t feel guilt—he rewrites reality until he’s the hero. In his mind, he saved you. Isolating you wasn’t a crime, it was love.
“You don’t get it now, but you will one day and you’ll thank me.”
He counts on Stockholm syndrome—waits for the shift, that slow collapse from resistance to reliance. And it doesn’t take much. You give in so easy, let him crawl into your head and make a home there. He ruins you with such commitment it’s almost beautiful.
Stigma: What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)?
You guessed Su bong’s got some kind of mommy issues, with the way he talks about wanting to make her proud—like he was only ever worth something when he was making her look good.
Maybe that’s why he thinks love has to be earned. Or taken.
It’s like you aren’t just someone he wants—you’re proof. Proof he’s not useless. That someone can need him enough to stay.
To him, that’s not wrong. That’s how he was taught love works after all.
Tears: How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?
Every moment you shut down feels like a failure to him, like he’s losing control. He’ll snap at first, call you dramatic, tell you to stop acting like a brat.
But almost every time, it ends the same—with him holding you close, voice low and eyes glassy.
“Didn’t mean to make you sad, baby.”
“You know I just want you to love me back right?”
Unique: Would they do anything different from the classic yandere?
Su bong doesn’t fit the mold of a traditional yandere—he’s not quiet, calculating, or sweet on the surface. He’s messy, loud, chaotic. His obsession isn’t hidden beneath charm; it’s smeared all over him in the form of impulsive gestures, erratic behaviour, and drug-fueled declarations of love.
He’s the kind of yandere who overshares instead of hides, who gets your name inked into his skin instead of whispering it in secret.
He talks too much, brags too much, posts unhinged things online about how you’re his girl and always will be. If he’s jealous, you’ll know—because the other guy’s probably bleeding or dead in a ditch.
Vice: What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?
Drugs are his weakness—but they’re also what make him scarier.
When he’s too high, too far gone, he slips. Forgets to lock a door, passes out with the key still in his pocket, leaves his phone unlocked. That’s when you think maybe, maybe you could get away.
But his highs are unpredictable. One second he’s all jokes and kisses, the next he’s got a fist around your wrists—or he’s breaking down in your arms.
He’s fragile like that. Breakable. But that fragility cuts both ways.
Because drugs are also when he’s most obsessive. Most raw. That’s when he clings to you hardest, begs, threatens, worships—all in one breath.
If you ever manage to escape, it’ll be when he’s strung out, unable to move. But surviving the consequences? That’s the real risk.
Wit’s end: Would they ever hurt their darling?
He wouldn’t hurt you on purpose—at least, that’s what he tells himself. But when his world spins out of control and the anger takes over, his hands can do damage before his mind catches up.
Xoanon: How much would they revere or worship their darling? To what length would they go to win their darling over?
He puts you above everything. His obsession swallows up any sense or mercy. He worships you in his own twisted way, rough and desperate to own every inch of you.
Especially in the bedroom when he’s buried inside of you.
“My girl always takes my fat cock so good,”
“Your pussy was made for it.”
or when he’s got his head between your legs, tongue working like he’s starving.
“Could live here, baby. My girl’s got the sweetest little cunt in the world.”
“Keep your eyes on me while I’m on your clit like this, princess. Wanna see you lose it for me.”
“Don’t lie—this pussy’s been begging for me. For my mouth. For your man.”
“This is mine. You hear me? Thanos’ fuckin’ pussy. No one else touches it but me. No one else makes it cry like I do.”
Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap?
It was instant. The second you met, you were already in Su bong’s bed. It wasn’t long before you two started dating and he decided he didn’t want you leaving him alone ever again.
Zenith: Would they ever break their darling?
Su bong doesn’t just want your love—he wants all of you. Your thoughts, your fears, your soul twisted around his name. Breaking you is the goal if that’s what it takes to keep you.
He’ll do it Slowly, tenderly, violently. Until you forget who you were before him. Until your world starts and ends with him.
And when you finally surrender—eyes dazed, voice barely there, calling him yours with what’s left of you—he’ll press a kiss to your forehead and say,
“I’ve been saying it from the start, flower. You and me? We were always meant to be.”
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