Hear me. [Yandere!OC x Reader]
Somewhere, someplace, you've read that love can be madness.
It's an idea you've enjoyed many fantasies with. In many ways and in many forms. Words written of grotesque love in comforting bites, videos, movies, shows of pretend obsession--Some softer, behind a Cafe counter or a flower shop, and some heavier--whispered in the dark between blades and chains and hands too desperate and depraved in its obsession to fall in line with what should be right. Sirens and pirates, vampires and hunters, witches and magic and all sorts of dynamics so far removed from yourself. A fantasy is a fantasy. A movie is just a movie. A book is just a book.
You've read about yourself in thousands of words, meeting different types of love of different forms. Sometimes, you sit there and you wonder, despite the fact that you know a fantasy is just a fantasy, if you would ever stop it from happening if you ever encountered it in reality.
You met a man with eyes intense and dark and a quiet voice that seemed like it was speaking to you and you alone. You thought to yourself, 'ha... He'd fit right in with those I read about.' and you'd wondered about the type of love he'd give. You weren't so out of touch, though your romantic history seems to escape your mind right now, surely you know that the reality would never measure up to the fantasy you make up for yourself.
He's a really quiet person, you've realized. But when you speak to him, he listens. Intently. As if every word you say, every thought you have, is what makes up his world. Sometimes you'll catch him parting his lips as if to speak, but then he seems to think better of it and quiets, it makes you wonder if he sometimes speaks to you when your mind is wandering too much to hear him.
You've noticed that he keeps his hands on you when you two are together. Always, clutching your sleeve or holding your hand, keeping his arms around you, so you're aware of his skin against yours. It's sweet you think, if it wasn't for how shaken he looks when you pull away. How desperate his touch seems when he reaches for you again.
And then it's those eyes again, holding yours hostage even though you're both alone and having dinner, it's like the world disappears and he hangs onto every word you say. He listens, even when you tell him about books you've read, characters you like. Nonsense you don't even remember a few sentences after. He listens.
Sometimes you wonder if he's in his own world when he's silent. Because he'll say things which makes you take pause, like at the dinner, where he takes your moment of silence to say.. "I hear you."
You give him a small smile, though he's staring directly at you. And he speaks as if his words are a secret.
He always speaks like that. Like there's tension in his body he doesn't know where to put. It makes you giddy, at times, when his eyes darken and watch you with a guarded caution. Like you're something important. It makes you question whether the books weren't entirely wrong.
"It's you, right..?" He'd said, his fingers carressing your face. His eyes shift like he's looking for something. "You can hear me too."
"Yes." You'd breathed the secret words. A flurry of emotion in your chest at the intensity in his eyes growing hotter.
Though, this is the real world. And things aren't sunshine and rainbows. The longer you've been together, the more his grip grows more than desperate. His stare grows stranger, the intensity which made butterflies explode in your stomach, now causes a cold chill to douse you. His quiet words, don't sound like a secret between the two of you anymore. They sound like a secret you're eavesdropping on.
Those words repeated, but you grew more and more uneasy with feeling that he was looking past you, even when he stared in your eyes so intently.
You were starting to realize there was wisdom to the saying 'A fantasy is just a fantasy.'
You'd noticed he had realised something too.
Maybe you grew bored. Your interactions seemed to be escaping your mind. It almost felt as if everytime you turned to hear him, your memory blanked and then the interaction was over. Your boredom didn't go unnoticed. Of course it wouldn't. He seemed to notice everything about you, even the most strange. You'd asked him once: "Why are you so interested in me?"
It was a weird thing to ask. Insecure at best. Buat you'd asked it anyway. Because surely his overwhelming interest was unnatural. You weren't all that special, after all. You were every ordinary person.
He'd been scribbling something on one of your notebooks, he barely hesitated when he said. "You're..." You could have sworn he'd mumbled something between, but you couldn't quite remember. All you remember was: "You. You're the only one who can see me." He paused, a small smile quirked his lips, a bit melancholic, a bit... Like he was enjoying an irony lost on you. "Hear me. You're the only one who can hear me." You didn't know if that response was comforting. Seeing your troubled expression, his eyes studied you with a new intensity--That look that sent shivers down your spine. As if he was having a conversation you weren't privy to. "It feels like I've met you before. Somewhere else. Sometime else. Maybe that's why. Maybe in a previous life."
He'd closed the notebook. His doodling seemingly over.
It was a normal day as far as you knew. You had a date with your boyfriend that day, and a strange feeling in your gut kept picking at you. The sky despite its array of golden colours, red and orange and hues of a painters dream, felt like an omen worthy of admiring. You pushed aside that thought. But the sense was still there, as you walked to your home, a defeaning silence broken only by the slam of your door and the jingle of your keys.
The thought occured to you, then. Love shouldn't be madness, should it?
You'd shed your clothes, and made yourself comfortable. And as you walked around the counter, you'd paused at the notebook which you'd remembered your boyfriend holding onto. It was yours, but he'd taken a liking to it, took it with him where ever he went.
A sinking feeling hollowed out your chest, just staring at it. You'd taken it in your hands, and flipped through what you thought would be sketches.
But that's not what you found.
No. They were writings. Some calm, some frazzled and much more like chicken scratch than any language you could decipher. Your name... was everywhere, and nowhere. The pages flutter and settle on the last thing he'd been scribbling.
You. You. You. You can here me.
It was almost like a transcription of the conversation you'd been having that day.
"Why do you like me?" The words looked like they'd been dug into the page, leaving an imprint on the page behind. The words after it made you raise an eyebrow. "You're the reader."
You can hear me. No-- You can see me. You can see this, even if you can't 'hear' it. You won't remember this. Will you? You are the only one who can hear me. You have to hear me. I know it's you this time.
You didn't hear him, but you sure felt it. The sudden pain in your gut, which had been coiling with tension the whole day. The warmth of crimson which bloomed on your clothes. The heat of his body pressed against your back.
I'm not ashamed of what I did to you, dear reader, you must understand this.
Your eyes werent focused, but his voice narrates his words with perfect clarity as the weakness drains your body.
"You've read that love is madness. But love only drives people to madness when they can't see what they are." Your struggles are weak as he drives the metal deeper, again, and again and again---
"This isn't you."
"You have a name. a differen't one everytime."
"You can see me, though, can't you? You can read me."
The blood feels heavy, but your body feels heavier. It always does, everytime. But he's not interested in playing this game of tropes and 'story'. No. The crimson seeps into your floorboards, wrapping around him like chains, weighing down his flesh and his clothes. Not that you've ever seen them. You haven't heard him this time. Not enough, atleast. You haven't seen him this time. Have you? No. You couldn't describe him, if he'd asked.
But he knows this is the only way. The panic in his chest fills, as he watches your body sag agaisnt him. "It's almost over-- You have to listen to me! You can hear me now, right?! Listen to me please, just give me a sign-- I don't have enough time, you have to read more--"
