Can you maybe do a part two of the yandere Saja boy series I lauv the way u wrote them!!
Saja Boys as yanderes pt. 2
đ Part 1
Tags: gn!reader, yandere, dark romance, possessive behavior, psychological manipulation, obsessive love, unhealthy relationships, stalking
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You notice the app at the end of the week. Itâs tucked between your utilities and photo editor, under a name that doesnât catch your attention at first. When you tap it, the screen lights up with a timeline. Everywhere youâve been in the past three days. Time stamps. Duration. How long you spent inside each building. Even the stops that felt forgettableâmarked and measured.
You just stare for a while, thumb hovering over the delete button.
But something keeps you from tapping it.
You think about the way Jinu held you that night. The way his voice dropped, low and raw, like it cost him something to say it out loud. Youâre mine.
Youâre not scared of him. Not exactly.
But your stomach twists a little when you walk into the kitchen and he greets you with a soft, âYou made it back fast.â
You hadnât told him you were leaving.
Still, he presses a warm mug into your hands like itâs routine. Kisses the top of your head like always. You try to shake it off; youâve seen people ruin good things by overthinking. And Jinuâheâs not like that. He loves you. That much has always been clear.
That night, he offers to brush your hair while you sit between his legs on the couch. His fingers move gently, almost rhythmically, and after a while, you relax into him. He hums something unfamiliar under his breath. Itâs quiet; a little haunting. Almost like a lullaby you half remember.
âI donât want to ever lose you,â he says.
You tilt your head up. âYou wonât.â
He smiles, but thereâs something tight in it. Something that doesnât quite reach his eyes. âThatâs why I do what I do. To protect whatâs mine.â
You want to ask what he means. But you donât.
Later, while you sleep, your phone lights up on the nightstand. The app refreshes. Quietly. Automatically. A message flashes across the screen:
Location tracking active. Alerts enabled.Unusual movement: 0. Distance from home: 0.
Jinu turns his head. Watches your face like heâs reading a story he already knows by heart.
He doesnât reach for the phone. He doesnât have to. He already knows everything he needs. Instead, he adjusts the blanket around your shoulders, pulls it up to your chin, and presses a slow kiss to your temple.
You start to notice it in little ways.
Your favorite cafĂŠ switches owners. The barista who used to give you free extra syrup is suddenly gone. You open your phone to message someone about itâonly to realize the appâs not there anymore. You couldâve sworn you didnât delete it. Maybe it vanished during one of those late-night system updates Romance swore would âmake your phone run better.â
He starts showing up more often. Not in an obvious, clingy way; heâs smooth about it. Always just happening to be where you are. Waiting outside your building with your favorite snacks. Running into you mid-errand like itâs a coincidence. Texting you things like, âYou looked really cute in that sweater today,â even though you never posted a photo.
You ask him how he knew. He just smiles.
âI pay attention,â he says. âOther people donât. I do.â
He buys you a necklace with a little charm on it. Itâs subtle; tasteful. You thank him and wear it without thinking much. Until one night, when he leans in close and says, âI like knowing you have a piece of me on you. Even when Iâm not there.â
But itâs sweet. Right? Itâs sweet.
He notices your silence and adds, almost sheepishly, âI just love you a lot. Is that scary?â
You shake your head. Because what else are you supposed to say?
Then one evening, you find a folder on his desk. Itâs thick, like itâs been added to over time. Inside, itâs filled with photos. Of you. Some youâve seenâInstagram posts, photos youâve sent him, vacation selfies. But some you havenât.
You in the grocery store. You walking home. You through your apartment window. You sleeping.
You flip through them, your hands colder with every page. Your heart races.
You confront him, voice tight.
He looks confused, then hurt.
âI didnât mean to scare you,â he says, like thatâs the part that matters. âI just⌠I like keeping track of you. So I know youâre safe.â
When you donât respond, he steps forward. Wraps his arms around you like heâs scared youâll disappear. You feel him exhale against your neckâlong and slow, like being near you calms something inside him that no one else can reach.
âIâm not like them,â he whispers. âI wonât leave. I wonât hurt you. Iâll always be here.â
You forget the last time you picked out your own meals. The last time you stayed up late without him gently tugging you to bed, his voice soft but firm, the kind that didnât leave much room for argument. Your phone buzzes less and less. Abby keeps it charged for you now. Updates your calendar. Takes your calls when youâre âtoo overwhelmed.â
âItâs easier this way,â he says one night, setting your phone on the table, screen dim. âYouâve got so much on your mind already.â
You nod, because you do. And heâs right. He always is. Itâs strange how comforting that becomesâhow easily he seems to know what you need, even before you do.
He cooks. He cleans. He restocks your shampoo before you realize itâs low. But the more decisions he makes, the fewer you do. And it starts to add up. Quietly. Almost invisibly. Until one day you suggest something smallâchanging the show on the TVâand he gives you a look. Not upset. Just disappointed.
âYou trust me, donât you?â
You nod without thinking.
He smiles, brushes your hair back like nothing happened. âThatâs all I need.â
Eventually, he stops asking to hold your hand in public. He just does itâintertwines your fingers like itâs second nature. Like itâs how things have always been.
When you cry, he holds you with both arms like you might float away. He lets you fall apart against him and hums something low and steady until the shaking stops. His hands are always steady. They never tremble.
One night, when the house is quiet and your thoughts arenât, you try to call someone. You donât even know who. You just want to talk. But thereâs no signal. And when you check your contacts, the list is empty.
You find Abby in the kitchen, wiping down the counters. He looks up with a smile like heâs been waiting.
âYou needed me,â he says simply, like itâs the most obvious thing in the world. âAnd Iâm here.â
His voice never rises. His grip is never rough. But the more you try to pull awayâjust a little, just enough to breatheâthe tighter his hands hold. The longer he lingers.
âYou donât have to think anymore,â he says, resting his forehead against yours. âJust stay with me. Iâll handle everything.â
Because when everything else feels like itâs slipping, heâs the one thing that doesnât move. The only thing that makes sense.
He cups your face like youâre delicate; kisses your temple like itâs a vow. His voice stays low and sure, always warm, always calm.
âYouâre mine,â he whispers. âYou were always going to be mine.â
You didnât know he was following you.
It started small. An umbrella leaning by the door before the rain started. Your favorite drink was waiting on the counter after a passing comment the day before. A missing key was placed beside your phone, like it had never been gone in the first place.
You tried to be logical. Maybe you were just forgetful. Maybe it was a coincidence.
But sometimes, coincidence feels too exact.
Sometimes, youâd catch movement out of the corner of your eyeâa figure standing across the street, someone leaning on a wall at the edge of the train platform. Always far enough not to be certain; always gone by the time you looked again.
He never said anything. Not then.
One night, past midnight, you heard the door click shut. No footsteps. No voices. Just the soft sound of something being locked into place. You stayed still under the blanket, heart pounding, counting the seconds in the silence.
When you finally got up, the door was locked. The lights were off. Everything was in place.
Except your charger, which had been plugged in and looped neatly on your side of the bedâno longer tugged too short to use while lying down.
You didnât ask questions. Not out loud.
But in the dark, you whispered, âAre you here?â
You went back to bed anyway.
The next morning, there was a folded note in your coat pocket.
Donât be scared. I would never let anything hurt you.
The handwriting was neat. Deliberate. Familiar in a way that made your stomach turn.
You shouldâve called someone. Changed the locks. Packed a bag.
But that night, the room felt colder than usual. Heavier. And when the window closed on its own, you didnât move. When the mattress dipped behind you, you kept your eyes shut and pretended not to notice the shift of weight.
Mystery never forces you to stay.
But heâs there; in every shadow, in every locked door, in the way your life fits just a little too neatly into place. You never hear him arrive, never catch him leaving. But you feel himâthe pressure in the air, the corners of the mirror that seem darker than they should be, the slow hum of cameras that donât belong to you.
Not to punish. Not to hurt.
But to protect whatâs his.
And even if you did run, even if you locked every door and turned off every light, heâd still be there.
He doesnât let go for a while. His grip is warm; comforting, even. But something about it makes your skin prickle. Itâs like being held a little too carefully, like heâs afraid youâll slip through his fingers if he doesnât hold on just right.
Later that night, you find your old phone in the drawer of your bedside table, powered off and tucked inside a sock you donât remember losing. The screen lights up when you press the button, but itâs clean. Wiped. No messages, no photos, no history. Just a blank slate.
You stare at it for a long time before quietly setting it down.
Baby walks in not long after. He doesnât say anything at first; just drops beside you, legs stretched out and head resting against your shoulder like itâs the most natural thing in the world.
âI made dinner,â he says eventually. âYour favorite. The one you said reminded you of home.â
His fingers skim your wrist, gentle. âYou seemed a little off earlier.â
He hums. âThen rest. I can handle things. Whatever you need, Iâll take care of it.â
You donât say anything.
He smiles at you again, slower this time. Like he knows you wonât argue.
That night, he tucks you in. Kisses your forehead and tells you to sleep well. But he doesnât leave.
You wake up sometime past midnight and find him sitting at the edge of the bed, still fully dressed, just watching you.
âI had a nightmare,â he says when your eyes meet. âThat you left me.â
You blink, unsure how to respond.
He climbs under the covers, wraps himself around you like itâs instinct. His arms slip around your waist, holding you close, holding you still.
âI donât want to be without you,â he whispers into your hair. âEver. So please donât give me a reason to make sure I never have to be.â
His voice is soft. Still sweet.
But your chest doesnât tighten the way it usually does.
