𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

Yandere! Nerd

Word Count: 1,056 words

He was invisible, and that suited him just fine. Beneath his baggy sweaters and thick-rimmed glasses, the world saw nothing but a quiet, awkward loner who avoided eye contact and muttered his words. No one cared enough to notice the subtle stretch of fabric over his broad shoulders, the way his forearms flexed when he adjusted his sleeves, or how his knuckles turned white as he clutched the edge of his desk while you laughed at some fool in the hallway.

You didn’t notice him, either. Not really. You were polite, in the detached way that people are when they don’t expect to see someone twice. Your bright eyes barely skimmed his, a fleeting glance that sent tremors racing down his spine. You were his axis, his center of gravity, and yet you hadn’t even bothered to ask his name.

He’d memorized yours the moment he heard it.

It started innocently enough. Watching you in university class, studying the delicate slope of your neck as you tucked your hair behind your ear. Tracking the way your lips moved when you answered a question, imagining how they’d part beneath his own. A fixation, he told himself—nothing more. But that was before he’d followed you home, before he’d tasted the thrill of stepping inside your unlocked apartment for the first time. Before he’d laid in your bed, inhaling the faint perfume of you on your pillow, knowing that one day… one day, you’d be his.

The first time he took something, it was a hairpin left carelessly on your bathroom counter. It rested now in his pocket, pressed against his chest as though anchoring him to you. He liked to think you’d given it to him. That you’d left it out just for him to find.

He liked to think a lot of things.

His obsession with you consumed him. He scrawled your name into the margins of his notebooks, his hand cramping from the sheer repetition. His nights were spent building plans, carefully constructed fantasies where you saw him—truly saw him—and fell to your knees in surrender. He’d paint himself as your savior, your keeper, your husband. He’d promise to take care of you, to love you like no one else could, and you’d learn to obey him with a grateful smile.

You’d have to.

Because by the time he’d decided the moment was right, you didn’t have a choice anymore.

The moment was tonight.

It happens so fast, your head spins. One minute, you’re fumbling with your keys in the dim light of your hallway. The next, his massive hand is clamped over your mouth, dragging you backward into the suffocating shadows of your apartment. His scent overwhelms you—a sharp tang of sweat and something metallic, coppery. Blood, you realize in a burst of sickening clarity.

“Shhh,” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. “No screaming, little sugar. You’ll make this harder than it has to be.”

You struggle, your nails clawing at his arms, but it’s like scratching at iron bars. The strength he’d concealed for so long is now unrestrained, coiled muscle pinning you against him as if you weighed nothing at all. Tears streak your face, muffled sobs drowned by the rough fabric of his sweater.

“Don’t cry,” he coos, his tone soft but laced with a chilling undercurrent of command. “You’re too pretty to cry.”

He shoves you forward, and you stumble into the living room. The sharp edge of your coffee table bites into your thighs, but you’re too frozen in terror to register the pain. He looms behind you, closing the door with a deliberate click. The sound echoes like a death knell.

“You’ve been so careless, you know that?” His voice is low, almost conversational, as though you were old friends catching up after years apart. “Leaving your windows unlocked. Walking home alone in the dark. It’s like you wanted someone to take you.”

You whirl to face him, heart hammering against your ribs. In the pale glow of the streetlight filtering through the blinds, his features come into focus. You know him. You’ve seen him before, sitting silently at the back of your lectures, always watching but never speaking. He was nobody. Just a ghost.

Except now, he’s the only thing that exists.

“Please,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I don’t even know you.”

His lips curl into a smile—slow, predatory. “Oh, but I know you.”

The rest of the night is a blur of horror. His words twist around you like barbed wire, slicing into your resolve with every cruel, possessive declaration. He knows everything. Your routines, your favorite coffee order, the name of your childhood pet. He speaks of your life with the familiarity of a lover, but his gaze is anything but tender. It’s the gaze of a predator, drinking in your fear with ravenous hunger.

When he finally touches you, it’s not with the hesitant fumbling of the shy, awkward boy he pretended to be. His hands are rough, commanding, claiming every inch of you as though he’s branding you as his. He leaves bruises in his wake, purpling marks that bloom against your skin like twisted flowers.

You beg him to stop, but he only laughs, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrates through your very bones.

“Stop?” he murmurs, his voice dripping with mockery. “Sugar, this is what you wanted. Why else would you tease me like that? Flouncing around in those tight little outfits, smiling at everyone like you didn’t know what it did to me.”

His words make your stomach churn, bile rising in your throat. You shake your head, choking on your protests, but he silences you with a bruising kiss that steals the air from your lungs.

When it’s over, you’re left shattered, curled into yourself on the cold, unforgiving floor. He kneels beside you, his fingers threading through your hair in a mockery of comfort.

“You’ll thank me one day,” he says, his tone soft but resolute. “You’ll see that no one else can love you like I do. No one else deserves you.”

You want to scream, to fight, to claw at his face until there’s nothing left, but your body betrays you. Exhaustion pulls at your limbs, dragging you into a restless, nightmare-riddled sleep.

When you wake, he’ll still be there. Watching. Waiting. Smirking.