𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

The man in your apartment knows you better than you know yourself.

♡ Book. A Heart Devoured: A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Stalker x Fem. Reader

♡ Oneshot. #1

♡ Word Count. 908

The night swallowed the city whole, wrapping it in the kind of darkness that only amplifies your breathing. He had been watching you for hours now, hidden just beyond the edges of your comprehension, a master of shadows and silence. You didn’t know, couldn’t know, but he had memorized the fragile line of your existence—the tremble in your voice when you spoke too quickly, the way your hands fumbled over themselves when you thought no one noticed. You were art in its most raw form: vulnerable, flawed, perfect.

He thought about you every second every single day. You had no idea.

The first time he saw you, it had been accidental. A fleeting moment—your back turned to him, your hair catching the low golden light like the divine threads of some celestial loom. His breath had caught, just for a second, but in that second, his world shattered and reformed around one singular truth: you were his. He didn’t know your name then, but he didn’t need to. A predator never needs to introduce himself to his prey.

Tonight, he stands in your apartment, the silence of your slumber heavy in the air. You don’t hear him, don’t feel his gaze burning into your sleeping form. You’ve sprawled out on the bed like a lamb offered up for slaughter, limbs loose, breath even. He’s been here long enough to memorize the rise and fall of your chest, the vulnerable hollow of your throat, the pulse-point just beneath your jaw. His gloved fingers twitch, aching to reach out, to press down, to claim.

But he won’t—not yet. No, not yet. Anticipation is a wine best aged, and he has patience honed by decades of knowing how to break things.

His own reflection in the mirror catches his eye. He’s huge, monstrous compared to you—broad shoulders, scarred hands, a face carved by the violence of time and regret. He looks like someone who’s torn lives apart, because he has. The juxtaposition is delicious, isn’t it? You, all soft and warm and untouched; him, sharp edges and blackened depths. The lamb and the wolf.

He steps closer, boots silent against the hardwood. Every fiber of his being screams to touch you, but he resists, fists clenching at his sides. The air feels heavier the closer he gets, charged like the moment before a storm breaks. His voice, low and guttural, cuts through the stillness, though it’s barely a whisper.

“You don’t even know, do you?”

You stir faintly in your sleep, a soft sound spilling from your lips. His chest tightens at the noise. He doesn’t want to wake you, not yet, but the idea of you opening those innocent eyes and finding him here, towering over you like the monster in the dark, makes him shudder. Fear looks good on you. He knows it will. He’s dreamt of it.

“You’re so fragile,” he murmurs, the words more for himself than for you. “I could crush you with a hand around your neck, and you’d still be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

The knife at his hip is a comforting weight. He doesn’t intend to use it—yet. It’s there as a reminder, a talisman against his own spiraling thoughts. He wants to keep you. He’ll have to hurt you, yes, break you a little to make you fit in his world, but he won’t destroy you. Not entirely. The line between possession and obliteration is thin, razor-thin, and he walks it with a surgeon’s precision.

You shift again, this time closer to waking. A soft noise escapes your throat, and his breath hitches. He steps back into the shadows, watching as your eyes flutter open, unfocused, scanning the darkness. You sit up slowly, the blanket falling from your shoulders. The room feels wrong, doesn’t it? You’re not alone, even if your logical mind is screaming that you are.

“Who’s there?” your voice is hoarse, tinged with fear. He doesn’t answer, of course. Instead, he lets the silence stretch, lets your panic bloom like some exquisite flower. You reach for your phone on the nightstand, but it’s not there. He has it. He’s been reading your texts for weeks, combing through every word for evidence of someone who might take you from him. There’s no one. Not yet. And if there ever is, he’ll handle it.

You’re standing now, edging toward the door, your breath quickening. It’s intoxicating, watching you like this. The fear, the confusion, the dawning realization that something is deeply, irrevocably wrong.

“Why are you running?” his voice comes from the corner of the room, low and smooth and dripping with menace. You freeze, your eyes snapping to the darkness where he stands. You can’t see him, not fully, but you feel him.

“Who are you?” your voice trembles.

He steps forward into the dim light, slow and deliberate, letting you take him in. He sees the fear bloom in your eyes, sees the way your body tenses like a rabbit caught in a snare. It’s beautiful.

“I’m the only one who will ever love you the way you deserve,” he says, voice soft but cold as the grave. “You’ll understand soon enough.”

And then he lunges.