Yandere yandere stalker! x reader
based on this by @cloudedwonder
TW: stalker, yandere, you're held captive by a chain
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“Do you like to read?” you asked timidly, your voice barely above a whisper.
Your captor sat beside you, the chain around your ankle clinking softly as you shifted. His eyes lit up at your question, a wide grin spreading across his face as though you’d just given him the greatest gift imaginable.
“Poetry,” he said, almost breathlessly. “I only really read poetry.”
For a moment, just a moment, you forgot. Forgot the chain, the cold metal biting into your skin, the oppressive reality of the room he had carefully constructed for you. You leaned forward, hopeful.
“Oh, I love poetry! I’m the same way- it’s hard to get through fiction sometimes. Do you write poetry too?”
His smile faltered, just slightly, replaced by a look so intense it made your breath hitch. His gaze bore into you, unblinking, as though he were memorizing every detail of your face in that moment.
“Yeah,” he said softly, standing up with a sudden urgency. “Wait here. I’ll show you.”
As if you could go anywhere else.
He disappeared through the heavy, locked door, his footsteps echoing in the hallway beyond. A chill swept through the room, the absence of his presence almost worse than his overwhelming proximity. Before you could dwell on it, he was back, clutching a battered notebook in his hands like a precious relic.
“I’ve never shown this to anyone before,” he admitted, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. He placed the notebook in your lap, his fingers lingering on the edges as though reluctant to let it go.
You opened it, flipping to the first page, but your stomach sank. The handwriting was chaotic, messy beyond comprehension. You struggled to make sense of it as you debated what to say.
“I think…” you began carefully, “I think I’d like it better if you read it to me. Would that be okay?”
His face lit up again, his posture straightening as he took the notebook back with reverence.
“Of course,” he said, settling back into his spot. His voice softened as he began to read:
“There is no home where my heart lives:
No, my heart lives with you.
My heart settles under your pillow,
Nestles in your hair,
Wagging its veins like a tail without care,
My heart lives in every glance you give me,
Tends to your wounds,
Sees the pain and the wear.
My heart longs to hold you while your bruises heal,
My heart yearns with no compare.
My heart lives with you.
My heart knows that you are rare.”
His voice wavered on the last line, his eyes searching yours with a quiet desperation.
You swallowed hard, a lump forming in your throat as your mind raced. The words were beautiful, haunting in a way that made your skin crawl.
“Well?” he asked, leaning closer, his voice a trembling whisper. “Did you like it?”
Your heart pounded in your chest. “It was…” you hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “Beautiful. Really, it was beautiful.”
The relief that washed over his face was staggering. His smile returned, wider than ever, and he let out a small laugh, almost giddy.
“I’m so glad you think so,” he said, his voice light with a mixture of pride and something darker. “I’ve read your poetry, you know,” he continued, the words slipping out before you could respond. “I’ve read every scrap of it. The things you write… they’re different. It’s like I’m reading the words of someone who’s been hiding, someone who doesn’t want to be found. But I found them, didn’t I?” His smile deepened as he leaned in, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling satisfaction.
You froze. Your stomach sank. You knew he’d been watching you. That much was clear. But reading everything you wrote? The things you kept hidden? You couldn't help but look surprised.
“I love it,” he continued, his voice soft but insistent, the edge of admiration in his tone sending a shiver through you. “The way your words ache, the way they hide the truth but beg to be seen. It’s… beautiful, really.” He leaned back, “I don’t think I’ve ever read anything so real before. It’s as if you’ve written every feeling I’ve ever had, every secret I’ve buried in my own chest.” His hand reached for yours.
His gaze never left yours, and you could feel the weight of his words settle over you like a thick blanket. Your poetry, your inner world, he was reveling in it, and somehow, it felt like he was claiming it as his own.
“Thank you..” You squeaked, not knowing what to say.
His fingers lingered on yours a moment longer before gently pulling you closer, his touch slow and deliberate. He pulled you into his arms, his embrace careful, as though you were something delicate—fragile, yet somehow precious. You didn’t resist. You couldn’t. The quiet warmth of his body against yours was both soothing and unsettling, like a storm settling into a calm. His breath, steady and slow, filled the silence, wrapping around you as if it were part of the room itself.
The chain around your ankle felt like it was miles away. The heavy door that separated you from the outside world was an echo in your mind, distant and fading. There was only the space between the two of you now, only the simple act of holding and being held.
Part of you wanted to pull away, to guard yourself, but another part, the part that had been buried under the weight of fear, allowed yourself to be held, to forget everything else, even if just for a moment.
There was something comforting in the quiet, in the stillness of his touch, as though you were both suspended in time, alone but not lonely, vulnerable yet safe. His words had bared your soul, but in his arms, there was no judgment. There was only acceptance.
For the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to let go. To stop worrying about escaping, about surviving. In this moment, there was only the soft comfort of being held, of being cared for in a way you had never allowed yourself to experience. And as he held you, you let yourself believe that, for now, that was enough.
