#yandere coded

So why does your hand touching another man's arm twist his insides into a bitter flurry of inferno and crippling nausea?

Why does he knock his shoulder so hard into whoever you’re talking to that the other man stumbles back onto his ass with a gasp of winded air?

And why does it feel good, like he’s getting his own back?

“Sorry.” He’d gruff down at the prick when you crouch to him, hands reaching for his shuddering shoulders, a curve worrying between your brows.

He’s not. Not really. Never has been. He’d do it again, has done it before even, but you’d want him to be sorry and that’s enough for him to say it anyway. Honestly, Enoch prays you know how much he really does for you. How much change he makes to everything he does so you’ll be sated.

He can settle with the soft ‘it’s okay, it was an accident’ you sigh out time and time again.

For now, at least.

Really, out of everything, Enoch wants you to see how he yearns for you. He wants you to look at him when he looks at you and see every thought and every feeling he’s ever felt for you. He needs you to recognise how truly connected you are, how soul bound he is to you, and he wants you to fix it.

He wants your death riddled fingers to caress his soul deep and grip the part of him enaroumed with you soft enough to soften its hardened edges and alight it dead right after. He wants to look at you and feel normal, like you weren’t the sigh of the wind and the ripple of the sea, like you didn’t shift the earth on its axis with one soft look and twitch of your mouth. He wants you out of his soul and out his head.

Really though, worst of all, he wants you to see him. Really see him, for all of his twisted bitterness and angry lines, and love him so. Despite it. For it.

You won’t.

You’re soft where Enoch’s rough, sweet where he’s bitter. You crumble under his meanness with a wobbly lip and fluttering eyes. You find joy and life within everything despite being stuck in the same day on a loop and Enoch grumbles at the constant repetition with a scathing heart.

You love soft and tender, with brushes of hands and fresh flowers.

Enoch would consume you with his devotion until you drowned within him with gasping breaths and pleas of a softer benevolence.

So he watches you collect tender-hearted flings from the sidelines with clenched fists and gritted teeth, avoiding stray bullets with practiced precision and near misses, and tries his best to stay out of it.

The knife twists with every new giggle and tuck of your hair but still he stands and watches and waits. For what he doesn’t know but he waits.

Honestly, he’s coming around to the sharp twang that shoots through his chest when you look at them. He enjoys it.

It’s the realest thing you give him.

~ 𐀔 ~ 𐀔 ~ 𐀔 ~