𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

She’s emotionally constipated and he’s fluent in dysfunction. Perfect match.

♡ Yandere! Superpowers AU x Fem. Reader. feat. Yandere! Brother-From-Another-Mother

♡ Word Count. 6,230

It started with a box of Pocky and a shared hatred of humanity.

You didn’t even want to be outside. You were forced—by one of the teachers who had the audacity to believe “sunlight is good for you” despite being a useless adult with a Gift that only let him control the direction of wind farts.

You sat in the shadow of the school building, lunchbox unopened, headphones in, even though nothing was playing. You just didn’t want to be spoken to.

That’s when he walked up, not looking at you. He just flopped down on the same wall, two meters away. No warning. No hello.

He had dead fish eyes. Not in the cool way like that one villain everyone thirsted over online, but in the way that made you think if a bomb dropped right now, he wouldn’t bother ducking.

He didn’t even glance your way. Just popped open a box of Pocky and started eating.

Silence stretched for a while, long enough for your internal monologue to start spiraling. Why is he here? Did I miscalculate the blind spot area? Is he going to talk to me? What does he want? Did he see me lift the security lock on the Gift vault last week?

“Want one?” he asked, arm half-extended, not looking at you.

You stared at the stick of chocolate-coated cardboard like it was a trap.

“No thanks,” you said flatly. Internally: He’s testing me.

He shrugged. “More for me.”

That was the first time you didn’t immediately dismiss someone as a threat or an idiot. He didn’t talk to you again that day.

The next time he sat with you, he brought a puzzle book.

Sudoku. Beginner level.

You gave it a side-eye.

“That’s too easy,” you muttered.

He passed you a pen.

“Then do it.”

So you did. Finished three pages in five minutes.

“Got anything harder?”

He yawned. “Too lazy to bring another one.”

But the next day, he did. Hard mode. Killer Sudoku. Kakuro. Even a few riddles scribbled into the margins. You didn’t say thank you. He didn’t expect it.

Somehow, without any formal agreement, the two of you just started being… there. Not friends, obviously. That would imply emotional connection, which would imply trust, which would imply the possibility of betrayal, and hell no.

But you didn’t hate his presence.

He was quiet. He didn’t pry. He never asked about your nonexistent Gift or why the bullies treated you like a public trash bin with legs. In fact, the only time he spoke up about them was when one of them tried to throw a shoe at you and he caught it midair, tossed it on the roof, and said, “I thought the goal was basketball, not being a dumbass.”

You laughed.

You never laughed.

You regretted it instantly.

He looked at you sideways, like he’d just seen a ghost smile.

“You’re weird,” he said.

You deadpanned, “Takes one to know one.”

He smirked. “Touché.”

From then on, it became a thing. You’d challenge each other with dumb logic puzzles and hypothetical situations. He once asked how you’d destroy the world in under 48 hours without using physical violence.

You described a method involving mass hypnosis via gifted reality distortion and manipulating political figures into mutually assured destruction.

He nodded solemnly and said, “I would’ve just hacked the food supply chain and blamed it on aliens.”

You started calling him “lazier than gods.”

He called you “The Final Boss.”

It wasn’t affection. Not really. You didn’t do affection. But it was close enough to comfort that you stopped flinching when someone sat beside you. You still hated everyone. But you hated them slightly less when he was around.

Still, you were careful.

He was different from the others. The bullies were easy—loud, predictable, stupid. Heroes in training with inflated egos and Gifts they didn’t deserve. You could predict every move they’d make six steps ahead.

But him?

He watched.

He remembered.

Once, you changed your entire route home just to avoid a Gift surveillance sweep. The next day, he casually asked, “You always take the sewer path on Wednesdays?”

You blinked. “You were tracking me?”

He shrugged. “No. Just noticed the mud on your left shoe was from sector G drainage, which only backs up on Wednesdays.”

You stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

Then you thought: Dangerous.

He had no Gift. None. Just like you pretended to have none. That’s what made him a real threat. He was smart. Scary smart. The kind of smart that didn’t show itself until you realized he’d been four moves ahead for a week and you were only catching on now.

So you started testing him.

You laid little traps in conversation. Lies about events, red herrings in puzzles, even faked being sick for a day just to see what he’d do.

Each time, he saw through it. Didn’t call you out. Just left quiet hints that he knew.

One day, he said, “You think everyone’s stupid. And that’s why you’re always tired.”

You bristled.

Then he added, “It’s not that you think you’re better. You just know they’ll never understand. So you stop trying.”

You didn’t respond.

He didn’t press.

You kind of wanted to murder him. Just a little.

He was the only one who scared you.

Not the Gifted freaks who blew buildings up. Not the pro heroes who pretended to be righteous while secretly abusing their power. Not even the government hounds sniffing around for new “talent” to exploit.

Him.

This kid who never said more than he needed to. This kid who was always watching.

You had a thousand thoughts a minute. He let them all simmer, then cut to the heart of it in one sentence.

If anyone could corner you, it was him.

Which is why you played your role so perfectly. The dead-eyed, powerless freak. The ghost in the corner. You even let the bullying continue for months, just to solidify your cover.

But he saw it.

He saw through it.

You knew the exact moment, too.

It was after a particularly brutal day. Someone had torn up your notebooks and left Gift-burn marks on your locker. You didn’t even flinch. You just went to the back of the school and sat down, headphones on, staring at the wall.

He sat beside you like always.

Silence.

Then he said, “You could kill them all, couldn’t you?”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

He didn’t look at you.

“Not that you would,” he said, pulling out a new puzzle book. “Too much hassle. You’d probably just erase their Gifts, erase their memories, and go back to writing fanfiction in your cave.”

You turned to look at him slowly. “You think I write fanfiction?”

“You definitely write fanfiction.”

You scoffed. “Prove it.”

He opened his backpack and pulled out a printed copy of a fic under a username you knew wasn’t linked to you anywhere publicly.

“Found it by accident,” he said, totally deadpan. “Your prose is surprisingly decent.”

You lunged at him. He dodged. Lazy as ever, but precise.

“Die.”

“Not before the next chapter.”

That was the first time you realized the full extent of the threat he posed. He didn’t need power. He didn’t even need motive. He just knew things. And worse—he enjoyed knowing.

He knew you were the most dangerous person in the city.

He knew you were lying.

He knew you were lonely.

He didn’t say any of that. He didn’t need to.

Because he stayed.

And that was the scariest part.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

You were never cute.

That’s not an insult. It’s just fact. You didn’t do cute. You did blank stares and monotone sarcasm and staring into the existential void like it owed you money.

You were kuudere incarnate—cold, analytical, five steps ahead of everyone and ten layers underground emotionally. You weren’t even trying to be mysterious. You just genuinely didn’t care.

But lately…

Yeah. You were acting different.

And it was only when you were alone with him.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

Because while you were off playing psychic chess with the world, he was watching people. Always had. That’s what happened when you were born Giftless. You had to learn to survive through observation. Expression. Reading between lines.

And you?

You were an open book pretending to be encrypted.

“Here,” you said, sliding the bento box across the desk during lunch. “You forgot to eat again, dumbass.”

He looked up from his nap like a lazy cat being forced to acknowledge sunlight.

“Hm? You cook now?”

You rolled your eyes. “No, I stole it from a salaryman.”

Pause.

“…I cooked.”

He popped open the lid. Tamagoyaki, rice, two neat rows of veggies, a meat dish that definitely wasn’t from a convenience store. It was too… human.

He looked at you.

You were avoiding his gaze.

A first.

“Cute.”

You smacked him with your book.

“Shut up or I’ll replace the soy sauce with acid.”

So tsundere. So painfully obvious.

And yet, you didn’t even realize it. You were acting different around him, and you had no clue.

That’s what made it cute.

You thought you were being the same stoic, emotionally detached enigma—but your poker face had little cracks now. Tiny ones. Just around him.

Like how you lingered in the hallway when you noticed he forgot his notebook. You claimed it was “to make sure no one tripped on it,” but you stayed until he came back.

Or the time you let him copy your notes—but only his handwriting was neat enough to make your chicken scratch make sense, which you later claimed was “a test of cognitive ability.”

He never called you out.

Because you’d probably implode out of embarrassment.

But he noticed.

God, he always noticed.

You once got flustered over dropping your pencil in front of him and it bounced under his desk. Instead of just grabbing it like a normal person, you froze for a solid ten seconds, muttered “This is a trap,” and then used a magnet on a string like some MacGyver shit.

He didn’t even question it. Just let you do it.

Because watching you operate like a tiny, socially constipated gremlin was the highlight of his day.

One time, he caught you doing your usual “I’m invisible, don’t perceive me” act in the back of class during a group project. Everyone ignored you. Naturally.

Except him.

He walked over. Pulled a chair next to yours.

“You’re in my group now.”

You blinked. “You’re not even in this class.”

He yawned. “Yeah, well. You’re allergic to human interaction, and they’re all dumb. You’ll explode if left alone too long.”

“…You mean implode.”

“Same thing.”

You didn’t argue further. You actually let him help. You even whispered something that sounded suspiciously like “thank you” but he didn’t press.

Because again—cute.

And maybe a little scary.

Because he knew something you didn’t.

You were developing a crush.

On him.

And unlike you, he knew what that meant. What it looked like. Felt like.

Not because he was some romantic expert—god no, he’d rather eat nails than go on a real date—but because he’d seen it before. In others. And in himself, now.

It wasn’t big, dramatic stuff.

It was the way your face would flush slightly when your hands brushed.

It was how you never let anyone near your locker, but you didn’t mind when he leaned against it while waiting for you.

It was how your voice—normally cold, flat, clinical—softened just a little when you said his name.

He didn’t tease.

Didn’t joke.

Didn’t ruin it.

Because you’d probably never say it aloud. You’d die before admitting vulnerability. You’d implode from mortification and ascend to the astral plane.

So he just… accepted it.

Played along.

Matched your pace.

He was lazy, but not careless. He knew how delicate this was. Knew that if he pushed too hard, you’d retreat into your mental cave and ghost the world for a month.

So he kept showing up.

Every morning, he’d leave a puzzle on your desk. A riddle. A logic quiz. You never thanked him out loud, but your eyes would light up—just briefly—when you saw them.

He started bringing a second drink to lunch. Never offered it. Just left it on your side of the table. You always took it.

Once, you got a cold and tried to hide it. Showed up to school with a fever and claimed, “I’m fine. My neurons are just overheating.”

He shoved a thermometer in your mouth and told you to shut up.

You didn’t protest.

And when he walked you home that day—despite your complaints—you let him. Even slowed your pace so he wouldn’t have to catch up.

No words were said. No hands were held.

But something shifted.

And he knew it.

The way you stared up at the sky and muttered, “The stars are dead. Just like my soul,” only to glance sideways at him, waiting for his reaction.

He deadpanned, “Romantic.”

You smirked.

He felt his heart do something traitorous. Something soft.

And that’s when he realized something terrifying.

He liked you.

Not in the casual, distant way he liked ramen or rainy afternoons. But in the dangerous way. The I’ll burn down the world if it hurts you kind of way.

Because you weren’t just smart. You weren’t just powerful. You were you.

A quiet storm.

A ticking bomb of repressed chaos and unspoken hurt.

And somehow, you’d chosen him to be the one person you didn’t keep walls up around.

Even if you didn’t know it.

Even if you’d deny it to your dying breath.

He wouldn’t say it. Not yet.

You’d run.

You’d hide behind a wall of logic and sarcasm and “I don’t care” monologues.

So he waited.

Watched.

And when, one day, you fell asleep during a study session at his house—head on his shoulder, breath even, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands—he didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just stared at you.

And thought:

God, you’re cute when you’re not trying.

Then he whispered, “You’re so obvious.”

You didn’t hear it.

But maybe, someday, you would.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

You were too good at pretending.

And you were so effortless about it.

Not in that obvious way, where you’d overact for attention, but in the way that seemed so natural it was almost flawless. You didn’t scream, didn’t cry, didn’t lash out. You didn’t do any of those normal things people do when they’ve had a bad day. No, you just… existed. Like an empty shell, calm and composed, as if nothing in the world could shake you.

People didn’t understand you. They thought you were some weird loner who didn’t care about anything—especially the whole Giftless thing. They didn’t get why you acted like you didn’t care that you had no ability, no talent. They didn’t get why you smiled when they called you worthless. Or why you didn’t flinch when they shoved you into lockers or made fun of you for being weak.

It didn’t bother you.

It didn’t bother you at all.

But there was one person who did get it. He wasn’t the most perceptive guy in the class, but you didn’t need to be perceptive to know that something was wrong with you. And it wasn’t just because you were Giftless. It wasn’t even because of the way you acted, always trying to blend into the walls, pretending to be invisible.

It was because, despite all that, you still had this quiet, unnerving strength that radiated from you. You were hard to break. You were… unsettling.

He’d always noticed the way you never reacted. Ever. When someone pushed you, when someone belittled you, when someone made you the butt of their jokes, you’d simply stare back with this dead look in your eyes. He saw it every time. It wasn’t like other kids who wanted attention, even if it was negative. It wasn’t that. It was something more… deliberate. Calculated, even.

But more than anything, he noticed how you had this quiet restraint. A level of discipline that seemed almost unnatural for someone your age. He wondered what had happened to you to make you so unfeeling. So utterly controlled.

Because, despite your cold indifference to the world, there were cracks in the mask you wore. Tiny, subtle fractures that no one else noticed—no one, except for him.

✦✧✦✧

It was clear to him after a while that, despite how much you tried to hide it, you were tired. Tired in a way that most people could never understand. It wasn’t physical exhaustion. It wasn’t just because you were lazy or uninterested in school. It was a deeper kind of weariness. A heaviness that hung around your eyes, the corners of your lips, the way your shoulders slumped slightly whenever you thought no one was looking.

And what really made him uneasy, what truly unsettled him, was how well you hid it. How well you could keep the truth tucked away beneath that perfectly apathetic exterior. It was like you had trained yourself to bury everything down, to smile through it, and never let anyone see what was really going on in your head. And you’d done it so well that he’d almost believe you were as unfeeling as you acted.

But he wasn’t stupid.

He knew something had broken you. Something before he met you. Something in the past that had carved deep grooves into your psyche.

And even more unsettling—he knew you were dangerous because of it.

✦✧✦✧

You were so careful with everything, always keeping people at arm’s length, and he saw it. He saw the way your posture was always slightly guarded, your eyes darting around, never staying in one place for too long. Like you were always preparing for something. Always watching, calculating.

No one else noticed. No one else cared enough to look. But he did.

He saw how you never spoke about your family. Not once. Not even the smallest comment. You never brought up any personal stuff outside of school. Your life was an impenetrable black hole, and you never let anyone see past it.

But he knew.

He knew, because it was the same way he acted. It was a pattern, a habit, a defense mechanism. He’d learned the same things growing up. Don’t let anyone in. Don’t show weakness. Don’t show anything. Because if you did, people would exploit it. And they would destroy you.

That’s what made you the most dangerous person he’d ever met. The fact that you knew how to hide it. The fact that you knew how to keep that rawness buried, beneath a mask of indifference and sarcasm.

You were like him. The difference was, you had more of a reason to be like this. You had more of a reason to be closed off, to shut everyone out.

✦✧✦✧

But there were moments. Tiny, almost imperceptible moments, when you would slip. When that carefully constructed mask would falter for just a second. And when it did, he caught it.

Like that one time, after the group had decided to mock you for the hundredth time. They’d made a big show of it, throwing some random insults about how useless you were. How you were nothing but a waste of space.

You hadn’t reacted. Not outwardly, anyway. You’d just stared at them with that cold, indifferent look, like you didn’t give a damn. But the tiniest twitch of your hand—just barely noticeable—told him everything. You wanted to hit them. Not because you cared about their words, but because you wanted to break something. Break them. And for just a moment, he wondered if that was the only thing keeping you together—restraint.

And when you’d walked away, you hadn’t been walking. You’d been limping, just a little. He didn’t know if it was from the shove someone had given you earlier or if you were just trying to cover up your discomfort, but he knew that it wasn’t the first time you’d walked away like that.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t complain. You didn’t even mention it.

But it was there. And it stuck with him.

✦✧✦✧

One night, a couple of months later, you found yourselves in your usual spot. The roof of the school, where you both liked to hide away from the noise of the world below. You were sitting side-by-side, sharing a bag of chips, not saying a word. You were good at that—saying nothing and letting the silence fill up the space between you.

It was peaceful. Almost too peaceful.

Then, you said something that made him pause.

“Do you ever think some people are just… born broken?”

He turned to look at you, frowning slightly. “Are you talking about you?”

You didn’t answer, just stared off into the distance, your fingers idly picking at the edge of your sleeve.

He could tell it wasn’t a rhetorical question. It wasn’t something you were saying to get attention. You were genuinely asking.

He wondered if you even realized how quietly you’d asked it. How dead your voice sounded when you spoke. As if you didn’t expect an answer.

“Yeah,” he said after a long pause. “Sometimes. But I don’t think broken is the right word. More like… unfinished.”

You didn’t respond, and for a long moment, he thought maybe that was the end of it. But then you shifted, just a little, your eyes narrowing like you were trying to figure something out.

“Do you think… some people just don’t get to have a normal life?” you asked, quieter this time, as if testing the question.

He glanced at you sideways, trying to read the expression on your face. It was impossible. You never showed anything. But he knew what you were asking. And it made his stomach turn.

He shifted uncomfortably. “I think some people aren’t given the chance to even try.”

You were still staring out at the night sky, but now, he couldn’t help but notice how still you were. How strangely calm. Almost like you were emptying yourself, piece by piece, and you didn’t even care who saw.

But that was the thing, wasn’t it?

You didn’t care.

And that, more than anything else, terrified him.

Because you were so damn strong, and no one had even begun to notice how broken you truly were.

If they did, they’d be scared. But he wasn’t scared of you. Not exactly.

He was scared of what you might become.

If only you let go.

If only you broke.

✦✧✦✧

And maybe, just maybe, if you really did break, you’d take the world with you. But he wasn’t about to let that happen.

Not while he was still watching.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

He never said it.

Not out loud, anyway.

You wouldn’t have believed him if he did. You’d probably laugh, raise a brow, tilt your head just so, and say something deflective like, “Liking me is a cry for help, you know.”

So he didn’t say it. Didn’t do anything big or noticeable. That wasn’t his style.

You wouldn’t have trusted a grand gesture anyway.

But he did show up.

Every day.

He always made sure to sit beside you in class—slouching back in his chair like he was bored out of his mind, but still passing notes with offhand comments that made you choke back laughter. Not the stupid kind of jokes either. The smart, too-sharp ones that only someone paying close attention to you could make.

He was there in detention, which both of you got too often. You, for giving sarcastic answers to teachers who confused cruelty for control. Him, for refusing to participate in what he called “state-sponsored obedience training.” You never asked him to sit with you, but he always did. Sat beside you like it was the easiest thing in the world, even when the room was empty.

You got used to it.

His presence.

The silence.

He never pried. Never asked you questions that dug too deep. He didn’t need to. He wasn’t trying to mine you like a broken treasure chest for trauma. He already knew. You didn’t have to explain it to him. He read it in the way you clenched your jaw when a teacher’s tone sharpened. The way you hesitated before entering class. The way your body stayed rigid around loud noises, how your laughter always came a second too late.

You were disciplined, yes.

But more like a soldier than a student.

He never said that either.

He just made it easier to breathe.

He’d share his lunch with you when you “forgot yours,” which really just meant you hadn’t eaten in two days because someone at home was making meals a war zone. He’d push his tray toward you, looking disinterested, and say something like, “Too much rice again. Wanna trade for my eggs?”

You’d roll your eyes but take it anyway.

You never thanked him. He didn’t want that.

Instead, you’d offer him your untouched pudding cup in return, sliding it across the table without a word. That was your way of saying I see you too.

✦✧✦✧

You weren’t good at soft things.

And he knew that.

You didn’t trust softness. Not when softness was always a trap. You knew better than anyone that kindness was the first part of the trick, and affection was the hook buried in the bait. You never said it, but he could see it plain as day. That wariness. That flinch.

So he never tried to hold your hand. Never asked why you flinched when someone walked too close behind you in the hall.

But he did memorize your walk.

The way your shoulders hunched when you were overwhelmed, how your steps got slower when your body was running on fumes. He knew you didn’t sleep well. You wouldn’t admit it, but he knew. He could see the bruises under your eyes. Knew you weren’t out partying or watching Netflix until 4am. He knew that something else, someone else, was keeping you up.

So he started giving you excuses.

Lazy ones.

So you didn’t have to lie.

“I’m ditching class tomorrow. You in?”

“You should nap during physics. I’ll take notes. Or not. Depends how boring it is.”

“I’m gonna fake a stomachache. You wanna fake it too? We could rot in the nurse’s office together.”

It was stupid stuff. Light stuff. The kind of nothingness you valued more than anyone realized. He never made it heavy. You couldn’t take heavy. You’d survived heavy your whole life. You didn’t need another person handing you weights.

So he gave you quiet instead.

Offered you silence like a gift.

✦✧✦✧

He liked sitting with you on the roof after school.

It was always cold up there, but you never seemed to mind.

Neither did he.

You never talked about feelings. You joked around, sure. Sometimes you’d call him names. “Lazy bastard.” “Deadbeat genius.” He’d roll his eyes and call you “a short-circuited war machine with sarcasm issues.”

It was your thing.

Banter was safer than confession.

But somewhere between the snide remarks and sarcastic exchanges, he started noticing how you were changing. Not in any dramatic, earth-shattering way. You were still a mess. Still half-starved and half-asleep. Still locked behind ten layers of emotional firewalls.

But…

You’d sit a little closer.

Let your shoulders slump a little when he was near.

You didn’t fake as many smiles. You didn’t perform as much.

You started showing up to school more. Started eating more. Sleeping in class instead of staring out the window like a ghost.

You stopped picking at your sleeves so much.

You stopped looking like you wanted to die every day.

You were still broken. Still bleeding somewhere he couldn’t see. But you weren’t bleeding out anymore.

And he counted that as a win.

✦✧✦✧

He knew you weren’t healed. Not even close.

But you’d gotten… softer.

Only around him, of course. Still a sharp-edged shadow around everyone else. Still unreadable, still untouchable.

But when it was just the two of you, something loosened in you. Something tentative, raw.

You started opening your lunch before he offered his.

You’d say “See you tomorrow” in that soft, almost inaudible voice that made something in his chest twist.

You’d fall asleep beside him during study period with your head tipped just barely toward his shoulder. Not touching. Never touching.

But close.

And that was enough.

That was everything.

✦✧✦✧

He never said I like you.

But he carried your umbrella when it rained, even when you both insisted you didn’t care about getting wet.

He noticed how you didn’t look people in the eyes, so he never made you look into his.

He let the silence stretch long and deep between you, and never tried to fill it with anything but shared air and steady breathing.

He cared.

And he wanted you to be happy.

Not in that movie kind of way. Not in the “fix her and marry her” kind of way.

He just wanted you to wake up one day and not feel like the world was trying to kill you.

✦✧✦✧

The night he put his forehead to yours, it wasn’t even dramatic.

You were sitting together on the rooftop again, the sky the color of spilled ink. The school was quiet, lights off, city humming below.

You’d been quiet all afternoon. Not the kind of quiet that meant something was wrong. Just… heavy. Contemplative. You’d looked at the stars for a long time, like you were trying to remember something you’d forgotten.

He didn’t say anything.

He never did when you were like this.

Instead, he leaned over slowly, resting his forehead against yours in a gesture so brief, so casual, it could’ve been mistaken for a sigh.

He didn’t look at you.

Didn’t try to hold your face or meet your eyes.

He just stayed there, forehead to forehead, for a heartbeat too long.

And then it passed.

You didn’t speak.

But your heart did.

It hammered in your chest like a secret trying to claw its way out.

He pulled back like nothing happened.

And you didn’t ask what it meant.

You didn’t need to.

Because you understood.

So did he.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

You don’t say it.

Of course you don’t. You wouldn’t even if someone held a gun to your head and told you say you like him or die. You’d probably smirk, crack a deadpan joke, and die out of spite.

But he knows.

Has known for a while now.

You liked him.

And he knew.

Of course he knew. He’d known since you were both what—seven? Back when you’d try to argue with him just to hear his voice. Back when you’d pretend to hate being partnered up but always remembered to bring an extra pen for him. When you’d mutter things under your breath like, “Stupid lazy asshole with nice hands,” and then combust when he’d raise an eyebrow and say, “You’re staring again.”

Yeah. He knew.

But high school?

High school made it worse.

Now you were slipping.

Now it was adorable.

You’d get flustered around him like some half-glitched anime girl on 1% battery. Tripping over your words, your logic, your shoelaces. Dropping things whenever he got too close. Acting like you didn’t care, like you weren’t dying inside every time he called your name with that bored drawl and that smug smirk you pretended not to stare at.

“Yo,” he’d say, and you’d just freeze like a raccoon caught mid-heist. “You gonna give me that worksheet, or are you just holding it hostage for fun?”

And you’d go, “Wha—shut up. Take it, dumbass,” before throwing it in his general direction with the grace of a malfunctioning Roomba.

He lived for it.

Seriously. He looked forward to your emotional short-circuiting every day. It was better than TV. Better than his daily nap. Better than the vending machine finally restocking his favorite chips. You, being an absolute disaster of a crush-haver? That was his serotonin.

But he never brought it up.

He never teased you outright.

Because he wasn’t cruel.

And he knew you’d implode.

Your pride was fragile. Your dignity was hanging on by a thread. If he ever said, “Hey, I know you like me,” you’d probably fake your death and move to Albania.

So he played the long game.

A quiet, slow game.

A game that never required a single word.

✦✧✦✧

He wasn’t the touchy type. Wasn’t the flowers and poems and annoying teenage hormones type. He was a silence type. A be there when you need me before you realize you need me type.

You never asked him to walk you home, but he always ended up doing it anyway.

You never asked him to sit next to you during lunch, but somehow there he was, nudging your tray with his elbow and stealing your fries while you tried to pretend he didn’t exist.

“You’re such a parasite,” you’d say.

“And you’re a stingy fry hoarder. Balance,” he’d reply.

Then you’d mutter something about him dying in a fire and he’d grin like you handed him a love letter. Because, well, you kind of did.

You never said you liked him. Not even once.

But he read it in every awkward silence, every time you nervously adjusted your sleeves, every time you offered him your last bite without looking at him. You didn’t know how to say it. And he didn’t need you to.

He understood.

Too well.

And as much as he acted unbothered—staring at clouds, skipping assignments, playing dumb—he was aware. Of everything. Who talked to you. Who looked at you too long. Who made you laugh in a way that wasn’t him.

And no, he wasn’t possessive.

Absolutely not.

He was just… highly invested in your emotional wellbeing.

And okay, maybe he did start sitting between you and that guy from 3-B who smiled too much.

Maybe he did start giving that girl who complimented your handwriting a look so blank it looped back into threatening.

Maybe he did “accidentally” ruin a group project just so you’d be paired with him again.

But that didn’t make him jealous.

He was strategic.

There’s a difference.

He didn’t need to control you. You weren’t some toy to him. You weren’t a project. You were…

You were you. And he liked you too much to ruin you with something stupid like ownership.

Still.

He’d admit—only in the dark corners of his mind, buried under sarcasm and silence—he liked you more than he should.

More than what was safe.

✦✧✦✧

There were days you were quieter than usual.

When your jokes missed their mark.

When your voice lost its spark.

He never asked what happened. Never said “Are you okay?” because he knew those words would bounce off the walls of your fortress and shatter before they reached you. You weren’t built for pity.

So instead, he’d say something dumb. Something casual.

Like: “Wanna ditch math and watch squirrels fight behind the gym?”

Or: “You look like you slept inside a trash can. Nice aesthetic.”

And your lips would twitch. Just barely. But it was there. That was enough.

He didn’t need thanks. He didn’t need recognition.

He just needed you tethered.

Stable.

Breathing.

If that meant helping you carry your backpack, so what? If that meant pretending to need help with homework just so you’d stay awake through the week, fine. He’d be your excuse, your anchor, your reason to show up.

Even if you never realized it.

Even if you never asked for it.

✦✧✦✧

You were cute when you liked someone.

He never thought he’d use that word about you—this guarded, haunted creature with the vocabulary of a sailor and the emotional range of a rock. But you were. When you liked someone, you got twitchy. Off-balance.

One time, you tried to compliment him. Just once. You opened your mouth and said, “You’re not the worst person I’ve ever met,” and then proceeded to trip over a desk and faceplant into a pile of worksheets.

He had to bite his lip so hard not to laugh, he nearly bled.

And when he helped you up, you hissed, “If you say a single word—”

He didn’t.

He just patted your head like you were a malfunctioning blender and went, “You’re cute when you’re homicidal.”

You nearly killed him.

He nearly kissed you.

But he didn’t.

✦✧✦✧

The silence was still your favorite part.

You’d both sit in the library after school—homework untouched, heads bowed, pretending to study.

You’d sigh a little. He’d yawn.

You’d glance at him. He’d look bored but smug, always catching you just in time to watch you look away.

And that would be it.

No dramatic declarations. No confessions.

Just quiet.

The kind you could live in.

✦✧✦✧

He liked you.

A lot.

But he’d never say it.

Because he didn’t need to.

Because you already knew.

And because someday, maybe, you’d admit that you liked him too. You’d stop tripping. You’d stop panicking every time your fingers brushed.

Or maybe you wouldn’t.

Maybe you’d always be a disaster.

And that was fine.

He’d love you anyway.

Quietly.

Dangerously.

Like the patient, lazy villain he was.

───────── ♛ ─────────

♡ A/N #1 (April 13). rewatching anime.

♡ A/N #2. wait. did I just make a not red flag yandere, like, for once?

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Whispers In The Dark”: @keisocool , @elvabeth , @elloredef , @mjsjshhd , @lem-hhn , @yuki-istired , @tiffyisme3760 , @songbirdgardensworld , @yune1337 , @astreaaaaaa6 , @poopooindamouf , @esther-kpopstan , @iris-arcadia , @hopingtocleaemedschool , @doncellaescarlata , @neuvilletteswife4ever , @shyo-urlvrx , @bitchpleaseeeeeeeeee , @yoyoik , @hereticdance , @nickibunny23 , @tea-leaves-and-cheeze , @onixsky , @avietnu

❤︎ Fang Dokja’s Books.

♡ For Reader-Inserts. I only write Male Yandere x Female (Fem.) Reader (heterosexual couple). No LGBTQ+:

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I’d Burn the World.

♡ Book 4 [you are here]. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

♡ Library MASTERPOST 1. The Librarian’s Ledger: A Map to The Library of Forbidden Texts.

♡ Notice #1. Not all stories are included in the masterpost due to Tumblr’s link limitations. However, most long-form stories can be found here. If you’re searching for a specific yandere or theme, this guide will help you navigate The Library of Forbidden Texts. Proceed with caution

♡ Book 6. The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood.

♡ Notice #2. This masterlist is strictly for non-con smut and serves as an exercise in refining erotic horror writing. Comments that reduce my work to mere sexual gratification, thirst, or casual simping will not be tolerated. If your response is primarily thirst-driven, keep it to yourself—repeated violations may result in blocking. Read the RULES before engaging. The tag list is reserved for followers I trust to respect my boundaries; being included is a privilege, not a right. You may request to be added, but I will decide based on trust and adherence to my guidelines. I also reserve the right to remove anyone at any time if their engagement becomes inappropriate.

♡ Book 7. Corpus Delicti (CD): Donum Mortis.

♡ Book 8. Malum Consilium (MC): Primordial Hunger.