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Yandere Seductive Woman's song is SMARTY by LANA DEL REY

PERSONALITY

She is manipulative in the most artistic sense of the word. Rather than telling you what she wants she inspires you to come to that conclusion yourself, therefore she's technically blameless. She is the type of woman to groom a perfect partner, gently nudging you in the "right" direction for the better of your relationship.

That's not to say she's argumentative, because she isn't. Rather, she's so relaxed that it feels unwarranted on your behalf to start an upsetting conversation. She's so sure of your dynamic before it's even really formed and the entire basis of your connection is shaped by her loving, sweaty hands which are always holding you up, praising you and pulling you against her to "protect" you from yourself.

She makes sure to keep you so, so happy. Happy enough that you'll never feel the need to question her intentions or seek company from anyone else. Tit for tat, she exchanges her affections for the simple low, low price of companionship. She commands your attention in the sweetest ways possible, always attuned to your signatures so that she can better tell how hard to push or gentle to pull. If you become exhausted by her then why not just lay down in her arms?

A tired, lazy, loving attachment style is her staple. Everything should feel easy with her, and you shouldn't question her closeness or her tender inclinations. Her presence will become so integrated with yours that it ends up impossible for you to distinguish where you end and she begins. Quite literally, as she loves to embrace you like a coat on a hanger.

She has a tricky little habit of putting all of the focus in a conversation on whatever makes it easiest for you to say yes to her. If she wants something then she'll ask for it, and chances are you'll comply just to keep the peace. She makes you very, very happy, doesn't she baby? You don't want to push away someone who's so warm and gentle with you. Not when they're the only one telling you that you're important and incredible.

She likes the idea of her voice floating around your pretty little head with nothing else in there to pollute it, so she'll become jealous of the TV and annoyed at books. She'll hint and hint at being bored, eventually asking you jokingly if she's not good enough entertainment, and she'll get closer and closer until her breasts are pressed very tightly against you. The only way to keep her from taking any remote or magazine out of your hands is to turn that box off or make a habit of reading to her. She'll like that. As long as she's included, she feels important enough to be worthy of you.

She thinks that she's doing the right thing when she tells you to depend on her. She's keeping you safe inside your head and not leaving any room for bad thoughts. If you happen to end up just as obsessed with her as she is with you, then that's wonderful.

AFFECTION

Words of affirmation are her strong suit. Physical touch is her natural state. She'll run her hands over your arms and shoulders like waves on the beach, constant and languid lapping wherever you'll let her. She's the type to come up behind you and nest her face, plant a lingering kiss that burns hotter than the hellfire in her tummy, and then let you feel the comforting, grounding weight of her curvier parts resting firmly against your back.

She is always, I mean always running her fingers over you. She can't help but touch. She grabs your hands when you talk, she brushes your hair "out of the way" and blows the excess strays off to let you feel the tickle of her breath and show off how pretty her puckered lips look. She'll rub circles on your hands and press her fingertips into your knuckles when she leans forward to tell you something, with her brows raised and head tilted down to make those bedroom eyes even more potent. Shoulders tight, chest out, chin up, she's got it down to a sexy science.

She likes to lay in bed and stroke your hair, whispering sweet nothings. She's always been the giver and never the reciever, so she doesn't even think to ask for a turn. You might wonder how her hands don't grow tired after playing with your scalp for hours at a time. When she runs out of things to say she'll hum instead, only interrupting herself to press feathery kisses to the top of your head before continuing. It's not always a real tune. In fact, they're often made up on the spot and lack any rhythm, but they lull you to sleep and keep you thinking of her. Catchy.

AFFINITY

She seems to just... get you. And she'll tell you that you get her, and she's never had anyone understand her the way that you do. Don't think too hard about the fact she hasn't actually told you anything about herself, or that whenever you ask anything revealing she just draws a circle with the conversation until you're back on you, and why you're so perfect, and baby won't you please hold me?

Yandere Wireface's song is MICHELLE by THE BEATLES.

PERSONALITY

Wireface's love is the type that cloys, like a too old toffee that refuses to let you swallow it and just forget. Sickly sweet and always there, clinging to the roof of your mouth and hiding behind your teeth, unshakable. If you think that you can try to keep this candy in it's wrapper it'll melt and fuse with your pocket lining, becoming a part of your outfit if not your insides. The love you've kindled in him has all the strength of the faulty sun. His simmering emotion cannot be contained or shafted. This man loves you.

He loves to love you because it gives him something to do. It's something else to think about and it keeps him going. The death and decay tottering up your doorstep means nothing when he could choose to greet it with his hand in yours.

Falling in love is what it means to be alive and it reminds him that he's very much surviving at the present moment, so if he's going to die in the coming days then he wants to experience this phenomenon to it's fullest. A real romance playing out in a dusty cupboard.

You become a martyr to him though you're still living. Yes he's afraid of the people that don't understand him, and he's worried he might die. More than that, he's afraid you won't understand how much you've impacted him in the short time you've known eachother. He's worried he won't get the chance to tell you how glad he is that if he's going to die, he's found his soulmate just in time.

He has so many physical tells that it's embarrassing. He always licks his lips and fiddles with his hands before he attempts to communicate. With his shiny off-white smile reappearing every few seconds, to where you can see the crimson stuck between the edges of each tooth. The way his eyes can't pick between looking at you or the wall behind you, flitting back and forth so fast he's gone dizzy. How he's constantly readusting the manner he's stood because he doesn't know if he should bail or tackle you. It's easy to tell he likes you without the extra words.

✃𓍯𓂃

ACHING

Wireface doesn't like pain, but he's grown alarmingly accustomed to it lately. The new pain in his chest brought about by you is the only one he's willing to be taken by.

You strengthen the aches that matter and soothe the ones that don't. He's never wanted to be alive more than here and now, you've rekindled his lust for life, so badly that he yearns to make it through this to a normal world, and do domestic things with you there. If you notice a vacant look in his eyes this isn't because he's disinterested, he's only imagining that world. The one where he can walk hand in hand with you down a beach.

You make it so easy to exist when you're near, at the cost of making it twice as difficult when you're not. He's a needy thing. He's begun to compulsively pick his healing wounds, tearing sore scabs from his mouth when he's anxious about you. He'll whimper into kisses and apologise for the taste of blood, but don't you dare not kiss him. He'll step outside and burn if he feels like he's lost you.

I mentioned this in my NSFW headcannons, but he likes to fit against you however he can. A particular favourite of his is to slide his nose across the curvature where your neck meets your shoulder. He sniffs, long and deep self-soothing breaths. Sighs them out slow, nuzzling against the bone. Mumbles praise and affections against your body, lips pressed firm until covered, words absolute jargon. He'll tell you things he needs you to hear, and cuddle you tighter when he remembers you won't understand.

He might enjoy deluding himself sometimes that you're only doing it back to him. He lives for the sound of your voice, to imagine it being used for a similar sappy sentiment. He'll watch you with glossy dumb eyes, jaw slack and breath baited, and everything you say will get terribly, willingly lost in translation. He'll pretend that you're telling him everything you love about him. He's grateful for the gift of choosing what he wants to hear.

Of course, this is just a game he plays with himself when he's sad and wants to connect more with you. He knows deep down that you're saying real things and the meanings he's attaching to your words probably don't match up, but probably is just enough for him to keep doing it. It helps comfort him when he's sad about how you can't really hear his infatuation for you. You can listen, but you can't hear it. Not really.

✃𓍯𓂃

BELONGING

You feel like home. The crook in your arm is the comfortable pillow of his childhood bed; your hair, the blanket he'd pull over his face to hide away from imaginary monsters. There are real monsters now. Forgive him for nestling into you every chance he gets, he's not lazy, just afraid and in love.

A signature move of his; shuffling up behind you and wrapping his arms around your shoulders, standing tall with his hands clasped together before your chest. It's not dissimilar to how he wears his sweater. It feels protective and possessive. You'll know his sway, and how the little pudge of his tummy fits into the curve of your spine when it brushes for just a micromoment. Soft and warm, you'll learn the pattern, or lack thereof, of his heavy heartbeat thudding against the back of your shoulder blade. You may notice how his breathing gets dangerously shallow, fluttery, fast with excitement. He's obviously trying to be so quiet in an effort to seem normal. Is he sniffing you?

You're not sure why you never tried to put him in the tub before when it makes a lot of sense he'd enjoy hot water.

The most difficult part is getting him to take off his clothes, it costs ten minutes to strip off the socks and then forty more to coax him out of his coat. By the time you've started running the bath he's retreated to the nearest corner in the room, just so he can shiver like a beaten dog and cast sorrowful glances at you.

You let him keep his shirt and pants on whilst the water runs. This is supposed to be a relaxing experience but his violent shivering is starting to panic you. Everything feels like a race when somebody is watching you do something for them.

To make it clear that he's close to tears he holds off on blinking to irritate his eyes. When they water he lets the teardrops well up fat on his waterline and hang heavy from his wirey lashes in tiny crystal baubles. The nostrils on his humped nose scrunch and twitch, his thin lips pulled tightly at the middle like attached to an invisible thread that tugs his cupids bow upwards. You can't help but wonder if the baby you're having is going to kick up as much of a fuss about bath time as this.

In an effort to get him involved you ask him to run the taps, but he's apparently unable to turn them for his poor frigid fingers. His poor, poor fingers!... can hardly close around the valves. Perhaps he's putting it on a bit, hoping to dissuade you from bathing him by feigning incompetence.

So you turn the water on yourself and he makes a strangled little noise.

The water spreads from the joined spigot in an awkward arch, smacking into the bottom of the tub with loud and hollow thuds. He flinches at almost every one of them.

He does perk up however, when you bend over to retrieve a bottle of something lavender and chemical that's tucked away under the sink, three quarts full and faux expensive. Compulsion calls you to waft the open lid under your nose before you spill the contents into the bath, and you pause to watch as a murky purple puddle slowly spreads into the collecting water. The bubbles froth like rabies foam and they smell like parma violets.

“You can control the temperature.” you say which you soon come to regret. His hand takes post on the hot tap, tight and unyielding in a feral defense, ready for a fight that doesn't exist yet. You watch for a good few minutes hoping that he'll eventually turn on the cold tap too.

He doesn't.

Sooner than later the room has become so thick with smog that it's hard to see eachother. Each breath feels heavier than the last, air so dense that you have to swallow every humid mouthful. It's warm enough to make you loopy. What on earth are you doing running a hot bath during the deadliest heatwave humanity has ever seen?

“I think that's enough-” you try. He goes to smack your hand when you lean forward, eyes dark and wild. It frightens you.

For a moment there's nothing. Nothing but the awkward silence and the running water.

“I'm just-” you swallow, easing closer. His elbow twitches, jaw tight. Up close you can really focus on the uncanny in him. His unearthly black eyes with dark circles under them, the somehow sharp angle of his oval jaw, and the hollow of his cheeks that are offset by the jowls hanging from them.

Your hand closes over his own, hesitant to shut the water off in case it causes further upset. His breathing picks up.

“Easy, easy.” you say, steadily turning the tap with his hand, puppeting it for him. “I'm not trying to slow cook the baby.”

The pipe system mumbles it's protest and the valve punches a squeaky exclamation point.

His throat bobbles. Those dark eyes drop their hostile look. He's too cold to blush but he's ashamed.

“.. Hey.” you mumble. Running a hand over his twitchy shoulder makes it jump into your palm. The fabric of his shirt is soft and cold, cold enough to appear damp though it's dry.

He wets his lips, unable to lift his head now. “I'm so- I'm s-orry.” it's a fluttering exhale. He swallows in rapid succession like he's going to throw up.

“Hey...” you repeat, perching on the lip of the bath as he does. He lets the motion of you rubbing his shoulder sway him in place and begins fold in on himself like a paper cutout.

Bleeding fingers twitch and tug at the hem of his shirt, poking through a moth eaten hole the size of his pinky with his index, stretching it out more. A whimper softens a sob that wanted to bark. He spits a shivering sharp intake of breath, and then “This w-w-was a mistake, I-I can't-”

“You reek.” you cut through the whispery whimpers. He goes quiet, face almost blank and impassive. You're not being manipulated.

“Can you take it off, please?” you murmur softer now. You take to rubbing at his bony sides with your palms to create friction so that static tickles your fingers. He doesn't answer, react, or meet your eyes for a good moment so you keep rubbing.

Yes, you think when he unbuttons his pants. After shimmying them down his legs and leaving them by his socks, his crooked thumbs flicker the frayed edge of his top. With some patience and excessive spine rubbing from you, the garment is finally drawn up and over his angular shoulders. You watch it cling to his arms like it doesn't want to let go. Being swallowed by the fabric, his hair sticks up at awkward angles as he drags it up and then his head goes missing in the belly of the garment.

Whilst he struggles with that, you unbutton your own clothing and shrug it off onto the bathmat. It's difficult not to look at the big black hole in his torso but you make a point of not staring to the best of your abilities.

You reach out and stabilise him a bit because he's shuddering too much to get the top off his head. He keens into your hands so earnestly that he stumbles over his own legs to chase your warmth and you have to catch him. Icy arms snake around you and then you're being squeezed by a boa constrictor. Hugging him is like being embraced by death.

His head hangs in the dip of your shoulder, not making it easy to free from his shirt. His legs knock together so violently that his knees are bent, almost pulling you down to the floor with him. Something between his legs is swinging wildly because of this.

You yank it off, freeing those greasy black locks and that pale embarassed face. Peekaboo. “Hey.” you grin. He's either fascinated by your collarbone, or simply too nervous to look you in the eye yet. Cuddling him for just a little longer seems to help. You run your warm hands over his back so he'll let out a happy moan.

“Come on, lift your leg.” you mutter, picking absentmindedly at a mole on his shoulder. He's sharp and smooth all over. As you start to guide him into the tub he clings to you so that you nearly topple over. He hovers his foot above the water for a troublesome amount of time but once his frostbitten toes get a taste for the bath he's stepping in of his own volition. You feel him peel away from you all velcro, the bath sloshing as he clambers in to fill it.

He sits with his scabby knees drawn to his chest and he's sulking because he wanted it hot enough to scald you both. He's quickly distracted by your naked body waiting to get in beside him. Blinking at you slowly with his lips parted, breathing deep, he slinks lower into the tub, laying down and monopolising the space with his long legs. He tucks his chin into the bath so that his nostrils are just scraping the surface. Then his long hair gets wet and starts sticking to his neck. The bottom of his face warps and wobbles. Periwinkle nipples poke out of the suds. You wonder how a body could get so blue.

He's so cold that when you get in the water feels lukewarm.

He stares shamelessly up between your legs as you lift one to step into the bathtub, narrowly avoiding his skinny limbs with your feet. Your arms go out for balance on the sides of the tub, wavering in your step.

When you sit down his head follows the movement, only making it more apparent that he'd been enjoying the view. He stares at the bubbles covering your cunt like they've personally offended him.

“Move your legs.” you sigh, trying to get comfortable without sitting on his feet. It takes you a moment to realise that he's putting them under you on purpose. “Baby, they're cold.” you grumble.

He draws his knees back and something is standing to attention, poking up amidst the scented bubbles. He still won't move so you start kicking him playfully, sending waves of water bouncing back and forth between you. A game of footsie in the bath only distracts him for so long. That dick is angry, and when he finally moves his feet out of the way it's so that he can put them on the sides of the tub in open invitation.

The pattern of his breathing could pop a lung if he's not careful. Your eyes are drawn away from his shivering cock and into the valley of his bony chest, rising and falling with such exaggeration you'd think he was afraid. You want to take one of those nipples into your mouth and swirl your tongue around it.

“Are you not gonna say anything?” you ask. He wiggles his hips a bit.

“Please.” he croaks. He slides his palm up over his nose, pushing his hair out of his eyes and off his forehead. “Can... you-?”

He moans softly when you shuffle towards him on your knees, more so sliding across the plastic. His breathing which you thought couldn't get any worse picks up speed.

Collecting some water in your hand, you run a soft fingertip up the length of his cock. Following the curve earns you a gentle yowl from the bottom of his chest. When you start to give him a hand job it's mostly to clean him off for the next part. You like a little spice but this guy hasn't washed in weeks.

“Mmm, mmmy god.” he hums. His eyes are fixed on your breasts so intently that he forgets to blink. Those tears from earlier come back, but they're not crocodile this time.

When you're satisfied with the state of him (after teasing a little longer to make him suffer for all of the petulant bullshit you've had to put up with), you slide even closer which makes the bathtub squeak.

Pearly beads of pre dribble from the tip, leaking down the pale edge and swirling with the soapy bath water. Shiny. A cool tip pushes past your lips until it's squashed between your cheek and your tongue.

The sound drawn from his throat is too garbled to be a real word. A keening hiss of a thing that needs to pass clenched teeth and shuddering breaths before you're allowed to hear it. His maudlin sob is nothing if not reassuring.

Soapy bubbles pop on your tongue, crackling around his twitchy dick. The steamy mist that clings to his body appears almost opalescent on palid flesh. You wonder if it hurts to always be on the cusp of catching your breath from frostbite. The relief he must feel in a nice, warm mouth. His toes curl as his feet brush past you, the soles plant on the tub and his heels sporadically kick the plastic with a thud, thud, shiver, thud, tossing water onto the bathroom floor. His head falls back against his shoulders, dry lips open as if to catch an invisible stream pouring from the ceiling.

The lost look on his face speaks volumes of how badly he's needed this. He nibbles on his dry bottom lip, nose scrunched and eyes squeezed shut. Bloody, bitten fingers flutter, rippling the surface. They send a boat of bubbles drifting your way. A current snags them back, and you watch with fascination as they're sucked into the whirlpool of his stomach. Water churns in circles above the black abyss, and his penis twitches again as if to say "Hey, have you forgotten about me?"

Sliding it back down your throat rewards you with a shuddering moan. Knobbly knees twitch side to side, gently knocking your temples. Every exhale is a plea.

“Hmm, m-ohh.. Oh fuck, than- fuck, th-hank you, ah thank you-”

A hybrid of a hiccup and a strangled cry escapes him, then the man relaxes onto his elbows and nearly chokes on the bath water. He gargles and spits, sitting up again. An endearing idiot.

What little hair he has down there has gone soapy, brushing against your lips when he wiggles. With gentle, careful rolling motions he's starting to circle his hips, feeding your face. The surface ripples softly smack your cheeks and chin. One of his hands slides over your bare shoulders, drawing warm water with it. Rivulets roll down your back. His tongue flickers out with the centre focus of getting to lick them off later.

His shaky hand collects the hair at the back of your head, holding it up for you. If he had nails they'd be digging in. He tries to keep his eyes open because he feels he can't afford to blink and waste the view. Those eye's drop to the slight swell of your belly hidden by the water and they dilate. His fingers squeeze tight on your scalp.

“Oh please, please...” he whimpers, squeezing and pulling. Is he taking you off-?

Your confusion is obvious, but he makes it clear what he wants only a moment later.

“Sit on m-me. Please sit on me.” he mumbles and grunts, tugging your hair softly again. You shuffle up once more and he lets go to draw you closer by the hips, nostrils flaring. That slippery cock of his nudges against your inner thigh, sliding past your softer places and rubbing tenderly at your pussy lips.

You try to balance your arms either side of him, but he grabs those and pulls you closer until you're laying down chest to chest.

“I need to feel your weight on me.” he murmurs.

“Okay, if you're sure.” you mutter back, and now you're the embarrassed one. You lay down carefully, more so sitting atop his hips. He tries to slip his cock into you and it misses the target, flopping back into the water.

“I'm not too heavy, am I?” you mumble. He shakes his head so fast that his wet hair slaps you in the face. This time when he tries to put it in, the tip slides up into your gummy cunt and you can feel it stretching you open on the way up. This is the slowest and most careful he's ever fucked you, and his hips are trembling from the effort it's taking.

Sometimes his dick gets caught on the way up, you're slippery so that helps, but you're so hot and he's so, so cold. It's like licking a frozen telephone pole. Yes it hurts when it sticks to your insides, but his cold thumb has learnt to clumsily finger at your clit between these awkward intervals.

His free hand squeezes your butt, pulling you back and forth to rock against him. His eyes roll back until he looks possessed and his head tips so far, body so slack, that you both slide down the tub until you're nearly submerged.

His hips piston up in slow choppy motions, his backside writhing more and more the longer this slow pace continues. His feet squeak against the wet plastic, it's grating but lost in the splashing and grunting.

Eventually you have the confidence to start bouncing on him yourself and his hands leave your hips to cup your stomach. He holds it in his freezing palms, whimpering and staring at the small, almost invisible baby bump you have. His attention flickers between the firm little swelling beneath and the space just a few inches below where your cunt swallows him up.

“Y-Y-You- oh, you're so p-pretty.” he babbles, rubbing on your tummy, so cold that something in it lurches. His thumb presses into your belly button. His lips quiver and show teeth. You know that look, you've barely fucked him and he's going to cum. About time too, because between the water steadily dissapearing into his stomach and also being spilt on the floor, the bath is almost empty.

“Ow, ahah.” you hiss through your teeth when he gropes a tit. The water hasn't warmed his hands at all.

“Oh pl-please can I, please...” the words are difficult to hear over the heavy breathing competition you're having. Not a moment later and you feel his sticky cum flooding your silky pussy. You keep sliding up and down to feed yourself more cock, and he ends up squeezing you like a snake again. His grip falters in time with your own muscle contractions, relax, squeeze, shiver, relax, squeeze again. You don't stop though, not even as he thunks his head back against the wall with a wobbling sob. You deserve to cum after all the effort it took to get him here in the bath, and you're conveniently placed for cleanup later.

Like you're going somewhere.

Protagonist has a trademark style where he likes it however he can get it. In lieu of recent events, sex with him is usually frantic and spur of the moment. His favourite way to have you? Here and now. Sometimes you're genuinely busy doing something else, but when you're sought out by him you're expected to reciprocate. You might be lounging in the office when he steps in and ushers you onto the table, insisting that you can still read your magazine, just please pull your pants down. Every time you do it he acts like it's his last chance to get some. Sessions switch up between fast and rough or constant and slow, but all are overwhelmingly intense. Quickies are so frequent that you'll learn to drip when he enters the room. It's hard not to get lazy in the heat so don't expect much prep, you're in his house, not a five star love hotel. If you let him have you whenever he wants, the two of you will end up sex addicts. You're an escape. He'll take what he needs from you in the moment because you're the only thing helping him get to the next one.

Dominant.

Since entering his home you've had five walls around you, he's the strongest of them. He has a frightening habit of physically caging you in against any viable surface; not always comfortable ones. He can't put into words why he might need to keep you so still when you're having sex, but maybe in the moment he's afraid that you'll try to break away from him. If he comes off as too controlling don't be afraid to fight back, a power struggle turns him on. He enjoys brat taming, but if you're the type to naturally let him do what he wants then he appreciates it. He's not above employing idle threats to keep you in place when you wriggle too much, a smack on the ass or a bite on the shoulder for example. He goes on and on until he can't. Afterwards he will run you a little wet towel and lazily wash you up, using the last of his hazy sexed up brain power to do so.

Emotional dam.

He struggles to talk about it but you'll feel the stress in his body when you're together. Every taught muscle screams about the pressure he's under, and sometimes he's physically incapable of relaxing without your help. He'll seriously cramp up without a cuddle, yet he doesn't dare to ask for one because despite fucking you constantly he doesn't think that you actually like him. These feelings aren't built upon a real stable relationship, you're a stranger he got lucky with. He fears it's just an exchange on your part, so he's worried about how emotionally attached he's getting. When he realises that he's falling in love, he'll tell himself that after the next hit he'll cut this thing off, but he can never quite bring himself to, nor can he stay away for long. He's so desperate for your body that he might threaten to throw you out if you start rejecting his sexual advances. He'd never actually do it, it's just a defensive mechanism. He's been left before and he wants to beat you to the punch before you can hurt him. He'd really sooner step into the sun himself, but you don't need to know that if it helps you take your clothes off.

Inexperienced.

On the brief softer side of things, he's quite nervous about how his performance holds up in your eyes. He usually just hammers you and tries not to think about it. He's not sure how to return a compliment but don't mistake awkwardness for discomfort, he loves and needs them. They make his ears burn hot and his hands sweat. He'll suppress a smile so hard it turns into a grimace, teeth poking out from his upper lip and revealing dimples that he's never used before. Less wholesome now, an addict is an addict, and you've given him a taste of something raw and delicious. He's ravenous for you. His sexual fantasies have been repressed for so long that he has little to no shame in his quest to fulfil them. He fucks you like he wants to make up for lost time and considering that the world is ending, he might be valid. He'll have you anywhere he wants because it's his house, and anyone else in here who doesn't like it can just move out and hope for better hospitality somewhere else. Sex doesn't stay in the bedroom. He'll hold the fridge open with one arm and fuck you in front of it, let it cool you both off a bit. Yes, you were just trying to get a beer when he came up behind you. His free arm laying firmly around your waist squeezes your tummy too tight every time you try to brace against anything but him.

Summary and extra.

Protag is 5.3" hard, uncut, and mostly trimmed. His dick is pale with some bruised discoloration when he's horny, almost red when he's finished with you. He's quite smooth but you can see blue veins ghosting under the skin if you properly look. His cum is slippery and runny, it spills out quick like milk. He has a thing for face sitting, him or you, because of the comfort and possessive nature of the position. He wants you to put your full weight on his head to keep his neck in place, rub yourself on his nose and make him lick you out. Especially if you haven't cleaned up first. He has a dirty habit, literally, of trying to keep you from bathing. He likes how you smell and taste too much to let you wash any of it off. He's prone to interrupting other people just to stick his tongue down your throat. The only person he's concerned he'll embarrass himself in front of is you. Are you worried about guests hearing? He'll just tell you that you should learn to be quieter. If you're too shy to get it on in a full house then he might start forcing people out. Priorities.

He told you to show him your hands. Probably for dirty fingernails, but you were going straight for his belt before you considered that.

It must've looked like you were reaching for his weapon, because he'd recoiled and the back of his assault rifle was jabbed into your stomach. Then you were wacked across the face by grotty steel. It was like an explosion under your skin. Bees started buzzing in your nose and you fell with a sharp crack onto your knees, winded and bleeding. How embarrassing...

Now you blink up at him through tearful lashes, fighting against gravity only to sit up halfway. You're poked by something hard. When your eyes focus, you say hi to the gun barrel pressed flat against your forehead. Your life should be flashing before your eyes right about now, but you're very distracted by the man above you. Here you are on your knees in the middle of a dusty road, about to be put down like a sick dog, and all you can think about is how he reeks of gunpowder and guy sweat. Even now when struggling to catch your breath without throwing up first, you wish you were on your knees for a better reason.

“Ch-chill... Ah, I... I- thought it was a euphemism...” you say, letting your weight sink into your legs. That smack got you good, and now it feels like you've spontaneously gained an extra fifty pounds. Your arms wobble when you lean back on your hands, and you can feel the sharp, pointy gravel in the sand underneath you. It centres your focus somewhat. A little bit of discomfort helps to take your mind off of how irrationally horny you are.

“Beg your fucking pardon?” he asks tersely. Steel grey eyes glare at you, cooler than gunmetal and hotter than the sun. You'd forgotten for a moment why you were out here in the first place. You'd been trying to find shelter before sunrise.

The rifle is glued to your forehead, and you peep his fingers already itching towards the trigger. Your dumbassery may have given him brief pause, but you're not strong enough to wrestle a gun from a crazed man or smart enough to talk your way out of being shot, so you have to hope that you're pretty enough to catch a break.

“I th-thought it was like a han- a handy for my life?” you stammer, wincing up at him. You'd meant to sound sexier than that. Maybe he hit you too hard and gave you a speech impediment.

The silence is loud. You're not sure how you summon the courage to keep eye contact with him after saying something so embarrassing, but the fear of having a bullet put in you probably helps. It's too quiet.

“L-Like a hand- y'know.” trying to fill that silence only makes a bigger fool out of you. You move one of your hands in a stroking motion before realising that this guy obviously knows what a hand job is.

He's not saying a word. Your face burns more with humiliation than pain. You wet your lips and taste something warm and sharp. Bringing a shaky hand up to feel, you confirm that the trickle down your face is blood and not snot. He whacked you good earlier. Maybe broke your nose. You try to look demure behind your hand.

You catch sight of a dead possum on the speckled pavement not too far from where you're sat. It's crispy from daytime and torn in half, probably by a car. Hopefully. You don't want to think of anything else doing that.

It probably smells better than the guy in front of you, so why are you turned on by him right now? You're mortified. You never thought you'd see the day you envied roadkill. Your stomach lurches and you try to adjust how you're sat, but the gun clicks when you fidget. That sound makes the hair on the back of your neck raise.

This man above you is not finding you charming, and if he is, he's very good at hiding it. The only sign he's given you that this might work is your brains aren't yet painting the melted road. If this silence draws on any longer, you'll just wrap your lips around the barrel of the gun and shoot yourself.

“S-so you wanted to see my hands..?” your dry throat protests when you swallow. You lift your hands out in front of you, the knuckles on your main hand shining with blood from your face. Your wrists hang limp and your palms face down. You're a nasty dog for sure, begging just like one.

“Wh-What are they for, your.. uh, necklace?” your eyes flicker to the chain of human and Visitor fingers dangling across his chest. It's a broad chest. Not the part you should be focusing on right now. You swallow again and your throat screams.

This is it. You're going to die on a public sidewalk in some nowhere town, with last words so stupid that your ancestors will reject you in the afterlife. Unable to look a killer in the eyes any longer, you drop your gaze, and that's when you notice that the bulge in his trousers is definitely bigger than it was a minute ago. Your fingers flex in front of you. The steel withdraws.

Fuck.

“Show me your teeth.” he says. He pokes at your bloody mouth with the rifle. It sounds like he smokes for fun, he talks like he belongs on a movie screen. He probably tastes like the ash he breathes in all day.

“Oh- yeah.” you mumble, opening your mouth and showing off the state of it. You haven't brushed your teeth in a while because you've been on the road for too long. You can taste the blood from your nose dripping off your top lip, probably staining them vermillion. He clicks his tongue and shifts his weight on his legs.

“You try anything, I kill you.” he says, pressing the barrel of the gun into the pocket of your cheek. The metal gleams underneath it's grime, coated in oil and grains of sand. You nod. A slurred “Uh-huh.” seems to be enough for him and he starts unbuckling his belt with his free hand. Holy fuck, how lucky are you?

You moan through your bloody nose at the sight of it. Fat, hard and hairy, probably a bit dirty but your vision is still too blurry to tell. He stiffens at the sound, pausing for a moment before he continues.

“Fucking...” he slowly withdraws the gun, and tip is exchanged for tip, this one much saltier than the metal. Your shaky hands come up to grip it at the sweaty base and your arms jump when relieved of your weight. You sway on your legs, adjusting your stance and letting the flint cut your knees. Nothing matters more than this right now.

You're a little too eager. Your hands tug and pull, stroking him with stiff wrists. He grunts, almost a yelp, and then puts a hand on your head to draw you closer. You're shaken by the hair, scalp stinging when he pulls on it hard to get your attention.

“Stop. 'Nough of that. Open your throat.” he gruffs. Maybe you're imagining what you want to hear but when you comply, his breathing stutters. With your mouth agape you let him slip the head of his cock into your maw. He's got a strong flavour, strong grip on your hair too. It's clear who's in charge from the get-go. He's not letting you suck his cock, he's fucking your face.

He grows in the warmth your mouth. Moans rattle from your closing throat, gargled by his size. The tip passes over the back of your tongue, dragging back and forth with no real rhythm. He's smacking his hips against your jaw, pubes are tickling the skin around your mouth, and your hair is tugged so taught on the top of your head that you have to wobble on your knees.

It's hard to breathe. Both your nose and your mouth are stuffed, so your chest burns and your back arches away from him. He growls at first but pulls your head back before you can pass out. It comes out with a slimy pop. Coughing and taking deep breaths in, you get straight to work cranking your arms back and forth. Less hacking, more jacking.

“Shit, you're eager.” he snorts, grinning down at you. Something about the way he holds your head up for you, even if it's with a fistful of your hair and he looks like the kind of guy to scalp you, it's warming a part of you. A very specific part.

Once you've caught your breath, you lean back in and start kissing the wet tip, blowing spit bubbles that stream across the dips and ridges. He grunts and straightens his spine.

“That taste good or something?” he husks. A chuckle interlaced with a moan grumbles from him, something you've earned by being a total slut. You might just keep your life for this performance. Even though you're the one on your knees and he's the one with the gun, you feel powerful for making a man like that sing a sound so sweet.

He doesn't wait too long to slip back into your mouth. When he does, he draws his hips in slow easy motions. You see for a brief moment how his head tilts back and his long dark hair slinks over his shoulders, the ghost of an almost contented look passing his face. Then he's gripping your head tighter, jamming his hips forward and scowling down at you. Skull fucking. He's so tense that you'd laugh if your throat wasn't full.

Hair falls into his eyes and his nostrils flare. He looks angry, like he's suspicious of you even now when it's far too late to make a call on your innocence. Innocence might not be the right word, you're choking on a strangers cock, but it's applicable. It's just... if you're a Visitor then his balls are already compromised, so it seems silly. His apparent hatred of you surely must be for flair. If he can't trust you with his life, why'd he trust you with his dick?

His fingers tighten at the back of your neck, bobbing your head to his liking. You're getting better at it, slurping and gulping just as much as you're choking and shaking. Your hands hold onto his base, squeezing and pulling what you can't reach. He swats them away so you cling to his hips instead.

It won't be long yet. Drool covers your chin, his hair sticks to it. Some of your blood drips onto his dick and is cleaned up by your tongue shortly after. You hiccup around him, urgently needing cum and air - whichever comes first.

When it does, it's bitter. His spunk is thick and warm, slightly sour tasting, tangy with the aftertaste of your blood. It burns your throat and you'd spit it out if your mouth weren't full, but you can't breathe through your nose so you have to swallow.

He lets you suffer until he's sure you've finished, then slowly draws it out of your mouth. Blinking tears away, you can get a better look at him soft. A veiny thing that's slick with your spit. It's hard not to choke on the cum still clinging to your mouth when it feels like chewing glue.

You don't get to gawk for long. Maybe it's because you have the audacity to look up at him and smile afterwards, teeth sticky with blood and jizz. Something flashes across his face when he sees you do that. He pushes your shoulder with a rough hand so you sprawl onto the floor.

“Up. And fuck off.” he tells you. You hear him grunt. Your head is still spinning. His pants aren't even up yet and he's reaching for his gun. “Better hope I don't see you again.”

You're on your back, elbows scraping the warped tarmac on the road. You've forgotten all about the incoming sunrise. “..You're breaking up with me?”

No way he doesn't return the favour.

Yandere Gary's song is IFHY by TYLER, THE CREATOR.

HOPELESS

A romantic that has never had the time or opportunity to flourish, Gary is obsessive to the most alarming degree. He can't go a minute without his thoughts circling back to you. A daydreamer that itches to act on impulse but would rather itch his skin raw than embarrass himself in front of you.

His head is a minefield. It's never been a fun place to get stuck in, but now there's you. You manifest as pockets of warmth and excitement, something so much safer to think about compared to all of the other horrible, boring things that cause him strife. The back and forth between bliss and that drives him crazy, and you indirectly become his safe space.

When he gets angry, the bad thoughts infect the good ones and spoil them forever. They're poisoned with insecurities and past failures he's frightened of repeating. He overthinks every minuscule interaction you've never even had. You won't know Gary wants you until he's long gone in self loathing reconstruction.

He'll grow to both idolise and resent you. He's too deep in his head to get out of the pattern and act on anything he wants until it's festered and become wholly impure. Here he is, out past curfew, fantasing about holding your hand as he trails behind you on the dark sidewalk, glaring at you for being such a stupid bitch and not knowing he needs you.

He gets aggressive and assertive with himself in some effort to force action. Too insecure to actually go through with it, he often tweaks out in front of his mirror after preening, smacking himself in the face and punching his wall, which makes his dad shout. He'll suck a bloody knuckle and sniffle at his reflection, scowling at everything he wants to make look better.

You are perfect and that is horrible. He wants you, but he isn't sure if he wants to want you. You cause him so much trouble and you don't even seem to care or know. At the same time he's not certain he deserves you, but when he gets desperate enough he'll delude himself that you deserve one another.

HUNGER

He follows you around. It's not to creep you out. He cares deeply about what you think of him, deeply enough that he won't even dare to properly introduce himself. What if you see something you don't like? It'll ruin everything before it's even begun. He can't stomach that. He can't bear to spoil anything, but it's too hard to stay away, so you've got a paparazzi.

It makes him inexplicably angry that you don't love him back. He knows it's not your fault, he hasn't given you much to work with. Not being able to blame you almost makes it worse, now he can only blame himself. He rarely dares to dream of your acceptance. Most of his fantasies are soured by the idea that you're judging him. He feels as though you might be able to read his mind from across the road, as he snaps picture after picture.

Nights are spent following behind you just out of view, muttering bitterly to his camera screen as he narrates fiction, weaving a story with an identity crisis, it can't decide if it wants to be a romance or a horror. When he gets home he'll chatter animatedly to the photos he's taken, and cry in his bed post false lovers quarrel.

He's never wanted anyone or anything more than this. You make him feel pathetic and boyish, weak. He doesn't think that's okay. He might ask his father for advice and be told to man up. "Ask you out, buy you some flowers." When he saves enough to get you a bouquet, he's so fidgety that the stems are picked clean of leaves and petals before they even make it to your doorstep.

Pain sometimes helps. He might bite his lips raw or pick his fingernails until they're bloody to avoid calling out to you on the street or rushing over and just jumping on you. A part of him wants you to know the pain that he's putting himself through, to love him for it, so he dedicates every wince and flinch to you. A silent call of yearning swallowed by the space between you. It's how he keeps himself in check. Sometimes, he wants to hurt you too.

It's a cycle. He tells himself that he'll really talk to you this time, tell a joke that'll make you fall in love with him. Then you can date and he can do all of the things he's wanted to do for ages, like introduce you to his cat and... then the guilt and doubt comes back, as it always does, and whatever feigned confidence he'd been ready to dazzle you with crumbles like the worn plaster on his bedroom wall. Another punch, another smack, then he's reaching for his camera and putting on his coat.

HABITS

Barkovitch can bark and bitch up a storm when he feels vindicated enough, and everything about you sets him off like a live wire. Arguments that he needs to have with himself are going to become your problem, if you ever get that far.

His anxiety borne of you tweaks him out, so he has to find outlets. He might snap at you, throw an arm he didn't mean to. Assuming you're patient and kind with his glaring issues, then he doesn't want to hurt you on purpose. He might fantasise about giving you a good smack when he's really low, but he cares far too much about your opinion of him to ever act out on that. You'll just get the silent, smouldering, hunched over glare instead.

You make him fidget. Skin picking, hair pulling, nail biting. He's developed a whole list of problems that he'll insist are made up. Trichotillomania, Dermatillomania, Onychotillomania... Signs are everywhere. Kisses that are too harsh and taste like blood. Hair in letters he didn't mean to leave there. Discarded uneven nail trimmings that you pick up with your socks. He itches and scratches at his skin until it's bleeding and pink. Sometimes he'll tug himself to the thought of you upwards of fourteen times a day until he's so sore that he can't anymore. He suffers severe OCD.

Speaking of which, he needs to take pictures of you. Each one is a memento of that exact wonderful or horrible moment, all are kept. If he doesn't get at least a picture a day he's convinced you'll die, or stop existing, like you'll poof into smoke and it'll turn out he completely imagined you the whole time. He's gone broke buying so much film and the shop processing fees are way too far up his ass, so a tiny red room in his closet has been set up to develop at home. The walls are sticky with photos, and the washing line he pegs them up to dry on has run out of space. He has a handful of favourites, but they're always changing.

He'll show the best pictures to other boys, gleaming with pride and bragging to see their faces fall. But he's possessive, and when he sees intruige instead of misery, he'll get angry at them for looking. He can't make his mind up. He wants to show you off to prove he's got you, but at the same time he wants to lock you up and keep you all to himself.

Barkovitch yearns to be gentle. He doesn't know that he needs it, but he does. Inherently, in his heart, he is a softer thing. Conditioning tells him that gentleness is weakness, and that's a feminine trait. Neglect tells him that he doesn't deserve a soft touch. Bullying tells him that it's a trap. His head tells him that it's all going to end horribly. But pet his hair, brush his shoulders and hold him without judgement - then you might unlock something that comes with free tears and a lifetime subscription to godlike worship.