Hello, could I ask for 10 of the worst yanderes in the Dragon Ball universe? Not in any specific order, just explaining what they would be like...it doesn't even have to be 100% canon, I would just like your takes based on their vibes! Thank you and have a good day.
PS: if possible, could u also do "rarest" characters? If you get what I mean🙏🏻🙏🏻
Some of the worst yandere in the Dragon Ball universe
Warnings: yandere themes, nothing too graphic.
Notes: Hi anon! I hope you like it, each one is not too long because you asked for so many characters, but i had fun tho!! I also tried writing for some different characters than usual, but I've never written for them before so forgive me if I made any mistakes.
He's a narcissist who genuinely believes the entire universe belongs to him. That possessiveness would clearly go into overdrive with a partner, because you wouldn't just be his: you'd be the one thing in his empire he actually chose instead of conquered.
He doesn't ask at all, he doesn't even think of doing it. You're his the moment he decides it, and he'll never once consider that you might've wanted a say.
Theatrical about it too... introduces you to enemies and subordinates as "mine" with this delighted, mocking little smile, like he's daring them to react badly so he has an excuse to get violent.
Absolutely tracks your movements through his men, has eyes on you at all times across the ship. not out of insecurity, he'd never admit that. He is just thinking that is the norm, like "why wouldn't I know where my things are at all times?"
Punishes anyone who so much as looks at you too long, and does it in front of you, calm and smiling, like it's a gift he's giving you rather than a threat.
The scary part is how quiet he (usually) is about all of it. No yelling, no possessive outbursts or trivial things like these. Why should he in the very first place? After all,he's sure that your place is with him, and there's no other way.
if you ever tried to leave, he wouldn't even panic. he'd just be almost amused, like watching a pet try to escape a very nice cage... right before he made sure it never happened again
He doesn't do romance in any traditional sense. doesn't need to. his version of affection is letting you live, letting you keep your name, letting the galaxy know you're untouchable because you're his. And expecting endless gratitude for it.
Zarbon
So...Zarbon is canonically obsessed with beauty and image, vain almost to Frieza's level, and deeply insecure underneath his composed exterior. I see him as someone who needs to possess something beautiful to prove his own worth, and who transforms into something monstrous the moment he feels that control slipping.
Initially treats you like an accessory to his image; impeccably dressed, always presented perfectly, shown off at Frieza's side functions like a trophy.
Deeply insecure about comparison. He hates it if you so much as compliment another man's looks, takes it as a personal attack on his own worth.
His transformed state is basically a metaphor: the calm, elegant mask slips completely the moment he feels threatened or disrespected, and what's underneath is much scarier.
Controlling about your appearance specifically. He wants you dressed a certain way because how you look directly reflects on him.
He would frame every act of control as devotion: "I only want you looking your best" while slowly deciding what your best actually means.
Cell
He's obsessed with being the perfect being, and once he decides you're his, you become part of that perfection. At the point where losing you wouldn't just hurt his feelings, it'd feel like a flaw in his design, something unacceptable.
He treats you like a prize he earned through evolution, smug and superior about it, like your existence at his side proves he's better than every fighter he's absorbed.
He would absolutely try to improve your life to keep you dependent on him...better clothes, better shelter, fewer reasons to need anyone else.
Weirdly possessive about your attention specifically, more than your body or your loyalty. He hates being ignored more than almost anything, sees it as a personal failure.
As we already know, games are his language, even with you. He'll test your loyalty like he tests opponents, setting up little scenarios just to watch how you react.
Doesn't get jealous so much as insulted, if you show interest elsewhere, he treats it less like heartbreak and more like you've made an error in judgment he needs to correct.
Broly
Well, he's practically...pure instinct. if he's imprinted on you as safe (or as his), separating you two is genuinely dangerous: not out of malice but because he doesn't regulate that panic well at all.
Gentle with you specifically, yet terrifying with anyone who gets near you... the contrast is the whole appeal.
Doesn't understand subtlety at all. If he's anxious you'll leave or get hurt, he says so, bluntly, sometimes clinging in a way that's more scared than controlling.
His rage state is canonically tied to also protecting people he loves, easy to extend that into something that spirals hard if you're ever in danger in front of him.
He doesn't manipulate you, he just physically will not let you go somewhere he perceives as unsafe, and his definition of unsafe gets broader the more attached he gets
You have to consider him less like a controlling mastermind and more like a devoted force of nature that as we already said happens to be terrifying to everyone but you.
Vegeta (Pre-redemption arc)
Clearly a pride-driven yandere. Which almost makes it scarier, because it means you're not dealing with someone chasing a feeling, you're dealing with someone whose ego has decided you belong to him and will not accept an alternate outcome.
Possessive through sheer arrogance, to be honest the idea that you'd want anyone or anything other than him doesn't even register as a real possibility in his mind.
He would never say anything soft about it out loud. Instead you get actions: showing up somewhere dangerous "by coincidence" , positioning himself between you and any threat without a word of explanation and things like these.
Treats your safety as a reflection of his own strength: if something happens to you, he takes it as a personal failure, and Saiyan pride does not handle failure well.
Doesn't do jealousy the way other people do: doesn't sulk or confront at all. He just gets colder, more clipped, trains harder, and makes it very clear without saying it that he noticed.
The control is subtle at first: opinions on where you go, who you see, framed as practical concerns about your safety rather than possessiveness. Until you realize he's slowly narrowed your whole world down to orbit around him, but by the time you realize it, it will already be too late to do anything.
Cooler
Cooler is Frieza's older brother, and where Frieza is theatrical and flashy about his cruelty, Cooler is cold, disciplined, and controlled, which makes him very different from his younger brother. In fact, he doesn't need to perform ownership for an audience at all. He just quietly makes sure there's no version of your life that doesn't include him.
Doesn't announce that you're his the way Frieza would, he just calmly eliminates any variable that might suggest otherwise before you even notice the threat existed.
He views emotional displays as weakness, so his control never looks like jealousy on the surface... It looks like efficiency, like he's simply removing inconvenient obstacles from an equation.
Expects total composure from you in turn, and reacts with a chilling disappointment if you show fear or defiance in front of his men, like you've embarrassed him.
Doesn't do warmth or soft language, the closest thing to affection he offers is competence: making sure you're protected, provided for, and untouchable, he considers that more than enough.
Android 17
His being built purely to kill Goku without hesitation, added to years of near-total independence from any authority except his own led him to genuinely not feel obligated to justify himself to anyone. If he decides you're his, that's simply the new fact of your existence, and he won't waste time explaining why.
He doesn't perform affection or possessiveness the way more theatrical villains do, his attachment is quiet, almost bored on the surface, but absolute underneath. He'd rather show you than tell you, and showing you often means a lots of things, included removing a threat before you even register it existed.
Canonically has an unshakeable bond with his twin sister, fiercely protective in a way that isn't loud or dramatic, just non-negotiable. That same instinct redirected at a partner would look like someone who doesn't ask permission to get involved in your problems, he just does because he wants to.
If we're talking about early-game android 17...well, he kills without a flicker of hesitation or remorse. Anyone who threatens you or tries to pull you away isn't met with a warning, they're just gone, and he doesn't see the need to mention it afterward. If you witness the incident, however, he will expect you to act as if nothing happened.
He doesn't do jealousy in an insecure way, he's too detached and self-assured for that. It reads more like irritation at an inconvenience, someone touching something that's already been decided as his.
Later canon (Super) shows he's capable of real loyalty and quiet domestic care once he actually commits to something, which creates an interesting arc: cold at first, but once he's claimed you, unexpectedly steady and protective.
Moro
Moro doesn't just want you close. He wants to consume, to take pieces of what makes you yourself, and call it intimacy.
Treats closeness with you as something almost nutritive, having your attention feels to him like something he needs rather than wants, and he's unbothered by how unsettling that sounds out loud.
Being centuries old he has learned patience most people never archive. When you're thinking about your old life or your family he doesn't rush at all,its facade is actually TOO quiet. He just slowly and methodically ensures you have nowhere else to go
He often gives you gifts: promises of power, healing,or simple things you asked for. But don't be fooled,these gifts always come with an invisible cost,he is always tightening his hold on you a little more.
The problem here is structural: he's not attached to you as a person so much as he's attached to what having you does for him, and he's honest about that in a way that's almost worse than lying about it.
Lord Beerus
This is a god of destruction who has never once had to consider anyone else's autonomy in his entire existence. So what we got here is a god who's decided, almost lazily, that you're his and doesn't see why that should be up for discussion.
If he took you it's because he really cares, and if he really cares he treats you as an exception to his famous impatience. Everything and everyone else bores or irritates him within minutes, but you get an unsettling amount of his attention, and he's not subtle about the double standard.
He doesn't threaten people who get close to you, he just makes it clear that they can't, once, and trusts that fear of him will do the rest. But if we're honest, there won't be any need for that, No one would ever knowingly try to go against him.
He has zero interest in performing romance or affection, but shows attachment through proximity. He simply doesn't leave, doesn't let you out of his orbit, without ever framing it as neediness. In the privacy of his planet he will lowkey force you to sleep with him, but like... really just sleep, yk the man.
His temper can be catastrophic, and the idea of it being triggered by someone threatening you specifically is not that far from reality.
Congratulations! a being who could unmake a planet without much thought decided that you, specifically, are the one thing in the universe he won't allow anyone to touch.
Raditz
He claims you almost immediately and treats it as settled fact. He doesn't court you (I honestly don't even think saiyans do that but thats a story for another day), he just decides you're his and gets visibly irritated if you act like that's up for debate.
Boastful about you to other the same way he boasts about his power level, more interested in the status of having you than in any other aspect.
He has a short temper AND even shorter patience for rejection. He gets aggressive, and unfortunately for you has no filter for how he expresses it.
Canonically willing to abandon family loyalty for personal gain, which extends in an unsettling way here: he'd justify almost anything, betray almost anyone, if it meant keeping you.
But to get to this point he must consider you indispensable to him, so... commit to becoming the definition of the word.
It doesn't matter how important you are to him,he still lacks any real self awareness about how controlling he's being. He genuinely believes he's simply claiming what a Saiyan like him deserves, and gets baffled, then furious, when you don't see it the same way.
What do the Phantom Troupe men do when you're on your period?
Warnings: yandere male x fem reader, mentions of dubcon & noncon, implied period fetish, general weird and creepy behavior, power imbalance
Shalnark loves it when you're on your period. He prefers having "dirty" sex whenever possible. Meaning he likes withholding showers to keep you both musty. It brings down your self-esteem a lot, much faster and lower than whatever Feitan can imagine. He enjoys having that power over you, but he won't lie and say it doesn't do something for him. He indulges in your natural state and having you bleed on his bed gets him excited. Doesn't matter if you're screaming at him to give you space during the week, he'll barge into the room and take his fill.
Nobunaga and Uvogin are munchers even on your period. They'll bother you on each cycle to let them "help" you through it. Nobunaga asking is more for formality; he's super pushy, almost forceful about the ordeal. Meanwhile Uvogin will accept your refusal. He holds out hope that you'll give in one day if he keeps pestering offering assistance every month. Doesn't have to be his mouth or dick if that's too intimate. Look at his hands and fingers! He's sure you two can work something out.
Phinks and Feitan on the other hand? Not so much. Phinks is surprisingly squeamish around the idea and understands that you're uncomfortable so he'll let you be. Feitan is massively grossed out with the idea completely. Unless he's the cause of making you bleed, he doesn't want to be near you during your menstruation. The feeling's mutual with these two.
Illumi is indifferent about it. He'll leave you alone unless he wants to receive an earful from his mom. For the first time ever, she's on your side. She'll send servants to your shared room to bring you warm towels and chocolates if you request it. No medication, though. She won't budge on that and neither will Illumi.
Chrollo is the most charitable out of everyone. He keeps track of your cycle and prepares for it with medicine, a heat pack, and curated meals to help you through it. He's also gone through the hassle of picking out the type and brand of feminine hygiene products you've previously used. The catch? You have to involve him to gain access to the extra luxuries besides the necessary ones. If you're cramping really bad, you have to ask Chrollo if you can please use the heating pad to make it go away. He'll happily oblige with chocolates, tea, and extra blankets in tow if you let him hold you close with his hand over the heating pad to "make sure it doesn't get too hot to burn you". He's not bad as the others, but you will like some personal space.
Title: The Village in Winter [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]
Synopsis: You meet a strange man in the museum one day.
Word count: 7500ish
Notes: yandere, autistic coded reader, kidnapping, manipulation, Chrollo is an asshole
Tuesday. Thursday. Saturday.
Each of these was a Museum Day. Well. Not officially. It wasn’t on some city-wide calendar or anything as glamorous as that. It was, however, a simple fact of life: every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, you came to your city’s famous art museum for the afternoon.
It was easy enough to take a long lunch during the week–the missing 2 hours on your pay wasn’t exactly something to weep over and if you wanted to cry, you could always come in an hour early to make up for it.
And you didn’t work on Saturday at all, so it was your time to spend as you wished. So why not spend it at the most famous museum in the city?
Maybe infamous was a better word. Outside news agencies never got tired of remarking about the dubious and potentially illegal origins of some of its works, rumored to be stolen hundreds of years ago by some king-or-another from a formerly favored lord.
The infamy wasn’t why you went, of course. You went for the art, dubious origins or otherwise. More specifically, you went for the paintings. Sculptures weren’t the same. They were often boring, blank imitations of life that captured nothing but smooth solid porcelain.
It was paintings that drew your eye and kept your interest. The brushstrokes, the way the lighting was specifically designed to pull people’s gazes this way and that; the hidden secrets behind a subject’s expression. All the little details that you could count on being there time and time again.
And so, like clockwork, you went there time and time again. To admire, to walk. Some of the guards and docents knew you by name at this point and, if they’d given it, you knew theirs, too.
It was nice to remember things when you went to the same place. It was nice, too, to visit the same paintings. The museum rarely moved pieces–it had happened only once in your memory–and that was especially ideal. Your steps and path could be familiar day after day.
What was not nice, however, was the fact that there was (today, of all days, a Tuesday) a man standing in front of your favorite painting at the exact moment you wanted to approach it.
The man’s presence wasn’t the not-nice part. (It was often nice when people admired the same things you did, because it meant they might ask you about them. And as many years as you had under your belt visiting these same paintings, these same steps, you knew quite a lot.)
The not-nice part was that there was a man standing in front of your favorite painting, and he was staring at (horror!) the wrong thing.
As you trace your familiar steps, coming agonizingly closer, you can see that he’s not looking at the painting but the frame. The frame! Of all things! He’s got his head tilted just-so, looking at it this way and that. Like he’s admiring it. He stops only when your footsteps get close enough to make it clear that you’re about to stop at the same spot.
“The frame isn’t period authentic,” you say, perhaps a bit too loudly, “There’s no point in looking at it.”
The man hums. You half-wonder if he’ll snap at you, people sometimes do.. But instead he looks back at the painting, as if he’s trying to see what you mean. “What makes you say it isn’t period authentic?”
His voice is low, a murmur. Out of respect for the museum, maybe, or he’s just embarrassed at being called out. You don’t bother trying to figure it out, because the question he asked is more than enough to have you ready to spill out the words.
“Well,” you begin, swallowing because you can already tell it’s going to take a while. “For one, it’s gilded with aluminum.” When he doesn’t respond, you smile, unbidden. “And of course, aluminum isn’t suitable for water gilding.” Your finger points to the frame (an unwelcome frame, in your opinion–but again, it was the painting, not the frame, that one ought to look at) and wiggles. “The era this painting was made, water gilding was the most popular. They certainly wouldn’t have used an inferior material like aluminum to do water gilding.”
“I see,” he says, after a moment. “Is that all?”
It is, naturally enough, not all.
“No!” You say, maybe too loud, because he raises an eyebrow. But you press on. “If it was just the frame material, that would be one thing. Not everything was water gilded, of course, it was just the most popular. But the real tell…”
And you might be reading him wrong (you do that a lot) but he does lean in, doesn’t he? Because he’s interested in what you have to say. You think. It would be welcome, anyway.
“The real tell,” you continue, pointing here and there on the frame. “Are the fasteners. Especially around the joints..” You press on before he thanks you, because he shouldn’t thank you before you give him the really important detail here.
“When the painting was made, they didn’t have keyed stretchers yet.” You point here, and there. “These made it easier to expand the frame, or make it smaller, simply by sliding the keys and tightening the screw. Before,” and there’s a laugh in your voice, “it was a pain when you wanted to take a painting out and swap it for something else. But with these newer ones, it was much simpler!”
There is a beat or two, and you wonder if he’s going to scoff and give you that smirky little smile people give when you’ve shared too much information that they apparently didn’t want. (Even if it was fascinating information, nonetheless.)
But he doesn’t. Curiously, and it’s a pleasant sort of curiosity, his smile isn’t smirky at all–it’s pleased. Happy, even, if your guess was as good as gold.
“Thank you,” he says, eyeing the frame–still the wrong part, you think–again. “I wasn’t aware that frames held such nuance.” He glances at you. “I appreciate your insight.”
Insight. Huh. No one has ever called it that before. Word-vomit, yes. Over-explaining, definitely. “Stuff no one cares about,” that one was pretty common. But insight–that was new. And it was, like his smile, perfectly pleasant. It made you feel almost fluttery.
“Most people don’t appreciate it,” you admit, too honest. “But the frame isn’t the important part of the painting, anyway…”
The next time he looks towards the painting he, thank goodness, actually looks at the painting within the frame. “Is this your favorite painting?”
“Of course.” The words come quick and sure.
“Why of course?”
Sometimes you wonder if other people have a switch that lets them choose when to hold back,
and when to indulge in their words. Because you find it very, very hard. Especially when it’s something like this, something like a painting you adore, something like being asked to explain why it is your favorite painting.
But this stranger asked about it, so even if this mysterious switch did exist, you certainly would have slammed the “full speed ahead” setting without hesitation.
“Well…”
This stranger gets to learn about it all. About the artist (Henri Lamorliere) and why he chose the subject (a village scene in the winter) and who commissioned it (a prince who owned the land and later died from complications related, presumably, to his gout) and how it ended up here, in this city, of all places. (That was, indeed, a longer story–involving said potentially dubious origins that you were more than happy to indulge in, considering the stranger’s interest.)
As for why it is, of course, your favorite–it is because of all the tiny details, small things, inconsequential and silly to most, but details that keep you coming again and again. A child depicting playing in the snow with friends; a couple ice skating, with one leg clearly losing balance, forever frozen before the young man falls straight on his bum; a woman with a bucket, frowning, staring into a frozen water well; a farmer carefully draping warm blankets over his horses; a streak of mud revealed underneath the pristine snow as a cart of firewood is pulled along; and on and on. It’s not just a painting, it’s a frozen moment, people forever engaging in these mundane or delightful or simplistic moments.
When you are done (and you must admit, you talked for quite a while) the man doesn’t roll his eyes or sigh or say that he must be off, which is very often the case when you talk too much.
Instead he, of all things, smiles.
“Thank you,” he says, and before you can ask why, continues: “How fascinating. I didn’t know the history of the piece as well I as I thought.” His eyes roam over the painting, the details you cling to. “And I never thought much about the scene being depicted.” He glances at you. “Not in the way you have, at least.”
It might be an insult. It might not.
“When you come here as much as I do, you learn a lot.”
He hums. Seems to consider something. And then, he asks:
“Would you like to share a coffee?” If you’re not mistaken, there’s a warmth to his voice. A bit of humor, too. Maybe he didn’t hate your diatribe about the piece, in the end.
But–well. It won’t work out, at least not without a concession on his part. (And yours, too, not that he’d understand it.)
“I only get coffee after I see the rest of my paintings.” A pause, something heated piercing the apple of your cheeks. “Um. They’re not my paintings. I didn’t paint them. I don’t have any work on display,” you explain, as if he needs that clarification. “I think of some of them as mine, because I visit them when I come here.”
Sometimes, when there’s time to ponder on it, you liken actions to machinery. It starts with thoughts. They go through a certain process before resulting in an expression or a word. That’s what you think of, now, as you watch this stranger taking in what you said. His own thoughts are no doubt moving through the cogs, being sent this way and that on some conveyor belt, ending in his final action.
Though it isn’t one you expected.
“Well then,” he says. “May I accompany you to see the rest of your paintings, so that I could join you for coffee?”
Huh.
It’s a break in the routine, sure. But he didn’t roll his eyes while you talked or quickly excuse himself to get out of hearing what you had to say. And if he was willing to listen, and follow your route, well–it might just be okay.
You don’t exactly plan to smile when you answer, but it creeps along your lips all the same.
“I suppose you could,” you say, and that smile quirks. “If you can keep up.”
“My name is Chrollo,” he replies, oddly, like it’s an answer.
–
Chrollo does, in fact, keep up. More than that, he engages in conversation with you, offering counterpoints, asking questions, even going so far as to ask how you learned such-and-such a detail.
Despite the interruption that he presents, it’s not unwelcome. It’s nice, actually, and as the afternoon goes on, you almost regret that there aren’t more paintings on your usual stop. But it’s not like the afternoon stops when you visit Boy and his Dog, one of the museum’s quirkier paintings; it is, yes, a Boy and his Dog. But the dog is wearing human clothes, and the boy is running wild on a broken leash.
(The painting always makes you smile. When the stranger asks why, you’re almost–well, perhaps actually–rude when you explain: “Because it’s all backwards, of course.”)
After Boy and his Dog comes coffee. And if your newfound companion is relieved to have finally gotten to the part he asked you about earlier this afternoon, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he watches; he watches as you approach the counter and the barista greets you by name, already starting your familiar order before you say a word.
“You come here often,” he says, and it’s not a question.
You nod and eye the pastry case. “It’s tradition,” you say, not taking your eyes off the goodies displayed inside the climate controlled glass. If they have fresh cinnamon buns, you get one of them. If they aren’t fresh, you stick to the prepackaged cookies. “Every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday.”
The glaze isn’t hard, but smooth, a bit of it still runny along the edges.
Fresh.
“One cinnamon roll, please,” you order. Then pause, because that isn’t quite right today, is it? “I mean, two.” But is that right, either? You eye Chrollo and something like a smile plays at the edge of his lips. “Er, well, if you’d like one, that is–”
“I would, thank you.” It’s a relief to not have to walk back the order, and the barista behind the counter swiftly bags them up.
Chrollo orders his own coffee before you can offer to add his to your tab, but that’s all right. At least you’re buying him the cinnamon bun. It’s nice to help others, especially someone who was patient enough to listen. (Not just listen, though, you remind yourself. Actively engage with you, which is far better. And more rare.)
You’re in the middle of your cinnamon bun–literally, fork stabbing the middle part first, which is the softest, gooeist part–when he speaks up.
“I enjoyed our conversation today.” Soft, almost as if he didn’t say the words often. Maybe, and this was perhaps too egotistical of you, he didn’t.
“Mm,” you say, because you really did want to eat that middle part first, and the explosion of sticky-sweet cinnamon goodness in your mouth prevented further words for a few moments. Something about this seems to amuse him, and he places a hand over his mouth before he chuckles.
“What?” There is still some cinnamon roll still clinging to your teeth.
“Nothing,” he murmurs, though it wasn’t nothing at all. “I was simply thinking that I might see you on Thursday. If that’s all right.”
Your mouth quirks. It’s not irritation that you’re feeling. Not really. But he was something new, a blip in your schedule. Still, he didn’t make a mess of things. He listened, and it was nice, actually, for someone to not shoo you away like some gnat the moment you got going on a favorite topic.
“It’s all right,” you say, mind still wavering, but voice already made up. “If you can still keep up.”
He snorts, and nothing more.
–
On Thursday, he’s there. Standing by your favorite painting. And staring, again, at the unimpressive, unimportant frame. Of all things–again!
“You–” And it’s strange, how easily the indignation bleeds into your words. “But I already told you about the frame–”
But when Chrollo turns, he’s smiling, and it takes you a few slow moments to realize that he was kidding. Ah. It was… It was a joke.
There’s a flush in your cheeks as you stuff your hands into your jacket pocket. “I’m not good with jokes,” you admit.
He stuffs his own hands in his pockets and you can’t decide if it’s intentional mimicry or if he simply does the same thing in an awkward situation. (And which of these options is better, really?)
“Nor am I, it seems.”
That, for some reason, makes you laugh.
Makes him laugh.
Makes the afternoon start off on a better foot.
Later on, after paintings and coffee, Chrollo insists on coming to the museum Saturday to see you again.
You don’t protest.
–
It’s remarkable how quickly Chrollo becomes a part of your daily routine, and how swiftly he moves from being solely within your once-tidy museum routine to the outside.
To things like asking you out to dinner, and when you explain that on Tuesday evenings after work you go home and make breakfast for dinner, he insists on taking you to a diner-style restaurant to maintain your breakfast meal while not intruding on your home life.
Which is considerate, you think, that he understands that you’re wary of inviting a relatively new acquaintance into your home. But–going out to eat is not what you usually do. At least he doesn’t comment when you fidget too much, when you don’t look in the waitress’s eyes as you order, and when you seem relieved when the check comes.
You like him better for it.
–
Chrollo doesn’t tell you that you’re doing things wrong. Which is nice. It’s not that most people tell you flat out that you’re doing something wrong, at least not since you’ve become an adult. But you can tell by their looks; pinched eyebrows and frowns, glances, murmured comments to their peers.
Chrollo does none of this.
Chrollo does, however, often forget how you like things; or rather, how you don’t like things.
He gets too close. A hand that brushes your thigh when you sit together for lunch or coffee, his arm slung around your shoulder when the museum gets too crowded and you start to feel the crush of it crawling up your back. A term of endearment slipped in at the end of the night. Goodnight, dearest.
Maybe it’s a lot to remember, or maybe he’s just forgetful. There are other options that sometimes sneak up in your mind–maybe he’s doing it on purpose–but they are swiped away so quickly.
Because it’s Chrollo. He listens to you, he actually pays attention to what you say. He doesn’t mind that you sometimes have trouble making eye contact or that you get flustered in ordinary situations.
More than that–
He’s your friend. Someone who listens, who has something interesting to say, who seems to actually care about you. He’s the first friend you’ve had in a long time, and you were willing to put up with his forgetfulness in order to keep that friendship alive and well.
Even if it meant having to bat his hand away from your thigh on more than one occasion.
–
It’s Friday evening.
Friday evening should be relaxing. The end of the work week, a time to grab a favorite frozen dinner from the freezer and relax in front of the TV with a show that you’ve seen a thousand times.
Once it’s over, you’ll turn on the news and you might work on a puzzle or write in your journal or slowly make progress on an embroidery kit you picked up 2 years ago and have only ventured into a few times.
You might do these things, except–well.
Except everything has fallen apart.
Your shaking fingers almost don’t manage to pick out Chrollo on your contacts, and it’s a wonder your phone doesn’t crash to the ground and break into a million pieces with how much your hands tremble.
“Hello?”
He barely gets the word out and you’re already blubbering into the phone, incoherent, words bubbling out with no time to make them more understandable. They choke out, stuttered and half-baked, before you finally beg for the one person who might understand your distress.
He manages the trek in record time, impossibly fast, but you don’t pay attention. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s here and you don’t even protest this time when he sees your sobbing form and immediately scoops you into his arms.
It’s almost comforting, the way he squeezes you, gives you something to feel grounded. One of his hands inches a bit lower on your back than you’d like but even that doesn’t matter, doesn’t even register, because his presence has calmed you down enough to spit out the terrible truth:
“They stole it.” You gulp in a great, heaving gasp. “The Village in Winter. Someone… someone stole it.”
Chrollo’s body tenses. The news drones on in the background, but it’s moved on to something less important now. As if something could be less important than this. There’s a great big hole where the painting used to be, on the wall, in your mind.
Chrollo steps in or rather, steps back, placing one hand on your chin–the sensation makes something itch down your back, but you ignore it, because such things can be ignored in a time of great distress. “You are truly upset,” he says, finally, slowly.
“Of course I am!” Your own hands come up now, grabbing the one on your chin, tugging it down so you can squeeze it with great abandon. Chrollo doesn’t seem to mind. “It’s all wrong–” It’s wrong, too, the way that other hand still rests far too low on your back. “It won’t be there. I love that painting. I love it and now when we go to the museum tomorrow, it won’t be there!”
Chrollo’s hand on your lower back begins to stroke. Maybe it’s soothing. Or meant to be; you have to give him credit, you think, for rushing over and trying to calm you down.
“We don’t have to be there,” he murmurs.
Which does nothing to calm you down at all, because of course–
“We do have to be there.” Bitterness sets your jaw hard. “We do have to be there, and it will be all wrong.” The thought of all those precious details lost to you forever, the stories you’ve wound through again and again in your head. Even the new routine of admiring them with Chrollo, who always takes interest in the wrong part of the painting–that will be gone, too.
And it’s wrong, wrong, wrong. The world feels worse for it. What would be the point of going to the museum, when you’ve lost some integral part of yourself, all thanks to the work of some lowlife thieves?
Chrollo finally pulls himself away from you, a frown set on his lips. He glances around your living room, the disrupted Friday evening routine that is begging to be set back into place without all the pieces.
“Have you had your tea? You always drink it while you watch the news, don’t you?”
You do. Yes. Not tonight, though. At least not more than that first sip before it was interrupted by the horror of the news report.
“I was too upset to finish it,” you admit. “It’s on the counter.” But if you could finish it, maybe it would help. Now that Chrollo’s here to set everything back into order. It wouldn’t make things right–nothing could, except the restoration of that pivotal painting–but it’s a start. A comfort.
“Could you…”
He’s already on his way to the kitchen, a hand slipping into his pocket. “Of course. I’ll warm it up for you.”
“Thanks,” you force out, the word heavy on your tongue. Yes. Thank goodness Chrollo is here to set things into place. He knows what you like and need, wandering hands notwithstanding. So it comes as no surprise when he emerges from the kitchen with a newly warmed cup of tea and you stumble on shaking legs to the sofa.
Microwaved tea never tastes the same, and it’s no exception here. It’s almost too bitter now. But you choke it down anyway while Chrollo sits next to you, eyes on the screen, the flickering bar underneath the next program that repeats the news about the museum break-in.
Theft suspected to be the work of professional thieves. More updates on stolen paintings will emerge as staff inventory the losses. At least three security guards found dead…
The world spins. Literally, the world spins, and you reach out a hand and stand up on reflex with the anxiety that spreads through your chest.
“Chrollo?” He’s there, sitting next to you, but he falls in and out of focus as your vision wobbles.
“Yes, love?”
“I don’t feel very…” The word never comes before everything goes black, and you only just register the awful sensation of falling and being caught in someone’s sturdy hands before you faint.
–
Someone has shoved cotton into your mouth. That’s the only explanation your mind comes up with when the world returns and all you can taste is stale dryness. Someone must have shoved cotton into your mouth at some point before the blackness and this bleary, foggy wake-up.
But why would they do that, and why does your head feel so fuzzy, and why does the world feel like it’s moving? There’s an awful sound underneath you too, almost like rushing and wheels mixed together, like heavy traffic or–or a train.
Oh. Oh, no.
Air comes in great gulping gasps as you heave yourself forward and sensations assault your senses. A leather seat underneath you, the sun dimmed by drawn curtains, warm, stale air, the sound of rolling wheels and ground underneath you–and Chrollo. Chrollo sitting your opposite, on the same type of leather seat.
You’re on a train. You’re awake and on a train and Chrollo is sitting in front of you.
It’s a dream. Maybe. That’s what you think as you swallow up the cotton feeling, smacking your lips, craving the realization that this is nothing but a bizarre nightmare.
But nightmares don’t feel like this. This is real. It’s your body that feels sluggish and heavy, your eyes blinking away an awful, long sleep. Your voice that croaks out the words that half-stick to the roof of your mouth:
“Chrollo? Where… am I?”
There’s another question that clings to the back of it–What happened?--but the low curl in your gut makes you avoid it for now.
Chrollo, for his part, looks appropriately serious for the bizarre situation you’ve woken up in. He leans forward, folding his hands together, as he scans your face. For what? An injury? Is that why you’re here? You fell and hit your head and the only solution was a specialist who is only available in the next city, so Chrollo booked you the first tickets on the next train and he didn’t have time to warn you before–
“Dearest.”
The low curling in your stomach squirms, too. He knows you hate those pet names. It was easier to ignore them back then. When the two of you were strolling through the museum or he was indulgently watching you reorganize your books. When you weren’t suddenly on a train, feeling like you got hit over the head with a hammer.
A strange place, a strange Chrollo.
An answer might come, but your mouth is still too sticky and Chrollo interrupts what you might have said, anyway.
“We’re on a train.”
After a moment, a slow word comes. “Yes.” You swallow. “I know that.”
Chrollo smiles. It might be indulgent, but all you can think is: has his smile always been so condescending?
“Do you know why we’re on a train?”
Well. It would be stupid to say “yes,” when you don’t know the answer.
So you spit out the runaround thought from earlier, though even to your ears, it sounds more ridiculous with every passing word.
“I fell and hit my head and the only solution was a specialist who is only available in the next city, so you booked the first tickets on the next train and you didn’t have time to warn you before–”
He doesn’t call you an endearing nickname (thank goodness) this time but instead his smile widens, just enough to make it look like he wants to coo at you. It’s gross and sticky and you rub at your arms to make some of the feeling go away.
“Stop that. I’m not a child.”
His smile doesn’t waver, which only sparks a rush of indignation. The world has stopped feeling quite so heavy and when you sit up, you move to pull aside the curtains, if only to find out where in the world you’re at.
The countryside that’s rolling by isn’t remotely familiar. All lush and green and pretty. Are you even in the same region? The same country?
“How… how long was I asleep?” No, that’s not the right question. “Why was I asleep? I don’t remember…” Falling asleep at all. And what you do remember doesn’t fit inside this puzzle. You’d been watching the news, and there was the terrible report about the theft at the museum, and then Chrollo came over, and you drank your tea. One plus one should equal two, not waking up on a train.
Chrollo hums, and the sound brings you back. The ground rolls heavy underneath you two, separated by the carpeted floor.
“I drugged your tea,” he says, plainly enough.
It can’t be what he said, though. You’re hearing things. Maybe you suffered a blow to the head. That might actually make things.
“You what… my what?”
“I drugged your tea,” he repeats. Calm and clear and you’re certain that you’ve heard him right this time, only it’s still all wrong. Because this is Chrollo. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t. But he did. He said so. So the only thing left to wonder is:
“Why would you do that?”
“I enjoy your company,” he says, still leaning forward. “Very much so. And it was time for me to leave town, but the thought of leaving without you, well…”
Now, there are no “right” answers to this question. No one ever catalogs the proper responses to a hypothetical question about drugging one’s tea. Still, what he tells you doesn’t sound like the sort of answer one should give.
Kidnapping someone for ransom, sure. Kidnapping someone because they found out some terrible secret and no one else can no, understandable. Kidnapping someone to kill them because you’re secretly a murderer, again, makes sense.
Kidnapping you because he likes you?
It’s so wrong, so out of place, that you don’t answer. Can’t answer. There’s something sticky keeping your mouth shut and that something is Chrollo’s lack of common sense.
And then, of all things, he puts a hand on your shoulder. Firm. Irritating. A touch you want to shake but when you try, his grip keeps you in place. It’s too much. Too heavy and personal. It was something to be brushed off before, swept under the rug while you focused on what you liked about him.
But now?
You must be glaring. There’s a moment where you take stock of your expressions. Your eyebrows feel low and heavy, so they must be furrowed. Your mouth is dry and open. And your eyes are… well. It’s understandable to cry.
Worst of all, though, is that Chrollo’s hand goes from your shoulders to your cheeks, and it’s when he wipes at your tears that you finally fling your body backwards with enough force that the back of your head smacks against the wall.
It helps, this pain. This motion. So you do it again. Move your head forward and then back, feeling the firm smack of the wood against your head.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
An ordinary person might look shocked. An ordinary person might cry out and tell you that you're hurting yourself.
Chrollo, however, simply looks like he’s admiring a painting. He takes in the details, his head tilting just so.
“I packed some of your favorite things,” he says after a while, over the sound of your skull smacking against the wall. “Once we arrive at our destination, we can unpack some of them. It could help you calm down.”
“I want to go home,” you reply, between thumps. “I want to go home.”
He doesn’t reply, which is as good as a “no.”
“I’m taking you with me,” he says, still calmly, like you aren’t trapped on a train, like you aren’t banging your head with increasing intensity against the wood.
“I don’t want to go with you,” is all you can say, helplessness straining your voice. “I want–I want–” And when you look around, all you can see are these walls, the window, Chrollo. There are a thousand things that you want right now, and none of them are here.
You want your old microwave with the 7 button that sticks so you have to push it hard every time, you want the pink flower rug in your living room that you’ve had since childhood, you want your pumpkin-shaped mug with the chip on the handle, you want your blankets and your bed and the alarm clock on the side table on the left side, so you can wake up and easily roll over to hit the snooze button–
It’s only when Chrollo says your name that you realize you’ve been saying all of this, to him or to yourself, you’re not sure. There’s something stupidly hungry in the way he looks at you. It’s in the way he listens, too. Like he’s hanging onto every word so he can pick them all apart, splaying them open to reveal something inside.
But what? And why?
He doesn’t tell you. Instead, he hums. It’s a low grounded sound. It makes you feel–and you hate it, it’s gross, this feeling–comforted. Almost. Sort of. The way it used to, when you were feeling out of sorts and he swooped in to get you off the ledge.
Only this time he’s the one who pushed you to it, first.
“I’m not taking you home,” he says with a finality that makes your body jerk. “But you can view me as your new home, if it helps.” The smile he gives is warm and kind and if you were sitting in the museum over a cup of coffee, maybe you’d believe it.
“But you can view me as your new home, if it helps.”
It doesn’t help.
–
Your upper arm hurts from the way Chrollo gripped you in the hotel lobby.
“Don’t try anything, dearest,” he’d said, on the way in. Quiet and calm and sticky on the dearest. He might as well have been telling you that he was ordering in for dinner. “I’ll kill everyone in this hotel if you do. I’d rather not have to clean up any messes tonight. I’m sure you understand.”
The words should have shocked you. Or maybe they did, and you’re still in such an inward frenzy that you can’t seem to react to anything within the freezing utter bewilderment of your present situation.
So you didn’t say anything, though he gripped you hard all the same. And now you’re sitting on some oversized sterile hotel room bed that smells too much like sharp laundry detergent. There’s a mint on the pillow. You bet it tastes like soap.
“We’ll be staying here for a few nights,” Chrollo murmurs. The pair of suitcases he’d brought in are on top of the bed, and there’s a shock to your system when he unzips one of them and you recognize what’s inside.
It’s filled with your things–your hairbrush, a wellworn paperback copy of your favorite book, a bottle of your tried-and-true face wash.
Your clothes. (Well. Some of them.) Right down to your underwear, neatly folded on top. Chrollo had–taken them. Touched them. Been through your things, clearly.
“You…” The word comes out all strangled, and heat rises to your cheeks for more than one reason. “You really…” You really kidnapped me, you really planned it out, you really went through my private things and plucked them up.
He takes the pause in your thoughts to crouch down, peering into your face like he might yank the words out himself.
“Yes? What is it?”
“You... you…” And the words you want to ask are stuck between your teeth until you force them out. “Why did you do this? It’s not just… it can’t be just because you,” and your mind reels to remember what he said on the train. “Because you enjoy my company.”
Chrollo says nothing for a moment. A whole lot of nothing. Your mind is working too fast and you expect him to smile or grin, expect him to give some terribly wicked speech like a villain in a movie you’ve seen a thousand times.
Instead he blinks. Instead he frowns.
Instead his hand reaches out to grip your chin and you don’t have time to register the uncomfortable buzz from being touched when says something so softly that you have to strain to hear it.
“Oh, dearest. Don’t you know?”
When your chin does try to jerk away from his touch, it grows tighter, even as his gaze seems to soften. It’s a strange look on Chrollo’s face. Chrollo has looked contemplative, yes; contemplative and intrigued and annoyed, even, when some museum-goers were being too loud for your liking. He’s even looked sympathetic.
But soft? It’s new. It’s unwanted. And the expression stays on his face despite both of those terrible qualities.
“I care for you,” he says, repeating his earlier words. “Not just as a friend. But…” He turns your head this way and that. It makes you feel like a prized horse at auction. “I believe… as something more.”
Not just as a friend…
Not just as a friend–
“Not just as a friend.” Your repetition comes out all stilted. Maybe because of the hand on your jaw. Maybe because the words seem to creak out of you, every syllable one step down the staircase you’d rather avoid descending.
Something like a film reel flickers through your memories. Little moments, brought back to the forefront with a disgusting clarity. Why had you brushed him off so often? Because you were lonely; because he was your friend. Or so you thought.
But the way he pushed past what you wanted so often seems calculated now. The times he sat too close and let his thigh brush against yours; the way he didn’t hear you, or so he said, when you’d asked him to please stop calling you those soft, sweet pet names. The times he claimed not to be hungry only to ask if he could share your meal afterwards–the way his fingers brushed against yours when he accidentally (or was it?) reached for a bite at the same time.
“The whole time,” you bite out, acid rising in your throat. Your fingers curl against your thighs and there’s a terrible urge to knock them into something. “Were you like this… the whole time?”
Amusement crinkles through the softness in his face. It’s just as grating as nails on a chalkboard. “Did you really not notice?”
Shame flushes through you, heating up your cheeks, your chest, the very air in the room. “Of course not,” you spit out, words sounding more stilted with every passing moment. “Most people wouldn’t notice–notice that.”
At some point, he’s let go of your chin, and you take the moment of the realization to scoot backwards on the bed. Away from him and closer to the dingy looking headboard, which might have been pretty once upon a time, but was now scratched and chipped.
“Of course they would,” he counters, climbing onto the bed like some sort of terrible cat. “And they have, with far less effort on my part.” He pauses, a smile. “Not out of any genuine affection, of course. Don’t worry about that. Only to get something I wanted.”
He’s closer, now. Too close. His hand cups not your chin this time, but your cheek, and there’s only a few moments in between his face and yours. What if he…?
“Stop,” you say, desperate, helpless. “Don’t touch me.” He doesn’t stop. He leans in closer and you smack against the headboard. “Why aren’t you listening to me?”
What he says makes about as much sense as jello salad. Which is to say, no damn sense at all. “I am listening.” The almost-coo in his voice makes you want to hurl. “I’m hearing what you can’t say out loud, that’s all.”
But that’s not true. Is it? There’s too much going on. He’s too close and this room smells like soap and you ought to be home, not here, with yourself, not Chrollo. The muchness of it all has you aching to get away and make sense of it all, some way, some how.
“I always say what I want to say,” you manage, but you can’t hide the question in it. Isn’t that true? Isn’t that how it’s always been? It’s why people tend to look at you strangely sometimes. It’s why you were often too much for them, when it came down to it.
“You think you do, my dear.” His thumb rubs against your cheek. The touch is sandpaper. “But there’s something else inside you, I think. Something stuck that I’d like to crack open and pull out, if I could.” The fondness in his tone is out of place with the world around you. “If you’d let me.”
You need him to stop touching you. You need him to get away. You need this entire room to vanish, the sight of it, the smell of it, the feel of the unfamiliar sheets underneath you. A sound comes out, something short, stacatto–
“No.”
And Chrollo doesn’t leave and his thumb keeps rubbing your cheek, so you bring your arm up, smacking him away. Only his arm doesn’t move at all. It’s like hitting a pole–sturdy and impossibly strong.
So you try again, and again, and the sensation of hitting his arm isn’t helpful or soothing. It only makes your breath come in faster, makes the world spin. His breath grows faster, too, and you can’t begin to imagine why.
“You’ll grow to like this in time,” Chrollo says, finally, a touch of a sigh in his voice. “You’ll grow to like me.”
“No,” you say again, even though it doesn’t help.
In response, Chrollo simply continues to stroke your cheek.
–
In his defense–not that you are defending him–Chrollo said nothing when you’d taken the first opportunity to abandon the bed and build something like a fort in the corner of the room. It wasn’t anything like the pop up tent you used to have as a child (then a teenager and, sometimes, in a pinch, as an adult) but it would do. A fort made from blankets and some of the bed pillows, despite the detergent stink.
Anything to avoid sleeping in the same bed as Chrollo. More than that, anything to be alone, or something like it. You rocked yourself to sleep and dreamt about the museum.
In the morning, you wake up and remember everything in one great gulping heave. Your body tenses when you hear Chrollo walking around the room–the sound of the sink, the toilet, the rustling of clothes–until his footsteps stop outside your makeshift shelter.
He pops his head inside without so much as a warning.
“Good morning. Did you sleep well?”
The glare he receives is enough of a response. He chuckles it away, easy as a gnat.
“I’d like to show you something. It’s a surprise.”
“I don’t like surprises,” you reply, voice tired and dull. He’s going to show you anyway. He knows it, and you do, too.
He holds open the drape of your fort but you don’t have the energy to be grateful that he at least didn’t drag you out of it. Your limbs feel heavy and awful as you crawl out, and the hotel room in the daylight looks no better than it did at night.
But Chrollo must have done some unpacking while you slept, because there are a few more things scattered around. His clothing, slipped into hangers. Toiletries–his and yours–on top of the chest of drawers.
And something set against the wall, covered in a plain black tarp.
The surprise, it seems. Curiosity prickles at you. Maybe it’s a good distraction from everything else. Maybe you’re just genuinely interested in what could possibly lay underneath.
Chrollo’s smile almost looks youthful as he tugs at the edge of the tarp, and you see a flash of black as he pulls it away, revealing the treasure underneath.
The Village in Winter.
It’s all wrong. It’s naked, without the frame, propped up in some hotel room surrounded by chipped furniture and laundry smells.
There is no air left in the room, no water left in your lungs. You could cough up a thousand years of dust right now and still not run out.
“You stole it,” you manage to say. Chrollo simply nods and looks for all the world like he’s showing you something he’s proud of; and he is, you think. Proud of everything. The urge to fall down swims through you, and you grip the wall.
“You were a great help,” Chrollo says, voice soft and confident and anything but assuring. “We were struggling with the best way to remove it without damaging the work underneath.” He tilts his head, just so, the same way he did that first morning in the museum.
Nothing is the same as that first morning in the museum.
Theres a scene in animal crossing when you go get your fossils assessed and i wanted to recreate it. I think this is what chrollo would wear at a museum and I gave my sona the isabelle fit.
We are also going to ignore the fact that i didnt paint the village so i referenced an image i found online and did that instead.
Ty @after-witch for the comm ive been geeking over it ever since :3
Genuinely silly comic inspired by the idea "lol what if Gohan thought Cell ate batteries" and me being me I had to make it a whole thing with all the story beats :D
tfp but it's their first day on earth and optimus is curious about the tiny organic earth creatures they have never seen before,,,too bad a big war machine robot is not a natural sight for earth life
I absolutely love ratchet so may I request yandere ratchet with a human prompt 53
I love Ratchet too :) I'd love to give you a small story about him and a human! I assumed you meant my prompts.
You gave no specific Ratchet so I just did his Prime appearance.
Note: I've been doing a lot of late night writing so I apologize if this is unorganized. This is essentially me being half asleep and indulging in my favorite character. It's content purely from the heart I guess, lol. I tried to keep up the plot so I hope it came out... coherent :)
Yandere! TFP! Ratchet Prompt 53
"I left you a few voice mails, why didn't you pick up?"
Ratchet didn't used to like humans at first. He was already having to deal with three kids causing trouble in the base. When he met you, a young adult human, he wasn't sure what to think.
Turns out... you were tolerable. You genuinely wished to help out and keep the kids in line. Although even they seemed to be a handful for you.
Ratchet was still a bot who was hard to get along with at first due to his stubborn behavior. Despite this... Ratchet had begun to soften towards you over time. He began not to dislike humans all that much with time.
Honestly, it was you and the kids who helped him change his outlook.
When it came to you and Ratchet, you two could be considered partners. While Bulkhead had Miko, Bumblebee had Raf, and Arcee had Jack... Ratchet had you. Ratchet didn't think he'd ever have a human companion, he didn't even think he'd be attached...
Then he found you.
Ratchet had grown close to you because you provided companionship for him at the base. While the others were on a mission and he was meant to prepare Ground Bridges, you sat by his desk. You didn't talk unless he talked first when you were still getting to know each other.
Yet, soon Ratchet began looking forward to hearing your voice and seeing your small organic form. You just... provided him a sense of comfort. Your presence only ever proved useful when Ratchet began to stress himself out over the others.
A comment that was often tossed around was you being his emotional support. When Optimus wasn't around, Ratchet had you. You could say Ratchet cared for you at the very least.
Your companionship was different from the others. While when it came to the kids their respective Autobots acted like guardians... you and Ratchet were different. Your connection was beyond that of a guardian.
Sure, Ratchet was always protective, but it seemed like it was for different reasons. You never really knew how deep his attachment to you went yet it always felt different. You always seemed to ease him when you were around.
It wasn't hard to theorize what Ratchet really felt towards you. His softness around you felt intimate despite the differences between your species. It's some form of love, even if Ratchet never admits it.
This explanation felt the most plausible. It explained why Ratchet felt a yearning to connect with you more. Although such a feat only managed to frustrate him at times...
Your biological/biomechanical differences make it hard for him to display affection. He can only ever do small things. He can hold you, take you on drives, call you, talk to you, and he loves it but...
Intimacy, the thing he craves, is what upsets him at times when he looks at you.
Normally the thought might have repulsed him. The thought of hugging you or showing affection in the more romantic sense towards a human should be seen as foreign. Yet he wants it with you.
Such feelings are what's made Ratchet become more attached to you than a guardian. Based on how you act so positively around him, even when he picks you up... part of him hopes you feel the same. Surely... you won't mind being in a relationship with an old Cybertronian like him, would you?
He promises to himself he'll find a way to make an avatar to communicate with you with in the future.
The issue is, these feelings can also be seen as a weakness. Ratchet often grows distressed when you are away from him for too long. Yes, humans have their own lives to attend to...
He just wishes you'd spend more of your time at the base?
Ratchet didn't often talk about his problems, yet with you he felt it was important to voice his concerns. As a result you had given him a way to contact you when you're in your home. A phone number... one he often contacted.
He really didn't need the childish teasing, Primus he could hear it now. 'Ratchet's got a crush on a human'. He rolls his optics just thinking about it.
Yes, he loves you...yet it's normal. It has to be. He hasn't had a partner in a long time, if at all. Maybe he... wants to try something like that with you.
For now, Ratchet tried to focus on your safety. When he can find a way he'll share his romantic feelings with you. When he can properly convey them....
Gaining a way to talk to you made Ratchet relax a bit more. It gave him comfort whenever you texted him or gave him a call. Some say you can see Ratchet's mood change when you were on the phone. He physically relaxes his stance at the thought of you being safe and sound.
Optimus notices this change in his friend and his thought is he's happy for Ratchet. His friend has managed to find solace in a human like the others. Even if it's in a different way.
Being able to contact you is a double edged sword with Ratchet. While he's calmer with hearing your voice or seeing your texts, he appears snappy if he hasn't heard from you. Ratchet is never far from a way to contact you.
It's obsessive.
Ratchet would look distant when you don't respond right away, often looking at the screen with a frown. He hated being away from you at times. But you're busy with your own life and he is busy with his.
You'd soon learn not picking up when Ratchet calls is a mistake. Take a nap or go to work and Ratchet gets anxious. He expects you to pick up.
It would be so much easier if you were just right next to him...
He hopes he can do that some day once he perfects his hologram avatar technology.
---
"I left you a few voice mails, why didn't you pick up?"
Ratchet's gruff voice echoes through your phone. You had been away from your phone for a few hours and came back to voice mails of worried Ratchet. You originally thought it funny that he never wanted to be away from you for long, now it was concerning.
"I was busy, Ratchet..."
"Busy, huh? You're supposed to have your phone on you."
"What did I even miss? You know I have to have my own life here, right?"
Ratchet's silent on the phone, most likely grumbling to himself.
"Yeah yeah, I know. I have reasons to worry, however."
"Decepticons?"
"Yes. I don't know what I'd do if they got their hands on you."
"Nothing's going to happen, Ratchet!"
"You don't KNOW that...."
There's silence on the phone again before Ratchet speaks again. You swore you heard him sigh deeply.
"I want you back at the base."
"Why?"
"Security reasons. Decepticons in the area."
Something about his voice sounds off. His response is curt, almost rehearsed. You push it aside, thinking he's just irritated.
"Really? Alright...."
"Don't worry too much, I'd never let them touch you. I'm picking you up. Wait there, okay?"
"Ratchet, You never usually leave the base that often. Shouldn't you send one of the oth-"
"They're busy. I'd prefer it if... I brought you here, is that okay with you?"
"Sure, Ratchet. Be careful."
Ratchet says nothing, but your words affected him greatly. He appreciated the fact you cared for him like he cared for you. He hangs up on you and you cautiously wait for him. Decepticons in the area?
Were you really in that much danger?
---
It felt wrong to lie to you about a Decepticon threat. Yet Ratchet reassured himself that it could happen at any point in time. Just calling you wasn't enough.
As Ratchet drove back to the base with you in the front seat, he thought deeply about what he was doing. How long could he lie before he told you how he really felt? How long until you realize there's no real threat at this time.
Like a Decepticon, Ratchet had lied to you to get what he wants.
It felt dirty. Despite this, Ratchet could only think about you in his front seat. He could tell you were concerned.
He hoped you could forgive him for this. At the base you provide him such comfort. No one else could make him feel such a way. If he kept you there... he wouldn't have to worry. He could think about himself just this time, yeah?
Hopefully his little project would be done soon and he could convince you to stay. He could make you your own little area in the base and interact with you with a little avatar. In his eyes, you'd be a much happier human with his care.
He had his reasons and ways to have you understand him. You can't fully blame him when you learn the truth, could you? Decepticons were a threat, even if they weren't right at this tick.
This was the best way to care for you. He loves you... this would be beneficial to the both of you. You'll be safe and he'll have you.
While it may feel wrong to betray your trust now, it would yield results in the future. Ratchet stops once he rolls into the base and lets you out. After he transforms, Ratchet picks you up in his hands.
He can't hide the grin on his face when he looks at you.
You may not know it yet, but he knows you'll be so much happier beside him rather than alone.
"I'll make sure the Decepticons don't harm a hair on your head... you can relax, I'm here now."
Warnings: home invasion, mentions of death, mentions of stalking, mentions of kidnapping, threats of violence, Uvo is an asshole
“….. Sir, if you leave right now, I won’t call the police.”
Your voice trembled as you spoke. You had your hands in fists in an attempt to keep them from shaking too much, your body standing stiff in the entryway as you were unable to take your eyes off of the man you had found standing in your kitchen in the middle of the night.
Home invasion was one of those fears that always lingered in the back of your mind; something that you were certain could never happen to you, but whenever you heard some news report about people living alone being found assaulted and murdered in their apartments the question of what if that happened to me always managed to keep you up at night. To end up being one of those unfortunate people whose lives were cut too short due to the whim of someone who decided to take fate into their own hands.
You always figured that if it did happen, you wouldn’t know who the person was. It seemed unlikely to you that anybody would stalk you, and while you weren’t loved by everyone, you doubted that anyone you knew hated you enough to want you dead.
The man who stood before you in your kitchen, one hand on the open refrigerator door while he leaned in to look at the contents inside, was definitely a stranger to you. Even if you had only seen him in passing, you would have remembered him. The long spiky hair, pelts of furs around his waist and shoulders and the muscle beneath his tight-fitting clothing all would have caught your attention.
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