who is a lone wolf, living off odd jobs. impartial, traveling from one small town to the next, never able to settle anywhere for long. maybe no longer even capable of it — childish dreams of finding a permanent partner long since worn away by the sands of desert steppes.
until you find him. a being in need of an escort to a city several days’ journey away. you manage to purchase his services, not noticing how beneath his leather cap gears begin to turn. gears he was never aware of before.
because suddenly, he realizes how good it feels to have someone tend to his wounds after an ambush by his old enemy. someone who changes the bandages with gentleness and care. someone who keeps watch at night, letting him sleep peacefully for the first time in ages. someone who listens. who is simply there.
he strikes a match of feeling in his heart for you, and you, unaware, pour gasoline over it.
suddenly, companionship born from a commission becomes pleasure rather than obligation. and the more he learns about you, the more he understands how good he feels at your side. and then, one morning, when he wakes to find you still sitting by the campfire, he realizes he wouldn’t mind continuing this game of pretending to be partners. maybe for a few more days, when he deliberately chooses a longer route. maybe for a few more weeks, when you have to stay in one town because he’s “run out” of tobacco. or maybe forever — when, the day before reaching your destination, he makes the decision that solitude is no longer enough for him. that he wants something more than traveling from town to town, gambling away his money, fleeting sex, and never having a place of his own. he wants a future and he can only imagine it with you.
you never reach the agreed-upon town that day. awakened at dawn, you find yourself seated on his horse, with him settling in just behind you, telling you that you have to flee. that it isn’t safe here, and that he knows a place where you can wait out the uncertain times.
when he pulls you tightly against him, you can no longer tell the rhythm of the horse’s hooves from the beat of his heart, nor the first rays of the sun from the searingly hot kisses he presses to your neck and face.
“ugh, I’m sooo cold!” a whine slips out from beneath the blanket you’ve just finished fixing. a moment later, your boyfriend’s voice becomes clearer and more distinct (at least as much as a clogged nose and a throat that sounds like someone’s dragged a cheese grater through it will allow) as he peeks his head out from under the warm, thick cover.
dark curls, damp with feverish sweat, cling to his forehead, and his eyes, though foggy and not as sharp as usual, still drill into you with a look of intense, unrestrained need. as if the illness had only fueled the already turbulent feelings he harbored for you.
his hands soon follow his head. stretched out toward you like a dog begging for a treat, they tug the blanket even lower, revealing a gray T-shirt plastered to his body.
“if only there were someone here who could share their warmth with me,” he continues, oversaturating his voice with desperation and pleading.
“and I’m supposed to risk catching whatever you have inside you?” you shake your head. instead of granting his request, you set a glass of hot tea and freshly cut fruit on the nightstand. “forget it. you shouldn’t have run to the apartment at breakneck speed without an umbrella. sooner or later I would’ve replied anyway.”
you lean over him and place a hand on his forehead. “when was the last time you took your temperature?”
he furrows his brows, and for a moment you almost let yourself believe he’s genuinely trying to dig the answer out of his memory. but no. with him, nothing was ever straightforward.
you don’t need an X-ray to see the sick machinery in his head grinding through the question. you need it even less when scarlet blooms across your boyfriend’s cheeks, his smile stretches wide, and something sharper than the typical feverish glaze flashes in his eyes. no. your boyfriend has come up with a brilliant idea.
“what?” you ask, knowing that expression all too well, though now exaggerated by illness.
“my germs, hah, in your body. only mine, hehe.”
“maybe we should take your temperature, okay?”
“no, nooo. darling, I need to infect you. I don’t want any other germs in your body. only, haaah, mine.”
“what are you even babbling about, man, AAAA—”
he doesn’t let you finish. your sentence is cut short, your verdict already decided. a mind ravaged by fever has apparently deemed this the greatest idea in the world, one that must be put into action immediately.
with strength seemingly pulled straight out of nowhere, he yanks you by the elbow right onto himself, holding the blanket up with his free hand and cushioning your fall with his body. he immediately pulls the cover over both of you, and to make absolutely sure you don’t get any silly ideas about escaping, he latches onto you like a starving leech. he wraps his arms around your back, tangles his legs with yours — anything to keep you with him.
and as if sensing that you’re about to start protesting, he starts kissing you. fast and messy, all over your face, until he finally focuses on your lips, bombarding them with kisses. and when that’s no longer enough for him, when the mission takes on the character of personal need and a greedy, unsated whimper slips from his mouth after every kiss, his tongue joins the offensive as well. he tries to push it into your mouth, to finish the job and fill you with himself in a very unconventional way, and when you don’t let him, he simply drags it over your lips instead.
“ugh, enough!”
you grab his hair, pulling him away, but even that isn’t enough to wipe the dreamy, satisfied smile off his face. he’s already gotten what he wanted.
“my germs or nobody’s germs,” he murmurs, completely unfazed by your attempts to wriggle out of his embrace. in fact, it has the opposite effect. your boyfriend starts gently nuzzling your collarbones, your sternum, and the crook of your neck like he intended to crawl under your skin. “hmmm, I hope they stay in you forever.”
the air still carries the scent of rain when you and your boyfriend decide to go for a walk in the park — a spontaneous choice born out of your boredom. the ground is damp, smaller and larger cavities filled with dirty, muddy puddles.
eventually you sit down on a bench, surprisingly dry, sheltered by an old, sprawling tree whose branches spread overhead like an umbrella. and that’s when you notice how dirty your shoes are.
“oh nooo,” you say, your tone slightly gloomy.
“what is it?” comes his response. he's instantly alarmed, worry carved deep into his handsome face. “what happened? are you hurt?”
“no,” you shake your head. “I got my shoes dirty,” you sigh, lifting your straightened legs into the air and tilting your feet from side to side. “I don’t even know when it happened, I swear I avoided every puddle.”
“calm down, we’ll fix it,” he says, not losing that flustered tone, his gaze glued to your shoes as if hypnotized. though you’re not sure whether he’s trying to calm you or himself.
any normal person would pull out a tissue at this point. or say it’s no big deal. but not him. never him.
in the blink of an eye he crouches by your knees, grabbing your ankles and gently pulling your slightly dirty shoes toward his face. but he doesn’t pull out a tissue. instead, he sticks out his tongue, inching closer to your shoes with every passing millisecond.
“STOP!” you shout, perfectly timed just before the moment when two surfaces that should never, ever meet are about to touch. “don’t you dare!”
“what?” he asks, confused. his still extended tongue slightly distorts his speech.
and he even has the audacity to be surprised. as if he genuinely doesn’t understand what he was doing wrong. his partner needed immediate help — was he supposed not to react? leave you in need? oh no. only cold and heartless boyfriends behave like that. he acted on impulse, even at the cost of his own health, image, and dignity.
“don’t interrupt me, I’m not finished yet,” and this time his tongue makes contact with the tip of your shoe.
“mmm, I could really go for some ice cream,” you say, trying to save the situation.
“oh. of course, darling,” he takes the bait, not questioning your weird and sudden change in topics. “I can even buy you the whole ice cream shop if you want.”
heavy drops of rain bend the leaves of the ancient, dense forest under their weight. one might think that the lush crowns of the trees would shield both the inhabitants and the guests of the forest from the downpour that finally graced this part of the continent with its presence.
nothing could be further from the truth. there will always be one or two braver droplets that fall onto your head, your shoulder, or your knee. the edge of the forest, even one as thick as this, turned out to be useless protection against the unexpected rain. sitting curled up on a fluffy hide, you’re at the mercy of the elements.
though something heavier than the fat raindrops weighs on your skin.
warm streams of blood stain your hands and the front of your shins, already slowly soaking into your, thankfully, dark clothes. still, you could swear they burn your skin with a heat more scorching than fire.
wrapping your arms tighter around your knees brings no intended relief. it does not rewind time, only rooting you even deeper in reality.
you’ve just witnessed a murder committed in cold blood. once, perhaps, the sight would have made you gag. then scream. or maybe both at once. now, the smell and warmth of blood are familiar to you. almost close. as if you had finally fully accepted the predicament you’ve found yourself in. as if you had fully accepted him.
your companion has seated himself far too close for you to pretend that your personal space still exists. the knee of his crossed legs digs into your thigh, and his elbow presses into your shoulder. just to keep constant physical contact. the lack of it meant mood swings. from unpleasant snarls that you’re too far away, all the way to taking it out on anything alive or not that wasn’t you.
a similar situation took place only moments ago, when a lost soul — a wandering merchant hoping to earn a living by selling you a necklace made of rare diamonds — dared to get too close to you. and from the moment his hand innocently touched any surface of your body, he became this barbarian’s rival. that sentence meant death.
“cold?” he asks, noticing the way you sit. for a moment, he interrupts his previous activity: licking the blood from his hands and forearms. not his, of course. you’ve witnessed this oddity very, very rarely.
“or are you still afraid?” he tilts his head like a curious dog, though his orange eyes bore into your face with the intensity of an owl searching for prey among tall grasses.
“i’m fine,” you answer, deceiving yourself that he’ll leave you alone and go back to being an uncivilized animal without the need to pay attention to you.
but you know well this lie won’t achieve the intended effect.
the barbarian smiles. too wide to comfort, but just right to sow unease in your heart. he scoots even closer, the raindrops sliding down his scarred face. he radiates a sinful, irresistible warmth your lizard brain can’t ignore. thankfully, the mammalian part lets you stay still. the human part knows running is a pointless fantasy.
“as if i’d still believe that,” he snorts, playfully, never once abandoning the smile. his eyes scan your face before he says, “you’re dirty. you need to be cleaned.”
“no, i don’t,” you sigh. “the rain will do it soon anyway.”
the barbarian furrows his brows. the smile breaks under the weight of confusion and thought, until it is finally replaced by a grimace you know all too well… jealousy.
“i don’t want the rain to do it,” he growls.
“and what is that supposed to mean?” instead of answering, he moves even closer and traps you between his massive, muscular thighs. a rough hand grabs your arm and squeezes hard enough to make you abandon any illusion of escape, and his calves pull you closer to his scorching warmth — hot like the core of a blazing bonfire.
“what are you doing?” you ask, a hint of worry in your voice. his spontaneous ideas were rarely pleasant. starting with the worst of them — kidnapping you.
“cleaning you. so no one else has to.” when he sticks out his tongue, you already know exactly what he means.
“oh no, no! stop!” your order apparently goes in one ear and out the other, because he doesn’t react at all. not even your hand pushing against his chest with all your strength can stop him. he proceeds. his warm, slick tongue soon drags across your face, gathering the streams of your rival’s blood.
“gross, gross!” you groan.
the nearly silent act is soon interrupted by his low purrs of satisfaction. he moves even closer, his rough chin scraping against your skin, his whole body pressing into you. the purrs turn into moans, and the delicate licking becomes uncoordinated, ravenous laps.
“I wish it was yours,” he murmurs, and there’s no trace of sanity left in his voice. desire and need have slaughtered it. “I wanna taste more… I need… I need more.”
he grabs your wrist, pulling it closer to his face, only to clean your skin again with long, fast strokes of his tongue. soon he changes tactics, now kissing and lightly biting. his half-lidded, orange eyes, fogged with something dangerous, animalistic, jump from your hands to your face, where they linger until they stay there forever. the intensity of his stare flusters you, but also frightens you. you’ve never met such overwhelming devotion. it would be almost romantic, if not for the hand crudely sliding under your shirt.
“no!” you hiss, and since verbal commands rarely worked, you punch him in the head with all your strength. not that you can actually hurt him. unfortunately.
he bares his teeth at you like an enraged, wounded tiger giving a warning, but half a second is enough to disperse the fog of desire and reveal confusion. he tilts his head, searching your expression for the reason his primitive advances were rejected, and when he finds it, in the form of your irritated grimace, he whines and withdraws his hand, placing it on the soft moss right by your hip. your personal space still doesn’t exist in his world.
“at least you’re clean now,” he grumbles, clearly displeased, though his bad mood evaporates instantly as a new idea strikes him. “now wash me!” he roars enthusiastically, already offering you a cheek that isn’t even stained with blood.
“not a chance,” you growl, leaning your torso back to the limit of your spine’s flexibility.
“then at least congratulate me,” he whimpers. he lays his head on your knees, his eyes digging into yours. “for dealing with my rival. and for being a good partner.”
but he receives no such answer. to not slip into madness, he lightly nips your knee, just to keep his mind occupied.
maybe one day he won’t find burning hatred in your eyes.
yandere guy who shows physical affection like an old, mistreated dog
who still bites, growls, and scratches when he must. he has spilled blood in hectoliters for you, and lost even more of his own just to ensure you have the most comfortable life possible.
who gets jealous of the littlest things. of your gloves, because they deprive him of contact with your skin, even if he is painfully aware that his own hand is not enough to protect you against the frost. of your blanket, because it is the one temporarily giving you comfort and warmth, not him.
it's petrifying. suffocating. because what value does he hold, then? a dog who can't protect or provide for his owner is useless after all.
who, day after day, every night, stares at your blanket with murder in his eyes and snarls at every explanation that he cannot simply lie down on top of you and serve as a quilt, no matter how badly he longs for you to rely on him even more.
but who will not initiate physical contact until you give him permission. verbal, or not.
who will literally tremble with need for your closeness, your scent, your warmth, and everything uniquely yours, yet will not move from his place, staring at you with a begging fever. his hands shake like those of an alcoholic, his eyes burn holes into your head, and lips pray quickly and greedily for your attention.
who literally freezes when you finally sense his suffering — every single one of his cells ceasing function — those wild eyes locking onto yours with a silent plea.
a pat on the space beside you is enough for him to throw himself at you with vigor, hold you until all the air leaves your lungs, and bite warningly at your neck, shoulder, bicep when you try to leave him forever (to go make tea). his limbs coil around your body like ivy — intrusively, possessively.
perhaps, much like an old dog, he once knew the bitter taste of broken trust, and now harmony with you is treated as something sacred. the fear of rejection manifests in tremors, gentle bites, and quiet prayers in his sleep when he does not know you are awake
he is force. an ocean, a mountain, a volcano. powerful, wild, titanic, and unstoppable.
stoic, furious only when it is necessary, when icy calm is not enough to intimidate an opponent. to others, practically everyone, he is passionless, indifferent, and cruel.
he snaps necks with the flick of a finger, crushes skulls with a clap. invincible and unbeaten, none have ever matched his strength, and whoever tried — fell.
none have ever humiliated and knocked him out.
and for you, one crook of a finger is enough to do so. sometimes even less. it can be shy, casual, and he is on his knees. you could be sitting on the couch, scrolling through your phone, lost in your own world, and he would be ready to crawl on his eyelashes just to earn your attention.
and he does it without a millisecond of hesitation, that great, powerful body sinking down right beside you. his chin immediately creeps onto your knees, then his cheek joins in, brushing against your pants.
eventually, you set the phone aside, glimpsing his broad, massive back in the background. masculine hands curl around your waist, twining together in a safe yet possessive embrace, if his intensity were to reveal the emotions raging within.
once, you might have asked if he’d had a hard day. now you already know — this is how he shows love and devotion. to you. only to you.
you could do whatever you wanted with him and he would ask for an encore. more, harder. your punching bag, a shoulder to cry on, a plaything, a pet.
“won’t you praise me?” comes from your lap.
you glance down at him, that pronounced pout on such an intimidatingly sharp face once looking comical. now it is endearing, a crack in the mask he had to wear all day. a persona created just for you.
or maybe he yearned to be your pet long before he invented you.
“hmm? for what?” you ask, trying not to laugh at the devastated expression on his face. as if he were offended that you even needed a reason to feed his fragile ego.
“I found the scum who dared to bump your shoulder during our walk yesterday. he is already dead. does that not deserve praise?”
you furrow your brows, trying to recall the boy in question. and indeed, something like that had happened.
“oooooh... good boy!”
you stroke his thick hair three times before your hand rests on his shoulder blade, patting it gently, like one would applaud a horse.
a whimper doesn’t suit him, that high, pitiful sound. and yet, only he manages to pronounce them so perfectly. so beaten down, so pleading.
“that’s it?” he whines, pressing his head harder into your stomach. “I really worked hard to find him, you know? I think I deserve at least ten pats. otherwise i’m not moving. I don’t mind.” comes out a childish tone, a testament of his true nature.
your sigh is barely audible, just in case he hears it and sprawls over you, nearly a hundred kilos of pure muscle making it hard to breathe, and then demands kisses and pets. like the last few times. and few times prior.
“there, there. I’m so proud of you, darling.”
another whimper comes, this one from joy and excitement.
you didn’t need to see his imaginative tail to know how vigorously it was wagging right now.
“more. say more,” he insists. he begs. in a voice fragile, fractured, as if his life laid in your words.
when you grant his request, he sinks deeper onto his knees — a slave to your whims — and in his eyes you see nothing but burning hearts
