— Yandere Robert, Prism, and Coupé HCs
Warnings: Yandere behavior, GN! Reader, unhealthy relationship, slight NSFW (kept it minimal), stalking, invasion of privacy, manipulation, and canon-violence.
A/N: Decided to try and do a less descriptive writing style. Tell me how it is :)!
Mecha Man // Robert Robertson III:
Mecha Man doesn’t fall in love, he commits. Wholeheartedly. Like a vow. Taking you in like you're his job. Mapping you out like a personal blueprint. Pictures of you stapled on a hidden peg board, notes of information threaded together that shouldn't be known. You’re his guide on how to be better. Instinctively following to watch you, protect you, kill, and adore you full time. Nothing can tear him away from you.
Stalks you but frames it as “monitoring”. Everything is everything to Robert. It’s to the longest of extent; memorizing your work schedule like any great coworker. Keeping most of your receipts, notes, and any of the smallest items you leave behind like a good boyfriend. Asking for your location and waiting outside your job like an amazing lover. Mentioning that he had bought a home-security camera to keep you safe, bypassing that you and Beef need to be safe. He isn't paranoid. It's because you live together—and knowing how Shroud worked—nothing will or is allowed to hurt you when he's gone.
But it’s no surprise he keeps mental notes, too. Your favorite snacks, songs, and certain lip palms are the tip of the iceberg. Robert knows your shoe size. The distinct measure of sugar placed into your coffee. All your "tired" cues. How many steps you take before entering the building. If you stumble, walk with a new limp, or even trip– he’s alarmed. Changes are dangerous. He knows something is off immediately. And if something is wrong, Robert really knows.
If any cameras are in the vicinity, he absolutely abuses them. Robert frequently switches tabs for the Z-team then right back to you. Zooming in as you pass the busy streets, clicking his tongue if you don’t look both ways before crossing. Securing doors on purpose just for you to call him. Rubbing his face, groaning low when he’s scrutinizing the barista, the same one who’s served you the past few days. They’re flirting with you again and he fucking hates it.
His jealousy fumes silently. He isn’t possessive, but hyper-aware. Pays attention to the littlest of details; the second someone’s voice shifts, how close they’re standing, and how content they seem. He despises it. Loathes how tight his jaw gets when they make you smile. How uncomfortable the glass feels in his hand, smiling as you walk back, joking on how popular you are that night. He doesn’t blame them. And while he seems fine, his irises stare murderously. Continues to dig into anyone’s eye sockets till they remember they have to leave. He never mentions or intrudes. Never until he senses you are uncomfortable- even if he is. But by the ten minute mark, Robert’s touch becomes more adamant. More deadly.
If someone bumps into you, or even buys you a drink– his eyes narrow, accompanied with a crinkled nose in annoyance. It’s till he hovers and curls his hand around your waist. Begins to brush his fingers where your hips and thighs meet. Pulling and squeezing when someone compliments you a little too enthusiastically. When you laugh at their persistence, or politely shoo them off—he’s more than happy to lead you both out—and maybe, just maybe, evaluate a much better situation.
Everything with him is deliberate, like you’re a secret he’s been dying to keep. He’d ruin himself for you. Kill for you. Go back to every violent part of himself if it means keeping you safe. His touch is gentle, but his kisses aren’t. They engulf your skin until you’re begging for a breather. Often forgetting you are even alive. So unnerving when he just stares at you, inhaling like you’re the air itself. To him, you are his peace. His reason.
On the topic of gawking, Robert does it subconsciously. It’s seriously an issue.
If you show up at SDN, his attention span becomes a capitalized Zero. Robert can’t help but tilt his head up at you, humming, with his irises blown. A deep worship in his gaze. You could be passionately talking about snails and Robert will be nodding along. Asking questions. Fully engaging before being interrupted by Mandy. Even when he goes back to work, his orbs don’t leave until you’re physically out of his sight. And even then, he still inspects your frame on the computer.
Robert’s terrible at hiding when he wants your attention. Always dying for it but won’t ask. Especially if you’re in a room of people, let alone the team. He’s awkwardly shuffling behind—waiting for you—shifting his feet, rubbing his neck like a sad neglected cat. Hoping you’ll notice him. Initiate touching him first. But once you do, he sharply inhales. As if you’ve hard-reset his system into breathing again. When you lean over to interlock hands, his fingers end up clamping too hard. Or when your legs rest on his lap, his hands massage your feet a tad rougher. Not because you nearly catch him off guard each time, but because you’re the few last good things in this world.
Robert does everything for you. It’s sweet until he quite literally leans against the counter when you cut veggies. Won’t let you carry the groceries. Always opens the door first, jogging to beat you every time. Even though you could be six feet taller, he still does it. Your lunches are packed way before his. Hell, he doesn’t even let you tie your own shoes. He double-knots them, crouching down without a word, and gives your ankle a gentle pat before standing up.
Before you, Robert lacked care in eating properly. Ate whatever he could afford. Packed ramen, the random slices of lunch meat, and the awful cheap kind of Mac and Cheese. Stuffed his mouth full of Skittles after a rough hangover. Of course, Beef got the majority of supreme food—his morning eggs are surely more important—but now, he reads labels. Like, really read them. He constantly checks if the cereal has too much sugar. If your weekly veggies have any brown spots or have gone mushy. All the expiration dates on any dairy products are double-checked before throwing them away– even if it’s a day after. If it smells even a tad bit different, it goes.
Steals your items with no shame. It’s definitely a surprise when doing laundry to find your dirty boxers, that you don’t remember wearing, already used. Or the fact that you’ll wonder about the lack of body shampoo, only to notice Robert walking past and smelling exactly like it. It’s sweet until your deodorant, personal drawer, and socks are shared. Hell, even your pillows are “borrowed.”
Strict and forward with you. Not just in knowing the exact time you’ll be home, but your shared social circles, support, and the decisions you make. Absolutely refuses to allow yourself in harm’s way, sighing if you even decide to do something stupid. He is relentless in his no. Shaking his head, rubbing his face while he tries to talk you out of buying a $200 purse that has two pockets. Despite that, you are capable of making your own decisions. Yet, when you do, your card transactions get “suddenly” transferred into his account. Eating too much rice and beans leads you to getting severe food poisoning, staying up late at night being miserable. But Robert takes care of you. Keeps you at home till you can be on your best behavior.
Has a surprisingly dark sense of humor. It comes out in small moments in his usual flat tone. Looking at you with a smile as if he didn’t say something weird. Sometimes it’s uncomfortable. Others it’s plain terrifying. During the days when it’s rather cold, leaving you shivering, Robert wraps you in his jacket as he rubs your raised skin. “Need me to set a building on fire?” You laugh. But he doesn’t.
Robert overthinks small “problematic” issues. His head makes it bigger than it should be. He’s weirdly sensitive about topics that shouldn’t be overthought.
If he sees you refuse his jacket– reassuring him that you’re fine, or by nature leaving it on the kitchen chair, Robert twitches. His stomach drops. A flicker in his eyes that shines of rejection. Beef becomes his main support system. Not chase, but the dog. Sitting on the ground, and talking to him as if he could answer. Reply to his filling in blanks that you never even wrote. Inform him that something didn’t happen. And it isn’t his cause or fault.
To him, the ditching of something important, just as his jacket, is everything. Even the slightest adjustment feels like an absence. That piece of thick leather resembles him, and for you to wear it, means a promise. Robert doesn’t pry, but his fidgeting is visible. A low, “You alright?” repeated every hour. He spirals quietly. But when you finally reassure him, when you say I missed your smell—he exhales like he’s been underwater. Gripping you like a lifeline. Like someone pulled him from the deepest of oceans.
Prism // Alice:
Prism’s love for you is idolizing. Shamelessly loud and too far into being suffocating. Truly straight to the blunt wavelength as she claims you. Prism wants you to be everything to each other. Photos are snapped and gasps are elicited when you walk in. Leaves her lipstick marks on display to ensure everyone, including yourself, knows who your special girl is.
Nothing is “casual” with her. She doesn’t do “normal.” She does devotion. Of course, she gets pissed if you don’t reciprocate her energy. Look at her, how could you ever put anything above her? You possibly can’t. In every way possible, she needs you to be just as obsessed with her. You’re her wallpaper for her phone. She’s your emergency contact and you are too. Has a locked photo-album on her phone named “boo.” It has random photos of you, especially the blurry ones. Every single text and voicemail you sent has been saved. Toward the end of the album, she has lists of names she keeps tabs on. To her, that is the bare minimum.
Included with that, Alice usually leaves something at your house, reminding you of her—it’s not her usual sprayed perfume throughout the rooms—but “forgetting” her lip gloss in your bathroom. Clothes thrown all over your bed. Leaving one of her mega pens on your counter. A hair clip or two in your car. Her other pair of knee-high boots was draped over your couch.
The enormity of her ego and the way she clings might seem at odds. She thinks she’s a Goddess amongst the cattle. But she sticks to you like a second skin. She doesn’t just sit next to you; she sits on top of you. Whether it’s on a couch, a chair, or even the kitchen counter, she’s snuggled up to your body. Slithering her hand all over, squeezing, pinching, and pulling like her own stress toy. Alice craves skin-to-skin contact and isn’t ashamed to do it in public either.
Possessive in a way where she’s lenient in sharing you. Not just in person but on social media. Always posts photos of the two of you but your face is boxed out. Life streams where only half of your body is shown. Refers to you as her baby. Her person. Rarely captioning your name but sweet nicknames. She makes it seem sweet, loving even. Right until she makes it way too competitive. Allows your parents to kiss you on your cheek, but she always kisses you harder in the same place. Friends who accidentally brush against your hand are now unknowingly clashing with her; her own nails circling on yours as she side-eyes. During dinner, if someone else beats her by offering a piece of food to you? Alice is immediately passing her whole dish. It’s a small competition that grinds her teeth. She needs to be your number one. Always.
Alice knows too much, not because you tell her, but because she finds out. She’s nosy. Especially if you have things hidden, such as a journal. She reads through it while in the bathroom, “taking a shower” but leaving the door locked. Digs through your drawers under the guise of “looking for a charger.” Scrolls through your music playlist whilst silently judging your taste. Goes through your childhood photo album and analyzes every single picture. At some point, you find her looking through your phone and shopping history, whistling at some of the items.
She constantly pokes and starts fights with you to see if you care. Tolerate. Truly love her. It’s exhausting but so well drawn in; disguised as her having past-trust issues and needing reassurance. Clingy in ensuring you aren’t leaving her. But engaging in small arguments over whether you remember a likeness of your ex. If you misplaced her lipstick as if you used it. Complimenting someone earlier that day leads down a road of her cold-shouldering you, right until you admit that you like her better. When you give in, she’s dangerously good at apologizing. Kisses all your tears away, whispering in your ear on how she hates competing with people. You should know that.
Your appearance becomes her next favorite thing. She fixates on it as much as she does on herself. Without being asked, Alice fixes your glasses when they’re crooked. Wipes away food from the edges of your lip, or pulls up your pants even if people are nearby. If you wear makeup, even a small smidge of eyeliner, she offers to fix it with an extra blending session. Within a few days, she’s carrying your brand around in makeup case. Soft len wipes for your glasses. Gum for the occasional bad breath and pimple patch covers. She wants you to look equally good like her.
Any spewed compliments from you are always appreciated. When Flambae or her fans gobble her up, she knows it. Of course Alice does. But when you smile and mention her makeup? She melts. Collecting your words like scripture. A grin comes out, cooing at you and kissing your lips on how you’re obsessed with her. It makes her mood skyrocket. And will one-hundred percent fishhook compliments for the rest of the week; putting on a new makeup color and goes, “Does this look stupid?” Even though she’s aware it doesn’t, she just wants to hear you praise her. Admit it. That she looks fucking good. That you love every part of her and desire her.
But when people compliment you? Alice expects it to be the same. She gets offended if they are “lame” flatteries. You’re not just pretty, you’re stunning. No, you are not gorgeous, you are a fucking god. She scoffs if a lady just compliments your shirt, when they should be admiring your entire outfit. Even if a kiddo passes by and mentions that your shorts are cute, Alice hums and mumbles how they need better vocab.
But the second someone undermines you and your figure? Her voice goes sharp. Dark. The grip in your hand loosens, eyes covered and a moment of blinding flash comes by.
As seen, Alice is extremely routine-oriented. She hates being distracted. Off course. Her routine has to be strict. Consistent. It has to be—but so do you—so she builds you into her structure.
When doing her morning skincare, she needs you in the bathroom. When taking her daily shower, you’re either in it or sitting on the toilet. You have to update her on your plans for that afternoon. Tell her the things you plan on doing. What is needed and expected. If any of it is changed unexpectedly, Alice gets agitated. But if you’re the reason? She softens with a deep sigh. Says she’ll tolerate it but her relaxed state says otherwise.
In others, you help her find an outfit. She finds one for you that grinds her aesthetic. Yet, her decision on breakfast, especially when hurried, is a wreck. Despite her important notion for you eating in the mornings, she doesn’t eat unless you pick it for her. And when you do, she gets giddy. Even if it is a toasted bagel, she still brags about it. Photos are snapped and shared with a loving caption.
The way Alice expresses herself is bold. This goes the same with her gifts. Not just affection too, but spoiling you rotten. Never are they discrete. She always makes a show of it and picks the best options for you. The newest updated phone is given every year. Newly extravagant outfits appear on your bed with cliche ribbons. Shows up to your door with her arms loaded with shopping bags, fully obsessed with your assumed-expression. Ushering you into the bedroom without care, convincing you to try some of the items on. Expecting you to be thankful. Happy. Even delighted at her surprises.
Your words are like magic for Prism. Everyone on the team has a horrible time getting her off her phone. Pry her from the mirror. Get her pettiness off the table when Sonar ate her lunch. Yet, as soon as you appear—her eyes glide to you—humming as you say her name, as if you’ve had her attention since the start. You rarely ever have to repeat her name. It works like candy each time.
Coupè // Janelle:
Coupé drapes around you like a scarf you can’t shrug off. Remove. Her love for you is intense, frightening, but thoroughly yearning. Shows up at your place uninvited, thinks she’s doing you a favor but always scans the room for signs of anyone being there before her. Even when she’s possessive—sick of people—your touch grounds her. Continually so till you two can go home and where she’s constantly all over you, invading your space. Evidently acting as both your steel and soft skin; she promises to care for you, if you do the same.
Personal space isn’t a thing. If you need a day to yourself, she gets offended. You don’t leave, Janelle hisses, it’s the two of us or none. Even being behind closed bedroom doors has her irked, opening them with a snide comment about hiding. Your space is just as hers. Feeling completely entitled to it. She enjoys talking to you while in the shower. Sneaking touches as you cook. Sitting on the toilet while you brush your teeth. Following you with her eyes as you go room-to-room. Even when she says she likes keeping you in her sight, it’s a major pushover. She’s more than attached.
Her love for you is like starvation. Janelle rarely ever says ‘I love you’ but when she does, she hisses it. It’s never fragile. She says it with a warning. Like she’s afraid of love. Yours. It’s heavy and fills your lungs full—as if you don’t get it—and you don’t. Her fingers, despite dismembering her victims, hold your face so gently. Squeezing your cheeks, tracing your hairline, and drawing over your scars like it’s sewn by the universe itself. She admires you while you sleep, cursing how she fell for you.
She kills for you without hesitation. If anything, she finds it extremely romantic if you ask her to. You swear Janelle’s eyes lit up the first time you even indulge the very thought of it. Though she isn’t above talking about it, either. If you ask, she’s honest: yes, she did do something to your neighbor; the same one who gave you flowers, whispered your name like they were stealing your breath. Indeed your boss was suddenly demoted. They were pushy and it was only a matter of time before they got reported, right? She did you a favor.
As in everything, things naturally work when Janelle’s in the picture. Even if you didn’t ask her to interject, any complaints that you mumble are taken to heart by her. Unless you don’t want her to fix it, do not mention it.
Janelle shows her affection in what she does. Some of her knives are left at home, suggesting you use them for your personal use. But that line is always ambiguous, up to you to decide. You could mention one snack you liked two weeks ago and your pantry is stocked with it for the next three months. Her lips always find your drinks first, sipping them to ensure they don’t taste different. It may seem minimal to you, but to her, it’s everything. You are her everything.
Her fingers glide over you constantly. There’s not a moment that passes that she’s pressed up against you. It’s her favorite. Especially if someone stares at you for too long. She will play with your shirts, trace your collarbone with her nails, or slide her cold digits underneath your pants because she craves skin contact. Her hot breath blows on you while you look at the cereal, kissing the nape of your neck as people pass by. Kissing your shoulders when she passes behind you. Or licking a strip of the shell of your ear when you aren't paying attention to her.
Weirdly domestic in the most unsettling ways. She adores syncing your calendars together and correcting you if you plan something on a day that’s already busy. Every Saturday morning, she is folding any of your laundry whilst sewing up holes and tears she finds. Gets insanely grumpy if you try to help when she’s in the zone; slaps your hand away if you offer help. This goes for the fact she also enjoys sharing her shirts, even her underwear. Keeps a grocery list stuck on the fridge that says “your coffee” in her swift, cursive handwriting. And she loves reading before bed, reading out loud despite you’re fast asleep.
It’s no surprise that Janelle loves to dance. But she prefers it with you. It’s instinctual. Just like her poetic letters. She’s moving with you gracefully. Effortlessly slowing her movements to romantic ballet, she twirls you into her arms. Even if you don’t know how to, she teaches you. Chuckling softly if you step on her feet. It’s one the few moments where you really see her irises glow.
She carries something of yours with her at all times; a few books you had gotten for her. A keychain that made you remember her. A new phone case was desperately needed. Or a printed photo of you that stays in her bra. But the most sentimental item is a vial of your blood around her neck. Whether you gave it to her, or she took it, it’s sacred to her. Ancient. Something visceral to your lineage—a wordless promise of loyalty. Intimate in a way that most people would shy away from. But you and her, are not like the average people.
No, instead she’s hypnotized by it. Absentmindedly traces the necklace, hand drifting to squeeze it, a constant reminder that she is yours. Especially when she’s out on missions, scoffing when time passes by and she should be home. But she loves it as she loves you. And in time, she’d give you one of her own—wanting you closer—carrying a piece of each other with understanding.
Her jealousy is terrifying. It’s not loud, dramatic, or obvious– it’s calculated quietness. Too quiet. Sharp like a rusted nail.
The kind where Punch Up thickly swallows, whispering a small, “Yuh-oh” when his eyes follow her intense gaze. She’s entirely withdrawn. Calculating. Her body held rigid. Not even your touch, voice, or breath can stop her snide comments. Inspection. Everything down to her disappearance in the shadows and in silence, and you’ll feel it; the chill in the air. You never end up knowing what happens afterwards. And to be fair, you shouldn’t.
She’s so good at getting under your skin. Thrills in lust by watching your reactions to her verbal arguments; making you both furious and flustered. Any time her adrenaline is high, usually after missions, she bites. Pokes and pulls at you, awaiting the time when you snap back at her, only for her to lowly hum. She loves it when you’re feisty. Rude. Have an attitude with her. Janelle flickers in amusement when you exhale, her nails tracing your jaw, begging that you never stop being mean. She always makes it up in the end. Her apologies are charmingly good to just ignore.
Janelle calls you beautiful when she’s teasing, but your name—your real name—always leaves her lips trembling. Tongue tingling. Like you’re something holy. Not to be said out loud.
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