Yandere HCs cannons for what he does before he's "officially" with you.
(I fucks with this HEAVY)
He's a very religious man, although no one that's ever met him would suspect so. He's religious in a different kind of way. He doesn't worship Yeshua or Jehovah. He doesn't worship at the altar of some man in the sky. He believes only fully and completely in the one being that he could ever put any sort of faith or hope in. That being is you.
For you, he's a zealot, he's crazed, he's religious, he's disciplined, he's your disciple. A decision of devotion. He was born to be the consecrated talisman of your divinity. He believes that he was created to be and to make the doctrine of your will and to act upon it with the full force of his flesh, his might, and his mind.
To everyone who sees him and thinks he's just one of those men, quiet, hardworking, behind the scenes. The kind of man that can be successful and everyone can admire it, but no one really understands the depth of it. No one understands his what or why. They only know that he comes and goes as he pleases. No one understands or could fathom the obscene vows, to the many people of the church, sacrilegiousand blasphemous, he makes altars in your name. He enacts rituals in your honor. He prepares a place for you within every moment and inch of his life. He talks to you aloud, even when he's alone, as if you were there, as if his imagination was created purely for the manifested idea of you.
He prepares a place for you in his home. He buys the kind of socks you would wear, the kinds of undergarments, the kind of hand soap, the face soap, and the night creams you would keep in your nightstand, along with a water decanter, a beautifully dark, handcrafted glass. He buys a beautiful Victorian lamp that you would rave about: the craftsmanship, the detail, the links, and the love he has to have gotten it for you.
He decorates the nightstand the way he imagines you would. He organizes the drawers and their contents, putting little knickknacks and trinkets. They change throughout the weeks because he always wonders what a woman puts in her nightstand. He wonders what you would want in there. He wonders if he can grant himself the ideas so that one day, when you're finally home, he'll have something to impress you with, because he knows you, because he knows, because it's his divine responsibility.
He buys dishes, ceramics, and china that he believes you would want:
- An egg cobbler he sourced from some old woman's estate in the Cotswolds
- Jam jars and cookie bins
- Cake pans that one day you might use
He wonders what kind of forks you would like to hold, whether you would want wood-carved, copper, or fine metal. He wonders what you would like to rest your utensils against. He wonders if you like to drink out of mugs, if you like the sharp cut of a wine glass or a champagne flute against your lips. He wonders if you like bowls or plates more. He wonders what size and shape of spoons you like.
He wonders how you like your ice cream: if you like it hard as a puck or if you like to watch it slow, coming down towards room temperature to where you can mix it in a bowl. He wants to know if you add toppings or if you like it straight from the pint. He wants to know all of your favorite flavors, and he imagines scooping it out for you and bringing it to you on the couch.
He acts out what he thinks it'll be like sitting down next to you on this big refurbished couch he spent a fortune on, sitting in front of the TV watching shows he thinks you might possibly like. He only watches a few episodes or part of each movie because he wants to have the full experience for the first time with you.
He has a beautiful throw blanket draped over his legs which he's run his fingers through a hundred times, hoping that you'll like the way it feels against your skin.
He learned how to cook. Before, he had a dream of you. You're still a man on his own. He knew how to make a basic meal: an oven-roasted chicken with general seasoning, cooked carrots, eggs, rice, nothing of great value or sustenance, nothing with a vast flavor profile or robustness. Now, after finally having his ultimate dream, his ultimate desires, his ultimate destiny manifested within his life, he now finds the need to be a savant of the culinary arts. To be able to perfect recipes from around the world. You deserve a cultured man. A man who can cook for you, who can sustain you, who can fulfill you and feed your soul. He learned how to make the most flavorful fowl, the most incredible oven-roasted lamb. He learned how to make the most delicious, hearty stews and the best sourdough bread. He even learns how to churn his own butter for you. He becomes a wine connoisseur just to understand the flavor profiles to pair perfectly with the meals he's prepared for you. He's willing to buy parts of vineyards in faraway countries just so that he can have your name printed upon the most delicious wine bottles in the valley. He cleans in a way that he imagines you would approve of: on hands and knees, scrubbing away at baseboards, training his eyes up the walls to make sure there's no speck in sight, buying the most sleek, silent automated cleaning devices to make sure that there's never an uncomfortable crumb on the floor. Hey, spritzes the air with the most natural organic fragrances, never any parabens or sulfates. Only the most single-source, origin-based, unrefined ingredients. He only spritzes the air with things he knows he would feel confident gulping from the air.
For his skin, he only uses products he would never feel ashamed to touch or to let glide across your own bodice: only the most natural, only the most sustainable, only the most unique. Scents of a man worthy of standing and sleeping next to you he only purchases the sense he imagines he would allow to engulf you, to surround you. The sense he imagines you breathing in deeply and humming in response to them, flooding your scents. He, only owns scents that he believes belongs to you.
He buys whatever hair products you've said you've used or ones he suspects you would. He buys all the best:
- combs and brushes
- hair picks
- partners
- diffusers
- curlers
- hair bands
- scrunchies
- silk scarves
- the most expensive silk hair bonnets
Anything and everything a goddess could ever dream of putting on her hair, he has provided, waiting for you in his home. Sitting there, he'll entwist the caps of some of them, if there isn't a plastic seal on them, just to smell them, just to imagine his nose pressed against the abundance of your hair. Deeply digesting the smell that is you.
He's been buying jewelry since the moment he knew you like the way it rings away on your fingers. Some women don't like jewelry; they're minimalist like that. He loves the way that he can weigh you down in the finest minerals this world has to offer. He invests in stocks, up on every carat of gold that suits your skin tone. On the platinum that's made to last. On the copper that is supposed to be a conduit of your divine energy. He invests in the silver that is supposed to embody the properties of the moon. He invests in the citrine, the aquamarine, the lab and natural diamonds. The ones sourced from the old world in the industrial age, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds from places many people don't know the names ofSouth Sea Pearls and Carved Ivory.
He collects books. He reads, reads, and reads. He always imagines the weight of your head on his lap, grounding him into the sofa. He imagines brushing your face, your collarbones, and your navel with one hand while holding the work of someone's mind in the other, tracing your lips and your eyelids, smiling down at you, reading the words of love and wisdom over you and into your ear.
