“ Please don’t leave me or I’ll hurt myself! “ ~~~ for a Yandere!Twig / Young Terry Silver? Nobody writes about him too much but you, and this feels l like something he'd do / say!
Fact was, there was nothing he'd stop at.
No inhibition he'd have to get what he wants.
And people, in severely underestimating him, often got surprised just how far he'd go; he was always the skinny, sweet, flustered, shy, clumsy one of every group he was ever a part of, from his school days, all the way to the army. All curly hair and doe-eyes. Nobody expected him to be capable of that much, where physical feats were concerned (of course, as he was constantly reminded) or where feats of boldness factored into play. Simply put, nobody expected big things out of Terry Silver, whether those things were good or bad. He was just background fodder. Background everything. But, see, that's where they were sorely mistaken. That's why he played into his own persona sometimes, exaggerating his own ineptitude, now, out of spite, precisely because it was a label he was burdened with and couldn't shake off. The scrawny, limp-wristed one. Nobody suspects the scrawny, limp-wristed one. Nobody suspected him able to perform loyalty, passion, possessiveness, obsession, no. Nobody expected him to be able to perform aggression either. Such things were relegated and reserved for better men. Better and more dangerous people. The jock on the sport's team who breaks his leg playing and the biggest, buffest soldier on the platoon - who then promptly steps on a landmine and gets blown to smithereens. As a result, he could hide in plain sight, like a chameleon - change and transform accordingly, depending of the situation or the person he's dealing with. Observe. Tactfully listen. Perceive people's weaknesses. Learn how to play them with little effort. His brain and cunning his prime foundation of power.
That evening over the phone he utilizes this ability the minute he innately senses you've been putting some distance between you and him lately. A silent, unspoken, polite thing, Polite, because he supposedly couldn't handle anything harsh. It's like you tended to forget he was in Vietnam. He tended to want you to forget so you could baby him some extra. Terry catches wind of it, this detachment of yours, all of a sudden, with some sixth sense. He touched you the other day, sitting out on a park bench, having a round of popcorn and snacks - giggling - having a wonderful time - and your hand ever so slightly shifted, as if evading him on instinct. A millimeter. Your skin erupting in goosebumps. Discomfort? Or anxiety? That never happened before. He doesn't like it. Loathes it, in fact. Playing with the razor-blade while he idly twirls the cord of the telephone with a smile, rolling around on his own bed in absolute delight like some sort of decadent madam, sipping a coke through a straw, trying not to make too many slurping noises once you attempt to calm him down after he snaps and says, deliberately, waiting for the opportune moment to utter his ploy, with an artificially grieved tone of voice, feigning his pain - “ Please don’t leave me or I’ll hurt myself! “ - of course, he isn't going to hurt himself. Silly. Although, he is willing pondering hurting someone else. Having some revenge, perhaps. Making their life just a tad bit more difficult. Whoever it was that was filling your pretty little head with ideas about him. You then, proceed sobbing and crying, comforting him for hours, late into the night. Terry seeps up every word, every emotion, every vestige of attention.
It's his; all his, his, his, his - always, forever his.
Somewhere after midnight, he invites himself over to your place.
Sleeps over with you because he's supposedly so very distraught.
He can't be left all alone and unsupervised, no way.
Nestling himself contently into your arms;
He notices a thing he likes even less.
It's those goosebumps on your skin again.