#not a trace of condescension or superiority in his voice or choice of words towards dudley just pride & solidarity PADDY MAYNE I LOVE YOU

[k-wame]

this scene! paddy trying to connect with another queer💖

[after-witch]

Bad Day (Yandere Overhaul x Reader)

Title: Bad Day (Yandere Overhaul x Reader)

Synopsis: You’re in one of your… moods again, barely able to lift your head on your own. Kai wants to help you.

Notes: yandere, stockholm syndrome

You are having one of your… “off days,” again.

Kai Chisaki purses his lips behind the black face mask stretched across his face. He’s been sitting at his desk, diligently working, sneaking glances to the tablet dedicated exclusively for streaming footage from your room 24/7. It gave him solace to see you curled up reading a book or pecking away at a puzzle or humming to yourself while you cleaned up what tiny messes you were able to make in your room.

But for the past few hours, since morning actually, you had been curled up on the side of your bed doing… nothing. 

He had a feeling that something was off in the morning when you did little to obey or resist him as he went about your routine. You didn’t tell him to “fuck off” which was a plus, but you didn’t greet him or acknowledge him, either. It took you far too long to put on your clothes, and Kai had almost forced himself to turn around and see if something was wrong, before you finally mumbled that you were finished.

After he’d gotten you ready, he set down your breakfast tray and mentioned that you’d be eating alone--he had something to get done. You didn’t reply. He had watched on his tablet as you slowly, almost dizzily seemed to sit down at your desk and pick at your food. A few bites, if that. Then you walked to your bed, legs nearly dragging, and curled up with your pillow.

And now, there you were, still curled up. Kai zoomed in with his stylus, and saw the hints of glinting wetness on your cheeks. You’re crying, silently. The sight tugs at his heartstrings. He could handle it when you cried during a punishment--your tears were a consequence of not listening to his superior intellect and judgement, after all. But the late night cries or the days, like this one, where you simply weep endlessly are a different matter.

He sighs and shuts his laptop with a quiet click. He opens a locked drawer in his desk and retrieves a small bag with vials and needles--in case he needs them. Then he walks the few steps to your door and knocks.

**

You’re crying. You barely realize it until you feel the thick wetness pooling on your cheeks as they press against the pillow. You wipe the tears away, but more come easily to replace them, and you don’t have the energy to move your hands anymore. You hope your silent tears become sobs, soon. Those feel better than the bitter quiet ones.

Everything feels heavy and slow. You curl up tighter and wish you could make the heavy weight on your chest go away. It feels like an anchor--or a night hag. You wonder if you’re dreaming, one of those terrible dreams you’ve been having since you were taken captive; the ones where you can’t move and the world is a giant rush of thick, slowing fluidity and rushing sounds but no matter what you do, how hard you try to scream through your thick tongue, you can’t move a muscle. You wake up endlessly, falsely, until finally the morning (and Kai) arrives.

But you’ve done all the dream checks Kai has taught you (you hated to admit the nightmares at first, but they got so bad that you were losing sleep, and the conversation about your dark eye circles was inevitable) and it’s clear: you’re awake.

You’re not having a nightmare. You’re just… sad.

The realization drags you down further. You’re sad. You’re sad and… there’s nothing you can do about it. You can’t escape. Even mental escapes were few and far between.

Thinking about the past makes you cry, but thinking about the future is just as crushing. What future? Trapped in a room that’s not your own, doing puzzles and reading books, eating food from trays; you felt like a specimen in a zoo, a character stray out of a science fiction short story. Come one, come all, come watch the fascinating (Y/N) as she lives in her little bubble where the only choices she has are the ones we give her!

Whoop-de-doo, you think, whoop-de-fucking-doo.

Yet even your bitter sarcasm, once something you held onto to keep you sane as your captor chipped away at your defiance, feels hollow. What’s the point? Nothing you said had any real effect on him. Or you. They were just words. You were helpless. He could close your throat with a gesture. He wouldn’t--probably, you think, probably--but he still controlled what you did and what you ate and lately, how you felt, and that was the present. Your present.

You swallow, throat dry and begging for a drink, but you can’t be bothered to get out of bed and reach the glass of water still sitting on your desk. Your eyes trace the curvature of the glass, the little beads of condensation on the rim.

You’re a few minutes into your tracing game when you hear a firm, deceptively polite knock at the door.

Oh.

He likes to knock, likes to hear you tell him “Come in.” But you don’t have the energy for that today, so you stare aimlessly at the door. A few more knocks, and then he enters, anyway. Figures.

“I came to see how you were doing,” he says.

You stare ahead, seeing him, but not focusing on him. Your eyes eventually drift back to the glass.

He watches you.

“You didn’t get enough water today, did you? You know hydration is important.”

You lick your lips unconsciously but say nothing.

“Come, (Y/N), get out of bed and we’ll get you a fresh glass of water.”

Your body, your throat, aches for the refreshment. But your mind keeps you firmly planted in bed.

Kai sighs, and you tense. That sigh either means you’re in for a lecture or some type of injection. Or both. But even the threat of a mysterious liquid burning inside your veins can’t get you to move, so you remain curled up, staring ahead.

 You think about turning around so you can stare at the wall and not Kai, walking towards you, but whatever part of your brain that controls common sense overrides the impulse.

Kai sits himself on the side of your bed, his back almost carelessly brushing your legs. It makes you shiver.

“Do you feel ill?”

At that, you force yourself to whisper, afraid of what will happen if you let him go down that road again. Your voice is hoarse, dry, and painfully in need of use.

“No,” you say. You vainly attempt to clear your throat. “I’m not sick, I swear.”

“Hmm.”

Kai reaches a hand across your body and places it against your forehead. You feel his cool skin against your head and realize that he’s taken his gloves off. For you, he said once, only for you.

“Your head doesn’t feel warm.”

You dimly remember your mom saying that, once or twice or maybe a dozen times, when you were trying to fake sick to get out of school. You close your eyes and pretend, for just a second, that you’re little and under your cartoon-character-print covers and that it’s your mom touching you.

You open your eyes as Kai speaks and ruins the illusion.

“Is something bothering you?”

You’re bothering me, you think. You want him to go away. You just want to stare at the glass or the wall anything, really, anything that lets you unfocus your mind and let your emotions weigh you down. You want to cry and cry until your chest heaves and your eyes sting and snot pours down your face.

“Answer me,” he says, and you almost flinch at the order when you realize that it was spoken with none of his characteristic sternness or condescension.. Usually when you don’t listen, he gets stern, almost paternalistic in his desire to make you just listen-to-him-for-once. But now, his voice is soft. Almost… pleading, you think. Almost caring.

You whimper softly when you feel both his hands around your upper arms. He pulls you up, his grip firm but not harsh, until you’re sitting against the headboard. The position almost makes you dizzy--you’d been laying prone since the morning.

“Answer me,” he says again, this time as his hands trace the tears on your cheeks and wipe the remnants away. You wonder if he’s fighting the urge to scrub the saltiness from his fingers--they must feel dirty.

You shake your head, vaguely, softly. You stare at your hands, folded almost primly in your lap. You don’t want to tell him anything. You want him to go away so you can weep about everything you’ve lost, past, future and present. His prying makes your stomach twist with something you don’t recognize. Pity? Hope?

You look up at him and flinch.

His eyes are wet. Tears brimming underneath.

Your captor. Kai Chisaki. Overhaul. Is crying--or close to it.

Instinctively, your hand reaches for his shoulder. Now it’s his turn to flinch at your fingers curl around him, softly at first, then with a sympathetic grip.

“Don’t… don’t cry,” you say. Your stomach feels like it’s doing flips. You hate seeing him cry, and you don’t know why you should--he’s made you cry countless times.

“I’m worried about you, ” he says, “So worried.” His voice is dripping with warmth and truth. You hate it. But it makes you feel like you’re cocooned and safe, all the same.

You barely register as Kai wraps both his arms around your back and pulls you in close. The sudden gesture is shocking, unwanted. Your other hand grips his other shoulder and you want to push away, but the sudden warmth and closeness--physical interactions you haven’t been able to enjoy for months--brings tears back to your eyes. When was the last time you had been held, except in dreams?

“Please tell me what’s wrong, angel,” he says. His own voice is hoarse now, and you wonder if he’s starting to cry. Your hands release their defensive grip and you find your fingers clenching the fabric of his shirt.

“I’m just…” You struggle for the words and grip his shirt tighter. “I’m just having a bad day,” you whisper, finally. You lean your face against his chest, closing your eyes against the tears that spill down your cheeks.

Kai’s hands, which have killed countless men, rub your back softly. He shushes you, soft and plying. You close your eyes and wonder what will happen when you open them again.