#sorry this took so loooong once again I deleted my draft

[morgana-ren]

I noticed you write a little for overhaul! Could I get some yandere overhaul?

Efficiency. He likes your efficiency.

Your hands, quick, methodical, precise. Your movements, calculated and sure. No unnecessary flair, no exaggerated nonsense. Quiet. Meticulous. Obedient.

The bird mask latched to your face signifies your position as his subordinate, a uniform carefully chosen to make your individuality invisible. An extension of his own arms, his own will. That’s your purpose, your duty. One you fulfill to the letter.

So why is it when he looks at you, he can still see your face beneath the contraption meant to veil it?

Only once has he seen it, but it was enough to carve a notch in his memory. The curve of your cheeks, the sharpness reflected in your eyes. Something no doubt of importance lost to the space your countenance has taken up on the shelves of his mind. It’s infuriating, how you make a mess of the simplest part of the job while exceeding at all others.

Don’t distract him. Make yourself a tool, useful but replaceable. Able to be tucked away and ignored when your presence is no longer required. Don’t linger. Extend his influence, not your own.

How are you failing so miserably?

He knows the distinct sound of your footsteps in comparison to the rest of his men. Timed, careful, almost soft. While others move with a brashness, an almost unearned intensity, you are loud in your silence. You stick out in that you try so hard not to, filling your role as you are supposed to but drawing his attention, his ire, no less.

His eyes watch you when they’re due somewhere else, keeping you close even when you’re unneeded. Your council is foolish, unwarranted and uneducated, yet he seeks it no less if only to analyze the timbre of your voice when you speak. You know better than to ask him to explain his process but he will do it regardless to make certain you understand.

You tend to Eri with kindness, a certain softness that dries up the moment it’s him addressing you. The girl cries less when it’s you attending, makes less of a fuss when he runs his experiments. She holds your hand so tightly, the tack of the rubber glove against her childish skin making a distinctive and distracting squeaking noise every time her grip tightens. The needles pierce her skin and he doesn’t need to see your face to know you’re scowling. If you disapprove of his goals so much, why is it you stay? If his method is madness in your eyes, why do you work for his vision?

Is it because you know that he’d rather see you dead than beside another man?

It leads his mind down avenues it would be better off not treading. You don’t respect his strength like Rappa and he is not beholden to you like Chrono. So why is it you attach yourself to him, following like a shadow that mimics his own movements? Why do you obey his orders?

Overhaul has thought over his blueprints of the future, painstaking and detailed, yet he has purposefully avoided contemplating just where you fit into it all. At his feet or at his side (truthfully, in the dead of night, he dreams of both.) Even with the sterilized existence that keeps his body clean, his mind is not immune to the sickening licentiousness that plagues the common vagrant. It’s not a mess that can be cleaned with ammonia or bleach, a stain that won’t disappear with boiling water and steel wool.

Are you as efficient with your mouth as you are with your hands?

The line of thought disgusts him, but he crosses that valley in the sand regardless, morbid curiosity and self loathing close in tow. There’s a million ways he could destroy you, yet he fantasizes about the one that leaves you breathing. The rise and fall of your sweat-glistened chest, blown out pupils and quaking legs should make the bile rise in his throat but it makes him salivate instead, a disgusting Pavlovian response courtesy of his biology. The thought of your filthy little mouth on him, lips pulled taught around places so intimate gets his heart pounding but not with thoughts of violence or righteous indignation. A foul little boil he wants to lance into again and again and again until that sloppy hole between your thighs runs dry and he’s covered in your contamination, smeared in your sticky sweet juices, tainting his outside as he has the inside of you.

It’s hard not to rip that mask off your face and give you a taste of his own corruption some days. It’s only by the grace of his carefully honed self control (not to mention the watchful eyes of his disciples who’s respect he cannot afford to pollute) that he restrains himself. You’ve wormed your way beneath his skin, flowing through his blood like a virus; a fever he can’t sweat out no matter how he tries.

If he has to suffer, he’ll make it contagious.

He wonders if the satin of his gloves could even get a sturdy grip in your hair, heel of his hand pressed into the base of your skull while your fetid drool pools on his desk. The thought of the warmth you offer grinds his teeth, makes his skin crawl, churns his gut and yet he wants it for his own enough to go to war with his own mind. The lovely curve of your arched back, pulsing body clamping around him as he burrows inside of you like a parasite just like you did to his brain. 

You belong beneath him, body and mind and soul nothing but a playground for him, a sponge to soak up and cleanse him of his frustrations and his desires. That’s what you are, right? A tool for him to use? You simply have other uses than the rest.

If he allowed himself to take you, give himself a taste of what he so desperately craves, would he build up an immunity or would he find himself even more infected? He’s despised filth and muck and disorder his entire life and it’s spreading from within his own body, a self inflicted illness with no culprit to blame but himself. 

He’ll purge you from his body, one way or another. 

He’ll sit quiet, lips pursed behind his mask and eyes wandering where they shouldn’t. Study you, the way you move, the subtle breathing and the tenseness in your shoulders that only presents in his presence. The muscles in your neck that move as you bite your lip in focus and the way your steady gaze rips from his own anytime it meets. There’s something rippling beneath the surface in you; whether it’s lust or fear, he’s uncertain.

Either way, he’ll cultivate and harvest it, carefully tend it until it blossoms in your lungs and chokes you the same way it does him. Replace your essence with his own and watch you writhe and squirm, open and pliant beneath him, either too afraid to tell him no or too needy to not say yes. He’ll inject you full of his venom, his cure, until you become dependent upon him to live, to breathe, your very existence only flourishing because he allows it.

The thought of drowning himself in you both sickens and excites him, wants to feel your heart thrum against his palm as he cradles the rounds of your neck. He needs you to understand that it only continues to beat because it pleases him. He could take you apart and bring you back together wrong, damning you to an uncanny existence. He can give you life only to take it away again and again until whatever soul inhabits your body bends and breaks to him.

You’re treading dangerous waters, walking a razor’s edge. It’s too late but you don’t even realize it. He’ll be there to watch when you falter, quick and ready to utilize your mistake and wield it against you. You can either give yourself to him, or give yourself to misery, losing your mind again and again until it comes back in a way favorable to him. He can work with either.

The choice is yours.

#Anonymous #overhaul x reader #nsft #sorry this took so loooong once again I deleted my draft #Christ I’m posting a lot lately #sorry folks #I’m trying to do things on mobile so if this is like really long and annoying to scroll past lemme know #and I’ll put a read more when I get my laptop out