#(technically??)

and the big kitty bc he is plaguing my mind

i think that if y/n managed to stop the prototype from killing catnap, just before the killing blow, then perhaps catnap could have a change of heart. he'd probably just... give y/n one long look (he's stunned that they saved him after all he put them through), then slink away into the shadows. y/n would then see him around occasionally, not really helping the survivors, but not attacking them or reporting them to the prototype either.

it seems the disciple is finally questioning the god he was betrayed by, and is beginning to consider following an angel instead.

(Yandere saw that we had no dad and decided to take it upon himself to ‘fulfill that role’.

He does not. But he is trying to ‘fill’ something.)

Yandere prompt:

They say their feelings are platonic. Insist upon it really. They say they only want to be your family.

But their actions really don’t match their words.

…

He’s helping you get undressed. Again.

You’d think you would be used to it by now.

He’s been doing it a lot more often.

It started out as him just standing in the bathroom with you, watching you as you undressed with trembling hands in front of him, watching as the dress he picked out fell to your feet around you.

When he first kidnapped you—which is a crazy sentence you never thought you’d say—he said he wanted to be family. A father to you. A dad.

Now, you don’t have much experience with dads seeing as you didn’t exactly grow up having one, but they don’t stare at you the way he stares at you. (They’re not supposed to, at least.)

He stares holes into you. His fists clench in his lap as he watches you step out of your jeans. He crosses his legs when your underwear fall to the ground and stares even harder if possible.

And afterwards he still reminds you to call him ‘dad’.

But at least then it was just watching. Just him sitting there and making sure you didn’t somehow tunnel your way out with a shampoo bottle.

Now, he was touching you.

His breathing is loud and heavy in the otherwise silent bathroom, his fingers scorching whenever they grazed your skin. He pulls the zipper of your dress down agonizingly slow. Like he’s trying to savor the moment, each inch of flesh that’s revealed to him.

You’re half afraid he’s going to start jerking off in the bathroom at the sight of your shoulder blades to be honest.

The first few times this happened, your hands went to your chest to hold the front up. But it didn’t really matter anyway. He’d see it all no matter if you held your dress up or not.

(You don’t know exactly when ‘the dress’ started to become your dress. But you know how dreadful the change was.)

“You done?” You snap suddenly, knocking him out of his reverie.

He hums in reply. Calm in the face of your disrespect.

(Something in you wants to claw his face off and spend the days afterward picking him out from under your nails.)

“Almost,” he says. “The zippers stuck.”

You almost scoff. Yeah, right. The old pervert.

After a few minutes of ‘struggle’ (him taking his sweet time with that zipper), it was finally undone. You tensed as his hands came up to your shoulders, large and calloused hands curling into your sleeves to tug them down.

He treats you more like his wife than his kid.

He insists on being slow. On torturing you. But the fabric slides down your arms all the same.

Your arms prickle with goosebumps with the sudden exposure to the cold air of the bathroom. The shiver that ensues is half from the cold and half because of the pure heat that he produces in waves. Manufactured almost—the fire of his skin produced rather than made with all the muscle on him.

You barely restrain yourself from smacking his hands away when the come down to skirt part of the dress.

This part he can’t exactly ‘make slow’. The skirt is loose—flow-y. When he tugs it down, just slightly, it crumbles to the ground easily. Just a circle of floral fabric around you.

This time, when he tries to take off your underwear, you do smack his hands away. “I’ll do it,” you hiss.

He lets you. Fortunately. If only so he can watch.

You practically yank your underwear down your legs, bending slightly to step out of it.

A sharp intake of breath.

If you were going to be forced to get naked in front of him, you were at least going to be petty about it.

Revulsion twists and churns in your stomach, burning in your veins, as you feel his eyes dig into you, attempting to unearth something from deep within you that you are certain is nowhere to be found.

He clears his throat but his next words still come out heavy with strain and almost croak-like. “Let’s get you into the shower, sweetheart.”

You tense and shiver with disgust when a large hand comes down to rest on your bare lower back.

You step into the shower and shiver again as a warm spray washes over you—already heated up and ready since he had turned it on for you just before the unpaid strip tease you gave him.

It’s almost enough to make you forget who’s watching. Who’s pulling the glass door to the side. Who’s practically leaking in his pants just fucking watching you shower.

You try to ignore him to the best of your abilities, but it’s difficult to not lunge at him and claw his eyes out. (You had already tried once and never again.)

You make the mistake of turning your back from him.

Cold fingers brush your spine. You flinch away violently, turning to give him a wide-eyed, repulsed look but he’s not even looking at your face.

He’s looking at the water on his fingers. At how they glisten.

The hilarious side effect of this is that it makes both GLaDOS and Wheatley comically attached to and obsessed with this poor woman and they’re both going to make it her problem now. She has done literally nothing but try to escape but it drives them both fucking crazy for some reason