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You. You. You.

Yandere Overhaul x Reader

Word count: 3.9k

Summary: He will keep you weak, keep you quiet, and drug you into perfect, mindless compliance.

Warnings: Graphic violence description, unreliable narrator, food deprivation, heavy drugging, infantalization, kidnapping, mind break, stalking, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

Author's Notes: Companion fic of Sedated. Both can be read independently.

Overhaul stared down at the unrecognizable heap of viscera at his feet. The low-ranking asset currently smeared across the concrete of the narrow commercial alleyway had ceased to be a man three seconds ago. It was sickening. A physical manifestation of the quirk-infected sickness plaguing humanity.

The fool had pocketed a shipment of specialized quirk-suppressing compound intended for the Shie Hassaikai’s labs, foolishly trying to broker a side deal with a rival syndicate on this exact street. Worse than the theft, however, was the absolute lack of hygiene in his execution. The man had bled all over the brickwork before he even touched him.

He pulled a fresh linen handkerchief from his pocket, his jaw tightening beneath the leather lining of his beak. He lowered his hand, carefully dabbing at a stray, microscopic droplet of dark crimson that had managed to land on his left cuff.

Then, the sudden, sharp scrape of a rubber sole against concrete echoed from the mouth of the alley.

It was you.

He kept his back completely rigid, his golden eyes tracking your reflection perfectly in the rain-slicked glass of a discarded bottle against the brick wall.

He had been observing you for exactly twenty-four days.

He had monitored the predictable grid of your daily routine. You left your apartment at the same hour. You bought the same convenience store meals every Tuesday evening. And, with a dangerous lack of self-preservation, you consistently used this neglected alleyway as a shortcut to bypass the heavy foot traffic of the pedestrian district.

Today, however, you were precisely seven minutes ahead of schedule.

An irritation, really. Had he known your timing would fluctuate, he would have broken the thief closer to the dumpster, away from the path of your clean, uncorrupted orbit.

Behind him, he heard the soft, trembling drag of your heel as you took a cautious step backward. Then another.

Overhaul could feel the violent spike of your panic. You were trying to gaslight yourself. He could practically see the frantic thoughts spinning in your head, desperately convincing yourself that he was too engrossed in his grim work to notice you.

He let you believe the lie. He kept his back turned to you, his fingers calmly pressing the linen cloth against his sleeve, waiting as your heels finally hit the bustling sidewalk of the main street.

He looked down at the stained handkerchief in his gloved hand, his golden eyes narrowing in profound disgust. He tossed the soiled linen onto the heap of viscera at his feet, already reaching into his pocket for a fresh pair of latex gloves.

He would let you have your small, desperate illusion of safety for a few more days.

_

Three weeks ago was a perfectly unremarkable one. The sky was an aggressive, unappealing gray, and a sudden, sharp downpour had turned the concrete sidewalk into a slick mirror of urban grime. Pedestrians were scrambling under awnings, shoving past one another with a loud lack of dignity.

You were standing near the entrance of a local convenience store, a clear plastic umbrella tilted over your shoulder.

Overhaul had paused beneath the overhang of a closed storefront across the narrow street as he waited for the crowd to thin. He was already irritated; a stray drop of rain had hit his bare neck, and the humidity was making his skin itch beneath his collar. He despised the city when it rained—it felt as though the entire populace were soaking in their own collective filth.

But as he looked across the asphalt, his gaze locked onto you.

By every standard of the modern world, you were painfully boring. Your hair was slightly frizzy from the damp air, your sneakers were worn at the heels, and you were holding a plastic grocery bag with a loaf of bread and a carton of eggs. You were entirely consumed by the most pathetic, small-scale anxieties imaginable. He could see it in the way your brow furrowed as your lips moved silently—you were mentally math-ing out your budget, stressing over a fifty-yen discrepancy on your receipt. You were so deeply beneath him, that under any other circumstance, his eyes would have slid right past you without registering your existence.

And then, a stray calico cat—drenched in the street’s disease-ridden filth—crept out from beneath a vending machine near your boots.

Overhaul had expected you to kick it away, or at least draw back in a natural human response to a parasite-carrying vector. But you didn't. A slight frown pulled at your lips as you tilted your umbrella forward, extending its canopy to shield the shivering animal from the downpour, while letting the cold rain beat directly against your own shoulder.

It was an incredibly stupid, economically inefficient action. You were ruining your cheap coat and soaking your hair just to give dry ground to a stray animal that would likely be dead in a week anyway. You lacked even the basic intelligence required for self-preservation.

Yet, as you adjusted the plastic handle, you happened to look up. Across the narrow street, through the heavy curtain of falling rain, your gaze collided directly with his mask.

Overhaul’s breath caught in his filter.

Your eyes were beautiful.

They were bright, vibrant, and filled with an uncorrupted sort of life—a quiet, stubborn vitality that seemed completely untouched by the decay of the surrounding world. For a fleeting instant, you look past the ominous beak of his mask to meet his gaze directly—utterly without fear—before offering a polite nod of your head and turning back to the street.

Suddenly, the thoughts slammed into his brain, relentless and consuming, rooting a fierce, vicious possessiveness deep in his gut. He cannot scrub you out of his mind, you, a thing so pure could not be allowed to exist out here. The chaotic whims of quirk society would inevitably smear their dirt across those clear eyes, dragging you down into the mud until you were ruined by the sickness of this world.

As you finally stepped out into the rain and walked away, Overhaul remained frozen under the awning. He watched the back of your coat until you disappeared around the corner of the commercial block.

He had memorized the exact dimensions of your life within forty-eight hours of that rainy afternoon. It was a remarkably uncomplicated file.

You were, by every metric of the modern world, entirely inconsequential. A baseline Quirkless civilian. Apartment 302—a cramped, third-floor unit with a sticking front lock and a window that looked out onto an unappealing brick alleyway. You lived completely alone. There was no emergency contact listed on your lease. Even your past was a clean slate, you had cut ties with your family three years ago after a bitter conflict, packing your life into cardboard boxes and moving here. Since then, you had no close friends, let alone significant others. There were no colleagues who would notice an empty desk for more than a single payroll cycle before replacing you.

You had no one.

But watching you from afar was beginning to sour into a distinct, tightening frustration beneath his collar.

Because you had no one to protect you, the city was treating you like it treated all its garbage. He had watched a loud, unwashed group of drunkards stumble past you last Thursday, shouting obscenities that made you flinch and press your grocery bag against your chest. He had seen a rogue delivery cyclist nearly take you off your feet on a crosswalk, forcing you to scramble onto the dirty concrete. Every day you spent out here, unsupervised and painfully defenseless, was a liability.

The sky was clear today.

Fom twenty yards away, you were walking home from the store, carrying a single, mundane grocery bag.

He stepped into the current of the crowd, his dark coat cutting through the sea of bodies. The street was a loud, chaotic mess—humanity at its most disorganized. People shoved past one another, laughing loudly, breathing the same stagnant air, tracking filth across the concrete with every step. The sheer volume of the crowd made his skin crawl. It was a breeding ground for sickness. How could you survive out here? How long before one of these mindless cattle bumped into you too hard, stained your clothes, or dragged you into their filth?

He had anticipated you to bolt when you saw him, forcing a messy, public chase through a crowded commercial block. Instead, you kept walking directly toward him.

Your hands were trembling against the thin plastic of your grocery bag, your knees stiff with terror. It was a pathetic, transparent performance, but it fascinated him. As you came parallel to him, you forced a tight, polite smile onto your face and looked right into the eyes of a monster.

"Hey, cool mask," you said. Your voice squeaked, a fragile, desperate little sound, before you immediately tried to brush past his shoulder into the safety of the crowd.

Overhaul didn't reply, but beneath the leather lining of his mask, his teeth clicked together. A sudden, violent jolt of adrenaline spiked straight to his chest. It was a lie. A beautiful, naive, insulting little lie, a cheap performance born of the desperate urge to survive. You knew exactly what he was. You knew what he had done in that alleyway. And yet, the sheer, frantic audacity of you trying to charm your way past him sent a wave of heat rushing through his veins. It didn't disgust him; it drove his obsession into a fever pitch.

He wants you. He needs you now, right now, to break that useless, beautiful fight out of your chest, to scrub the city's dirt off your skin himself and lock you away where nobody else can ever look at you, touch you, stain you—no, he needs you. Need you. You. You. You. God, you. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You.

As you passed his shoulder, his hand moved with a practiced speed. The syringe hidden within the sleeve of his coat, jabbed hard into the side of your neck.

Instantly, the frantic energy radiating off you withered. The grocery bag slipped from your limp fingers, a carton of eggs cracking against the concrete, a loaf of bread rolling into the dirt. Your knees buckled, your gravity completely failing you as you began to collapse toward the filthy sidewalk.

Overhaul stepped forward, his pristine white gloves catching you beneath the arms before your clothes could touch the contaminated ground. His entire body went instantly rigid beneath his layers of fabric. The fabric of your jacket had touched the city air, the outdoor benches, the filthy pedestrian crowds; it was a walking surface of bacteria, making his skin itch violently beneath his collar.

But as his golden eyes darted down to your face, watching your eyelids flutter as the heavy sedative slammed into your nervous system, drowning your beautiful eyes in a helpless static. Overhaul forced the panic down into submission. The sheer, overwhelming reality of finally holding you sent his thoughts spiraling into an intoxicating focus.

How remarkably sweet you looked like this.

People were staring now, a few pedestrians slowing their pace to look at the figure slumping against his parka.

"Step back," Overhaul commanded to a nearby onlooker. "They're having a medical episode. I'm a licensed practitioner taking them to a vehicle.”

The onlookers murmured, nodding in unthinking agreement. None of them questioned him, or asked for identification, or demanded to know where he was taking you. They just accepted the lie, turning their faces away to melt right back into the gray, uncaring crowd.

Looking at the sea of retreating backs, a disgust washed over Overhaul. They don't care if you disappear from the face of the earth. This wretched, apathetic street didn't deserve to look at you. The outside world was a plague, and these people were the carriers—bystanders who would let something precious be ruined without a second thought.

They didn't deserve you. But he did.

He adjusted his grip, pulling your limp body securely into his space. It was fine. He could endure the temporary contamination. The moment they reached the secure basement levels of the compound, he would burn these filthy civilian clothes. He would meticulously scrub his arms, wash his hands under boiling water and drench his gear in isopropyl alcohol.

As his men pulled the black sedan up to the curb, clicking the heavy doors open to receive his prize, Overhaul looked one last time at your unseeing, drifting face.

He had ordered a sterile holding room in the deep basement levels to be prepped immediately, bleached twice over with industrial isopropyl alcohol.

But he had severely underestimated your stubbornness.

The first time the dosage had dipped slightly below the threshold, you had woken. Through the security monitor down the hall, Overhaul had watched you awake in a panic, your eyes wild and bloodshot. Without a single thought for your own physical safety, you had grabbed the plastic IV line hooked to your vein and violently ripped the tube right out of your arm.

The plastic needle tore through your skin, and a dark, messy streak of crimson splattered across the crisp white sheets.

When his men had flooded the room to pin you down, you hadn't stopped. Even with your limbs heavy and trembling from the residual chemicals, you had somehow managed to pocket a small, metallic clip from the side of the heart monitor. Later that night, the camera caught you dragging your leaden torso across the cold floor, using that single, flimsy piece of metal to frantically scratch and pick at the heavy brass lock of the door. Your fingers were bleeding, your breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps, your nails splitting against the reinforced steel. He had subdued you himself, his gloved hands pinning your wrists to the mattress with an iron grip while he reinserted the line, forcing the heavy, suffocating darkness back into your nervous system. He made sure the dosage was doubled.

It had irritated him. It had fascinated him. To ensure you never put up a fight like that again, Overhaul had kept you weak on purpose. He had strictly forbidden bringing solid food into the room, restricting your entire caloric intake to a specialized, nutrient-dense solution dispensed solely through the IV line. Without substance in your stomach, your muscles could never fully recover from the sedative. Your body could not build the glycogen required to form a fist, let alone strike him.

But it was during the quiet windows—those rare, fleeting moments when the drugs receded just enough to grant you a fragile shred of sanity—you had stopped screaming. Instead, you began to seek him out. When he entered the room to check your vitals or adjust the dial on the drip, your unfocused, beautiful eyes would track the movement of his mask. You were starved for a human voice, so utterly isolated in that white box that you were willing to appeal to your own captor.

You had swallowed past the dry cotton in your throat and started asking questions.

"Where am I?" "What do you want with me?"

And then, the question that had made his gloved fingers pause over the syringe. You had looked right at him, and asked him who he was. You had asked for his name.

He told you to call him Kai.

Recalling it now, as he pressed his thumb against the heavy lock of the door, Overhaul felt a satisfaction settle into his chest. In the end, you had still looked up at him and begged for his name. You were learning. Step by step, dose by dose, you were forgetting the outside world and learning how to exist only within the space he had built for you.

He realized then that he wanted to break you.

Not like the thief in the alleyway—he would not shatter your bones or spill your blood—he would continue to drug you over and over again. He would drug you into absolute, mindless compliance. He would keep you so heavily sedated that your memories would fracture, your thoughts would turn to thick mud, and your sense of time would completely dissolve until your entire universe shrank to his hands. He would strip away your agency, until you forgot your apartment number, forgot your desk, forgot your own name—until the only anchor left in your hollowed-out mind was the sound of his voice.

He would make you entirely dependent on him. He would become your caretaker, your God. What he said was clean is clean; what he said was sick is sick.

When he stepped inside, you were awake. The security monitors down the hall hadn't lied; your heart rate had spiked, and your eyelids were fluttering against the heavy pull of the sedative. He didn't need to look at your chart to know your body was adapting to the current dosage.

"How long have you been awake?" he asked as he reached out, his gloved fingers adjusting the dial on the IV stand.

"Not long," you mumbled. Your voice was small, raspy, and ruined by the dry cotton of your throat.

"And how was your day?"

It was a textbook question. But instead of compliance, he watched a familiar, ugly spark of anger ignite in your eyes. It was the same reckless passion that bred the quirk-infected filth outside. It made his skin crawl slightly beneath his collar, but he kept his expression perfectly smooth behind the beak of his mask.

"It was... fine," you whispered, though your chest was heaving with an absurdly starved desperation. "Just a little cold in here. And my head hurts."

Overhaul turned his back to you, walking over to the metal prep table. "The headache is your own doing," he said, his voice flat. "If you stopped fighting, you wouldn’t be in pain. But don't worry. I’ll have someone bring an extra blanket.”

He tore open a fresh plastic wrapper, tapping the side of the syringe to clear the air bubbles.

From the bed, your slurred, pathetic begging began. "Don't... please... Kai, don't. No more."

He didn't even register the plea as a valid argument. Silly thing, he thought, a wave of pity washing over him as he pushed the plunger slightly, letting a single drop bead at the needle's tip. You don't even know what's good for you.

"You have been more compliant recently," he noted, turning back to the bed, allowing a small sigh to escape his mask. "However, your body is starting to build tolerance to the current dosage, which means it's no longer effective at keeping you calm. It's a shame. To ensure you don't agitate yourself like last time, I will have to increase the amount. It's for your own good."

The sheer, irrational terror that flooded your face to that was a testament to how undisciplined your mind still was.

He stepped to your side, leaning over the mattress to lift your arm. He needed a clean angle on the vein. But before he could secure your wrist, your weak hand balled into a clumsy fist and swung toward his chest.

"You... you absolute piece of—"

The words were a slurred, disintegrating mess, but the intent was clear. You were trying to strike him. You, a thoroughly contaminated, unwashed creature of the outside world, were trying to lay hands on his person.

The fist collided with his shirt. The impact was laughably light. He didn't even bother to dodge. He simply let your hand fall, his gloved fingers wrapping around your wrist with a firm pressure to pin it back to the crisp sheets.

"Look at how worked up you're getting," he murmured, looking down at you. The pity he felt was genuine. "This anger, this violence... it’s exactly what the outside world breeds in people. It’s a sickness.”

"S-stop it. Sick. You’re the one who’s… you’re fucking sick, Kai," you choked on the syllable. "Put the… put it down."

Instead of submitting, you fought harder. It was infuriatingly stubborn. Your fingers curled around his gloved wrists, trying to drag your heavy torso up off the mattress. You were trying to fight him, touch him more.

And then, your strength entirely evaporated.

Your head dropped forward, your body collapsing heavily against his chest.

An electric shock of revulsion surged straight down his spine. His entire frame went instantly, rigidly still, every muscle locking into stone. His mind screamed at him to tear his hand away, to activate his quirk and obliterate the unwashed flesh pressing against his sternum, to strip the clothes from his body and bleach his skin until it bled.

But as he stood there, completely breathless, the ragged thud of your heart rattled against his chest. Such a fragile, broken little thing. You were so incredibly weak. So easily crushed. If he let go of your wrist right now, you would simply slide onto the floor like a ragdoll.

He looked down at the back of your head, at the messy, unkempt hair spilling across his dark shirt. Slowly, through a massive effort of sheer willpower, Overhaul forced the panic down. The tension in his chest eased, a controlled breath filtering through the mesh of his plague mask.

He wouldn't destroy you. He had chosen to keep you clean. And a doctor did not abandon a patient just because they were covered in dirt.

Gently, almost experimentally, his gloved hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers anchoring you against his shoulder. His other hand moved to your face, a single finger tracing the trembling line of your jaw. Your skin was warm.

"You always did have a habit of rushing into things without thinking," he murmured into your hair, his voice vibrating softly against your cheek. "Like taking that shortcut home. Or buying those specific convenience store meals every Tuesday evening. You're far too predictable to be left unsupervised."

"…Bastard. You… damn bastard. I’m gonna..." Your voice dropped to a furious, drunken mutter.

The whispered curse was muffled against his collarbone. He didn't mind it. It was almost endearing. He tilted your face up, forcing your unfocused, drooping eyes to meet his golden gaze.

"I always thought your eyes were beautiful," he whispered, fascinated by the dull glaze overtaking your pupils. "The very first time I saw you, you looked at me with so much life. It made me want to take you away from all the filth out there. To keep you all to myself, where nothing could ever corrupt you or take you from me. Tell me... what is so wrong with wanting to protect something so precious? Why must you fight the only person who cares enough to keep you clean?”

You didn't answer. You couldn't. The dark, beautiful panic in your eyes was already drowning in the chemical fog.

Overhaul guided you backward, easily laying your limp body back down onto the stark white pillows. He picked up the syringe, found the vein, and slid the needle home. He watched the fluid disappear into your system, watched your tense, fighting muscles finally, beautifully go slack.

He stepped back from the bed, the sharp, snapping sound of latex echoing in the quiet room as he peeled the white gloves from his hands. They were contaminated now. Covered in the sweat and oils of your skin. He tossed them carelessly into the hazardous waste bin by the bed, staring down at your sleeping face one last time.

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