1.7k words || yandere!kidnapper x gn!reader; tw: emotional abuse; kidnapping; crying; reading your diary
it’s another slow dinner. it’s the fourth time he's baked garlic bread this week, and it’s only thursday.
regret fills you as you chew your loaf slowly. shouldn’t have complimented his baking on monday. never thought you could get sick of garlic bread.
“i was reading through your diary,” he says.
your eyes shoot up, but he hasn’t looked up from his ravioli.
"you don’t write about me at all. i don’t know what i expected.” he pauses and waits, probably for you to say something. “i don’t know. i guess i thought you’d at least write about how much you hate me.”
"what?” your voice is so quiet that he doesn’t even hear you. he continues rambling.
"i just… i feel so sick. i don’t know what i was expecting, but i thought i was important enough for you to so much as mention once. is it… is it delusional of me to wish that you were going through some kind of moral dilemma? maybe you do hate me, for bringing you here, but all the while you find yourself… inexplicably, er, attracted to me. there isn’t so much as a sentence in your diary about how you find me handsome.”
he pauses to sip wine from his glass. he clears his throat uncomfortably.
“i… i put in so much effort for you, you see. i feel unappreciated. i don’t know.”
he says that a lot, “i don’t know;” it annoys you tremendously. you hadn’t been planning on crying, but sometimes some things annoy you so badly that you burst into tears. this is one of those moments.
you look down, moving your pasta around with your fork. if you thought you had no appetite before, you definitely don’t have one now.
"i… i workout for you, don’t i?” he continues, “you like men who read. i force myself to sit through book after book to impress you. i cut my hair the way you like it. i-i dress up all the time just to look presentable to you. i thought you’d acknowledge these things in your diary.”
he pauses between every sentence to take a deep breath in. you can't tell if he's so mad he can barely speak, or if he's also on the verge of crying. “it’s like you don’t— you don’t really care about me, not really.”
what is he even talking about anymore? why does he do this, the whole pretending-you’re-here-consensually shtick? he acts like you really are in a loving, committed relationship, and your refusal to act the part distresses him.
he’s always so distressed.
“i don’t care about you,” you burst out exasperatedly. you drop your fork. the sound makes a clamor. his eyes widen, and you can see the wheels turning in his head.
he feels torn; he wants to get up and pick up the fork — he dislikes when things are out of place; he’s an awful neat freak — but at the same time, he can see the tears glisten in your eyes.
how to comfort you?
he knows how he likes to be comforted, which is quite often; he likes when you wrap your arms around him and let him mumble and cry into your shoulders; he likes when you sigh and tell him everything will be okay; he likes when you let him kiss you on the cheeks.
you hate these things, of course, so he does not know what to do when you cry. you rarely cry. you hate showing emotions around him. on the one hand, he's pleased to see you a mess, but on the other...
he wrungs his hands and watches you.
and you hate being watched, gawked, stared at. “i’m sorry,” you gasp, finally becoming aware of the stream running down your face. “it's just... try to understand! you read my diary. that’s such a huge invasion of my privacy."
"privacy?” his tone makes it sound like he doesn’t know what that word means. “privacy? what could you possibly need privacy for?”
he makes his way around the table and kneels in front of you. in one swift motion he picks up the fork and places it back on the table. he takes your hands in his. “stop crying, please,” he pleads.
well, it’s not really pleading. he never does that. perhaps it’s a part of his manipulative nature; he only pleads when he wants to appear cute or attractive to you. he says it plainly, if a little forceful. “i hate it when you cry.”
"i'm sorry,” you apologize. you wish you didn’t keep apologizing, but once you start, it’s impossible to stop. “i’m sorry. i just can’t take it. you read my diary. that was the only freedom i had in this wretched place, and you took even that away from me. you’ve possessed me physically, isn’t that enough for you? when will you stop?”
"when will i stop?” he asks, bewildered. “what do you mean, ‘when will I stop?’ it’s not fair, can’t you see that? not even a guillotine could get you out of my mind, and you… you… you don’t think i’m important enough to mention in your diary?
"you spent pages describing the way the sunlight filters through the curtains — i ought to get rid of the curtains, oh yes! i bought them especially for you because you like lace, but — you care more about the curtains than you care about me! not a single sentence about your kidnapper!”
aha! there it is! you want to stand up and clap your hands! “my kidnapper!” you sob, mainly from the joy that you’ve caught him in this Freudian slip. “that’s all you are to me! why would I write about you at all when all you are to me is a prison guard?”
he purses his lips and clenches his fists. his jaw tightens. he looks quite scary when he’s angry, and usually you try to appease him, keep him from getting angry, but not today, no.
"i’m sorry for crying! really, i am! you deserve to be laughed at!”
oh… is this a psychotic break? have you finally lost your mind? your crying descends into laughter — his face is just so laughable, he’s still kneeling at your feet, you can tell that he feels ridiculous, pathetic, angry, angry little man, disgusting, disturbing, perverted man, a joke, a shame, a disgrace — ha, ha, ha. you pause for a moment and wonder if he’ll hurt you.
even if he does, what do you have to lose anymore?
