Title: Are You There, God? It's Me [Yandere Feitan x Reader]
Title: Are You There, God? It's Me [Yandere Feitan x Reader]
Synopsis: You've been held captive by Feitan for months--you're long-since used to seeing blood. But it's the blood from your first period since you've been taken that has you feeling sick.
Word count: 2671
notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, descriptions of wounds and violence, mentions of previous physical abuse, reader gets their period
Over the past few months, you’ve seen a lot of blood. You’ve seen clotted blood on festering wounds; fresh blood seeping from underneath knives and nails; spatters of blood on the walls from the sudden trauma of severed limbs, fingers, toes.
Over time, your stomach has stopped rebelling at the sight of it. Not that it gets easier to see, but it has gotten easier to stomach. Maybe your body refuses to give up the few nutrients that do make their way down your gullet, thanks to Feitan’s dislike of cooking and unwillingness to provide you with a basic grocery stock to work from. Frozen dinners only go so far.
Whatever the reason, you’re rarely physically ill anymore when Feitan drags you to the basement and makes you watch him torture people. For information, or for fun, or sometimes both in equal measure. Emotionally, mentally, socially, psychologically ill is another thing entirely…
But here, now, in the quiet upstairs bathroom, the sight of your period blood smeared on your underwear has you ready to hurl. Your guts seize together and you wonder how quickly you’d be able to clean the toilet, should vomit make its way out of your throat.
Your period is… back.
It’s been a while. A few months. Stress had stolen it away, and you hadn’t thought much about it. You remembered when your dad died years ago--you hadn’t gotten your period for maybe 4 months, then. So it was no wonder that being kidnapped by some crazed serial killer who could turn his nails into knives seemingly at whim might throw your body’s organic clock all out of sorts.
But here, now, in the same damned quiet upstairs bathroom where you sometimes retreat to cry into towels, it’s back.
What are you supposed to do?
Your first thought was to search the bathroom for period supplies, but of course, there were none. Not a single pad or tampon.
(The sick thought occurs to you: even if one of Feitan’s victims survived long enough to get their period, it’s not like he’d be letting them take a break to put on a pad...)
No pads. No tampons. Certainly nothing as innovative as a cup.
So you’ve made do with the old standby: folding as much toilet paper as humanly possible and sticking it in your underwear. But you know it won’t last long. It’s meant to be a temporary stopgap on the way home from work or school, or until you can run out to the shop to grab a fresh box.
You can’t just run out to the shop. You can’t go anywhere. Not even outside, not even for a minute. You’re not even meant to freely ask for things; asking for anything--some fresh vegetables, a blanket that’s actually warm, new underwear--is a grueling, draining task that you often prep days in advance.
And he doesn’t always say yes.
And this? This? No. There’s no way. You are not going to waltz up to your kidnapper and tell him that you’ve started something so personal and intimate. Humiliation doesn’t begin to describe the act. You want to fold up like a piece of paper and blow into the wind whenever you recall the conversation you were forced to have regarding new underwear made from 100% cotton--
Why? He’d asked. And you’d said it was more comfortable. He snorted. And you were worried that he might not think it was important, so you had to explain that your body reacted poorly to anything less than 100% cotton. And he’d asked, simply: What do you mean? And you’d had to actually explain, voice mumbled and face blazing hot from shame, that you get irritated down there by other fabrics.
You can’t go through that again. For heaven’s sake--you’d have to tell him what sort of supplies you’d need! Did he even know the difference between a pad and a tampon? What if he asked why you needed an overnight pad versus a normal one?
And there’s other things to consider. The dull ache in your lower stomach… he does have painkillers, but he’s only doled them out for serious things (your broken wrist, for slapping him--and the time you slipped on the stairs and hurt your back; you’re not allowed to walk up or down them on your own, anymore).
A heating pad would be nice. And a body pillow to put between your legs and curl up with. But to get them, you’ll have to ask Feitan. Ask him properly, the right way, at the right time.
And he’d have questions, wouldn’t he?
He’d want to know why you need a heating pad (“Because my uterus feels like it’s being clawed out, goddamn it!” would probably not fly) and who knows, maybe he’d tell you to just suck it up and you’d have to deal with the humiliation of being rejected on top of the shame of him knowing you’re bleeding from your most private of parts and--
No
No.
It’s not happening. You aren’t going to tell him, and that is that. You’ll do what you can to get through it--just a few days, that’s all, you used to have to sit through school without pain meds and heating pads and sure it sucked but you lived--and you’ll soldier on like you’ve done thus far.
You sigh, and carefully flush the proof of your period--toilet paper and blood tinged urine--down the toilet. You’ll have to be careful about where you sit, and how you sit, lest you accidentally stain the sofa or the dining room chair.
Then the thought comes to you, almost a buzz in your head--
Oh, fuck… what if it leaks on the bed when you sleep? Feitan would know. Feitan would see. You’d have to ask him for cleaning supplies or get caught dragging the sheet to the bathroom or… or…
No, that couldn’t happen. You’d do something. You’d--yes! The solution is simple. Easy as pie.
You wouldn’t still be sane without quick thinking, so you nab a few towels from the back of the bathroom closet, shove them under your shirt like you used to mimic pregnancy as a child with an overactive imagination and a tendency for dramatic imaginative play times, and prepare to scamper to your bedroom and hide them until night falls.
You’d make a barrier, that’s what you’d do. Simple, easy. Effective. And Feitan never had to know.
Feitan rarely bothered with you in the evening, anyway--he was too busy with his work.
It was a perfect plan.
--
It was not a perfect plan.
Everything was going fine. You’d draped a cardigan around your waist in the afternoon when Feitan insisted you watch a film together, although as usual he didn’t sit on the same sofa as you, and simply stared at you now and then from his vantage point on the chair. The same cardigan had come in handy at dinner.
No leaks. No stains. And you’d pushed through the pain and discomfort of your cramps, all the while practicing pretending that something you ate wasn’t sitting well with you, if Feitan had noticed.
He didn’t.
All you had to do was get to bed, make your barrier, and cover up with the blanket just in case it was one of the nights that Feitan came into your room in the middle of the night to stare at you like some sort of creepy owl. (Did he know you knew, or did he like to think you were unawares)
That’s it.
Simple enough.
Easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy.
Right?
Wrong.
Because as soon as you’d finished smoothing out the second towel on top of the sheets, Feitan walked through the doorway to your bedroom.
Where he stands, now, staring at you with a look of false passivity.
“Why,” he asks, in a voice so mild that you know it means he’s absolutely invested in an answer, “you have towels on the bed?”
You’d come up with excuses for cramps; you’d even dabbled with pretending that you’d scratched your thigh or something, if you happened to bleed onto the sofa.
Feitan never really came into your room while you prepared for bed, so the thought of an excuse here never entered your mind. And now your mind whirled for an answer, coming up blank.
“I, uh,” you say, plopping yourself down on the towel as if covering it up with your body would somehow erase his memory. “I was… cold?” You offer, not even believing an ounce of your own life.
Feitan’s expression doesn’t change.
“Why?” The question leaves room for no excuses, no lies, nothing but the truth. There’s an ‘or else’ in his tone that you don’t care to uncover.
This is sick. This is wrong. This is so unfair.
“I’monmyperiod.” You rush out the words, staring down at your thighs, cheeks so hot you’re sure the temperature in the room has raised by a few degrees.
“Slower.”
You could cry. You might, actually, you feel the pressure of tears building behind your eyes.
“I’m. on. My. Period.” The words come out behind gritted teeth.
You hear a sound you’ve never actually heard from Feitan before: a short, stuttered intake of breath. A surprised, involuntarily, clipped little noise of confusion.
It makes you look up, unable to process what you’ve just heard without seeing it. But what you see is even more confusing:
Feitan is blushing.
Oh, just a little. Just the tiniest amount of ruddiness on his cheeks. If you were one of his victims or some random person on the street, you wouldn’t notice. But you notice all of Feitan’s little expressions, the nuances of his body language. The difference between how far he raises his eyebrows at you can mean the difference between pain and mild discomfort.
So yes, you notice this slight ruddiness on his cheeks, and your brain whirs pathetically, trying to process what it means.
He sees you staring. His hand reaches up to his cheek, and he must realize it--
Because then he yanks his cowl up and turns sideways, leaning against the door frame in a nonchalant way that now seems painfully practiced.
He says nothing for a moment. Your heart thuds the entire time.
When he speaks, his voice is quiet and--you could swear--shy. Awkward. Like he doesn’t want to bring it up. It’s a strange reversal--normally you’re the one who’s left quietly murmuring.
“You need… lady things?”
Oh, this must be how you die.
It won’t be from breaking your neck on the stairs or from Feitan getting bored of you and slashing your throat. It will be from sitting on a towel-strewn bed in front of your secretly blushing captor as he asks you what type of feminine hygiene products you need.
You must not answer fast enough, because he jerks his head towards you.
“Well?”
He looks just as uncomfortable as you feel--it almost makes you feel slightly better. At least he’s not lording it over you. He’s never passed up a chance to make you feel degraded, but even this must be too much for him.
It gives you the push you need to speak, although your voice practically chokes on the words.
“Um. I need. Some pads? Over--overnight ones, because I tend to bleed a lot--” Your eyes shut for a fraction longer than normal, why did you tell him that, for fuck’s sake. “And--” Your voice cracks. “And maybe… if it’s not too much trouble, a heating pad?”
He shifts his position against the door frame. You wonder if he’s making a mental list. The thought of Feitan waltzing into some supermarket with a paper list that says “overnight pads” is too ludicrous to consider for long.
‘”Heating pad? What for?”
The sound you make can only be described as a short, painful keening groan. It’s not the cramps that hurt--it’s the humiliation.
“For cramps,” you say quickly. “Mine get really bad. They were um, pretty bad today, but--”
“Idiot.” Ah, there’s the Feitan you recognize. “Why not say something?”
The towel underneath your fingers isn’t very soft, but you scrunch the fabric up underneath them anyway. “I didn’t want... I mean… I thought that…”
And then that soft pressure behind your eyes builds from frustration, from the embarrassment, from the fact that you’re being held captive and on top of the many awful things you’ve experienced over the past however-many-months, you’re now having a discussion about your intimate period with someone who seems to delight in tormenting you.
The first sniffle is easily hidden. But not the second, or the third. And by the time your lower jaw is quivering and the tears are spilling down your cheeks, you can only lean forward and cry pathetically into your hands.
You hate this. You hate being here. You hate your period, you hate Feitan, you hate the fact that you can’t just go into the bathroom and slap a pad on your underwear. You hate this bed and these towels and the clothes you’re wearing. You hate everything.
“Fine.”
His clipped, sudden word doesn’t make you stop crying. But it does give you a pause, and you swallow down against your tight throat and look at him through sniffling tears. “Huh?”
“I get you heating pad.” He flicks his hand at you, like he’s shooing away an annoying pet dog. “Go to bed. You need more sleep now.”
You do stop crying then, if only because your brain isn’t sure how else to react. Your mouth hangs open a little as you curl up on the bed--a nap would be nice--and grab an extra pillow to shove against your stomach.
Feitan, for his part, snorts and leaves your doorway. You expect him to go into the basement, but instead you hear him putting on his boots, grabbing things from the foyer. He’s going out? Now?
All the while, he’s mumbling to himself. You only catch a few of the words--women, hormones among them--before he leaves. The door’s lock seems louder than ever and you clutch the pillow harder.
Later, you’re yanked out of a fuzzy dream when something both soft and hard lands with a thunk against your head, and your bedroom light is flicked on.
It takes you a few moments to get your bearings.
There’s something draped against you. You blink and hold it up. It’s a heating pad, the plug-in kind with a remote control and everything.
Feitan is standing in your doorway, holding a large sack.
When he sees that you’re at least vaguely awake and aware, he turns it over and dumps the contents on the floor. It’s about 20 boxes of overnight pads--a few different brands. He must have stolen half the shelf.
He regards you with a pleased expression that’s only half-hidden by his cowl. But you’d know his expression of self-serving pride at a job well done anywhere; you’ve seen it enough times when he’s tortured information out of someone.
“Well? This enough for the month?”
The choked sound that comes out of your throat might have had a laugh in it somewhere, but you hope he doesn’t hear it. You get the sense that laughing about this would actually bother him more than anything you’ve done lately.
So instead you nod, slowly, and unfold the heating pad so that you can plug it in somewhere. Since you’ll probably be up for a while, it would be okay to ease your cramps a bit before morning.
But when you look up… Feitan is still there, standing in the doorway.
He looks expectant, like you’ve forgotten something you’re supposed to do, but what--
Oh.
“Thank you, Feitan,” you murmur, swallowing hard, staring down at your lap as the sleep-induced grogginess begins to fade away from your brain.
He hums, then looks down at the pile of boxes he dumped on the floor.
“Put these away. Don’t want you tripping on them. Clumsy.”
For once, you don’t mind the insult.
It’s better to be back on familiar territory.
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