#Yoshikagekiratag

[jabberwalky-talky]

stepdad kira....flashing cawk...while he pissin wif da door open....I just like the idea of him being a lil startled and tryna make it out like you did it on purpose...

cw: (Pseudo Incest, Urine, Implied Underage)

This man is a deranged variety of exhibitionist. Like a parasite, he's wormed his way into your life and latched on in every respectable fashion, leeching and sucking dry the once privileged status of your privacy. Initially, you hadn't had high hopes for a new man coming into the family.

Kira had smashed those expectations into the ground, grinded his shoe into them, and spat on what brittle remnants remained.

He'd come into your life and turned it upside down without a shred of remorse, all the while winning the adoration and praises of your mother, who couldn't see past his painfully boring and unsettlingly pristine exterior. A curfew was enforced, your grades were checked ad nauseam, and a disturbingly pleasant tradition of a family dinner each night came to be.

Making six figures and driving a posh work car and versed in literature, Yoshikage Kira had a hard time drawing suspicion to him from anyone save for his stepchild. Chalk it up to bitter teen angst and a lack of trust or a case of jealousy, either way it was blaringly obvious he was hiding something to you.

Your mother, didn't think so, unfortunately. Perhaps only you were privy to the strange glint in his eye whenever he'd leer under his lashes after asking you what you thought of the latest recipe he's made for dinner. You come to find it takes a ridiculous amount of self restraint not to storm off from whatever the Hell this is - His mere presence has you shuddering under a Truman show uncanniness, as if every work out of his mouth is overly measured.

Perhaps you get to a breaking point after an overly gently reprimanding for some minor disobedience. You're under the impression your boundaries have been impeded upon by the intruder in your own home. Insomnia plagues once comfortable nights, your mind always awaiting his nightly check in to ensure you've really turned your lights off this time. If you hear the low lull of his voice one more time, you think you will tear the hair right off your scalp.

Catching dirt on this man is no easy task given how his rigid schedule involves a lot of downtime when off work consisting of meditation and stretching and surprisingly rigorous exercise. He's constantly hyperaware of his surroundings, no doubt catlike in his mannerisms, and he's got the unnerving ability to walk near silently. He hadn't thought you'd be the type to ditch school early, unaware of just how deep this little grudge of yours ran. You hadn't even unlocked the door- you'd crawled through the window, armed with the flip phone you'd bought from the mall without his knowledge. The house was in pristine condition as always, crisp and spotless ever since Kira had anything to say about it. Down the hall, the master bedroom door is open, and you can hear the too quiet shuffling of his clothes. You presume he’s getting ready to shower after his afternoon work out and had no good reason to shut the door if he was under the impression he was home alone.  You’re creeping as silently as you possibly can... maybe you’ll catch a smear of lipstick on his shirt collar, you’ll find a cigarette in his pocket- anything to imply that this man is anything less than robotically sterile. Though your heart is racing and pounding nigh in your throat, you’re suddenly hit by the sound of a gentle streaming- liquid hitting stagnant liquid. The finger over the record button falters- you can’t press it, you can’t force yourself to, not when you’re wide eyed watching your step father relive himself with his disturbingly impressive prick. 

Maybe that’s why mom likes him.  He sighs, lashes fluttering as he pisses, the steady flow a healthy pale yellow with a single hand to guide its direction. It shouldn’t be such a mesmerizing sight, his boxers pulled down, shirt just the slightest bit damp and his bangs clinging to his forehead, looking so utterly blissed out.  The second he’s done wiping himself and tucking his cock away, your eyes meet and the color drains from both of your faces. Seemingly, time slows, and you didn’t have a split second to even wipe your watering jaws, only dropping the phone and going to make a break for it when you’re snatched up by the wrist, his palm still warm.  He’s about to shove an accusatory finger in your face, pupils small, only to be interrupted-

“You didn’t wash your hands.”