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glowettee · 16 days ago

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the real secret to self-improvement no one talks about

hi lovelies, it's mindy

self-improvement isn’t just about perfect morning routines or buying cute stationery. while those things are fun, they’re only surface-level. real self-improvement goes deeper. it’s about creating meaningful, lasting change in your life. if you’re tired of the same recycled advice and want to level up in a way that sticks, this post is for you.

✨ 1. repair before you upgrade

you can’t build a glow-up on a broken foundation. most people dive straight into new habits and routines without addressing the things holding them back. maybe it’s overthinking, procrastination, or negative self-talk. whatever it is, fixing those cracks first will make everything else easier.

actionable tip: spend time journaling or reflecting on the things that sabotage your progress. ask yourself:

what’s draining my energy?

what beliefs are holding me back?

what habits do I need to stop?

self-awareness is the first step to meaningful change.

✨ 2. curate your inner aesthetic

we talk so much about physical aesthetics; outfits, skincare, room decor. but what about your mental aesthetic? your inner world is just as important as what’s on the outside.

ask yourself: is my mind calm and confident, or is it cluttered with negativity and self-doubt? start curating your mental space like you’d curate your pinterest boards.

unfollow people who drain you.

limit scrolling and spend time doing things that actually bring you joy.

romanticize stillness, it doesn't matter if it’s taking a slow walk, reading, or just lying in bed and thinking about life.

actionable tip: create a mental vision board. write down three feelings you want to embody (e.g., peace, gratitude, confidence) and focus on habits that help you get there.

✨ 3. think small to go big

one of the biggest mistakes in self-improvement is focusing on huge, intimidating goals. instead, start with micro-challenges, small, manageable steps that feel fun and doable.

for example:

instead of aiming to wake up at 5 a.m., try waking up 15 minutes earlier for a week.

don’t overhaul your diet overnight; start by drinking one extra glass of water daily.

tiny wins build momentum, and that momentum keeps you going.

actionable tip: pick one micro-challenge to start this week. it could be as simple as organizing your desk or texting a friend you’ve been meaning to reconnect with. small changes lead to big transformations.

✨ 4. audit your environment

your environment shapes your energy. if your space is cluttered, your mind will feel the same. start by decluttering one area of your life.

but don’t stop at physical spaces. think about the people you surround yourself with too. are they uplifting and inspiring, or are they draining your energy? leveling up sometimes means letting go of what doesn’t align with your future self.

actionable tip: dedicate one day this week to an “environment refresh.” declutter one physical space and evaluate one relationship. ask yourself: does this align with the person i want to become?

✨ 5. embrace your soft power

self-improvement doesn’t have to be intense or overwhelming. there’s strength in soft, intentional growth. it’s not about becoming someone else; it’s about becoming the best version of you.

romanticize your growth. make it feel special:

play calming music while you clean your room.

use a pretty notebook for your to-do lists.

light a candle before you start studying.

the more enjoyable your journey feels, the more likely you are to stick with it.

actionable tip: turn self-improvement into a ritual. add little touches that make the process feel fun and cozy, like wearing your favorite outfit while journaling or drinking tea while planning your week.

✨ key takeaways

real self-improvement isn’t about quick fixes or following trends. it’s about improving yourself in small steps that align with YOUR path.

hopefully this post helped you all

<3 mindy.

#selfimprovement #glowup #personaldevelopment #mentalhealth #productivity #selfcare #romanticizeyourlife #girlblogger #self improvement #life improvement #best self #dream girl #girl blogger #that girl #becoming that girl #glowettee

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fluff-n-cookies · 1 year ago

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I love your soft platonic yanderes! I was wondering- how would Overhaul react with a queer child?-

Heyyy

thank you! I'd be happy to write this. Btw your art looks awesome! I like your oc's too! do they have a description? love to read it!

and in my mind he's kind of like Adrian Monk but a thousand times bitchier and I made them headcanons since we can cover more ground this way. as always fem reader in mind.

TW- use of Y/n and soft yandere tendencies

Overhaul genuinely does not give a fuck.

that's it.

we're done.

This man's whole existence is dedicated to keeping you alive

no where in the contract does it say he has to keep you mentally sane.

because in his eyes you are simply a child. now and forever. he needs to keep you clean, very clean, keep you healthy, and make it so you know the basics of being a human, be polite to him and others most of the time, and take care of yourself.

because with Overhaul he simply wants to keep you safe and healthy since you matter to him and he refuses to have his dear Y/n be tainted by the cruel world he grew up in.

mind you that he did not grow up in a world made mostly out of those who are queer.

so when you feel comfortable enough to come out him it goes something like this.

Y/n : "overahaul,

*deep breath of how the hell am I going to say this*

I'm queer!"

*preps to be yelled at.* (girl Idk, my friends just assume I'm gay.)

and Overhaul's immediate reaction is to fell back all the way back in his chair and yell

"IS IT CONTAGIOUS?!?!?!?!"

as he scrambles for the hand sanitizer and the medical masks because he genuinely thinks it's a disease.

chrollo has to step in and explain to him what it is so he doesn't end up hospitalizing you.

once he comes to terms that you are in fact, perfectly healthy and have simply peculiar taste in things and are different from what many people would consider normal.

he'll simply go on with life.

as in he still takes care you, talks to you as normal,does his regular kooky man with a OCD problem things.

now one may think he doesn't care but they would do so, so, so wrong.

he just thinks it's as normal as having dyed hair or liking cats more than dogs or taking medication that's liquid over pills.

just another thing that adds to how special and unique you are.

every now and then he'll get you a little pride flag or pin (sanitized ofc) but that's as much as he'll do unless you ask for it.

because to him,

your amazing and unique and ever so incredible and is willing to love you no matter what you are.

unless it's not human and/or is a hero then fuck you.

hope this is what you wanted now byyyeee

#yandere mha #yandere bnha #soft yandere #soft yandere x reader #child reader #daughter reader #teen reader #overhaul x daughter reader #yandere kai chisaki #yandere kai #yandere overhaul x reader #yandere overhaul #kai chisaki #kai chisaki x reader #platonic yandere overhaul

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after-witch · 6 months ago

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The Morning After [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Title: The Morning After [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Synopsis: You wake up in a room you’ve never been in to the sight of a man you’ve never met.

Word count: 3500ish

Notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, degradation, drugging

Memory and time and the world itself are fuzzy, gray things as you wake up. Before the abrupt, awful, heavy awakening, there was nothing--just a dull blackness where you did not exist.

Yet there’s a dim sense as the world returns to you, as your heavy eyes struggle to open, that you are, indeed, alive.

Alive and a person, you remember that, too. Alive and a person and... somewhere. You must exist somewhere, that is a basic tenant of existence, isn’t it? But as your eyes finally open and the world above you is stark white, too bright, you can’t quite remember where somewhere is.

Underneath your head, there is a body. That, too, feels heavy. So you flex it, or at least you try. Your fingers feel like fuzzy sticks but perhaps they are moving when you try to curl your hands. The fuzziness extends all the way through your body, like you’ve rolled around in pins and needles and have yet to shake them off.

Breathing--you’re breathing, too. That is a sign that you are alive, that you have returned to the world. Even if your mouth feels dry and sticky, and there is an awful taste in it. You open and close and it almost hurts; there’s a vaguely wet smacking sound, and the awful taste is amplified by the trace spit that registers against your tongue.

Your head hurts. Your neck, too--specifically one point. There’s an instinctive desire to reach for that point, and your arms obey, feeling like heavy lead, until your hand slaps against it. Why does it hurt like that?

It’s a small point of pain, like someone had stuck a needle into your--

And there. There. It all comes flooding back to you. Your name, your life, your world, the moments before it all went dark.

You worked the day it all went dark. It was an ordinary day of work, a bit stressful, with moments of reprieve. Your lunch had been soup and rice and a treat: blue raspberry soda from the vending machine. After work, you went grocery shopping--you needed something for dinner--and returned home to your apartment. You remember the sound of the key turning in the door, the surprise that there was a light on in your kitchen--hadn’t you turned it off that morning?--and then… and then…

The pain, in your neck. That small point. An awful prickling, like being stung by a bee. Only there was no time to swat it away, and you fell into darkness, the bags of groceries hitting the floor before you did.

That was… however long ago. How long had the world been gone? A few hours? A day? Days?

With the returned sense of self, your body seems to want to catch up with your mind, and the sense of buzzing heaviness fades away enough for you to push yourself up onto your elbows. The material underneath you is soft: a bed, a mattress, with plain white cotton sheets.

You’re in a bed. In a bed, in a room with plain white walls. There is sparse furniture: two wooden dressers, a table, two chairs. There looks to be a folding door--a closet?--and two more doors, besides.

Are you in a hospital? Did you pass out, and some kindly neighbor heard the thunk-thunk-thunk of your body and bags falling to the ground, then called for emergency services? It would explain the sparse room, although there’s no IV in your arm, no machines monitoring your heart rate.

It would explain, too, what you’re wearing.

You’re not wearing the clothes you fell down in. Instead, you’re wearing a cotton nightgown, made from a thick but relatively soft material. There is lace on the collar, which is strange (but not impossible, your mind reminds you) for a hospital. Still. It makes sense. You pry away a thin comforter with still fuzzy hands and see that your shoes are gone; your feet are clad in only soft white socks. That, too, makes sense. You wouldn’t be put in a hospital bed with work shoes. That would be silly, and silly things did not belong in hospitals--which must be where you are.

Even though there are no IVs hooked into your arm, and no machines monitoring your heart and blood pressure and many more things, besides. Even though this appears to be some private suite, and you were sure that no hospital would put someone who fainted into a fancy room like this. You weren’t wealthy or notable, just a nobody who lived in a mediocre apartment and had a mediocre job and--

The door opens, and a doctor walks in. Or he must be a doctor, because who else would walk in wearing a tailored black suit and a face mask, if you had woken up in a hospital? Which must be where you were--despite all the confusion, and the strange details, and the fact that you had neither the wealth or status to be in a private room like this.

He stops when he sees that you’re sitting up. He must be surprised to see you awake, or perhaps he’s looking you over for signs of continued injury, because the way he stares is a bit unnerving.

You want to ask where you are, and what happened, and if anyone called your emergency contact. But your head still feels heavy, a little cottony, and all that comes out is--

“Um.” The word comes out all dry and croaked, and you’re suddenly aware of your dry, parched throat.

“I’ll get you water,” the mystery doctor says. He has dark hair and his voice is low, almost neutral. Well, it would be, wouldn’t it? Doctors probably had to practice speaking like that; like nothing was wrong, even if you’d clearly had some awful medical episode that required some sort of specialized care with a private room.

He steps away from the door he entered--locks it, too, and isn’t that strange?--and walks to the only other door in your suite. When it opens, you realize it’s a bathroom. Just as white and sterile-looking as the main area. There’s a squeak of a tap being turned on, and a rush of water, and before long he walks up to you.

Your heavy hands move forward to take the glass, but he takes one look at the trembling and tsks.

“I’ll hold it,” he says. The thought makes your stomach squirm but, he would know best, wouldn’t he?

So you don’t protest when he raises the glass lid to your lips, and tips it back so you can take a drink. He doesn’t hold it there for long. Just long enough for your throat to feel soothed and damped. Then the glass goes away, and he sets it down on the nearby table before grabbing a chair and placing it near the bed.

He sits.

You stare.

Shouldn’t he be taking your vitals, or something? The thought comes softly. He’s not like any doctor you’ve ever seen. And this is not like any hospital room you’ve ever been in; even a private suite should have… something, right? An IV bag trailing into your arm, a heart rate monitor in case something went wrong.

The sense of wrongness hangs in the air as he begins to speak.

“I’m glad you’re awake. I had to guess at your body weight, so I wasn’t sure if I had the correct dosage.”

Your brain feels heavy as you ask--

“The correct dosage…” Dosage, of what? “You mean, medicine?”

He blinks impassively at you. Then there are wrinkles around his eyes, like he might be smiling.

“The sedative.”

The sedative? The sedative--

Memories come back slow, unwillingly, like dragging your feet through heavy gray slush in the winter.

When you opened your apartment door, the kitchen light was on. The kitchen light was on and when you turned, there was something; no, not something. Someone. A man with no mouth--a mask--and cold eyes and there was a glint of silver before it plunged right into your neck.

This wasn’t a hospital.

The man in front of you wasn’t a doctor.

If you had been hooked up to a heart monitor, it would have no doubt gone haywire in the next moments, as you forced your leaden body to shove back against the wall, your trembling legs getting stuck on the cotton sheets of the bed. There was nowhere to go; the bed was pushed up against the wall and he blocked the only exit.

“You--you--” The words come out stuttered and tingling, like they aren’t even coming out of your mouth. “You kidnapped me.”

He eyes your sudden skittering with nothing more than a moment of raised eyebrows.

“I acquired you,” he corrects, as if that was a correction to be made at all. “To keep you safe. To keep you away from the filth.”

His words barely register as your breathing speeds up. You’ve been kidnapped. Kidnapped and redressed and taken to some bizarre room by someone who was clearly out of his mind. So you do the only thing you can think to do in an awful situation like this: you bargain.

“Please,” you say, and the dryness in your throat comes back and makes your words crack. “Please let me go. I won’t tell anyone. If--if it’s money you want, I don’t have much, but I can--”

He raises a gloved hand.

“Please, this has nothing to do with money. I won’t be letting you go.”

You shake your head, like that matters.

“Who are you?” You ask, not sure if you really want to know.

The lines around his eyes crinkle again.

“Chisaki Kai. That’s what you may call me, anyway.” He sighs, a soft, almost imperceptible sound. “Very few have the privilege of doing that, you know.”

You’d rather have your freedom than this thing he calls a privilege, but you don’t have the wordpower to voice that particular thought.

Your fingers cling to the only thing they can: the cotton sheets underneath you. Tighter and tighter, until they almost feel like they’ll cramp up.

“Why did you bring me here?” There are tears in your eyes now, and you can see his gaze begin to follow them as they trickle down your cheeks.

“To protect you,” is all he offers, before slapping his thighs and standing up. “Now, it’s time to get up.”

A million awful scenarios rush through your head at once, leaving you feeling sick. What is he going to do to you? Is he going to hurt you? Kill you? Are you just one in a long line of people he’s brought to this room, all drugged and hazy, before he kills them and does who knows what with the bodies?

You shake your head.

He tsks from behind the mask. There are no crinkles around his eyes, now.

“Get up,” he orders. Softly, yes, but there’s a finality and firmness to his tone that makes your wobbly legs push towards the end of the bed as if you were an automaton.

“Why?” You squeak out. If he’s going to kill you, will he tell you, first?

He turns around and repositions the chair so that it’s back at the table, and pulls out the second. His hands hover around you as he guides you on jelly-like legs to sit down.

“It’s time for breakfast.” A simple answer, like you had met him on the street and asked the time. Like he didn’t just admit to drugging you and kidnapping you.

“I’m not hungry,” comes the automatic answer. You’re not. Your stomach feels empty, but it’s wrenched; from fear and stress and gallons of adrenaline.

“You will eat breakfast,” he says, just as automatically. “You will eat everything on your plate, as well. I’ve calculated out the perfect nutrition for your needs.” There’s a bit of a smile to his voice, even though it doesn’t seem to reach his eyes.

The wooziness in your body, the fresh horror creeping from your skull down to your toes, keeps you rooted to the chair while he briefly leaves. When he returns, he’s carrying a tray--it reminds you of a hospital tray, despite everything--with a modest amount of bland, healthy looking food on it.

Your stomach turns.

The rest of your day comes in awful little vignettes, all blurry black around the edges, only becoming clearer when he explains the rules to you. It’s an awful form of clarity.

He doesn’t call them “the rules,” but that’s what they’re meant to be, certainly. He lays them out so simply, almost sickly sweet. Like you’ve been brought to some boarding school and are getting shown the ropes.

The thought of ropes makes you feel sick. But he hasn’t tied you up, and that’s some small relief.

Or it would be, if it weren’t for the rest of those black-rimmed vignettes that fill up your day.

When he picks out an outfit--a simple dress, a pair of clean underwear, and soft socks--and turns around, telling you to get changed. He won’t look, as long as you behave; as long as you don’t make a fuss.

When he shows you the dresser, the closet, the bathroom, the empty shelves. Tells you that if you behave, you’ll get rewarded; with books and paper and pencils. That the better you are, the happier you’ll be here, he says. Like you had any control over the situation at all.

When he makes you eat lunch and tells you to chew your food more slowly, more thoroughly. It helps with digestion, he says. You’ll get an upset stomach otherwise. As if you aren’t fighting the urge to gag with every bite you take--as if the reason you’re feeling queasy isn’t sitting in front of you with a mask on his face.

When you tell him, teary eyed, that you want to go home and burst into sobs but he merely waits until your hiccuping shoulders have ceased to move and tells you: “This is your home now. I’ll take care of you. Crying is only going to work you into hysterics.”

When you refuse to eat dinner--your first act of rebellion, such as it is--and he simply sighs, leans back, and tells you that if you refuse to eat, you will go to the clinic and be fed through an IV.

“Would you like that?” Honey drips bitterly from each word.

You would, in fact, not like that.

The spoon trembles when you lift it, but the soup goes inside your mouth, all the same.

“But why do you have to watch me?” The words come out dry and scratched. If you were home, you would brew yourself a cup of tea and drizzle in a modest amount of honey for good measure. You, however, are far from home.

“It’s my job to look after you.” Even if he wasn’t wearing the mask, you’d have no idea what he looks like right now, because you can only manage to stare at the tiles on the bathroom floor. Below you are your bare feet, feeling shakier than ever; above, your cheeks are burning so hot it almost hurts.

“You don’t have to… I’ve always--what I mean is--I can do this myself,” is what you manage, fists clenching at the soft fabric of your dress. It felt flimsy enough all day--how much flimsier, then, if you were to pull it over your head and let him see you bared?

“I’m sure you think that.” There’s something like a smile in his voice, and it’s a smile you hope to never see. “But the reason you’re here is that you can't take care of yourself. Now,” he says, with an air of finality. “Remove your clothing and step into the tub.”

There’s no room for argument. No room for pleading, no room to change his mind. There’s only one thing that you can do to end the situation, and that's to do exactly what he wants: take off your dress, your underwear, even your white padded socks, and sit in the clear water while he stares at your naked body.

“I’ll turn around while you get undressed.”

It’s a wonder that you don’t burst out laughing.

Instead, you fight back tears and look up, staring at the still back of the man who has turned your world into a frizzy, confusing mess in a matter of 24 hours.

Despite the warmth of the water steaming up the room, you shiver. Your heart might as well be in your ears, for how well you can hear it pounding. That haziness from the morning returns, a sort of numbness as your fingers clench the fabric of the dress and you pull up, up, up, slipping it over your head and dropping it on the floor.

The underwear takes longer to remove. So long that you worry he’ll turn around, and that’s what finally has you yanking the fabric down, has you stepping out of them and then--like an automaton cranked too tightly--rushing to step into the tub.

Water splashes around you as you settle, pulling your knees up to cover what you can.

He turns around and, of all things, kneels next to the tub. If he touches you--if he reaches for the sponge and tries to wash you--you think you’ll scream.

But his hands stay where they are, resting on his knee.

You look at his hands, and not his face. There’s nothing you want to see less than his eyes right now.

“Most people don’t know how to bathe properly,” he tells you, as if instructing you on something of high importance. And it probably is, to him. You can sense the beginning of some long speech, a list of things you must do in the bath, just as he gave you a list of things you must do when dressing, when eating, when everything.

“I know how to wash myself,” you mumble, feeling hot around the ears.

He doesn’t bother acknowledging you, and a further rush of shame flushes through your chest and threatens to jump out and migrate to the wobbling knees pressed against it.

Instead, he points--you follow his hands, still unable to look anywhere else--to a line of cloths and brushes hanging from hooks on the wall of the tub.

“They’re color-coded,” he offers, almost cheery. “Pink is for the initial scrubbing, to slough away the initial dirt and dead skin. Blue is for cleansing with antibacterial soap. Purple is for rinsing.” His fingers tap the brushes. “The same for the brushes, for your back.”

There’s a moment where you think he might actually grab the cloth and wash you, but thankfully, his hands return to their former position.

A moment more--two or three, at least--and he clears his throat.

“Start with your legs. Most people do not scrub their legs well enough, and it leads to an excess amount of dead skin.” There’s a bit of distaste in his voice at the mention of dead skin. Your thoughts go to the gloves on his hands, the mask, the insistence on making sure you get clean enough in this tub of his.

You grab the pink cloth. Dip it in the hot water, and start scrubbing at your knee.

He clears his throat again, and your stomach drops.

“Put your legs down. Scrub under the water, so the dead skin doesn’t accumulate on the cloth.”

No. No. No-no-no-no-no. It’s what you want to say, a simple word, a clear word.

But the word is stuck in your mouth, and you’re left with nothing to do but let your knee slide down, one, then the other.

He can see you. He can see you.

The thought makes the held-up tears finally come, bubbling out like soap. Something childish in you glances at him, then, hoping for pity--for disturbance, for him to wonder if perhaps he’s doing the right thing.

But the only thing you see in his eyes is a flash of impatience.

“If you take too long,” he says, over your sniffles, “the water will not be hot enough to disinfect. We’ll have to start over, at that point.” Start over and--would he want to take over, fed up with your clear incompetence?

And so you get back to work, the colored-coded cloth scraping at your skin, and you can only hope you’re doing it well enough to avoid dragging out the bath any longer than possible.

“Don’t forget behind your knees,” he murmurs. Despite not looking at him, you can feel his eyes on you. Watching. Assessing.

And that’s what he does: assess. Because the comments don’t stop, even as you move on to cleansing and rinsing and everything else he’s ordering you to do.

Wash this. Scrub that. Do it gently, do it harder. Use this soap and only one pump--don’t wash your hair like that, it causes breakage--let me test the water to make sure it’s hot enough.

That night, on clean sheets, in a clean nightgown, with a clean body, you cry yourself to sleep.

And in the morning, when you wake up, you’re still here.

And Overhaul still comes in through the door, breakfast tray in hand, a smile hidden behind his mask.

#yandere overhaul #yandere kai chisaki #yandere bnha #yandere mha #yandere #afterwitch writes

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dabiekql · 10 months ago

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Recommendation - Jujutsu Kaisen/Haikyuu/Boku no Hero Academia/One Punch Man/Attack on Titan/Tokyo Revengers

Navigation

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🔮 Jujutsu Kaisen

Singledad! Sukuna x Neighbour! Reader

Sukuna - affaire de cœur

Sukuna - How Sukuna Loves

Sukuna - Having Soft Spot on Concubine Reader (NSFW)

Sukuna - Sukuna & His Love Languages

Sukuna - What If He Lost Someone

Yuta - Cursed Spirit (NSFW)

Gojo - Won't You Say It Back?

Gojo - Wanna Be Yours

Geto - Wings

Geto - We're In Trouble Now

Geto - Sorcery Schemes

Megumi, Itadori, Sukuna, Geto - When They Accidentally Yell at You

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🏐 Haikyuu

Ushijima - Story Time

Kageyama - Communication (Omegaverse)

Alpha! Kuroo - Come See Me

Alpha! Kuroo - Please Don't Let Me Go

Oikawa, Iwaizumi - Let Me Help You (Omegaverse) / Oikawa, Matsukawa, Hanamaki

Bokuto, Ushijima - Back Me Up (Omegaverse)

Sugawara, Ushijima - Time Bomb

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💥 Boku No Hero Academia

Bakugou - One Word to Describe Bakugou

Yandere Barbarian! Bakugou - Iron

Alpha Dragon! Bakugo x Thief Omega! Reader

Pro Hero! Bakugou Katsuki x Female! Reader

Overhaul - When Kai Wakes Up in Another Universe

Overhaul - Wedding Day

Hawks - Courting Troubles

Alpha! Dabi x Omega! Reader

Alpha! Tamaki Amakiji x Omega! Reader

Dabi, Shigaraki - He Tells You to Run During His Fight and You Get Lost

Hawks, Overhaul, Dabi - How the Boys React to You Doing the Break Up and Get Back to Your Ex Thing

Omegaverse - Anything from this Author is Great

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👊 One Punch Man

Yandere! Garou - Turning the Tables

Yandere! Garou - Please Don't Save Me

Yandere! Garou - Child's Play (NSFW)

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🔰 Attack on Titan

Levi - The Perfect Blend

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🏍️ Tokyo Revengers

Chifuyu, Mikey, Mitsuya, Baji, Izana - Mythological AU! #2 Omegaverse

2K notes · View notes

isabeauwolf · 9 months ago

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Anytime I think of soft Overhaul, my mind immediately goes to Sasaki! He's already blunt and forward, but he would be a awkward shy dork.

It's not just me, is is?

Plus, Kellen Goff voices both in the dubbed. This man deserves more credit and love just like our favorite anime guys.

God, we need more soft Overhaul. True, our birdman is a very prideful man and hates to show any kind of weakness, which is a huge disadvantage for a Yakuza Boss. He's still human and I'm certain would be a big ol' softie behind closed doors with his special person and lover. On top, of him wanting to hog all of your attention, hugs, kisses and cuddles.

Kai would smile more, playful and teasing. Thinking his partners blush and flustered expressions are adorable. Lightly run his soft and glove free hands over every inch of their body with feathery light touches.

Our antisocial baby is sooo touch-starved for love and attention as his sweet and gentle kisses become more desperate, demanding and needy. Putting all of his overwhelmed feelings into it. Breaking away for air to press his forehead again theirs.

As lust and desires makes itself present, he doesn't want to ruin the moment. He wants to treasure this feeling of warmth, adoration and pure love he sees in his angel's gaze, in his room, in his bed, their own sanctuary from the rest of the world.

He's addicted and love-drunk, he's with the only person he never wants to let go and be with forever.

His angel, too pure for this wicked and cruel world. His special one to protect.

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ataraxiaspainting · 6 months ago

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The Floor is Breathing.

Yan Overhaul x F Reader.

Synopsis: You feel like both the witness and the victim in an uncommitted crime.

Warnings: Yandere themes, kidnapping, manipulation, stalking/non-consensual recording, mentions of binge eating, and some infantilization.

Word Count: 1k.

*~*~*~*

You can swear that these white walls blink.

Something, somewhere here, has eyes that look you up and down – you feel its breath on the back of your neck when you fall asleep facing a wall, the only decorated wall you have ever seen in this facility, actually.

You’re not crazy. You have to remind yourself day in and day out of that fact, but you’re not crazy; you know another living being is in here with you, watching attentively.

Overhaul – no, “Kai” is what he forces you to call him now, says that there are no cameras in your room, but your gut screams otherwise.

You asked if he was sure, once, two days or four days, or six days ago – it should still be recent as you did not feel as isolated as you do now – and he responded by saying if he really wanted to keep a closer eye on you, he would just become your new roommate.

You’re unsure as to if that was a threat. He seemed happy when those words came out of his masked mouth, so perhaps it was just some unfunny gest. He made those sometimes, especially when he tries to coax you into taking vitamins every mealtime. Those jokes were as dull as the light brown and white pills piled up in a little cup meant for dipping sauces. Perhaps it was repurposed or Kai had ordered some from somewhere or he has some restaurant under his control somewhere.

Somewhere so dirty and filled with sugar and oils and artificial coloring. You’d die for just a sniff of pizza being served at an all-you-can-eat buffet or deep-fried cakes being served at a pop-up carnival. If health inspectors didn’t approve of such spots, or at the very most give them a C rating, then Kai wouldn’t go within two blocks of them. Much less let you. You’d stuff yourself to the brim like it is your last meal and compared to the boiled chicken and rice and broccoli you were given daily, chips and cookies may as well be.

A call of your name makes reality come back faster than a slap to the face – and hurts just as much.

“I asked you something, sweetheart. What do you want to do today?” Kai asks.

He didn’t seem angry or irritated as he repeated himself. His voice was still soft and the way he taps his foot against the pastel pink heart carpet reflects that. Times like these almost make you wish you were deaf. The words feel rehearsed but also feel as though they are straight from the heart like the actor was passionate enough in reciting their lines or was grossly in love with the story of the show.

“I don’t know,” Unlike Kai, you forget your script quite often – aside from that one saying.

“You don’t know?” He’s still smiling. You know it.

“No.” You murmur. He puts an elbow on the small white table, stabilizing his head with his gloved hand. “I don’t.”

“I have some ideas,” The feeling of dread makes your stomach drop. Or was it your heart? Lungs, perhaps? You don’t know how to breathe right now, after all.

“I… don’t know, Kai.”

“You said that already.”

For your sanity, you choose to look at your freshly remade bed instead of his eyes. The rabbit plush you were given on your third or so day here lays alone on top of your singular pillow. The bars surrounding the sides reminded you of a crib. You’re only allowed to put your legs over the railing when Kai comes to your room in the morning and you’re not allowed to get out by yourself; he grabs your hand to assist you.

“Do you want to know what my ideas are?”

You’re not allowed to say no to anything Kai suggests. It’s an unspoken rule, unlike the ones for your room. “Um… okay…”

“Well,” Kai begins, his other arm being laid out on the table. His palm is facing upwards and you know what that means.

Your hand moves towards his – you try your best not to flinch this time in response to his slight grip, but you fail.

Kai chooses not to notice it for now. Just a small treat for this morning’s hug.

“I was thinking we could go to my office. Just for a change of scenery.” His thumb moves back and forth across your knuckles. “We could bring your colored pencils or your book if you’d like. It’s still noon, so we have some time before your daily check-in.”

“Okay…”

*~*~*~*

You had opted for your book in the end, although you regret your choice now because two of the four walls in Kai’s office have windows, and just outside of them were uncrowded streets that lead up to small hills on either side. The hue of the grass was off – a dull brown – but considering it was about time for autumn to roll around, you didn’t judge. Not that you could, anyway.

Could you ask to go back and get your colored pencils? You attempt to dismiss the thought by imagining future possibilities. Kai seems to be working on his computer right now though, and the guards outside wouldn’t let you leave by yourself anyway.

To hell with it, you think. It’s fine. He won’t get mad.

At least… you hope so.

You walk over slowly until you are nearly touching his left shoulder. “Can I please get my colored-”

It’s you, from different angles and at different times of day – even some videos of you before you were kidnapped. They are of you sleeping, of you eating, of you looking under your bed. They are of you putting on socks, of you microwaving dinner after a long workday, of you talking on the phone with friends for hours. They are long and short – you can see some of them even repeat. Oh fuck. Is there a camera in this room too, or-

Before you can continue analyzing, Kai slams his laptop shut.

“Go back to reading, sweetheart.” It’s an order – you know it from the way he does not blink and the way his arms cross. He didn’t want you to see his screen; that fact is as clear as a cloudless sky. “You can color another day, okay?”

#self indulgent friday #but on sunday #i guess????#overhaul x reader #yandere x reader #yandere #yandere overhaul #yandere overhaul x reader #kai chisaki x reader #chisaki kai x reader #yandere mha #yandere bnha #yandere mha x reader #yandere bna x reader #yandere my hero academia x reader #yandere my hero academia #yandere boku no hero academia #yandere boku no hero academia x reader #author aya

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doumadono · 16 days ago

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TEASER 𖥸 SANGREAL - chapter I 𖥸 MY HERO ACADEMIA MASTERLIST - PART II

The balcony jutted out like a jagged precipice, a sinister ledge hanging over the vast expanse of the Deadlands below. The ruins of the world stretched endlessly, their twisted remnants clawing toward the ash-choked sky as storms of soot churned violently through the wasteland. Far beyond the desolation, Musutafu — the largest of the Dregs — flickered weakly on the horizon, its faint glow barely piercing the gloom, like the final gasp of a dying ember. From this vantage point, the world looked utterly forsaken — an expanse of shadows and echoes, hollow and forgotten, a graveyard of what once was.

You hadn’t wanted to follow Shigaraki here, but you hadn’t been given a choice. His hand lingered on the small of your back, cold and commanding, a silent threat that pushed you forward through the dim, sprawling halls of the Sangreal’s fortress. When the heavy doors to the balcony creaked shut behind you, the chill of the open air hit you like a knife, cutting through the thin, half-translucent black dress his maids had forced you into.

You’d seen the hollow emptiness in those women’s eyes — undoubtedly human, their bodies trembling, their fragile minds dulled by the narcotics Overhaul pumped into their veins, rendering them docile and compliant for Shigaraki’s every whim. They moved like puppets on broken strings, their pale faces devoid of anything human. You’d heard the whispers, the sickening truths that once Shigaraki grew bored of them, they would become his feast. Their blood drained to the last drop, their lifeless bodies discarded without a second thought. And yet, even through their dazed haze, you’d felt their pity as they tied the ribbons around your waist and adjusted the lace at your shoulders.

His dark cloak billowed slightly in the ashen wind, revealing the jagged edges of his form. His shoulders were sharp, his pale skin stretched too tight over his bones, and his crimson eyes burned like dying coals in a face that was almost too hollow to be alive. He stopped at the railing, the cracked stone pressing against his palms, and tilted his head toward the horizon as if presenting a masterpiece only he could understand.

“This,” he rasped, his voice scraping like gravel against the silence, “is the world your kind left behind. All of it. Rotting. Forgotten.” His head turned slightly, just enough for you to catch the flicker of a smile — sharp, jagged, and devoid of warmth. “Tell me, doesn’t it make you wonder? What would it take to fix it?”

When you didn’t immediately move, he turned to you, his lips curling in a dangerous smirk. His hand reached out, and before you could recoil, his fingers cupped your chin. He handled you with surprising care, his grip just firm enough to hold you in place. His index finger hovered, careful not to touch, an ever-present reminder of the destruction he could unleash with a single mistake. The fragility of the moment — the closeness of death itself — made your throat tighten.

“Look,” he ordered, tilting your face toward the sprawling wasteland below. His sharp nails grazed your jaw, sending a cold shiver through you.

The world stretched out before you, endless in its desolation. Twisted skeletons of buildings jutted out of the earth like ribs, the Deadlands smothered under layers of ash and soot. The faint orange glow of fires burned in Musutafu Dreg in the distance, a mocking parody of life.

“This could all change,” Tomura uttered, his voice soft but filled with an unrelenting edge. His eyes glinted with something you couldn’t name — obsession, hunger, perhaps madness. “It could all end.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

Shigaraki’s breath brushed against your ear as he whispered, “Your blood.” He said the word like it was sacred, his voice trembling with reverence and rage. “You could be the cure. The answer to everything.”

His hand tightened slightly, forcing your gaze back to him. “Do you even understand what that means? You could fix this— fix me. Fix all of it. But instead, you want to refuse me?” His tone cracked on the last word, his fury bubbling beneath the surface. The thin veneer of calm he wore threatened to splinter entirely. “I’ve offered you everything,” he continued, his voice rising. The ash-filled wind stirred, swirling around the balcony like the world itself was reacting to his anger. “Power. Protection. Purpose. And you want to throw it away? For what?” Shigaraki’s tone was venomous now, each word a lash. “A rebellion that’s already dying? A life you can’t even call your own? Or maybe—” His lips twisted into a sneer, his voice dipping into something dangerously low, “—it’s for him. The traitor who thinks he loves you.”

Your heart stuttered at the mention of Dabi, the faintest flutter betraying you, and Shigaraki saw it. Of course he did.

His smile widened, sharp and cruel. “Oh, I see it now,” he breathed, his voice like a blade sliding through silk as he leant closer, his breath ghosting over your ear. “Dabi’s embers flicker for you, don’t they? A pathetic little flame, desperately clinging to life.” His laugh was low and venomous, rattling your nerves. “Embers always die out.” He tilted your head roughly, forcing you to look out over the Deadlands below and the Dreg on the horizon. “And when his flame finally burns away,” he uttered, his voice dripping with cruel satisfaction, “this will be all that’s left. Ash. Dust. Ruin.”

His tongue darted out, dragging a slow, long stripe across your cheek. The motion was agonizingly unhurried, his breath hot against your skin.

Revulsion churned in your stomach as the slick trail of his saliva clung to your flesh, cold and sticky in its wake. The nausea rose sharp and sudden, clawing at your throat as your body recoiled from the grotesque intimacy of the gesture. You wanted to vomit, to scrub away the violation, but his presence pinned you in place, suffocating and inescapable.

You jerked your head back, trying to escape his grip, but his other hand shot forward, fingers hovering near your throat. All five of them — so dangerously close to touching your flesh — stilled you instantly.

“He’ll fail you,” Shigaraki stated matter-of-factly, his tone softening, but not with kindness. It dripped with mockery, each word a needle pressing deeper into your chest. His thumb traced the edge of your jaw as his long, pale index finger ghosted over your cheek. “Like he failed Sangreal. Like he failed me. It’s in his nature. And when he does,” the vampire prince whispered, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth, “you’ll come crawling back. Because no one else can give you what you need. Not him. Not the rebellion. Just me.”

You swallowed hard, willing your voice to stay steady. “I don’t want to be your queen, Shigaraki.”

“You don’t understand yet. But you will,” his lips twitched into a sharp, jagged grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

Before you could react, his lips collided with yours, a brutal, forceful act that left no room for tenderness. It wasn’t a kiss — it was an invasion, his sharp teeth clicking against yours as his fangs scraped along your bottom lip, slow and deliberate, until the skin gave way. A bead of blood welled up, its coppery tang mingling with the icy, metallic chill of his breath. His grip on your chin tightened, unyielding and cruel, as you stood frozen in place.

He broke the kiss abruptly, his lips pulling away with a sharp, wet sound, and you stumbled back, your knees trembling beneath you. The faint sting on your lip told you he’d drawn blood, and the way his tongue darted out to drag across his lips made your stomach churn. His crimson eyes gleamed with something feral, something unhinged, as he savored the taste.

“For the Night of Ash’s sake,” Shigaraki hissed, his voice trembling with barely-contained hunger, “your blood drives me insane.”

His hand hovered near your face for a moment, as though he were considering dragging you back into his grasp, but instead, he turned abruptly, his gaze cutting toward the horizon. The meager lights of Musutafu flickered in the distance, like dying embers fighting for survival.

“When the world tears you apart for refusing me,” the vampire prince stated, his voice dropping into a rasp that oozed malice, “you’ll understand. You’ll understand everything.”

The ash-laden wind roared again, and the faint glow of the Dreg in the distance flickered weakly as though the light itself was suffocating under Shigaraki’s rule.

Hello Everyone,

I'm excited to share a teaser for my new series, Sangreal. The story narrates the tale of vampire Dabi, who is enlisted as a Hunter in the prestigious vampire guild, Sangreal; a female protagonist whose unique blood is the world's sole hope following the catastrophic Night of Ash; Aizawa's insurrection against a tyrannical vampire regime, and the rise of vampire prince Shigaraki - a powerful vampire created by AFO's virus that annihilated humanity.

The series will incorporate a blend of horror and thriller elements, along with some smut and plenty of dark content. The first chapter is scheduled to be published in the first half of February, or possibly a little earlier if I can manage (this is just an estimated timeframe).

Over the past few weeks, I've been working hard to develop the concept for Sangreal, and I sincerely hope you'll enjoy the story. I want to extend my heartfelt thanks to the wonderful people who not only read through the initial concept but also shared their constructive feedback, helping me shape the story to its current form: @crystalwolfblog @lura-valentine @unhinged-bratty-boy @scary-grace & @within-eyesight

If you'd like to be tagged in the series, please send me an ask, DM me, or comment below. Please also reblog to help spread the word!

Thank you for your support!

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boy-pussyyy · 30 days ago

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ꜰᴀɪʟᴇᴅ ᴇꜱᴄᴀᴘᴇ ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛ (ᴄᴀᴛ!ʜʏʙʀɪᴅ ᴀᴜ) 🐈

characters: SYLUS (love and deepspace), silco (arcane), NANAMI, geto (jjk), chrollo (hxh), AIZAWA, overhaul (bnha), SUGA (haikyuu)

tw: ddde, noncon, fake stockholm syndrome, mild electrocution, spanking, gore, mindbreak, reader does not have a good time, not beta'd

ᴍɪɴᴏʀꜱ ᴅɴɪ. ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ, ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʀᴇᴀᴅ. ɪ ᴀᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇꜱᴘᴏɴꜱɪʙʟᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴜᴍᴘᴛɪᴏɴ.

"what did we learn?"

broken sobs are his only answer, your body trembling in his unyielding hold. you choke on a gasp, the sharp tang of dried blood lingering in your mouth.

calloused hands manoeuvre you up onto his chest. he wipes your tears, other hand moving to grab your tail. fire laces up your spine, and you whine into his collarbone.

"don't be a brat," he snaps. "if you can't give me an answer, we're starting over."

tears burn behind your eyelids, threatening to spill over at the mere thought of repeating the torture.

he lifts your chin to meet his steely gaze, and shame burns in your belly as you recall how you'd gotten into this situation in the first place.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

it had been weeks of playing along; being a perfect captive, a loving pet who wakes him up by lapping at his cock untill it's leaking, fat droplets of precum heavy on your tongue when he comes to. a soft body who eagerly greats him each night after a long day at work.

in return, he spoils you rotten, gifting you the best fish money can buy, crystal nail files, the softest beds and blankets.

you have everything you could possibly want. everything except freedom.

he'd caught you eyeing the windows once, the beginnings of a reprimand on his tongue until he saw what had caught your attention.

a yellow bird perched on the windowsill.

he huffed in amusement, smiling at the way your tail swished back and forth.

the world had narrowed into the bird before you. you crouched low, manicured nails extending into claws, as you leapt—

only for him to catch you before you could smack into the glass.

he chuckles at the glare you give him. "Oh kitten, where would you be without me?"

he gave you a collar that night. a shiny metal band embedded with diamonds.

"a pretty collar for my pretty pet."

it took every ounce of your self control not to scratch his eyes out when he clipped it onto your slender neck, claws digging into your palms when he pressed a kiss to your nose.

you decide right there and then that you'd spent enough time gaining his trust. you're a predator, not a stupid pet.

you start planning your escape in the days to come. you know his schedule by heart. he always leaves for work at the same time. every door and window is locked, except the awning leading to the backyard since that's where he hangs the laundry to dry.

it's twenty minutes after he pulls out of the driveway when you spring into action.

you lose track of the time it takes you to shimmy through the window but the sun is high in the sky when you finally squeeze out the other side.

you sprint across the yard, heart soaring as you feel the sun on your face and the grass beneath your feet for the first time since he'd captured you.

but your joy is short lived when a jolt of pain laces down your body, joints locking as you hit the ground hard.

you've barely gotten to your feet when the backyard door swings open, revealing your captor.

and he looks livid.

his chest heaves, eyes narrowed as he clutches a strange-looking device in his hand.

"get over here. now."

you hiss, bearing your teeth at him as you dig into the collar, willing the stupid piece of metal to give.

there's no warning when the same sensation runs through your spine and you seize. it's as if you've been set on fire, a seering pain seeping into every part of your body, into your very bones.

you're dragged into the house by the scruff of your neck, and you scream as you're thrown onto the bed.

he folds his sleeves up, revealing his muscular forearms as he stalks towards you. "I'm giving you one last chance to apologise and maybe I'll lessen your punishment if you're convincing enough."

you glare at him with your back to the headboard. "i hate you."

his patience snaps and he lunges. a scream is torn from your throat as he grabs you, trashing when you're put over his knee.

you hear the slap before you feel it. then the pain settles in. you shriek as he brings his hand down in quick succession, setting your backside aflame.

"I've treated you like a queen. spoiled you rotten, and this is the thanks i get?" he lands three consecutive slaps at the last few words, heedless of the way you cry and scream.

"s-stop— stop!"

he doesn't relant, hands firm on your trembling frame. a shudder goes through you when he grabs your tail, legs kicking uselessly as he wraps it around his palm like a bandage before yanking.

you howl, claws raking back in reflex. something catches on your nail, as you cut through something hot and fleshy.

"fuck!"

the world spins as you're shoved off him. you scramble to your feet, poised to run, but your breath catches at the sight before you.

blood drips from his right eye, pooling on the silken sheets. despite the angle and his hand blocking the wound, you know that your nails had done its damage. and your heart stops when he pins his burning gaze on you.

you half expect him to break your hand for your insubordination, when he slinks off to the nearby dresser. there's a metallic sound as he rumanages through it but you don't for a second take your eyes off him.

he removes his hand and this time you do gasp when you see the state his eye is in. ignoring the no-doubt burning pain, he stalks over to you, taking advantage of your shell-shocked state to cuff your hands to the bedframe.

his breath is hot on your face and you flinch when blood drips onto your lips.

he tugs at the handcuffs, testing the hold before he snatches your treacherous hand up. "do you know what happens to insolent strays who hurt their masters?

"they get declawed."

it isn't until he brings pliers to your nails that the reality of your situation sinks in.

you trash in his hold but by then it's too late. he pins your kicking legs down under his thighs with ease, ignoring every plea that slips from your bitten lips.

you gag violently, expelling the contents of your stomach with the first nail is ripped off.

you're delirious with pain once the fifth nail has been pried off; babbling apologies and promises to never run away again.

by the time he's done, black spots cloud your vision and you can do nothing more than tremble in his grip, dripping in blood and sweat. ⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

a sharp slap to your cheek brings you back to the moment. you blink the spots away, shrinking back when you meet his darkened gaze.

"so what did we learn?"

your voice is hoarse when you speak, throat sore due to all the screaming. "n-not to... to run away."

"is that it?" the disappointment in his tone makes you whimper and you hasten to correct yourself.

"that you have my-my best interests at h-heart and i- I'm stupid and i shouldn't leave you. a-and i... i love you," you add weakly, hoping it would appease him.

the furrow between his eyebrows smooths out and he pets the top of your head; gently, the way he used to do on this very bed when the two of you cuddled after a round or two.

"it's my fault," he sighs and you melt at the sound. anything is better than his anger. "i misjudged how brainwashed you were with your old colony. how you might still be holding on to any delusions that you belong out there. that you're a wildling and not a pretty little housepet."

his hand lowers to the back of your neck, pulling you into a soft kiss, the kind you used to indulge in when you were bored and he was convenient way to sate your lust.

but then he pulls back and you feel your heart shatter when he utters his next words.

"don't worry, sweetheart, I'll fuck the stupidity out of you. breed you until you're nice and round with my seed. then you'll truly be housebroken."

ꜰɪɴᴅ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴀᴏ3

#yandere #yandere aizawa #yandere sylus #yandere nanami #yandere geto #yandere chrollo #yandere overhaul #yandere Kōshi Sugawara #yandere sugawara #yandere bnha #yandere mha #yandere eraserhead #yandere LADs #yandere love and deepspace #yandere jjk #yandere haikyuu #yandere silco #yandere arcane #boypussyyy writes

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