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after-witch · 3 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 · 8 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 · 6 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 · 3 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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dadsbongos · 7 months ago

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megumi x airhead fluff please don’t let gege get u again 😔

iehjejeueueh

GASP this has been in my drafts so long and i totally forgot about it, i am sooo sorry nonny :')

761 words no big warnings just fluff n idiots pining, not super proofread

the ghost of gege has been cleansed from my soul!!! ~~~

“Do you really think that?”

Megumi stiffly avoids your gaze, soon after shrugging, “Yeah. What of it?”

You frown, and it could be how attuned he is to your mood but Megumi swears the sudden shift actually overhauls the entire room’s energy. Something morose and slithering around the darkness, somehow the gloominess only thickens in the areas sparsely lit by Megumi’s lamp.

“That’s sad,” you lean up from your sit and onto your knees, fingertips just barely pressing into the springs below, “You’re not a bad person, ‘gumi.”

“I don’t think I’m the devil,” he turns his whole head to avoid your piercing stare, “Just not a good person.”

“That’s sad!” now you’ve flung your hands up on his shoulders, squeezing down his arms as if a heartbroken widow clutching her poor, dead husband, “‘gumi you’re the best guy I know!”

Scrunching away from you, Megumi presses his back into the headboard of his bed, swallowing harshly and continuously dodging your stare, “Yeah, sure.”

“Hey,” you whine, now squishing his hands between yours, “You are! You’re super nice all the time, and you’re way smart.”

The accusation of kindness pulls a little chuckle from Megumi, especially considering how often Yuuji and Nobara curse his nasty attitude. He cannot comprehend why you’d marvel over him this way, or in any other way for that fact. Megumi’s eyes flutter shut, he soaks up the warmth of your hands on his, and your face by his cheek. If he dared lean up, he’d easily be able to kiss you (he’s not so bold, he thinks he’d rather die actually).

“And you’re so pretty,” you tack on, as if you can sense the worst possible thing to say right now.

Though, Megumi knows better -- you’re soft and mellow, his opposite if anything. The knowledge of your earnesty in the compliment does nothing to calm his racing heart, or the raging red slathering his face.

“Whatever…” Megumi sinks down until he’s laid back on his mattress. He sucks in air slowly, boring holes into the ceiling rather than your face, “You’re pretty, too. And you’re nicer than me,” he cringes, “If you’re still sure I’m nice.”

“You are,” you lay beside him, petting a hand over the bunches and wrinkles in his sleep shirt, “You’re being nice now! You let me come over after my nightmare.”

“You sounded scared,” he tries to shrug off the praise, but your words are clinging to his brain stubbornly, “Why would I make you sleep alone after that?”

“Exactly,” you’re bolder than Megumi, bold enough to spike your chin onto his chest, “You’d be a great boyfriend.”

“You don’t say,” he chokes out, heat clogging his cheeks and red burning into a deep crimson. He prays the dim light emitting from his nightstand doesn’t expose the sight to you.

A melodic knock on Megumi’s door makes the duo flinch, and despite logic telling him nothing is wrong Megumi lets his arm come around your waist protectively. When its Satoru that pokes his head in, the boy grumbles.

“Hey, problem children,” Satoru coos, “if you’re gonna break rules, at least move apart when your teacher comes to scold you.”

“They had a nightmare,” Megumi’s hold on you tightens, “they didn’t wanna be alone.”

“Is that right?” Satoru’s blindfold is still snug around his face, but Megumi can feel his teacher’s stare pointed at where your head lays on his chest.

You nod viciously, “It was so scary! I thought I died for real, so ‘gumi let me stay with him so I don’t have another one.”

“Well how sweet,” Satoru taps the doorframe, “But c’mon, time for everyone to go to their own rooms.”

“Huh, no way!” you cry in protest, rocketing up straight.

“No way,” Megumi parrots.

Raising a brow, Satoru grins at his student’s sudden audacity, “You want me to stay in here with you both, then?”

“You want me to tell Yaga about the secret number in your phone?” Megumi glares, “The one you know by heart.”

Satoru grimaces down at the boy, then sighing and back out of the room, “Don’t do anything to make Yaga yell at me.”

“Wow, ‘gumi, you really got him.”

“He’s easy to wrangle, like training a big, stupid dog,” Megumi feels his heart thundering in his chest the longer you go without saying anything, simply sitting there and grinning at him, “What?”

“You stood up for me.”

“Duh.”

“That was really nice of you.”

He rolls his eyes, grabbing you by the arm and pulling you back onto him, “Yeah, whatever.”

#jjk x reader #jjk x you #megumi x reader #fushiguro megumi x reader #megumi fushiguro x reader #megumi fluff #airhead reader #airhead regen

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moonlit-void-to-the-far-unknown · 3 months ago

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The itch

An: so I’ve never written for TUA, I think, I haven’t written anything in like a long time cause my brain is made of worms most days, but the new season and mostly five in his new attitude? Personality? His almost soft tired of it all way, gives me the feelings. As a 28 year old women it’s odd that a 68 year old trapped in a 18 year old body works for me like it does but hey, I’ve liked weirder (cough I was in the Hamilton fandom cough) so enjoy this sort of bonding with Lila over the new mundane life and the exhausting reality of having to live it, because I love Lila and hate what they did to her and fives characters with the whole 7 year time line romance. Like why make her a mum of 3 and married to Fives brother just to ruin it like that. But anyway enjoy this weird fic.

Readers power: molecular manipulation, think piper from charmed, overhaul from my hero, uhhh it’s hard to explain but basically it means you can make things explode, freeze people and things by fucking with the molecular structure of said thing.

——————————————————————-

You wanted to scream, to smash things, to burn yours and fives apartment down, it had been six years of calm, six years of learning to enjoy ‘normal’. Six years of working at dead end jobs because you didn’t pass the god damn psych evaluation for the CIA, somehow you are far more ‘unhinged’ than your husband.

You and five spent 30 years together, a decade in an apocalyptic wasteland when you ended up teleported there by mistake, and then 20 years at the commission becoming trained and ruthless assassins. Now, now Five worked doing CIA investigations and you got stuck working at a grocery store gas station. It was calm, it was normal, it was absolute hell on earth and made your skin itch.

So sitting in the parking lot of the play place for your nieces 6th birthday, you didn’t know why you couldn’t make yourself leave your car, five was already here, he had texted you as much, everyone else minus Viktor who was in Canada, and Allison who hasn’t shown her face irl to any of her siblings in the 6 years, you just needed to get out of the car and walk in with the gift you signed from both you and five for Gracie. It was a set of toy weapons, knives like her dads old ones, and a few other random ‘play pretend’ things.

Closing your eyes you leaned your head back against the head rest, taking a deep breath. Almost hitting the gas when the passenger side door opened and slammed closed. Turning eyes wide you saw Lila, the exhausted mothers face blank staring forward

“I just needed a minute, just needed” you nodded

“Take all the minutes you need. I assume it’s like pulling teeth in there with Diego?” Lila nodded sighing loudly

“Fives the same way, just on other stuff, like deciding if he wants to go out to dinner or stay in and order pizza, or if he needs new underwear because the ones he has have so many holes in surprised they still count as underwear, or just simple things like the dishes, like how hard is it to wash a cup, it shouldn’t be as hard as it is, how hard is it to just tell me when you need a quiet night cause work was stressful, and you are exhausted from stupid people all day, i work retail, he acts like I don’t understand being tired of idiots…I just…” you paused looking back out the windshield

“It’s like your skin is on fire and nothing stops the itch of being a once highly skilled assassin who could fuck with peoples molecules and freeze them in time or make them explode?” You nodded looking at her

“I find myself flicking my hands out and remembering I can’t just blow up or freeze people anymore, it’s like an itch and anytime I explain it to five he just…”

“Doesn’t listen? Or doesn’t understand that you are used to how your life was and now that it’s different, it’s not bad but it’s eye burning mundane clock ticking by slower then ever reality?”

Nodding you sighed

“Diego, he wants to listen, he just, from what five always told me he had a hard time understanding others because his brain is just, frazzled and he feels inadequate, how they grew up I guess shaped them in every timeline. Five is just used to being alone he was alone for 30 years before we met, then I popped up and it’s just. I don’t think he gets that sometimes I just need him to..”

“Let you Help with the itching”

You nodded smiling at her

“He just, it’s been a lot, and we haven’t quite got the ‘normal life’ down just yet.” Lila nodded

“It’s not easy in normal marriage land either, 3 kids and a chunky husband who, doesn’t make it easier is….”

“Not helping the itching. Well how about me and you, when the itch gets too bad, we help each other? Maybe find a way to do something, go to a rage room? Do a fighting class something to feel the….rush? Of what we did before. Have Klaus or someone babysit the kids, be me and you and just….”

“Fighting each other like the before days?” You laughed nodding

“Yeah…I miss getting to kick your ass and having you kick mine…”

Lila laughed looking around

“We could start a fight club, you, me, Ben when he gets out of prison. Just….maybe we’ll get used to normal eventually….” You frowned nodding

“You know if you ever need anything, help with the kids, a friend to vent to when Diego is being Diego…I’m not to far from your guys place. I can always swing by, let the munchkin tornados beat up on auntie Y/N.” You smiled at her for all the mess you and her had been in against each other, she had become one of your closest friends and family members through it all.

Soon enough you finally made your way into the building, the screams of children everywhere, the smell of sugar and something faintly child everywhere. You spotted five by the ball pit, speaking with Ben, walking over you hugged five from behind sighing as you rested your forehead against his back

“Hello, love.” You squeezed him in response before looking up and over to Ben

“Ahh Benjamin, free from jail, good to see you didn’t die, love that you still look like you want to murder us all” Ben didn’t laugh, just glared at you before sighing

“Not in the snark mood got it.” You felt five squeeze your arm a bit pulling away from you, making you groan

Turning to fully look at you, he looked you over smiling softly

“How was work?” You looked at him blinking slowly before sighing and planting your forehead on his chest, groaning

“Ahh I see” his hand rubbed your back softly, his other lifting the beer to his lips.

“People are stupid. How hard is it to put a gas nozzle in a car….”

“Apparently impossible if what you tell me says anything” you looked at him nodding before turning to look around

“10 bucks says Diego forgets to put up the piñata like Lila asked him” five laughed slightly

“Nah 20 says Lila has a mental breakdown before cake is served” you looked over to where Lila stood with Gracie helping the young girl fix her party hat,

“Nah I think she has a breakdown after presents when she sees what we got Gracie” five laughed looking down at you, brushing the stray hair from your face, smiling at him you sighed softly again,

it seemed even if you wanted to rip your hair out from the new ‘normal’ reality you all had to live in, even if your skin itched from the need to return back to what life was before somehow, it was nice that you still had small moments, where normal wasn’t so bad, normal birthday parties for your nieces and nephews, seemingly normal holidays, and normal, non murder happy work. As much as you loathed admitting it, sometimes it was nice. Like now, now was nice.

#the umbrella academy #five hargreeves #five hargreaves x reader #five hargreaves x you #five hargreeves x reader #five hargreeves x you #lila pitts #lila hargreeves #lila x diego #ben hargreeves #sparrow ben #umbrella academy #tua s4 #tua season 4 #tua

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0bticeo · 1 month ago

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lay your hands on me | dabi x reader

summary.

he holds up his hand before your face, fingers spread wide, big enough to encompass your whole face.

he could kill you. burn you to ashes. you should be a little concerned with how unpredictable he proves himself to be at times.

you’re not. if anything, you’re watching, enraptured, as his hand looms closer to your face.

what he does next nearly kills you.

“open wide for me.”

wc. 2.9k

tw. reader is an oblivious idiot, spoilers for the overhaul arc, slight canon divergence bc fuck you the league gets to keep the bar in kamino, hand fetish, finger sucking, finger fucking, alley sex, kissing, somehow very soft (they were supposed to fuck nasty i don't get it.)

being a UA dropout isn’t all bad. neither is kamino district. no, really. you just have to know the right spots.

and you had time to do so ever since eraserhead’s wonderful decision of kicking you out of the damn school. something about how vigilantism wasn’t tolerated. something about how you, as a third year, should have known better.

you were close. so close to graduation. then it happened. it. your one true heroic act.

no cameras, no shiny deals, no public appreciation, no nothing. just you, a creep following a seven year old, and dark, dark streets.

you acted out of sheer instinct, the ink on your forearms springing to life, twin tattooed snakes sinking their fangs into that bastard’s skin.

the girl was fine. blissfully unaware. the creep, not so much, sprawled in a dark alley near your favorite conbini. you’re not too sure about the inner workings of venom. not the the one given life to by your quirk.

somehow, you have a feeling it hurts like hell.

having principal nezu sit you down and kindly explain that you would no longer be attending classes at UA, mouse-head split in a wide grin, hurt more.

“what are you sanctioning me for, exactly?” you ask, knuckles turning white with how tight you’re holding your tea cup.

he smiles at you. you feel every condescendent edge of his rodent teeth.

“vigilantism is illegal, as i’m sure you well know.”

"you-”

“aizawa-san already filled me in on the details.”

a sharp inhale. of course. of course, just because there aren’t any cameras doesn’t mean there aren’t witnesses. it’s not like the girl could testify. you made sure to be quiet. you made sure the creep was quiet.

you set your teacup back on its saucer, the rim silent as it meets the porcelain. nezu watches you, his eyes dark and empty. intelligent. inhumane. he sighs.

“such a shame to lose a student of your caliber. but the law is the law. no exceptions can be made,” he says, quietly sipping his tea.

you smile. it doesn’t reach your eyes. you think your palms might be bleeding with how hard your nails are digging in the skin. it’s fine. the deep green of your skirt is dark enough for the nature of the stain to be unidentifiable.

“please. i have nowhere to go.”

the law is the law. nevermind that attending UA is expensive. in the promotion material, they mention the entrance exam (not that you can get yourself killed in it), the heroes (celebrities!) serving as professors, the facilities.

now, the government might be funding a part of the infrastructure - those killer robots they have at the entrance exam aren’t going to finance themselves - but the rest? the tuition fees are expensive enough for the students to enter the hero life in debt.

it’s fine. those from UA are pretty much destined to make it big. it’s not the best hero school in the country for nothing.

the law is law.

you’re kicked out of school three weeks away from graduation without a backup plan. the only thing you have to yourself is a dingy studio in kamino district.

(aizawa had crossed paths with you on your way out of nezu’s office. he’s watched your eyes turn cold, and for a split-second, wondered if the law was fair.)

back on track. cut to four years of fruitless job hunting because nobody wants an UA dropout in their agencies. doesn’t matter if you were the top of your class, if endeavor himself wanted you to work under him at some point.

all they see is the black mark on your resume and the ink spreading and spreading over your skin, wrapping along your arms.

they smile and deny you the job you oh so need.

bye, bye morale, hello shoplifting. you’re quick on your feet and nimble-handed. get in, get out, you don’t get caught.

until you steal from the wrong person. until a hand wraps around your wrist, all five fingers digging in your flesh with the intention to kill.

meeting shigaraki tomura was… an interesting experience. so was your skin not decaying. maybe a side-effect from your quirk. your arms are more ink than skin these days. more tattoos, more power.

maybe your wrist being still intact landed you here. maybe it was the hero killer stain, his blade digging in the roots of a corrupted system and twisting. heroes are rotten, you know. true heroism is punished.

maybe you were angry, too.

so now you spend your nights sitting in the league of villains’ base. a bar. it’s classier than expected for a ragtag team of villains. you highly suspect kurogiri’s distinguished demeanor is the sole reason for the said classiness.

shigaraki’s ranting again, chipped nails scratching his neck hard enough to bleed.

you’re barely listening, sprawled as you are on the counter. there’s a scrap of paper in front of you and a pen in your hand. on you doodle, hand cradling your cheek, occasionally humming to show you’re still listening.

everybody’s here for a change.

twice, being his usual versatile self, one minute praising shigaraki’s genius planning, the next tearing it to shreds with a few well placed curses. troubled little fellow, really sweet. once lent you his lighter, so he’s high up in your good graces.

next to you, toga kicks her feet, golden eyes glinting mischievously in the low lighting. there’s a wide grin tugging at her face, revealing sharp canines. she’s eager to get back in the fray. something about seeing a certain izuku.

compress is fiddling with his gloves. shimmering orbs flash between his skilled fingers, twirling between them before disappearing wherever. a magician never reveals his secrets. how he managed to gain back such skill after losing his arm is beyond you.

spinner is watching on seriously. bless him.

(magne’s dead. your grip on your pen tightens.)

and dabi…

dabi’s leaning on the counter to your left, elbows nonchalantly propped up against its wooden surface, the sleeves of his jacket baring a hint of his bicep.

you watch, eyes half-lidded, the curl of his wrist, the way his fingers drum against the lapel of his jacket, flexing, flexing.

you shift in your seat, crossing your legs.

three strokes of your pen. the shape of his hands come to life.

broad and warm, the skin of his palms pulled taut by the staples holding him together, little flashes of silver.

the fingers, next. clever. long. deft. curled in a way that has the fine lines of his knuckles jutting out and your cheeks warming. still, not quite right.

you glance at his hand again and find it wrapped around a glass of whiskey, the heat of them fogging up the glass. there it is, again. that slow drumming, index finger tap, tap, tapping away on the glass. the staples on the back of his hand dig in his skin, right under the bone.

you bite back a groan.

hands are hard to draw.

you don’t know what it is about his fingers, but you can’t get them right. doesn’t matter if your muse is right there, a barstool away from you, sitting pretty with those damned fingers of his, you can’t seem to will your pen to mimic them.

you risk another glance and meet blue, blue eyes. something like amusement flashes in them, his lips quirking up by a fraction. heat creeps up your neck. you twirl your pen and advert your eyes.

“irezumi-chan.”

leave it to shigaraki to give you dumb nicknames.

you tilt your head.

“yes?”

“are you listening?”

turns out you’re needed for a job involving, out of all things, your tagging skills. and why the hell not. if the boss man wants you to sneak around in shady neighborhood near the shie hassaikai’s quarters in the dead of night, who are you to say no. (they’ll pay for what they did to magne.)

surprisingly, dabi’s drawled out a “count me in”, before downing his whiskey. (you’ve watched with bated breath his adam apple bob up and down as he swallowed his liquor.)

so dabi’s tagging along, hands regrettably shoved deep in the confines of his pockets.

you’re not disappointed. absolutely not.

just worrying about your safety. understand, your quirk makes it so that you practically have to be half-naked for maximum efficiency. skin revealing tops and all, because you’re tired of your clothes being rippef to shreds whenever your tattoos come to life. so dabi’s hands in his pockets? they’re limiting his ability to defend you both if needed be.

nevermind the speed with which he fights, spread hand igniting from palm to fingertips, fire flashing bluer than his eyes as he burns it all. nevermind your own skills. it’s just that these yakuza bastards are lethal, more so than the league.

yeah, right. and tattooing your back piece yourself was an easy ordeal.

you let out a sigh and stop dead in your tracks, eyeing a wall. covered in graffiti, the whole surface of it a mess of superposed designs.

“this should do.”

dabi leans back on the opposite wall, crossing his arms over his chest.

“do your thing.”

you crack your knuckles, your wrists, grab the spray paint and get to work. here’s the great thing about your quirk. whatever you draw can come to life, as long as you’ve seen it beforehand. call yourself yoshihide and your quirk hellscreen with how good you are.

the medium doesn’t matter - the drawing comes to life if you will it so. and sure, it might disappear after an hour’s worth of use, but given your drawing skills, it’s versatile enough to give you the advantage in a fight.

the smell of spray paint fills the air, black micro droplets dusting your fingertips, your wrist. you kneel, leaning back ever so slightly to assess your handiwork.

you cannot afford to mess this up. not if you want shigaraki’s admittedly funky plan to succeed - and given you know UA is going to involve itself with that bastard overhaul… oh well. you don’t mind giving the students an explosive hand. as a thank you gift.

smoke curls in front of you. nicotine.

you groan, rising to your feet and brushing the dust off your cargo pants.

“really dabi?”

you don’t need to turn around to know he’s grinning.

that grin.

the one that has him baring just a sliver of teeth, stitches pulling at the corner of his eyes with the mischievous glint flashing in them. a menace.

“what?” he drawls. “can’t handle a little smoke?”

you shake your can of spray paint with a grumble.

“i’m trying to quit.”

a low chuckle.

“poor you.”

a lick of warmth at your back. you stop drawing that grenade. no need to mess it up. you feel the lean heat of him before he presses against you, fingers trailing up, up your arm, from your wrist to your collarbone- he’s tracing your tattoos.

“you know, you get real cute when you’re flustered.”

his nail presses down on the detail of one of your pieces - a dragon’s scale, its great maw gaping open in a blast of heat stretching over your shoulder. you shudder. his hair brushes against your cheek.

“i’m not flustered,” you mumble, weakly.

he chuckles, low and warm and just a little mean. you feel the vibration of it on your back, spreading deep in your ribcage. you think you’re forgetting to breathe.

“no?”

his fingers come to view, joints stretching the skin taut. they’re big, thumb massaging your forearm, digging in the coils of the leviathan snaking around your wrist.

“i see the way you look at me when i fight. at the bar…”

your mouth goes a little dry. you lick your lips and feel dabi’s breath on your cheek, his nose brushing your ear. he could take a bite out of you with how close his mouth is to your neck.

“hands are hard to draw.”

you don’t see his grin. you don’t see the white flash of teeth you’ve grown to love, the way his lips split wide, stitches pulling and pulling at the seams of his mouth.

“hands?” he lifts one of them, the one that isn’t lighting a fucking inferno at your hip with how maddening his touch is, his index slowly tracing your waistband. “you like my hands, huh?”

you whine. actually fucking whine at that, low and needy and desperate, hips pressing back against his.

and fuck, if the way he laughs at that doesn’t turn you to putty in his hands, you don’t know what does.

he holds up his hand before your face, fingers spread wide, big enough to encompass your whole face.

he could kill you. burn you to ashes. you should be a little concerned with how unpredictable he proves himself to be at times.

you’re not. if anything, you’re watching, enraptured, as his hand looms closer to your face. what he does next nearly kills you.

“open wide for me.”

his fingers curl, index and middle held before your mouth, pressing down on your lower lip, teasing it before they slip in you, resting on your tongue.

you taste him - something salty and distinctly him that makes your head spin.

his fingers are warm, the entirety of him is, and you’re panting against him, your own fingers clenching your can of spray paint like a vice.

his free hand snakes under your shirt, splaying over your chest, burying itself between the plushness of your breasts. he feels your heartbeat, wild, erratic little thing against his palm.

“that’s it… now suck.”

a metallic clang rings somewhere in the distance. you wouldn’t know where, with the sharp ringing in your ears, the way the world has narrowed down to dabi’s heavenly touch.

tiny pinpricks of cold brush your chin, lightning flashes of pleasure as his staples make contact with your skin, as his nails drag against your nipple, pleasure-pain at its finest.

he’s dragging his fingers, pushing down on your tongue as you eagerly suck on them. he mouths at your neck, the press of teeth against your skin having you keening around his fingers.

you think you’re burning, little inferno of desire wasting away in his arms, your hips grinding against his, eager, eager…

he pulls his fingers out of your mouth, thin threads of saliva linking them to your parted lips, and you whine at the loss.

then his fingers find your slit and drag, and his touch is scorching against your core and you’re begging. wet little sounds fill the alleyway, and it’s loud, the only thing you can hear. and fuck, the way his thumb circles your clit just right-

and that fucker takes his hand out of your pants and brings it to his face with a low chuckle, thin threads of your slick coating his fingers from the tip to the knuckle. your eyes widen, the sight embedded in your retina.

he grins against your cheek.

“i’ve barely touched you…”

there’s a hint of awe in his voice, you think, hazily. then again, you’re not sure. not really. you’re impeccably warm like this, all pressed up against dabi’s lithe body, head lolled back on his shoulder.

“dabi, please…”

he spins you around, all but slamming you against the wall behind you. you groan, because fuck, every single nerve ending in your system is begging for release, and the acrid scent of spray paint is filling your senses, and you’re pretty sure it’s smudging against your back-

you meet his gaze and your breath catches in your throat.

he’s watching you, blue, blue eyes swallowed up by his pupils. he’s panting, you realize, lips bloody with how hard he’s bitten them. you’ve never seen anything more beautiful than him, looming over you in the flickering glow of a streetlamp, the golden light swallowing him whole.

“let me draw you,” you blurt out, cheeks heating up immediately.

he laughs, a low, raspy little thing of a chuckle as his fingers find your core again and you gasp at his touch.

“you already do, don’t you?”

you feel you might spontaneously combust and die, your head tilting to the side, trying not to meet his stare. you don’t see his smile, inexplicably fond.

“c’mon, look at me. i wanna see your pretty face when i make you cum on my fingers.”

his forehead presses against yours, his fingers digging in your hips, in the meat of your thigh. your breath mingles with his in sharp little gasps as he resumes unraveling you, a shit-eating grin on his face.

it’s unfair, the effect he has on you, how good he is with these blasted fingers of his. you fist at his clothes, hands burrowing in the strands of hair at his nape, tugging hard enough to make him groan, low and heavy in your ear. his fingers curl. you keen, falling apart as you choke around his name.

his lips press against your neck, a soft, almost chaste peck.

“you did so good for me, pretty.”

you’re about to gently push him away from you. you have a job to do, a revenge to take, and the clock’s ticking-

then his lips are on you. he’s kissing you, his lower lip a stark contrast with his upper lip, the perfect blend of soft roughness. you close your eyes, melting against him.

he’s kissing you, and the job can wait for a little while.

#dabi x reader #dabi x you #dabi x y/n #mha x reader #mha x you #mha x y/n #bnha x reader #bnha x you #bnha x y/n #touya todoroki x y/n #touya todoroki x you #touya todoroki x reader #obticeo writes #dabi smut #touya todoroki #dabi #mha #bnha

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