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MASTERLIST
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Call me Wasabi
20 | Any pronouns | Demonolatry & Child of Dantalion | Multifandom | Yumeshipper | English & Vietnamese (Fluent)
(I'm absolutely horrible with texting or any forms of social interactions in general lol)
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CONTENT GUIDELINES
This blog features Dead Dove: Do Not Eat content. Though, I personally don't mind some hate, as I'm a masochist and y'all are doing it for free lol (But please don't go around harassing other dark content creators).
I do: Yandere contents, GN & AFAB reader, non-con, almost any form of violence and disgusting things that you can think of.
I DON'T do: Male reader (sry), AUs, scat, zoophilia, canon underage characters.
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AO3 (Crosspost + Non-reader fics): Wasabi_luv_u
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Summary: Tamsy brought you out for a date today, and you could almost pretend you're just a normal person out on a normal date. But c'mon. Who are you kidding?
Warnings: Kidnapped reader, Stockholm Syndrome, graphic depictions of violence toward reader, forced relationship, implied NON-CON at the end, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.
Author's Notes: Reader is kind of pathetic in this fic.
The morning air in the fringe town was crisp, almost enough to make you forget the stench of the concrete cell, replaced by blinding sunlight that made your eyes water after weeks in the dark.
Almost.
But, deep down, it wasn't like you could blame yourself for the way your breath caught when Tamsy hummed a cheerful tune beside you. For the way your jaw instinctively set every time he adjusted his sleeves. For the phantom ache around your wrists where the restraints usually bit—a physical reminder that wasn't normal to anyone who hadn't been the captive plaything of a man who could erase your mind with a literal book.
"Look at that," he said, squeezing your hand. His fingers were warm, interlacing perfectly with yours as he guided you down a cobblestone alleyway. "The local bakers actually managed to get sweet plums today. Want one?"
"They look wonderful," you replied quickly, even squeezing his hand back. "You always find the best places, Tamsy."
He beamed at your response, clearly pleased. It's a 50/50 gamble every time you open your mouth, but today, you've hit the mark.
He led you over to the small stall, smiling warmly at the shopkeeper. He bought two, handing you the larger one with a crinkle of his long eyelashes.
"Go on, try it," he urged.
You held the fruit, your fingers sinking into the soft skin. Sure, you were being a bit dramatic. You were outside, surrounded by normal people, and it was just a piece of fruit. A sweet, juicy plum. But how could you view something so simple as anything other than a ticking clock when your eyes instinctively scanned the distance to the main road? Just a few meters away. If you screamed—
A feather-light touch brushed against your cheek, and the daydream was snuffed out.
Tamsy's fingers slid to your ear, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind it. He leaned in, "Don't ruin today, okay? We've been looking forward to this."
Right.
It'd be such a shame if you forgot this view tomorrow because you made a scene. He always made it clear, after all. If he wanted to, he could always use the Watchman Book to turn you into some mindless doll that moves and breathes and obeys without the pesky trouble of your free will.
But... he won't do that. Not if you're good.
"I'm sorry," you said, your voice small and genuinely apologetic as you leaned slightly into his hand. "I was just... looking at the view. It's just beautiful out here."
To prove it, you quickly took a bite of the plum. It tasted like ash in your mouth, but you forced an appreciative nod, chewing quickly.
Tamsy watched you swallow, scanning your expression for any rebellion. Finding none, the tension in his shoulders melted instantly, and he smiled.
"Good. Because I have a surprise for you," he said, his tone turning bubbly again as he pulled you along by your wrist.
On the way, he laughed loudly at the street performers, tossing a few coins their way, and kept an arm slung securely around your shoulders. He brought you to a scenic overlook at the edge of the town, a crumbling stone terrace that gave way to a breathtaking view of the valley below. Set up on the grass was a small canvas and a wooden box of paints.
"You can sit here," he invited, pulling you down onto the grass beside him. He opened the paints, selecting a brush and pressing it into your hand. Then, he moved in close. His chest pressed against your back, his thighs framing yours as he wrapped his hand tightly over your own, guiding the brush across the canvas. It's a positioning meant to look intimate—like a couple in a tacky romance movie.
"Let's start with the base. You have to mix the white into the blue first, or it just looks too stark."
Okay, okay. Mixing paint colors. Blessed be paint colors. That was a normal thing for a person to talk about.
"Right," you replied. "The white first."
"Exactly. Did you see the market vendor on the corner by the way? The one with the blankets?" he asked, his hand moving yours in a sweeping motion to coat the top of the canvas. "He actually tried to look me in the eye and claim it was genuine indigo. Can you believe the nerve? It was cheap wood-stain, obviously."
You forced a soft chuckle, moving your arm in sync with his grip. "You always notice the details."
"Well, someone has to," he said, conversationally. "Oh, tilt the brush a bit more to the left. See how the texture changes when you catch the edge of the canvas?"
"Like this?"
"Perfect. Just like that." He rested his chin on your shoulder, it was terrifying how thoroughly pleasant his voice was as he guided the brush down toward the middle of the sky. "Anyway, the baker told me they're getting a shipment of those little cinnamon biscuits on Thursday. The ones with the hard sugar on top. I know you like those with tea in the afternoon."
"I do," you said. Your fingers were starting to ache from the tightness of his grip, but you kept your wrist fluid. "Thursday is a good day for them."
"We'll get a whole box," he decided. "And maybe some of that roasted chicory if the trader actually shows up this week. He's been unreliable lately. Last week he didn't even bother to set up his stall because of the rain."
You nodded, keeping your eyes fixed on the canvas, watching the blue blend into a softer, lighter hue. It's just a normal conversation. A normal discussion about market days, biscuits, and lazy traders. You try to focus entirely on the mundane rhythm. Smile and nod, or get a reminder of why you're here. You choose to smile.
"Let's add a bit of the gray now," Tamsy said, his fingers shifting slightly over yours to guide the brush toward a different well in the paint box. "Just a tiny dab. The clouds over the valley always have that little bit of shadow underneath them around noon. Look right out there, see how it sits just above the treeline?"
You look out at the valley, your focus shifting from the canvas to the massive, open expanse of green and gray below. The wind catches the trees, making them roll like waves. It's so big. The horizon goes on for miles, completely indifferent to the walls of the cell, completely indifferent to the Tokushin thread spun around your wrists.
For a stupid second, you get lost in the sheer vastness of it.
"Pay attention, dear," Tamsy reminded you, his hand suddenly tightened over yours to correct your posture.
The abrupt pressure jolts you out of the daydream. Your reflex acted before your brain could stop it—your hand twitched, jerking the brush upward against his grip.
It left an ugly streak of dark gray right across the carefully blended blue sky.
Your eyes went wide, and your breath caught in your throat as you stared at the ruined canvas. Oh god, you'd messed up. You'd ruined this perfect day.
It took you a moment to find your voice. No, two moments. No, three.
"I-I'm so sorry," you gasped out, trembling like a leaf. You turned your head, leaning back against his chest to look up at him, your hands reaching up to clutch desperately at the fabric of his coat. "I didn't mean to. I ruined it. Please don't be mad at me, I can fix it, I promise—"
Thanks god, Tamsy didn't get angry. He didn't even frown. He just chuckled, a low, melodic sound that rumbled soothingly against your back. Reaching out, he trailed a finger down the side of your neck.
"No, no, it's just paint," he said. "That's one enthusiastic cloud, don't you think?"
Pure relief flooded through you, until you felt nothing but a pathetic, dirty kind of gratitude. Because it was okay. It was okay that your hands were shaking; it was okay that you ruined the sky; it was okay that you were a terrified, broken thing, because he was being good to you today. He was being so patient. He really did love you, didn't he?
"Really?" you asked, leaning your head back against his shoulder. "You're not upset?"
"Never with you," he smiled.
You looked back down at the box of supplies, spotting a specific shade of soft gold paint that you knew would blend beautifully into the mistake.
"Can we use the yellow to fix it?" you asked, turning your face toward his. You tilted your chin up and pressed a sweet kiss right against his lips—a little bribe for every small favor every now and then. "Please? I think it would make the sky look like a sunset."
Tamsy's eyes brightened, a touched expression softening his features as he kissed you back, cupping your jaw to press his lips deeper.
"Anything you want," he whispered against your lips. "Let's make it a sunset."
When he finally pulled back, he blinked, his brow furrowing slightly as the choker around his neck crackled to life. A muffled voice from the Cleaners bled through the speaker.
Tamsy sighed, looking thoroughly annoyed by the interruption.
"Hold that thought," he said, kissing the top of your head as he stood up. "I need to take this. Stay right here."
He stepped away, walking about twenty paces over to the edge of the stone wall, his back turning to you as he tapped his choker to answer. But he never risked anything. Before you even stepped past the threshold of the cell this morning, the illusion of freedom was clipped. He already spun a strand of Tokushin thread around your wrists, anchoring you to the wooden paint box. One wrong move, and the threads would slice straight into your flesh.
But as Tamsy argued with the voice on the comms, your hand brushed against something sharp in the grass.
A shard of jagged metal from a broken fence.
Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird. It's now or never.
With shaking hands, you grabbed the metal shard and sawed it violently against the invisible taut string pulling at your wrist. The thread resisted, biting sharply into your skin, drawing a bead of bright red blood—and then, with a snap, it gave way.
You didn't look back. You didn't look at Tamsy to see if he heard.
Scrambling to your feet, you took a blind, panicked sprint in the opposite direction, pushing through the thick brush and tearing down the dirt path into the unknown. The wind roared in your ears, your vision tunneling into a blur of green and grey. Every snap of a twig behind you sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline straight to your heart. You didn't know where you were going—only that you had to find a crowd, where at least a kind stranger would take your hand.
For a few beautiful minutes, the expanse of the valley had felt like freedom.
Just as the dirt path gave way to a populated thoroughfare. A sudden jerk at your ankles brought you crashing hard against the cobblestones. You skidded, skinning your palms and knees raw. When you looked back, the thin, shimmering lines of Tokushin were already winding tight around your calves.
You froze, locking your jaw so tight your teeth literally clicked together.
"You know," Tamsy's voice drifted through the space; he didn't sound angry. His dual-toned hair had fallen loose around his face, framing an entirely blank expression. "They are always talking about how unpredictable the Ground is. But honestly, people are just so incredibly predictable. The second you get scared, you do the exact same thing everyone else does. You run for a crowd."
The sound of his footsteps was agonizingly slow. Tap. Tap. Tap.
"...And you're messy about it, too. Look at that. You're leaving a trail."
He stopped right in front of you, pointing a neat finger toward the ground.
You followed his gaze down to your wrist. Dark drop of blood had just fallen onto the dusty concrete ground. A few inches away, another droplet sat, glistening in the sunlight.
Your heart felt like it plummeted straight through your stomach, choking out all your courage.
The threads snapped loose as he stepped over you. You fell to your knees, your fingers clawing into the fabric of his pants, burying your face against his knee.
"I love you," you gasped out. You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing closer, praying to a god you didn't believe in that he would buy it. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry that I ran—I don't know why I did it, I swear. I love you—"
You waited for the tightening of his arms, for the soft, indulgent chuckle you had learned to weaponize.
But.
But... it doesn't come.
He just stands there, perfectly still, letting you weep against his leg as if you are nothing more than a stray dog that tripped him on the sidewalk. When the silence was unbearable for you, he simply reached down, his hand wrapping around your throat, forcing your head back.
"Oh, dear," he murmured. "Do you really take me for an idiot?"
Before you could even sob out a retraction, his grip shifted from your throat to your wrists.
You heard the sickening pop of your shoulder straining as he stood up, effortlessly hoisting you off the floor by your arms. A white-hot flash of pure agony shot down your spine. You screamed, your legs giving out, but he didn't let go. He just hummed that same cheerful little tune from this morning under his breath while dragging you back, didn't care that your knees were scraping against the ground the entire time, or that the pain in your joints was so intense you thought your arms would tear from their sockets.
You begged. You wept until you choked on your own spit, completely blinded by the physical torment. He didn't slow his pace. He opened the door to the cell and tossed you onto the floor. You collapsed into a fetal position, clutching your ruined arms to your chest, gasping for air through a flood of vomit and tears.
For a long time, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing.
Then, his fingers gently slid under your chin, lifting your face. You flinched so violently that your neck popped, but he held you firm. Through your blurred vision, his unique eyes were wide, clear, and entirely empty.
It was like looking into the eyes of a shark.
"There, now." He leaned down, pressing his lips to your tear-soaked temple. "You won't lie to me again, will you?"
You nodded frantically, your chin jerking against his hand as a fresh sob hitched in your throat. "N-no," you rasped out. Fuck dignity, you don't give a damn anymore. "Never again."
Tamsy's thumb paused on your jawline, his dual-toned eyes narrowing as he weighed the pathetic, trembling sincerity in your voice. He stayed quiet for a while, just watching your chest heave.
"Do you promise me?" he asked. "Because it hurts me when you're dishonest. It really does. It ruins all the nice things I try to do for you."
"I promise," you choked out, a fresh wave of tears hot against your cheeks.
"Say it like you mean it."
"I won't run," you sobbed. "I won't run, I won't lie. I'll stay. I swear I'll stay."
At that, the cold tightness around his mouth completely dissolved.
"Good," he said, pulling you firmly against his chest. "I forgive you, [Name]. I always will."
At the sudden movement, your injured shoulder flared with a white-hot heat, but you bit your lip so hard you tasted copper, forcing yourself to lean into his chest anyway.
Tamsy didn't pull away. Instead, his grip only tightened further, while his chin resting on top of your head as he slowly stroked your hair, deliberately ignoring your physical agony. He liked you like this—malleable, broken, and entirely dependent on his comfort to soothe the pain he caused.
"Tomorrow, I'll bring the canvas down here. We can finish painting our sunset together."
He added, then. His hand sneaking a slow slide down your hair, while the other grabbed your thighs. Fingers danced around the edge of your clothes, grazing at the skin just underneath as you writhed in his hold.
You whimpered weakly, pressing your face deeper into his shoulder despite the screaming protest of your muscles, everything from your chest to your cheeks hot and swollen. You hated the smell of his jacket, hated his fingers prying your legs apart, tugging your waistband down. Outside, the valley is still there. The sun is still setting over a horizon that you will never see.
"Is it really true that you're a villain, Dabi? Please... just be honest with me."
For a moment, he says nothing, regarding you with a practiced neutral expression that quickly breaks into a short, hearty laugh.
"Damn, doll. I can't believe you didn't catch on sooner." His grin is wide and stretched and there's a hint of something underneath which you've seen before and dismissed, tucked down deep inside yourself as being paranoid.
"I love you," he continues. "But, fuck, you're kind of dumb."
The steps he takes towards you seem more purposeful, now, more aggressive and domineering. You can't help but back up, finding yourself pressed with your back against the counter, where you'd been making lunch for the two of you, anxious after spending the night poring over information sent to you by a friend.
Was it always like this? Had you ignored all the signs, willfully and naively? Or was your newfound knowledge allowing what facade he'd built to melt away?
It doesn't matter much, when he's got you pinned, when he's leaning in close to your face, gripping your chin--a move that would have made you feel good before, pleasantly domineering, but now has your stomach in tight knots.
"Now that you know the truth," he says, breath warm on your face, "there's no going back."
Hii, can I request a fic where the reader is sick and Follo is taking care of her, but the plot twist is that Follo drugged them to keep her sick state and dependent of him.
Damn Your Sickness
Yandere Follo x Reader
Word count: 2.4k
Summary: The worst part of it all isn’t even the betrayal.
Warnings: Power imbalance, forced relationship, drugging, gaslighting, infantilization, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.
Author's Notes: You're a genius, anon, KJNDKJNDDJSJ!
The first week, everyone at work had been sympathetic.
Messages were constantly blowing up your phone, people asking if you needed groceries, if you wanted company, if there was anything they could do to help. (As if you'd actually say yes, but hey, it's the thought that counts, right?). Your supervisor even ordered you to take a medical leave, insisting the position would be waiting for you. You're not even the type to call in sick, so you'd spent the first few days text-apologizing far more than anyone asked you to. But then, as the days bled into weeks, you had to make that awkward call back to request an even longer leave of absence. Because how do you explain that you're just... not getting better?
You lived alone—or, well, you used to, before Follo basically moved himself in. Your boyfriend always managed to find himself at your door. Morning. Afternoon. Evening.
He'd recently taken on work as a Giver, and you knew how relentless his hours were. Whenever you manage to raspy-voice a protest, insisting that he had better things to do, he only smiles. It's that soft, incredibly patient smile of his, reassuring you that he doesn't mind. He even chuckles a little, rolling his eyes as he jokes how this is the only way he can hang with you, with your different work schedules recently.
So, you let him stay. You let him press the heavy ceramic mug to your lips, whispering for you to drink every last drop.
Yesterday was one of those long stretches where his job kept him away until past midnight, again. And when you woke up this morning, the heavy weight in your chest felt just lighter, your head didn't throb when you blinked. For a fleeting second, you actually felt a spark of genuine hunger—not the nausea that usually accompanied the thought of food.
Then, Follo returned. He immediately set to work, bringing you your morning tea. But just as he set the steaming mug on your nightstand, a sharp crash echoed from the kitchen had him rushing out of the room in haste.
There, resting on the white porcelain edge of the washbasin, was his keyring.
You hadn't even been thinking about the keys at first. You had only dragged yourself up because, suddenly, a wave of heat crashed over you. Panicked by the spike in your symptoms, you had tried to call out his name, but from the kitchen, the noise of him cleaning the spill drowned you out completely. He couldn't hear you.
A wave of guilt had washed over you then. He was already so busy, already doing so much as a Giver, and you hated the thought of burdening him further just because you need a few fever reducers. So, on second thought: you'll just do it yourself. It takes a ridiculous, almost laughable amount of minutes just to swing your dead-weight legs over the edge of the bed.
Your feet hit the cold floorboards and you instantly sway—gripping the washbasin for dear life while the room spins violently. You remembered laughing once, mostly at yourself of how ridiculous you'd become. You gripped the edge of the washbasin, your fingers freezing over the cold metal of the keys.
You know there's a wooden box in the bottom nightstand drawer. Follo always claimed it held rare herbs he'd gone out of his way to buy for you. A private little part of you feels terrible for snooping, but desperate times, right?
It took every ounce of your remaining strength to sink to the floor, sliding the key into the brass lock of the wooden box.
You expect to find the usual suspects, maybe some over-the-counter fever reducers. But no. Instead, your fingers wrap around a sleek little amber glass dropper bottle. The labels are handwritten, which would be charming if the words belladonna and digitalis weren't staring right back at you. Concentrated sedatives. Muscle paralytics. You bring the glass dropper to your nose, taking a tentative sniff, and underneath the harsh bitterness of the chemicals is a faint, sweet scent.
The exact same flavor that's been in your tea, your broths, your water. Every single day. For weeks.
Oh.
You tried to move. Your mind screamed at you to run, to hide the bottle, to drag yourself to the front door. You remembered trying to think, too. Not panicking—not yet. Panic felt too expensive somehow, there had to be another explanation.
Herbal extracts could be poisonous in the wrong quantities. Apothecaries stocked strange ingredients all the time. Follo had always been meticulous; perhaps he'd purchased them for something else. Perhaps the dropper had been used for tinctures. Perhaps—
You collapsed against the base of the nightstand, then, clutching the small amber vial to your chest.
Sweat prickled along the back of your neck. Your thoughts, so wonderfully clear only minutes before, began bending ever so slightly like reflections in disturbed water.
Only then did your gaze drift toward the untouched teacup, steam no longer curling from its surface. You couldn't remember how long it had been sitting there. You couldn't remember whether you'd taken a sip. You couldn't remember a frightening number of things.
With trembling hands, you tried reaching for your phone instead. It wasn't far—just across the bedside table—but the distance felt laughable now, your arm refusing to obey like it had only moments ago.
You managed half a step, then another. You sank to the floor before gravity could decide to throw you there instead, your shoulder knocking painfully against the side of the bed, the locked box remained open beside you.
You hated how familiar the feeling was.
How many mornings had started exactly like this? How many times had you accepted it as another cruel turn in whatever mysterious illness had taken hold of you?
You had no idea how long you lay there, paralyzed in your own skin, listening to the agonizingly slow tick of the clock.
When the door finally clicked open, his soft footsteps padded back into the room, a fresh cloth in his hand, his expression open and bright. His eyes found you first, curled awkwardly against the bedside.
Concern immediately softened his features.
"...What happened?"
The words were almost painfully gentle.
He crossed the room at once and knelt beside you as if you had simply tripped, one hand already brushing damp strands of hair away from your forehead. "Look at you, you shouldn't have gotten out of bed."
His gaze scanned the space, instantly landing on the open drawer, the keys, and the bottle clenched in your trembling fist. If surprise touched him, it vanished so quickly you wondered later whether you'd imagined it.
"Oh," an awkward laugh escaped him, a soft, breathy sound, "so that's what this is."
You jerked weakly away from the hand against your face.
The bottle you'd managed to keep hold of scraped clumsily against the floor as you lifted it between you, your grip so unsteady it threatened to fall a second time. The accusation never emerged as clearly as you'd intended, your thoughts refused to line themselves into neat sentences.
"What..." you rasped, even your own voice sounded weak. "What is this?"
For a heartbeat, he only looked at you.
Then, to your utter disbelief, he laughed. A small, affectionate sound, almost under his breath.
"Come on," he said, reaching toward your hand as though you were a frightened child clutching something dangerous. His fingertips brushed yours, patient rather than forceful. "You really are still so sick. You're just seeing things, alright? Let's get you back to bed before you hurt yourself."
The bottle slipped another inch through your weakening grasp.
"No..."
The protest came out rough, barely louder than a whisper.
"You put this in my food."
His smile faltered only slightly.
You tried again. The words tangled together, but the meaning remained unmistakable. You knew the truth now, and no matter whatever haze clouded your mind, that fact wasn't moving.
"[You]." Another patient sigh from him, he spoke your name with heartbreaking tenderness. "You've had a fever, and you've barely slept a full night. They can cause confusion."
His hand found your forehead, checking your temperature. The same gesture he'd performed dozens of times before.
"...You don't even know what you're talking about right now."
"I do, you've been poisoning me," you snapped. The sentence emerged stronger than you expected.
"As if I'd ever do such a thing."
"Stop lying!" You're practically screaming now, though it feels more like a pathetic whimper. You slammed your weak fist against his shoulder, refusing to let go of the bottle. "You've been poisoning me! You made me take a break from my job, you kept me trapped here—"
"Hey, stop it, you're getting worked up," he interrupts, his hands swooping in to pin your wrists. "Just give me the bottle. You're losing it, I'd never hurt you."
"I am not confused!" you fiercely insisted, your eyes burning with tears of fury.
With a final surge of will that defied the paralysis spreading through your limbs, you hurled the amber bottle across the room.
It smashed against the far wall, a harsh, shattering explosion of glass and brown liquid that stained the pale wallpaper. The sound was deafening in the otherwise silent house. But Follo didn't even flinch. He didn't turn to look at the mess. His eyes searched yours, waiting almost hopefully, as though expecting the panic to break.
When it didn't, he rose to his feet, calmly brushing the dust off his pants, his eyes turning entirely flat and devoid of warmth. He looked down at your shivering form on the floor, and didn't even bother to deny it anymore.
"Alright," he said, looking at the wet stain on the wallpaper. "You know. Now... what are you going to do about it?"
All the righteous fury inside you is instantly snuffed out.
And God, he was right, wasn't he? You stopped dead. Because when you actually thought about it—really, truly thought about it—what could you do? You lived alone. The neighbors should be at work right now, and it had been days since you'd even bothered to reply to your supervisor's messages. You were entirely on your own.
You tried to drag yourself backward, but your fingers just twitched uselessly against the wood. (A total joke, honestly, considering how fiercely you'd just thrown that vial.) When you begged your legs to move, nothing happened.
And of course he noticed.
"Look at you," he continued. "You can barely walk on your own. Who are you going to scream for?"
He actually paused, waiting.
Not because he expected an answer, obviously. No, he did it because he knew, just as well as you did, that there simply wasn't one.
Your mouth opened once, then closed again. Whatever righteous declaration had surged through you only moments ago dissolved somewhere between your mind and your tongue, lost beneath the mounting heaviness spreading through your limbs. Your fingers, still stubbornly wrapped around the bottle, no longer obeyed when you tried to tighten them.
Follo watched the effort with a sigh. "You know, I was hoping we wouldn't have to do this today."
He leaned down and lifted you, but you weren't about to just let him take you—not without a fight, anyway. You managed to dig your fingernails into the fabric of his shirt, tearing at the collar, trying with everything left in you to twist out of his grip.
But barely even flinched, just clamping his arms tighter around you, pinning your flailing elbows against your ribs with a grunt of mild irritation.
Within seconds, the brief burst of adrenaline evaporated, leaving your muscles completely spent. Your limbs fell away, hanging like lead and completely useless as he gathered your limp form fully into his arms and carried you back to the bed. He laid you down against the pillows, smoothing your blankets before lifting your heavy, trembling hand to press a kiss against your knuckles. You flinched at it.
Turning slowly, his eyes drifted over to the far wall where the shattered glass lay.
"It really is such a shame you broke that one," he murmured. "But it doesn't matter, I always keep spares."
He walked over to the nightstand, reaching into his pocket for a vial you hadn't even seen. To your horror, he uncorked it and began to pour a clear liquid directly into the half-finished cup of tea sitting beside your bed. "I'll just have to make this batch a little stronger since you decided to spill your medicine."
You tried to scream, tried to thrash, but your body was a frozen cage. You could only watch in absolute terror as he sat down on the edge of the mattress.
"I know."
His voice softened immediately.
"I know."
One arm slipped carefully behind your shoulders, drawing your limp weight upright until you rested against his chest. He adjusted you, making certain your neck was supported, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face with the backs of his fingers.
"There, much better," he said. His other hand came up, his thumb and forefinger catching your jaw, forcing your chin upward to tilt your head back.
The cold rim of the ceramic mug pressed hard against your lips. You tried to turn away, though it was hardly movement at all.
"Don't fight it," he said, tipping the tea further.
Warm liquid pooled against your lips; some escaped down your chin, , sure, but most of it found its way past them. Its sweetness coated your tongue.
You coughed weakly, he paused just long enough for you to breathe. Then lifted the cup again.
"I know you don't understand. But I tried."
Another swallow.
"I told myself I'd let you recover... I really believed I could."
Another.
"But I love you far too much..."
He continued, his forehead rested briefly against your temple.
"...to ever risk you thinking you don't need me."
The darkness didn't wait long this time. It rushed in from the edges of your blurred vision, pulling you under before the mug even left your lips. Your head fell back against his shoulder, you thought you were still trying to fight and still trying to remember something desperately important. But the thought slipped away before you could grasp it.
He laid you back against the pillows with the same meticulous care he'd shown every day before, the blankets settled over you. He lingered only long enough to smooth your hair one last time, then he extinguished the bedside lamp.
The last thing you remembered was the sound of the deadbolt clicking into place from the outside of your bedroom door, followed by his muffled voice echoing through the solid wood.
"Rest up, [You]. I'll help you draft your resignation letter tomorrow."
When Naoya keeps skipping your mandatory meetings, it's his father who decides to keep you company instead. Only Naobito's idea of a good time means plying you with far too much sake, until you can't think straight.
Tags: r18/NSFW, dead dove, cheating, smut, watersports, creampie, age gap, extreme dubcon, intoxication kink, alcohol, humiliation kink, power imbalance, misogyny, mentions of breeding, naoya catching strays
note: never wrote watersports before. just really wanted to fuck that old man.
Naoya was late, again.
You weren’t surprised, honestly. The moment he realized these meetings were meant to be just the two of you, he stopped bothering to arrive on time, and sometimes he wouldn’t show up at all. When your father or Naobito were present, Naoya was all platitudes and courtesies, polite to the point of exaggerated excess. But alone, any pretense of effort dissipated, and his true colors came out; he didn’t like you, didn’t think you were worth his time, and would pick your appearance apart head to toe.
You had learned to swallow his personality and insults, burying them under your own fake smiles. It’s not like you had a choice in the matter; the decision for Naoya to be your future husband was made a long time ago without your input. All you could do was what was expected of you.
So you waited, sitting with your legs tucked beneath you, drumming your fingers against your thighs as you fought off boredom. Every now and then, the sound of shuffling footsteps or whispers would catch your attention, thinking maybe he would show up this time after all.
But when the door finally slid open, you were surprised to find that it wasn’t Naoya at all, but his father. You weren’t entirely sure if that was relieving or not, having only met him a few times during formal meetings.
“Ah,” Naobito entered the room, a gourd in one hand, his other inside the kimono draped off his torso as he scratched his belly. He looked far more disheveled than you’d expect a clan head to appear even within their own home. You were shocked at how fit he was for a man his age, especially one with such a fondness for the drink. His torso was all broad muscle with patches of silver hair coiled together. Even his face, that was sharp, still managed to look handsome, the wrinkles adding to the appeal rather than taking away anything. You did your best to focus on his eyes, feeling stupid and ashamed to have let your own wander. “Still waiting on my son?”
He sat across from you without waiting for your response, taking a swig of his drink. “My son has terrible manners,” he spoke plainly. “Not sure where I went wrong with him, honestly.” He paused for a moment. “Keep that between us, alright?” He winked at you.
You laughed easily at his words, never having seen this side of the Zenin head before. Normally it was all praise of his baby boy; hearing him speak so plainly almost felt like a conspiracy. It put your nerves at ease, even if you knew better than to openly agree.
“It’s alright,” you said, choosing your words carefully. “I don’t mind waiting. He must be busy, being heir and a sorcerer.”
Naobito laughed at that. “You don’t have to cover for him.” He shook his head, twisting his mustache between pinched fingers. “He shouldn’t have kept you waiting. Probably off picking a fight with his brothers or harassing a maid.” He poured sake into a small porcelain cup from the set beside him and slid it toward you.
You opened your mouth to protest, but he cut you off. “Don’t give me that look. One drink won’t hurt.”
Not wanting to be rude, you accepted the cup. The alcohol burned as it went down, stronger and more bitter than you expected. You coughed, eyes watering, and shook your head trying to ignore the aftertaste. Warmth burned in your belly, spreading outward until a flush reached your cheeks.
“He do this often?” He asked, already refilling the glass and placing it back in your hand. “Leave you alone like this?”
So much for one drink. You hesitated to answer that question, opting to down the second shot. This time it burned less and made your head feel nice and fuzzy.
“I don’t mind,” you said.
“That’s not what I asked,” he chided. “You don’t have to be timid with me, I’m not the one you’re marrying.”
“He does,” you corrected. “But Naoya has responsibilities, I understand that.”
“So do I,” he replied. He lifted the gourd, gesturing to himself. “Yet here I am.”
You laughed easier this time, feeling the smile stretch across your face as you did. The third drink went down perfectly, making the tips of your fingers tickle.
“There it is,” he raised a brow. “Such a pretty smile suits you, sweetheart.”
You swore it was just the alcohol, but the pet name combined with the compliment made you giggle like a school girl. “Thank you.”
He refilled the cup again. “The way I see it, if my son wants to keep you waiting, the least I can do is keep you company.”
Your vision was starting to swim now if you moved your head too quickly. You didn’t consider yourself a lightweight necessarily, but you didn’t often drink strong alcohol, especially not so quickly. He didn’t ask if you wanted more, just continued to pour more glasses and pass them back to you. The urge to pee hit you all at once, your bladder heavy from the nonstop liquid. You didn’t excuse yourself immediately, trying to hold out for better timing.
“Well s’appreciated,” you slurred, trying your hardest to remain coherent. Words felt sloppy on your tongue. You shifted your weight from one knee to the other to abate the feeling.
“Getting restless?” He smirked, jostling the gourd in his hand, making the liquid slosh around. The sound didn’t help your situation.
“The sake’s just very strong, sir,” you murmured.
“Is that so?.” He shrugged. “Drinking it pretty well for a woman. Should finish this one too.” The ceramic skidded across the tatami as he pushed it towards you again. “Half sips aren’t good.”
You knew it wasn’t a good idea to drink anymore. You were no longer in that buzzed zone, but teetering on being drunk. It wouldn’t be becoming of yourself. But his praise made you want to comply; it was nice for someone to be nice to you for a change. You drank it down like the rest.
When the weight in your bladder grew too heavy, you couldn’t hold it anymore. You needed to go before you were too sloshed to walk.
“Scuse me,” you said, speaking slowly as you wobbled to your feet. The tatami flooring felt unstable beneath you.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” He asked, twisting one side of his mustache. “Going somewhere?”
“Just gotta, use the restroom, sir,” you murmured, taking an unsteady step forward. The alcohol hit you all at once making your feet feel like sandbags. Stumbling, you fell forward nearly faceplanting, if not for the strong arm that caught you.
“Watch it,” he cooed. “Can really hit ya all at once if you’re not careful.”
The world felt like it was spinning, the lines on the walls twisting with your vision as he hauled you into his lap instead. He was warm, his pointed stache stickling your neck. His thick arm was wrapped around you, one hand splayed over your tits. Your drunk brain not quite registering the inappropriateness of that.
“Naoya’s too soft,” he spoke. One hand continued, sliding beneath your kimono to squeeze the soft flesh there. “Dyes his hair, gets all dolled up. Sometimes I wonder if he even knows what to do with a woman. Or maybe he does, since he acts so much like one.”
“Ah, sir?” You squirmed, something poking you from behind. You tried to move your limbs to get out of his grasp, but he held you there with ease. Your bladder cramped, the urge to go getting worse from the angle.
“Such a pretty girl like you deserves a real man. Too bad you’re stuck with my son.” He chuckled humorously.
“Sir, I really have to—” you slurred.
“I know what you need, been watching you squirm in place for the past 10 minutes,” he cut you off, this time placing the gourd directly at your lips. Alcohol poured out without warning, making you sputter and choke. Some going into your nostrils burning. Your hands came up, trying to claw at the clay in an uncoordinated need for air. It was agony trying not to piss yourself with every cough once he finally eased up. Your vision was tunneled and unfocused, your stomach displeased with the sudden addition of more alcohol.
“There we go,” he used two fingers, scooping up some sake spilling from the corner of your lips and licking it off. “Now that’s a face my son wouldn’t deserve to see in a million years.”
“Please—”
"In a minute," Naobito barked, hauling you back against his solid frame. The unmistakable feeling of his erection dug into your ass through layers of fabric. "Can't have my future daughter-in-law running off mid-conversation. That'd be downright rude.”
Your thighs trembled violently as you locked every muscle below your waist. The strain brought fresh tears to your bleary eyes, vision swimming with both intoxication and panic. Every time you shifted, the world blurred making you nauseous.
Naobito’s hand pressed to your lower belly making you groan, the pressure agony. Your muscles weren’t as easy to control when everything felt warm and sluggish.
“Well now,” he whistled, both hands massaging your tits. You hadn’t even noticed him undoing the front of your clothes, brain too foggy to keep up. His calloused fingers scraped over your nipples, sending little shocks of pleasure outward. “These might be the finest tits I’ve ever seen.” He rolled his thumbs over them again, slower this time.
“Here’s what’s gonna happen, sweetheart. I’m going to fuck you so good that you’ll be begging for my cock every time my son fumbles between your legs.” He kissed your neck, pinching one of your nipples a little too hard. “And then you’ll come crawling back to me whenever you need relief.”
You moaned, feeling the telltale sparks of your own arousal warring with the need to piss between your legs. The filthy words he spoke went straight to your cunt. Your head flopped back against his shoulder, trying to get the nausea feeling to go away while not losing the contents of your bladder.
“P-please,” you tried again. “Gotta pee—”
“That’s ok,” he said, fingers worming between your legs to press against your clit. “I like messy girls.” The pleasure that radiated from his touch almost made you give in. You clenched tighter, wincing, his fingers continuing to rub circles on your arousal.
“Look at you, so wet already. Soaking my hand, clenching so hard,” he cooed. “Think you can cum before you piss yourself?” He asked, not easing up.
“N-no, no,” you shook your head, eyes rolling back. Humiliation burned, acid shame washing over you. Despite your squirming, his fingers continued, prodding against your most sensitive spot with skilled determination. “Ah—” you whimpered, feeling that building pressure making your toes curl.
“Let it all out,” he commanded, his fingers never relenting.
You tried your hardest to keep clenched, to ignore the burning, desperate need to relieve yourself. But when the pressure spilled over, the orgasm rough and forced, you lost control of all sensations. Pleasure wracked your body as warm liquid spilled out of you, coating your thighs, making a mess all over the floor and his lap. The sound of your stream dribbled to a stop, leaving you boneless against him, tears spilling from your eyes.
“Atta girl,” he praised, pushing you forward into the cooling pile of your own mess. The wet back of your kimono pushed upwards to reveal you to him from a new angle. Your sopping panties were tugged down your thighs, he didn’t bother to remove them. Naobito whistled again. “Might be the prettiest cunt I’ve ever seen too. Bet she’ll pop out the cutest grandkids.”
Your front half just lay there, cheek pressed to the tatami. He lifted your ass for a better angle, pressing a quick kiss to your oversensitive clit. You gasped at the sensation, but stayed pliant. When he dropped you to the floor again, he wasted no time in chasing his own pleasure. His cock prodded at your entrance, sliding in and out a few times shallowly before slowly pressing all the way in. The stretch stung, you were sure you could count every inch of him. His balls smacked your clit with the motion, causing you to shudder. It felt so good, warm, full.
Naobito moved quickly, pulling out before slamming back in, the mushroomy tip kissing your cervix with each thrust. You silently wondered if Naoya was as big as his father, if he could make you feel like this just by sinking into you. If so, maybe there was at least something to look forward to.
Even his movements were surprisingly agile for his age. You were too cried out and drunk to care anymore, enjoying the way he rutted into you, hitting every sensitive spot.
“Tight too, perfect little cunt. Just swallows me up. Might put me in an early grave if she won’t let go.” His hands held your hips so tight you were sure he left bruises. “Can’t wait til you’re wandering around the estate. Maybe get lucky and fuck a baby into you myself.”
You groaned shamelessly at that, clenching around him. “S’good,” you slurred, half out of it. “Feels s’good. So fuckin’ good…”
“Yeah? More honest when you’re stuffed full, aren’t ya?” He punctuated the question by grinding slow and deep that time, a sensation that made your already hazy vision go spotty. “That’s a good girl.”
The praise made your chest warm, tongue lolling out of your mouth, unable to speak again.
His movements grew wild and uneven, the sound of skin slapping and liquid moving was the only noise as he fucked you deeper into the ground, your stretched panties making your thighs hurt from the strain.
“Maybe I should’ve eased up on the sake myself. Then I could fuck this little hole all night…” Naobito grunted, pounding into you with a few more deep, slow thrusts, his hips rocking against your ass.
He groaned when he spilled into you, filling you full with his hot cum. Naobito waited a moment before pulling out. You made a noise at the loss of contact, feeling his spend leaking out of you, trailing down your thighs to meet with the rest of the mess. Your lower half collapsed into the puddle beneath you, leaving you motionless against the ground.
Footsteps sounded off behind you, the shoji door sliding open. You couldn’t move, stiff and jelly at the same time.
“Clean her up,” Naobito commanded. “And someone go find my son.”
tw - afab!reader, non/con, period kinks, exhibitionism, and menstrual blood. this one's nasty y'all.
Every time someone says that Geto Suguru doesn't go absolutely feral for period sex, an angel loses its wings.
There's just something about seeing you sensitive and in pain and covered in your own blood that gets to him. Maybe it's how helpless you are, debilitated for days on end, so reliant on the pleasure only he can give you to make it through something that ought to be natural. Maybe it's how emotional you get - how little teasing it takes to make you cry, to remind you of just how much you need him. Or, maybe, after years of choking down the literal scum of the earth, his taste buds are so fried that he just can't tell the difference between a fine red wine and your arousal-tinged menstrual blood when you cum on his tongue for the nth time that night.
And he's so cruel about it, too. You're already so embarrassed to have been forced into such a vulnerable position by your friend turned cult-leader turned kidnapper, he can't help but draw out your humiliation that much longer. He deliberately lies to you about how long you've spent in his loving care just to make it that much harder to keep track of your cycle. All your products are kept under lock and key for your own safety, so you have to ask him so, so sweetly anytime you need a new pad or painkiller, and you're delusional if he's going to give you more than one at a time. Forget about tampons, too. Those ugly plastic applicators are too complicated for his empty-headed lamb. Unless you're going to lay down and hold still while he helps you insert it, the only thing inside of you for the next seven days is going to be him.
Watching you bleed through your clothes is his favorite part by far. It's probably the quick, terribly succession of obliviousness, then horror, then frustration as you realize he's gotten his way again. He makes a point of dragging you to as many meetings and sermons as he can while you're on your period, dressing you up in the thinnest, whitest robes and making you serve tea and fetch sacraments until a pinprick of red inevitably appears on your immaculate silk. If you dare to draw attention to it or worse, try to slip away, he's more than happy to drag you into his lap and split you open on his cock until he's attended to whatever matters he must. Just try not to squirm too much. If he loses his composure, you'll be the one licking that little red ring off the base of his shaft when he's done.
It's debasing, but you really ought to be thankful his preferences are so strange. If he was any less disgusting, there's be nothing left to stop him from knocking you up every nine months on the dot <3
I’m so sorry for being gone so long!! If you must know, I have been consuming a genuinely concerning amount of visual novels (embarrassingly). Also, I’ve been watching the World Cup, and I am finally crawling back right now because Norway just lost a few days ago, and my heart is completely shattered into a million pieces :(((((((
Just a heads up though, it's probably going to take me a while to be fully active on here again. The VN brainrot still has a death grip on me.
I just wanted to say I love your works!! Especially your yan stuff. I got into mha again recently, and yours was some of the first things I read. Your Chisaki fic was delicious <33
Oh my gosh, thank you so much :P and welcome back to the fandom anon.
It's so cool hearing you got back into MHA through my stuff because I'm actually super new to it (I'm honored sniff sniff). Yeah, I know I missed out on the fandom in its prime and 2020-2021 peak era. Mostly because back then I was still dealing with culture shock moving to America, haha.
haven't reached bnha ending, but came here to cleanse my mind after having to endure canon. can't say im disappointed!! loved your hawks fic 🥹 would love to see more
Omgb thank you so much :D
I feel you too, canon can be a lot to endure (because half of my favorite characters are literally gone now), so I'm glad I could provide a palate cleanser for you lol. Hawks is a personal favorite of mine so there's definitely more of him.
Warnings: Mention of past dub-con, kidnapped reader, abuse of power, mention of past abuse (not reader's past).
Author's Notes: This is a queue, I'm not here.
If someone had told you the Number Two Hero of Japan could be taken down by a common microbe, you would have laughed.
But Keigo caught a cold today, and it’s driving you out of your mind.
Twelve hours. For twelve straight hours, the penthouse has been filled with the wet, hacking rattle of his lungs and the rustling of those massive wings. It is a grating symphony of misery, and your temples have been throbbing since noon.
You found yourself standing by the couch, studying him with a dead expression.
His skin was flushed a feverish pink, his gold-rimmed eyes glassy and unfocused as he tracked your movement. He couldn’t fly right now; his reflexes were shot. Maybe this was finally the opening you'd been waiting for.
For a second, a spike of adrenaline hit your chest.
Strike him. Strike him. Strike him—
… But you know better. This was the same man who'd once crossed three city blocks before a falling pedestrian hit the pavement; half-conscious didn't mean helpless when it came to him.
The country's Number Two Hero didn't survive this long by leaving gaps in his ledger. Because the heavy steel doors remained locked tight, bound to an encrypted Commission frequency you couldn't hope to crack—the same agency intercepted your police reports. And even if you did manage to scream bloody murder down to the street, who would the police believe? Because the they would just call him to come pick up his "unstable, paranoid spouse" again.
God, his fans ate that narrative up. On every hero forum and social media thread, they swooned over how deeply he cared for you, how tragic and romantic it was that Japan’s busiest savior still found the time to his troubled partner. Half the officers downtown had grown up idolizing him; the other half had worked security beside him during disasters. His autograph was framed in their break rooms.
Looking back, a sick wave of nostalgia hits your throat. You find yourself missing the days when you were just a fan. You miss when he seemed so untouchable and magnificent on a billboard, miles away from your actual life.
The realization didn't make you sad anymore. It just made you really irritated.
He let out another cough that shook his entire frame, burying his face into a pillow with a groan.
You clench your hands into fists. You couldn't take another hour of the coughing, and God, the smell of damp feathers is making you nauseous. You need him well, and you need him well now. More importantly, the sooner he recovered, the sooner he would go back to work. If you played your cards right, the Commission would slap him with an away-mission to make up for lost time, and he’d be gone for days.
So here you are.
You don’t break his nose with the washcloth, but you certainly don’t treat his face like a delicate porcelain doll, either.
"Jesus—" Keigo hissed as the freezing washcloth landed squarely over his face. "Little warning would've been nice."
Water streamed into his eyes. He blinked through it with an exaggerated grimace before peeking up at you through damp blond bangs.
"I swear if you don’t shut up—" you say.
Instead of being intimidated, his face melts into an expression of gooey adoration. "You're so cute when you're bossy."
You genuinely consider the logistics of felony assault. If you hit him hard enough to knock him out, does a concussion stop a cough? Probably not.
You march back into the kitchen; the medicine cabinet was locked as always, and hanging there is an upside-down picture of you both from a while back. You're free to roam around this penthouse; Hawks doesn't use chains or dark basement cells to keep you—partly because he finds them "distasteful," his word, but mostly because his lifestyle doesn't allow for it.
Since you are a hostage and not a Michelin-star chef, his options are limited. You rifle through the pantry—stocked with premium ingredients he had delivered to make you feel "at home", with the pantry looking more expensive than your entire first apartment—and settle on a can of chicken noodle soup.
You dump it into a pot, crank the stove up to high.
While the soup heats, you hear a loud thud from the living room.
You walk back to the doorway, ladle in hand, to find him flat on his face on the hardwood floor. He had apparently tried to stand up, wrapped entirely in a cream-colored duvet and tangled his own wings.
Back then, you wouldn't have thought of seeing him like this.
"I tried to come help," his muffled voice rings out from the floorboards.
"Help with what? Testing the flooring?" You stand over him, unimpressed. "Get up."
"I'd love to… but my body disagrees."
"Well, that's tragic." You fold your arms.
"It really is." He tips his head back enough to look up at you through half-lidded eyes, a wing twitching helplessly beneath the blanket. "Pretty sure if I try standing again, I'm just gonna end up kissing the floor."
He offers a weak smile. "So… unless someone's feeling unexpectedly charitable?"
You sigh through your nose in annoyance before hooking your hands beneath his arms—avoiding his sensitive wings because you do not want a reflexive feather to accidentally slit your throat—and heave.
For a guy who flies for a living, he is remarkably heavy. Television always made heroes look effortless. In reality, the Number Two Hero weighed as much as a grown man with another person's worth of muscle and feathers attached.
It's sick, really, remembering how it started. If you could go back in time and punch your past self, you would. You had been so flattered when he first singled you out from the crowd, so blindingly naive when a few casual encounters from a man who seemed entirely too magnificent to care about someone like you—it had been so easy to fall for the act. From time to time, you still remember the hookup that started it all, the late-night visits where he’d drop through your window just to pull you close and take your clothes off. He’d been a fantasy come true back then, a beautiful, dangerous thrill you couldn't get enough of.
You actually thought you were special.
As you drag him back onto the couch like a sack of laundry, slapping another freshly iced towel over his eyes to block out his face. The damp cloth quickly slips askew as he shifts.
With a click of your tongue, you lean over, reaching out your hand to adjust the washcloth back over his eyes. Your face is only inches from his as you pull the cloth upward.
Before either of you can even process the movement, his eyes snap open.
In a fraction of a second, his hand shoots out from the duvet and clamps around your wrist.
The grip hurts. His fingers dig into your flesh with the bone-crushing force of a raptor’s talons. A cold jolt of pure terror strikes your chest, leaving you breathless. It sends a reminder straight down your spine: if he wanted to, he could snap your arm like a dry twig.
Then, the fog in his brain clears. He wakes up fully.
He immediately lets go, tearing his hand away as if your skin had burned him. He scrambles backward into the cushions, his flushed face draining of color as he looks down at your bruising wrist, thoroughly horrified.
"...Shit," he curses. "Baby... baby, I'm sorry. I didn't—I thought—"
You take a sharp step back, cradling your arm against your chest, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. The last time he'd grabbed your wrist that suddenly, it had been to pull you laughing across a crosswalk before the light changed.
The soup on the stove chooses that exact moment to start aggressively boiling over, hissed warnings of burnt sodium filling the tense, quiet apartment.
You force your shoulders back, swallowing down the bile and the panic rising in your throat. You shove the terror down into a locked corner of your mind and slap your unbothered mask back on.
"The soup is boiling," you say. Your voice is too tight, but it’s the best you can manage.
Without waiting to look at his horrified expression—because if you look at him right now, you might actually lose your mind—you turn your back and bolt into the kitchen. Your knees feel like water, but you lunge for the stove just as a thick wave of starchy broth cascades down the pristine stainless steel. You slap the burner off, the screeching hiss dying down into a pathetic little simmer that mimics the ringing in your ears.
Your hands are shaking so violently you can barely hold the paper towel as you aggressively wipe down the burnt stovetop, then ladle the surviving broth and exactly four soggy noodles into a bowl. Without a tray or a napkin, you turn around, ready to march back into the living room holding the burning hot ceramic bowl by the rim, letting the heat sting your fingertips just to stoke the fires of your own rage.
But your hands are slick with a stray smear of broth from the counter.
The ceramic slips. You fumble, your fingers scrambling against the smooth edge, but the heavy bowl tilts entirely out of your grip.
It shatters.
Before your brain can even fully register the sharp crack of the breaking ceramic—before a single shard can even bite into your skin—there is a sudden, blinding flash of crimson.
A feather hooks around your waist, yanking you backward so fast and with such tremendous force that your feet completely leave the floorboards.
Below you, the broken ceramic explodes, jagged shards and boiling soup splattering across the exact spot where you had been standing a millisecond prior. The hot liquid hits the baseboards, but not a single drop touches you.
Then, dead silence.
The feather lowers you back down to the ground gently, another catches a falling spoon before it hits the floor and hands it back to you.
Hawks is sitting up now, his massive wings half-flared and trembling, though his eyes are still heavily bloodshot, blinking blearily through his messy blonde hair. He looks thoroughly exhausted, his chest heaving as he tries to process what just happened through his fever-addled brain.
"...You okay?" he rasps. It terrifies you how deep his training goes for a second.
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"Good. That's... good," Keigo murmurs, his energy visibly draining by the second now that the perceived danger has passed. His shoulders slump, his wings folding back down into a heap around him. "Scared me for a second, baby..."
He sinks heavily back into the couch cushions, letting out a weak whine as his face hits the throw pillow. "The floor is still sticky though. Can you... can you try again? With a plastic bowl this time?"
You stand frozen in the kitchen for a beat, staring at the shattered ceramic and the steaming broth pooling on the tile. Feeling stupid for how clumsy you were compared to him.
Even sick, he is still the Number Two Hero, after all.
It occurred to you with a bitter laugh that he'd never once failed to save you—from everything except himself. Until now, the conflict really twists in your gut. You hate him for the months he’d kept you locked up in this rotating carousel of high-rise safe houses, but the gap in power between you never failed to force you into this loop of fear, rage, and forced docility. The only weapon you have left is your resentfulness, because if you show him how truly terrified you are, you lose the tiny shred of agency you have left.
So you turn right back to the pantry to grab another can, your eyes drilling holes into the label as you actively root for the sodium content to do what the fever couldn't.
Once the second batch is finished, you ladle it into a plastic bowl as he said. You march back into the living room, holding it by the rim, the plastic safely insulating the heat.
"Get up and eat," you say, making your voice remain level.
He stirs, the cold towel has slid off his face, his eyelids fluttering open like a pair of broken blinds. The golden hue of his eyes is completely bloodshot. He looks at the bowl, then up at you, his throat clicking as he tries to swallow.
"Smells... good," he rasps.
"It's canned, Keigo."
"So?" He tries to push himself up on one elbow, but his arm buckles immediately, sending him face-first back into the cushions. "...That was embarrassing."
You stare at him. He stares back, offering a shameless smile.
"Think you'd be willing to humor a dying man?" he wheezes, scrambling awkwardly to hoist his torso against the armrest, his wings flaring out to balance him.
You sit heavily on the edge of the couch, plunge the spoon into the scalding broth, and shove it directly between his lips. You don't blow on it. It’s fresh off the burner, practically boiling.
Hawks flinches as the liquid hits his mouth, and he swallows it down in one fluid motion. You cast a skeptical glance at the bowl, which is still sending up clouds of steam. His lips are already turning red, but he doesn't complain.
Deliberately, you scoop up a few more spoonfuls from the very bottom—the hottest part of the bowl—and shove them into his mouth.
Yet, he obediently drinks it all down. His eyes are watering from the heat, but he just keeps taking every searing bite you give him.
"Does that not burn?" you ask in disbelief.
He lets out a huff that might be a laugh, leaning his head back against the sofa. "Oh, it's hot."
"...Then why aren't you saying anything?"
"Hurts a bit," he murmurs. "But I've had much worse."
You stare at him, your hand freezing mid-air with the spoon, waiting for his explanation.
"I grew up eating food like that," he says, his eyes drifting away for a moment, tracking the steam rising from the bowl. "Before the Commission bought my life, we lived in this broken-down shack. My old man was always hiding from the cops, and food only showed up when he felt like throwing us a bone."
He leans his head back against the sofa, a stray blonde lock falls into his eyes, but he doesn't have the energy to brush it away.
"When he did bring something back, you ate it instantly," he continues. "You didn't wait for it to cool, didn't spit it out just because it hurts a little, and you definitely didn't leave a single scrap behind. If you sat there whining about the temperature, he'd hit you for being loud."
He looks back at you, the golden hue of his eyes completely unbothered by the harsh reality of his own words. "I mean, I'm a top hero now. I can buy whatever I want. But the old way of living... it's still stuck with me, I guess."
He exhales, a fever-hot breath that brushes against your knuckles holding the spoon, making you suddenly lose the desire to say anything more.
Speaking up now, throwing another sarcastic jibe would only make you look shallow and foolish.
Slowly, you dip the spoon back into the bowl. Only this time, you lift it to your lips and blow on it. You bring it back to his mouth, waiting until the steam dissipates before pressing it to his lips.
Hawks blinks, a flicker of surprise crossing his glassy eyes, followed by a look of gooey adoration that makes your stomach turn.
"Don't look at me like that," you say, keeping your eyes strictly on the soup. "I'm only doing it because I don't want to play the bad guy here."
"Whatever you say, baby," he wheezes, entirely compliant, as he takes the cooled spoonful from your hand. "I'm just a helpless patient, entirely at your mercy."
He parts his lips obediently, taking the cooled spoonful from your hand with a sigh of contentment. He swallows, leaning his head back against the cushion, resting his cheek against the throw pillow so he can keep looking up at you.
"You really hate me right now, don't you?" he asks.
"I hate you every day, Keigo," you reply instantly, your voice flat and cold. "Today just happens to be louder."
Keigo lets out a congested little chuckle. "That's fair."
You close your eyes and pray that the fever will break by tomorrow morning.
Back to staring at the ceiling. The smart-clock on the wall glows, ticking away the hours. His phone on the kitchen counter from across the room, is still buzzing occasionally with emails from his sidekicks and scheduling alerts from the Commission:
Save this neighborhood, rescue that family, respond to another disaster. Heroes need him. Japan needs him.
Thinking about a yan who broke his darling but immediately regrets it after. </3
Tw: mentions of noncon, abuse, captivity. Stockholm syndrome-ish. Mindbreak, angst.
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He thought this was the life that he wanted. With you curled up obediently to his side. He has no reason to hurt you now aside from the fact that he wants to. And you take it like the good girl he taught you to be. Because you know if you don't, it'll get worse than you ever want to imagine. Then you ever want to remember.
You cook and you clean. You smile and rush over and kiss his cheek when he comes home, asking how his day was. It was what he wanted. But it doesn't feel genuine. Your smile never reaches your eyes, and it feels like you're reading from a poorly written sitcom script about a housewife from the 1950s.
Bruises linger on your arms and legs. Scars run up and down your body that neither of you speak of the reason why they're there to begin with. You like to act like they aren't there. Always making excuses up for his behavior even when he apologizes for it. He never realized the extent of his brutality until you're brushing it off like it's another Tuesday. Which for you, it is.
It's uncanny. All his dreams had come true, yet looking at your empty eyes as you follow him around like a lost puppy makes even a man as twisted as him sick to his stomach. You're not you anymore.
Like someone had snatched the real you and replaced you with this machine in your place. One that looked like you. That spoke like you and felt like you. But could never get the one thing that made him set his eyes on you in the first place right.
You were a monster of his own creation.
He almost missed the days when you'd spit in his face, scratch and claw at him whenever he got too close to you. When you'd scream at the top of your lungs when he'd pin you down or tie you to the bed so he could have his way with you, never hesitating to tell him what a sick fuck he was for doing this to you.
Some days, he craved for you to try and escape again. The times when he'd drag you back by your hair whenever he caught you trying to sneak out the window. But his favorite was when he'd actually get to chase you.
Maybe he misses it so much because you were yourself. Your stubborn, beautiful self who would fight him tooth and nail even when you were screaming and sobbing.
But now you're lying in his bed, nuzzling into him without a care in the world. Your eyes closed contently like he hadn't violated you in the most horrific ways possible both mentally and physically.
He gritted his teeth as his arms wrapped around your waist, still too cruel, too selfish to ever let you go. Even if it's destroying you both.
Mahito is so scary because you're the only one who sees him.
You can't tell your friends, you can't call the cops, you can't even discuss it with your therapist for fear of being committed.
You're all alone with him—half the time convinced you’re going insane.
He doesn't even need to kidnap you. Why would he? He likes your cozy apartment. To see you in your natural habitat with all your personal trinkets. Your books, your decorations, the contents of your fridge, your makeup, your clothes, not to mention the soft warmth of your bed…
Sure, his sewer has its charm, but you probably wouldn’t like it there very much. Not that it would stop him, but he’s sure you’d be boring if all you did was stay cooped up there all day.
This is much more interesting. To be there when you come home from work, having trifled through all your belongings, dragged everything out—made a mess like a new puppy would. To watch you try to cling to your sanity, going about life, trying to live it normally even when he’s right there on your sofa wanting to dish about how much you loath your pissy boss or that loud neighbor and what fun it might be to kill them.
You brush him off as intrusive thoughts—a manifestation within your mind. That’s the only explanation that allows you to keep your wits with you.
But it’s become hard to bring anyone home. Even though others can't see him, he’ll walk about your friends and the odd date and comment on all the things they do, ridiculing them when they say something cheesy, feigning puking before giving it away with a snicker, then asking you why you bother hanging out with them at all. And you wonder if that’s what you really think… why else would a figment of your imagination say something like that?
No. You decide. He doesn’t represent your thoughts. He’s just… a roommate who knows no boundaries.
Funny enough, you don’t really recognize that he’s any dangerous before you’re getting dressed after a shower, opening a drawer on your dresser you rarely look in—only to find it overfilled with dozens of tiny shrunken heads.
You scurry back on the floor with your hand clasped over your mouth until your back meets your bed—skin crawling. There’s no air left in your lungs from the shock to produce any such thing as a scream—so instead, you start heaving—then crying.
“Oh—I was wondering when you’d find them!” A cheer is heard from your bedroom threshold.
Your eyes pan to look at him—or it. Mahito, with a big grin on his face—clapping as though impressed by your performance.
“Wh-what– what is this?” You splutter, trying not to throw up—casting shifty glances over at the lump that had fallen to the floor—its face twisted with agony, unrecognizable, but you think you still knew… “What have you done?”
It doesn’t smell of rot, but something else—like unwashed clothing – sweat and piss and shit—you don’t understand how you hadn’t smelled it before. You don’t understand how you hadn’t heard it before—the moaning, though only in hoarse weak voices, still there, in a chorus, crying in pain.
“I’ve been studying them.” He says—casually, padding across the floor before bending down to pick the one up.
He looked at it with disappointment, throwing it up and catching it like one would a baseball—then clicked his tongue.
“But I must say you’ve got boring taste… I don’t feel like I learned much of use from any of them at all.”
He drops it to the floor in a fleshy splat, and you cringed anew—wanting to crawl away, wanting to get out, to call the police—maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to be committed—maybe there was something genuinely wrong with you…
Mahito doesn't share your concerns, though. He’s got his mind on other things.
“I think I’ll learn better through practice.”
You don’t realize what he’s talking about before you’re being lifted up on the bed and then pushed down against it.
His lean but muscular frame has you dwarfed as he crawls after you—caging you between his arms and legs.
“I wouldn’t mind the floor, but I’m sure you’d prefer the bed. That’s how you humans usually like it, right?” He smiles—as though he’s doing you a favor.
He’s taken off his usual tunic—showcasing a pale grey chest patchworked together in crude stitches—and you don’t really understand why you’d ever conjure something that looked like it. So human, yet still… so not.
“I didn’t know what size you’d want—they were all so different—but I think bigger is better, isn’t it?”
It doesn’t register before you feel the weight of it on your stomach.
Fat and warm, ridged with veins and hard against you.
Looking down, feeling the situation settle on your skin like the raw cold—you realize, though you don’t understand it—Mahito isn’t just some imaginary friend.
Whatever he is—he’s neither friend nor imaginary.
Your chest flares. “Mahito, no – ”
Your hands fly to try and push him off, but they’re easily caught. His fingers stretch inhumanly like playdough, using only one hand to reign in both wrists, pinning them to the pillow above you.
“No? Still too small?” He asks, as though your uproar had been a cry for more—his voice in a playful lilt. “I can make it bigger if you like~”
You squirm when the thing between your thighs grows an inch—swelling up into something fatter than your wrist—weighty and twitching atop you.
It alone churns your guts, but the sight of his face gleaming so innocently makes it all so much worse.
You whimper as he drags a rude finger through your folds—bluntly poking at your hole.
“You’re supposed to be wet, no?” He posed, keen eyes watching your face grimace in discomfort—drilling his digit inside you despite it.
When knuckle-deep, he curled it, nail scraping into the gummy of your tender walls—making your whole body twist with an ache, shaking your head while sinking your teeth into your lip.
“Stop-” You croaked pitifully, still trying to wring your wrists free—but the hand keeping them jailed had hardened into something that was no longer skin.
He just yawned at your struggle. “So noisy...” Bored while looking down at you and the ugly way your lips curled at his crude fingering—but then his eyes widened. “Wait—oh! I get it now! So, this is what kissing is for…”
He didn’t give you much time to turn away before his mouth locked on yours—more in an attempt to swallow than to kiss, feeding you his tongue—which felt so much longer than it should be—winding through you until it licked your gag-reflex and made you choke.
You tensed in response, clenching the finger prodding you—and he took it as an invitation to squeeze another in—making you squeal out a sob in his mouth.
But though it was a cruel ministration, it was enough to tickle the instinct—dragging wet out from within you, bathing the digits that now slid with greater ease in and out.
“See~ I told you I’d learn better through practice...” He mumbled against your lips—having felt the change—also noticing the quiet that befell you… looking so cute beneath him.
He chuckled—the taste of your kiss still warm and wet on his lips.
“That really did shut you up, hm~ you humans are so funny.”
That thing resting heavily on your belly does a little jump, and you flinch with it. Left panting after being throat-fucked by a tongue—you’re really only able to shake your head as he slips the beastly thing down between your thighs—its fat head licking your clit on its way until kissing your entrance.
Two fingers haven't done you any justice—nothing could—to prep you for something of that size.
“I think this is correct…” He muses, nudging himself against the slim coin-sized hole—looking a little confused while he did so—though not exactly unsure of himself… more as though it was the whole procedure in and of itself that was at fault and not him. He was just following instructions, after all.
Sucking his teeth at the tautness, he continued to press the tip through you.
A whine was ripped from your chest as it arched off the bed—thighs quaking on each side of his hips, kept spread despite wanting to force themselves shut.
“It’s better if you relax.” He offered then, though without much sympathy. Sounding almost jaded—as though you were keeping him waiting.
But then a thumb pressed down on your clit, forcing another jolt to rush through you.
“Women like to be touched here, right?” He rubbed crass circles into it—worse than amateurishly—rough patterns that bore no real intention of making you feel good.
Then his mouth slid from your mouth, down your neck—only to sink teeth in your tit.
“And here~” He giggled while nomming your nipple, rolling the little nib between his teeth before flicking over it with his tongue again and again, sucking on it harshly.
None of it made you relax like he’d suggested. Either way, he continued to sink his length one thick chub at a time as fast as your hole allowed. And soon enough, he reached your end before your hole could reach his. But that was no issue…
The hand on your clit, cupped your mound instead—and beneath it, where warmth pooled, you felt inner things alter—change, rearrange, allowing the giant member inside you to sink deeper even though you knew there couldn’t possibly be any deeper to go.
“Wow~ look at that…” He awed when his pelvis smushed against your mound—kneading into your clit as he pressed a curious hand down on the bulge he was making in your belly.
Strings of drool stuck from his lips to your chest—and a sick look pooled in his eyes.
Thicker and thicker breaths left him. He swallowed thickly. Barely blinking.
“I think I get it now…” His voice had shed its humorous tone, now sounding soft with something you didn’t want to have the attention of. “It’s like our souls are playing together…”
His hand stroked your stomach—like he was petting something you couldn't see.
hi there! can i request yan! sanzu or koko,where his darling is too terrified to be in same room because of his cruel punishments?
Ahhhhh yes!!I went with Sanzu because I feel like it suits him!
Everyone is 18+
Tw: gun play, russian roulette, slight mentions of drug use, threats, victim blaming, Sanzu's just a bastard
You hated when he was like this. You heard him stumbling up the stairs, calling out your name. He was drunk, or at least tipsy, you could hear it in the way his speech slurred as he called out your name.
Being locked in a master bedroom, there wasn’t much places you could go. In the closet, you did that only one time after he left you in it for a whole day for trying to hide in it. Under the bed, or the bathroom.
The bathroom really became your sanctuary, as depressing as it was. It was the only lock in the room that you had access too, mostly using it even when he wasn’t home. It brought you comfort, as depressing as that was. Feeling like it was the only sense of normalcy you had left in your life.
You were in it now, sitting down on the edge of the tub. You kept your head down. You hoped that he would be tired, that he would just get to the room and pass out like he did occasionally when he was too drunk or high to function properly.
Alas, luck has never been on your side, not since the man in one of the most dangerous gangs in the country had claimed you as his own. When he saw you weren’t in the room, welcoming him back like he always expected you too, he frowned, anger bubbling up inside him as he was greeted with silence.
“(Y/n)?” He called your name out again, deciding to give you the benefit of the doubt and give you one last chance to correct your mistakes.
Sanzu actually been in a good mood, he always was after taking out a bunch of moles with Mikey. He couldn’t wait to come home and tell you all about it,
You covered your mouth to stay silent. You weren’t ready to deal with him, not just yet. He looked around before walking to the bathroom that was connected to the room. It was always your favorite place to try and avoid him.
“Open the door, (Y/n),” he said coldly, rattling the handle. “Before I break the fucking door down, you know what I said about locking me out.”
It was like you were possessed, your body deciding it would be best to get this over with rather than wait and invite more danger in before your mind could process it. Your eyes connected and his hand wrapped around your wrist and pulled you out of the bathroom.
He smiled, looking down at you. A pregnant silence passed between you. You let out a shaky breath. You hated this. Sanzu was a cruel man, always wanting to build up the anticipation before he struck.
“You know why I punish you so much, (Y/n)?”
You thought about responding briefly before shaking your head, deciding that it would be best to keep your mouth shut before you said something that would make him even angrier.
“It’s because I want you teach you how to survive this world, it’s because I love you and want you to learn.” And just like that his blue eyes turned cold. “But you obviously haven’t learned a fucking thing, have you?”
“I have!” You protested. “Im just... tired.”
He frowned. “Shut the fuck up. I don’t want to hear your excuses.”
You sat down on the floor, back against the wall; trying not to let despair swallow you whole as you waited for him to say something. He just stood there, staring at you before he broke into a grin, the scars on the corners of his mouth becoming more prominent.
Sanzu didn’t say a word, reaching into his pockets and pulling out two guns, pointing them at you.
The pink haired male had plenty of weapons, more than you could count, actually. And it wasn’t the first (or last) time he had threatened you with one of them. But this time, you were genuinely afraid he was serious this time.
You knew he hated when you hid from him, but was he actually going to shoot you because of it?
“San - Sanzu, put the guns down. Please.” His eyes narrowed at your demands and he held onto them, making your body shake. Was this it? Was this all his “enemies” saw before he ruthlessly ended their life?
No matter how loud your cries or how much you begged him to stop, that you’d do anything, he ignored you. “Choose one, (Y/n), and choose wisely. I’d hate for you to pick the wrong one, I don’t wanna see your pretty little brain splattered against the wall.”
The graphic image swam in your head, making you cry even harder. “Please stop! I’m sorry-”
“I SAID CHOOSE!” He screamed at you.
Sobs wracked through your body, blindly pointing at a random one. The right one, you couldn’t really tell. You squeezed your eyes shut, getting ready for the loud bang that would echo in your ears before you dropped dead.
Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad. It could be a new start, or total darkness. You’d even rather be in hell than be with Sanzu Haruchiyo any longer.
By the time he pulled the trigger you had accepted your fate.
You froze when you heard nothing but a click and maniacal laughter. There was no burst of tears, no shot. You slowly opened your eyes, looking up at him.
Teasing you with death, with freedom away from him, that was even crueler than actually shooting you.
“There’s no bullets in either of them. I used them earlier. Put them all in a fucker that thought he could betray Bonten and get away with it.” He paused for a moment, looking down at you before bursting out laughing. "Did you really think I would shoot you? My (Y/n)? When I love you so much?”
“Yes.”
There was so much more you wanted to say, scream about how much of a sick mother fucker he is, how he wouldn’t know what love was if it looked him in the face.
Yet, you regretted that one three lettered word after it came out of your mouth as his eyes glared down at you.
Tears streamed down your face and you grabbed his wrist. “Please Sanzu, I’m sorry for hiding from you, I swear I won’t do it again. Can - can we just please go to bed?”
You hated getting in bed with him, because it always used more than it was for sleeping. But just this once you were willing to drag yourself into one hell because it was better than the other that was staring you in the eye.
"I'm sorry, (Y/n)," he sighed. For a brief moment you tricked yourself into thinking he meant it before he smiled. "But you look too cute all shaken up like that. It's your fault, really. I just can't resist when you always have the sweetest reactions."
You wanted to scream, tell him how much you despised him, let him feel a fraction of the hatred you had for him bubbling up inside you. Instead you sucked it up once again and tried your hardest to get back to his good side.
“I - it sounds like you had a long day, you should get some rest...”
He grinned, that twisted, sadistic smile that had your blood running cold.
“You thought that was your punishment?” He snickered, grabbing your chin and making you look at him face to face. “We haven’t even started yet.”
Love the genre of sadism that’s basically just extreme ‘cuteness agression’. “I love you so much that I get an overwhelming urge to violently manhandle and wound you, like some delicate prey thing that I need to rip open and devour.”
