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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
I do: Yandere contents, preferably villain characters, non-con, almost any form of violence and disgusting things that you can think of.
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 don't do: Male reader (sry), AUs, scat, zoophilia, canon underage characters.
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NAVIGATION
MASTERLIST
RULES:
Tr*mpie, homophobia, and Zionism are NOT tolerated here.
DNI if you make jokes about Diddy and the Epstein Files, you are disgusting and I don't want to be anywhere near you.
I do not post, allow, or tolerate the glorification of real-world violence, and mass tragedies.
While I don't police my followers' ages, I will only engage in mature-themed discussions with accounts that clearly state they are 18+ in their bio.
Any targeted abuse will result in an immediate block and report.
Do not repost my original work or inject unrelated links to my posts to gain traffic.
If you have a genuine concern, please reach out so we can discuss it properly.
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AO3 (Crosspost): Wasabi_luv_u
Facebook (Yumeshipping account): Wasabi Biết Bay
Wattpad (Entirely Vietnamese & is tailored to a different target audience): Wasabi_luv_u
Summary: An annoying midnight visit from your boyfriend was supposed to end with a sandwich, but he had a completely different craving in mind.
Author's Notes: Seems like Enjin won the polls. MDNI.
18+ oral (f. receiving)
You were sitting inside, minding your own business, when this massive thump rattled your ceiling.
As you stepped into the light of the streetlamp, you found Enjin dangling from your gutter. He’s hanging by the hooked handle of Umbreaker, swaying slightly in the humid breeze, looking remarkably relaxed.
"Enjin," you said, crossing your arms. "Explain. Now."
"Oh, hey," he said, doesn't even look startled. He gave you a little two-finger salute from the gutter. "Wanted to give you a little surprise visit. Since your window latch has been busted anyway, I figured I’d save you the walk to the front door."
"You were trying to peer into my room, weren't you?"
"Peer? Wow, okay, that's a strong word," he chuckled, though the sound is cut short when the gutter groans under his weight. He cleared his throat, his gaze shifting toward your front door. "Say, you wouldn't happen to have a ladder? Or a sandwich?"
You sighed, rubbing the bridge of your nose. For someone who fights Trashbeasts for a living, there is absolutely no way he’s actually stuck; he could easily drop down on his own if he wanted to. He’s staying up there entirely to bug you and drag this bit out.
But as much as you'd love to just walk back inside and lock the door, he’ll probably end up tearing the entire gutter system right off the house.
"Just come inside here before the neighbors call the cops," you muttered as you trudged over to the garage, dragging out the heavy metal ladder.
Honestly, you have an agenda here. You will slap some turkey and mayo between two slices of bread, hand it over, and politely point him back toward the sidewalk so you can get back to your peaceful night.
But of course, things went entirely sideways.
"E... Enjin, slow down! This is too much..."
The sandwich never got finished. It sat half-assembled on a plate behind you, abandoned and forgotten, condiments pooling together in a mess. You were halfway through spreading the mayo when a warm, heavy weight pressed flush against your back. Then one thing led to another — his hands led to pulling, pulling led to pushing, pushing led to your back hitting the couch cushions. Clothes scattered across the floor as your shirt crumpled near the door, his jacket hanging off the desk chair, and everything else tangled together on the hardwood.
His hand gripped your thigh, hitching it higher, changing the angle to drag a sound out of you. He knew exactly how to drive you up, how to make your breath catch and your toes curl. He pulls out just enough to use his thumb to grind mercilessly against your clit.
"Too much, yeah? ...I'll slow down."
A beat.
"Eventually."
That cocky bastard. Still smirking even now, even with sweat rolling down his temple and his composure cracking at the edges. His hair had fallen loose from its usual slicked-back arrangement, strands of it curtaining his face as he dipped down.
You let out a choked, desperate sound as your fingers clenched into the sweat-dampened cushion as his tongue worked up all your sensitive spots, making your body jerk and convulse uncontrollably.
"You... you're a liar. You said you were hungry... for actual food."
"Both. Turns out I was hungry for both." A breathless laugh broke out of him. "Can you blame me?" The noises extended beyond obscene. There was never a steady rhythm, the motion of his mouth and tongue going either too fast or too slow and never really giving you a precise pattern that you could hold onto.
"You're absolutely destroying that poor cushion. If that were my shoulder, you’d have clawed me to shreds by now, hm?"
"Mm... I-I don't know..."
"Might have even torn right through my tattoos, for all I know."
His fingers curled around the backs of your knees, spreading you wider. Looking up at you through dark lashes with an expression caught somewhere between reverence and lust.
Your head thrashed back against the couch, your spine arching so violently your heels dig into his shoulders for leverage. The wet warmth kept going, lapping and lapping, making all of your nerves go haywire. A broken, high-pitched keening sound escapes you.
"Enjin—god, Enjin, please... I’m going to—"
"Please, what? Finish that sentence." His name in your mouth like that — did something irreversible to him. His fingers dug bruises into the soft flesh of your thighs as he held you steady through it.
You choked on the rest of the sentence, your eyes rolling back as the first wave of a shattering climax ripples through you, your thighs trembling uncontrollably against his ears.
Only when the shaking subsided to something manageable did he pull back. Chin slick. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and lifted his weight moving off you just enough to let you breathe, though he didn’t go far.
"Ah... look at that. You’re my absolute world, you know that?" he murmured, his voice thick with affection. He leaned down to pressed a firm kiss right to your earlobe, letting his breath warm your skin. "You have this hold on me, babe. I’m just so damn proud that you’re mine."
"Stop saying such embarrassing things, I hate you, Enjin!"
You groaned, your muscles feeling completely like jelly. The ceiling was still there, but your racing heart was finally starting to slow down.
Enjin just laughed, as he nipped gently at the skin he’d just kissed to catch you off guard. "Yeah, yeah. You hate me, breaking my heart here, babe."
He finally rolled off you and somehow — God knows how, given you'd stripped each other down to almost nothing — his cigarette pack was still in his back pocket. He fished it out, shook one loose with practiced ease, and lit it off the dying pilot light of your stove. Because apparently, using a lighter like a normal person was beneath him.
He took a slow drag, the orange glow illuminating the sharp lines of his face for a brief second before he exhaled the smoke away from you, watching the gray wisps drift toward the ceiling.
You threw up a weak hand to shove at his chest as he settled back down, but he didn't even budge. Instead, he caught your wrist mid-air. He just watched you through half-closed eyes, the cigarette dangling precariously between his fingers, completely silent. Which, for Enjin, was a miracle.
"Still hate me?" he teased.
Before you could snap back, he took another drag and reached over, gently tugging the mangled cushion out from under your head. He tossed it aside and replaced it with his own thigh, cradling you against him. He smoothed a few stray hairs away from your forehead.
"Oh, and the window latch thing," he added, tapping your nose playfully. "Seriously. Fix it."
Summary: Your boyfriend shows up at your apartment right after a League mission.
Author's Notes: Something different from what I write every now and then.
"Jesus, Touya," you breathed out, taking an involuntary half-step back. "You scare the hell out of me when you show up looking like this."
Dabi was leaning against the wall right next to your doorframe.
He looked terrifying. Wisps of white smoke were literally curling off his skin, smelling like burnt leather and ozone. His clothes were slightly singed, and his bright blue eyes were wide and manic, glowing in the dim hallway. It didn't take a genius to figure out he had just come back from a League of Villains mission, and it definitely hadn't been a peaceful one.
A slow, lazy smirk crept onto his scarred face, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Aw, seems like I gave you a little scare. Maybe you should lock your doors better, doll."
"I do lock them. You just happen to have a weird habit of lurking," you replied, rolling your eyes. You stepped aside to let him in, but he stayed put, tapping his fingers against his thighs. "So, how did the League stuff go anyway?"
Dabi let out a dry huff, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. "It was alright." He glanced at you, his eyes scanning your face, shifting the subject before he could get too specific about the blood on his boots. "What about you? Did you actually do something productive today, or just watching that boring TV show?"
"Hey, I actually cleaned the kitchen," you defended yourself, pointing a finger at him. "And I did my laundry. Unlike some people, I don't just run around setting things on fire for a living."
"Sounds exhausting," he drawled, his voice dropping into that familiar, mocking tone. But then he glanced down at his boots, then back at the dark staircase. His smirk faded into something a bit more distant. "Anyway, I shouldn't have come here looking like this. Go back to your boring TV show since I'm ruining your night."
He turned and started walking down the stairs, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
As you watched his back move away from you, a sudden wave of guilt hit you. His voice had sounded normal, but the way his shoulders slumped told a different story. You realized your joke about him being scary might have actually hurt his feelings.
"Touya, wait!" you called out, stepping out into the cool hallway.
He stopped on the steps but didn't turn around right away. He kept his back to you, his voice sounding a little forced when he finally spoke. "What? Forgot to ask for takeout? I can hit the convenience store on the corner if you're hungry."
Before you could answer, he let out a dry, humorless sigh. "Better get your requests in now, anyway. The League is getting way too famous. Pretty soon, I won't even be able to grab you a soda without some annoying hero trying to pick a fight with me."
You walked down the hallway and down the first few steps until you were standing right behind him. Without giving him a chance to say another sarcastic remark, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms tightly around his waist from behind, not caring about the ash or the lingering heat radiating off his leather coat.
Dabi went completely, utterly rigid.
His breath hitched loudly in his throat. He was still radiating a feverish, dangerous heat from his quirk, but you didn't care. You just squeezed him tighter. For a long, quiet moment, the feared villain of the League of Villains was completely paralyzed by a simple hug.
"I don't want anything from the store," you whispered against his jacket. "I just want you to stay."
Slowly, the tension left his shoulders. His hands came out of his pockets, and he covered your hands with his own, his grip tight and almost desperate. He let out a long, shaky exhale, the last of the smoke finally clearing from his skin as he leaned back into you.
"...You're gonna get ash all over your floor," he grumbled.
Author's Notes: I've been trying to clear up my drafts a little bit.
That screeching sound of the key always sent a cold spike through your chest, no matter how many months had bled into one another.
You didn't move from your spot on the edge of the mattress as you watched the door swing open. Enjin stepped into the room, kicking the door shut behind him with the heel of his boot. He was carrying a brown paper grocery bag in one arm, his other hand casually shoving his signature umbrella over his shoulder.
“You're back early today," you noted, your voice flat. Months of this had hollowed you out, burning away the screaming, the desperate begging, and the furious yanking against the chain until your skin bled. All that violent resistance had gone cold, leaving behind nothing bbu exhaustion. You were simply too tired.
Enjin paused, looking over at you with that laid-back, effortlessly charming grin. He set his umbrella against the wall and tilted his head. "What's with that look?" he teased. "Am I not wanted?"
You knew better by now. If you said yes, you would have to endure his frustratingly pitying look that made you feel like a hysterical child throwing a tantrum. It was easier to play along, and took less energy too.
"No," you lied. "It's fine. I miss you, Enjin."
"Good. 'Cause I missed you too." He didn't miss a beat, completely unbothered by your lack of enthusiasm, and walked over to the small kitchen counter he’d set up in the corner of the room. He started unloading the bag, the crisp crinkle of paper filling the quiet space. He pulled out a carton of milk, a loaf of bread, and then stopped, holding up a transparent plastic container.
"Do you like strawberries?" he asked casually, as if you were just roommates figuring out a meal plan.
As if the heavy iron cuff chafing against your ankle wasn't anchored to the floorboards right beside the bed.
Instead of waiting for your silence to break, Enjin just turned back to the bag, pulling out two different boxes of cereal. He held them up side by side, squinting at the nutritional facts and comparing the brands.
"I grabbed the ones with the dried fruit, but they had the chocolate flakes on sale," Enjin mused aloud, tapping his fingers against the cardboard of the box. "Thought you might want a little something sweet for a change."
Before you could fully process the absurdity of it, he set the boxes down and wiped his hands on his pants. He walked over to the bed, the mattress dipping significantly under his weight as he sat down beside you.
Without a shred of hesitation, he leaned in and gathered you into his arms. He smelled like the crisp outside air and tobacco—the old, familiar scent of him that used to bring you comfort back when things were real. He pulled your back against his chest, and began peppering soft, sweet kisses along your temple and the line of your jaw.
"Ah, God, I love you so much, babe," he murmured, his voice thick with affection. He pressed a firm kiss right below your ear, letting his breath warm your skin. “You have no idea how much I think about you when I'm out there. I swear, nobody could ever love you the way I do. My beautiful, beautiful girl. My sweet, clever, gorgeous girl."
You didn’t lean into it, but you didn't pull away either, staring blankly at the wall while his lips brushed against your skin.
Eventually, he slowed down, his chin resting comfortably on your shoulder as his large hand gently rubbed your arm, right over the sleeve of his old shirt you were wearing.
"Brought a little something extra today though," he said, his voice dropping into a softer, quieter register right against your ear. He squeezed you just a bit tighter. “Happy birthday."
The words sound entirely foreign. It took a long, agonizing second for the syllables to compute.
Your birthday?
Oh, right. Your birthday. For a second, your mind scrambled to check the mental calendar you’d been desperately keeping in your head, only to realize you had lost track somewhere around three weeks ago, the passing of time blurring into a meaningless cycle of grey mornings and locked doors. Nobody else in the world knew where you were, nobody else was looking anymore, and nobody else was going to wish you well today.
You sat completely paralyzed in his lap, staring blankly ahead as he reached into his jacket pocket. When his hand reappeared, he was holding a small, neat box wrapped in plain brown paper. He tore the paper away with an easy flick of his thumb, opening the box to reveal a simple leather cord necklace with a polished, raw obsidian pendant.
It was a handmade piece from a small shop you used to pass together all the time. Months ago—back when you still had a life and you were still his partner by choice—you had stopped in front of that window, pointed at that exact pendant, and offhandedly mentioned how much you liked the rugged look of it. You hadn't even expected him to be listening.
"Thought this would look good on you," Enjin murmured.
He didn't wait for you to answer. He unclasped it and carefully wrapped it around your wrist. The cool feeling settled against your skin, right above the heavy iron cuff chained to the bed. Both given by the exact same hands.
Once the clasp clicked into place, Enjin didn’t pull back. He kept his large hands framing your neck, his thumbs gently sweeping over your jawline to tilt your face up toward his.
"There. Look at that," he whispered, a genuine, fond smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Really brings out your eyes, yeah?"
"Thank you, Enjin," you blinked. "You... you actually remembered.”
He chucked softly at that and leaned in, his lips brushing against yours.
It was soft, lingering, and tasted like him. You didn't pull away. The sheer effort of fighting him had become a luxury you couldn't afford, so you finally stopped resisting and returned the kiss. Your fingers rose weakly, hooking into the heavy fabric of his jacket just to steady yourself.
Enjin let out a low, pleased hum against your mouth. He deepened the kiss, his large hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, tilting your head to drink you in. It was warm, intense, and tasted faintly of the outside air you missed so much.
"You’re doing so good for me, baby," he breathed. "I’m so damn proud of you. I know it’s been hard, I know you’ve been frustrated, but you’re being so strong for us."
When he finally pulled back, his lips brushed yours one last time before he peppered a few more ecstatic kisses on your face.
"Tell you what," he said, his fingers gently tangling in your hair. "You look so gorgeous today, baby, it’s driving me crazy. I could honestly just eat you out right now. How about I unlock the chains for a little bit? Just let me spoil you tonight. It’d be so nice, wouldn't it?"
He looked at you, his gaze dark with a sudden, hopeful affection, his hands sliding down to wrap around your waist. You looked from his expectant eyes down to the heavy metal links pooling on the floorboards.
Your heart couldn’t help but lurched.
"I don't... I don't really want to do anything, Enjin," you whispered, your voice cracking slightly. You couldn't even muster the strength to look him in the eye. "Please. I’m... I’m just really tired. Thank you for the necklace, really, it's beautiful... but I just want to rest."
You had already braced yourself for the worst-case scenario–for him to pin you down, getting his way with you regardless–
But it didn't happen.
Enjin just blinked, his expression remaining entirely soft and relaxed. He let out a mild sigh, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand, completely unbothered by the rejection.
"Yeah? Alright, no pressure, babe," he said easily, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "We can just take it easy tonight, then."
He leaned down, pressing one last kiss to the crown of your head before sliding off the mattress. He walked back over to the kitchen counter, picking up the two cereal boxes to finish sorting his groceries.
"Happy birthday, sweetheart," he called out over his shoulder. “Now, seriously. Berries or chocolate? How about I'll cook that recipe you like later? Anything you want, it's your day."
Synopsis: Escape isn’t easy. Nor is it very long-lasting. When Overhaul’s men drag you back into captivity, you brace yourself and wait for what your captor will do with you.
Word Count: 7,592
Notes: yandere, kidnapped, humiliation, degradation, mentions of eating disorder behavior, improper use of household cleaning products, Overhaul is a mean man 90% of this fic is just Overhaul being an asshole to you
There are going to be bruises on your shoulders. Fingerprint shaped bruises from the men holding you steady, afraid that you’ll try to sprint off–maybe afraid that you’ll try to spring at their boss, disobedient, unruly possession that you are.
You know that Overhaul won’t like it when he eventually sees those black-and-blue fingerprints marring your skin–he might kill them for it, or worse. They’re digging in too hard, but you don’t warn them to ease up lest they find themselves on the wrong end of Overhaul’s hands; they brought you back to this place, after all, and they deserve nothing but your hot, raw contempt.
Summary: Before you can expose him to the others, he takes everything from you.
Warnings: Blinding (literally), kidnapping, forced dependence, gaslighting, body horror, forced cuddling, slightly Stockholm syndrome at the end, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.
Author's Notes: N/A
You never—ever—thought Tamsy would go this fucking far.
In a squad like the Cleaners, you were supposed to have each other's backs; you, Delmon, and Tamsy were a team. And three of you had spent years in the trenches together. He was the crap-tastically good guy who always had a witty remark or a helping hand when the trashbeast tried to swallow you whole.
But you knew. You knew he was the one behind Amo's disappearance and torment.
"Don't you think Tamsy's been... a little too calm?" you began. "Even after everything with Amo?"
"Give it a rest," Riyo groaned from where she was lounging.
Zanka didn't even look up from polishing his Jinki. "He's always calm. Tamsy has been doing his best to keep everyone's spirits up," he replied dismissively. "Stop throwing around accusations because you're freaking yourself out."
Across the room, Enjin sat slouched in a chair, reviewing mission notes. He hadn't joined the conversation, but you could tell he was listening. That alone gave you enough courage to continue.
"You seriously haven't noticed anything—"
Right at that moment, the door slid open.
"Did I hear my name?"
Tamsy stepped inside, a paper bag tucked under his arm and his blond hair swept back in effortless disarray. The overhead lights glinted off his scar just before he smiled brightly at the room. "I brought food before Riyo ate everything again."
"Too late." Zanka snorted despite himself.
He hopped off a crate and moved toward you, his oversized sleeves swinging. "You look absolutely exhausted. I told you, I can help you with some meditative work later."
He reached out, his hand hovering near your face in a gesture that looked like a comforting pat to the others. You flinched, the movement sharp and ugly.
"Whoa, easy there," Tamsy laughed, a soft, genuine-sounding chuckle as he looked at Zanka, Riyo, and Enjin. "Don't get so worked up, you know I'm always looking out for you, right?"
Riyou sighed, finally looking at you with genuine worry. "See? Even he's worried."
For one second, you thought you saw amusement flicker behind his eyes.
Then it vanished.
"I got your favorite, too." Tamsy held the paper bag out toward you.
The sheer audacity of it nearly made you nauseous.
You hesitated to reach out, and Tamsy's expression softened almost imperceptibly.
"You really don't trust me that much?" he asked quietly, almost like he was wounded. "I even sent Delmon off to finish the perimeter checks so we could have a moment of peace. I know how much his... fretting over you has been wearing you down lately. But if you'd rather have him here than me, just say the word."
You knew if you refused, you'd only look more unstable. So, you took the bag. "Thanks, Tamsy. I guess I am hungrier than I thought."
"That's more like it," he smiled.
Frustration clawed at your insides, a frantic, trapped bird beating its wings against your ribs.
Behind him, Riyo went back to his lounging, and the sunlight hit the iridescent fabric of Tamsy's oversized sleeves. He looked so normal—so kind.
Tamsy glanced around the cramped, dimly lit room, his nose wrinkling in distaste. "You know, it's getting a bit stale in here," he said, gesturing toward the door with the paper bag. "Why don't we finish this outside? Some fresh air might help clear your head."
"Definitely," Riyo chimed in, leaning back. "Go bond a bit. You guys used to be inseparable before all this Amo business started."
You stiffened, the knowledge of what he'd done to Amo burning like acid in your throat. But when you looked at Enjin and the others, they only gave you encouraging nods.
"It'll be good for you," Even Zanka paused, gesturing with his staff toward the exit.
"See? Everyone thinks this is a great idea," he chuckled, a soft, genuine-sounding sound that almost made you believe your own clue was the one that was wrong.
Your boots felt like lead blocks as you shifted your weight. Every instinct in your gut screamed at you to root yourself to the floorboards, to grab onto the edge of Enjin’s desk and refuse to move. But another, uglier thought slithered beneath it: If he really wanted to hurt you, wouldn't he have done it already?
So eventually, against your better judgment, you followed him.
The heavy steel door slid shut behind you with a definitive, mechanical thud, cutting off the low hum of the bunker’s generator. The alley air was cold, smelling of rusted iron and damp stone. For the first fifty paces, you stepped a deliberate two feet to the left, keeping your shoulder away from his.
"They changed the baker at the shop on Fourth Street, you know," he casually threw over his shoulder, his voice completely unbothered by the tense silence trailing behind him. "The new guy keeps burning the sugar on the cinnamon rolls. It’s a tragedy, honestly. I told Delmon we should boycott, but you know him—he’d eat wood shavings if you put enough syrup on them."
As you continued to walk, he talked about mundane things—the best shops for sweets in town, how Delmon's snoring was getting worse, and how he missed the feeling of roller skating. It was so normal. It was so entirely, infuriatingly him.
The sheer amount of adrenaline you had spent over the last three weeks felt like it was suddenly evaporating, leaving your muscles hollow. Your tightly wound shoulders dropped an inch. Why was he acting like this?
"You've been avoiding everyone," he noted, stopping by the rusted metal railing.
"People are avoiding me," you snapped, gripping the bag so hard the paper crinkled.
"I don't think that's true."
"Of course you wouldn't."
"Hm." His smile turned faintly amused. "No. I think people just don't know what to say to you lately."
"Because they think I'm insane," you let out a dry laugh.
Tamsy didn't laugh back. He was quiet for a long moment, the only sound the distant whistle of the wind through the exposed pipes overhead. Then, he spoke. "I don't think you're insane."
The answer came so gently, your chest tightened unexpectedly.
You looked at him, bewildered. To stop the trembling of your lip, you tore the sandwich from the bag and shoved a massive, clumsy bite into your mouth. You chewed aggressively, the taste of the bread like dust, using the food as a barrier to keep from saying anything else.
Tamsy watched you, the streetlight reflecting off the silver line of his scar. "You've been anxious for weeks," he said softly. "Anyone would start unraveling eventually."
As you chewed, the edges of your reality began to blur. Were you imagined everything? Maybe they were right, stress had poisoned your head, and you were trying to create a villain because uncertainty felt worse.
You stared ahead at the dim alleyway stretching before you and swallowed hard. "I don't know what's wrong with me lately."
Tamsy didn't mock you. He just looked at you for a long moment before offering a small, tired smile—a smile that looked nothing like the monster you'd spent weeks building in your head. He moved to the railing, and for a while, the only sound was the wind.
"...Do you still think I hurt Amo?"
The question struck so suddenly your pulse stumbled.
You looked at him sharply, but Tamsy was just leaning lazily against the metal, his gaze lost in the dark abyss below.
"I..." Your voice faltered.
He glanced back at you, and suddenly you felt ashamed.
How could you have been so sure? You felt monstrous for projecting such vileness onto a teammate who did nothing but look out for you even while you treated him like a leper. Maybe what you saw the other day was just—
"...I don't know anymore."
The confession tasted awful, but also strangely relieving.
Tamsy's smile softened.
Before you could even flinch, his hand clamped over your mouth, stifling your scream, while the other moved with a blur of motion you couldn't track.
"You see too much," he whispered into your ear, his breath warm but his tone as cold as ice. "It's your best quality, and your worst. I just can't have you ruining the masterpiece I'm building for Rudo."
You didn't see the distaff of Tokushin appear, but you felt a sensation like a cold splash of water across your face, and then the fire. It felt as if two red-hot wires had been dragged through your sockets, slicing through the surface of your eyes.
Violet and gold light flared in a final, agonizing strobe before bleeding out into a thick, featureless grey soup that swallowed the world whole.
You collapsed, clawing at your face, but he caught you before you hit the ground, cradling your head against his chest.
Why couldn't you see—
why couldn't you—
You whimpered, "Tamsy—"
"There," he cooed, his hands gently caught your wrists before your nails could dig into your ruined eyes. "I didn't want this for you, but you wouldn't stop."
You tried to blink, to rub whatever is covering your vision. You were staring wide-eyed at the man who had just unmade your reality, and all you could perceive was a milky, throb of light where his dual-colored eyes used to be.
This isn't happening, you told yourself. The thought was the only greenlight, and you grabbed it with both hands. He’s playing a prank. A sick, twisted prank. Any second now, he’s going to laugh, snap his fingers, and the threads will dissolve. My eyes will clear. I’ll see the stupid, smug grin on his face and I’ll punch him, and we’ll go get drinks with Delmon.
"Tell me you wouldn't... you couldn't do this, Tamsy," you pleaded, your voice rising to a jagged edge of hysteria. "You're my teammate. Please. I’ll take it back—everything I said about Amo. I was wrong. I was just tired. Just tell me you're still Tamsy."
His thumb brushed carefully against your shaking hand:
"You're messy and you're loud and you're right. I really do like passionate people."
_
The "nothing" wasn't the black you expected.
It wasn't black. Black was a color you remembered—the ink on a page, the depth of the Pit, the shade of Tamsy's cruel, clever eyes. What you had now was just an absence. It was like trying to see through the back of your skull. There is no visual field at all, just a lack of any sensation in that area where your peripheral vision used to be.
At first, you refused his help, but blindness makes every basic task humiliatingly difficult. He hadn't taught you a single thing about how to live like this; he hadn't taught you how to count steps or to read Braille. Eventually, the exhaustion won, and Tamsy was always there, never once angered by your resistance. He successfully forced you into a state of total dependence, unable to even find a door without his hand on your elbow. He has become the sun and the moon of your existence; he feeds you like a child and takes care of every single aspect in your life. The shame of it—the sheer, staggering humiliation of needing him to even wash you—burns hotter than the threads that blinded you.
Without vision, there's no easy distraction. You can't read, wander freely or track time naturally. Your existence has narrowed to the sound of his footsteps and the texture of the fabric beneath your numb fingers. To keep your sanity intact, you spoke aloud to yourself. Today, you told yourself the last time you went to the Canvas Town. But halfway through, you couldn't remember what it looks like. A lot of colors? Was there mold on the walls? You still knew your name — you said it sometimes, just to be sure. But a terrifying thought keeps you awake in the grey: if you ever forgot it, would anyone even know you were gone?
With nothing to do throughout the day, depression and sensory deprivation make you sleep a lot. You'd attempt to escape a few times by fumbling for walls, weeping as you feel for locks, but the failure is always the same.
You sat on the edge of the bed (or what you assumed was the edge) and stared into the static. Your eyes ached with a phantom itch you couldn't scratch; it was a stinging reminder of the threads that had sliced across your vision before the world snapped.
Then, the light changed.
You didn't see the door open. But suddenly, the "nothing" on the left side of your face felt thinner. A pale, milky grey filtered into your consciousness. It was a ghostly suggestion of heat that told you the sun was up, or perhaps he had entered with a candle. It wasn't a color—you couldn't tell if it was white or yellow or the orange-blue glow of his dual irises. It was just a dull, throbbing sensation that made your head swim.
You flinched, pulling back until your spine hit a wall you hadn't realized was so close. The rough stone bit into your shoulder blades.
"Is it too bright?" his voice drifted over you, sounding far too much like a friend's concern.
You didn't answer. You reached out a hand, fingers trembling, trying to find a landmark. You touched something cold and ceramic—a plate? You moved too fast, and the clatter of it hitting the floor.
The grey smudge in your vision moved. He was walking toward you.
"You're making such a mess," he sighed, and the grey light grew stronger as he leaned in. "Don't touch that, you'll cut yourself. Let me."
You sat there with these useless, open eyes, looking at nothing and seeing everything that was now lost to you. They were marvelous organs once, windows to your soul, and now they were just unmoving opaque walls. He hadn't just taken your sight. He'd taken your hands, your feet, your very ability to cross a room without falling.
You closed your eyes (as if that made a difference) and felt the hot, frustrated tears track through the grime on your cheeks. You felt the bed dip, the mattress groaning slightly under his weight.
"Oh, look at you. Don't cry," he cooed, his tone genuinely pained by your distress. You felt a damp, warm cloth touch your face. You tried to jerk away, but his hand was already on your shoulder as he began to wipe the tears from your cheeks.
"I made some soup. It's the kind you like, with the little noodles," he said, as if he hadn't spent the morning ensuring you'd never see a bowl of soup again. "I'll leave it on the tray. It's right in front of your knees. Don't reach for it yet, it's still steaming."
"Why are you doing this?" you whispered.
"Doing what? Cleaning up?" You heard the soft clink of a spoon against a bowl. "Someone has to. You've always been a bit clumsy, but this is a new record, even for you."
"There," he said, and you felt his thumb brushing a stray tear he'd missed. "I'm going to go get a broom for the plate. Just stay exactly where you are. Don't move an inch, okay? I don't want you getting hurt."
He stood up, the grey smudge of him moving back toward the door.
"I'll be right back," he called out, his footsteps receding. "I found a book of poetry I think you'll like. I'll read it to you after dinner."
You sat exactly where Tamsy had left you, your useless eyes tracking the phantom heat of the grey smudge that signaled his presence in the room. You still didn't know what to do with your eyes—should you keep them open? Should you close them? Either way, the static was the same.
After a while, the light shifted as Tamsy knelt before you. You heard the soft clink of ceramic against a tray.
"Open up for me," he murmured, his voice cheerful and bright, as if he were simply waking you from a midday nap. "I made sure the noodles were soft. You haven't been eating enough lately, and I can't have you getting thin."
You felt the warmth of the spoon against your lower lip. You wanted to fight, to spit the food back at him, but your hunger was a desperate, ugly thing that forced you to comply. You opened your mouth, and he fed you with a careful hand, waiting for each swallow as if he had all the time in the world.
"There. Good as new," he said. When you were finished, he used a warm, damp cloth to wipe the corners of your mouth, his fingers lingering for a second against your jaw.
He didn't get up to leave. Instead, he shifted onto the cot, pulling you back until your spine was pressed against his chest. You felt the weight of him as he leaned back against the headboard, effectively turning his body into your new horizon.
"I found that book I mentioned," he said, and you heard the soft rustle of pages turning. "It's some old poetry. I think you'll appreciate the imagery, even if you can't see it right now."
You flinched as he leaned his head against yours, a sickly sweet gesture of affection that made your stomach churn. His voice was steady and calm, the words of the poem flowing over you like a gentle tide.
"Rudo asked about you again this morning," he added casually between stanzas, his cheek nuzzling against yours like a cat. "He's so earnest, it's almost heartbreaking. He wanted to bring you some interesting scrap he found in the disposal zone. As for Delmon—"
"I don't care."
"Don't be like that," he whispered, his head finally coming to rest in the crook of your shoulder. "I've already told the Cleaners you've left for a long journey. They were so supportive because you were so stressed out lately. They really are a great family, aren't they?"
"Though Enjin was a bit more difficult, of course. Always the watchful father," Tamsy continued, pulling you tighter into a suffocating cuddle. "But I just showed him a few 'notes' I wrote in your handwriting—well, a close enough approximation—saying you needed time to process everything alone. He's so busy with the higher-ups that he was actually relieved to have one less person to worry about."
He nuzzled into your neck one last time. "See? Everyone is happy. Don't be so bitter."
You squeezed your useless eyes shut until the poem trailed off. You felt the bedframe groan as Tamsy shifted his weight again. Without a word, he pulled you down with him, maneuvering your limp body until you were lying flat on the narrow mattress.
You were too exhausted to fight him. Until now, his hair had always been styled up. But as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck, a curtain of heavy, silken strands cascaded over your shoulders. It was far longer than you'd imagined, cool and fine like spun glass.
The white-blond strands (from your memory) draped over your throat, across your chest, and tangled between your fingers. It wasn't his Jinki—not technically—but the sensation was identical. Every time you tried to shift your arm or tilt your head away from his persistent, cat-like nuzzling, the hair snagged. It clung to your skin, wrapping around your limbs in an organic, suffocating web.
"You know," he said. "I've been wondering. How did you actually figure it out?"
You lay there, staring at the ceiling you could no longer perceive. You had nothing left to lose, there was no point in struggling in the grey void.
"The threads," you whispered, your voice sounding thin and jagged in the quiet. "I found a single strand snagged on Amo's collar after she was rescued, and another one at the site where she struggled. It was a color I'd only ever seen on your Jinki, Tokushin."
Tamsy didn't flinch. He actually let out a soft, delighted hum, his nose brushing against your temple. "That's it? Is that all? Seems a bit flimsy for an accusation."
"I know," you said, the bitterness rising like bile. "The silk didn't really prove much. But it was the way you looked at me when I showed them to you."
You remembered the way he had watched you handle those threads—not with the concern of a comrade, instead, it was the look of a spider that had long ago ceased to fear the escape of its guest. You felt him watching you bridge the distance between suspicion and certainty, his eyes drinking in your dawning horror.
"You didn't even try to hide it once we were alone," you said, your breath hitching as his hair tightened slightly around your neck. "I know it was you, I saw the way you looked at me then, you watched me realize it was your silk. You wanted me to see it."
Tamsy let out a long, contented sigh, nuzzling deeper into the crook of your neck. His hair felt like a shroud now, weaving you into him strand by strand.
"I really do love how observant you are," he whispered, his voice thick with a terrifyingly genuine warmth. "It's a shame, really. If you'd stayed quiet, we could have shared the joke together."
He moved his face against yours again, rubbing his cheek over your skin. With every brush, more hair caught against your clothes, weaving you into him. You understood then, that he hadn't merely been hiding his crimes—he had been nurturing them, savoring the secret that you were the only one who truly saw him.
A new wave of hot, bitter tears spilled over once more, jagged sobs racking your chest as you gasped for air in the hollow nothingness of your vision.
Tamsy didn't pull away or mock you. Instead, he adjusted his hold, shifting so that he was cupping the back of your head, his long, white-blond hair still weaving around your shoulders like a silken shroud. He was so patient, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone to catch the salt before it could reach the mattress.
"Shh, there now," he whispered, his voice as calm and melodic as it was when he was the crap-tastically good guy everyone relied on. "You're overthinking again. It's exhausting, isn't it? Just let it go."
Your hands, once trembling with a futile need to push him away, slowly went limp against his chest. With a shuddering breath, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as your arms moved upward to finally return the hug.
You felt his entire body go rigid, his heart hammering a frantic, ecstatic rhythm against your own ribs. Then, a low, guttural sound vibrated in his chest. His fingers were digging into your back as he pulled you so close you felt like you were being absorbed into his very skin. The grey static of your vision throbbed with his proximity, but he didn't pull back.
"You've been cooped up in here too long," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I'll let you go out tomorrow. I think you're ready for a change of pace, since you were so honest with me today."
The promise should have tasted like wine, but they felt like a new kind of cage. You couldn't move without him, nor could you perceive the world he so gallantly offered to show you. You would be out, but you would still be entirely his, a bird with broken wings and no eyes to find the horizon.
"I'll be right beside you the whole time," he added, leaning back just enough to brush his nose against yours. "I'll be your sight, and I'll make sure you don't trip. Doesn't that sound nice?"
He held you, his hair weaving into yours until you couldn't tell where you ended and he began.
Summary: Your captor assists with your basic care.
Warnings: Mention past blinding, non-sexual forced caretaking, forced dependence, gaslighting, slight Stockholm syndrome, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.
Author's Notes: Playing around the boundaries has been fun, this is my most uncomfortable piece so far.
The sound of rushing water was a roaring, featureless wall in the grey.
You sat on the closed lid of the toilet, your knees pulled tightly against your chest, trying to anchor yourself to the cold porcelain beneath you. Without your eyes, the bathroom felt ten times smaller than it actually was, trapping the heat and the heavy, humid scent of soap until the air felt thick enough to choke on.
"Alright, the water’s warm," Tamsy’s voice cut through the steam, bright and entirely casual. You heard the distinct clack of his oversized sleeves being rolled up his forearms, followed by the soft rustling of noises. "Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up before the pipes go cold."
You didn't move. You dug your fingers harder into the fabric of your pants. "I can do it myself, Tamsy. Just... leave the soap. Tell me where the handle is."
A soft sigh from him drifted through the mist. You heard his footsteps approaching. Two steps. Three.
"We tried that yesterday, remember?" Tamsy reminded you. You felt the ghostly suggestion of warmth as his face neared yours, the silver line of his scar probably catching the dim light. His fingers closed around your wrists, gently parting your hands from your legs. "You nearly slipped on the tile and bruised your knee so badly you couldn't sleep all night. I’m not letting you hurt yourself again."
"I can manage," you whispered, your throat tight with a sudden, hot surge of humiliation. "Please. Just turn around."
"There’s nothing to be ashamed of," he cooed, his thumb smoothing over the back of your trembling hand. His tone was so saturated with genuine, brotherly concern that it made your stomach turn violently. "I've seen you covered in trashbeast slime before. And I'm your teammate. I'm just looking out for you, I always do."
Before you could protest further, he stood up, pulling you upward with him; you couldn't help the small, ugly flinch that went through your spine. You stumbled, your shoulder catching his chest. Your instincts screamed at you to fight, to claw at his face, to find those dual-colored eyes and tear them out—
But instead, your hands frantically grabbed the lapels of his shirt, clinging to him like a drowning person catching a piece of driftwood.
"See? Still a bit clumsy," he chuckled softly, guiding you toward the edge of the tub.
The heat of the running water hit your skin first, a sharp contrast to the cold air of the room. He guided your hand to the plastic grab bar on the wall. "Hold onto this. Keep your feet planted right there."
Then, a warm, wet washcloth met your shoulder.
The sheer intimacy of it burned worse than the threads that had blinded you. You stood there, completely exposed, your useless eyes staring wide-open into the static while your former friend carefully washed the grime from your back. You hated yourself for how small you felt. You hated that you couldn't even wash your own face without needing his permission, his hands, his guidance.
He worked in silence for a while, the rhythmic scrub of the cloth against your skin the only indicator of his presence, until he reached your neck. His fingers brushed against your collarbone, turning you slightly.
"You're completely rigid," Tamsy noted. "You need to relax. I told you, I’m right here. I’ve got you."
The cloth moved over your forehead, dragging a heavy trail of warmth across your brow. You braced yourself, wishing to snap at him, to bite his fingers even. And suddenly, a wave of familiar sweetness hit you. It smelled of wild berries and cheap sugar—the exact soap Delmon had accidentally bought in bulk three months ago.
"Is that...?" your voice tripled.
"The berry soap?" he chuckled, the sound bright and effortless, and entirely unbothered by your rigid posture. "Guilty. I managed to snag a few bars before I left today. I knew you hated that industrial grease-stripper we usually get."
"Because it literally smelled like burnt engine oil, Tamsy," you shot back.
The retort popped out of your mouth before you could stop it, the one you used to throw at him whenever he said something stupid over breakfast.
He didn't wait for your permission. His fingers—slick with the lather—pressed gently against your temples.
Your immediate impulse was to yank your head back, get his fucking hands off you. But as he began to gently massage the tension from your temples, his touch was so warm that your shoulders involuntarily dropped. It was humiliating how easily your biology succumbed to comfort.
"You've always loved that scent," he murmured.
A breathless, tiny laugh escaped your lips before you could choke it down. You can’t help but leaned into the rhythm of the old banter of the person you used to be before the world went grey. "Loved it is a strong word. Delmon smelled like a strawberry patch for a week."
"A week?" he snorted, the wet crinkle of the cloth following the sound. "Try a month. Riyo refused to sit next to him on the transport truck because she claimed the scent was giving her a migraine."
"To be fair," you murmured, a genuine, fond smirk tugging at the corner of your lips, "Riyo just wanted an excuse to take up the entire back row for her nap."
"Oh, absolutely," Tamsy agreed.
The water rushed on. Tamsy paused, the wet cloth resting heavily against your shoulder. Instead of answering you, he patted your shoulder—a casual, reassuring gesture that looked entirely normal, an act of pure camaraderie.
"Now, lean your head back. Let’s get the soap out of your hair before it gets in your eyes. Close them tight for me."
Against your better judgment, because the alternative was drowning in the grey soup, you closed your useless eyes, tilted your head back, and let him take care of the rest.
Summary: He will keep you weak, keep you quiet, and drug you into perfect, mindless compliance.
Warnings: Graphic violence description, unreliable narrator, food deprivation, heavy drugging, kidnapping, mind break, stalking, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat
Author's Notes: Companion fic of Sedated. Both can be read independently.
Overhaul stared down at the unrecognizable heap of viscera at his feet. The low-ranking asset currently smeared across the concrete of the narrow commercial alleyway had ceased to be a man three seconds ago. It was sickening. A physical manifestation of the quirk-infected sickness plaguing humanity.
The fool had pocketed a shipment of specialized quirk-suppressing compound intended for the Shie Hassaikai’s labs, foolishly trying to broker a side deal with a rival syndicate on this exact street. Worse than the theft, however, was the absolute lack of hygiene in his execution. The man had bled all over the brickwork before he even touched him.
He pulled a fresh linen handkerchief from his pocket, his jaw tightening beneath the leather lining of his beak. He lowered his hand, carefully dabbing at a stray, microscopic droplet of dark crimson that had managed to land on his left cuff.
Then, the sudden, sharp scrape of a rubber sole against concrete echoed from the mouth of the alley.
It was you.
He kept his back completely rigid, his golden eyes tracking your reflection perfectly in the rain-slicked glass of a discarded bottle against the brick wall.
He had been observing you for exactly twenty-four days.
He had monitored the predictable grid of your daily routine. You left your apartment at the same hour. You bought the same convenience store meals every Tuesday evening. And, with a dangerous lack of self-preservation, you consistently used this neglected alleyway as a shortcut to bypass the heavy foot traffic of the pedestrian district.
Today, however, you were precisely seven minutes ahead of schedule.
An irritation, really. Had he known your timing would fluctuate, he would have broken the thief closer to the dumpster, away from the path of your clean, uncorrupted orbit.
Behind him, he heard the soft, trembling drag of your heel as you took a cautious step backward. Then another.
Overhaul could feel the violent spike of your panic. You were trying to gaslight yourself. He could practically see the frantic thoughts spinning in your head, desperately convincing yourself that he was too engrossed in his grim work to notice you.
He let you believe the lie. He kept his back turned to you, his fingers calmly pressing the linen cloth against his sleeve, waiting as your heels finally hit the bustling sidewalk of the main street.
He looked down at the stained handkerchief in his gloved hand, his golden eyes narrowing in profound disgust. He tossed the soiled linen onto the heap of viscera at his feet, already reaching into his pocket for a fresh pair of latex gloves.
He would let you have your small, desperate illusion of safety for a few more days.
_
Three weeks ago was a perfectly unremarkable one. The sky was an aggressive, unappealing gray, and a sudden, sharp downpour had turned the concrete sidewalk into a slick mirror of urban grime. Pedestrians were scrambling under awnings, shoving past one another with a loud lack of dignity.
You were standing near the entrance of a local convenience store, a clear plastic umbrella tilted over your shoulder.
Overhaul had paused beneath the overhang of a closed storefront across the narrow street as he waited for the crowd to thin. He was already irritated; a stray drop of rain had hit his bare neck, and the humidity was making his skin itch beneath his collar. He despised the city when it rained—it felt as though the entire populace were soaking in their own collective filth.
But as he looked across the asphalt, his gaze locked onto you.
By every standard of the modern world, you were painfully boring. Your hair was slightly frizzy from the damp air, your sneakers were worn at the heels, and you were holding a plastic grocery bag with a loaf of bread and a carton of eggs. You were entirely consumed by the most pathetic, small-scale anxieties imaginable. He could see it in the way your brow furrowed as your lips moved silently—you were mentally math-ing out your budget, stressing over a fifty-yen discrepancy on your receipt. You were so deeply beneath him, that under any other circumstance, his eyes would have slid right past you without registering your existence.
And then, a stray calico cat—drenched in the street’s disease-ridden filth—crept out from beneath a vending machine near your boots.
Overhaul had expected you to kick it away, or at least draw back in a natural human response to a parasite-carrying vector. But you didn't. A slight frown pulled at your lips as you tilted your umbrella forward, extending its canopy to shield the shivering animal from the downpour, while letting the cold rain beat directly against your own shoulder.
It was an incredibly stupid, economically inefficient action. You were ruining your cheap coat and soaking your hair just to give dry ground to a stray animal that would likely be dead in a week anyway. You lacked even the basic intelligence required for self-preservation.
Yet, as you adjusted the plastic handle, you happened to look up. Across the narrow street, through the heavy curtain of falling rain, your gaze collided directly with his mask.
Overhaul’s breath caught in his filter.
Your eyes were beautiful.
They were bright, vibrant, and filled with an uncorrupted sort of life—a quiet, stubborn vitality that seemed completely untouched by the decay of the surrounding world. For a fleeting instant, you look past the ominous beak of his mask to meet his gaze directly—utterly without fear—before offering a polite nod of your head and turning back to the street.
Suddenly, the thoughts slammed into his brain, relentless and consuming, rooting a fierce, vicious possessiveness deep in his gut. He cannot scrub you out of his mind, you, a thing so pure could not be allowed to exist out here. The chaotic whims of quirk society would inevitably smear their dirt across those clear eyes, dragging you down into the mud until you were ruined by the sickness of this world.
As you finally stepped out into the rain and walked away, Overhaul remained frozen under the awning. He watched the back of your coat until you disappeared around the corner of the commercial block.
He had memorized the exact dimensions of your life within forty-eight hours of that rainy afternoon. It was a remarkably uncomplicated file.
You were, by every metric of the modern world, entirely inconsequential. A baseline Quirkless civilian. Apartment 302—a cramped, third-floor unit with a sticking front lock and a window that looked out onto an unappealing brick alleyway. You lived completely alone. There was no emergency contact listed on your lease. Even your past was a clean slate, you had cut ties with your family three years ago after a bitter conflict, packing your life into cardboard boxes and moving here. Since then, you had no close friends, let alone significant others. There were no colleagues who would notice an empty desk for more than a single payroll cycle before replacing you.
You had no one.
But watching you from afar was beginning to sour into a distinct, tightening frustration beneath his collar.
Because you had no one to protect you, the city was treating you like it treated all its garbage. He had watched a loud, unwashed group of drunkards stumble past you last Thursday, shouting obscenities that made you flinch and press your grocery bag against your chest. He had seen a rogue delivery cyclist nearly take you off your feet on a crosswalk, forcing you to scramble onto the dirty concrete. Every day you spent out here, unsupervised and painfully defenseless, was a liability.
The sky was clear today.
Fom twenty yards away, you were walking home from the store, carrying a single, mundane grocery bag.
He stepped into the current of the crowd, his dark coat cutting through the sea of bodies. The street was a loud, chaotic mess—humanity at its most disorganized. People shoved past one another, laughing loudly, breathing the same stagnant air, tracking filth across the concrete with every step. The sheer volume of the crowd made his skin crawl. It was a breeding ground for sickness. How could you survive out here? How long before one of these mindless cattle bumped into you too hard, stained your clothes, or dragged you into their filth?
He had anticipated you to bolt when you saw him, forcing a messy, public chase through a crowded commercial block. Instead, you kept walking directly toward him.
Your hands were trembling against the thin plastic of your grocery bag, your knees stiff with terror. It was a pathetic, transparent performance, but it fascinated him. As you came parallel to him, you forced a tight, polite smile onto your face and looked right into the eyes of a monster.
"Hey, cool mask," you said. Your voice squeaked, a fragile, desperate little sound, before you immediately tried to brush past his shoulder into the safety of the crowd.
Overhaul didn't reply, but beneath the leather lining of his mask, his teeth clicked together. A sudden, violent jolt of adrenaline spiked straight to his chest. It was a lie. A beautiful, naive, insulting little lie, a cheap performance born of the desperate urge to survive. You knew exactly what he was. You knew what he had done in that alleyway. And yet, the sheer, frantic audacity of you trying to charm your way past him sent a wave of heat rushing through his veins. It didn't disgust him; it drove his obsession into a fever pitch.
He wants you. He needs you now, right now, to break that useless, beautiful fight out of your chest, to scrub the city's dirt off your skin himself and lock you away where nobody else can ever look at you, touch you, stain you—no, he needs you. Need you. You. You. You. God, you. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You.
As you passed his shoulder, his hand moved with a practiced speed. The syringe hidden within the sleeve of his coat, jabbed hard into the side of your neck.
Instantly, the frantic energy radiating off you withered. The grocery bag slipped from your limp fingers, a carton of eggs cracking against the concrete, a loaf of bread rolling into the dirt. Your knees buckled, your gravity completely failing you as you began to collapse toward the filthy sidewalk.
Overhaul stepped forward, his pristine white gloves catching you beneath the arms before your clothes could touch the contaminated ground. His entire body went instantly rigid beneath his layers of fabric. The fabric of your jacket had touched the city air, the outdoor benches, the filthy pedestrian crowds; it was a walking surface of bacteria, making his skin itch violently beneath his collar.
But as his golden eyes darted down to your face, watching your eyelids flutter as the heavy sedative slammed into your nervous system, drowning your beautiful eyes in a helpless static. Overhaul forced the panic down into submission. The sheer, overwhelming reality of finally holding you sent his thoughts spiraling into an intoxicating focus.
How remarkably sweet you looked like this.
People were staring now, a few pedestrians slowing their pace to look at the figure slumping against his parka.
"Step back," Overhaul commanded to a nearby onlooker. "They're having a medical episode. I'm a licensed practitioner taking them to a vehicle.”
The onlookers murmured, nodding in unthinking agreement. None of them questioned him, or asked for identification, or demanded to know where he was taking you. They just accepted the lie, turning their faces away to melt right back into the gray, uncaring crowd.
Looking at the sea of retreating backs, a disgust washed over Overhaul. They don't care if you disappear from the face of the earth. This wretched, apathetic street didn't deserve to look at you. The outside world was a plague, and these people were the carriers—bystanders who would let something precious be ruined without a second thought.
They didn't deserve you. But he did.
He adjusted his grip, pulling your limp body securely into his space. It was fine. He could endure the temporary contamination. The moment they reached the secure basement levels of the compound, he would burn these filthy civilian clothes. He would meticulously scrub his arms, wash his hands under boiling water and drench his gear in isopropyl alcohol.
As his men pulled the black sedan up to the curb, clicking the heavy doors open to receive his prize, Overhaul looked one last time at your unseeing, drifting face.
He had ordered a sterile holding room in the deep basement levels to be prepped immediately, bleached twice over with industrial isopropyl alcohol.
But he had severely underestimated your stubbornness.
The first time the dosage had dipped slightly below the threshold, you had woken. Through the security monitor down the hall, Overhaul had watched you awake in a panic, your eyes wild and bloodshot. Without a single thought for your own physical safety, you had grabbed the plastic IV line hooked to your vein and violently ripped the tube right out of your arm.
The plastic needle tore through your skin, and a dark, messy streak of crimson splattered across the crisp white sheets.
When his men had flooded the room to pin you down, you hadn't stopped. Even with your limbs heavy and trembling from the residual chemicals, you had somehow managed to pocket a small, metallic clip from the side of the heart monitor. Later that night, the camera caught you dragging your leaden torso across the cold floor, using that single, flimsy piece of metal to frantically scratch and pick at the heavy brass lock of the door. Your fingers were bleeding, your breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps, your nails splitting against the reinforced steel. He had subdued you himself, his gloved hands pinning your wrists to the mattress with an iron grip while he reinserted the line, forcing the heavy, suffocating darkness back into your nervous system. He made sure the dosage was doubled.
It had irritated him. It had fascinated him. To ensure you never put up a fight like that again, Overhaul had kept you weak on purpose. He had strictly forbidden bringing solid food into the room, restricting your entire caloric intake to a specialized, nutrient-dense solution dispensed solely through the IV line. Without substance in your stomach, your muscles could never fully recover from the sedative. Your body could not build the glycogen required to form a fist, let alone strike him.
But it was during the quiet windows—those rare, fleeting moments when the drugs receded just enough to grant you a fragile shred of sanity—you had stopped screaming. Instead, you began to seek him out. When he entered the room to check your vitals or adjust the dial on the drip, your unfocused, beautiful eyes would track the movement of his mask. You were starved for a human voice, so utterly isolated in that white box that you were willing to appeal to your own captor.
You had swallowed past the dry cotton in your throat and started asking questions.
"Where am I?" "What do you want with me?"
And then, the question that had made his gloved fingers pause over the syringe. You had looked right at him, and asked him who he was. You had asked for his name.
He told you to call him Kai.
Recalling it now, as he pressed his thumb against the heavy lock of the door, Overhaul felt a satisfaction settle into his chest. In the end, you had still looked up at him and begged for his name. You were learning. Step by step, dose by dose, you were forgetting the outside world and learning how to exist only within the space he had built for you.
He realized then that he wanted to break you.
Not like the thief in the alleyway—he would not shatter your bones or spill your blood—he would continue to drug you over and over again. He would drug you into absolute, mindless compliance. He would keep you so heavily sedated that your memories would fracture, your thoughts would turn to thick mud, and your sense of time would completely dissolve until your entire universe shrank to his hands. He would strip away your agency, until you forgot your apartment number, forgot your desk, forgot your own name—until the only anchor left in your hollowed-out mind was the sound of his voice.
He would make you entirely dependent on him. He would become your caretaker, your God. What he said was clean is clean; what he said was sick is sick.
When he stepped inside, you were awake. The security monitors down the hall hadn't lied; your heart rate had spiked, and your eyelids were fluttering against the heavy pull of the sedative. He didn't need to look at your chart to know your body was adapting to the current dosage.
"How long have you been awake?" he asked as he reached out, his gloved fingers adjusting the dial on the IV stand.
"Not long," you mumbled. Your voice was small, raspy, and ruined by the dry cotton of your throat.
"And how was your day?"
It was a textbook question. But instead of compliance, he watched a familiar, ugly spark of anger ignite in your eyes. It was the same reckless passion that bred the quirk-infected filth outside. It made his skin crawl slightly beneath his collar, but he kept his expression perfectly smooth behind the beak of his mask.
"It was... fine," you whispered, though your chest was heaving with an absurdly starved desperation. "Just a little cold in here. And my head hurts."
Overhaul turned his back to you, walking over to the metal prep table. "The headache is your own doing," he said, his voice flat. "If you stopped fighting, you wouldn’t be in pain. But don't worry. I’ll have someone bring an extra blanket.”
He tore open a fresh plastic wrapper, tapping the side of the syringe to clear the air bubbles.
From the bed, your slurred, pathetic begging began. "Don't... please... Kai, don't. No more."
He didn't even register the plea as a valid argument. Silly thing, he thought, a wave of pity washing over him as he pushed the plunger slightly, letting a single drop bead at the needle's tip. You don't even know what's good for you.
"You have been more compliant recently," he noted, turning back to the bed, allowing a small sigh to escape his mask. "However, your body is starting to build tolerance to the current dosage, which means it's no longer effective at keeping you calm. It's a shame. To ensure you don't agitate yourself like last time, I will have to increase the amount. It's for your own good."
The sheer, irrational terror that flooded your face to that was a testament to how undisciplined your mind still was.
He stepped to your side, leaning over the mattress to lift your arm. He needed a clean angle on the vein. But before he could secure your wrist, your weak hand balled into a clumsy fist and swung toward his chest.
"You... you absolute piece of—"
The words were a slurred, disintegrating mess, but the intent was clear. You were trying to strike him. You, a thoroughly contaminated, unwashed creature of the outside world, were trying to lay hands on his person.
The fist collided with his shirt. The impact was laughably light—a pathetic, uncoordinated twitch of muscle that barely registered through the fabric. He didn't even bother to dodge. He simply let your hand fall, his gloved fingers wrapping around your wrist with a firm pressure to pin it back to the crisp sheets.
"Look at how worked up you're getting," he murmured, looking down at you. The pity he felt was genuine. "This anger, this violence... it’s exactly what the outside world breeds in people. It’s a sickness.”
"S-stop it. Sick. You’re the one who’s… you’re fucking sick, Kai," you choked on the syllable. "Put the… put it down."
Instead of submitting, you fought harder. It was infuriatingly stubborn. Your fingers curled around his gloved wrists, squeezing with a weak, trembling desperation, trying to drag your heavy torso up off the mattress. You were trying to fight him. You were trying to touch him more.
And then, your strength entirely evaporated.
Your head dropped forward, your body collapsing heavily against his chest.
An electric shock of pure, instinctual revulsion surged straight down his spine. His entire frame went instantly, rigidly still, every muscle locking into stone. His mind screamed at him to tear his hand away, to activate his quirk and obliterate the unwashed flesh pressing against his sternum, to strip the clothes from his body and bleach his skin until it bled.
But as he stood there, completely breathless, the frantic, ragged thud of your heart rattled against his chest. Such a fragile, broken little thing. You were so incredibly weak. So easily crushed. If he let go of your wrist right now, you would simply slide onto the floor like a ragdoll.
He looked down at the back of your head, at the messy, unkempt hair spilling across his dark shirt. Slowly, through a massive effort of sheer willpower, Overhaul forced the panic down. The tension in his chest eased, a long, controlled breath filtering through the mesh of his plague mask.
He wouldn't destroy you. He had chosen to keep you clean. And a doctor did not abandon a patient just because they were covered in dirt.
Gently, almost experimentally, his gloved hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers anchoring you against his shoulder. His other hand moved to your face, a single, sterile finger tracing the trembling line of your jaw. Your skin was warm.
"You always did have a habit of rushing into things without thinking," he murmured into your hair, his voice vibrating softly against your cheek. "Like taking that shortcut home. Or buying those specific convenience store meals every Tuesday evening. You're far too predictable to be left unsupervised."
"…Bastard. You… damn bastard. I’m gonna..." Your voice dropped to a furious, drunken mutter.
The whispered curse was muffled against his collarbone, a desperate, childish rebellion. He didn't mind it. It was almost endearing. He tilted your face up, forcing your unfocused, drooping eyes to meet his golden gaze.
"I always thought your eyes were beautiful," he whispered, fascinated by the dull glaze overtaking your pupils. "The very first time I saw you, you looked at me with so much life. It made me want to take you away from all the filth out there. To keep you all to myself, where nothing could ever corrupt you or take you from me. Tell me... what is so wrong with wanting to protect something so precious? Why must you fight the only person who cares enough to keep you clean?”
You didn't answer. You couldn't. The dark, beautiful panic in your eyes was already drowning in the chemical fog.
Overhaul guided you backward, easily laying your limp body back down onto the stark white pillows. He picked up the syringe, found the vein, and slid the needle home. He watched the fluid disappear into your system, watched your tense, fighting muscles finally, beautifully go slack.
He stepped back from the bed, the sharp, snapping sound of latex echoing in the quiet room as he peeled the white gloves from his hands. They were contaminated now. Covered in the sweat and oils of your skin. He tossed them carelessly into the hazardous waste bin by the bed, staring down at your sleeping face one last time.
Summary: You help Dabi patch up his torn-open staples.
Warnings: Off-screen mass murder, kidnapping, forced relationship, graphic descriptions of burn injury, amateur surgery, mention of past burns, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.
Author's Notes: Follow-up of Breaking News, both can be read independently.
Three steps down the hallway.
The bathroom was aggressively ordinary—clean white tiles, a floral shower curtain left by the family who used to live here, and a neat little first-aid box tucked under the sink. Opening the medicine cabinet, you found the black, heavy plastic tackle box Dabi used as a medical kit.
Your gaze dropped to the scissors that sat right on top. For one reckless second, you imagined driving them into the exposed seam of his neck.
And you wished that you were stupid enough to think this could work.
When you walked back into the living room, the brightly colored cartoon on the TV was still blasting. An animated rabbit was bouncing across the screen.
Dabi didn’t open his eyes as you approached, though his jaw clenched as he shifted to ease the pull on his shoulder. The scissors remained heavy in your hand. He didn't even bother checking to see how you were holding them—either he trusted you, or he knew you couldn't do anything with them.
"Took you long enough," he grunted.
"I had to find the right supplies," you shrugged.
Dabi had pulled his sleeveless shirt down past his right shoulder, exposing the gruesome boundary where his pale, unburnt skin was stitched to the ruined, purple flesh beneath. It was a mess. The skin was blistering—a violent, angry red weeping clear fluid—and two of the heavy metal staples near the base of his neck had completely torn through the tissue, leaving small, sluggishly bleeding holes.
You sank onto the coffee table directly opposite him, setting the tackle box between your knees. You had to sit awkwardly, angling your left leg outward so the stiff denim of your jeans wouldn’t rub against the sensitive, raised skin of your calf. If the fabric chafed the scar tissue too hard, it would trigger a dull, throbbing ache that lasted for hours
"You did this to yourself," you said, your voice shaking slightly as you popped the plastic latches on the kit. "The news said forty people tonight, Dabi. Did you really have to burn the whole building down?”
Dabi opened his eyes, staring at you through the messy fringe of his dark hair. A smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth, stretching the staples along his jawline. "They were in the way. Besides, it keeps the heroes busy. Gives me time to come home to you."
Home. The word made you want to vomit.
"Lean forward," you muttered, refusing to look into those bright blue eyes.
He complied, dropping his head down so his chin nearly touched his chest, exposing the back of his neck and shoulder. Up close, the smell of burnt ozone from him was overwhelming.
You pulled out a bottle of antiseptic and a pack of sterile gauze. Your hands were shaking so violently you could barely pour the liquid onto the pad. You knew what you had to do. You had done this for him twice before since he dragged you into his life, but it never got easier.
You pressed the wet gauze against the raw, torn skin where the staples had ripped out.
Dabi just let out a sharp, ragged hiss through his teeth, his entire frame going rigid. The muscles in his back bunched, his large hands gripping the cushions of the stolen couch so hard the fabric groaned. The heat radiating off him spiked instantly, scorching the air between you.
"Careful," he growled.
"I'm being as careful as I can," you lied, pressing just a fraction harder than necessary, a tiny, pathetic act of rebellion that was the absolute limit of your bravery. "If you want it done right, don't fight forty heroes before dinner."
A low, breathy laugh escaped him, cutting through his own pain. "You've got a mouth on you tonight, doll. Sure you want to push your luck?"
"What are you gonna do? Burn the other leg?" The words left your mouth before you could stop them. You held your breath, instantly regretting the gamble.
Dabi didn't move. He just let out another low, wheezing chuckle against his chest. "Don't tempt me. But no. I like the mouth. If I wanted a quiet house, I would've killed you already."
You didn't answer. You wiped away the excess blood, your fingers brushing against the unburnt skin of his upper back. It was terrifyingly mundane. Sitting here, tending to his wounds, arguing something stupid—it made him feel human. It made him feel like a man who was just broken, rather than a monster who had turned dozens of families into ash just hours prior.
You reached into the kit and pulled out the heavy metal staple applier. It looked like a standard office stapler, but the thick, medical-grade wire inside was meant to hold his flesh together.
"I have to put two back in," you said. "Hold still."
"Just do it," he muttered.
You lined up the metal prongs over the torn, purple edge of his skin, matching it to the pale tissue of his neck. Your chest heaved as you took a breath, trying to steady your fingers. You looked at the television over his shoulder. On the screen, the cartoon character on the television laughed, a bright, manic sound that filled the silent, stolen house.
Click.
Dabi flinched violently, a low groan ripping from his throat as the metal forced its way through his flesh. He didn't pull away from you, though. He stayed perfectly still, enduring the agonizing bite of the staple.
You lined up the second one.
His head dropped lower, his breath coming in heavy, ragged pants against his chest. For a long minute, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the mindless music of the cartoon and the ragged rhythm of his breathing.
Slowly, Dabi lifted his head. The tension in his shoulders relaxed slightly as the new staples held the tearing skin in place. He looked at you, his blue eyes glassy with pain but intensely focused on your face.
He reached out, his bloody, scarred fingers gently wrapping around your wrist. He didn't squeeze hard enough to hurt, but the grip made you unable to yank yourself back. He pulled your hand away from the first-aid kit, guiding it up until your palm rested flat against his chest, right over the steady, heavy thumping of his heart.
"See?" he murmured, an exhausted smile playing on his lips. "You're good at this. We make a good team, don't we, doll?"
You looked down at your hand against his chest, then up at his scarred face as he leaned slightly forward, closing the distance between you until his forehead gently dropped against yours. Up close, you could hear the faint, wet catch in his breathing, smell the copper of his blood.
Unconsciously, your eyes drifted downward, past his ribs, landing on your own ruined leg. The pink and silver markings looked stark under the flashing blue light of the cartoon.
You didn't pull your hand away.
From the couch, you could still see the refrigerator. Children's alphabet magnets covered the door in chaotic clusters. Somebody had tried spelling DINOSAUR and given up halfway through. A faded birthday invitation was pinned beneath a grocery list.
The kitchen table remained exactly as Dabi had found it. A half-finished crossword puzzle sat beside a ceramic mug decorated with cartoon paw prints. The pen was still resting where its owner had left it, as though they might walk back in at any moment and finish filling in the blanks.
They never would.
Dabi didn't care enough to throw any of it anyway.
Summary: You can't run anymore, not when the scars on your legs still ache from the last attempt.
Warnings: Off-screen mass murder, kidnapping, forced relationship, graphic descriptions of burn injury, mention of past burns, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.
Author's Notes: N/A.
You shifted your weight, trying to find a comfortable position on the cushions, but a sharp, tight pull raced up the skin of your left calf. You winced, your hand instinctively dropping to smooth over the fabric of your sweatpants. Beneath the cotton, the skin was a raised, angry lattice of pink and silver scar tissue.
A permanent reminder of the last time you thought you were clever.
The last time you had convinced yourself that if you just ran fast enough while he was sleeping. You hadn’t made it to the road. The sheer heat of the blue light had melted the skin before you even reached the tree line.
The memory brought a cold, familiar spike of nausea, and you forced your hands back into your lap, taking a slow, shaky breath. Running wasn't an option anymore. Not because you had given up on the idea of freedom, but because you really, really liked being able to walk.
So, you stayed. When he moved you to this new, stolen suburban safehouse three days ago, you didn't even look for the back door.
You kept your eyes staring fixedly at the television screen, watching a low-budget infomercial about a revolutionary slap-chopper you didn’t need, purely because the flashing colors kept the dark corners of the unfamiliar living room from closing in.
On the mantel across from you, a framed family portrait of a smiling couple and their golden retriever stared blankly at the wall. Dabi had turned it around the second he kicked the front door open three days ago.
A child's crayon drawing was still taped to the side of the entertainment center. The sun had been colored purple. The grass was blue. In one corner, someone had painstakingly written MOMMY in oversized, uneven letters. Dabi hadn't bothered taking it down. He'd simply ignored it, the same way he'd ignored the dog toys abandoned beneath the coffee table and the pink rain boots sitting neatly beside the front door.
The digital clock on the stolen microwave in the kitchen shifted to 1:14 AM.
Your stomach let out a pathetic, echoing growl. In your anxiety not to disturb the house's layout, you hadn't checked the pantry of whoever used to live here. For all you knew, the previous owners were health nuts who only stocked celery and despair.
Right on cue, the heavy lock on the front door clicked. The wood creaked open, admitting a sharp gust of night air that instantly cut through the fake lavender scent of the house. He looked like hell. The dark denim of his jacket was dusted with gray ash, and the smell of smoke clinging to him was so thick it practically stung your eyes.
"Hey, doll," Dabi said, accompanied by the rustle of a cheap plastic bag. "You're still awake. Missed me that much?"
You didn't look up from the slap-chopper infomercial. You just kept your eyes glued to the screen of a woman joyfully chopping an onion, letting a heavy, irritated sigh escape your lips.
"Don't flatter yourself, the TV was keeping me company," you called back, adopting the practiced, unimpressed armor you wore every time he came back. You eyed the bag. "What did you do, rob a vending machine?"
"Corner store," Dabi muttered. He shed his heavy dark coat, dropping it onto a nearby armchair. Beneath it, he wore a sleeveless black shirt that showed off the jagged, stapled seams where his burnt purple skin met his pale jawline. "The guy behind the counter was asleep. Saved me the trouble of burning the place down."
He walked over to the couch, bypassed the empty space entirely, and practically collapsed right next to you. The couch cushions groaned under his weight. Instantly, a wave of intense, furnace-like heat radiated off him, cutting through the chilly draft he'd brought in.
Without asking, he hooked an arm around your waist and hauled you flush against his side. Your body went momentarily rigid—the instinct to pull away screaming in your ear—but you forced your muscles to relax. You let yourself sink into his side, using his chest as a makeshift pillow. He was warm, at least, and your legs had been aching from the midnight chill.
"Brought you dinner," Dabi murmured, his chin resting heavily on the top of your head. He dumped the contents of the plastic bag directly onto your lap.
You stared at the pile. Your stomach, which had been begging for food ten minutes ago, felt a sudden wave of disappointment.
"Dabi," you said slowly, picking up a bag with two fingers. "These are pickled pig feet. And... is this a neon blue energy drink called Liquid Lightning?"
"It has electrolytes," he said, leaning his head back against the sofa cushions and closing his eyes. "Eat it."
"I am a human being, not a raccoon you found in a dumpster," you said, tossing the pig feet back into the pile and digging through the rest. You pulled out a crushed bag of chips and a single cup of instant seafood ramen. "Seriously? Extreme-heat jalapeño cheddar chips?"
"They were easier to reach." Dabi scoffed, though he didn't pull away. His fingers casually twirled a strand of your hair. "You complain a lot for someone who can't leave."
"If I'm going to die of captivity, it’s going to be from malnutrition, not by sodium poisoning," you shot back, though you were already peeling open the top of the spicy chips. It was aggressively salty and painfully spicy, but your stomach stopped growling, so you considered it a win.
"Drink some water, you'll be fine," he muttered, reaching down to rip open the bag of jalapeño chips. He popped one into his mouth, crunching loudly right next to your ear.
For a few minutes, the room settled into a bizarre, fragile peace. You shared the chips, the bag sitting between you on the couch, while the TV presenter on screen finally finished dicing his onions. It felt like a petty, late-night argument between two lovers who chose to be together. You could almost forget the tight, scarred skin on your calf. You could almost forget who he was. The bickering was a game you both played to pretend the floor wasn't made of glass. You took another chip, determined to argue him down about the culinary crimes of gas-station seafood ramen.
Then, the infomercial abruptly cut to black.
A stark, flashing crimson banner filled the screen: BREAKING NEWS.
An urgent siren noise blared from the TV speakers, shattering the quiet room. You froze, a half-chewed chip turning to ash in your mouth.
The screen cut to a live helicopter feed. The camera was shaky, zoomed in on a massive, roaring inferno consuming a corporate high-rise downtown.
The flames were a violent, blinding, electric blue.
"...repeating our top story tonight," the news anchor’s voice broke through the speaker, sounding visibly shaken. "Authorities have already confirmed at least forty casualties, with the death toll expected to rise drastically by morning..."
A photograph of Dabi flashed on the right side of the screen, right next to the live footage of the burning building.
Your heart stopped, then began to hammer so hard you were certain he could feel it vibrating against his ribs. The petty annoyance vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, paralyzing dread.
Oh, right. How could you forget that he is a mass murderer.
You looked from the screen, to the bag of chips, and then slowly up to his face.
Dabi hadn't stopped chewing. He was staring at the television, his patchwork face held together by staples, reflecting the glow of the broadcast. There wasn't a shred of remorse, anger, or even pride on his face. But you were sure that he felt your rigidity instantly. Slowly, he turned his head. Those piercing, detached blue eyes slid away from the burning building on the screen and locked onto your face.
"Look at you," he murmured, his voice dropping into a harsh rasp. "Did the big bad villain scare you, doll? Lucky for you, he likes you."
You couldn't answer. Your jaw was locked, your eyes frozen on the aerial footage of a paramedic weeping on the pavement.
Dabi let out a soft, almost affectionate sigh. He shifted his weight, turning his body toward you on the cushions. He reached out, his large, scarred hand wrapping around the nape of your neck. His skin was blazing hot, a stark contrast to the icy dread pooling in your stomach. With a gentle pressure, he pulled you forward, tugging your head down until your forehead rested against his collarbone.
He was hugging you. He even brought his other hand up to rest on your back, his long fingers tracing a lazy circle between your shoulder blades.
You can’t help but flinched—a violent, involuntary jerk away from his touch.
Instantly, a sharp, white-hot throb flared up your left calf. The phantom heat of his old punishment seemed to awaken in response to your panic, the pink and silver scar tissue tightening so violently it felt like it would split.
A dark, dangerous flicker crossed his bright blue eyes, and you wondered if this was the moment he lost his patience entirely. Then, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb reaching out to brutally but gently trace the line of your jaw, forcing you to look away from the burning high-rise on the screen.
"Don't tell me you're getting squeamish now," he rasped, his voice dropping into a gravelly purr. "Why do you care? You don't know any of those suits anyway."
To prove his point, he reached blindly for the remote on the cushion. With a careless click of his thumb, the screaming sirens and the weeping news anchor vanished. The blinding blue light of the television died, replaced by a colorful late-night cartoon.
But Dabi didn't let you go. Instead, a sudden, genuine grimace twisting his features as he let out a sharp hiss of pain through his teeth. He let his head drop back against the sofa, his grip on your shoulder loosening as his hand moved to clutch at the jagged seam where his neck met his shoulder.
"Fucking hell," Dabi growled, his voice thick with genuine pain.
His ‘work’ downtown was finally catching up to him. The smell of burnt ozone intensified, cutting through the room as a fresh, angry blister began to weep along his collarbone, the silver staples pulling mercilessly against his raw skin.
"Stupid heroes," he muttered, his breath hitching. "One of 'em got a lucky shot in before they went down. Forced me to overextend."
You watched, paralyzed, as a dark, wet stain began to spread across the shoulder of his sleeveless black shirt. A couple of the medical staples near the base of his neck looked dangerously loose.
Dabi turned his head back to you. He opened one bright blue eye, looking down at you with a mixture of exhaustion and strange neediness.
"Hey," he rasped, nodding toward the hallway. "Do me a favor."
"What?" You swallowed hard, your eyes darting from his bleeding shoulder to the cartoon playing on the TV.
"The skin on my shoulder is flaring up, and a couple of the stitches came loose on the back of my neck," he said, rolling his shoulder with a sharp wince. "Grab the first-aid kit from the bathroom. You're gonna help me patch this up."
You didn't move immediately. For a split second, your brain spun out a reckless, impossible fantasy. He’s bleeding, and exhausted from murdering forty people. If you took the first-aid kit’s scissors, if you walked up behind him while the cartoon music played, if you drove the metal blades directly into the unhealed seams of his neck—
As if reading your mind, Dabi’s hand slid down from your jaw to rest heavily over your left knee. He didn't squeeze, but the crushing warmth of his palm seeped right through the fabric of your sweatpants, pressing directly against the edge of your scar tissue.
"Don't make me ask twice, doll," Dabi murmured, his voice dropping an octave, though his eyes remained closed. "Hurts like a bitch tonight."
With that, the fantasy shattered like cheap glass.
inspired from that one scene from the film The House That Jack Built (tho reader gets a better outcome, all things considered)
Kishibe x female!reader
Warnings: noncon, smut, fingering, groping, kidnapping, captivity, sexual harassment, mentions of gore, mentions of death
Word Count: 13.9k
The bar that you worked at just so happened to be situated close to the main office of the devil hunters, and as a result, a fair amount of your clientele were those same people who worked in Public Safety, usually the ones that were just getting off work and were in desperate need of a drink after spending a work shift witnessing countless horrors.
Despite your job as a bartender not coming close in terms of what they went through, you saw a lot just from witnessing the state they were in when you served them: the exhaustion that had seeped into their bones after they would sit down and the far-off gazes as they relived whatever fresh hell they'd been through before downing the rest of their drinks before calling you for another. Sometimes there were even entrails that covered them which you needed to clean up; it was only possible to do so once you held a spare rag up to your mouth and nose while keeping the dustpan as far away from you as possible before you deposited the remains in the dumpster at the back, after which you would quickly scurry away, eager to escape the awful smell.
It'd be easy to be annoyed with them for things like that, but you kept yourself in line by reminding yourself that they were the ones killing the devils so people like you could live in relative safety. If the price for that was sometimes needing to clean up something gross, you could live with that.
And certainly the last thing the exhausted hunters needed was someone nagging at them about a mess.
You got used to the changing faces, of those who either left or those who had died in the line of duty. More often than not, they simply stopped coming in with no explanation, which was a good indication that they were dead, as the ones who would quit usually ended up telling you their life story: why they got into devil hunting, what had happened since that point and why they now wanted to leave. You would listen – they didn't really want much engagement from you, just for someone to hear them out. At the end of it, the hunter would usually slam down their glass and declare that they were going to quit before heading out the door and you never saw them again.
Though there were often times when they would softly put down their empty glass and decide that they needed to keep with it despite the hardship. The irony that followed was that sometimes those hunters who decided to keep going didn't come in after that.
Even though you could make a good guess as to what had likely happened, you preferred to tell yourself that they had changed their mind immediately after and decided to quit after all. Even if it was a lie you were telling yourself, it was nicer to imagine a happy outcome for them, a future that they could – and should – have had.
And the faces at the bar continued to change.
Except for one.
Kishibe.
During the entirety of your year and a half of working at the bar, the biggest constant was the man who called himself the strongest devil hunter and who always, always came in for a drink once his shift had finally ended.
He was an odd one, to say the least. In terms of looks, he stood out almost immediately from the other devils hunters in large part due to his blonde hair and the recognizable scar that ran from the corner of his mouth and across his left cheek. And in terms of what he was like as a person, from what you could see, his monotone way of speaking and his quiet demeanor was deemed to be unsettling to most who interacted with him. He was also constantly drinking, as on more than one occasion you saw him take a swig of that flask he always carried around right as he entered the bar and then again when he left. That, combined with how much he drank at what became his designated seat at the bar, left you thinking that the fact that his liver was still functioning at his age was nothing short of a miracle.
Speaking to him had been weird at first. You had assumed that he would be like the other hunters who came in on their own, the ones who were in a bad place and were trying to drown out the turbulent feelings inside of them by way of harsh liquor. Those ones didn't want to talk; they just wanted a drink and for you to leave them alone until they needed a refill. With your experience with other hunters and the general vibe that surrounded Kishibe, it seemed like the safest choice to keep your distance from him.
But despite your attempts at creating that space, Kishibe turned out to be eager for a chat whenever you were around.
Though the topics the two of you could discuss were limited, you slowly found yourself warming up to the veteran hunter the more you spoke with him. While it was hard to tell what Kishibe was feeling in general, the fact that he continued to seek out your company told you that, at the very least, he found you to be tolerable. Tolerable enough to ask you questions that were guaranteed to get him boring answers. You doubted that he cared much about what your day had been like before you arrived for your shift or what the results of your off-day shopping trips were; he must have just wanted to hear something about how the average person's normal day went, one that was free of hunting and killing.
Until he told you to stop or he didn't bother to ask anymore, you were happy to oblige.
At that moment, Kishibe was on his third drink, staring down at the dark liquid within the glass with the same blank expression that was always on his face. Just like the other devil hunters that were currently in the bar, he was finished for the day and was getting a few drinks before he'd head home. Though with Kishibe it definitely wouldn't be just a few, and it wouldn't end with whatever he got at the bar.
It was relatively quiet at the moment with the small bits of chatter throughout the room being contained to the tables where the other patrons sat, so there was no need to raise your voice when you spoke to him.
“Kill a lot of devils today?” you asked.
Kishibe glanced up at you before returning his gaze to the glass.
“No, nothing like that today,” he said.
“Oh? Then were you training new recruits again?”
“Some of that,” he answered plainly, “but today I was mostly dealing with paperwork.”
“Ah.”
While you weren't inclined to say paperwork was the worst thing to deal with considering that the man killed monsters for a living, you could easily see how trudging through documents and filling out papers could be an exceptionally mind numbing experience.
“I guess it's too bad that being the best devil hunter doesn't exempt you from the boring parts of the job,” you said.
He shrugged.
“It's something that inevitably comes with any sort of job,” Kishibe told you, raising the glass to his lips after.
You leaned your elbow on the surface of the bar as you asked “did the training with your students go well at least?”
“No,” he answered bluntly.
“Oh. Why not?”
Kishibe waited to reply as he took another swig of his drink before saying “they're motivated by money, which is the worst reason to join Public Safety. Not only that, but they're hopelessly weak as well, which makes training them even more of a waste of time.”
“But the point of training them is to make them stronger, right?” you asked.
“There's no point because they're not cut out for it.”
“Is that you saying that they're not crazy enough?”
“It is.”
“Ah.”
You'd heard him say that before. About how the only people who can make it as devil hunters are the crazy ones and anyone who was too sane was little more than cannon fodder. His words.
Whether or not what he was saying was correct wasn't something you could really judge, but considering how long he'd been at that job, it was possible that there just might be some truth to what he was saying, though you doubted anyone else at Public Safety would be willing to agree with his statement out loud.
“Well,” you began, “maybe they'll surprise you. Maybe they just need a bit more time.”
“Doubtful. You either are cut out for devil hunting or you aren't. And these ones aren't,” said Kishibe.
He took a cursory glance across the room before he added “they'd be more suitable for a job like this one.”
Then he looked back to you as he asked “you need any new workers?”
You shook your head.
“Unfortunately we're all good on staff, so I don't think we can take any of them,” you answered jokingly.
“I see.”
He brought the glass back up to his lips as he said “then I guess they'll be dead soon enough.”
Kishibe spoke those words in that same monotone voice, while part of you wanted to believe that he was just a fan of dark humor, you knew him well enough by now to know that he meant what he said. Whoever these students were, they must have been massively under-performing for his opinion of them to be so low.
“Have you tried talking to them about that?” you then asked.
“I have. They just see it as motivation to prove me wrong,” he said, “I'm not going to bother if all it does it encourage stupid behavior.”
“And you can't speak to anyone higher up about your concerns?”
“Very few apply to work at Public Safety in general, so they'll accept anyone without question.”
“They're that desperate for hunters?”
Kishibe nodded.
You smiled, taking the opportunity to joke as you said “maybe I should apply then, especially if they don't care much about someone's background. It'd probably pay better than what I get from this place.”
In response to that, Kishibe gave you a long, hard look, his glass held in midair as he stared at you. Though his expression remained neutral, you got the sense that he wasn't amused.
“…. I was joking,” you said, “I know that I'm not up for killing devils.”
Just like that, the slight bit of tension that had fallen on the two of you dissipated. and the air felt light once again.
“That's good,” he told you, bringing the glass to his lips before saying “you're smart in knowing your limits.”
“Unlike your students?”
“Yeah.”
With one last swig, he drained what was in the glass. The veteran devil hunter then set it down closer to you, silently asking you for a refill. You obliged, grabbing the nearby bottle you had opened for him earlier and filling up the glass until it reached the brim.
As you put the bottle back on the shelf and while he lifted the glass to his lips once again, you commented “it is nice that you're trying to look out for them.”
He stopped what he was doing, raising an eyebrow in question.
“Even though what you're saying doesn't seem all that kind, you must really be worried about them if you're that insistent that they need to quit,” you clarified, “I can only imagine how tired you are of seeing those white grave markers multiplying every time you go to that graveyard.”
The expression on his face remained blank after you said that, which, of course, made it hard to read just how he felt about your statement. But when he averted his gaze and took that sip of his newly poured drink, you took it to mean that you were correct.
Kishibe was pretty open, after all. If you were wrong, he would have said so. You felt certain of that.
“But maybe don't give up on them just yet,” you added, “like I said, they might surprise you.”
“….. I'll consider it.”
You smiled at that. That was as big of a win that you could get when it came to Kishibe, who no doubt had an issue of being stubborn due to age.
You really hoped those students would be able to prove him wrong.
There wasn't any more time to dwell on the matter, however, as a few more men walked in at that moment and took their seats at the bar, waiting to be served. The small moment that you had to chat with your most regular customer had come to a close, at least for now. Even if Kishibe spent a lot when he visited the bar, you would get in trouble if you ignored other customers in favor of speaking with him.
Even if this wasn't the greatest job in the world, you didn't want to face the terror of unemployment.
…. Was there such a thing as an unemployment devil? You'd need to ask Kishibe later, if you remembered.
It picked up quite a bit after that, with a more steady stream of patrons filling the seats and orders for drinks flowing in. As such, you were too busy to continue any form of conversation with Kishibe; the most words that were shared between the two of you were your affirmations when he called you over to refill his glass. And the hours would manage to pass in that way.
It was the same way it usually went. Another busy night where your feet would definitely be aching by the time you got back home.
It was near the end of your shift when Kishibe called you over to ask for his bill, settling up before he headed out for the night, presumably to wherever it was he called 'home'. The time he did so was as usual, as was the rather high bill he had racked up during the hours he'd spent chugging down drinks. He barely reacted to the high amount you had printed out for him, his face staying as blank as always as he fished out the amount needed from his wallet.
“Heading home?” you asked him.
“In a bit,” he said, “need to take care of something first.”
“I hope it's not work related; I doubt you'd be in any condition for late night devil murdering.”
“Even if it was, I'd be fine.”
You raised your eyebrows at that, but otherwise said nothing to disagree with him. If he noticed that reaction of yours, he chose not to comment on it as he handed you what he owed.
“You get off soon, don't you?” he then asked.
“Yeah, why?” you asked back absentmindedly as you placed the money in the register.
“Did you walk or drive here?”
“Oh, I usually walk,” you answered, “my place isn't too far away.”
“Will you be alright heading home by yourself at this hour?”
You smiled as you nodded at him, answering “I'll be fine. I've walked that route dozens of times and I've never had any issues. Plus, there's hardly anyone around this time of night.”
Kishibe nodded slowly once you answered, and while he spoke again just to say “that's good, then”, he said it more to himself than to you.
Shutting the register, you looked back to him as you asked “but what about you? Are you walking? I feel like it'd be dangerous if you got behind the wheel of a car right now.”
“I usually walk, too,” he told you, “both the business I need to take care of and my place are close enough.”
“I see. Well, I hope you have a good rest of your night.”
“Same to you.”
With nothing else to be said, Kishibe began to make his way out of the bar, remaining surprisingly steady as he walked to the door. You weren't sure if his tolerance for alcohol was something else, or if he was just really really good at pretending to be sober.
As he walked out, you noted the reactions of the other devil hunters as he passed them by. A majority of the ones who were still present stiffened when he did so, conversations turning quiet until he was out of earshot. Some were clearly nervous with him being so close. And then there were others who looked at him, trying to make eye contact so they could have some small bit of a good interaction in wishing him well for the night by way of a brief farewell.
Kishibe didn't pay attention to any of them, and when the door shut behind him, the visible tension in the nervous hunters lessened instantly, a collective sigh of relief hitting them.
Seeing that sort of reaction was another thing that had felt weird at first.
Despite the fact that he was constantly drinking, none of the other devil hunters regarded Kishibe as being an old drunken fool as you might have expected. Conversations would quiet down once he walked through the doors, anyone who had begun to get a little too rowdy cutting it out the moment they realized he was there. Kishibe wasn't interested in interacting with any of them, however. Once he had sat down, his only focus was on downing the many drinks he would order while he made conversation with you.
Those sorts of reactions were probably due to the respect that the other devil hunters felt for him. But it was respect mixed with something else:
Fear.
As you only ever saw Kishibe within the small space of the bar, you had no idea what he was truly like when he was out hunting devils. While you could make a guess of how strong he was based on his general aura and the way the others regarded him, you were limited to him when he was in that seat chugging down drinks like no tomorrow.
There was only time where you had gotten an inkling as to what he was capable of, and you hadn't even been around to witness it.
A while back and on a rare night where Kishibe was absent, a devil hunter who was relatively new to the job and had only recently started going to the bar with his colleagues made an impulsive decision when he was tipsy and had smacked you on the ass as you were walking by his table. The hit had been so hard and unexpected that you ended up dropping a tray full of drinks, and the glasses you'd been carrying shattered on the floor alongside the spilled liquor.
When you told the guy to get out he scoffed at you, and at that moment there wasn't much you could do other than clean up the mess while one of your coworkers got a refill for the orders that had spilled. By the time all of that was done, the group the guy had been with had left, one of the others paying for their bill while the guy snickered at you. That, along with the way your boss had berated you after for spilling the drinks despite your explanation, had caused that night to be a bad one for you. It was bad enough that it was still affecting you the next day, leaving you somber through your shift.
Kishibe noticed your mood almost immediately, and after some prying on his part, you told him what had happened. After getting the full story, his expression stayed level as it always did, and it made you sad as you thought that he didn't care about what had happened to you.
But then he asked you for a description of the man who had hit you as well as the ones who had accompanied him. That had surprised you, but you still gave him the information he wanted. Kishibe left soon after and much earlier in the night than he usually did.
Truthfully, you hadn't expected much to come from any of it. Maybe at most the bar owner would receive a letter of apology and some small bit of compensation for the spilled drinks as well as the group promising to be on better behavior. And even then, you weren't really interested in any of that. All you had really wanted was for someone to agree that the entire situation was unfair for you. Kishibe hadn't even done that, so your somber mood remained even after your shift ended.
You weren't expecting to see the guy who'd hit you so soon after that.
A few days later, shortly after you had come in, the devil hunter who had so brazenly smacked you entered the bar and gave you a formal apology, promising that he would never bother you again. The entire thing was very short, as he didn't bother making any excuses or tried to blame his actions on the alcohol. He simply apologized, left an envelope full of money as compensation for what you had dropped and then exited the bar.
Despite his apology to you, he couldn't look you in the face, and there was a distinct haunted look in his gaze as he stared at anything other than you, as though he was terrified of making direct eye contact with you.
Neither that man or the group he had been with ever entered the bar again, and when Kishibe came in that same evening, he didn't mention anything. You didn't ask about it, either. Whatever it was that he had done to get that result, you decided that you didn't want to know just in case the answer was something that would keep you up at night. Even if it wasn't something gruesome or morally questionable, it was simply easier to pretend that the incident hadn't happened.
At least those previously rowdy devil hunters were a bit more well-behaved from that point onward.
Late on the next Tuesday night, you found yourself alone as you were the last one clocking out, and therefore the one who needed to do the final clean up and shutting down of the bar. Luckily for you, Tuesdays were always slow and there was never much of a mess to take care of, so despite the late hour you were in good spirits as you exited the building, locking the door at the back while you thought of what you were going to do from here.
Your thoughts went to a new video game you had bought, having only had enough time to play a little bit before you had started your shift that day. While normally you may have felt the current time was too late for something like that, you had tomorrow off, so it didn't feel like a horrible idea to stay up late on your computer. It was very likely that all of your day off would be dedicated to playing the game.
But you were jumping too far ahead. You hadn't even gotten to tomorrow yet, you told yourself. Focus on getting home right now.
You walked along quiet streets as you did just that, at one point zipping your hoodie fully up as the chill of the night air was more uncomfortable than you were expecting. At least you wouldn't need to be out here long, though you still bemoaned the fact that you had forgotten to bring your gloves with you. The only solution you had was stuffing your hands into your pockets in an effort to keep them warm.
As was expected for how late it was, the street you were walking on was virtually abandoned. Any people that you did catch sight of could only be seen on adjacent streets that you passed, all of whom were minding their own business as they hastily made their way to wherever they needed to be. You were in the same camp as they were, and your pace increased as all you wanted in that moment was to get home where you'd be able to relax and unwind.
One walkway you passed by was particularly loud, and you caught sight of a group of businessmen who were chatting with one another. From what you could see, they had been out drinking. Socializing for work, more than likely.
So it wasn't a surprise when you rounded the corner of a turn you needed to make and you saw what at first appeared to be another businessman in the distance, moving about oddly as he walked towards you. With the distance between the two of you and the fact that you had only spared him a brief glance at first, you assumed that he was one with that group, making his way back for one reason or another.
But as the person was walking in your direction, you were compelled to look up at him as he came closer.
It wasn't a businessman at all.
And as the picture before you became clearer as the person continued walking towards you, your pace slowed before you came to a stop as recognition turned to confusion upon realizing just who it was on the path before you.
Your most loyal regular at the bar, Kishibe, was out on the sidewalk by himself. His height, hair and the scar on his face made it easy to identify him. That he was out at night wasn't much of a surprise, but what made you confused was the fact that he was stumbling, barely able to keep himself upright as he went forward. The only explanation for him to move in such a way was that he was drunk.
You were in disbelief. How was that even possible? You'd seen that man consume enough alcohol that it should've been fatal and it had never affected him, yet now he wasn't even able to walk in a straight line – just how fucking much did he have to drink to get that way?
When he nearly fell to the pavement was when you snapped out of your stupor.
Holy fuck
“Kishibe!”
You ran over to where he was leaning against an adjacent wall, lightly placing your hand on his back as a way to help steady him while you asked “are you alright?”
He turned his head to look at you, and after a moment, he shook his head.
“Let me lean on you,” he mumbled.
Taking hold of one of his arms, you did your best to keep him standing as he got his feet firmly beneath him.
“Do you need to go to the hospital? I can call an ambulance,” you said.
“Hospital? No,” he answered, “just get me back to my apartment.”
“I don't know where that is.”
By that point he had his arm over your shoulder, though he was swaying far more than you were comfortable with. Still shaken by how he had nearly fallen moments ago and worried that he could still end up tumbling onto the pavement, you ended up grabbing ahold of his waist in an attempt to keep him steady. Although if he was really going to fall, you had a bad feeling that he would just end up taking you down with him.
You really hoped that wouldn't happen; ending your night by having one or both of you getting a concussion was something you wanted to avoid.
Kishibe had reached a hand into his pocket and had pulled out his cellphone, his fingers seemingly not cooperating when he attempted to put in his passcode. After a few failed attempts at unlocking it, the screen turned brighter as he got in and within a few moments, he had typed in an address and held it in front you.
Your mind blanked before you took the phone from him with an “okay.”
Looking at the screen, you found that the location put in was only fifteen minutes away from where you currently stood. That wasn't too bad, but as you glanced over again to Kishibe and the state he was in, you worried that the short walk would be too much for him right now. If he lost his balance again you didn't think you had the strength to keep him up on your own, and if he passed out there was no way you'd be able to drag him to his apartment. Plus if he hurt himself you'd probably need to call an ambulance, which would be a whole other mess that would likely see you waiting in the hospital for hours.
“Are you sure you want to walk there? With how you're doing right now, I think it might be better if we call a ride for you,” you told him.
“No.”
“But the idea of you walking seems dangerous.”
“You really think anyone will let me into their car with how I am now?” he countered.
Ah. That was true. Kishibe was only still standing up right now because you were supporting him. And not only was he unsteady, but he also reeked of alcohol. Any driver would see him and refuse to let him in out of fear that they'd need to clean his vomit out of their car afterwards.
So the only option was to walk him back?
….. This sucks.
It was late, you'd been on your feet for hours, your fingers were still numb from the cold and you were tired. You'd been looking forward to your plans for when you got back and yet you needed to be the one to deal with this?
Despite saying none of that out loud, Kishibe seemed perceptive to what you were thinking as he said “I know it's inconvenient, but I'd appreciate it if you would help me out.”
“…..”
…. Well now you felt like an asshole.
Kishibe needed help and you were trying to get out of it, and now he was aware that you were trying to get out of it. The fact that he needed to push to get you to help him wasn't good at all. And all of it was just so you could go home and play a video game?
Why were you like this?
With that, you forced a smile onto your face as you said “of course. It's only a short walk, right?”
He nodded.
Readjusting the hold you had on him, you kept the smile on your face as you continued with “plus, maybe the walking will help you feel better.”
“Maybe.”
As the you began to walk him back, heading in the direction that was directly opposite of your apartment, you told yourself that this could always be worse. Kishibe wasn't being loud or aggressive, which you appreciated. While you were stuck with his arm around you and the pace at which you traveled was painfully slow, it would have been a lot worse if he'd insisted that you help him while also being belligerent about it.
At least he was a pretty chill drunk, even if the way he wobbled in your grip still made your stress levels rise every time it felt like he was about to lose his balance.
“If you need to stop to rest a little, we can do that. Just let me know, okay?”
He nodded after you told him that, but with the vacant stare in his eye, you wondered how much he had really heard.
Oh well.
As the two of you went by the path you had passed previously which was full of the businessmen, you found that it was empty now. Either they were getting more drinks somewhere else or they were going home. Though as you took one last glance in that general area, you caught sight of a tiny bit of movement at the base of the building, your eyebrows furrowing until you realized what you were looking at.
“Gross,” you commented.
“Hm?”
“Cockroach.”
Kishibe hummed in response.
“I'm surprised it's still alive in this weather,” you said, “I would've thought the cold would have gotten to it.”
“They're good at finding ways to survive.”
It was good that he was speaking to you. As you were still worried at the thought of him passing out while in the middle of the way home, you figured that continuing to speak would probably be best; whatever you could think of as long as he stayed lucid enough to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
With the sight of the bug from moments ago, at least there was an easy topic of conversation to have.
“Is there a cockroach devil?” you asked.
He closed his eyes as he nodded slowly.
“We don't have control of it, though,” he then told you.
“Good thing I'm not afraid of cockroaches, then. Wouldn't want to make your enemies stronger,” you said.
You paused as you readjusted the grip you had around his waist before you added “I am pretty scared of spiders, though. Is that an issue?”
“Public Safety has control of the spider devil. If anything, I would encourage you to be more afraid of spiders. That way she'll be stronger,” answered Kishibe.
“Okay,” you answered, laughing a little as you said “though maybe I don't want to be too afraid of them. It'd be a different kind of issue if she became too tough and decided to run off to do her own thing, right?”
He shook his head.
“That's impossible.”
“Why's that?”
“Because if she tried that, I'd hunt her down and take her out,” he said simply.
“You're sure you'd be successful with that?” you asked.
“Of course. I'm the strongest devil hunter there is,” Kishibe told you.
“That might be true,” you said, “but if a devil were to come for you as you are right now, I'm worried you wouldn't be able to do much.”
“I'd handle it.”
“…. You can't even walk on your own.”
“I'd handle it,” he insisted.
Despite his tone, you were skeptical. After all, you were the only one keeping him upright at that moment. Still, it was better to let it go. Just treat it like you're at work, you told yourself. Work that you wouldn't be getting paid for, but work nonetheless. Even though this wasn't the way you wanted your night to end, reminding yourself that you had the day off tomorrow helped in making you feel better about it.
Walking to Kishibe's apartment took about an extra eight minutes due to his slow pace, and there was only so much you could do to get him to move faster while still being polite about it. If only you had the strength to pick him up and carry him, it could've gone so much faster.
At the very least it would have made for a funny scene, at least from an outsider's perspective.
You did your best to stay positive, and you continued to ask him questions as a way to make sure he was still conscious as you escorted him back home. Though after your conversation about the spider devil, Kishibe only answered in grunts or hums, but at least he was still able to answer you. That was a good thing, at least. As long as he was conscious and able to continue walking, that was good.
When you caught sight of Kishibe's apartment building and noted the tall flights of stairs that decorated the sides, you frowned. And when you asked him which floor you needed to get him too, you groaned internally when he answered that his unit was on the fourth floor.
Of course you needed to get him up several flights of stairs.
You didn't want to think about just how long it took the two of you to get up the stairs, nor did you want to think about the times you needed to help him lift up his own feet so he could ascend those stairs with you. By the time you reached the door of his unit, you felt well and truly exhausted from the ordeal, and you wanted nothing more than for him to unlock the door and go inside so you could go back home.
Except Kishibe handed you the key to his door.
Of course it couldn't be that simple.
You couldn't even get him to go in on his own, as when you turned the handle and opened the door to his unit, his weight suddenly bore down on you, pushing you into the darkened apartment with him following after and only managing to regain his footing once he was inside. Even then he stumbled backwards after, his arm hitting the open door and forcing it back shut when he fell against it.
“Are you okay?!”
All you heard in response to your worried question was a grunt that seemed like he was trying to indicate 'yes', which lessened your panic a little, though it'd be nicer to be able to see him. In the pitch dark of the apartment, you reached for a nearby wall as you searched for a light switch. After several moments of blindly pressing your hand all over the surface of the wall, you found it, and you needed to shut your eyes once the overhead light turned on as you needed to adjust to the sudden brightness.
Once you were able to see, what greeted you was what appeared to be a sparsely decorated apartment that only seemed rather ominous as the rest of the lights within the space had also been left off. From what you were able to see in your current position, you caught sight of a darkened living room area, and beyond that, a sliding door that opened up to small balcony. There was a couch in the living room, right? You could just leave him there, couldn't you?
Please let me leave now, you silently begged.
“Could you get me to the bedroom?”
Despite how he mumbled his words, you heard him clearly. Looking back to where you'd left him, you were dismayed to find that he was still drunk out of his mind. He still had his back leaning against the surface of the door, and it seemed that was all that was keeping him upright. With the way he was blocking the way out, it meant you'd need to move him, and more than likely you'd need to escort him further, this time to his bedroom.
Once you saw him at your next shift at the bar, you'd need to ask what exactly he'd done to get himself that fucked up. That, or maybe he could just give you a really nice tip for all of the effort spent getting him home safe.
But you made yourself smile at him as you said “sure. Just hang on for a second, okay? I'm gonna turn on some lights so the two of us aren't stumbling around in the dark. I'll be right back.”
A pair of hazy looking dark eyes glanced in your direction after you spoke, and he nodded in understanding. With that, you placed both his phone and the keys to the apartment on a small table that sat in the small hallway before slipping off your shoes and making your way further into his unit. It took a few tries, more than a few moments of turning on light switches before you hastily turned them off once you saw that you had entered a room that you didn't need, but not long after you found what you were looking for: the bed Kishibe needed to pass out on top of.
The bedroom matched the apartment in that it looked rather plain, almost like Kishibe didn't spend a lot of time here. It made sense; with how much he must have on his plate as a devil hunter he probably didn't have the time to decorate his living space. He just needed some place where he could eat, clean himself and then sleep soundly at the end of each day before he returned to his work.
The queen sized bed did look – and feel – rather nice, you felt compelled to note. He must have spent a lot on that to have a good night's sleep.
With your goal of finding where you needed to take him achieved, you returned to the main hallway to retrieve Kishibe. He was where you left him, once more looking dazed as he stared down at the floor beneath his feet. Your gaze traveled down as well, and when you saw the tied up laces of his shoes, you came to a realization.
“Are you going to be able to untie those?” you asked, pointing down at them.
“Probably not.”
At this point you weren't able to be annoyed; it wasn't entirely unexpected given his current state. Just another thing you needed to take care of for him, but at least it wouldn't be as difficult as helping him stumble his way up the stairs.
Do a few things more to help him and then you can go home.
Kneeling down on the surface of the entryway, you reached for the laces of one of his shoes. He didn't say anything as you undid the knots. When you asked him to lift his foot up once they were loosened, he did as you told him and you pulled the shoe off of him, placing it down and out of the way before repeating the process with the other. Again, he said nothing, but you felt those blank brown eyes staring down at you the entire time.
After getting his shoes off, you gently grabbed him by his shoulder and moved him away from the door. Immediately he was back to leaning on you, this time with his nose in your hair. You could feel his breath on your head, followed by the sound of his voice as he let out a content hum.
This was so fucking awkward. He definitely owed you after this.
“Kishibe,” you began, “just a little more walking and then you can rest, okay?”
He grunted again as you once again led him while his weight bore down on you.
With his face still in your hair, you heard the moment when, in the middle of making your way to the bedroom, he inhaled deeply. The sound of that and the feeling forced you to come to a stop.
And after letting out a short breath, you continued to walk with him.
He's drunk, you told yourself. Extremely shit-faced, over the top blackout drunk. He probably wouldn't remember any of this come tomorrow, and while you weren't enjoying this, it'd be better to keep your relationship with him positive. You didn't need to mention any of the creepy parts; just how much you had done to help him.
He'd better be appreciative.
A feeling relief washed over you when you finally got him into the bedroom, the bed only a few feet away.
Pulling forward, you saw this as the final hurdle. Just get him onto the bed. That was all you needed to do, and then you could go home and collapse onto your own not-as-comfortable mattress that had been all you could afford.
You tried to move him so he would lay down on his back, and then you could gently let him go. You didn't really want to bother trying to get him actually into the bed; that seemed like it would take even more time and would be even more of a hassle. No, just getting him on there was enough.
“Alright, here we go.”
Kishibe was supposed to let go as you maneuvered him in front of you. Once he felt the edge of the mattress against the back of his legs, he should've understood that he was safe to fall backwards and that he needed to let you go.
But the arm he had wrapped around your back stayed in place, and when gravity finally won the battle and began to pull him down, you were brought down with him.
A short cry escaped your lips as you ended up on the bed with him, pressed tightly to his chest with your lower half hanging off the mattress.
Goddammit
“I'm sorry,” you began, “I didn't mean for that to happen.”
“Hm.”
You weren't sure of what to make of the way he hummed when you said that, largely because all you wanted in that moment was to get off of him. Bracing your arm on the mattress, you pushed your weight onto it as you tried to get off of him and escape the awkward situation.
Only the arm he had around you wasn't budging.
When a few moments passed with you desperately trying to leave the bed only to have your efforts thwarted by the surprisingly strong grip he had on you, you looked back to him as you asked “Kishibe, could you let me go? I can't get up.”
“Why do you want to get up?” he asked.
“Um, because I need to go home?” you said, surprised that you even needed to clarify that.
“It's late; you should spend the night here.”
“That's okay. I'm sure your couch is comfortable, but I'd really rather sleep in my own bed,” you told him.
“Who said anything about you sleeping on the couch?”
His question made you blink.
“I…. Where else would I…..”
Your question trailed off as you glanced at the mattress you were currently on top of, and a sick feeling began to form in your stomach. A feeling that grew stronger with every moment that passed with his arm still wrapped around you.
“Kishibe, please let go of me,” you said.
“Why?”
“Because I don't like this and I want to go home.”
Again you tried to pull yourself up, and again, Kishibe kept you pressed to his chest.
“Please,” you said again, “I don't want to spend the night-”
You were cut off when you felt his other hand move. Instead of joining the one wrapped around your back, his free hand went down to cup your ass as he blatantly groped you.
Shock and revulsion shot through you and when you struggled again against the grip he had on you, it was with far more force and desperation.
“Let go of me,” you said, “now!”
Again, he only hummed in response.
But that time he actually did let you go, removing his arms and letting them fall to the mattress.
You pulled off immediately, getting to your feet and taking a few steps back in record time, breathing heavily as the brief burst of adrenaline was still running through you. Kishibe remained splayed out on the bed with his legs still hanging off the side. He was still staring at you, however.
After taking in another deep breath, you spoke.
“Rest up and get sober,” you began, “and then when we see each other next, I'd appreciate it if you could come to the bar with an apology.”
You then turned and walked out the door, deciding to leave it at that. Though you noted to yourself that he may very well not remember what you had said or what had happened. As you had told yourself earlier, he was drunk. But even then you didn't intend to back down on this. Even if he didn't remember, at the very least you deserved some form of the word 'sorry' for how he had held you down and tried to coerce you into sleeping with him. Regardless of if his actions were caused by the alcohol, you needed that after he had ignored you the first few times you had told him to let you go.
As long as you could get that, you'd be happy to go back to how your relationship was before, with him as a customer and with the solid surface of the bar separating the two of you.
Returning to the entryway, you quickly collected your shoes and slipped them back on before you prepared yourself for the walk back home. It was late, but you'd probably be okay as long as you hurried back. You probably didn't have the energy for your game, as you'd thought before, so it'd be straight to bed for you once you returned.
As long as you could get a good night's sleep, that was enough.
With that thought in mind, you stood before the front door as you reached for the handle, turned and then pulled it.
The door didn't budge.
“Huh?”
You tried again, turning it again and pulling, just to have the same thing happen.
Maybe I'm turning the handle wrong, you briefly thought, only for your brows to furrow when your attempts to turn the handle upwards resulted in nothing. That wasn't right. Clearly the way you had been trying was correct.
So why wasn't the door opening?
Taking your gaze away from the handle, you noticed something that you had missed earlier: in place of a bolt or a chain on the upper part of the door, there was instead a lock which required a key to open it. Was that really what was keeping you in here?
… It's okay, you told yourself. You left the keys on the table right behind you. One of those would open it.
Your attempts to quell the bad feeling brewing within you were unsuccessful, as when you turned to reach for the keys that you had placed only minutes earlier, you found that they were gone.
….. Were they still there when you had gone back to get Kishibe after turning on the lights? You couldn't remember.
Speaking of Kishibe, he would be the reason why they were gone, right? Thinking back to when you had been searching for the bedroom, that would have given him more than enough time to take the keys and then lock the door. When else would he have been able to do that?
But why would he do that?
“What exactly am I supposed to apologize for?”
Hearing his voice made you jump, and you turned your gaze towards where Kishibe had emerged from as he strolled out into the hallway at a leisurely pace, ending with him leaning against the wall. His large black coat was gone, leaving him clad in his white shirt, black pants and his tie that he had loosened during the time that you had left him alone. In one hand he held his flask, and he unscrewed it to take a long gulp of whatever was in there before he looked back to you, those same blank eyes staring straight at you as he waited for an answer to his question.
He didn't seem quite so inebriated now. He was walking just fine and his gaze was zeroed in on you.
“…. Kishibe, why is the door locked?” you asked, your eyebrows furrowing as you stood still within the entryway.
“Because I locked it,” he answered plainly.
“Wh-why?”
“Because I don't want you going out.”
The veteran hunter took another swig from his flask before adding “it's dangerous out there, especially at night. You're much safer inside with me.”
“That's….. That's nice, but I'd really rather go home,” you said.
“Why? Is your cheap apartment really that great?”
His comment made you blink in surprise – you'd never mentioned it, so how in the world did he know anything about your apartment?
“I'd feel a lot more comfortable if I could go back there, yeah,” you told him, “so could you please unlock the door? I don't want to be here any longer.”
Kishibe hummed.
“That's too bad. Because I've decided that you'll be staying here from now on,” he declared.
“….. You can't do that.”
“I just did.”
Kishibe stood to his full height, and that was enough to make you back away until you found yourself pressed against the door, holding your hands to your chest as your heart rate increased. What was happening? Why was this happening? He seemed fine now, despite the state he'd been in – had all of that been a ruse just to get you into his apartment?
Why?
“I don't understand.”
Your words came out hushed, barely able to come out around the blockage in your throat.
“You don't? I would've thought understanding it would be pretty simple,” he said.
He stepped forward, closing the distance between you swiftly and with ease as he told you “you're not leaving. I'm keeping you here so you'll be safe.”
“Safe? From what?”
“Everything.”
Kishibe was standing directly before you now, looming over you as he continued with “humans, devils and whatever else; you won't need to fear them anymore. Nothing will come for you as long as you have me.”
He reached a hand up in a move that looked as though he intended to cup your cheek as he said “all I ask in return is that you do as I say.”
The rough skin of his hands made contact with your cheek as you said nothing in response.
You needed this to be a joke.
You needed to him to take a few more moments for comedic effect before he revealed that he wasn't being serious, be that in the form of the words “just kidding” or “gotcha” or something that told you that the reality of the situation wasn't what you thought it was. Even though this entire scenario was completely abnormal for Kishibe, a man who always seemed serious, you needed him to tell you that it was just a fucked up prank, that he just wanted to mess with you.
It didn't feel in line with the man you had grown to know, but you needed that to be the case.
Except Kishibe never said such a thing to you, instead keeping his hand on your cheek and softly rubbing against your skin, his calloused touch feeling surprisingly gentle.
His thumb then moved across your bottom lip and that sent a jolt down your spine.
You pushed his hand away as you said “this isn't funny.”
“It's not supposed to be,” he told you.
You shook your head.
“You're being weird and you're playing a prank or something stupid like that, but I don't like this and I want to leave.”
Kishibe only hummed at that, which only left you feeling worse.
“Stop this, please,” you said, desperation tinting your voice as you said “the joke has gone on long enough and I want you to let me out.”
But he still didn't say anything further. All he did was stare down at you with a look on his face that you couldn't read while his presence was quickly becoming overwhelming.
Seconds were ticking by and nothing was happening. Kishibe was still standing over you. He wasn't backing away like you wanted. He wasn't agreeing with your assessment that this entire thing was a joke, like you wanted. And he wasn't producing the key and letting you out of what had become a deeply uncomfortable and unsettling scene with him.
The longer it went on, the harder it became for you to breathe, all the while the sick feeling that surrounded you only grew more intense as you were slowly forced to accept the reality of the situation:
He wasn't joking.
And you were helpless.
How long of a period had passed before he spoke again, you had no idea. Too wrapped up in your thoughts and growing fear, it easily could have been minutes or seconds. But you were snapped out of your thoughts instantly when you heard his low voice once more.
“You didn't answer my question earlier: what am I supposed to apologize for?” he asked again.
“For…… For touching me. Grabbing me like you did in the bedroom,” you hesitantly answered.
“I don't see why I should apologize for that.”
Kishibe tilted his head slightly as he continued with “you belong to me now. Why shouldn't I be able to do whatever I want with you?”
His words settled in your mind, your pulse beating rapidly as your mind raced.
Then you screamed.
As loud and as hard as your vocal chords were capable of, you screamed for help as he continued to loom over you. It wasn't brave or noble, but there was nothing else you could do to fight him off. You were too weak for anything like that.
Screaming was all you could do.
The screams for help that tore out of your throat come out with such ferocity that you managed to be surprised initially. Never in your life could you remember the volume of your own voice reaching such levels, but you'd also never been in a situation like this one. You turned away from him in order to pound at the door as you continue to call for help, hoping that the extra noise will help to get someone's attention – be it of one of his neighbors or a passerby on the street – just as long as it's someone who'll call the police. If you can just get one person to inform the authorities that something's wrong, then you'll get out of this.
Just one person with a phone and an idea of where you were. And maybe, just maybe, a group of well-intentioned people who might be brave enough to burst down the door to get to you. Even if Kishibe was strong, he could only take so many opponents at once, right?
Your throat was aching and the way you slammed your hand against the door was became weaker as the pain that shot through your hand was beginning to become too much, but you kept up with it. You needed help. You needed someone to know what was happening before Kishibe shut you up.
…. Before he shut you up?
It hit you then: through all that time of you desperately making a racket and being as loud as possible, Kishibe hadn't once made any effort to keep you quiet.
He still wasn't.
With tears still rolling down your cheeks and your hand still balled up in a fist on the door, the cries that had so forcefully come from your mouth came to an end as you glanced back at him.
He was taking another swig from that flask. Completely at ease and unbothered at your desperate attempt to seek help. You watched in disbelief as his Adam's apple bobbed as the harsh liquor ran down his throat before he pulled the flask away from his lips, just as leisurely screwing the cap back on before the metal container once again disappeared into his pocket.
Kishibe looked at you.
Then he glanced up at the ceiling.
You followed his gaze, and while you didn't see anything odd with the plain white surface above you two, you noticed that something was amiss:
Someone above you was blasting music loud enough that you could almost make out the lyrics of the song that was playing.
…. It hadn't been that way when you first entered the apartment. Nor had it been the case when you had first tried to leave. You would have heard that, would have noted something like that immediately. Which only meant…..
The realization sank in as you looked up to the ceiling in horror, coming to the conclusion that in the middle of your screaming and banging, the person directly above you had heard, and made the decision to play the loud music in an attempt to drown you out so they didn't need to listen anymore.
They didn't want to help you.
“It doesn't sound like they're going to do anything,” Kishibe said to you, drawing your attention back to him.
“Doesn't seem like anyone else is going to bother, either,” he added, reaching back up with his hand so he could place it on the door by your head as he leaned in closer.
“You're alone in this.”
The cold words he spoke sent a shudder through you, and you shook your head as if denying what he had just told you would somehow change the way things were going.
“Why?” you asked, your voice wavering as you continued “why won't anyone help me?”
“Because nothing bad is happening to them, so they don't care,” he answered plainly, “maybe if they knew you, it might bother them. But bad things happen to complete strangers everyday; just because this time it's a bit closer in proximity doesn't make them care any more or any less.”
His other hand reached up to play with your hair, almost absentmindedly running his fingers through the strands as he continued to speak.
“As long as they're in the clear at the end of the day, that's all that matters to them,” he said.
“That's…. That's not true,” you sniffled, “someone out there wants to help me. They need to.”
Kishibe shrugged.
“Maybe some would,” he said, “but clearly those people aren't in earshot right now.”
The callousness of his words sent your emotions into a frenzy once again. Tears began running down your cheeks again while you sobbed. Only you weren't screaming this time, nor were you banging against the door. What was the point? If no one would help you even after hearing that, then why bother?
All you could do was cry about it like the pathetic weakling you were.
With your forehead pressed against the door, you weren't able to see any of what Kishibe was doing. You knew he was still behind you – it was hard to ignore how closely he was looming over you – but he had yet to do anything to you.
Would he even do anything?
As soon as you thought that, you remembered how he had groped you in the bedroom, how he had held you down against him even when you told him to let you go. In that same moment, you felt one of his hands around your waist and his fingers slipping beneath the layers of your hoodie and shirt so he could caress your skin directly. His other hand found its way to your jaw so he could direct your attention towards him once again.
Of course he'd do something further. Why had you even considered that he might not?
The blank brown eyes you had grown to know met yours, and despite the futility of the situation, you still made yourself put out one last plea. Even if he was odd, he was still human at the end of the day, and therefore, he needed to have some sort of empathy, right?
“I won't go to the police – I won't say anything about this to anyone,” you told him, “so please, reconsider.”
“No.”
His answer to your request was swift; he didn't think twice about it nor was he moved in any way.
Kishibe had made up his mind and there was no changing it.
Just as swiftly as his answer, he then angled your jaw upward so he could claim your lips in a kiss.
The taste on his tongue was harsh, a cocktail of the liquor he'd consumed over the course of the evening. The strongest remnant of alcohol that flooded your senses was most likely whatever he had just gulped down from his flask. The stubble around his lips brushed against your skin and the sensation made you jump, though with the hand he still had on your jaw, you again were unable to escape his grasp. There was nowhere for you to go; he had you pressed firmly between the front door and himself. The only bit of freedom he allowed you were the ways in which you trembled beneath his grasp, how you shook and shivered while his free hand continued to caress the skin beneath your shirt.
The whimpers you made in response to his touch were swallowed up by his mouth as he prolonged what was certainly a show of mockery for an action that was meant to be tender.
Did he really need to torment you in this way?
When he pulled away from the kiss he did so with a clear plan in mind, as his hands immediately went to the zipper of your hoodie and forced it down before pulling the entire piece of clothing off of you, taking your bag with it. Both items were tossed behind him and he quickly placed his hands on you once again, moving them all over as he explored your body through your clothes. Even through your clothing at acted as a sort of barrier, the feeling of his calloused palms stroking up your sides and down your spine were enough to make you jolt in place and force whimpers out of your mouth.
He moved in closer, pressing up directly behind you which allowed you to feel the growing bulge in his pants.
When he shifted his focus in order to grope your breasts through the material of your shirt, you placed your head so it was pressed against the door again, still sobbing. All you wanted in that moment was to become one with the door; merge into it so he couldn't do this to you anymore. You didn't care what happened to you, just as long as this would stop.
Instead of that mercy, Kishibe continued to toy with your chest. Then he began to speak.
“I'm a bit surprised you let it get as far as what happened in the bedroom,” he told you, “you really had no issue going into a man's apartment that you'd never been to before? There was nothing that raised any alarm for you until I had you on top of me?”
You whimpered.
“You're too naive; that's why you won't be leaving. If I don't step in you'll get yourself killed.”
His thumb and pointer finger found your nipple through your clothes, and when he began to focus on that by pinching it between his fingers, a strangled noise emerged from your throat.
Kishibe felt the need to comment on that.
“Do you like being played with from behind? You're more responsive to this than I was expecting,” he said.
“N-no….”
Your shirt remained as it was only for a few more moments before he decided that he wanted to feel your bare skin, resulting in him ripping your shirt down the neckline and pulling your bra down with it. With skin now on skin, it was instantly noticeable when the shrieks that left your mouth as his fingers tweaked your nipples sounded less horrified and more wanton.
“You really do like this,” Kishibe said, a hint of pleasure in his voice.
“No,” you said again.
Instead of acknowledging your denial, his hot breath hit your ear as he said “I was thinking it'd probably take a little bit to get you wet enough so fucking you would be a bit more comfortable, but I probably don't need to wait all that long, do I? If those noises of yours are any indication, I bet I could slide into you right now.”
“No!”
Even with you raising your voice, he still wasn't listening.
His hands crept around your waist again before they found the zipper of your pants. The sound of it zipping open seemed loud within the space of your head, but it didn't compare to the feeling of his thumbs slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear before he shoved your panties down past your thighs, taking your pants with them.
With your most intimate area now exposed, you shuddered as the chill air attacked your flesh. When Kishibe began to palm and knead your ass, you whimpered. Your lower half was then pulled away from the door and he moved his knee between your thighs so he could spread your legs wider. You could feel how heavy his gaze was on your cunt. Heat filled your cheeks while you bit down on your lip, the tears that were still flowing now a bit more angry.
It was humiliating. He had you pressed against the surface of the door, your palms laying flat against it while your ass was sticking out. You didn't want to merge with the door anymore; you wanted to curl up and die.
But even that wasn't an option for you.
A pair of thick fingers found their way to your cunt, caressing your folds in a way that felt experimental before his middle finger slipped between them, the tip shallowly ghosting along your heated entrance which caused you to shudder. The wetness that was beginning to drip out of you easily coated his fingertip, much to his amusement.
“Thought so,” he said.
“No.”
It wasn't true. You weren't enjoying this; just because he forced such a reaction out of you didn't mean that you wanted it. He knew that but he was just insisting on being as horrible as possible. How could you have not realized what he was really like until now?
“Hard to argue when I have the evidence smeared on my fingers, don't you think?” Kishibe asked you. He pushed his digits into your folds for emphasis, and the squelching sounds of him dipping into your wet heat only made you more ashamed. His free hand then returned to your chest while he fingered your cunt.
His fingers were sliding along your walls easier than you would have liked, and the feeling of his blunt nails inside of you as he stretched you out caused several shudders to run through your body, becoming intense enough that you needed to bite down hard on your lip to try and keep down the shameful whining noises that wanted to emerge because of it.
He must have noticed the way you were trying to keep it in as he way he was fingering you suddenly became rougher, with him curling his fingers while searching for the sensitive spots inside of you. He moved in closer as well, breathing huskily into your ear as he spoke to you.
“I wish I'd done this sooner,” Kishibe whispered, “if I had known how eager you would be for me, I wouldn't have wasted so much time before.”
No insults or retorts left your mouth that time; you were too busy trying to be as quiet as possible as all you could focus on was the awful affect he was having on you while his fingers continued to slide in and out. He was being rougher now because he wanted to humiliate you even more – that was the only explanation. To have you moan like you were enjoying this as a way to torment you further. As if the way your wetness was dripping down the inside of your thighs wasn't enough, turning cold once it hit the open air and sending more shudders running through you.
When his other hand came down to toy with your clit, you ended up biting your lip hard enough to draw blood. You hated how it felt good. How the feeling of his fingers rubbing hard circles against that nub had your legs shaking and your insides burning. Kishibe intended for you to cum on his fingers, and you hated that he would more than likely be successful in that goal.
Why aren't you stopping him?
…..It hit you that you hadn't really tried much to get away from him. Aside from the way you ordered him to let go and how you pushed his hand away, there was very little in terms of actual resistance on your part.
But what could you even do? How would a civilian fight off an expert devil hunter?
Even though you couldn't imagine any scenario where you on your own managed to get away from him, maybe the way you had done nothing other than cry through your assault had been enough to reaffirm in his mind that you needed to be kept away from the world. For your safety, he said.
You wondered if he was actually delusional enough to believe that excuse.
That train of thought was derailed completely when you felt Kishibe's fingers brush against a spot within you in tandem with the fingers on your clit, and your vision whited out as he forced out the reaction he'd been looking for.
You came on his fingers.
Your face and ears were burning and you could taste iron from your bleeding lip as you tried your hardest to keep in those awful moans.
Mercifully, he didn't continue fingering you when you came. Instead he seemed to savor the way you were clenching down around him as you heard him let out a breathy sigh into your ear. When you had finished, he stayed like that, his chest pressed against your back and the fingers on your clit giving you one last stroke before he pulled away.
After another moment, he pulled his fingers out of you, his hands finally leaving those sensitive, intimate areas. A new wave of anxiety washed over you as you had a horrible idea of what was going to follow.
You heard his belt being undone. And then his zipper, which was hastily followed by the sound of his pants being shoved down.
And then his hands were back around your waist, pulling you back into the position he had forced you into earlier that you had unconsciously moved from as your body unintentionally moved back to press against the door, still trying to escape him even though you knew there was no point.
He spread open the lips of your pussy, guiding his cock to your entrance after. Your breath hitched when you felt him rub the tip against your folds, gathering up your wetness on the end of his length just as he'd done with his fingers earlier.
He shoved himself in.
And once he was inside of you, he only took a brief moment to savor it, letting out a small sigh of contentment as he finally got to experience the feeling of the walls of your cunt clamping down on his dick.
“Good girl,” Kishibe mumbled.
Your heart was in your throat, however, as despite knowing where things would be heading once he had begun kissing and groping you earlier, the feeling of his dick being sheathed halfway into you just cemented that this was real: he'd locked you in his apartment and claimed you as his own. And if he continued to get his way from this point, then this would be the rest of your life, one spent as a plaything to Kishibe's whims.
Only for a moment was that thought able to run through your head, however, because soon after he began to fuck you in earnest. Despite your successful resistance before, you weren't able to keep quiet once you felt him moving against you, his cock plugging up your hole again and again as his hips thrust hard against your ass. The sobs that were mixed with your moans bounced against the surface of the door, filling up the small, empty space of the entryway.
If only you were loud enough to drown out the noises Kishibe was making.
For a man who was normally so quiet, there was no attempt on his part to keep in his own groans and grunts. Still positioned with his mouth by your ear as he kept you close to him, you heard everything. His own harsh breathing mixed with small curses that left his lips in time with the cock that was slamming into you. Swears that were changed out for praise of you when his fingers returned to your clit to stimulate you further, causing your sensitive walls to quiver around him.
The words “good girl” were said to you many times during that period.
Your back quickly became sticky with sweat, your own body heat combined with that of Kishibe making it get to the point that it was becoming too much. The feeling of cold from when you had been outside was forgotten as it felt like every part of you was burning up while his body was engulfing your own as he used you to chase his pleasure. You wanted him away from you, just a little bit.
With a shaking hand, you pressed it against his chest as best you could with the awkward position, silently trying to communicate that want of yours.
Kishibe grabbed your wrist and forced it back against the doorway, keeping his hand gripped firmly around your arm and refusing to let go even when you tried to wiggle out of it. Eventually you were forced to give up on getting what you wanted.
Just like everything else tonight.
With the brute strength he was displaying as he pounded into your pussy and how sensitive you still were from your previous orgasm, you found yourself cumming much faster the second time. Your pussy walls clenched hard around him once again, but this time Kishibe made the choice to fuck you through it.
That only prolonged your orgasm, and the longer it went on, the more strained your moans became as your throat was thoroughly raw by that point.
Once your pleasure faded, you were left waiting for Kishibe to finish. Something you didn't need to wait long for as soon enough you felt him stiffen within you, and then his swollen cock erupted, long white streams of cum painting your insides as he kept himself pressed close, wanting to be as deep within you as possible. He groaned loudly as he did so, and his hand returned to your breast to knead the soft flesh once more as his own orgasm began to ebb away, his cock still twitching in the aftermath.
The entryway was now filled with the breathless gasps of the both of you and the scent of sweat and sex.
Once his cock had softened, Kishibe released the grip he had on you and pulled his dick out of your pussy, and finally, he stepped away from you.
Immediately you slumped down, exhausted, your front half still pressed against the door while you sat in the entryway, your pants still around your ankles and Kishibe's cum and your own release dripping down your thighs and onto the floor beneath you. You still had tears to shed, apparently, as the sight had you going back to sobbing. Your throat hurt and your nose was stuffy, but all you could think about was how you wished you hadn't made the choice to help Kishibe earlier.
If only you had decided to go with your own selfish instincts, you wouldn't be here right now. By now you probably would've been asleep, safe and sound in your own bed in your own apartment, and the only danger you would be facing would be the possibility of your next door neighbor's children running wild again and slamming doors so hard that the walls would shake.
Being reminded of your day off that you had planned out had you crying harder as you realized you couldn't ever go back to days like that.
God how you wished you could redo your actions from tonight.
You were reminded of Kishibe's presence when you felt his hand run down your back, his knuckles grazing you lightly and with a touch so soft that it felt out of place when you thought of what you had just experienced at his hands.
He wasn't trying to comfort you, was he?
With robotic movements, you turned your head once again so you could see him, see the face of the man who had hurt you so horribly. Unsurprisingly, there was no real emotion to be gleaned from his expression as it was as blank as it always was. Though when you looked at his eyes, you found that there was a hint of something there. Something more intense and obsessive than you had ever witnessed from anyone, much less Kishibe.
“You did good,” he told you.
“Fuck you,” you weakly hissed in response.
“Mm, not right now. Maybe in the morning.”
He moved his hand to your upper arm, squeezing you in what seemed to be an encouraging manner as he said “it's late now. We should get some rest.”
“Can you walk, or should I carry you?” Kishibe then asked.
You didn't respond. Instead you shrugged off his hand and turned your head to face the door, not wanting to look at him any longer.
“Alright then.”
Within a moment, you were scooped up off of the floor and into his arms with surprising ease, and while you were feeling disoriented from the way you were moved about like that, Kishibe had turned and walked away from the door with you held firmly against his chest.
It shouldn't have been too much of a shock that it was this easy for him to pick you up, and yet…..
“You could have just forcibly taken me if you wanted,” you mumbled.
“I could have,” he said.
The way he so readily agreed with you turned your emotions to anger once again.
“So why bother with all that bullshit?” you snapped.
“Because I thought the way you doted on me was nice,” Kishibe said.
“You're a scumbag.”
“Hm.”
Kishibe neither agreed nor disagreed with you, as he stepped into the bedroom with you, taking care to make sure your feet didn't hit the door frame as he carried you in. Once the two of you were fully inside, he stopped and then looked at you.
Having his gaze fully on you once again had that bit of anger die out, as suddenly you felt more vulnerable than you'd ever felt in your life before this point. Your shirt was torn and the majority your legs were still bare as he hadn't bothered to readjust your pants before he'd grabbed you, so you were in his arms with your pants around your ankles.
Not just humiliating, but awkward as well, especially when you moved to cover yourself back up as the way he stared at you had those intense feelings of shame and helplessness running through you once again. Though you knew it wouldn't accomplish much of anything, and especially not when you were at the mercy of Kishibe's whims.
“Did I say you could cover up?”
The sound of his voice made you freeze, and then when you processed his words, you began to shake in his grip. While it seemed that you were out of tears to shed, you were still able to sniffle softly in despair.
That got him to react, and Kishibe leaned in to place a kiss on your forehead before he buried his face into your hair again.
“It'll be hard for now, but it will get better,” he told you.
You only shook harder in his grip.
With a hum against your hair, he spoke again.
“You should be happy. In this world where people's priorities are on themselves and themselves alone, you have someone who's willing to do anything to look out for you.”
And with that, Kishibe used his foot to close the bedroom door firmly behind the both of you.
Summary: A lonely college student befriends your perfect neighbor. However, rumors say Kaori Itadori died years ago.
Warnings: Non-consensual touching, cheating if you squint, power imbalance, emotional manipulation & gaslighting, creepy Kenjaku, implied murder.
Author's Notes: I was surprised to see that Kaorijaku's fics are so few in this fandom, since she's the only reason that I like Kenjaku lol.
By late August, you moved into a cramped rental wedged between two old houses with flaking paint and razor-trimmed hedges. It was located just a stone's throw from your campus—close enough for a morning stroll, but isolated from the relentless noise of the dormitories.
Here, you told yourself, you would finally carve out a life of your own.
Since you were little, you had seen things other people didn't. You never had a name for them, and you weren't sure they had one. They appeared at the edges of playgrounds, in the corners of classrooms, behind hospital curtains. And even as a child, you instinctively understood one thing: they were dangerous.
You still remembered the large one—that had appeared in your fourth-grade classroom on an ordinary Wednesday afternoon. The sunlight had been warm, and the chalkboard stood half-erased in contrast to the vibrant chatter of your classmates, one of them had been laughing loudly at something trivial. The creature had hovered above him, its mouth stretched wide, lined with sharp, uneven teeth.
You had stared at it until your teacher snapped at you to pay attention.
The next day, he went missing.
When you were younger, you tried to explain. While your mother watched with knitting concern, as tears spilled like the rain rushing down a window when you told her about monsters that followed classmates home, but she didn't see them. Neither the counselor nor the doctor who blamed a 'vivid imagination.' They were wrong. The monsters were real, and they were hungry for your fear. They grew distinct as your health failed, their heavy breathing becoming the last thing you heard every night.
Morning finally broke, the sun spilling through thin curtains to dissolve whatever shadows had lingered. You were mid-gesture, pulling a book from a half-taped box, when the knock came.
You crossed the small living room, opening the door cautiously, and you found her: She looked to be in her late twenties, standing on the porch with a baby balanced easily against her hip. The child's small hand fisted into the fabric of her shirt. Her hair was short and neatly side-swept; She looked so polished, so strikingly 'normal,' that you felt the dust under your fingernails and the wrinkled mess of your clothes
You wondered if she noticed. You wondered if she could smell you—paper, sweat, ink, cheap detergent. You wondered if she was already cataloging you the way you cataloged her.
"Good morning," she said with a smile. Her voice was steady in a way that made it difficult to place her age. "You must be the new neighbor."
You nodded a second late. "Yes. I just moved in."
"I'm Kaori Itadori," she said, shifting the baby slightly. "And this is my son, Yuji."
The baby blinked at you with wide, curious eyes. You realized that she was holding a small wrapped container in her free hand.
"I heard you moved in yesterday," she continued. "I thought you might not have had time to cook yet, so I baked something. It's nothing special."
You blinked at her, immediately fumbling:
"Oh—um. Thank you. You didn't have to."
You accepted the container when she extended it toward you, nearly dropping it before correcting your grip. Heat crept up your neck at your own clumsiness.
Kaori's smile remained reassuring, her expression softening even further, as if to dismiss your blunder. "It's no trouble at all," she said warmly. "Moving can be exhausting."
Your eyes drifted, tracing a faint, horizontal crease that cut across her brow, half-hidden by the sweep of her bangs. You didn't realize how long you'd been looking until she tilted her head. The shift broke your trance, her inquisitive look pulling you back to the present.
"Is something on my face?" she asked.
You flushed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to— I just noticed—"
"Oh, this?" She raised a hand, her fingertip tracing the faint line. "From an accident a while back. I suppose it stands out more than I'd like to believe." She held your eyes then, her look so piercing that you felt exposed. "I was lucky," she added, though her expression remained unreadable. "It could have been much worse."
"Glad you're alright." You said nervously. "Sorry, I wasn't trying to be rude."
"It's fine." The smile never reached her eyes. "We're a curious species, aren't we?"
Kaori hitched the baby higher, her face turning into a blank mask for a heartbeat before the warmth returned. "So," she prompted, "are you here for college?"
You blinked; the sudden turn caught you off guard. "Yes, actually. It's my first year, and I'm studying literature."
"That's exciting," she replied, glancing down affectionately at Yuji, her fingers tenderly smoothing back a tuft of his hair. "It's important to build a future for yourself."
You suddenly became acutely aware of how close she was standing. The air around her felt distinct, scrubbed clean of the static that usually signaled a stranger's presence. That familiar, lurking pressure—the shadow at the edge of the eye—was absent around her.
It was strange.
"You've lived here long?" you asked, unsure why you felt the need to fill the silence.
"A few years," she answered. "It's quiet. Good place to raise a kid."
"It's nice, though I wasn't sure about the neighbors at first," you offered, glancing around, still trying to see beyond the exterior.
"You'll get used to it," she assured you. "And if you ever feel unsure, we're right next door."
You glanced at the house beside yours. The curtains were drawn tight, while the garden lay meticulously tended, each flower and blade of grass ordinarily framing the home.
"My husband and I live there," she continued gently. "Please let me know if you need anything—tools, directions, or just a bit of company. Moving somewhere new can be lonely."
For a moment, you could have sworn the world had gone very still.
Then, as if on cue, a gentle breeze swept through the quiet street, stirring the leaves into a rustling symphony. In the distance, the faint hum of a car glided past, reminding you of life's continuity.
"Thank you," you said, more sincerely this time.
"Of course, neighbors should look after one another," Kaori smiled as she adjusted Yuji on her hip, his little head nestled against her shoulder. "Well then, we won't disturb you any longer. Enjoy the pastries."
You nodded, gripping the container tightly like an anchor. "I will."
As she stepped off the porch, the sunlight kissed the delicate line etched along her forehead, highlighting her features before she disappeared into the house beside yours.
_
It took you longer than necessary to finish the pastries. They were soft and perfectly balanced, practically beckoning to be savored. All afternoon, the empty container sat on the counter, a clean, wrapped reminder of the woman next door. You could have just left it on the porch, but a strange gravity compelled you to wait for a face-to-face meeting.
When you finally knocked in the amber glow of evening. This time, the door opened almost immediately, revealing a man you hadn't met before.
He was taller than you expected, broad-shouldered, wearing a plain T-shirt with the sleeves slightly rolled up. There was flour dusted faintly across one forearm, like he'd been helping in the kitchen. His expression shifted from mild confusion to recognition.
"Oh," he said. "You must be the new neighbor."
You nodded, holding up the container. "I came to return this. Your wife brought it over yesterday."
His features softened at the mention of her name.
"Ah, Kaori mentioned you." With an inviting smile, he stepped back, opening the door wider to welcome you in. "I'm Jin. Please, come in."
As you crossed the threshold, you were enveloped by the smell of simmering broth and sautéed vegetables. The house was tidy but lived-in. Shoes were neatly aligned near the entrance, and a folded blanket lay invitingly on the couch, hinting at cozy evenings spent indoors.
Jin led you down a short hallway that opened into a modest kitchen. You heard the steady rhythm of a knife striking wood. Kaori stood at the counter, sleeves rolled neatly to her elbows, chopping vegetables with precise, even movements like a dancer executing a perfectly choreographed routine. When she turned and caught sight of you, a radiant smile spread across her face, instantly lighting up the room.
"I'm glad you came," she said, genuine delight warming her voice.
"Thank you for yesterday. It was really good," you replied, hoping to convey your appreciation.
"That's wonderful to hear." She wiped her hands neatly on a cloth before gracefully accepting the container from you. For a fleeting moment, her fingers brushed against yours—cold as ice. "You're just in time. We were about to start dinner. Please stay, it would mean a lot to us," she urged.
"Oh, I don't want to intrude—"
"You wouldn't be. We made plenty." Her head tilted at that familiar, inquisitive angle.
She returned to the cutting board. You found yourself staring again, mesmerized by the rhythm; every knife move was a perfect mirror of the last. Same speed. Same angle. Same spacing between each slice. The sound never faltered. Not once did the blade hesitate or adjust.
"You're... incredibly precise," You remarked.
"She's like that with everything." Jin chimed in, a light chuckle escaping his lips, laced with a genuine affection. You noticed how relaxed his demeanor was, as if he didn't seem to notice anything strange.
You shifted your attention away, scanning the room out of habit. There was a crib sat nestled against the wall, deliberately positioned for Kaori's convenience, its white wooden slats standing in stark contrast to the warm hues of the space. Yuji lay inside, small hands gripping the bars. His eyes found you immediately.
He stared at you the way he had the day before, wide-eyed and innocent. You offered him a tentative smile before his expression shifted, gaze trailing slightly past you.
Then, with a sparkle of joy, he burst into laughter.
You turned slowly. There, near the hallway entrance, clinging to the corner of the ceiling, was a small curse. It was malformed, with a sagging jaw and many fingers pressed flat against the wall. Its head tilted unnaturally, blackened eyes fixed on you.
Your blood ran cold, a chill seeping into your bones as you willed your expression to remain impassive. Years of practice had taught you the art of masking your fear.
Don't look at it. Don't look at it. Don't—
You turned back slowly and found Kaori was looking at you. For a split second, something unreadable lingered in her eyes, as if she could peel back the layers of your carefully constructed barriers. Then, as if the heaviness of the moment had vanished, she smiled again, a warm, effortless curve of her lips that contrasted starkly with the tension in the air.
"Are your classes going well?" she asked, as if nothing existed beyond the kitchen walls.
The knife resumed its steady rhythm against the board.
You swallowed. "They're... fine. A lot of reading."
"That sounds peaceful," she said, her tone laced with genuine admiration. "I've always envied those who can lose themselves in the pages of a book, drifting into other worlds without a care."
Behind you, the air felt heavier.
You didn't dare turn again, unwilling to break the thin thread that held you both afloat in this precarious moment. Until Jin moved to check on Yuji, lifting him gently from the crib. The baby squirmed happily, reaching toward something only he seemed to see.
The curse did not move closer.
Kaori's voice cut through the tension smoothly. "You look pale. Are you feeling unwell?"
"I'm fine," you said automatically.
Her gaze held yours a moment longer than necessary.
"Good," she replied softly.
There was something in the way she said it, and then she effortlessly shifted the conversation.
"What authors do you like? I'd love recommendations," she asked.
The domestic scene settled around you again. If you didn't know better, you might have believed you had imagined the thing behind you.
Dinner felt almost normal until Wasuke Itadori entered midway through the meal, his arrival marked by a heavy thud as he walked through the door without announcing himself. Jin had greeted him with easy familiarity, but the moment Wasuke's gaze fell upon Kaori, the warmth left his features entirely, replaced by a troubling coldness.
He settled into his chair heavily, only offered you a brief nod of acknowledgment, and began eating without much conversation. His presence seemed to cast a shadow over the room, weathered by something you couldn't name, and that sight had you scrambling to pick the mood back up, but you failed.
Every so often, you caught his eyes darting toward Kaori; they were sharp and scrutinizing. You guessed it was suspicion, perhaps, but neither fear nor anger. You tried to dismiss it as brotherly sternness. But even little Yuji, at the far end of the table, seemed to sense the tension in the atmosphere; his small hands clutched Jin's shirt tighter, seeking reassurance.
Kaori plated the vegetables with immaculate care, served him with the same serene expression she wore for everyone else. If she felt the charge that thickened the air, she hid it well. You tried to focus on the flavors, on the gentle conversation Kaori and Jin kept up, on Yuji babbling at the end of the table, but it was impossible to find peace in the moment.
Dinner passed with that unease tucked beneath the conversation. After the last plate was cleared, Wasuke stood without ceremony:
"Thank you for the meal," he said to Jin, then he left. The door shut with more force than necessary.
An awkward silence lingered for a beat too long.
Jin exhaled softly, as if releasing a burden he had long carried in silence. "I'll put Yuji down," he announced, gently gathering the baby into his arms. "Thank you for staying," he added, offering you a brief but grateful smile.
You nodded in response, watching as Yuji's eyes met yours over Jin's shoulder.
When Jin disappeared down the hallway, it was just you and Kaori alone. You fell into step beside her to help with the dishes, but the coordination was one-sided. Every plate she handled, every blade she wiped dry, was handled in a sequence so perfectly timed it felt choreographed. You found yourself trying to match her pace, your own movements feeling clumsy and jagged against her flawless, steady rhythm.
Unwillingly, you found your gaze wandering; the curse still clung to the upper corner of the wall, its limbs twitching faintly. You had been pretending not to notice it. Now, with the room quieter, your control slipped, and your gaze traveled upward once more.
"You should be careful," Kaori said calmly, rinsing a plate under warm water.
You froze.
"If you keep staring at it," she continued, her gaze fixed on the countertop rather than on you, "it might interpret that as a challenge and decide to attack."
Your heart thudded violently against your ribs, a primal reaction that sent a rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins. Slowly, you let your eyes drop; all you could hear in the moment was the sound of running water filling the space between you.
She set the plate down with a soft clink, her hands lingering on the wet porcelain. "You see things most people can't," she murmured, and something in your chest cracked open. "But it's a lonely thing, isn't it? Seeing beyond the ordinary only serves to isolate you."
The air in your lungs felt thin.
"You... see them?" you asked quietly, a fragile note of hope woven through your disbelief. "All these years," you said, barely above a whisper. "I thought I was alone." You stared at her, your thoughts scrambled for footing. "Since when?"
"For a very long time," she turned off the faucet. For the first time since you met her, the warmth in her expression softened into something more honest.
The curse above the cabinet shifted slightly, as if unsettled, its fingers scraping faintly against the wall. Kaori glanced upward briefly, with a single flick of finger, the curse's form shuddered grotesquely, twisting before it dissolved into the air.
Your knees felt weak, the sudden release of tension causing you to grip the edge of the counter, your knuckles paling as you steadied yourself against the cool surface. "You..." you managed to stammer, despite your effort. "You can make them disappear?"
You stared at the empty corner where the creature had been; all your life, they had been untouchable. And she had dismissed one like dust.
"Why didn't you say anything sooner?" you asked.
"If I had told you immediately, you would have dismissed me." She said calmly.
"I wouldn't—"
"You would have." She leaned closer, resting her hand on the counter between you, allowing you to discern the delicate line tracing her forehead more vividly in the warm kitchen light.
"When someone has been told they are mistaken for long enough," she said quietly, "they begin to distrust themselves. If I had spoken earlier, you would have thought I was just humoring a delusion. But now you've seen enough to doubt your doubt."
Her tone was reasonable and infuriatingly logical.
A pulse thrummed in your ears, matching your quickening heart rate.
"You've been bearing this burden alone for such a long time," she murmured, the words hitting you with the weight of an embrace. "It must be exhausting."
Your hands shook, and you hated that she could see it, but you also hated the thought that she might not. For years you had practiced not wanting this. For years you had swallowed the urge to beg someone to tell you to not question your own eyes, to doubt the truth of your experiences.
Suddenly, the careful restraint you had built over the years wavered, crumbling like dried leaves underfoot.
Your throat tightened. "You have no idea," you whispered—because if you said more, you might cry.
Her eyes sharpened just slightly, as if she sought to probe the depths of your experience.
"I might have a very good idea," she replied, a hint of understanding lacing her tone. Then, almost tenderly, she added, "But you don't have to endure this alone anymore."
You should have questioned it, should have asked what she wanted in return. Instead, all you could feel in the moment was the unfamiliar sensation of someone standing in the same darkness you had lived in your entire life.
Kaori's eyes met yours again. "Now," she said, the knife returning to a rhythm beside her, "help me finish here."
_
After that night in the kitchen, nothing dramatic happened.
Kaori did not summon you into secret conversations or press you for confessions. She did not ask you to demonstrate what you could see, nor did she test the limits of it. The subject was folded away neatly, and life resumed in smaller ways.
You returned to your classes, sitting in lecture halls as you jotted down notes on novels that dissected grief and longing. Often, you lose track of time, forgetting to eat until late afternoon. Besides the money your parents sent, with whom you rarely spoke, you worked part-time at the campus library, found joy in sliding books into their shelves.
And in between those days, you found yourself next door more often than you meant to. Sometimes you brought over leftover bread from a charming little bakery near campus. Yuji seemed to grow at an astonishing pace, his tiny fingers always snagging your sleeve when you reached into his crib. Then there was Jin, who remained easy to be around. He spoke about mundane things like work, weather, and a television show he half-followed.
Kaori was different.
She listened more than she spoke, remembered details you forgot to mention, from an exam date to the fact that you preferred tea without sugar. She gave you answers to the curses that no one else would touch. And you found yourself looking for her first when something happened. Catching your steps slowing near her door without meaning to, it unsettled you, how easily she had become a fixed point.
She never interrupted you even when you rambled, told stories that went nowhere. Once, you made a particularly bad joke—the kind that would usually only earn a polite chuckle from anyone else. But to your surprise, she actually burst into genuine laughter.
"You're very funny," she said, as if it were an objective observation.
You had stared at her, heat creeping up your neck. No one had ever said that so plainly before.
When you'd finally stand to leave, she would press a thermos of soup into your hands, insisting you needed something warm after long evenings studying. Her fingers always lingered a second too long when passing it over, as though reluctant to sever the contact.
Things might have continued like this forever, an ordinary life in an ordinary neighborhood, if not for the rumors. It all began subtly, a seemingly innocuous question from an older woman at the convenience store on a balmy afternoon
"You live near the Itadoris, don't you?"
You nodded.
A heavy silence settled between you. The woman's expression shifted, and she regarded you with a look that was curiously enigmatic.
"They've had... difficulties."
"What kind of difficulties?" you asked.
"Illness and misfortune. That sort of thing," she replied, her voice trailing off as if the details were too painful to articulate fully.
Later, another neighbor mentioned it more directly.
"Kaori was very sick before the accident," he remarked, casting a glance into the distance.
"What accident?"
"You didn't know?" He looked at you, surprised and perhaps a bit pitying. "We all thought Jin wouldn't recover after her funeral."
The word settled heavily in your chest.
You tried to picture the street lined with glossy black cars. Jin, standing like a statue, his jaw set rigid with grief. You could almost see Wasuke's face hardened beyond even what you'd already seen.
"I never heard about that," you managed to say.
"It was a small one, just close friends and family." The neighbor replied, waving a dismissive hand.
Your mind kept drifting back to that faint line across her brow—the mark of the accident they said she'd survived. You thought of Wasuke's jagged hostility during dinner; the way his gaze skittered away from hers, his jaw locking into a hard line whenever she spoke. He wouldn't even step into the kitchen if she were in there alone.
That night, sleep felt miles away.
You replayed the way Jin deflected whenever the past surfaced in conversation. With a smile, he would offer to refill someone's glass and forget the subject.
When you walked past their house the following evening, you paused longer than necessary. The curtains hung half-drawn, casting soft shadows in the dim light. The porch light's glow is barely enough to illuminate the contours of the front steps. Through the window, you saw Kaori moving in the kitchen. For a moment—only a moment—you imagined the house empty of warmth, empty of breath.
Then she looked up, as if sensing your gaze. Her eyes met yours through the glass, and she smiled.
_
It happened on an ordinary evening, which was perhaps why it unsettled you so deeply.
You had stayed late at the college library, long enough for the sky to darken into a muted indigo. Outside, the streets had emptied, leaving only the hollow echo of your own footsteps and the erratic hum of fluorescent lights from shops pulling in their shutters. Your bag felt like a leaden weight against your shoulder, stuffed with the rustle of annotated pages.
At first, it was only a distortion in the air behind you, like heat rising from asphalt. Then halfway down the second block, it thickened into shape. A narrow body with joints bending at incorrect angles, its head hung low, dragging slightly as it moved.
You kept walking.
You had learned that much, at least. Do not stare or acknowledge them; they would lose interest. Most did, eventually. They only fed on attention the way fire fed on oxygen.
You kept walking, your pace remained even. You counted your steps to anchor yourself. The sound of its movement scraped faintly against the pavement, a wet, dragging noise that followed your rhythm imperfectly as it loomed closer, adding pressure at your back.
You quickly turned the corner toward your street.
Then the sound changed, its dragging stopped, making your skin prickled violently.
Before you could process it, a shadow shifted above you, blotting out the dim light. You looked up instinctively, its face was inches from yours—an expanse of stretched skin and fractured teeth, its jaw unhinged wider than bone should allow. Its limbs reached for you, fingers splitting into hooked extensions as they descended.
It would hit your spine.
You thought of your mother's knitting needles. Of hospital ceilings. Of how stupid it would be to die on a Tuesday.
Your legs locked. Your mouth forgot how to open. You felt absurdly angry at your body for choosing this moment to freeze, like a cowardly animal.
Suddenly, something invisible pressed downward, causing the curse to halt mid-motion. The curse's distorted body was lifted upward and slammed into the pavement with a sickening force, its limbs flattening unnaturally against the asphalt, the ground cracked beneath it.
For a suspended second, as though the sky had lowered by several inches, the pressure intensified. The curse's form compressed further, folding in on itself with a grotesque elasticity, until it dissolved into nothing more than a dark smear that evaporated into the night air.
You stumbled back, your legs turning to water. Your knees gave way before a scream could even reach your throat, but you never hit the pavement. Instead, a pair of steady hands clamped onto your shoulders.
"Careful," Kaori said.
You looked up at her; her hair stirred lightly in the residual air current. The streetlamp stripped away her pretense, revealing a face devoid of the comfort she usually wore. Her soft brown eyes remained fixed on the spot where the monster had just evaporated, but there was an edge of cruelty in them now.
For a brief, disorienting second, you wondered whether the curse had truly been the greater threat.
You swallowed, throat painfully dry. "How—"
How did you do that?
Why are you here?
Were you following me?
How long have you been watching?
Your thoughts fractured under the weight of what you had just witnessed. You looked at the cracked asphalt where the curse had vanished. If she had not been there—
"You wouldn't have survived that." She said matter-of-factly.
Your voice came out thinner than you intended. "You... you crushed it."
"Yes."
The simplicity of her answer unsettled you more than denial would have. Your hands trembled uncontrollably. Your legs felt distant from your body.
"I thought I could handle it, I didn't know what to do," you admitted, your breath unsteady. "It kept getting closer. I thought if I ignored it. I didn't—"
"You did well," she interrupted softly. "Most people would freeze."
She released you slowly once she was sure your legs would hold. Her fingers hovered near your arm for a heartbeat—as if she were weighing a difficult choice—before dropping to her side.
"Can you walk?" she asked.
You tried to take a step and nearly stumbled. She caught you again, more firmly this time. Her grip tightened a fraction too much, fingers digging in as if testing how much pressure bone could take. Then she loosened it, as though correcting a mistake.
"I'll take you home," she said.
You hesitated; there were too many questions pressing against your ribs. You forced yourself to meet her eyes, hunting for the cruelty you'd seen seconds before. It was gone. Her expression was replaced by the seamless composure of your neighbor, and she seemed to read the conflict on your face.
"Questions are natural," she said, her tone returning to that familiar gentleness, "I will answer them when we get back to your place."
"I..." Your voice cracked, the word a dry leaf in your throat. "Okay."
She matched her stride to yours as you moved. The street felt hollow, the air turned thin and airless, as if the city itself had pulled back in a shiver of recoil.
You took one step.
Then another.
Your legs had nearly given out by the time you reached your house. You did not remember unlocking your door, only that at some point you were inside, and she was there with you.
The lights flickered on. The small living room looked unchanged, almost offensively ordinary.
"Sit," Kaori said gently.
You obeyed without thinking.
She moved through your kitchen as though she had memorized it. A glass was filled, then placed firmly in your grip. Her hand stayed over yours, pinning the tremor down.
The glass chattered against your teeth. Seeing your struggle, she sank to her knees in front of you. Her fingers trailed across your cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. It was a magnetic pull; without realizing, you leaned into the palm you had just learned to fear.
The faint scar at her hairline caught your attention again; you had seen it dozens of times. Yet tonight, after what you had witnessed, it felt different.
Sensing your focus, she didn't pull away. Instead, her hand rose, closing around yours with a firm, chilling grip to guide your fingertips to the mark. Her skin there felt colder than the rest of her.
"Careful," she murmured. "That part of me is... delicate."
The phrasing settled strangely in your mind.
You withdrew your hand quickly, but she only watched you with that patient, knowing look. Like she seen this reaction a thousand times across a thousand lifetimes.
You had known her for months now, long enough to recognize the rhythm of her footsteps in the hallway next door. Long enough to anticipate the way she would tilt her head before speaking. Long enough to notice that she never startled at sudden noise. Never forget a detail. Never stumbled over a memory.
"Kaori," you blurted, your voice sounding jagged and loud in the small room.
She was facing you before the final syllable left your lips.
"Yes?"
The sheer speed of it was jarring. There was no drowsy blink of recognition, no human "hm?" to bridge the silence. Instead, she executed a flawless shift in her gaze, locking her eyes onto yours with an intensity that demanded attention.
"Kaori," you tried again.
"Yes?" she said, the word a perfect carbon copy of the last.
"When did you and Jin first meet?"
"You've asked me that before," she replied with a hint of playfulness, as though your question—so intensely personal—was nothing out of the ordinary.
"I... I don't think I did," you stammered, your voice betraying you despite your best efforts.
A pause then, it lasted barely a breath. But in that space, the room seemed to tilt.
"Ah, you're right," she said gently.
"Kaori," you repeated. "Where were you... before you came back?"
She looked at you, her head tilted at an odd angle.
"I see, you've caught me," she smiled, but it was an unfamiliar thing. Gone was the warmth of the woman who brought you snacks or nagged you about homework. "You're very observant, and a bit sweetly naive too, perhaps? But that's fine. It only makes you more endearing."
You felt like a fool for staying still—for not screaming, for not bolting. But mostly, you felt a biting shame for the betrayal you felt, despite the trail of clues you'd ignored. In one nauseating moment, the fragments clicked. From the whispers in the store to the funeral she was suppose to be in, and Wasuke—God, Wasuke—who looked at her as if she were a hole in the world he couldn't bear to see.
"You're not—"
"Kaori Itadori," she interrupted without hesitation, "is no longer here."
Her fingers continued to drag across your cheek, a touch so devoid of human heat it felt like being brushed by damp marble.
"You're dead," you whispered, your reality fracturing with the words.
"No," she corrected with a motherly sweetness. "She is."
A laugh tore from your throat, high and jagged. It was the sound of a mind snapping. Because dead people did not bake pastries or remember how you took your tea. You thought of all the times you had felt seen by her and wondered if that had been the point, if she had grown you like a plant in a dark room.
At the moment, you already braced for the price of knowing, maybe the violence that follows a secret's death of yours. But it never came. Instead, her thumb traced the curve beneath your eye, catching a tear you hadn't realized had fallen.
"You noticed sooner than most, I was beginning to wonder how long it would take." She murmured, her voice a low, vibrating hum.
"You... you let me get close to you," you choked out, the words feeling brittle and hollow. "You knew I was alone. You knew I was... starving for the truth."
"Indeed."
"And you—"
"But I have never harmed you, despite having held your life in my hands since the day we met, don't I?" she interrupted gently. "Quite the opposite, I removed what would have killed you. I gave you the care your doctors and family were too blind to offer. Why cower now, when I am the only one who truly sees you?"
A sob caught in your throat. You hated the way her words felt like a lifeline, even as they tightened around your throat. You hated how badly you wanted her version of the truth to be the only one.
Her hand slid from your cheek, dragging slowly down your neck—her grip just firm enough to let you feel the strength that could crush your windpipe in a heartbeat. She pressed her palm directly over the frantic, panicked staccato of your heart. She closed her eyes for a heartbeat, as if savoring your terror.
"How fascinating," she whispered, a spark of wonder threading her tone.
When her eyes fluttered open again, the 'Kaori' you knew had been hollowed out. What stared back at you didn't look quite human—their depth seemed wrong, so infinite that made your stomach hollow. It wasn't just a gaze, but was a weight pressing against your perception, as though she could see every corner of your memory, every hidden pattern you'd tried to ignore.
"Now," she murmured, the voice echoing from somewhere deep within that hollow shell, "tell me... does the truth change how you feel about me?"
After that night, your memory softened at the edges, as though someone had pressed wet fingers against ink and dragged the truth into a blur.
You remembered her hand against your cheek; you remembered the cold. Everything else dissolved into a dull, dreamlike ache.
The next morning, sunlight spilled through your curtains as if nothing in the world had shifted. You lay on the sofa far longer than usual, staring at the ceiling, replaying her words until they lost shape. Kaori Itadori is no longer here.
You did not knock on her door again.
When you saw her across the street, you pretended you were late for class. You left earlier than usual for college, cutting across streets you rarely used. Months passed in this fragile, deliberate distance. You saw her only in glimpses of the curve of her shoulder through a kitchen window, sometimes the silhouette at dusk watering plants. She never waved nor called your name. So you told yourself that if she truly meant harm, she would have acted already.
You told yourself many things.
At the campus, you buried yourself in coursework. You began working extra shifts at the front desk, and that was how you met your current boyfriend.
Being with him was like stepping into warm water after months of cold air. He did not see curses and was gentle in the unremarkable way of good people; he shelved books slightly out of order and apologized when you corrected him. He did not notice when you paused at intersections for no reason other than the feeling of being watched. His laugh was easy, his worries ordinary. When he asked if you wanted to get dinner after closing, you said yes.
You never mentioned the woman next door. You never spoke of the seam beneath her hair, or the infinite, hollow abyss that had looked through her eyes that night.
You dated for nearly a year before the house next door emptied. One day, the curtains were drawn; the next, the windows were bare, you never saw Jin's car returned to the driveway. Neighbors whispered again, but this time there was no funeral or explanation. Only the old man, Wasuke Itadori, remained. And the baby.
Yuji's laughter carried across the fence some afternoons, bright and startling against the silence she left behind. You can't help but wonder what she wants from them? From the Itadoris? Jin doesn't seem anything like her; he was soft where she was precise. Earnest, where she was unreadable. Human in every clumsy, humane way.
But you chose the safety of ignorance. You moved forward, dulling the sharpest edges of your memory until they were nothing but scars. You finished another academic year and began thinking about graduate school.
Until your boyfriend was driving home one evening when a truck ran a red light.
You lived in the sterile, airless halls of the hospital until they told you he was safe. 'It could have been so much worse,' the surgeon told you. When the day finally came for the bandages to be removed, you were there, gripping his hand so hard your knuckles turned white. He looked drained, his skin sallow in the hospital light, but his smile was the same beautiful thing you'd fallen for. Until the last layer of gauze fell away, your heart stopped.
There was a thin line running across his forehead, just beneath the hairline.
tw - unhealthy relationships, financial abuse, reader is implied to be a sugar-baby/sex worker, unbalanced power dynamics.
Mei is a woman who can put a price on anything.
You've seen her talents first-hand. Hell, you'd only gotten together in the first place because she decided you were a commodity worth the expense, or in her words, because 'you'd be more valuable with me than anywhere else'. Some of her earliest gifts were little more to foder to prove that she had enough wealth stowed away to not only afford you, but make you hers exclusively - skin-tight diamond chokers, ornate harnesses strung with crystals and pearls, rings studded with pale sapphires that were nearly too heavy to lift. You'd kept the pricetags from everything she gave you in a drawer in your shoebox of an apartment, and as a show of kinship, she decided to keep you.
Really, you could only be thankful you fell into the hands of someone so appreciative. As someone so easy to buy, you can't think of a customer more suited to you than Mei.
Your relationship's too far along for her to be so blatant with her intentions, now, carrying a pretense of affection that means she can't slip you a stack of bills and tell you, in no uncertain terms, that you'll be spending the night with her, but she still finds ways to mark you, to make sure she's always going to be the majority shareholder of your time. All your clothes are tailor-made, her initials embroidered into everything she has designed for you, and you can't remember the last time you wore a scent that she hadn't personally selected. She's careful with what she owns, but not so careful that she isn't willing to offer you tens of thousands of yen to wear the lipstick stain she left on the side of your throat like a designer product. She has a jealous streak, despite how indifferent she tries to act. That, or she just doesn't like it when other people tamper with her investments.
It's become an ongoing joke between the two of you - her possessive habits and your attempts to provoke them. You'll straddle her thigh and slot your chest against hers and pout as you ask how much she thinks the white-haired man across the room would offer for an hour with you, and she'll purse her lips and assure you that none of her 'coworkers' could afford such a gem. Once or twice, you've managed to pester a real answer out of her, always something in the millions and delivered in a clipped tone that meant it was time to stop asking, but more often, she'll take you by the hips and ask you if you plan on replacing her so callously. It's a fair reaction. You can't say she's ever made you think you might be up for sale.
When you can't bite back your curiosity, you drape yourself across her and ask how much she would give up to have you permanently, to keep you at her beck and call without having to stifle herself with allowances and borrowed platinum cards. She likes that question, practically purrs as she promises that, to her, you're priceless. It should be more comforting than it is, but somehow, you can't shake the implication that it's something she's considered, that if there was an amount she could forward to some unknown account, she would've done it long before you'd ever made the offer. You're glad she came to the conclusion she did. You're glad that, no matter how entitled she acts to every fiber of your being, every second of your time, she knows she'll never actually own you.
You're glad that, if she changed her mind, if she ever put a price on your head and decided it was worth the loss, she's kind enough not to tell you that you've already been paid for.
Summary: He will keep you weak, keep you quiet, and drug you into perfect, mindless compliance.
Warnings: Graphic violence description, unreliable narrator, food deprivation, heavy drugging, kidnapping, mind break, stalking, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat
Author's Notes: Companion fic of Sedated. Both can be read independently.
Overhaul stared down at the unrecognizable heap of viscera at his feet. The low-ranking asset currently smeared across the concrete of the narrow commercial alleyway had ceased to be a man three seconds ago. It was sickening. A physical manifestation of the quirk-infected sickness plaguing humanity.
The fool had pocketed a shipment of specialized quirk-suppressing compound intended for the Shie Hassaikai’s labs, foolishly trying to broker a side deal with a rival syndicate on this exact street. Worse than the theft, however, was the absolute lack of hygiene in his execution. The man had bled all over the brickwork before he even touched him.
He pulled a fresh linen handkerchief from his pocket, his jaw tightening beneath the leather lining of his beak. He lowered his hand, carefully dabbing at a stray, microscopic droplet of dark crimson that had managed to land on his left cuff.
Then, the sudden, sharp scrape of a rubber sole against concrete echoed from the mouth of the alley.
It was you.
He kept his back completely rigid, his golden eyes tracking your reflection perfectly in the rain-slicked glass of a discarded bottle against the brick wall.
He had been observing you for exactly twenty-four days.
He had monitored the predictable grid of your daily routine. You left your apartment at the same hour. You bought the same convenience store meals every Tuesday evening. And, with a dangerous lack of self-preservation, you consistently used this neglected alleyway as a shortcut to bypass the heavy foot traffic of the pedestrian district.
Today, however, you were precisely seven minutes ahead of schedule.
An irritation, really. Had he known your timing would fluctuate, he would have broken the thief closer to the dumpster, away from the path of your clean, uncorrupted orbit.
Behind him, he heard the soft, trembling drag of your heel as you took a cautious step backward. Then another.
Overhaul could feel the violent spike of your panic. You were trying to gaslight yourself. He could practically see the frantic thoughts spinning in your head, desperately convincing yourself that he was too engrossed in his grim work to notice you.
He let you believe the lie. He kept his back turned to you, his fingers calmly pressing the linen cloth against his sleeve, waiting as your heels finally hit the bustling sidewalk of the main street.
He looked down at the stained handkerchief in his gloved hand, his golden eyes narrowing in profound disgust. He tossed the soiled linen onto the heap of viscera at his feet, already reaching into his pocket for a fresh pair of latex gloves.
He would let you have your small, desperate illusion of safety for a few more days.
_
Three weeks ago was a perfectly unremarkable one. The sky was an aggressive, unappealing gray, and a sudden, sharp downpour had turned the concrete sidewalk into a slick mirror of urban grime. Pedestrians were scrambling under awnings, shoving past one another with a loud lack of dignity.
You were standing near the entrance of a local convenience store, a clear plastic umbrella tilted over your shoulder.
Overhaul had paused beneath the overhang of a closed storefront across the narrow street as he waited for the crowd to thin. He was already irritated; a stray drop of rain had hit his bare neck, and the humidity was making his skin itch beneath his collar. He despised the city when it rained—it felt as though the entire populace were soaking in their own collective filth.
But as he looked across the asphalt, his gaze locked onto you.
By every standard of the modern world, you were painfully boring. Your hair was slightly frizzy from the damp air, your sneakers were worn at the heels, and you were holding a plastic grocery bag with a loaf of bread and a carton of eggs. You were entirely consumed by the most pathetic, small-scale anxieties imaginable. He could see it in the way your brow furrowed as your lips moved silently—you were mentally math-ing out your budget, stressing over a fifty-yen discrepancy on your receipt. You were so deeply beneath him, that under any other circumstance, his eyes would have slid right past you without registering your existence.
And then, a stray calico cat—drenched in the street’s disease-ridden filth—crept out from beneath a vending machine near your boots.
Overhaul had expected you to kick it away, or at least draw back in a natural human response to a parasite-carrying vector. But you didn't. A slight frown pulled at your lips as you tilted your umbrella forward, extending its canopy to shield the shivering animal from the downpour, while letting the cold rain beat directly against your own shoulder.
It was an incredibly stupid, economically inefficient action. You were ruining your cheap coat and soaking your hair just to give dry ground to a stray animal that would likely be dead in a week anyway. You lacked even the basic intelligence required for self-preservation.
Yet, as you adjusted the plastic handle, you happened to look up. Across the narrow street, through the heavy curtain of falling rain, your gaze collided directly with his mask.
Overhaul’s breath caught in his filter.
Your eyes were beautiful.
They were bright, vibrant, and filled with an uncorrupted sort of life—a quiet, stubborn vitality that seemed completely untouched by the decay of the surrounding world. For a fleeting instant, you look past the ominous beak of his mask to meet his gaze directly—utterly without fear—before offering a polite nod of your head and turning back to the street.
Suddenly, the thoughts slammed into his brain, relentless and consuming, rooting a fierce, vicious possessiveness deep in his gut. He cannot scrub you out of his mind, you, a thing so pure could not be allowed to exist out here. The chaotic whims of quirk society would inevitably smear their dirt across those clear eyes, dragging you down into the mud until you were ruined by the sickness of this world.
As you finally stepped out into the rain and walked away, Overhaul remained frozen under the awning. He watched the back of your coat until you disappeared around the corner of the commercial block.
He had memorized the exact dimensions of your life within forty-eight hours of that rainy afternoon. It was a remarkably uncomplicated file.
You were, by every metric of the modern world, entirely inconsequential. A baseline Quirkless civilian. Apartment 302—a cramped, third-floor unit with a sticking front lock and a window that looked out onto an unappealing brick alleyway. You lived completely alone. There was no emergency contact listed on your lease. Even your past was a clean slate, you had cut ties with your family three years ago after a bitter conflict, packing your life into cardboard boxes and moving here. Since then, you had no close friends, let alone significant others. There were no colleagues who would notice an empty desk for more than a single payroll cycle before replacing you.
You had no one.
But watching you from afar was beginning to sour into a distinct, tightening frustration beneath his collar.
Because you had no one to protect you, the city was treating you like it treated all its garbage. He had watched a loud, unwashed group of drunkards stumble past you last Thursday, shouting obscenities that made you flinch and press your grocery bag against your chest. He had seen a rogue delivery cyclist nearly take you off your feet on a crosswalk, forcing you to scramble onto the dirty concrete. Every day you spent out here, unsupervised and painfully defenseless, was a liability.
The sky was clear today.
Fom twenty yards away, you were walking home from the store, carrying a single, mundane grocery bag.
He stepped into the current of the crowd, his dark coat cutting through the sea of bodies. The street was a loud, chaotic mess—humanity at its most disorganized. People shoved past one another, laughing loudly, breathing the same stagnant air, tracking filth across the concrete with every step. The sheer volume of the crowd made his skin crawl. It was a breeding ground for sickness. How could you survive out here? How long before one of these mindless cattle bumped into you too hard, stained your clothes, or dragged you into their filth?
He had anticipated you to bolt when you saw him, forcing a messy, public chase through a crowded commercial block. Instead, you kept walking directly toward him.
Your hands were trembling against the thin plastic of your grocery bag, your knees stiff with terror. It was a pathetic, transparent performance, but it fascinated him. As you came parallel to him, you forced a tight, polite smile onto your face and looked right into the eyes of a monster.
"Hey, cool mask," you said. Your voice squeaked, a fragile, desperate little sound, before you immediately tried to brush past his shoulder into the safety of the crowd.
Overhaul didn't reply, but beneath the leather lining of his mask, his teeth clicked together. A sudden, violent jolt of adrenaline spiked straight to his chest. It was a lie. A beautiful, naive, insulting little lie, a cheap performance born of the desperate urge to survive. You knew exactly what he was. You knew what he had done in that alleyway. And yet, the sheer, frantic audacity of you trying to charm your way past him sent a wave of heat rushing through his veins. It didn't disgust him; it drove his obsession into a fever pitch.
He wants you. He needs you now, right now, to break that useless, beautiful fight out of your chest, to scrub the city's dirt off your skin himself and lock you away where nobody else can ever look at you, touch you, stain you—no, he needs you. Need you. You. You. You. God, you. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You.
As you passed his shoulder, his hand moved with a practiced speed. The syringe hidden within the sleeve of his coat, jabbed hard into the side of your neck.
Instantly, the frantic energy radiating off you withered. The grocery bag slipped from your limp fingers, a carton of eggs cracking against the concrete, a loaf of bread rolling into the dirt. Your knees buckled, your gravity completely failing you as you began to collapse toward the filthy sidewalk.
Overhaul stepped forward, his pristine white gloves catching you beneath the arms before your clothes could touch the contaminated ground. His entire body went instantly rigid beneath his layers of fabric. The fabric of your jacket had touched the city air, the outdoor benches, the filthy pedestrian crowds; it was a walking surface of bacteria, making his skin itch violently beneath his collar.
But as his golden eyes darted down to your face, watching your eyelids flutter as the heavy sedative slammed into your nervous system, drowning your beautiful eyes in a helpless static. Overhaul forced the panic down into submission. The sheer, overwhelming reality of finally holding you sent his thoughts spiraling into an intoxicating focus.
How remarkably sweet you looked like this.
People were staring now, a few pedestrians slowing their pace to look at the figure slumping against his parka.
"Step back," Overhaul commanded to a nearby onlooker. "They're having a medical episode. I'm a licensed practitioner taking them to a vehicle.”
The onlookers murmured, nodding in unthinking agreement. None of them questioned him, or asked for identification, or demanded to know where he was taking you. They just accepted the lie, turning their faces away to melt right back into the gray, uncaring crowd.
Looking at the sea of retreating backs, a disgust washed over Overhaul. They don't care if you disappear from the face of the earth. This wretched, apathetic street didn't deserve to look at you. The outside world was a plague, and these people were the carriers—bystanders who would let something precious be ruined without a second thought.
They didn't deserve you. But he did.
He adjusted his grip, pulling your limp body securely into his space. It was fine. He could endure the temporary contamination. The moment they reached the secure basement levels of the compound, he would burn these filthy civilian clothes. He would meticulously scrub his arms, wash his hands under boiling water and drench his gear in isopropyl alcohol.
As his men pulled the black sedan up to the curb, clicking the heavy doors open to receive his prize, Overhaul looked one last time at your unseeing, drifting face.
He had ordered a sterile holding room in the deep basement levels to be prepped immediately, bleached twice over with industrial isopropyl alcohol.
But he had severely underestimated your stubbornness.
The first time the dosage had dipped slightly below the threshold, you had woken. Through the security monitor down the hall, Overhaul had watched you awake in a panic, your eyes wild and bloodshot. Without a single thought for your own physical safety, you had grabbed the plastic IV line hooked to your vein and violently ripped the tube right out of your arm.
The plastic needle tore through your skin, and a dark, messy streak of crimson splattered across the crisp white sheets.
When his men had flooded the room to pin you down, you hadn't stopped. Even with your limbs heavy and trembling from the residual chemicals, you had somehow managed to pocket a small, metallic clip from the side of the heart monitor. Later that night, the camera caught you dragging your leaden torso across the cold floor, using that single, flimsy piece of metal to frantically scratch and pick at the heavy brass lock of the door. Your fingers were bleeding, your breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps, your nails splitting against the reinforced steel. He had subdued you himself, his gloved hands pinning your wrists to the mattress with an iron grip while he reinserted the line, forcing the heavy, suffocating darkness back into your nervous system. He made sure the dosage was doubled.
It had irritated him. It had fascinated him. To ensure you never put up a fight like that again, Overhaul had kept you weak on purpose. He had strictly forbidden bringing solid food into the room, restricting your entire caloric intake to a specialized, nutrient-dense solution dispensed solely through the IV line. Without substance in your stomach, your muscles could never fully recover from the sedative. Your body could not build the glycogen required to form a fist, let alone strike him.
But it was during the quiet windows—those rare, fleeting moments when the drugs receded just enough to grant you a fragile shred of sanity—you had stopped screaming. Instead, you began to seek him out. When he entered the room to check your vitals or adjust the dial on the drip, your unfocused, beautiful eyes would track the movement of his mask. You were starved for a human voice, so utterly isolated in that white box that you were willing to appeal to your own captor.
You had swallowed past the dry cotton in your throat and started asking questions.
"Where am I?" "What do you want with me?"
And then, the question that had made his gloved fingers pause over the syringe. You had looked right at him, and asked him who he was. You had asked for his name.
He told you to call him Kai.
Recalling it now, as he pressed his thumb against the heavy lock of the door, Overhaul felt a satisfaction settle into his chest. In the end, you had still looked up at him and begged for his name. You were learning. Step by step, dose by dose, you were forgetting the outside world and learning how to exist only within the space he had built for you.
He realized then that he wanted to break you.
Not like the thief in the alleyway—he would not shatter your bones or spill your blood—he would continue to drug you over and over again. He would drug you into absolute, mindless compliance. He would keep you so heavily sedated that your memories would fracture, your thoughts would turn to thick mud, and your sense of time would completely dissolve until your entire universe shrank to his hands. He would strip away your agency, until you forgot your apartment number, forgot your desk, forgot your own name—until the only anchor left in your hollowed-out mind was the sound of his voice.
He would make you entirely dependent on him. He would become your caretaker, your God. What he said was clean is clean; what he said was sick is sick.
When he stepped inside, you were awake. The security monitors down the hall hadn't lied; your heart rate had spiked, and your eyelids were fluttering against the heavy pull of the sedative. He didn't need to look at your chart to know your body was adapting to the current dosage.
"How long have you been awake?" he asked as he reached out, his gloved fingers adjusting the dial on the IV stand.
"Not long," you mumbled. Your voice was small, raspy, and ruined by the dry cotton of your throat.
"And how was your day?"
It was a textbook question. But instead of compliance, he watched a familiar, ugly spark of anger ignite in your eyes. It was the same reckless passion that bred the quirk-infected filth outside. It made his skin crawl slightly beneath his collar, but he kept his expression perfectly smooth behind the beak of his mask.
"It was... fine," you whispered, though your chest was heaving with an absurdly starved desperation. "Just a little cold in here. And my head hurts."
Overhaul turned his back to you, walking over to the metal prep table. "The headache is your own doing," he said, his voice flat. "If you stopped fighting, you wouldn’t be in pain. But don't worry. I’ll have someone bring an extra blanket.”
He tore open a fresh plastic wrapper, tapping the side of the syringe to clear the air bubbles.
From the bed, your slurred, pathetic begging began. "Don't... please... Kai, don't. No more."
He didn't even register the plea as a valid argument. Silly thing, he thought, a wave of pity washing over him as he pushed the plunger slightly, letting a single drop bead at the needle's tip. You don't even know what's good for you.
"You have been more compliant recently," he noted, turning back to the bed, allowing a small sigh to escape his mask. "However, your body is starting to build tolerance to the current dosage, which means it's no longer effective at keeping you calm. It's a shame. To ensure you don't agitate yourself like last time, I will have to increase the amount. It's for your own good."
The sheer, irrational terror that flooded your face to that was a testament to how undisciplined your mind still was.
He stepped to your side, leaning over the mattress to lift your arm. He needed a clean angle on the vein. But before he could secure your wrist, your weak hand balled into a clumsy fist and swung toward his chest.
"You... you absolute piece of—"
The words were a slurred, disintegrating mess, but the intent was clear. You were trying to strike him. You, a thoroughly contaminated, unwashed creature of the outside world, were trying to lay hands on his person.
The fist collided with his shirt. The impact was laughably light—a pathetic, uncoordinated twitch of muscle that barely registered through the fabric. He didn't even bother to dodge. He simply let your hand fall, his gloved fingers wrapping around your wrist with a firm pressure to pin it back to the crisp sheets.
"Look at how worked up you're getting," he murmured, looking down at you. The pity he felt was genuine. "This anger, this violence... it’s exactly what the outside world breeds in people. It’s a sickness.”
"S-stop it. Sick. You’re the one who’s… you’re fucking sick, Kai," you choked on the syllable. "Put the… put it down."
Instead of submitting, you fought harder. It was infuriatingly stubborn. Your fingers curled around his gloved wrists, squeezing with a weak, trembling desperation, trying to drag your heavy torso up off the mattress. You were trying to fight him. You were trying to touch him more.
And then, your strength entirely evaporated.
Your head dropped forward, your body collapsing heavily against his chest.
An electric shock of pure, instinctual revulsion surged straight down his spine. His entire frame went instantly, rigidly still, every muscle locking into stone. His mind screamed at him to tear his hand away, to activate his quirk and obliterate the unwashed flesh pressing against his sternum, to strip the clothes from his body and bleach his skin until it bled.
But as he stood there, completely breathless, the frantic, ragged thud of your heart rattled against his chest. Such a fragile, broken little thing. You were so incredibly weak. So easily crushed. If he let go of your wrist right now, you would simply slide onto the floor like a ragdoll.
He looked down at the back of your head, at the messy, unkempt hair spilling across his dark shirt. Slowly, through a massive effort of sheer willpower, Overhaul forced the panic down. The tension in his chest eased, a long, controlled breath filtering through the mesh of his plague mask.
He wouldn't destroy you. He had chosen to keep you clean. And a doctor did not abandon a patient just because they were covered in dirt.
Gently, almost experimentally, his gloved hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers anchoring you against his shoulder. His other hand moved to your face, a single, sterile finger tracing the trembling line of your jaw. Your skin was warm.
"You always did have a habit of rushing into things without thinking," he murmured into your hair, his voice vibrating softly against your cheek. "Like taking that shortcut home. Or buying those specific convenience store meals every Tuesday evening. You're far too predictable to be left unsupervised."
"…Bastard. You… damn bastard. I’m gonna..." Your voice dropped to a furious, drunken mutter.
The whispered curse was muffled against his collarbone, a desperate, childish rebellion. He didn't mind it. It was almost endearing. He tilted your face up, forcing your unfocused, drooping eyes to meet his golden gaze.
"I always thought your eyes were beautiful," he whispered, fascinated by the dull glaze overtaking your pupils. "The very first time I saw you, you looked at me with so much life. It made me want to take you away from all the filth out there. To keep you all to myself, where nothing could ever corrupt you or take you from me. Tell me... what is so wrong with wanting to protect something so precious? Why must you fight the only person who cares enough to keep you clean?”
You didn't answer. You couldn't. The dark, beautiful panic in your eyes was already drowning in the chemical fog.
Overhaul guided you backward, easily laying your limp body back down onto the stark white pillows. He picked up the syringe, found the vein, and slid the needle home. He watched the fluid disappear into your system, watched your tense, fighting muscles finally, beautifully go slack.
He stepped back from the bed, the sharp, snapping sound of latex echoing in the quiet room as he peeled the white gloves from his hands. They were contaminated now. Covered in the sweat and oils of your skin. He tossed them carelessly into the hazardous waste bin by the bed, staring down at your sleeping face one last time.
