"I don't want the world, I just want your half."

⺣ Eros | 25 | INTP-T ⺣

[eroslove88]

Important! Please read or Skim at least if you follow me:

{Last Updated: May. 30th 2023}

18+ ONLY! Minors click this link and leave! Thank you have a good day! Same with homophobic, racist/xenophobic, sexist, and transphobic people. Please leave.... Bye bye!

Status: WRITING!!! Please request.

About me

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Rules Here

Masterlist

St. Patrick's Day Event (Closed)

200 Followers Event (Closed)

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Thirst or ask me anything you want!

I do read the manga so there will be spoilers but I will add a warning for it!

I do not support this stuff in real life but please get help if stuff in the plots are actually happening. This is fantasy not real!

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I will also not write for Eri/any children in MHA or Mineta. I write for any characters, so don't be afraid to ask (other than the ones mentioned).

Also if you remember my old user name.... NO YOU DON'T!

I do have rules for when requests open, give that a read please! RULES

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I deleted most of my old things except for:

Helpless

The Devil Himself

and

On Moonlight Bay

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I will make a masterlist once I write more fics and stuff. Sorry if you enjoyed my other things, I didn't really like them so I restarted a bit. Not to mention I got a bunch of requests and deleted them all (except for one that someone dm'd me) and decided to start over! I felt bad that there was a lot I hadn't written and felt embarrassed at how bad most of my writing was so.... YEAH! Hopefully people forgot who I was!

I also might write for Bungo Stray Dogs or Haikyuu later on! But no promises.

I will update this throughout but other than that enjoy and have a good day!

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Just Song Recs:

Love Taste - Moe Shop

Notice - Moe Shop

Variations on a Cloud - Miracle Musical

Miracle Musical

Ruler of Everything - Tally Hall

Hidden in the Sand - Tally Hall

The Bidding - Tally Hall

Love me Dead - Ludo

Suki Suki Daisuki - Jun Togawa

Everybody Likes you - Lemon Demon

Aishite Aishite Aishite - Kikuo & Miku

Helena - MCR

Na Na Na - MCR

Im not ok (I promise) - MCR

Mama - MCR

Business Man - Mother Mother

Arms Tonite - Mother Mother

Dirty Town - Mother Mother

Killer Queen - Queen

Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy - Queen

Pierre - Josh Groban (from Natasha, Pierre & the Great Comet or 1812)

[yandere-daydreams]

Trope: Don't Look Back.

Pairing: Yandere!Nightwing | Dick Grayson x Reader (DC).

Word Count: 1.7k.

TW: Implied Non/Con, Prolonged Stalking, Physical Intimidation, Mentions of Harassment, and Obsessive Behavior.

One of the first things you learn in Gotham is to never look back.

No glancing over your shoulder, no snapping toward the sounds of raised voices and chaos on the other side of the street, no looking away from the grimy subway floor when a group of deliberately non-descript men with ski-masks in their pockets and bulging plastic bags in their hands stepped into the carriage. You kept your eyes open and straight ahead, your posture straight and your hands by your sides. No indecision. No getting pulled into anything you couldn’t afford. No looking back.

Gotham’s golden rule had always served you well. Even more so in Blüdhaven, a city that seemed to match Gotham’s crime rates beat for beat (albeit, with fewer costumed rouges). It was simple. It was smart. Even better, it was reliable.

So you weren’t sure why it seemed to be failing you so drastically, tonight.

Footsteps playing in time with yours, a figure lurking just beyond the scope of your peripheral. You kept your pace steady, your hands in your pockets, thankful beyond gratitude that the night’s chill gave you an excuse to keep your eyes low and your head bowed. You’d kept it up for eight – nine, now, as you haphazardly rushed across an intersection – blocks, and you would only have to hold out for five more. Once you got to your apartment, you’d be in the clear clear. That, or you would lead your stalker directly back to the place where you lived and slept, but you didn’t have to think about that right now. One problem at a time.

Four blocks. You heard your stalker cross to your side of the street, but kept your eyes focused on the darkness in front of you, your shoulders squared like you were just waiting for a fight. You weren’t, of course. You’d expected to spend your night on someone else's couch, in someone else's bed, not being trailed like a wounded animal.

Two blocks. Their pace picked up, footsteps edging that much closer. You did the same – your brisk walk reflexively morphing into a stuttering, unsure jog. It didn’t help. They were still closing the distance.

Half a block. Your apartment building came into sight – the moss-eaten brick and cheap scaffolding canopies a sight to behold. You would have to round the corner to reach the main entrance, but you didn’t have time for that. Gritting your teeth, you ducked into the nearest alleyway and sprinted for the side-door. You didn’t dare look back, or up, or at anything but the rusted-out lock in front of you and your own trembling hands as they fumbled with it. You nearly dropped your keys twice while trying to fish the ring out of your pocket, only to waste precious seconds searching for the right shape, the right brand. Finally, you jammed one into the lock and, just before you could turn it, spared a hasty glance down the alleyway, searching for looming figures and empty duffle bags and—

And nothing.

The alleyway was empty. You were alone.

For a moment, at least.

“Looking for someone?”

It was humiliating – just how violently you startled. You dropped your keys and followed them down, tripping over your own feet in a clumsy rush to back away. There was a rolling chuckle, a gloved hand reaching down into your line of sight, and then you were blinking up at a masked, smiling face. Nightwing. The city’s angel in black and blue.

Immediately, you relaxed. When he started to pull you back onto your feet, you didn’t resist. He was patient with you, resting a hand on your shoulder once you had your legs underneath you, letting the silence drag on until you’d caught your breath, until you could imagine speaking over the sound of your own rushing pulse. “I’m sorry, I—” You clenched your eyes shut, driving your nails into your palms. “I swore I heard someone following me.”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that.” He spoke with an easy sort of confidence. You’d heard he was good at that – easing the nerves of rattled civilians. It was hard not to feel just a little safer with him around. “I must’ve scared them off. This happen before?”

“No, I—Uh, not that I’ve noticed, at least.” There’d been a cop a few months ago who kept trying to catch your eye from the other side of a coffee shop, a faceless man at a club a couple weeks ago who tried to get too close too quickly, but no stalkers or late-night followers. Nightwing bent down, reaching for your keys, but you snatched them up first, still more skittish than you should have been. Suddenly, it seemed reflexive to signal out the right one, to fit it into the ancient lock and haul the creaking, leaden door open. “Thank you, but I should really be—”

“I’ll walk you up.”

That was another rule you’d learned in Gotham. Don’t, under literally any circumstance, let literally anyone follow you literally anywhere. Especially home. Especially if you live in an apartment with concrete walls and neighbors who’d rather not get involved.

But, this wasn’t Gotham. This was Blüdhaven, and had it been Batman offering to see you to your door, you would’ve rolled out the red fucking carpet. You figured you should show the same courtesy to this city’s local golden boy.

Still, you hesitated, hand curled around the edge of the door and Nightwing loitering politely behind you. “I’d hate to waste any more of your time.”

“C’mon, sweetheart, what do you think I’m here for?” Another easy laugh. He caught the door just above your hand, prying it open that much further. “My only job is to keep you safe. You’ll let me do that, won’t you?”

He was right. This was his responsibility, and you were only dragging it out. Again, you mentally aligned him with Batman. They were both vigilantes. They were both only trying to keep people like you out of danger.

The only difference was that Batman wouldn’t have called you ‘sweetheart’. Or, you hoped so, at least.

You shouldered the door open and let Nightwing inside. He trailed you through the lobby, always a step and half behind, his shadow cast over you by glaring overhead lights. You half-expected him to ditch you at the elevator, but no – he stepped in next to you, his muscular form too tall, too bulky in the confined space. You pressed the button for your floor and watched the doors come together, trapping you inside.

The seconds ticked by in silence. He was the one to break it, predictably. Another reason you should’ve never left Gotham: Batman didn’t stick around to chat.

“You don’t talk much, do you?”

You shook your head, more than happy to leave it at that. Nightwing wasn’t so satisfied.

“Ah, that’s my bad. I really should’ve guessed. You seem like that type - always keeping to yourself.” Your eyes snapped forward on instinct, fixing on the titanium elevator doors. You watched his reflection as he went on. “Oh, by the way, do you want to tell me what you were doing out so late?”

You swallowed dryly. “Just the late shift. My coworker called off at the last minute.”

“Liar.”

Your gaze darted to the floor indicator, each number creeping upward slower than the last. “I don’t know what you mean by that.”

“You’re so cold, honey.” Again with the terms of endearment. At this point, you didn’t even need Batman. You would’ve taken Green Arrow. “Your little hook-up would be so upset.”

Fuck it. You could’ve found a way to live with Poison Ivy, if you had to. “He didn’t answer the—”

“He wanted to.” Nightwing cocked his head to the side. “Tried to scream and everything. I managed to talk him out of it, though. I didn’t want him to scare you off.” He paused, chuckled. “That’s not how we were supposed to meet. I wanted it to be more romantic. More heroic.”

You didn’t respond. Your tongue was pressed flat against the roof of your mouth, your body stiff to stop from trembling. He hummed. “I might’ve botched it, after all. Still – I couldn’t just let you walk home all alone, could I?”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Nightwing, sir.”

“Please.” You felt his hand on your arm, his body edge that much closer to yours. “Call me Dick.”

Finally, the elevator came to a stuttering halt. You watched the door inch apart for a beat, then another, before shoving him away and bolting.

You made it all of three steps into the hallway before a fist caught by the collar. An arm curled around your waist, hauling off your feet and into his chest as he buried his face in the dip of your shoulder. You tried to throw your elbow into his stomach, to thrash, to scream, but his hand was already over the loser half of your face, and if he noticed you fighting against him, all your strength earned little more than a playful squeeze to your side, a contented sigh half-smothered by your jacket. Worst of all, he was moving down the hall, towards the door to your apartment. You tried and failed not to wonder how he already knew where you lived.

You made one more mistake – your final one and the last of Gotham’s golden rules. As he came to a stop in front for door and reached into your pocket, his hand falling away from your mouth, you tried to bargain.

“Please, I—” You grabbed for his wrist as he brought out your keys and raised them to the lock. Nightwing only moved you that much farther to the side, hushing you under his breathe. You stammered on regardless. “I’m sorry if I did something wrong, I—I didn’t mean to bother you, and I really don’t have anything you would want, or—”

“That’s not true.” Even if you hadn’t been able to hear the smile in his voice, you would’ve been able to feel it biting into your throat. “I’ve wanted you from the moment our eyes met.”

“I don’t—” The frustration was almost worse than the fear. He was kissing you, now, open-mouthed and pushed into your jugular. “I don’t know you.”

“But you want to, right?”

You weren’t sure what it was. Maybe the way his teeth scraped over your skin, or the hand now slipping under your shirt. Maybe it was the sound of a lock clicking out of place, or the feather light, honey thick tone he adopted. It could've been everything. It could've been something else entirely. Your blood ran cold either way, all the warmth flooding out of you as he went on.

“If you didn’t, you never would’ve looked at me in the first place.”

[after-witch]

Horrorfest: Still, the Devil Got In Her [Demon!Gojo Satoru x Reader]

Title: Still, the Devil Got In Her [Demon Gojo x Reader]

Synopsis: For Horrorfest prompt: Reader who is religious and gojo as a demon disguised as a priest! 

Word count: 1300ish

notes: mentions of abuse, blasphemy

The rosary clutched in your hand has started to make your palms ache, but you pay it no mind–the comfort of the prayers falling from your lips outweighs the ache of beads held too tightly against your skin.

The prayers, after all, are more necessary than ever.

The world is falling to pieces, outside these holy, protected walls. How many times have you turned on the TV to find news of another murder, another child gone missing, another war broken out? How many times have you offered prayers to neighbors and friends and strangers, stricken with illness, with addiction, with loss?

Too many times. Too many times to believe anything other than what the priests at the pulpit tell you week after week. That the world is full of sinners, and the wages of sin is death. So you come every week (sometimes every day) and pray and attend confession and know that your soul must be safely in the priest’s hands and therefore, safely in God’s keeping.

Yes–if the wages of sin is death, you must be absolved.

Which is what brings you here in the dead of night, the hall lit by the few electric candles the priest turned on to light your way. The priest–the newest one, the kindest one, Gojo Satoru–had been gentle on the phone. Reassuring. Everyone had his personal number in case of emergencies, he’d given it out himself, and this was (you admit, pitifully) not the first time you’ve called him.

It was the first time you’d begged him to hear confession, right here, right now, without delay.

And he’d agreed.

So here you are, sitting on your side of the confessional box, kneeling, hands together, rosary pressed so hard it hurts.

You hear the door open on the other side and it’s like something in you brightens.

“Forgive me, father,” you blurt–

On the other side, a chuckle.

“Give me a minute to sit down, first.”

“Oh–” You stammer out an apology, and he laughs, and you know it isn’t necessary. 

There’s the sound of fabric fluttering, his robe being shifted, as he settles into his seat.

“Now, what was it that couldn’t wait until the morning?”

You swallow. Humble, regretful.

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned.” You pause. “It has been… two days since my last confession.” Said with all the gravity of a sinner, but Gojo, ever kind, merely snorts. 

“God will forgive you for having other things to do on a Tuesday,” he says, a smile in his voice. None of the other priests would ever say such a thing, but Gojo, Gojo is always ready to tell you that your sins are not so serious. That he forgives you and God will forgive you as easy as anything.

Is that why you called him, instead of waiting until tomorrow, when someone else would be in the confessional?

You shake the thought, almost an accusation–against yourself? Or him?-- away.

“And how have you sinned, my child?” He asks. My child is always said with indulgence, humor tinging his voice. You’re practically the same age. 

Here is where your heart begins to beat like raindrops against the window. 

Because you have confessed many things to the priest sitting inches away from you, separated by wire and his sanctity.

But this? This is not confessing to greed or stealing a pack of cigarettes or taking the Lord's name in vain.

This is… this is…

“I….”

You swallow the sin down, where it sits in your stomach like hot acid. It’s one thing to practice confessing this sin, one thing to contemplate the sin itself, the hot roil of it. Quite another to sit in the confessional booth a breath away from Gojo and blurt out–

“I’m having impure thoughts about a man. I’ve–I’ve even thought about having sex with him.” 

The silence on the other side of the confessional booth is a condemnation, and your heart beat pounds in your ears. Gojo hates you–surely. Finds this too far, even for you, finds you a disgusting sinner, someone not even to be pitied, he’ll probably make you come back tomorrow to confess it to someone else and–

“That’s it?”

Your spit nearly chokes you.

“But that’s… a sin.” You swallow hard. “Father,” you add, to be proper. 

You hear him scoff, a low, amused thing. 

“Do you really think God minds? Did he not make Adam and Eve to copulate?”

Heat flares across your cheeks, and you find your hands digging into your leg. This is not what you expected him to say. And yet… isn’t it? Isn’t it just what you wanted, why you called him? Because he wasn’t going to make you get on your knees and say a thousand Hail Marys and beg daily for forgiveness for being such a wanton creature?

“Sex before marriage,” you squeak out, “is against His word.”

“So is a shrimp dinner,” Gojo retorts. Then you hear a sound, a strange one; metal scraping. It takes a moment for you to realize that he’s splayed his hand on the mesh window, scratching it with his fingers. The sound drags until you hear his side of the booth opening, and then–

Then he knocks on yours.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Um,” you say. “Come… in?”

The door squeaks open and there he is, wearing his usual robes, his usual tinted glasses over his face. Only his grin is not there, despite his earlier waving-off of your grievous sin. 

“Father Gojo?” You ask, wondering if perhaps you were wrong after all, and he was going to chastise you for your confession.

“Who are you having impure thoughts about?” He leans forward, practically caging you in the booth. When you say nothing, cheeks hot, heart pounding, he tilts his glasses down with one hand. The bright blue of his eyes practically burns into you. “Confess, my child.”

He knows. He knows-he-knows-he-knows. You don’t know how he knows, but he does, and oh God, you really are going to hell.

“You,” you whimper out, just as he sinks to his knees. He hums, and puts both of his hands on your clothed thighs. This time, when he peers at you from behind his glasses, the blue is not blue but golden-red. And his grin–his grin is punctuated by teeth that are too sharp, too unreal.

“F-Father Gojo?” You ask, scooting back on the seat, though there is nowhere to go. The wooden box behind you and Father Gojo in front, and no one else in the entire church but the two of you, meeting at midnight in secret.

Father Gojo only smiles until his smile splits his face and it’s hot, you realize, hotter than it ought to be. The source of the warmth is right in front of you, a stinging burn seeming to seep out from his skin.

“Humans are quite trusting of clergy,” Father Gojo says, though you think, abruptly, that he may not be a Father at all. “Also,” he adds, leering, “fond of making up sex fantasies about them.”

Suddenly the acidity of your sin doesn’t seem so burning, compared to the growing heat in front of you, the slow, acrid realization of what it must mean.

“You’re… you’re not a priest,” you say, almost a bleat. Helpless, hopeless lamb.

And Gojo–whose horns have begun to spring up from his soft hair–throws back his head and laughs heartily, before wiping away faux tears from his eyes.

“You delight me, my child, truly. Now…” His hands find your thighs again, roaming up, up, and up. Places that have never been touched by anyone; certainly not a man, not a priest, not a demon.

His voice smells of smoke as he leans forward, lips close to yours now.

“Why don’t you elaborate on your little confession?” 

[xflorecitax]

thank you sakura cardcaptor

[eroslove88]

hello! i saw the request open. soo can i request yandere kunikida from bsd with a low self esteem reader? they're in a toxic relationship, reader silently try to get out from it, but kunikida know that and don't like that. can you put noncon too? thankyou! have a nice day💞

Filthy, and disgusting.

Pairing: Yan. Kunikida x Fem. Reader

Warnings: Low self esteem reader, toxic relationship, OOC Kunikida, noncon, choking, and implied overstimulating at the end (and pretty mediocre smut)

Notes: I forgot I had my requests open! Sorry, this is rushed! I hope you enjoy!

Sighing, you get up and head to your shared room, although I recently it hasn't been shared. He's been out late on missions,working late on paper work- you almost don't even see him anymore. You thought he might've been avoiding you. Maybe you put on a few pounds? You have been worrying about his safety more. Maybe it was because of the deep, dark circle? "I haven't gotten much sleep lately" you whisper to yourself as your eyes squint with the bathroom's bright light. You miss Kunikida, you wish he'd just come to bed.

To be fair, you saw this coming. Such a great guy, helping Japan with someone like you- he was bound to get bored. Bound to get tired of such a dependent girlfriend. That's why he won't come to bed, he'd rather work himself to death than share a bed with something as disgusting as you.

The morning you wake up exactly where you thought you would, on the bathroom floor with Kunikida already gone for work.

As the phone rings you brace yourself to just talk to him, 'He's probably busy' you think, but you just need to talk to him, to know that everything is okay. But he doesn't answer. Actually it only rang about twice, so you dial it again. It picks it up immediately, "What?" he asks, the background is noisy a man is whining in the back, a boy sounds a bit worried- "Well?" he asks, keyboard still clicking in the back. "Oh! Right!" you whisper, "I was hoping you'd be back in time for d-dinner" there's a pause, "I was planning on making something special and talking ab-"

"This wasn't planned" he states simply, "I have no time for distractions." then click. Your chest is heavy as you toss your phone on the couch before sitting next to it and sobbing into your hands, "What am I going to do?" you whisper to yourself.

What you wanted to do was sit and cry about everything bad you did, but after hours of just sobbing your head began to throb and you ultimately decided to pack a bag for the night.

"Hey, do you think I can spend the night?" you asks in between sniffles. "Oh my God! Are you okay?" your friend asks her booming voice echoing in your head, "Yeah... I-I just need to get out of here for a day or two..." you feel a bit ashamed, but it was better than spending another lonely night. At least you'd be with someone who'd happily share a bed with you, "Of course Girl! Anything!" you thank her and hang up.

The good in your heart told you to wait until he came home, not that he would notice if you had just left. But it was the right thing to do.

You washed your face and waited, and waited, and waited... Finally, around 4 am he practically drags himself into the shared apartment and heads toward his office- "Kunikida!" you call out from the top of the stairs, he doesn't respond and just turns his head over. You hesitate a little before taking a breath, "I'm..." you break eye contact an let your eyes wander around, "I'm going stay at a friend's home tonight" you whisper, but suddenly you feel so small you can't help but let your hands play with the hem of your shirt.

"Why?" you open your mouth to respond before he cuts you off, "We have a home. And a bed upstairs." he's annoyed, you hear it in his voice. "Yes... but-" he loudly sighs, "Is this about dinner? I didn't know it meant so much to you, but it's not like you couldn't eat without me." he rolls his eyes and sets his briefcase down.

You fee your eyes begin to water as you shake your head, "N-no..." you whisper. "We jus need to be apart for a few days." you take a deep breath, "I think we're faltering-" he scoffs, "Oh please, I have bigger issues to worry about that don't involve you and your self destructive habits-"

"Then tell me about them!" you shout gripping your sides, "You don't tell me anythingn!"

"And what? You think having a bit or privacy is worth splitting up for?" he asks stepping closer. You shake your head, "I-I just can't be here." you state grabbing your bag from the step. "We have a good thing here." he states coming closer, "And just because you can't accept anything good for yourself you're going to ruin it?" he's too close now. You just want to hide your face from him. "Well?" his arms are crossed, and he's blocking the bottom of the stair case.

You shake your head, "I just need to go somewhere for the night" you whisper trying walk down, hoping to shove passed him, but he steps up and comes closer making you retreat a step up, "Oh, I see what this is. You feel unwanted." he comes up, and you do too, "I'm sorry, hunny. Don't go. I'll miss you" he goes up, and so do you, "You can't leave me, you're my everything" his tone is mocking the situation, you shake your head as you both head up the stairs, "No?" he coos, "Isn't this what you wanted? Me to show you that I love you?" he asks a few steps behind you as you reach the top of the stairs. You shake your head, and you don't know why but you begin to run to the room.

And you don't know why he chases after you. Unable to close the door because of his strength you hurriedly grab your phone, but as you fall tripping over your own feet you think, 'Who do I call?' you know him. He won't hit you, you turn back and stare up at him, "Is this what you wanted? A chase?" he asks as you back up to the night stand in an attempt to stand yourself up, "No... " you put the phone down on the stand, but as soon as you do he a grabs your arm.

You help as he pushed you onto the bed, "How about I show you how much I love you" he states pulling off his tie. You sit up, only to be pushed down again, "Nono, hunny, it's okay. I'm just doing what you wanted"

"No!" you scream as he begins to pull your shorts down, with shut eyes your hands try to push him off of you, but he's much stronger than you and you only end up flailing your hands aimlessly only succeeding in measly punches on his large bicep. "Aghh- Hel-" his hand clasps around your mouth, "Oh please, like anybody would help a brute like you." his other hands pulls your panties down, "We live together, we're in a relationship- and who would they belive a detective or you?" he scoffs while undoing his own bottom. You whimper against his hand shaking your head in fear, "It's nothing new." he states.

His hands go to your hips and you quickly try to reason with him, "N-no Kunikida- please!" you beg hoping to see the hero the rest of agency saw, "I- I won't go-" but he's quick he kisses your lips as he shoves himself into your tight pussy. You squeal against his lips hitting his back, his tongue invades your mouth desperately as he thrusted in and out. Lewd, wet noises filled the room from both of your invaded pair of lips. While ones were squeezing tightly against the invading rod, the other where wide open gasping for air. Ruts into you, his body is so close, it's hot despite the tears on your face you're sweating- suffocating- underneath him. His blonde hairs drape over your face, and you hate it, you hate how you grind against his cock. It's been too long. He felt so good, and his hand squeezed nicely against your neck- it wasn't loose, but it also wasn't trying to kill you. Everything about Kunikida was just right. He pulls away, gasping for air you fail to notice his lips against your shoulder, not until "Ah!~" you groan, his teeth and lips latched onto your skin. "D-Doppo" you whisper clawing onto his back, you hated it, you just wanted to go, but here you were getting ready to come on his perfect cock. "Mm" you whine grinding your hips and tossing your head back. But suddenly the hand on your neck gets tighter, much too tight.

He lifts his head up, and his other hand accompanies the other on your neck, "Did you want to be treated like a common street whore?" he asks his thrusts are stronger, and your legs are limp- shaking with each thrust, but you hands try to claw at his toned forearms. "I-" you struggle to gasp out. "Say it, yes I did" he grunts, "Yea. I did." he orders. His hands release a bit, but he still plunges in and out with lack of delicacy, "Y-Y-Yes!" you say as loudly as you could. Pathetically, your body betrays you and you found yourself cumming on his cock, and he soon came undone in your pussy.

He hands released your neck, but he doesn't pull out. You're both just silently panting. That is, until your phone rings. You t ry to reach for it, but he beats you to it and stares down at you before answering it, you open your mouth to say something before his large hand comes down to clamp around it, "She's busy right now." he states impassively as your cries for help are muffled against his palm. "Don't bother calling again." he tosses your phone across the room before looks back at your teary eyes, "There. Now we know what you want. How many times until your passed tantrum?" your eyes widen, and you shake your head and protest against his palm.

He takes his note pad out from the pants near him, "Do-Doppo, let's g-go to bed!" you try to say with reason. "No. It appears you've been pent up for a while." he begins to write in his notebook, "And you're right, we deserve some bonding time" and that's when a pink little egg appears, "and don't worry, we can leave this on for as long as needed." you yelp as the egg buzzes against your spent pearl, "Or until I see fit."

[eroslove88]

An Even Better Mother

Warnings: Breeding, noncon, kidnapping, past abuse, tying wrist, threats and signs of depression - like not wanting to eat an having to be fed

Pairing: PM! Yandere Dazai x Reader

Notes: Wrote this in a plan, sorry! It's not very good bc it's not proof read! But enjoy. :)! (I'm a sucker for domestic moments !!!)

You weren't oblivious to it, you knew about the man watching you from across the bar, the café, your campus, hell, even your job. But the reality was that you lived in a small city, and as a "glass half full" kind of person, you chose to look at the positive sides. Besides, at that time, you had bigger issues to worry about, like how you were going to pass your classes that semester or how you were going to pay for your cramped, rundown apartment that month. Besides you enjoyed the rare doting of a man, and it helps that the man in the black trench coat had a nice lean build. And maybe even a nice face.

"Maybe I'll become a pornstar" you chuckle a bit to your phone. "Oh, I'd pay!" your friend teased. "I miss you babesss! Come home the kids miss you" you roll your eyes, "Paws and Riffords will be just fineee" you respond grabbing your bag, "Besides, I can't go back, I haven't even finished this semester" you sigh out. You waited for a reply, but one long pause later prompted you to look at your screen and to your dismay it's dead. Your grumble a bit before locking up the store. "During my late shift too, fuck my life" you whisper.

"Excuse me." a man says from behind you. "Sorry, we're closed." you don't even bother to turn around as you lock the main doors, "We open again tomorrow at 5 am-" you turn and find yourself faced to face with him. Now that he's up close you can really see how beautiful his face is, brown hair drooping a bit over his forehead and piercing- almost dead- brown eyes. Nevertheless, his facial harmony was quite gorgeous.

You want to say something, but you find yourself opening your mouth and nothing coming out.

He chuckles a bit, making you giggle, "I'm sorry, I'm not really here for your store hours."

You clear your throat, "Oh... Then-" you awkwardly smile and look to the side. You always kind of hoped he'd talk to you, and to be honest you sort of just thought he was shy, just like you. You, oblivious? No! Naive though...

"I was hoping I could walk you to the station and maybe treat you to a drink" he interrupts.

It was unfortunate that you physically felt your face brighten and eyes widen, "R-right now? " you ask sort of looking down at your uniform, given that it was just black on black- a turtleneck and slacks.

"I can come again if tonight isn't any good"

It had been a hot... couple of years since someone had asked you out so your face dropped a bit and your mouth twitched a bit downward. "N-no," you waved your hands to reaffirm him before you quickly dropped them when your mind told you to 'stop embarrassing yourself'. "Tonight is just fine. But, aren't most places closed? it's 12"

"I know a great place, it's not far from here. "He extends his hand out, and for a moment your heart skips a beat and you reach out to grab his, but this is only when you notice the bandages on his palm. You hesitate a bit as you scan his body. No, something wasn't right. His arms and neck are both wrapped with bandages.

'Who am I to judge' you think before awkwardly chuckling and grabbing his hand," If you say so!"You can't really remember anything after that, maybe the walk- but not much about what was discussed- oh, and arriving to a warmly lit bar before complete darkness.

You woke up gasping from air, must have been a bad dream. You turn to grab your phone off the nightstand, only to find that there is no night stand. In fact, your not even on a bed, just a mattress on a cold concrete floor...

"No no no" you repeat several times sitting up and grabbing the thick metal clasp around your ankle. Your vision is blurred with tears as you look down at your body and find that you're in some thin tank top and in shorts, and no longer in your uniform. "Fuck fuck fuck" your voice cracks a bit looking around the blurry room for something to explain what was going on. Floor boards creakng managed to get your attention, you whip your head around and try to make out the dark figure, "D-Dazai..." your voice cracks a bit as you whisper his name.

"I was beginning to get a bit worried." he says as he enters the dimly lit area his black coat shifting making a crinkle noise.

Before you could say anything that would make you appear even a bit brave, you breakdown into sobs and please, "Pl-please Idon'thaveanymoney I'monlyincollegeandI-I'mbarely makingendsmeet-" he raises a hand up and chuckles, "I know that." he approaches you making you shift your bodyaway from him. "You know when I first saw you, I just thought about how beautiful of a wife you'd be" you keep your eyes down at his hand, the one which he rests his weight on as he leans a bit closer toward you. "But then, I saw you struggle. I figured, I could give you a better life here than the one you have out there" you sniffle as you swallow the lump in your throat.

"Please... I just w-want to go home" you wipe the tears away from your eyes. You can hear him sigh and he stands himself up, "I'll be home in a few hours, the chain should reach the bathroom-"

"No, wait."

He turns to look at your pitiful face, "I'll be back""No! Y-you can't just leave me here!" you yell as he made his way up the stairs.

That evening he got home and sat on the mattress next to you with takeout in hand, his face seemed all too happy for someone who just kidnapped someone.

"Eat up, hun! I know this is your favorite" he places the white box next to you and he takes out another one placing it on his lap. Although he was right, you weren't in the mood to eat anything, especially anything from him. "I'm okay... " you whisper looking down at the plate.

You can hear him sigh and set his plate down. He gets in front of you and forces you to look at his face, "You need to eat." he says his face lost of any emotion. You look away from his stare before his grip tightens, "Hunny... You need to look at me when I'm talking to you. " you bite your lip before looking up at him. "I said you need to eat" he smiles with a bit of warmth. You swallow thick, "I-I'm not hungry" you whisper.

"I'm not asking you to eat. " he states kneeling down in front of you and grabbing your hand. You grunt as you try to pull it away, but he's surprisingly strong, "Now, what's the point of having a functioning hand if you're not going to use it"

"W-what are y-" he cuts you off, "So tell me hun, which finger make you learn your lesson." your heart rate quickens, "Ah, stop! Dazai-" he grabs your index and thumb, "Or maybe I'll go for two"

That was some time ago. Now you're upstairs looking down at the boil pot of potatoes as the rice cooker's timer goes off. The chain doesn't let you go very fast, but at least now it's upstairs. Sure, it lacks windows and your chain doesn't reach the front door, but at least now your not in that cold basement.

With a spoon you begin to cut uneven slices of potatoes- yes, a spoon not a knife after the incident that got your left hand broken. You squish the potatoes with a cup and add seasoning to your liking. You don't even notice him approaching you from behind until he crashes into you, holding you tightly and burying his face into the crook of your neck. Your startled of course and you almost just want to push him away, but the 7 weeks of recovering from a broken ankle really taught you that fighting him wasn't the best idea.

"I..." you cleared your throat a bit, "The house is mopped and swept, the laundry is folded and dinner is almost ready." you say as you continue to mix the pepper in. He grabs your hand and lifts it up to his face before kissing it, it makes your cringe. "Thank you, hun" you try to smile lightly, but your give him an awkward teary eyed smile.

Dinner is usually quite on your end, it's not like there's much to talk about and old habits die hard so you find yourself looking down at your plate mostly. "It's really good" his voice breaks the silence, "I'm glad you like it..." you whisper playing with your food. "Open wide" when you look up his bandaged hand held a spoon full of mashed potatoes and a piece of chicken.

You oblige and eat it.

Usually when he's done eating he stays behind to make sure you eat, not always, but sometimes. Tonight was one of those nights. When he gets impatient he grabs the utensils and feeds you himself. Tonight was on of those nights.

When he as done feeding you he grabbed the plates and brought them to the sink, you followed after him and began washing them, and he joined you. In silence you washed, and he dried the plates. He had never done this before, but you wouldn't dare question him. You couldn't help but think about what a nice domestic moment this would be if he hadn't...

"Come here, hun" he grabbed your hand and led you to the living room. He turns it onto some channel with a comedy playing before quickly getting up, "I'll be back" he kisses your head before leaving the room. Usually, you're not allowed to watch TV, but tonight was different. You can hear rummaging in the fridge, so you turn around, "Nuh uh hun, no peaking!" he shouts back. Quickly you turn around and look back at the screen. "Close your eyes, hun!" so you do and you silently grab your knees with anticipation.

"Okay, now open them." so you do.

A drink, no not just any drink, "A frappe?" you ask turning your head towards him. "It's been a while since you had a sweet treat, right?" you nod and grab it from his hand. It had been a while since you last drank an overly sweet caffeinated drink, hell, it's been months- maybe years even. Especially since you moved to Japan andstartes running low on funds.

"Thank you" you smile slightly before you began drinking it.

He lays a blanket over your shoulder before sitting next to you and holding you, tightly. Sure it bothers you, but you've learned to let the small things go.

When the movie ends you sigh, and silently dread going to bed. You begin to shrug the blanket of your shoulders before Dazai brings it back around you and carries you to the bedroom, now this was new.

'Is he trying to get on my good side?" you thought looking down at the carpet hall. He dropped you onto the bed making you bounce a bit. Quickly, he began to undo his tie with his hand while the other began to unbutton his collared shirt. "Osamu... " you say pushing yourself away from the edge he was undressing himself at.

"You've been so good for me, hun" he whispers grabbing your ankle and pulling you toward him.

Your eyes began to tear up, you feared he'd do this eventually. "No- NO! "you yell attempting to kick his lean body away. "Please, I've been good- so good! " you sob out, "I don't- I don't want to" he pins your legs down making you resort to using hands- mind you one is semi healed.

He begins to tear your shirt off, and you thrashing and grunt yelling for help in hopes that someone out there will hear you. He shushes you and slides himself onto your legs, caging them. You try to grab at his hair and scratch his face with your nails, but he's unfazed. Instead, he grabs your left hand and begins to squeeze his, hard. You shriek and focus your attention on getting him to let go.

Pinning both hands down he comes up to your red, tear stained face, "I've been patient" he kisses your mouth as you shook your head in an attempt to get him off.

You gasp for air as he let's your lips go, "You're such a good wife, I kept thinking about what an even better mother you'd be" he lays his head sideways on your bare chest to listen to your heart beat as you pleaded him to stop.

He looks up at you with a warm smile and with his tie he quickly binds both wrists together at the top of the head board.

"I'll make this enjoyable for you" he whispers as you tried to kick him away while he stripped your bottom half.

Your pleading fell deaf to his ears while his eyes scanned your practically nude body. His hands grabbed your hips as he kissed your pelvis and began going up, smothering the median section of your body with wet kisses. His hands slide towards your inner thighs and trace your entrance. You let a heavy breath out as you toss your head back and grip the silk fabric binding your wrists together. His middle and ring slowly enter your warmth while his mouth suckles on your neck. His thumb rubs circles around your clothes, you grunt when he bites into the column of your neck. Squirming, you attempt close your legs before his playful bites turn to violent chomps, "Don't." he orders, muffled by your skin. His fingers thrusted in and out slowly, increasingly drenching his fingers as they slowly glided in and out. "Let's see how many times I can make you come before I finish" he chuckles a bit as you whimper, he watches your stomach twitch as it tightens. Your toes curl, and his lips suck in your nipple and playfully grazes his teeth against the nub. "O-Osamu, please" your head tossed back you groan in a weak attempt to get him to stop. "It feels good, doesn't it?" he whispers, "You want this don't you?" you open your mouth but he cuts you off, "since you first saw me, you wanted me to fuck you so hard you come on my cock before I fuck a baby into you" you shake your head and the force in his fingers increase, curving them inward. You moan arching your back before coming on his fingers, but he doesn't stop. "So sensitive." he mumbles against your skin as your pussy twitches with each thrusts, "Who out there would take care of you like I do?" he grabs your face- now tear and sweat stained red with embarrassment- your chest in rising and falling heavily as he fucks your whole with his lengthy fingers, "Nobody, honey" you groan and come hard on his fingers. He watches as your Facebook contorts with pleasure never once blinking as you shut your eyes and groan with delight.

He brings his fingers up and licks them before smashing his lips against your. You squeal with disgust making him chuckle against your lips, his hands undoing his belt. When he's finally done, you're gasping for air. His hands grabs your hips as he aligns his tip with your gaping entrance. Whimpering, you close your eyes, "please" you plead out or breath.

The bed shifts as he tilts your body so he can plunge his cock in, which is what he does. With a heavy breath he glides in with a lewd squish, you toss your head back and sob with your mouth open as he begins to thrust in and out of your sopping hole. His width and length foreign to your pussy. You grip as harshly as you can to the bindings on your wrists to release tension. Your body shakes a bit with each thrust, his brown eye watching every little bounce of your tits and fat. The worst part was, it felt so good, but you couldn't stop crying. It was embarrassing, the way he moaned so proudly and how you let out broken almost bitten down moans. Both breaths in sync, the room was filled with squishing and panting as he drilled himself in to you. His cock began to twitch and his pace became much more needy as he sped up and chased his own high. He let out small, needy whimpers and short, shallow breath with each quick thrust. He held your body close as he released his seed into you, and you began to sob,but as much as he wanted to comfort you, he had bigger issues to handle. His fingers slide across your slit making your sensitive pussy twitch and shoved whatever had spilled out back in- plunging his index and middle fingers into your needy hole. You jolt and gasp at this feeling making him chuckle, "Oh~, my poor darling wants more?" he coos, "relax, it's just to ensure every drop stays in" he says like it was a fact you should've known. "After all, how else are babies made"

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: nsfw, noncon, piercings, sex-trafficking, reader has big breasts...

♡ FEM reader

Thinking about being a sociopathic billionaires sex-trafficked dungeon whore…

You’re his cheap slut—his dirty little secret he keeps down in his filthy basement under lock and key. He might go on boring dates with boring gold-digging prudes to maintain appearances, but even as he fucks them, he’ll roll his eyes at their fake moans, trying to block it out and imagine you—and how he knows you’re waiting for him at home, like a pet.

He’s got intense fetishes—pierced your tits, belly button, tongue, nose, clit, and labia on the first day of your imprisonment. Your nose hook is a ring big enough to fit his cock through when he fucks your throat. Your tongue has a whole of five silver bells and a sixth ring at the very tip, which he often hooks up to a chain so he can lead you around like a panting bitch in heat instead of using a boring old collar.

No, he likes keeping your neck free so he can grip it himself, hard enough to leave his mark on the skin—fresh bruises every new day. He keeps your nipples on a shared leash anyway, so he has plenty of things to yank if he wants to, which he does.

Instead of keeping you chained by your ankle, he keeps you chained by your clit. The chain is skinny and could probably be broken if ripped hard enough, but you wouldn’t dare—any harsh movement feels as though your poor pearl is being pulled off. And with your arms in a harness behind your back, there’s not much left to do but lie there on the sweaty, sex-drenched mattress and wait for your captor to return.

And he does—every day—without fault.

When he comes downstairs, you greet him with your tongue out, nuzzling your face against his crotch just like a puppy, licking him through the fabric of his italian suit until it’s bulbous and fat and dripping with your drool. You never talk unless spoken to, but you always keep your mouth open—it’s the law—if his cock isn’t down your throat, then your tongue should be hanging out and begging for it. 

He has a lot of laws. You’re only allowed to walk around on all fours. You never go upstairs. And your cunt is never empty—if it isn’t hosting his fat erection, it’s cumming and crying around the thrums of a thick egg instead, always keeping you slick and sensitive for his return.

He's a fan of plugging all your holes, especially after a rough day of work. He’ll lay you on your belly against the cool concrete floor, tied up all snug, only able to wiggle as he stuffs your cunt with the fattest dildo in the collection, your other hole with another, before straping the longest one down your throat, just to have you struggle.

Listening to your whimper is how he winds down. Meanwhile, he goes and does something else, such as playing a round of pool between himself and a glass of scotch while laying bets on whatever sport’s showing on the TV—not for the sake of winning, it’s all small millions, just for a bit of fun.

Your pussy is the absolute best. It even has his name on it—tattooed upon the mound in pretty cursive letters like you were custom-designed for him. You basically were—he spent hours browsing through pictures and samples before stopping at you, his perfect little cock-toy.

“Do you wanna be bred or fed, little whore?” he rasps against your ear, fucking your tight wet cunt hard enough for it to squelch with slick, all but streaming down your thighs along with sweat.

You think you’re a very slim step away from comatose—it’s already been a long game of passing in and out. You haven’t been able to stand for a while, but he keeps you upright between himself and the wall, letting you rest with your cheek smushed up against the cool concrete as the only thing keeping you stable, except from his ruthless manhandling, keeping you on your feet even as your knees shake and buckle.

You’re so light-headed—he doesn’t feed you nearly enough to sustain the activity he puts you through. Actually, he doesn’t feed you enough to sustain any amount of activity at all. But you suppose that’s part of the fun—keeping you dull and weak and pliant, desperate to please in the hopes he’ll have mercy. Anything will do, anything at all—scraps, crumbs, cum.

“Fed,” you pant weakly in answer, to which he chuckles breathlessly.

Simpering at your ear with a toothy grin. “Of course, you do—” He gropes both breasts in his ringed hands, kneading them up like dough as he steadily ruts against you—balls smacking hard and heavily against your clit. “Gotta keep these fat tits plump and juicy for me, right?”

Everything is numb and sore—even breathing is consuming too much energy. You can only rejoice that it’s all going to be over soon, agreeing to his vile words all too sweetly, “Yes, master—”

He coos at you—why would he want any pearl-necked blouse-wearing preppy cunt over you, his perfectly house-trained slut.

“C’mere and say ah, slut—and I’ll give you a nice warm mouthful.” He pulls you down to the ground, on your knees with your back against the wall, his fist in your hair holding your head back while you roll out your tongue.

Groaning when he starts spurting, “That’s it, my needy little cum-junkie—swallow it all.” 

There’s always a hint of psychotic glee to his rambles, something just short of frantic. 

“Waste a drop, and you’ll lick it up off the floor.” Oh, you know. And so you make sure to wait until all of it’s out before swallowing. 

Your tongue is no stranger to his body or its tastes. Whether it be the sweat off his ballsack or the dried piss off his cockhead—you lick him clean—suck his toes as you massage his sore feet, lip his armpits, but most importantly this—drinking his cum and cherishing every drop of it. Your sole food source…

“Good bitch.”

This is what being rich is all about—warding his very own dungeon where he trains his very own little sex slave.

He washes you every day. Making thorough work of it. Fingering all your holes as deep as he can reach with soap and oil, even your mouth. Treating you just as if you were a real plastic blow-up doll. 

It’s the most intimate relationship he’ll ever have.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Shigaraki, Dabi, Hawks ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Naoya, Geto, Gojo, ♡ HQ – Tsukishima, Kuro, Sakusa, Atsumu ♡ BLLK – Reo, Sae

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[depsidase]

[girlwarlock]

[xcalibrated]

this never fails to make me laugh

[i-count-words-in-posts]

7

[julia-miraclerat]

well theres more than that

[after-witch]

The Grass is Greener [Yandere Shigaraki x Reader]

Title: The Grass is Greener [Yandere Shigaraki x reader]

Synopsis: Shigaraki Tomura finds something at Overhaul’s base that’s worth taking.

Word count: 7000ish

Notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, dubcon sex, abuse

It’s not that Tomura Shigaraki thought the base of the once-great–he tucks the once into his molars, savoring it–Shie Hassaikai would be teeming with life. It’s that he thought some of them might have the balls to stick around and fight for the remnants of their organization.

But they must have been paying real-fucking-close attention, because there wasn’t a trace of a living person left in the entire facility. Which was a shame–while killing some stupid underlings wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying as destroying the hands of a fear-stricken Overhaul, it would still be a little fun.

Well. At least the rest of the League seemed to be having a decent time sifting through the hallways, the abandoned rooms. Finding things to take home or mock or both. 

The sights of overturned chairs and abandoned posts both sickened and thrilled him. Sickened because, really, what unloyal douchebags. Thrilled because it meant they were afraid–afraid of the League. Afraid of him.

They should be. It was only a matter of time before everyone else was, too. 

Most of the rooms are what they expected, minus any signs of existing life. There’s even some kind of hospital lab–what did that creepy asshole do in there, he wonders–amidst the various bunkers, a kitchen, odds and ends.

Still, there’s one room Shigaraki wants to find–wants to sift through himself, in case there’s anything worthwhile. More money would be nice. More vials, more secrets. More, simply put. 

“Think I found it.” Dabi stares at a door that’s so irritatingly obviously the door that Shigaraki doesn’t hesitate to shove his palm against it, watching it crumble into dust with something a bit like satisfaction. 

Unlike the other doors, plain grey things, this door was a sleek black metal. Probably with some fancy lock system that didn’t matter anymore.

And unlike the other rooms with their scattered papers and overturned chairs, with signs of messy life and abandonment, this room is really fucking perfect. Prim. Proper. Utterly disgusting, really, and Shigaraki is the first one to step in and sweep his hand across a side table lined with perfectly spaced vases and send them crashing to the floor.

Lovely.

“Don’t take anything yet,” he says, glancing at the others. “But tell me if you find something worthwhile.” 

There’s murmurs of agreement that mingle with a general sense of curiosity. He soaks in the feeling in the air–the triumph. The thrill of victory thrumming through everyone’s chests, no doubt, the same way it’s making his whole body tingle. 

Overhaul’s room is just as annoying as he is; it’s entirely expected. Immaculate. Through an open doorway, he can see a bedroom with perfectly pressed black sheets. No doubt in the closet were equally perfectly pressed clothing sets. Fucker probably had perfectly shined shoes, too. 

It’s all too satisfying to plop down in Overhaul’s chair and stick his boots, dirt and mud and blood flecking off the soles, onto the meticulously organized desk. There’s probably something important on there, but Shigaraki doesn’t mind if it’s got dirt (or a boot print) on it for later.

“What’s this door for, do you think?” Toga pokes–literally–at a closed door on the side of the room. 

In the beats of silence after her question, Shigaraki hears it–they all hear it: sound. From behind the door. Shuffling and scuttling. Footsteps–

Someone’s still here.

There’s a curling little thrill inside his stomach as he stands and makes his way to the door. Toga is mid-way asking about looking for the key inside Overhaul’s desk when Shigaraki places his palm on the wood and disintegrates it with his hands. 

He expected an underling’s office. Maybe a second-in-command that had yet to show his face, stationed in some side office next to Overhaul. Probably someone just as organized, by choice or by command.

He doesn’t expect a bedroom. Not just a bedroom, actually, but one that is so clearly not Overhaul’s living space that it’s a bit disorienting. Sure, it’s got that same sort of annoying tidiness as Overhaul’s office and the glimpse of his bedroom. 

But it’s… prettier. Softer. Touches here and there, that place it distinctly away from Overhaul himself. A soft pink comforter with matching pillows. Watercolor paintings taped to the wall. A bookshelf with spines that he vaguely recognizes–some light novels and mangas, fantasies, romances, all pinks and pastels. 

And in the center of the room, a table with some scattered papers, an overturned chair… 

Like someone had heard they were coming and bolted.

There’s only one place for someone to go, and that’s the only other door remaining in the room. He gestures for the rest of the League to stand by as he watches the door turn to ash.

Behind the door is a bathroom, immaculately cleaned, with a toilet room and then beyond it, a room with a tub–and inside that tub, no doubt bleach-cleaned like mad, is you. 

Cowering, of course. Wearing a pretty white dress with pink flowers embroidered all over it–you’re all flounces and frills. Even from the doorway, he can see you trembling, can see your eyes all wide, pupils blown in fear. 

Staring at him like a victim, like a doe. Like some pretty little thing in way over your head.

And you are, aren’t you? You’re like some fish all flopped out of the water, gasping for breath on the sand.

It’s irritating, really. 

“Who are you?” He asks, none too nicely.

He sees your lips press together, and thinks, all instinct: haughty bitch.

But then he reconsiders. The pieces are put together link by link. A pretty little thing kept in a room adjacent to Overhaul’s private office, wearing nice clothes, given nice things…

“You’re Overhaul’s squeeze?”

You furrow your eyebrows, like you’re thinking way too hard. He might add “stupid” to his list of descriptors–doe, sweet, scared. Stupid.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Oh, you are sweet. You’ve got a soft, trembling voice to match your shaking form.

“His girlfriend,” Dabi drawls from behind them. The rest of the League is watching, craning their necks, eager (or indifferent) to see where this goes.

“No,” you say, then seemingly correct yourself. “Y-Yes. I… we’re…” Everything seems to confuse you, and you pull your arms tight across your chest. “Where… is he?”

Shigaraki doesn’t hide his grin. “Oh, he’s a little tied up at the moment.”

And then, odd thing you apparently are, you take a breath in. Almost in relief, he thinks. You stand up and take an unsteady step out of the tub–he finds that he likes that. Likes the way you try to straighten up a little, despite being unable to look him in the eye.

“When is he coming back?” You keep looking to the side, and tuck a bit of hair behind your ear. “Did he send you?”

Shigaraki’s lips twitches. “You ask too many questions.”

You fiddle with the hem of your dress, then. And he finds he likes that, too. Likes the way you look like some sort of bizarre doll in this bunker of Overhaul’s, some little treat he left behind. 

And left behind you were–because there’s no way in hell Overhaul will be able to get you out of here himself. 

“He won’t be coming back,” Shigaraki says, easily enough. “Ever.” 

And oh, you finally look right at him and what is this? Something that looks like joy in your eyes. 

Shit, maybe you aren’t as annoying as you seem.

“Then I…” You swallow, and there’s a crack of a smile on your lips. “I can go home now?”

Go home? Ah. Another piece clicks together. Not a girlfriend, then. A toy; a kidnapped one, anyway. Overhaul wouldn’t be the first creep to resort to kidnapping to get a partner.

“He kidnapped you?” There’s no pity in his tone, and he hopes you aren’t looking for it, because you won’t find it with him. He just wants the confirmation.

You nod, looking down at the floor again. “Yes. Um. And he… I’ve been kept here a while, so…”

While your words drift away, his mind drifts, thinking of the souvenirs from this bunker that the League’s got stuffed in their bags. Remnants of Overhaul’s reign. He ought to take something besides that fucker’s hands. 

And aren’t you the perfect trophy? Some doll that Overhaul wanted and took, kept here in this stuffy bunker. You probably haven’t even seen sunlight in ages. All pretty and soft and maybe stupid, by choice or force.

Why not? He’s earned it. He has a right to anything that shitbag left behind.

Even you–especially you, with your trembling hands and flouncy dress. He thinks about the watercolors on the walls and wonders what happened if you got paint on this dress, or any other; Overhaul probably kept you in the same types of frilly things day after day.

He might, too. Or not. He doesn’t even know what he wants with you, really. He might have fun with you, might just let you go, might just keep you until you’re boring. It doesn’t matter. There’s no sense in plotting so far ahead when the real thrill is in the act of taking what he wants. And right now, in this moment, he finds that he wants you. 

It’s Shigaraki’s turn to crack a smile, but there’s not much joy to be found in it.

“How would you like to live somewhere else?”

It is, of course, a rhetorical question. 

–

What happened in between? You can’t be too sure; the memories are all blurs and fogs, snatches of conversation–a girl complimenting your dress and someone asking if you had any injuries, if he hurt you–and overwhelming noise. 

It was easy to forget how quiet your life had been, when confronted with the outside world. 

Maybe that’s why it’s all fuzzy. Your mind or your body or both went into some sort of shock, maybe, in between the bathroom to the truck to the–wherever this is. Not a bunker, exactly, like where Overhaul kept you. 

It’s a bedroom, that seems obvious enough. A messy one. The man–Shigaraki Tomura, he’d told you–dumped you in here and said simply, “Don’t do anything stupid,” before leaving. The door is surely locked, though you don’t have the nerve to try it. Where would you go, if you were brave enough to run?

It would be stupid, besides, and he told you not to do anything stupid. You’re good at following orders. Well, now you are; it took training. Will this Shigaraki Tomura want to train you? What is he going to do with you, after all? 

The question makes you cringe. 

“What am I to do with you?” Overhaul–Kai, he insisted–would ask you, when you did something wrong. The question always carried with it the thread of being remade. Literally. The threat of his hands on you and being blown to bits and put together the way he wanted. So you answered his questions by remaking yourself from the inside out; it was gentler, that way.

Overhaul–Kai?--was… gone. Dead, maybe? They didn’t say. Shigaraki told you that he wouldn’t be coming back for you. Someone else in the truck had quipped–”He’s got his hands full”--which made one person snicker, then everyone else laugh. You didn’t know why it was funny, and you didn’t want to know.

Maybe you’ll be bait. Or ransom. Or maybe he wants you to…

On this messy, unfamiliar bed, your fingers begin to pull at the dingy, faded comforter. The threads come out with a bit of work from your fingernails, and it’s satisfying, to yank on them, as you contemplate.

Maybe he wants you to… 

You know what villains might do to people they kidnap. You’ve read your romance novels. Though Overhaul took some of them away once he’d realized what they were about. Still. The thought of that is–scary, sending tingles down your back.

Overhaul never touched you like that. Sure, he looked at you sometimes. When you were asleep but when you were awake, too. Told you to stand still and ghosted his fingers just above your nightgown, until he’d pull himself away and scrub his hands raw in the bathroom.

You don’t suppose this Shigaraki Tomura will be squeamish. 

As if on cue, the door swings open, and your sort-of-rescuer-but-maybe-also-kidnapper tosses a pre-warmed bowl of noodles on the bed. They bounce against the plastic wrap, and you can see the artificial color sticking to the condensation against the plastic. A pair of chopsticks lands next to the bowl. 

“Dinner,” he says, before plopping down on an upholstered chair shoved into the corner of the room. He tears the plastic off his own bowl, and begins to eat unceremoniously. 

You scooch back on the mattress, your clean, full skirt feeling dingier by the minute on the mattress. That was dinner? The meals that Overhaul made you come to mind–not just the meals, but the dinner itself.

Dinner was meant to be at 7pm sharp. At your table, which you’d cleaned and cleared. Dinner was meticulously thought out, he told you, each element designed to give you the best nutrition possible. Protein, fat, fiber, carbs; vegetables, lean meat, rice. Sometimes a bit of chopped sweet potato as a treat. 

This–this was certainly not appropriate. And to eat it, where exactly? On the mattress? Something tingles in your chest, imagining all the germs seeping into the plastic, settling onto the noodles. 

The noodles themselves were a problem, though. 

You clear your throat. Shigaraki doesn’t notice. You clear it louder, and he sighs.

“What?”

You poke a finger at the bowl.

“I’m not allowed to eat that.” 

As if he should know. 

He blinks at you. 

“Eat it, or don’t. I don’t care.” 

Then he goes back to eating his own meal, and you’re left with something dull inside your chest. It’s not right–the meal. Or the setting. Or any of this, really. 

Some part of you, a selfish part, wishes you were back in your bed inside your clean room; wishes that you were still waiting, colored pencils and paper in hand, for him to get back and continue on with your orderly, if captive, existence. 

Well, if wishes came true, none of this would have happened in the first place. 

You can’t bring yourself to touch the noodles; the thought of them makes your stomach ache. Overhaul (Kai, you remind yourself) would be able to tell you all that was wrong with a meal like that, and you try to envision what he’d say. It becomes too tiring so you simply pull your legs up and wait to find out what this Shigaraki wants.

The answer must come, you think, when he tosses his bowl in the trash bin and shrugs off his coat. It smells of sweat and dust, or is that him? 

Without warning, he flops down on the mattress, almost sending you flying off the side. He snickers, and you feel warmth flush your chest as you try to recollect yourself. But even that brief loss of dignity gets lost when you realize what must be coming now. 

What villains do, when they take someone away.

Will it hurt? Will it take long? How often will he do it?

He props himself up on his elbow and you can feel him staring at you. Sizing you up, probably. Deciding on how and when he’ll take you. The realization makes your heart begin to race, and cold sweat beads against the back of your neck.

When will he do it? Now? Now? 

When you hesitantly glance at him, you can see he is sizing you up–looking at your dress and your socked feet and the way you’ve pulled your knees up to your chest. There’s a flash in your mind of him ripping it off, shoving you down onto the mattress, and then–then. 

But it doesn’t happen. He doesn’t move towards you, despite his leering look. 

Instead of hovering over you and pinning you down to the mattress, he simply scoffs. Then he sits up and grabs a game controller, turning on a system set-up at the far end of the room.

“Be quiet,” he says, “It’s been a long day, and I don’t want to mess up this level.”

Eventually, as your heart begins to settle, you stare at the cooling bowl of microwaved noodles on the mattress. 

Your stomach growls.

But this would make you sick; that’s what Overhaul said. 

And he’d done many things to you, but he never lied.

–

Hunger can be overcome. It can be uncomfortable, true; but you’d dealt with it before. During the days when you hadn’t been good enough yet, and Overhaul refused you anything but water, until you’d given in and behaved yourself.

So it’s not the growing hunger that’s bothering you now, as the day wears on and it must surely be nighttime.

It’s the sleepiness.

Hunger can be ignored–but this? It’s hard to ignore the way your head is starting to slap hard against your knees as you begin to micronap, unable to keep awake no matter how many times you pinch your flesh. 

It’s not a gesture you’ve had to do in so long–bedtime was, well. Bedtime. A set time with set things to do, all designed–or so Kai told you–to get you the best possible sleep so your body could rest and heal. (Heal from what, he never said.)

So sitting on a mattress and feeling your body jerk in desperation as it tries to get some sleep is something new. Something difficult. 

If this Shigaraki Tomura notices, he doesn’t say anything. His eyes are glued to the news, a grin on his face, his palm slapping his thigh at the action. 

The news has him enthralled, so your fights to stay awake are probably not even on his radar. Which means you’ll have to bring it up yourself–that question that’s been pulling at you since you realized it must be well past afternoon and into the night.

“Excuse me…” You say, voice hoarse. You clear it, then realize you don’t know exactly what to call him. He gave his name, but that didn’t mean you were supposed to use it. So when you continue, you err on the side of caution. “Excuse me, sir?”

At this, he finally seems to remember that you’re in the room. He waves a hand at you, vague irritation crossing his features. “Just call me Shigaraki.” Instantly, his gaze turns back to the TV. 

Your tongue feels heavy as you swallow. “Oh. I’m sorry. Um. Shigaraki?”

You can see him push his tongue against the side of his cheek, his eyes still not leaving the TV. There’s some sort of press conference footage playing, though you can’t quite focus on the words. 

“What?” he says, almost a grumble. “Don’t ask for something to eat. I already gave you dinner. Eat it cold, if you’re hungry.”

Oh, that. You’d set the bowl on the floor once you’d decided that it was best not to eat. It would have been awful if it got knocked over and the sauce seeped through the plastic rim, after all. Although given the status of the mattress, maybe it was generous to care about additional stains.

“It’s not–” Your voice is too soft, in this room, with the mess and the TV.  You try to speak up, something you haven’t done in so long. “I was just wondering, that is, I wanted to know…” Directly asking things is no longer in your nature, and your fingers find themselves playing with the hem of your skirt. 

The sound from the TV stops abruptly, and you flinch. He’s muted it. He turns fully to you now, irritation written on his face. “Can you just spit it out already?” 

A shuddering breath escapes your chest as you force the question out: “I just–I wanted to know, what time am I going to bed?” 

You do not ask the rest, though surely it must be a given: What time are you going to bathe me, what nightgown would you like me to wear, do you prefer to brush my teeth for me or can I do it myself, am I sleeping on your bed or somewhere else?

He blinks at you, not for the first time today. “Whenever you bother to fall asleep.” The words come out slow, like you’re some inept child. 

You’re starting to feel like one. Because the words hit you, the way he intends them, all hurtful and condescending. But you can’t make sense of them. Go to bed whenever? Without anything to prepare you? It doesn’t register–you don’t know what he means.

And you tell him so, as plainly as you can: 

“I don’t understand.”

He rolls his eyes, and a pit inside your stomach seems to open up, tossing each irritated expression into it and making you feel worse. 

“What’s there to understand?” He waves at the mattress. “Pick a side and go to sleep. Or don’t. I don’t really care.” 

He turns back to the TV, clearly not interested in any further conversation, and turns the sound back on. Without so much as an order or command or at the very least, an expectation from you.

What a strange man. What a strange place. What a strange world.

There is, at first, a temptation to tell him. To explain what your needs are–why you can’t simply go to sleep. But then come the thoughts about punishment. He’d already gotten annoyed with you for simply asking. What would he do if you, bold thing, insisted on it?

And so, on this new first day of what is apparently the rest of your life, you’re left to curl up on the farthest edge of the mattress and squeeze your eyes shut. There’s a headache lingering at the back of your forehead, and hunger in your stomach, and it’s all so wrong.

If Kai were here–and he’s not, and you can’t deny that you don’t hate that fact even as your mind jolts from the strange turnabout the day has taken–this wouldn’t be happening. But this new one… this Shigaraki, maybe it’s too much to expect from him right now.

He just took you, after all, and it sounds like whatever group he belongs to was involved in something major today. A long day–a hard day. So he must still be thinking on the rules, how to properly manage you.

You need to be managed, after all. That is one thing you learned from Kai.

It’s surprising to you that you’re even able to fall asleep without everything that ought to be done. Without the ritual of the bath, without being handed your nightgown while Kai turns around and swears he won’t look, without your hair being tended to, without being tucked into bed…

Exhaustion doesn’t seem to care about rituals. 

So sleep, you do; and when it takes you, it takes you hard, dragging you into a heavy slumber while the TV plays on. 

–

When you wake up, it’s morning–and you are alone. 

There’s a bright light streaming in through the windows and it’s a wonder you can stand up at all, with your muscles aching and the world itself feeling topsy turvy, as you fumble for the shabby curtains with one hand over your eyes. They rip a little as you yank them over the window, but at least you don’t feel blinded now. 

There hadn’t been windows, before; in the bunker, that is. With Overhaul–with Kai. Just the overhead lights at first, and then eventually, a pretty lamp with a soft lilac-colored shade. A gift, for behaving; for being trustworthy enough to control your own light. It was nice to be able to turn on the light when you had to pee in the middle of the night, at least. 

There are no lilac lamps here. Only an overhead light that, when you peer closely, appears to have a smattering of dead flies resting inside the lamp shade. The thought brings bile to your empty stomach, and it growls in retaliation.

You hadn’t eaten in… was it almost two days, now? 

Maybe Shigaraki was getting your breakfast. That seemed right–that he’d sleep off yesterday’s havoc and spend the morning organizing his rules for you. What you should eat, and wear, and your schedule.

But what should you do in the meantime? 

You stand, stretching your worn-out muscles, and take stock of the room he’s placed you in. It’s not clean, that’s for sure. Messy, to say the least. Used clothes and food wrappers are strewn about, and the whole room has a terrible sense of neglect.

If your room isn’t clean, how could you hope to get anything done?

Kai had told you that, when you argued about his expectations for your room. Everything ought to be perfectly tidy, he’d said. And after a while, how could you disagree? It only made sense. When your room was organized, your thoughts could be organized. When your thoughts were organized, everything else simply fell into place.

And maybe–maybe that’s the trick, here. Shigaraki left you alone in the morning, because he wanted to see what you’d do. Wanted to see if you’d pick up on a classic rule–keep things clean and tidy–without being told.

Before, Kai needed to train you–but now? Now, you knew the game. 

A smile, faint and uncertain though it is, crawls across your face. 

You’d pass this test with flying colors.

–

He’s still not sure what to do with you. The thought comes to him, faintly and then stronger, as he gets closer and closer to the bedroom where you’re being kept. It’s one thing to take what you’re due, another to decide how to manage it–how to manage you. 

It’s a bit like taking in a pet, he realized over the night. You’ve got to be fed and watered and all that. Clothed, if he feels like it. He’s not sure if he does. And if you’re too much trouble, well. It might not be worth the thrill of taking what was once Overhaul’s, in the end.

He almost expects you to still be asleep when he opens the door, but as soon as he steps in, he can see you’re up and about and–

Cleaning? 

The room is almost unrecognizable. He doesn’t bother much with tidying. Not when there are far more important things going on. Yet you’ve picked up every bit of trash, folded all the dirty clothes he’s thrown here and there… even made the bed. You clearly haven’t noticed him open the door, because you’re just finishing up the folding, humming a bit to yourself. 

He can’t decide if he likes it or not. 

“What are you doing?” 

You flinch at his sudden words, and there–he likes that; the fear, the flinching, it’s familiar. He can work with it. He deepens his frown, just to see what you do. 

You swallow, timidly folding your hands in front of you. All proper and prim. 

“I–I thought you wanted me to clean.”

He snorts. He doesn’t know what he wants you to do, exactly, but “tidy up the bedroom” probably wouldn’t be at the top of the list. 

“I didn’t tell you to clean.” And maybe it comes out snarkier than he intends to be, but so what? He’s allowed to be an ass, if he wants. 

Your hands wring together, and your gaze flits down to the floor.

“But I thought… I thought…” You seem to struggle with the words, your voice getting higher, more anxious. You’re like a bird, he thinks, one afraid to fall from some carefully constructed nest in a tree. There’s an instinct to crush you until those brittle bones break–and another instinct, too. One that makes him want to scratch. 

“I thought it was… a test.”

What. 

“A test? Are you stupid, or something?” 

When you don’t answer, just bring your top teeth over your lip and wring your hands tighter, he can’t help the almost cruel warmth that spreads in his chest. This–this is more familiar territory, he thinks. 

He wonders, too, how often Overhaul made you look like that; how often he might want to make you look like that in the future. 

“What did that freak do to you, anyway?” Curiosity mixes with his existing annoyance, and it clearly takes a moment for you to realize he’s talking about Overhaul.

“Overh–” You catch the words in your mouth. “Kai,” you say, and the way you say it so sweetly feels rehearsed–and gross. “He didn’t do anything.” You shake your head, like you’ve said something awful. “No! I mean. He did everything.” He watches your throat bob as you swallow. “He taught me how to be better.”

“Better,” he says, the word coming out all slow and sticky and thoroughly unimpressed. 

“Yes,” you say, staring down at your feet. Your fingers pick at the hem of your nightgown. “How to be… organized.” You seemingly ignore his snort. “How to be clean. Things like that.”

“Why?” He can’t help the sneer in his voice, even if he’s dimly aware that he’s not fully committed to tearing you down just yet. “Were you a dirty girl?”

You frown and swallow and shake your pretty head. “No, of course not. He made me take a bath or shower twice a day.”

So much for teasing. You’re too stupid–or naive, whether it was natural or beaten into you by Overhaul–to get it, apparently.

He’s not sure how long he stares at you. Long enough that you stop worrying at the floor and start worrying at him, your eyes all wide and anxious and getting glossier by the minute. Soon enough, he’s sure tears will start spilling down.

He stops you before you start sputtering out apologies–and teardrops.

“That’s not what I meant.” A finger goes to his neck, scratching. The white dress, the teary eyes, the way you can’t really keep his gaze… it’s annoying. It’s endearing. Both are equally tiresome. 

“You’re giving me a headache,” he says, finally. An end to the conversation, he hopes. Then he digs into the pocket of his coat and tosses its contents at you–a wrapped up egg sandwich someone pilfered a while ago, shoved into the shared fridge and forgotten amidst their recent win. “Here. Breakfast.”

You barely catch the sandwich (your reflexes sure are shit, he thinks; you’d die in the wild) but the way you simply stare down at it, words apparently caught behind your teeth, brings irritation to the forefront again. 

“What?” He almost bites the words out. “Not good enough for you?” Maybe Overhaul fed you on silver platters or something equally ridiculous. 

Perhaps it’s his tone, or maybe you’re just that eager to get him un-pissed at you, but you manage to unstick your tongue and stumble out something akin to an explanation.

“I’m not allowed to have white bread. It’s too processed.” You turn the sandwich over, inspecting. “And there’s mayo… it’s got too much oil, and–”

“Not allowed.” The word becomes a sneer. “Who are you to tell me what I’m allowed to give you?” Captives–that’s what you are, at bare minimum, at least–aren’t usually so damn bold. 

And oh, the way your face seems to fall, the way your mouth perks around your words like a damn heroine in a novel.

“Oh, no. I didn’t mean–it’s that–” The wrapper on the sandwich crinkles as your fingers tighten. It makes his chest tighten, too. How stupid. “It’s not safe. It’ll make me sick. Unhealthy. Kai said so–”

So that’s why you turn up your nose at food? Overhaul, of all fucking people? 

“Kai says,” he repeats, mocking your voice, the soft lilt of it, the way each word mimics the pitiful wringing of your hands. “Kai,” he continues, “isn’t here. So who gives a flying fuck what he said?”

He doesn’t wait to see what you say or what you do. He leaves without another word–he’ll relax somewhere else, without you and your pitiful self to think about–and doesn’t see you sink down onto the mattress. He doesn’t see the way you grip the sandwich until your fingers smoosh into the bread.

He doesn’t see the way you eventually, and oh it takes so long, peel back the wrapper and take a small and slow bite.

–

It’s only been a few days, and maybe you’re imagining it, but it seems like your stomach is finally beginning to settle. The food isn’t–it isn’t right, it isn’t healthy. That’s what your brain tells you, what your mouth wants to parrot. But you’re so hungry and–this is what Shigaraki wants you to eat.

So you should do what he says. You think. It’s still debatable, still churning around in your head. Kai taught you what was best, and now you’re here, where what was “best” seems to be entirely pointless. 

You’re still digesting a microwaved breakfast that definitely wouldn’t have passed Kai’s examination when the door opens. Shigaraki enters, as he always does, without bothering to acknowledge you. 

He’ll probably sit down and eat something for himself. Or start texting someone–the other people in his group, maybe. Sometimes he unwinds with video games. Or naps.

But instead, he approaches you, boots thudding on the hardwood floor. They stop right in front of you and you have just enough time to think about all the germs on the bottom of the soles before he speaks–

“Hey.”

You look up. His face is twisted today, nose screwed over, mouth turned down in a frown. You did something wrong, probably. But what? You ate breakfast, and didn’t even complain about it being wrong today. That was a good step. So what–

“You stink.”

Oh. 

Shame curls in your gut with the half-digested breakfast. It’s… true. You haven’t washed for days, and you know you’ve been sweating. Shigaraki doesn’t open the windows and the room isn’t exactly a bastion of fresh air, anyway. 

He jerks his thumb at the bathroom door. It’s a far cry from your bathroom back home–back with Overhaul. Messy, dirty; the hand towel hasn’t been changed since you’ve been here. And you doubt that Shigaraki cleans the toilet as nicely as Kai did (well, as Kai’s cleaner did, anyway) so the tub can’t be much better.

Still. Still, it’s what he wants, and that’s what should be done–and it would be nice to get under some hot water and have the sweat and grime and overall feeling of awfulness scrubbed away. 

So you dutifully follow him into the bathroom, note a change of clothes that he’s dropped into the open sink, and then–as you should–you stand in front of the tub and wait for him to undress you, so that he can give you a bath. 

But instead of ordering your arms up or having you sit on the toilet so he can peel off your socks, he simply turns away and starts to leave.

“Wait–” You can’t stop the word from coming out, can’t stop the way you stupidly reach out a hand.

He does stop. He turns around, face questioning, irritation starting to creep onto his features.

“What?” He tilts his chin towards the tub. “There’s shampoo and soap in there. Some random brand Toga stole. Is it not good enough for your highness, or what?” There’s a bit of a jeer in his tone that makes you want to sink into the floor. 

“It’s not that,” you force out. “They’re–they’re fine. It’s just…” And your fingers fiddle with your dress, the fabric feeling more thin and frayed from all your worrying it. “Aren’t you going to draw my bath?”

Because that’s how it goes. Kai draws the bath. Kai undresses you. Kai tests the water, and tells you to get in. Then he cleans you or, if you’ve been exceptionally good, lets you do it yourself while he gives the orders.

The jeer in his tone becomes a snort, an almost sneer on his lips. “You really are a princess, you know that? You can draw it yourself. You’re not that stupid.”

And oh, the way your heart pounds. He’s upset, and you’re upset, and you’re not sure if it’s because he’s throwing away the natural order of things or if it’s because you’d like him to be nicer to you.

“I’m sorry.” The words feel too loud, in the bathroom, trapped in the small space with you and Shigaraki. “It’s that–Kai says I don’t clean myself up right. So he does it for me. Tells–tells me what to do, if he doesn’t scrub me himself.” 

Your fingers clench hard against your fists–and then harder, when you see the emotions registering on Shigaraki’s face. One emotion in particular–disgust. Disgust, yes, and it makes you feel awful. Makes you feel dirty and stupid, and everything Kai said you were, when you hadn’t yet listened. You can’t look at his expression anymore, so you stare at the floor. At your socked feet, at the dirt between the tiles.

It’s the floor that you see when you hear him sigh, when he steps further into the bathroom and practically pushes past you to turn the water on.

Your heart speeds up–is he going to?--but as if he’s read your mind, he crosses his arms. “I’m just filling the tub for you. You can wash yourself. You remember how to do that, right?” And maybe it’s the way the question seems earnest, no longer weighted down with a mocking tone, that makes you feel better. Not stupid–not dirty. 

So you nod, and smile–just a little. Just to show your appreciation. 

“Good.” He grabs something–a towel–from a hook on the wall and tosses it at you. He glances away when he speaks, and you’re not sure if you’re imagining it, or if there’s really a faint hint of a flush on his cheeks. “Just… shout out when you’re done and I can help you out or whatever. If you need me to.”

He glances back at the tub, filling rapidly with hot water.

As if to burn away the flush on his cheeks, his voice turns jeering again. “I’ll leave once I turn it off. Don’t take forever in here, either, princess.” 

Jeering, sure; but with something nicer mixed in, something like a flush underneath it all that makes your skin tingle. 

Maybe Shigaraki wasn’t so bad after all. 

–

Overhaul had clearly trained you and fucking hell, you really need to be untrained. 

It’s this simple fact that helps Shigaraki decide what to do with you–that is, he’s going to keep you.

Dropping you outside would be like putting some pampered house pet on the streets–you’d be gobbled up. And if you happened to go to the police before you were snatched up by some back-alley criminal, it would complicate things, anyway.

Besides–you’re… endearing. In a way. He likes the way you ask for his permission, likes the way you stammer and stumble over your words when you get anxious.

You’re like a pet. A pet project, that’s what you’ll be. He’ll untrain all the weird fucked up things that Overhaul taught you, and make you into something better.

Overhaul had his kinks, that’s for sure. And while he’s not going to deny that there’s something really fucking hot about imagining you being his mindless doll, letting him bathe you and eating exactly what you’re told and waiting for him to come home in a pretty white dress… it’s simply not very fun.

Or practical, truth be told. 

And more importantly–

He wants you to be his in the right way. He’s not some replacement for Overhaul, some step-in that you’ll simply pivot to because he’s there. 

Sloppy seconds aren’t his style. 

Overhaul is nothing now, a useless, handless fuckup who will rot away and forever regret tangling with him. You should forget about him, forget about what he taught you, how things were with Overhaul. (He makes a mental note: Train you to stop saying ‘Kai,’ especially so damn softly, so damn sweetly. Something Overhaul meticulously taught you to do, no doubt.)

In the end, Shigaraki is better than that failure–so you need to be better than the pet Overhaul created, too. 

–

It’s not exactly clear why Shigaraki wants to keep you–but he does keep you. And he gives you something Overhaul had taken away from you: he gives you choice. 

So much choice. Too much choice, maybe. Foods aren’t off-limits anymore, and Shigaraki doesn’t scold you for any awful table manners. Maybe because you never eat at a table. You’re allowed to watch TV, and even tentatively take up an extra controller to try (and fail) at the video game he’s currently playing.

He even–and it’s got your stomach in knots, as you make your way down the hall–lets you out of the room. To get some air and, today, meet other people. You’re meeting the League, the people you met (so to speak) on the day Shigaraki took you. 

“It’ll be better if you get to know everyone,” he says, almost muttering. “In case someone needs to keep an eye on you while I’m gone for a while.” 

The thought of Shigaraki leaving you for that long, too long, almost makes you feel sick, but you try to force it away. 

“But you won’t be somewhere else too often, will you?” The question comes out too soft. Something else you’re working on; he told you to talk louder. Less like a rabbit, more like yourself. Whoever you were before all this.

Shigaraki glances back at you, something unreadable in his expression. Did you say something wrong, or not? You’re almost bold enough to ask, when he simply snorts and turns around, gesturing for you to enter an open doorway where you can hear chatter already sifting through. 

But you stop at the threshold. At the sound, at the thought of being amongst a group of people. Eating whatever you wanted was one thing; but talking to a whole gaggle of others? 

“Are you sure…” The words are soft, but you can’t help it. It’s easier to slip back into that place from before; to be soft and quiet and let someone else take over everything for you. “Are you sure you want to let me talk to other people? Wouldn’t it be better if I only talked to you?”

And now, you did say something wrong, because his expression twists. His nose scrunches and his lip curls up, like he’s thinking about something unpleasant. “No,” he says. “That’d be weird.”

“Oh.” Something dull hits your stomach. Embarrassment and disappointment, a terrible mixture. “Sorry.” You swallow, and add, quickly. “I don’t want to be weird.”

“Too late.”

The two of you turn your head inside the doorway in time to see someone with a burnt face and dark hair watching you, arms folded, a teasing grin on his face.

It is also just in time to see a young girl playfully smack the air next to his arm–”Dabi, don’t be a jerk! She’s not weird, she’s cute!” 

There’s barely any time to decide if this is a compliment or not, before Dabi–that must be the man with the burnt face, after all–shrugs and grins. “Sorry,” but he doesn’t sound sorry in the least. The fact that the grin is edged by staples doesn’t help. 

The rest of the group is sprawled about the room. On a sofa, on the floor. There’s a card game going on. Drinks on the table, along with takeout. The room looks like it was once some sort of office break room, complete with a microwave and dinged-up fridge. 

The conversations that must have been going on are silent now, and you’re left standing awkwardly next to Shigaraki in the doorway. He nudges you forward, then takes a step out the door. There’s a strong urge to grab his sleeve and ask if you can go back to the room, but he begins walking down the hallway and doesn’t give you the chance.

“Um,” you say, and his footsteps in the hall stop for a moment. “Nice to… meet you?”

There’s a moment before there’s a burst of laughter, and the girl–Toga, you’ll learn later–grabs your hand and pulls you inside the room.

–

That night, Shigaraki climbs into bed with you and instead of turning over and keeping to his side of the mattress, he slots himself against your back for the first time.

The freeze response comes naturally, as your heart speeds up and your breath seems to slow down. Overhaul did this, too. When he thought you were sleeping, though.

Shigaraki knows you’re up and his fingers, pinky jutting to the side, ghost over your clothed side, caressing your hip. His fingers skitter underneath your shirt and rest against your stomach, before trailing up, bringing the fabric with it.

He cups your chest and you think the sound you make must startle him, because he pulls away without a word. But if he’s mad, he doesn’t tell you. Instead he stays pressed against your back, breathing.

Why was he still in bed? 

“Don’t–” And you stutter out the next words quickly, because you’re not telling him to stop touching you. You wouldn’t dare. But– “Don’t you… want to wash your hands now?”

Something between irritation and curiosity lodges itself in his tone. “Why would I wash my hands?”

You lick your lips, and fight the urge to turn around in bed and look at him while you speak. Sometimes, when you told him about–Overhaul–the disdainful expressions he made stirred something awful in your gut. Made you feel ashamed and silly. He didn’t mean to do it, you think; but that didn’t change how you felt.

“Overhaul… when he touched me like this, he always washed his hands in the bathroom after. For a long time. Because–” The word Overhaul would mutter over and over come back, like acid rain pattering on the roof. “I’m dirty.”

You don’t want to look at him, but you don’t get a choice, because he grips both of your shoulders and lifts you up, until the two of you are sitting with your backs against the wall. The curtains are open and the moonlight washes everything out, but you can see him frowning well enough.

“You’re not dirty,” he says.  “Stop saying stupid things.”

“Sorry,” you murmur, but you don’t feel sorry at all. Instead you feel–relieved. Lightened. 

He frowns. “And stop saying sorry, too.”

“Right. Sorry–”

You stop with a breath left in the word and in a single beat, the two of you burst into laughter.

That’s when you lean forward and kiss him, smashing your lips against his in a brief moment before he pushes you off.

Humiliation stings your chest and you almost start crying in an instant. The world before and the world today blur into one awful moment and you apologize for things you’re not even sure about. “I’m sorry, that was–stupid. I’m awful, I’m bad, I won’t do it again-”

“Shut up. You will do it again.”

Oh. What? 

You blink up at him, stupidly, yes, but it’s a nice kind of stupid. The syrupy kind that only gets sweeter when his hand grips your chin and pulls you in. You don’t fight. 

This time, he kisses you. His lips are chapped and so are yours, and your mouth opens awkwardly to let his tongue in. It feels wrong and right and for once, there’s nothing old that dredges itself up with the action. No ghost of Overhaul over your shoulder, no commands, no flashbacks to being locked in closets–

Just you and Shigaraki on his bed in the middle of the night, kissing. 

–

You can be annoying. Too meak, too unsure; wanting him to guide you and taking too long when he tries to give direction. 

You’re a burden, that’s for damn sure, but oh, he doesn’t want to let you go.

The thoughts of releasing you on the streets seem so dim now.

They faded every time you stumbled through eating food that wasn’t perfect by Overhaul’s stupid standards, every time you looked like a deer in headlights at the prospect of washing yourself, every time you suddenly got the ick at his room and scrubbed yourself raw until he stopped you… 

You wanted to be better, though–better for him. That’s what sealed it. Well, that, and that kiss, even though it was mostly teeth the first time. He likes you better for that, he thinks. Because that was you.

You’d once told him that you were afraid Overhaul would remake you, so you remade yourself. And now he’s remaking you. No, that’s the wrong word, isn’t it? He’s unmaking. Undo what Overhaul did and find out what’s underneath, Because what’s underneath–you, the you he’s seeing as he peels away each layer of bullshit–belongs to him.

That’s how it should have been from the beginning. Too bad he didn’t find you first. 

–

He’s been gone for longer than usual. Long enough that Toga came in with something to eat and played a round of cards with you. Long enough that daylight came and went and came back again, and the sound of morning birds does nothing but contrast with how groggy you feel. 

It was too hard to fall asleep, when your stomach was tied up with worry. 

They don’t unravel even when the door opens and he comes in, expression troubled, burdened. You know something about burdens. He smells of sweat and dust, and you long to lift it from him. He’s been… nice, hasn’t he? Nice and kinder, kinder than Overhaul, although his words are often short and he sometimes calls you stupid. 

He takes a look at you, at the darkened circles under your eyes and maybe he can see all the thoughts swirling around in your head, and snorts. “Go to bed. You haven’t been sleeping.”

“I can stay up,” you tell him, sitting up straighter on the bed. “To keep you company.” 

He pauses, drops his coat on the chair. Something in him seems to soften and harden all at once. A vulnerable question left on the edge of a cliff, waiting to see which wait it will roll. “Why? Why would you want to do that?”

Words don’t come easily to you, even now. “I… like being around you.” It’s more than that, but you don’t know how to say it, how to peel it out from your mouth.

He eyes you with something that might be suspicion. “Don’t lie.”

At this, you stand. It feels better to stand, to be on something like stronger footing. “I’m not. I–I like that you let me do things. You don’t get mad if I eat what I want, or if I read certain books, or watch movies with you…”

He doesn’t respond and maybe it’s not words you need. Maybe it’s this–

Maybe it’s you taking a step forward and gripping his shirt and kissing him, just as awkwardly as the first time. This time, when he pushes you away, he keeps his fingers curled on your shirt. His eyes search yours and you don’t know what your expression is saying, but you try to make it say: You make me feel good and I want to make you feel good, too.

“Get on the mattress,” he tells you, but it doesn’t feel like an order. Maybe you’re sugarcoating it. Maybe not. In the end, you’re okay with it; you’re okay with turning around and crawling onto the mattress, knowing what he wants now.

It’s not how you envisioned it happening with him. You remember what you thought that first day, flashes of him taking you while you struggled and squirmed, pinning you to the bed. A villain in a book that Overhaul took away from your bookshelf.

It’s slower. Slower and maybe not sweet, exactly; but there’s some tenderness there that you can’t explain. Tenderness reflected in both your tired eyes, in the smell of dust clinging to his skin, in the way you cling to him and don’t have to worry that he’ll scrub his hands raw afterward.

Tenderness that makes you forget that Overhaul took you and now he took you, and you’re never sure if you’ll ever be your own person again. 

–

When it’s over, he cleans you up. Slow but sure. It’s remarkably soft, but you don’t dare say so; if you did, you think he might push you off the mattress for good measure.

“Shigaraki–” you begin.

“Call me Tomura.” He interrupts.

“Tomura,” you say. 

Something about that makes you want to cry, so you bury your head further against his chest and blink the tears away.

Later–not this morning and not for some time–you will think about whether Overhaul would have ever fucked you. What he might have thought about the mess of it all. The sweat and panting, the warm liquid between your legs that was carefully wiped away with a warm washcloth before he hopped back into bed.

For now, all you think about is Shigaraki–no, Tomura–who doesn’t tuck you into bed like you’re some precious doll but instead wraps his leg across your own, keeping you close on the mattress as sleep begins to overtake you. 

His hand brushes against your hair as the world begins to turn into a formless buzz.

“Do you want to stay with me?” He asks.

It is, you know, a rhetorical question. 

[eroslove88]

Hello, wonderful souls! 🤍🌍

I hope you're doing well. 🌿

Could you help me amplify my family's story and bring awareness to our struggle? 🙏🏻

💬 Please reblog my pinned post or consider donating just $5—your support could truly make a difference in saving lives amidst war and hardship.

Your kindness and voice matter more than you know. Thank you from the bottom of my heart! 🤍🌿

🕊️ @mosabsdr | Every share counts. 💫

🙏🙏🙏 !!!

[kyunmei]

<3

[konoko]

[kassabfamily244]

I'm so scared to losing my family 💔💔🥺

✅ Vetted by @90-ghost  -vetted link

And I'm now waiting to be Vetted by @gazavetters 🙏

For all kidness people and humanity please consider me as your sister that need a shelter for her husband and baby.

My baby is too little for this bad suffering.

All I need from you is to help us by donating with a little amount of money and if you can't you can share at least 🙏🙏🙏🙏🚨🚨🚨

The money for evacuation is:

$5000 for me

$5000 for my husband

$2500 for my baby

All remaining funds will go to affording Adam’s surgery and helping us survive until we find jobs and start our new life.

You can donate here

Donate to Help Shada's Family to Rebuild Their Lives In Gaza, organized by Jess Rapoza

Hello supporter, my name is Jessica Rapoza from USA and I’m raising fun… Jess Rapoza needs your support for Help Shada's Family to Rebuild T

[opiumfarmer]

Hot heavy obsessive possessive romantic passionate lustful love. If not, what’s the point.

[tolerateit]

2021 is the year I finally get my shit together

[tolerateit]

2022 is the year I finally get my shit together

[tolerateit]

2023 is the year I finally get my shit together

[tolerateit]

2024 is the year I finally get my shit together

[tolerateit]

2025 is the year I finally get my shit together

[pragnificent]

This is Money Snake. She only appears every 312 years. 

If you reblog her picture within the next twenty-five seconds you will have good luck and fortune for the rest of your life. 

[thingsamylikes]

I reblogged her late last year and my 2024 has been very satisfying work-wise and (secure enough to not stress out) money-wise so far. Money Snake is wise and good.

[carpecake]

Not worth taking the risk

[comicgeekscomicgeek]

Worth a shot.

[crimson-jester]

money snek

[buspir-deactivated20230127]

the notes are broken 😂

[calvin-reads-problem-sleuth]

Reblogging partly for awesome computer shortcuts, and partly because I wish to once again take part in a Post That Broke The Notes. 

[lookitsmorefandomtrash-deactiva]

WAH