im in my 20s!!! so i won’t do romantic x readers for underaged kiddos
feel free to request platonic stuff for them tho!
minors i see you requesting certain things
for requests feel free to send in ideas, but not fully planned out stories or OCs please!!! i can work with pointers but not a summary if that makes sense!!!
i keep reader GN but let me know if you’d rather have certain pronouns with your requests
also feel free to request from 3rd person pov lol
my schedule is crazy at the moment since i’m in the middle of quitting my job and college starts up again soon
i’m currently working through requests BUT
feel free to send one in or something from a prompt list! :)
I’m back sluts (I could not remember my password, also everyone say happy birthday to me even tho it was in may ty)
Andrew took a drag of his cigarette, darkened brown eyes locked on Neil.
On the rabbit.
His bright blue eyes were flickering over his hands, bruised and bloodied, but he stayed silent. Not unsure, definitely not afraid, but curious.
The rabbit’s eyes got this stupid wide eyed look in them, the same way they did whenever the blond had bought him clothes to drag him to Columbia.
He wouldn’t break first. Neil would, it was a fact. He could read it on the line of his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched, the shuffling of his feet.
Andrew took another slow inhale, letting the smoke curl around his lips and billow into his eyes.
“Why?”
Neil’s voice was soft in a way that should contrast his scarred and rough appearance, but it only made him seem younger. A boy in the body of a young adult.
“Why.”
Echoing the word, he gave it a mocking effect.
“Why indeed, rabbit.”
Flicking the rest of his cigarette at Neil, he watched it bounce off the redhead’s chest, smearing ash on his shirt before landing between the only pair worn sneakers he seemed to own.
With a manic grin on his own face, Andrew admired the shiny platform boots he wore, momentarily distracted from the conversation. Through the fog in his head, he dragged his eyes to Neil’s again. He could barely feel the pain in his hands anymore.
Ma'am I have just readed your denji x reader fanfic where the reader was older than denji and acted on motherly instincts and its just...THATS EXACTLY WHAT I NEEDED FOR DENJI ARGHHH :')
if you are still taking requests, may I request something like a continuation of that but in a more like, headcanon style??? PLEASE??? MY BOY DENJI NEEDS SOME PROPER LOVE LIKE THAT XC
i saw denji for .02 seconds and my brain went “ah, yes, my son.” ALSO GLAD U LIKED!!! i think this is my first time doing headcanons o.o lmk what u think!!!
so hair ruffles, hugs, nose boops, forehead kisses denji gets from you, cute right?
my boy is OVERWHELMED!!!!
every time it happens he freezes for a sec, staring at you
isn’t used to touch that isn’t associated with pain in some way, so it takes a bit for him to get used to it
when denji learns he can reciprocate and actually INITIATE these types of things, his mind is blown
give him a big hug and a lil smooch on his temple and he cuddles into you, eyes screwed shut and a huge smile on his face ╰(*´︶`*)╯
likes to hold your hand and pull you along
denji finally has some to really talk to, so he wants to tell you and show you EVERYTHING
he sees a cool bug?
grabs your hand and drags you from whatever you’re doing to show you
please smile at him and go along with it
has a silly question?
goes to you first since he knows you’ll never insult him for wasting your time
whenever you have busywork, you lay a blanket on the floor and sit with a cup of tea
the first time denji sees you, he sits and scoots closer every couple of minutes
when you finally notice, you smile at him and pat your lap
he lays his head there and you play with his hair as you work
now it’s a ritual for both of you
you set up your blanket and put your tea and wait for denji to join you
of course, you make him his own cup of tea and cookies
HOME. COOKED. MEALS
feed this boy!!! he’ll love you forever!
plop him on a counter and have him as a taste tester
he’ll have a huge grin and be kicking his feet(●´ω｀●)
he’ll stare wide-eyed at you if you take napkin and gently wipe his face when he’s done eating and made a mess of himself
Hi, I have read denji x reader from chainsaw man and I was wondering if you could do a fanfic about denji x shy fem reader. The female reader is denji's childhood friend and she afraid of devils because of her dead dad was killed by them and now her single mom is taking care of her. Some how she found out that denji is chainsaw man and feels scared but wants to be with him because of her kindness. Also, the shy reader has no friends because of being builled pls. I hope you can make it angst first at the end fluff.
hi there! this sounds super cute, but i’m in my 20s and don’t write romantic x reader stuff with younger characters!
even if they’re aged up later in the series, i have to have read where they’re older to write for them, hope you understand!
insert whoever you want into this!!! personally, i had aizawa in mind :p
“You’re gorgeous.”
The words slipped out breathlessly. Your tone was soft, and they were spoken reverently against the warm skin of your lover. Hands wandered over soft skin peppered by scars from many different battles. They were signs he’d won, persevered, and came home to you.
Your fingers found his hips and pulled him back, backside to lower belly. One hand wandered towards his stomach while you pressed another kiss to his bare back.
“Absolutely divine.”
A mischievous smile pulled at your lips before opening your mouth to press wet kisses to the expanse of his back. You let your teeth drag lightly over soft skin, sucking a dark mark onto him every once in a while. Glancing over his shoulder, he met your eyes with a smoldering gaze.
“I already agreed to making you pancakes, so what do you want now?”
man you guys have got to stop getting mad at people for tagging your post as whatever annoying thing. tags used to be sacred. you weren't supposed to see it. it's the culture. "Stop tagging this as [character]". No!! You have no right to make demands on me!! I can do whatever I want in the tags. Just cause Tumblr decided to set up a camera in my house and broadcast it live doesn't mean you get to make fun of me for going "wheee!!!" when I get into bed it's my fucking house and my fucking business!!!!!
so i watched chainsaw man. it brought me back from the dead and my motherly instinct was awoken
This was a weird feeling. Denji was used to feeling a certain way about girls. About women. But whatever was bubbling in his chest and giving him a warm feeling was new.
He’d met you through Aki, and although his introduction from the older boy left much to be desired you’d grinned and offered some of the takoyaki you’d bought.
“Growing boy like you needs his food! You feeding him enough, Aki?”
You were older than him, older than Aki. He’d found that out after you’d invited him out for lunch one day and talked to him. Denji had been in a daze for a bit, shocked that he was getting treated to more food by another pretty girl.
Many more lunches followed and movie nights at your place were added. You’d heard his story, his upbringing and it broke your heart. Constantly you fussed over him. Buying him trinkets, getting him an extra helping of food, stocking up on his favorite snacks at your place, anything you were able to provide for him.
Denji had missed out on years of encouraging words, kindness, gentle touches. You ruffled his hair whenever he was close enough. Praised him on his improvements. Really listened to him.
Both of you were face to face, tucked under a blanket fort you’d built. Your socked feet were brushing his. Denji’s face was red as he avoided your eyes.
“When i’m around you…I-I don’t…want to touch your boobs…?”
You blinked.
“…thank you? I don’t want you to touch my boobs either.”
“No! It’s just-ugh!” Denji pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes and groaned in frustration.
“I mean that I like you! But not like that, more than a friend but-“
He cut himself off and knotted his hands in his hair.
You smiled, leaning forward to pull his hands free. Pulling him close, you tucked him against you and smoothed a hand down his back.
“I like you too Denji. Like family.”
Denji fisted his hands in your shirt. The feeling in his chest that he got when he was with you, he realized, was the feeling of safety. Of home.
….hi…i forgot i existed for a bit there….n e ways… how do u think it feels to live w. a genius???
L had compared himself to Kira before, and you couldn’t help but wonder exactly how much they had in common.
Was Kira harsh with thoughtless words and cutting statements? Would he push away the person who loved him in order to reread the same file for the fifteenth time that day? Did he snap that at those who couldn’t keep up with his sharp mind?
Of course, you never held any of these actions against L, he was eccentric and had his own way of expressing himself. That was something you’d been well aware of going into this mostly one sided relationship. But it still stung. What really hurt was when you were reminded of how useless you really were in this situation.
If L wanted to bounce ideas off of you, you were always more than willing. It was a treat to get to see his mind piece together a theory, the way his eyes would brighten and a grin would tug at the corners of his lips filled your stomach with butterflies. There was little you wouldn’t do to one day be the reason he smiled like that.
The Kira case however didn’t provide many reasons for him to smile. So while L crouched on the floor between your legs with his back to you while you sat on the couch, you did your best to keep up with his quiet mumbling. One of your hands was buried in his dark locks scratching softly at his scalp, while the other rested on his shoulder. Your fingers played with the collar of his shirt letting your thumb occasionally brush his collarbone.
“-don’t you agree?”
You froze. With your wandering thoughts, you hadn’t heard a word he said. At the prolonged silence L’s eyes snapped open and he stared up at you, a frown pulling at his lips. He didn’t need to say anything, the frustration was evident from his look.
“I-I’m sorry…what?”
Shaking his head, he dislodged your hand. “Why do I even bother.”
The detective’s comment hurt, even if you’d heard it from him multiple times over the years. Wammy often told you that your purpose was to be L’s companion. But your presence had never been helpful. Being raised alongside a genius didn’t mean any of that advanced thinking would rub off on you. You did your best.
I’m not dead. This is an incredibly niche market, I know, and not what’s typical for this blog, but it’s here and it’s here to stay. L honestly deserves more x reader stuff and if I’m the one who has to encourage it I’ll be the one to do it.
Am I Invited?
Your boyfriend was an odd man.
You were quite fond of him, but the fact that he was far from normal was emphasized by anyone and everyone he was willing to meet in person. Even if those who had seen him had decided to hold their tongues, you would have known how odd he was. When you had met him, you had understood that much; you had been a highschool senior, he a year younger, and the only reason you had met him at all was because he and who you assumed was his father had come to the coffee shop in which you worked. He had worn a mask obscuring his mouth– his father had claimed that it was due to a cold– and he had not spoken a word to you, instead studying you silently as you filled the order for them. Despite disheveled black hair and dark circles, he was pretty in a quiet, Victorian way, and you had a desire to speak to him in part because of how little he seemed to get out.
He was there, apparently, to study. He had been ordered a cup of coffee with ten or so spoonfuls of sugar– you had decided his father seemed not to be the type to make that sort of joke, and so you had made it as asked. When you brought him his drink, you decided to make a move.
“Here’s your sugar with coffee,” you had teased, placing the cup and a parcel in front of him.
He had stared at you a moment, scrutinizing you, before averting his eyes.
Awkward, you had cleared your throat. “Hey, man, I’m hardly one to talk.” You had smiled. “I can barely handle coffee without a mountain of add-ons. I’m a pussy; I drink tea.” Clearing your throat, you gestured to the paper bag. “That’s on the house, by the by. I hope you aren’t allergic; those cookies are the best thing we sell.”
On your word, he pulled the pastry from the bag: a simple peanut butter cookie by all accounts. Wordlessly, he broke off a piece and handed it to you.
It took you a second to understand what he was doing. “Oh, no, I couldn't possibly.” You put your hand up in protest. “It’s yours.”
He did not remove his hand.
You glanced around, awkward before taking the piece and popping it into your mouth. You were hardly opposed to cookies. Your smile grew meak. “What,” you laughed, “think I’d give you a bad cookie?” You tried to regain your confidence. “You wound me”
You were startled by how clear his voice was. “No, that’s not it.” He pulled down the mask, taking a bite out of the confectionery, swallowing quickly, and pulling his mask back up. “I was just checking something.”
“Oh.” You nodded, confused.
He took another bite of the cookie, uncomfortably nonchalant. “This is quite a good cookie. Is it made here?”
Your eyes shift to the side, any assuredness you had gone. He was studying you. “They’re made on-site, yeah.” You resisted the urge to slide your hands into your pockets. “The recipe’s ours, too.”
“Is it old?”
“The recipe? Yeah.”
There was silence.
It dawned on you how oddly he sat. He was not so much sitting, in fact, as he was crouched on the chair, feet flat against the seat. If it was a struggle to balance in such an unnatural position, he did a good job of hiding any difficulties he had maintaining it.
You slid into the chair across from him. It was a slow day anyhow. “This is a small town,” you pointed out. “We don’t get many new faces.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“How so?” You rested your head on your hand, quietly satisfied at his letting you sit.
He shrugged. “I would assume it would be bad for business.”
“People like the atmosphere.”
“Sure,” he pointed out, “but I would imagine that you would want to have as many customers as possible.”
“Not necessarily.” You smiled. “If the atmosphere changed the people who come in would probably stop or complain if they didn’t have personal ties to the place itself. That’s not good for business either.”
“I suppose.”
Talking to him was a bit like pulling teeth. You took it he was not approached like this often. “Are you going to school nearby?”
“Why do you ask?”
You gesture to the folders stacked next to him. “I assumed that was for a project.”
He considered what you said for a moment too long. “Yeah.” He nodded. “Journalistic writing would count, I suppose.”
“Sounds like a blast. What on?”
He took a sip from his coffee. “Homicide case.”
Your smile widened. “So I was right. Which one?”
“You wouldn’t have heard of it.” He reached over seemingly absentmindedly, finger peeling at a corner of the topmost folder and letting it spring back into place. “It’s recent.”
“Try me.”
He stared at you for a moment, sizing you up. “Why do you want to know about it?”
“I dunno.” You shrank a bit under his gaze. “I want you to keep talking, I guess.”
He blinked, his head cocking to the side ever so slightly. “Why?” His voice was softer than before.
“I like it.” You forced confidence forward. “You have a nice voice, and I think you’re attractive, and you seem interesting.”
That was how you got his number.
The only time he ate decently was when you saw him. You knew this because he had lost weight; whenever he lost weight, it was because he had not eaten well enough or was stressed over his work or the news. He was doing both, you were sure, and though you had little time with him before he would fly back off to who knows where you were hardly about to let him leave on an empty stomach.
You saw him less than when you were younger. You never saw him much before– not as much as you had the first month you two had “been together”-- but weekends turned into single days, and once a week turned into twice a month. You never said anything. You doubted he was getting on with someone else; he did not seem the type, despite what your friends had to say on the matter. What did they know? They had hardly spoken a dozen words with him. You did not even mind much. You could survive without him comfortably enough.
He would not stop staring at the television screen. You were sure his eyes would roll out of his head from how long he paid attention to it. International news. Not that he did not know any of what was being said anyhow— he always seemed to know exactly what was going on in the world at a given moment— but he never wanted it off. Even as you set a bowl of stew in front of him, he barely glanced over at you long enough to register it.
You sat down next to him, tapping him on the side of the head as you dug into your own bowl. “Soup’s up,” you tell him, turning down the television. “You’ll waste away if you don’t eat.”
“Will I?”
You smiled, taking the bait. “You will. Your body will shut down and go into cardiac arrest and I’ll have to call the ambulance to come to drag you off.”
He did not smile much these days, but something like it tugged at his lips. “Oh, you don’t say?”
“I do.” You took another bite of your stew. “And with how much work you do it’ll kill you, and I can’t afford to help chip in much for the funeral, so it’ll be a shitty little thing and you’ll be made fun of it for it by the other dead people.”
He balanced a chunk of meat from his stew, watching so it would not fall. “Oh, so there are more dead people now.”
“Don’t be stupid,” you wave him off. “Of course, there are more dead people.”
“Of course.” The spoon was slid into his mouth.
“Of course.”
The spoon came out clean. With a quiet hum of satisfaction, he began to eat. “‘Ts good,” he said around his food.”
“It’s beef.”
“I’m a fan.”
You nodded. “Good. You’ve gotten uncharacteristically thin.”
“Rapid weight loss is often a symptom of high anxiety.” He swallowed. “That’s probably why.”
You took another bite of stew. “Work?”
“Work,” he confirmed.
“What is it now?”
He paused. “How to put it…” He swallowed another spoonful. “An issue’s come up and neither I nor anyone in my department quite understands what it is. It is unlike anything we have ever had to deal with in the past, and despite how many resources are being put into solving the problem, we are no closer to a solution.”
“What sort of problem?”
“That’s the question.”
You blinked. “So is it a problem or not?”
He smiled dryly. “It’s certainly causing trouble, but it’s difficult to define, seeing as I hardly know exactly what it is outside of the fact that it has seemingly infiltrated every corner of the company.”
You take another bite of stew. “You really should quit,” you swallowed. “Your job, I mean. It’s bad for you.”
He considered it. “It would probably be better on my health, but I don’t think I could even if I wanted to.”
“Why?”
“Because it is one of the very few things that give my life meaning.” He picked up the bowl, tipping his head back and drinking the rest of its contents. “I have no other skills outside of my job, you understand; I would be essentially nothing without it.”
It was odd how he described what he did. He never told you what it was, exactly, but he always talked as though whatever it was was an integral part of himself, like it was more than just a job. You knew enough not to ask; he had always been secretive in this regard, and you knew it would do you little good to pry. “That’s not fair.”
“It is.”
“That’s not true.” You smiled. “Personally, with or without your job, I think you’re pretty great. And if it’s as big as you make it out to be, I’m sure someone else would hire you if that was what you wanted.”
He pursed his lips. “I’m not sure that’s even something I would want,” he mumbled, almost to himself. “Again, it is essentially my whole life, what I do.”
“But it doesn’t have to be is my point.” You let your head rest on the back of the couch. “You can do whatever. You’re still pretty young; the world’s your oyster.”
“Shakespeare.”
“Hm?”
“That idiom. It’s Shakespeare.”
“What, really?” You smiled. “See? You could go into etymology if you wanted.”
He chuckled. “I think I may go insane if I did that.”
“Oh come on,” you push him gently. “It’s not that boring.”
“I would disagree.”
You give him a look. “Then how come you know where it comes from, wise guy?”
“I had to read Merry Wives of Windsor.”
“Oh.”
He watched you curiously. “Why are you making a face?”
Your cheeks heated up. “I’m not making a face!”
“You are, as a matter of fact.”
“It’s just like why?”
“Oh, it was hardly by choice.” He shrugged. “My caretakers insisted. Personally, I’ve never been much a fan, but it would hardly make sense if I did not pick up on at least some of it.”
“Bastards.” You stuck your hands in your pockets, settling in. “What else did they make you read?”
He thought for a moment. “Well, all of Shakespeare–”
“The fuck you mean all of Shakespeare?”
He blinked. “What do you mean what do I mean?”
“How many things has Shakespeare written?”
“Surprisingly few.” He very quickly seemed to tally on his hands. “Thirty-seven is the generally accepted number, I believe.”
“That’s a lot!”
“I’m well aware. I didn’t enjoy it much at the time.” He settled in next to you, leaning his body against yours. “But apparently an extensive knowledge of English literature was vital to my education.”
You draped an arm across his shoulders. “Your caretakers are just the lives of the party, aren’t they?”
“I don’t believe they’ve ever attended one.”
“Look at you, being snarky.” You leaned into him. “I’m so proud.”
He reached over, pulling you into his lap. “I can be snarky.”
“So has been demonstrated.”
“I can be snarky generally too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You learned very early on that when dating your odd boyfriend you were best to not ask too many questions. Not about work, not about his personal life outside of you, not even about where he stayed when he was not with you. You had never been to his place, never seen it. He went away a lot for his job, and the two of you talked a lot on the phone, but you had learned from how little he volunteered information to not ask him to divulge too much to you. In exchange, as a way of keeping things fair, he never asked too many questions about your life, never commented on your home or your loved ones unless asked, and gifted you hush money—which he never called hush money but always felt like it for how much of it you received— and offered you an unusual amount of legal expertise.
Your conclusion: your boyfriend was some sort of government worker/spy/lawyer.
“You know I’m using you, right?”
You looked up from your phone. The night of that conversation— the last conversation you have had with him, about two months ago— was on the last night of his week-long stay at your place. You had gone out of your way to make him good food before he went back to his diet of carbs and nothing else. He had been quiet all day, fidgeting more than usual, clingier than what was typical. You had asked him about it throughout the day, but he always brushed it off. “Hm?”
He had that look in his eyes that he did when you first met, that cold, calculating stare that made you feel like a patient on an operating table. He repeated the question.
You set the device face down on the table. “Use how?”
“Emotionally. Physically. Psychologically.”
“I mean,” you shrugged, “I wouldn’t say using—“
“You should if you don’t. It’s the appropriate word.”
You leaned against your hand, elbow on the table. “What’s your definition of use?”
“Any, really.” His shrug, a mirror of your own, was stiff. “For our purposes, let’s define the term as ‘to exploit one for one’s own advantage.’”
You could play this game. You laced your fingers together, leaning forward. “And how would you define exploiting, love?”
“‘To use in an unfair and selfish way.’”
“You would consider yourself selfish?”
“Impossibly so.” He never looked away from you, then. “Incredibly so. Our relationship is largely one-sided.”
You swallowed. You knew he noticed. “How so?”
He considered the question, eyes lowering ever so briefly before meeting yours again. “Well, it’s fair to say that you’re a caring partner. You’ve provided for my every emotional need for the past five years, you’ve let me stay in your home, you’ve cooked for me, cared to remind me of my humanity.” He folded his arms on top of his knees. “And in return for your unflinching hospitality I’ve largely neglected you; I’ve refused to tell you anything meaningful about my upbringing or my work or even who I associate with. I’m not traditionally attractive— I understand,” he cut off your protest, “that beauty is subjective but for our purposes, I’m not objectively beautiful— and I haven’t so much as let you stay with me. I only spend time with you for a week every two months or so, which is ridiculous considering how long we’ve known each other. Any reasonable person would be right to leave.”
You shifted in your chair, eyes focused on your fork.
“Why are we still in a relationship?”
“I like you.” You shrugged, picking up the plastic utensil and turning it over in your fingers. “I’m allowed to like you, aren’t I?”
He exhaled, a poor imitation of a chuckle. “I can’t imagine it goes much farther than a skewed cost-benefit analysis.”
“So what if it doesn’t?”
“That’s incredibly foolish of you.”
“So what if it is?”
“Don’t you find an issue in that?”
“So what if I don’t?”
He opened his mouth, sighed, looked down. He mumbled something.
“Pardon?”
“You don’t even know my name.”
You stopped your fiddling. “You’ve never offered it.”
“That’s my point.”
You inhaled slowly, trying not to get yourself riled up. “Are you trying to break up with me?”
“No.” The response was immediate.
“Why are you telling me all this, then?”
He paused.
“That’s what it sounds like.”
“Do you have any idea what I do?”
You chuckled, leaning back in your chair. “I mean,” you sighed, “I have something like an idea.”
His eyes are not cold like they were before. Dull, maybe, but that was nothing new. “Take a guess.”
“I dunno.” You buzzed your lips. “Spy? Government worker? Assassin?”
His lips twitched upwards. “Assassin?”
“Hey, you asked!”
He smiled. “Let’s go with that.”
“What, you're an assassin?”
“Sure.” He leaned forward. “I’ve been asked to kill someone very important.”
You blinked. “I got it right?”
“No, but the comparison is somewhat apt.” He chewed on his thumb nail absently. “I’ve been tasked to kill someone very important. Because I’m killing someone very important, I’m going to be in a lot of danger.”
“Are they a dick at least?”
“I’m being serious.”
You crossed your arms behind your head, trying to relax. “If you’re an assassin, aren’t you always in danger?”
“This particular person is unusually dangerous.”
You nodded. “Okay.”
“And because I’m going to be in a lot of danger, I may never see you again.” He broke eye contact. “I’m unable to get out of this, and this person has to die.”
You swallow. “Sure.”
“If I don’t get in contact with you for a month, I want you to assume that I’ve broken up with you.”
“And if I don’t agree?”
He sighed. “I can’t exactly force you to, can I? But you will be setting yourself up for disappointment.”
You looked up at the ceiling. “Am I invited to the funeral, at least?”
He considered the question. “Yes.”
You swallow again, hating the taste in your mouth. “Okay.”
He looked at you again. “Would you mind too terribly if I came over there?”
You said nothing. Your voice would crack if you did.
He took your silence as a no, standing from his awkward posture and kneeling at your feet. He placed his head on your lap, looking up at you. “May I have your hand?”
You let one of your arms down.
His hand was shaking as the fingers interlaced with yours. “I highly doubt that anything will happen. It never has before.”
Your eyes slid shut. You did not want to cry.
“I just want you to be prepared if something does.”
hi lul! for this let’s pretend the capture scarf is…in the wash? burned up? idk man
tw: blood n injuries
“I’ve got you, don’t let go.”
Dark eyes bore into yours, hazy with tears and panic. Yours had the same look in them, you were sure of it. With a shuddering breath, you glanced at the only thing keeping you alive.
Aizawa’s hand wrapped around your wrist. Aizawa’s hand that was connected to his very broken arm was holding on to your wrist. You could see how he grit his teeth and pushed through the pain to keep ahold of you, but it wouldn’t be enough.
The explosion that wracked the building had been wholly unexpected and it sent both of you through a wall. There was ringing in your ears from the noise, but the snapping of bones and Eraserhead’s soft grunt echoed in your head twice as loud. As the building toppled and leaned on another, the floor tilted and sent you both sliding down into a busted open window. The pro hero had shot out an arm to catch you at the last second, one hand clinging to the glass covered window frame.
Choking back a sob, you studied the man holding you up. Aizawa Shouta. Sho. Eraserhead. ‘Zawa. One of your closest friends. He looked so beautiful in the morning light. The soft colors making the bags under his eyes look lighter. Bathed in gold and with a burning building as a backdrop, Aizawa looked strong and heroic. But you also knew what he looked like with his hair in a bun wearing a cat apron. Soft. Happy. It was a good look for him.
The hand that wasn’t holding yours was bleeding heavily, you cloud see the bright red dripping from his palm and down his arm. A drop landed on your cheek. Soon, the blood would make his grip falter and slip, sending you both to your death.
“No. N- Hey, look at me.”
He’d probably figured out where your train of thought was headed.
“Look at me. Please. Just…please.”
No. It would be harder. You know what you’d find there. But…you were selfish. One last look at him, you reasoned with yourself. One last look at Aizawa.
Meeting his eyes felt like seeing the moon for the first time. Not the sun, which burned like the fire that was steadily getting closer. Like the moon on a clear night, his eyes were bright with adrenaline and emotion. You could see yourself reflected there, and you smiled.
“We’ll be fine ‘Zawa.”
You made a fist with the hand he was holding, and the hero’s eyes widened. The movement had caused his grip to loosen the smallest bit.
“You’ll be just fine.”
With that quiet assurance, you twisted your wrist from his grip.
Aizawa drinking from the cat mug you got him. Aizawa running a hand through his hair. Aizawa introducing you to Eri. Aizawa flicking your forehead playfully. Aizawa putting a hand on your lower back. Aizawa smiling at-
um…haha hi. i return to u an aizawa simp <3 ok so basically villain!reader w some type of uhhh breath smell quirk caught our dearest eraserhead heh short n sweet to get back into it
tw: slight mention of blood
“My…you’re awfully pretty. Not what I was expecting at all.”
Aizawa grit his teeth and did his best to face where he heard the voice coming from. The cloth tied over his eyes kept him in the dark and rubbed uncomfortably against his skin. The same material had been used to bind his wrists and ankles together as well.
“A pity I can’t see those lovely eyes of yours.”
Warm breath tickled the pro hero’s ear and a sickly sweet smell filled his senses. Jerking away, and scowling he answered.
“Get this off and you can look at them all you want.”
An airy laugh filled the room, and more of their sweet smelling breath followed. Fingertips ghosted over Aizawa’s shoulder and along his jaw, tilting his head up gently.
“Oh my dearest Eraserhead, don’t tease.”
The lightest of touches to his lips, along his cheekbones, and to the tops of his ears. As those soft fingertips moved towards his hair, the hero lunged forward to head butt his captor. As he face-planted into the concrete, a put upon sigh sounded from above him.
“Now look at what you’ve done. You’ve gone and scraped up your handsome face.”
Aizawa could feel the gravel digging into his cheek and the blood that coved his chin and lips. Making a move to sit up, a sharp pressure to his lower back froze him in place.
“Don’t you worry my darling, I’m here to look out for you and that pretty, pretty face.”
The soft words spoken in a gentle tone were followed by a sour smell that quickly overpowered the previous sickly sweet one. It made Eraserhead’s stomach turn and his head pound.
A hand gripped his chin firmly and angled his face up. Fingertips that were so careful only minutes ago dug painfully into his cheeks, digging the gravel further into his skin. Keeping his mouth set into a firm scowl drew another sigh from the person in front of him. This one sounded softer, laced with amusement almost.
