I write one shots when I'm bored 😪
these one shots contains pretty triggering stuff but I'll add the warnings if needed 👀
Please enjooooy😽😽😽
#1 risottonero ♥️🙏
#8 Diobrando
#8 josukexreader
#7 yoshikagekira
Yoshikage kills women. Not for their hands, but for their crime of resembling you, who dared to abandon him.
Warnings: Non-explicit sexual content. Yoshikage behaves like a serial killer.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I. you are someone who did not die when you should have
For Yoshikage Kira, hate had become something comfortable, routine, and every morning when he woke up he found it settling into his lungs as naturally as the air he breathed. Air that somehow, with almost unnatural persistence, still carried notes of your perfume, despite the fact that he'd scrubbed his bedsheets with every detergent he could think of before ultimately throwing them out and buying a new set entirely.
You had a habit of doing that. You were gone, a ghost, a memory he found himself reaching for when he wasn't thinking about it,
(especially now, in these horrible moments between sleep and wakefulness, when all he could think about was the warmth of your skin against his)
and yet wherever he looked he could see your hands resting upon the pillars of order he built his life around, threatening to smash it all to pieces with one delicate, almost casual push. You were gone, but the empty air of your absence had a weight to it all the same, and as Yoshikage Kira forced himself to sit up he could feel it crush him a little more.
He didn't look at his bedside clock as his feet hit the floor. Even without an alarm, he had always woken up with more than enough time to do as he pleased and take the morning at his own pace. It was something he noted with a satisfaction bordering on vicious as he dressed himself, accepting how hate rubbed against his skin like a second shirt. You had taken his sleep from him, and his peace, but his routine was still his. It was the only victory he had in a war only he was fighting, and if he allowed himself to dwell on it a heartbeat longer than he had to, Kira would have found it breathtakingly pathetic.
Was it hate that pricked at his hands as he cracked a second egg into the pan, or was it just hot oil? Was that hate that warmed his skin as he sat down to eat at a table that now felt too large for a single person, or was the sun oddly bright for this time of day?
Kira forced himself to take a deep breath, chewing a bite of food he couldn't taste. Hate ebbed and flowed when he glared at the space you obstinately refused to occupy, racing down the lines of his arteries and veins in a rush that threatened to make him light headed...
The scrape of his chair against the kitchen tile barely registered as he all but fled for the bathroom. He had time, he had time...it wouldn't do to leave the house in this state. You would take his peace and you'd take his sleep, but you wouldn't take his routine and you certainly wouldn't take his composure.
This was the litany of lies he told himself as he shed his clothes and stepped into the lukewarm blast of his shower, as if any amount of water could wash away the hate clinging to his skin. Masturbating was a clinical, joyless affair, one he approached like an act of revenge as he forced himself to think of any and every woman he'd encountered recently who didn't look a thing like you, imagined them doing the things you'd always refused to, a doll-like, docile, obedient glaze of adoration in their eyes as they breathlessly whispered and cried out his name in that way you never did. Gratification wasn't the goal here; if it were, the disgust that deadened his insides would have turned this into yet another defeat.
