Yandere Zuko Headcanons

Star Wars Masterlist

☔ = Angst

🌦️ = Angst to Fluff

💥 = Crack

☀️ = Fluff

💋 = Smut

🖤 = Yandere

🔔 = Request

🟪Imagines🟪

Anakin Skywalker:

■  Drunk Confession (slight 🌦️)

A very drunk Anakin has some very sober thoughts for you to hear.

Kylo Ren:

■ His Mask (Soulmate AU) 🌦️

After your very first mission for the Resistance goes awry, you can’t help but feel a connection to the Supreme Leader sent to interrogate you. However, when he lets you go after reading the name on your wrist, you can’t help but feel like the mission hadn’t accidentally gone so wrong after all.

■  Who Dunnit 💥 (slight 💋)

Someone left their panties in the control room after what must have been a night of fun and Hux is determined to find out who.

hiii! my username used to be @erinoikawa, i was just wondering if you could update my user in your taglist so that i could be tagged and notified in your future works? thank you so much! and i’m happy to see that you’re back we missed you !! 🫶

For sure i'll change it by the next update!! I'm so happy ur still interested in the story, and thank you so much for the sweet words!

HII I JUST WANTED TO SAY REBORN IS SO SO SO AMAZING!!! I love it sm I swear I’ve read it at LEAST 5 times now!! Thank you for creating such amazing stories, I’ve even gone read the ones about fandoms I know nothing about because you’re writing is so INCREDIBLE!!!!!! 💞💞💞

akcnkdndksndn this comment is so freaking sweet and I ain’t gonna forget it ever🥺☺️ I’m glad you’re liking what you see!!💜🥰

Look Me in the Eyes (Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: During naval training, your jet crashed and burned, taking your memories with it. But the lieutenant who saved you seems to know you better than he lets on. The only issue is that he refuses to tell you his name.

A/N: pfft half yall don’t read this anyway so imma just say rooster’s hot, oreosmama out *drops mic*

Word count: 3345

It’s not the pervading scent of antiseptic and boredom that has carved its way into your skin, nestling deep into the creases of your brow and your sneering upper lip—

It’s his unflinching gaze.

The lieutenant hovering over you, with a spoonful of green, gelatinous “dinner” posed over your lips, mumbles, “Open the hatch, the F-18 needs to land.” 

He’s a staunchly built man ornamented in the same naval jacket he’d been wearing when you first came-to in the hospital room, his lofty shoulders embellished in unfamiliar patches. Over the last two days, most of which have consisted of him lording himself over you or sitting back in the chair beside your bed, his five o’clock shadow has thickened, and the wrinkles underneath his teasing eyes darkened a shade.

The F-18 bumps against your sneer, and he chortles to himself. 

You know why you’re here. 

Well, sort of.

You know that it must’ve hurt. Like a falling-unconscious-due-to-pain kind of hurt. Black and blue splotches paint your temple and upper left cheek, and each time you force a smile, it aches. The rest of your body looks the same. In the first shower you’d been allowed, you twisted and turned as much as your burning abdomen could handle and had come to the conclusion that you were glad you didn’t remember much of what had happened.

The only real issue was that you didn’t remember much of anything. 

The story you had been told was haphazardly crafted, not unlike if a toddler had drawn a house with crayons and passed it to you, insisting it looked exactly like the one you lived in. 

It goes something like this: you were flying your jet when the engine stalled, and when you ejected, your head smacked against the windshield. You were lucky—you were unconscious when you had crumpled in on yourself, snapping five of your ribs like pencils, and when you’d landed on the ground, face in the dirt—you were so, so lucky. 

But the lieutenant says differently. 

When he found you, you were awake. You were echoing his name into the stagnant desert air, screaming and sobbing in ways that still keep him up at night. 

You know because he sleeps with folded arms on the edge of your mattress, and he rattles the metal skeleton each time he flinches. And the times when he thinks you’re too buried in exhaustion and slumber, his hand finds yours, fingertips light as air against your skin.

These are the only times the lieutenant bares that part of himself to you. 

In the mornings, when you can look him in the eyes and see the guilt buried underneath, he winces a smile onto his lips and asks if you remember anything yet. 

You don't.

And he winces again. “Back to the drawing board, huh?”

The lieutenant is a nice-enough man when he wants to be. The only issue is that he doesn’t seem to want to be. 

“Tell me your name,” you snipe, dangling over the precipice of flinging Jell-O across the room. 

This is a game he never wants to play, despite how often he wins. He has the whole naval base’s hospital staff refer to him as Sir or Lieutenant-no-last-name, and each time you ask, he’ll give you the same response.

“You know my name.” 

You don't. He’s a complete stranger. He can hold you hand and feed you Jell-O and help you hobble to the bathroom; he can brush the hair from your sweat-crusted face in the mornings and, on some rare occasions where he thinks he’s woken up before you, he’ll graze a feather-soft kiss on your bruised temple.

And you still haven't got a clue. 

Because whoever the lieutenant is, the tight grip he has on your heart is completely foreign to you. It’s a grip that says you and him aren’t just something definable—you were a we in this life; the pair of you have formed a way of living in tandem, your own intrinsic tango to which nobody else knows the steps. It’s not just like or a passing fancy. It’s not just hot static running through veins. 

This is fully fledged; this is oxygen now. The rise and fall of your chest is the rise and fall of his. The absence of it must be suffocating. 

So you don't know why he doesn’t like this game. He makes a question-answer into a back-and-forth, and then he winds and winds you up until you’re ready to snap. 

It’s not fair. God, it’s not fair. You deserve to know his name. Doesn’t he know it’s not just a tickle in the back of your mind anymore? If he was the one whose name you were screaming, didn’t you deserve to know what it was?

“Why do you keep doing this?” 

You watch his lips purse, the color bleeding out of them and into pink patches on his neck and cheeks. The spoon rattles against the tray, and the glob of green wavers in its curve. He refuses to hold your gaze like always. Self-inflicted torment disguises itself as burnt-sienna irises. The life you’ve forgotten is bowing his shoulders, and your crash, no matter the fact that he saved you, is eating away at him. 

Then the lieutenant smiles, in the fractured way—the way someone might laugh at a funeral. 

“Because knowing my name wouldn’t help you. You never called me by it, anyway.”

This, oh God—this is the closest you’ve ever gotten, and you’re still wading in the darkness. A name you’d never even call him by, what a wonder that does to your psyche. 

A name was a start; it was a first impression. There was a lot in a name. 

So you’d never called him by his name… so what?

So what, only lovers knew each other by more than a name? So what, he never called you by yours? So what, you didn’t want to ever call him by his name, never felt the urge, but felt it was rather proper considering you didn’t know what to call him at all?

He keeps you doggy-paddling for it.

The hospital room is polluted with silence for the rest of the night. Slowly, you finish the Jell-O as he sits back in his chair, watching, yet not quite seeing you. You missed when his staring felt like a buzzing fly. Now it’s a thunderstorm hanging over you, foggy and dampened, and you’re struck every few seconds with a shiver. 

He doesn’t reach out for your hand when you pretend you’ve fallen asleep. Twenty minutes past lights out, he stands and heads into the bathroom, slowly creaking the door closed and locking it before the shower faucet turns on and stays on for a long, long time. 

Where his hand should be is where he laid his jacket, one sewn patch erroneously rough against your palm. With another glance at the light underneath the bathroom door, you haul the leather jacket up into your lap, tracing the ridges and folds. You trails your fingertips along the jacket, searching for… something. Anything. 

Cold metal, a zipper slips underneath your fingers, and you sit up straighter despite the outcry of pain in your ribs. 

A pocket, and inside is a small plastic card—his ID. 

That, and a small, velvet box. 

No…

No, you won’t open it. 

No, no, because he shouldn’t even have that here. 

Why—dear God—why did he have that here?

It’s not for you. That’s for sure. You don’t even want to open it. No.

It’s not yours. It’s not yours to have, especially since he hasn’t offered it to you, and it’s not yours to wear, and it’s not yours to look at, to watch, iridescent, crystal devotion reflecting the moonlight from the room’s lone window. 

But when you lift the cover and curse the stars that the man whose name you don’t even know knows you so well, knows how beautiful it is in your eyes, and even worse, how well it fits on your finger, you know it’s yours. 

Well, not yours. 

It’s hers. The one before the crash’s. 

That’s her ring on your finger, and that’s her lieutenant grieving in the bathroom. 

This is her life, not yours. All you own anymore is the absence pulsing in your chest. 

You own the spasms in your veins, the brief and lasting panic of who am I, really?, the deficiency of life and past and love; the frail hold on this reality, on that man, on this ring. 

The rest is not yours, so you should let it go. 

Then, ideally, you should be able to float away, free from these junctions to a girl you don’t know. The man who loves her loves your face. He loves your body, and your voice, and each of the words falling from your lips, perhaps in the wrong order, yes, but he’ll rearrange them in his mind so that it matches hers.

Ideally. 

Ideally, it’s not this drowning feeling, a weight like a hand pressing hard against your chest, shoving you deeper and deeper under the current. She’s the one who breathes, not you. You don’t need to breathe. You’re an accident in this world. 

The I.D. slips from your grasp and falls to the floor. 

You’ve read it. You saw the name, the rank, the naval symbol. In the dim moonlight and the single glowing strip underneath the bathroom door, his not-really-a-smile smiles up at you from the vinyl floor. 

And now you see it, chrome duct tape peeling off the jagged stitches of a patch, the one over his heart. Another of his games: his missing call sign. 

It… fits him. Strangely enough. 

Is this what you called him?

The hospital room floods with a subdued yellow light carried out by the steam of the lieutenant’s shower. He emerges with a towel wrapped around his lower body, a sheen of wet on his cheeks you’re not certain was caused by the shower. 

Like you, this is his third shower in this room, but unlike him, he’s not wearing a smirk when he exits, bare feet padding along the cold tiles. He doesn’t spare you a glance while he pilfers through his black duffle bag, the one seated on the only other guest chair in the room—the one that never moves. 

Maybe it was a good thing he didn’t look, because you hadn’t thought to take off the ring. It was a plan as half-baked as when you’d first decided to put it on. Some barbaric, frenzied part of you, the same one that had slipped it on and hugged it close to your heart, refused to yank it off. It was another you—not her nor you, but a new one that had fallen in love with him, Rooster, without memory or qualms, the one that had no issue with him lingering in every corner of your mind; no, in fact, she preferred it.

You don’t listen to her when the lieutenant pivots back to face you, a fresh pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and the rest sourced from the duffel bag in tow, one fist curled into his towel at his waist. His eyes land on yours, and your fingers slicken with the sweat of your palms, tremble like the thumps beneath your ribcage. 

At the worst moment possible, you notice, in the hazy yellow light of 10:07 PM, that Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw’s eyes are achingly akin to whiskey. It’s the dark, thick kind that coats your tongue and hits you five seconds after you sip it like a freight train; heady, terribly intoxicating, and in large doses, coaxes out the worst side of yourself at an even worse moment. 

The ring clinks against the bed’s metal framework before shuddering against the tile floor, and his eyes leave yours to watch it rattle. The skin of your left ring finger burns from the swift twisting and tugging you’d employed in a state of tipsy panic—your plan had been to slip the ring unnoticed beneath his leather jacket, the same place you’d stuffed the velvet box. 

A breath tears itself out of the lieutenant’s chest. Tan skin rises and falls once, and his grip goes white-knuckle on his towel. 

Then he pads back toward the bathroom without a word and disappears behind the slammed door. Somehow, in some terrible way, it is even harder to breathe with him not in the room after that. 

But he bursts through the door a second later, completely negligent of the violent pacing of your heart, donned in clothes wrinkled and stretched in odd places from frantic dressing. He covers the distance with three long strides and slackens back into the plastic hospital chair, the heavy creases under his eyes never having looked so deep-seated. 

You see it now. The damage this whole experience has done to him. He’s been hollowed out, rigorously gutted to the point that one last revelation might finally crack him in half and let the despair pour out. 

You’re afraid to tell him all that you don’t know. That even though you had slid that ring on and off your finger, you still don’t know him. But, God, you want to tell him that you love him, despite knowing it won’t be enough. It’s not even enough to you, and it’s all that you have. 

Usually, he wears this sheen layer of tenderness over his face; it slips off every night when you close your eyes, and he smooths it back on in the mornings in the mirror. Some days he layers it on so thick you never even notice the grief hidden underneath. 

It must have gotten too heavy to bear. 

The silence hangs just as heavy. He runs both hands down his face, pressing hard enough that his skin emerges pink, and folds his hands, knocking them against his lips. Veins in his eyes grow redder by the second, and your heart begins a slow crawl up your throat at the watery levels of his eyelines, waiting to spill. The ring sits on the floor untouched. 

“Do you,” he faltered, clearing his throat. “Do you… remember anything?”

He’s looking at you so intensely that your skin is searing. Shame washes over you, grasping your shoulders and burying you deeply into its chest. You want to cry. 

“Nothing.”

The lieutenant stares at you a second longer, stretching it out until you’re trembling. Then he looks away, down, before reaching and retrieving the ring from the ground. He observes it for just a second, the way it glimmers in night’s imperfect lighting, and his eyes squeeze shut.

Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw, you’ve learned, will draw things out until the perfect moment has come. He will wait until the ache swells and culminates, with a tolerance so inexhaustible you wonder if, in all your time loving him, you ever bothered to wait up. He’s noticed how the darkness has swallowed both of you wholly, and only now does he offer reprieve. 

Bradley tells you your name.

And he tells you that he’s been in love with you since the first second he saw you. 

He tells you that he can’t bear the thought of losing all that you’d had, and that his world had been crumbling apart before his own goddamned eyes ever since your jet’s engine had sputtered and died. He tells you that he’s so, so fucking sorry he couldn’t save you, sorry that your life ever got entangled so messily with his in the first place, and even more sorry that he’s so useless to help you find your way back, that you can’t seem to find your way back to him. 

And when you began to cry, he bolted up from his seat and held you, whispering apologies into your hair, and you cried a little harder, because you had found your way back to him, but he wouldn’t ever care, because it wasn’t the same path you’d taken before. 

You cry because it hurts to hold him, and even more because it hurts him to hold you. You want all of the I-love-yous he’s ever said to be for you, and you want that damned ring too. 

You want that goddamn ring on your finger right now because he’d promised you that it would be yours. That first moment he’d ever seen you, stumbling drunk in a crowded Hard Deck and spilling his beer half on his Hawaiian shirt, half on yours, that he’d make up for it by putting a spendy ring on your little finger right there, despite not actually knowing where right there was. The only one I’ll ever buy, he’d hiccuped, it’ll be yours, darlin’. 

“Rooster,” you croaked into his chest. “Roo.”

A provoked sob tore from your throat, your arms and ribs aching from how tightly you clung to him, even after he froze. You surfaced from the curve of his shoulder, hands sliding past his sides, over his thrumming chest, and up to cradle his damp jawline before drawing his face down to yours. He mumbled your name, whiskey eyes potent as ever, and you smothered the rest of his question against your lips. 

You couldn’t tell who was crying anymore. Your cheeks’ dampness was his, just the same as his lips pressed against yours so harshly, so numbingly you couldn’t quite tell where yours ended and his began. It must have been somewhere close to where his tongue met yours, making up for lost time as he fought hard and fiercely for everything he’d been starved of for three, going on four, unbearable days. His hands left their leverage against the bed and latched onto your hips, rough fingertips familiarly caressing the soft slopes of your sides, and when you offered an airy moan to him, he accepted eagerly with a tightening grip. 

You separated from him with a small cry, ribs twinging. Bradley pulled away in horror, and his dilated pupils struggled to sober up to join. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, larger hands now grappling at yours and trying to remove your grasp. “You need—ice, I’ll go get you some ice–”

“Roo, no,” you mumbled, refusing to let go of him. 

He paused, and his body shivered under your touch. The familiarity of his name from your mouth seemed as comforting to him as it was to you. His lips twitched and curled, and he breathed a small sigh. The hard lines of his face grew tender as he slid his hands down to your wrists, turning and pressing a kiss to each palm. 

His heart jumped and throbbed against your fingertips, and you had no doubt he could feel the same from yours. The heat of his damp cheeks had grown infinitely warmer under your touch, and for all the nights you’d spent with just a grasp on his hand, the change was more and more welcome. 

“Don’t leave me again,” he pleaded against the skin of your palm, voice thick and bittersweet, like honey seeping through your ears. “I don’t think I can handle that again.”

He steeled himself against your mattress with one hand when you tugged his forehead down against yours, lips just whispering against one another. You smiled. 

“Was it all the Jell-O that did you in, or…?”

“Yeah, actually,” he nodded, tongue pressed against his cheek. “It was. I hope you know we’re never having Jell-O in our house ever again.”

“Not even lime?”

“Especially lime.”

You huffed, “Fine.” You pulled away, despite how desperate Bradley was to follow you. He let you fall back against the pillows with your hand still in his grasp, and he settled onto the edge of the mattress, letting his spare hand find home in the pliant skin of your thigh. Your eyes rose to the ceiling. “But it’ll cost you.”

Soft lips brushed the back of your left hand before cold metal slipped around your finger. “One of these?”

“Exactly.”

Bradley hummed. “Gladly.”

Hey! Could I request a yandere garou scenario where Reader who does not know who garou is and never met him before, is kidnapped by the monster association and he goes on a rampage to get them back?Sorry if it's too specific.

Please Don’t Save Me (Yandere Garou x Reader) 

*GIF not mine* 

Summary: (TW: gore) After the Monster Association kidnaps you under the claim that you’re bait for a friend, the man that comes to save you is unfamiliar, but he seems to know you quite well. He’s your savior… but who is he?

A/N: I don’t think I’ve ever written something so… disgusting. Seriously, trust the trigger warning. Anyways, sorry this was so late, but I hope it’s what you wanted! Enjoy! (Side note: a lil late, but thanks for 1.6k y’all!)

Word count: 2548

        Sewage, decaying rats, and other putrid scents infiltrated your nose the second the blindfold was ripped away from your face. The sight that greeted you was even worse. 

        “So this is what drives him.” A monster. Pink, round, and multi-limbed, it had one eye that stared you down while it spoke in a complacent tone. “I suppose now all we have to do is wait. He’ll be along shortly.”

        You didn’t have a clue what it was talking about, nor the brainpower to consider it. Instead, you focused on the heart-stopping sights around you. With your hands and feet tied behind your back, you sat on your knees in two-inch thick sewer sludge that soaked through the fabric of your jeans. 

        Creatures of all kinds flooded the large opening of the brick underground of City Z. Their base looked like a colosseum, several floors stacked on one another with balconies holding types of monsters you couldn’t even imagine. Some appeared human, standing on two legs but containing a wicked look in their eyes, while the others didn’t even have eyes or limbs at all. Even in the dark lighting, you could see all their gazes were locked on you like the star of a show. 

        Heart racing, you struggled to breath. Your throat closed up in fear, leaving you heaving gasps of air that choked you every once in a while. Instinctively, you wanted to scream for help, cry, or sob at the complete helplessness that overcame you, but soon it was all too much for even that.

        How do I get out of this? You flinched away when the pink, lumpy monster slithered closer to inspect you, one of the many two-fingered “arms” on its head reaching down to brush a hair from your face. It left a trail of clear slime in its wake. Oh God, please help me. Someone please!

        Swallowing a gag, you purse your lips and let out a small whimper, loud enough to have the crowd before you laughing. A tear, just one, slipped from your eye, trailing down your cheek and dripping into the rancid puddle below you. 

        You wanted to hug yourself, shove the hood of your sweatshirt over your head and curl in on yourself until you disappeared from the Earth, but that wouldn’t happen. No; sadly, this was reality. Human-sized cockroaches, five-headed serpents, and gorillas loaded with the horns of wild boars and young bucks all chattered loudly enough around you to slap you in the face with the truth. 

        Hopeless, alone, and afraid. Were they going to kill you? Was this really how you were going to die? Surrounded by these beasts, drooling with what must have been an eagerness to swallow you whole? Your entire body trembled at the thought. 

        “Help,” you whispered, head dropping far enough that your chin met your chest. “Dear God, someone help me, please.” You sounded broken, so broken. The dark layout combined with the stench of human feces burned your eyes. You’d never been so willing to just pass out in your life. 

        “Gyoro Gyoro, did you find the girl?” The question sounded more like a command, but the baritone it was delivered in made your blood freeze. Stomps thunderous enough to tremor the concrete digging into your skin left you gasping for air, hyperventilating at the owner of it all. 

        Oh fuck, oh God, oh shit. Please! Why me?!

        Tears fell at a faster rate as you danced around the edges of a panic attack, seizing up at the giant that entered the room. The flickering lights of the sewer were immediately blocked out by the colossus that entered, instead leaving it black with shadows. Its skin appeared maroon and thick, rough like a crocodile with hands and feet that ended in sharp talons. You were barely half the size of the claw on its pinkie toe, like the monstrosity could snort you up a nostril and not even choke. 

        Fear clamped onto your stomach, seizing your heart and setting your entire body into a cold sweat. Liquid fell down your brow and soaked into the collar of your hoodie with ease, making your entire body slick and unbearably hot. What. The. Hell.

        How could such a creature have been made? 

        “I do, sir.” The pink slug still standing in front of you turned to the monster, which, judging by how the others instantly stood to attention, was the leader of some sorts. 

        You understood why. 

        “So where is he, then? That human you so desperately wanted?” 

        “He should be here soon, my lord. No doubt, he will notice her absence and understand we are serious.” 

        Head still reeling with the shock of seeing such a herculean-sized titan, you could barely understand their words. “Him”? Who were they talking about?

        Your palms began to clam behind your back, and your fingers and toes began to go numb with little blood. You were used to the horrid odors by now, but every time your mouth opened a bit too wide with a panicked gasp, you gagged on the thick smoke wafting in the room. 

        You were shivering, not only from your sweat drying but also from how truly alone you felt. This was not how you wanted to die. You wanted to be surrounded by family and friends, maybe with the aroma of farewell flowers at your bedside. Instead, you were almost positive this was how it would all end, human feces soaked into your clothing while surrounded by Earth’s living mistakes. 

        Please, you clench your eyes shut and shudder out a sob, I don’t want to die.

        A flexible surface, slick with ooze and mushy like old jello, forces your chin up to meet the eye of “Gyoro Gyoro.”

        “Humans like you are so weak. They cry so easily, even at the slightest touch.”

        “Please don’t hurt me.” You’d never heard your voice crack like that, like it had crawled its own way out of your throat.

        The monster lets out a humored chuckle, releasing your chin and instead dragging its appendages down your face once more. 

        “Hurt you?” it mocks teasingly, “No, no, no. We wouldn’t do that. If anything, I could call you ‘insurance.’ You see, little human, we only brought you here to lure in a friend of ours. No doubt he’s dying to see you.” 

        A scream echoes from within one of the many forking paths of the sewer system, pained and tortured. It cuts off with a loud crack. 

        “Ooh, sounds like he’s here. Sit tight, my dear weakling!”

        As if you could go anywhere else. The scream was not even the slightest bit reassuring, and neither was being called “insurance.” Obviously, the person (or thing) just down that tunnel was the reason you were brought here in the first place, but that didn’t necessarily mean they were your savior. Please, please want to save me. I don’t want to be here anymore. 

        That first scream led to a second, then a third, then a fourth, all the way until you gave up counting, which was right around when the new arrival to the party shouted. “WHERE IS SHE?!”

        Gyoro Gyoro glanced to the side lazily, slumping his way towards where the voice was coming. But just before he could speak, you piped up without warning. 

        “HELP ME!” 

        A slime-coated limb slapped you across the face hard enough to stun you into silence. Pain lit up your right cheek and made your eyes water. Evidently, calling out to the person, audibly a man, coming to save you was not permitted. 

        But the damage had already been done. 

        It’s silent for a breath. You can hear the sharp inhale of the man searching for you from deep within the faraway tunnel as he listens to your call. Then the real horror begins. 

        From where you knelt, you could only see shadows that must have been a hundred or so feet away battling it out. The monsters versus whomever your new hope was. You were perched just that far away from the entryway of the tunnel, like a trophy on display, but that made you just that much more vulnerable to the brutal sounds of a massacre. 

        The sounds were less than pleasant, leaving you wishing you could cover your ears. Blood splattered, mixing together with sewage water as bones cracked and dead monsters squealed their last breaths. If your eyes were open, you were sure to see nothing all too pretty. 

        Howls of pain combined with animalistic growls of “how dare you touch her” and “nobody takes what’s mine.” And finally, your champion surfaced from the hall. 

        Where you thought monsters in their original form were bad, their guts hanging off the human before you was worse. 

        The man who had come for you had broad, muscular shoulders, the right torn open with a bloody gash while the left had an enemy’s dripping intestines draped over it. He might’ve been a ginger originally, or maybe he had blond hair, or white. Right now, you sure as hell couldn’t tell. Hot blood seeped down from the orange-tinted strands into his own eye, coloring the sclera a bright red. Veins ran and popped over every muscle of his bare upper body, while the simple, white sweatpants he wore were also soaked maroon. 

        His eyes locked on you the instant he emerged. He took in how you shivered, the tear stains on your face, the red mark on your cheek, the utter terror in your eyes. The sight of it all you were sure wasn’t a treat. But for the man before you? Well… 

        He went berserk. 

        After every movement he made trailed a shimmering line of cyan, but that’s all you could follow. Like a bullet, he moved too fast for the naked eye, pouncing back and forth around the open colosseum of monsters. In his wake, he left a gory mass of carnage. Limbs from every animal and bug you could think of still twitched with life, freshly detached from their owners, who didn’t even get a chance to scream. Roars of anger from the man flooded the room as he latched onto one mutated beast after another, tearing them entrails from raw entrails. 

        You wouldn’t be able to get those cries out of your head for months, and for once in your life, you pitied monsters. After all, who would want to be ripped to shreds like a rat in a cat’s paws? For once in your life, you finally saw monsters as prey. 

        Gyoro Gyoro and his lord had obviously gone barking up the wrong tree.

        “You touched her.” Tear. “You laid your disgusting hands on her.” Rip. “You made her cry.” Splat.

        Liquid spattered onto your face, oozing it’s way down your temples and along your jaw. You didn’t need a mirror to know it was red. 

        “Is this what you wanted?” Finally, all of the butchery was silenced, not even a groan slicing through the air. “When you stole her. Is this what you expected?” 

        “Garou-” Gyoro Gyoro’s voice broke off in a sputtered cough. “-look how strong you’ve become. We thought-” cough “-we knew you had the potential. And look how much you’ve grown, just by having her.”

        A bitter snicker, obviously from the true beast. The true monster. “You were right. You were right about one thing only. She does make me stronger.” Crack. “But you didn’t need to steal her from me to figure that out.” Slump.

        A quiet that somehow felt more suffocating than the previous screams filled the hot room. Through it, you could hear monsters still gurgling on their own guts. Wheezes of last breaths. Death surrounded you, and it’s cause? 

        He wrapped you up in a hug. 

        Little chunks of innards stuck from his body onto your sweatshirt, clinging to the fabric like glue had placed them there. His face was warm and slick against the crook of your neck while his hands wound around your waist, forcing your chest flush against his. 

        “Are you okay?” Even after all that bloodshed, his voice now sounded… loving. Adoring, cherishing, caring, kind. Right now, he sounded like a worried boyfriend after his girlfriend tripped. This situation wasn’t even close, and had no reason for him to sound so calm. 

        “Who…” you raised your chin from his shoulder, but with your arms still trapped behind your back, you couldn’t push him away. “Who are you?”

        His face buried deeper into your shoulder, and his grip on your body grew firmer. “YN, I’ve… I’ve liked you for a long time. It’s not creepy, I swear! I just- I just liked watching you and making sure you were okay. Somewhere along the way, I think I fell in love.”

        The man before you, hugging you with all the strength in his body, kissing your skin like he’d done it before, confessing his love like it’s been long enough, you didn’t know him. Not even the face, nor the body, nor the hungry eyes seemed even the slightest bit familiar. 

        Minutes passed, feeling like hours. When Garou finally got enough of holding you close, he untied your restraints and lifted your sore body into his arms. Your muscles whined with every movement, and yet you still tried to shove him off you. 

        “Please, please just let me go,” you pleaded, hands pressing against his chest while you stared into his eyes. 

        Nothing. No nod, no “okay,” nothing. 

        Instead, he shook his head and shifted your entire weight to be cradled in one powerful arm. Then his free hand shifted up to your face, where he brushed a long thumb over your cheek. “YN, I know you barely know me. I know that. But Angel, you will come to love me just as much as I love you. It’ll just take some time.”

        The tone, so confident yet hopeful. You knew he wouldn’t budge.

        So maybe that’s why you cried. 

        “Please, just take me home.” 

        “I am, Angel.” He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, then to your cheeks. A couple on your jaw, one on your nose, then finally he planted his lips on yours. 

        No. You didn’t want this. Whoever this guy was, capable of massacring a giant the size of a skyscraper and more, you didn’t want him. You didn’t ask for him, or his love, or his unyielding loyalty. You didn’t want his murderous possessiveness, or even his passionate kiss. 

        You didn’t ask for this. A man obsessed with you, and almost just as obsessed with making you love him. 

        “I’m taking you to our home now. There, you will grow to love me just as much as I love you.”

       But you got him anyway. Or he got you.

Jsjsisjsisjsis I just want to know the reason why you are so underrated 😩🥺 LIKE SJSHSKS YOUR WRITING IS SO PERFECT I preach it ngl 😾❤️

Gonna give you all the love and support I have for you 😭😭✨✨✨

I love you and your writing style!! It’s so detailed and serene to me while I read it 😌

DUDDDDEEE YOURE MAKING ME BLUSH STOPPPP🥰🥰🥰

Thank you so much for the kind words! Really, I never expected even this much support when I started, so to get comments from such nice people is like a dream come true right now🥺💜 I’m so happy you like what I write and how I write, and I look forward to writing more now that I’ve seen this comment😚 thank you💜💜

hey! are all requests open or just some? i just want to make sure before i send in something :))

All requests are open, go nuts!

My Hero Academia Masterlist

☔ = Angst

🌦️ = Angst to Fluff

💥 = Crack

☀️ = Fluff

💋 = Smut

🖤 = Yandere

🔔 = Request

🟪Imagines🟪

Bakugou Katsuki:

■  Dance With Me Tonight 🔔 🌦️

Bakugou is pissed after he’s assigned to be a bodyguard along with the rest of the class for one of the richest families in Japan. He didn’t even want to go since you, his crush, weren’t gonna be there! But wait… surely that’s not you on the dance floor with another guy?

■  Hurts to Forget 🌦️

After getting into a scuffle with a villain, you get knocked unconscious and retain minor injuries. At least you thought they were minor. But according to the destructive blond who had blasted his way into your hospital room, your brain might be a little more damaged than you first thought.

■  Ignorance is Bliss 💥☀️

Confessing to you has turned into quite the hassle for Bakugou, as you seem to be totally oblivious to every single one of his ideas. From notes to jewelry, you don’t notice a single thing he tries to anonymously give you. Surely you weren’t that ignorant, were you?

■  The Luna Hunt (ABO AU) 💥

You don’t need a mate right now; you’ve got more important things, like revenge, on your mind. But the Alpha King needs a mate to take his throne, and now he’s come to town to take you. 

■  Nail Polish and Peer Pressure 💥

You just wanted to paint your nails in his room, but Bakugou always had to throw a hissy fit. No matter; revenge can take many forms.

■  One Sorry Idiot in a Tree 💥 (slight 🌦️)

After Bakugou saw you “flirt” with Kirishima, he wasn’t very happy with you. Gee, I wonder what you could do to make him forgive you. On a completely unrelated note, did you know there was a tree outside his window?

■  Operation Breakup Backfires 🌦️

What’s the harm of a little breakup prank? It doesn’t even work anyway….

Shigaraki Tomura:

■  The Mushroom Cloud 🔔 ☔

Shigaraki promised to come back for you in that warehouse. Promised to save you, pinned under exploded debris that crushed your legs to nothingness. The ambush wasn’t supposed to happen, but neither was the explosion that occurred after. “Fine, you can come. But if your ass gets blown up, don’t come cryin’ to me.”

Todoroki Shouto:

■  Guppy Love 💥

Fish don’t survive in coffee. You find that out the hard way.

■  Just Playing Twister 💥

You guys were just playing a game of Twister. Midoriya knew that. They’re always just playing a game of Twister… right?

■  Kidnappers and Keepers (Soulmate AU) 💥☀️

You get kidnapped by a douchebag named “Clarence.” Nothing tops that. Well, except for your dreamboat of a soulmate. Now, he’s a keeper right there.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

🟣Headcanons🟣

After the Breakup (Bakugou, Kirishima) 🌦️(slight 💋)

Crush with a Thirst Trap TikTok (Bakugou) 🔔 (slight 💋)

An Enemy Hypnotizes Him and He Hurts You (Bakugou) 🌦️

He Gets You a Dog but You’re Afraid of Dogs (Shigaraki, Bakugou, Kaminari) 🔔 🖤☀️

He Tells You to Run and You Get Lost (Shigaraki, Dabi) (Bakugou, Shinsou, Todoroki) 🔔 🖤

He Wants You to Sit on His Lap (Kirishima, Kaminari, Todoroki, Midoriya) (slight 🌦️)☀️ (slight 💋)

Kidnapping Fan Darling (Bakugou, Todoroki, Midoriya) 🔔 🖤

League of Villains Reactions to Their Children (Dabi, Shigaraki) 🔔💥

S/O in Sports Festival Cheer Outfit (Bakugou) 🔔(slight 💋)

S/O with a Heart Condition (Todoroki, Bakugou, Tokoyami, Shigaraki, Dabi) 🔔☀️

When He’s Your Fellow Actor (Bakugou, Todoroki, Kirishima)☀️

You Come Home Injured (Bakugou, Todoroki, Kirishima) 🖤

Can i request akaashi x reader like heather Y/N love akaashi but akaashi don't make it super angsty pleaseee like no happy ending for the reader✨

heather like the movie/play or like the song bro pls gimme more explain i yearn for it. also no happy ending for the reader like "yeah just throw that bitch off the cliff honestly she'll survive just do it👀"

so many people came to me for angst like it always hurts so bad why do yall read this 😩 i see u moved on to jjk tho awesome fandom best of luck to u with ur angsty wishes bro