You Come Home Injured (Yandere BNHA Headcanons)

I just went through your entire master list for haikyu, BNHA, and one punch man. My god you are amazing. You can literally write anything, smut, angst, fluff, yandere!!! All your characterization sat won point and you make YN incredibly relatable. Just wanted to sing your praises and thank you for producing such amazing content! Hope you’re staying safe and healthy!:)

This- this lowkey made me tear up. Comments like this make me want to keep writing, so thank you. Thank you so much for your kind words and compliments, from the bottom of my heart. You seem like an amazingly kind person, and I’m glad you’ve enjoyed reading what I have to offer🥰🥰 I hope you’re staying safe and healthy too💜 Have a great day💖💖

Do you think you can do yandere Tomura and yandere Dabi who had to tell their darling to run because they had to fight and when they find their darling they think they tried to run away from them only to be wrong when their darling hugs them crying because they had got lost and grew scared of being away from them

He Tells You to Run During His Fight and You Get Lost (Yandere BNHA Headcanons)

*GIFs not mine*

Bakugou, Shinsou, and Todoroki Version

A/N: Yes yes yes! I LOVE writing yanderes! Especially this kind of angsty/petty shit. It hits me in my feels y’all. Anyways, I sincerely hope you like it!

Word count: 1075

Shigaraki Tomura:

The heroes-- those fucking heroes!-- they found the lair.

He didn’t want you to get caught. He didn’t want them to steal you from him, so he told you to run.

You were so scared.

“RUN!”

You did.

But… where were you now? 

He had barely escaped the fight with his life and now all he needed was you, but you were nowhere to be seen.

Shigaraki was pissed, constantly scratching his neck and mumbling your name while he searched the streets nearby. 

But he was scared too. 

He thought he was finally getting to you! Just recently, you had finally responded to one of his kisses, so how could you abandon him now?

Oh, you were so going to be punished after this.

“YN! WHERE ARE YOU!”

But there’s no response. The streets are empty at the sight of a man covered in disembodied hands and blood. Not even the slightest scuffle assisted him in finding you.

Hours passed without a sign, and Shigaraki’s heart grew more and more pained.

How… how could you?

“Tomura?!” 

His name is called in the distance, barely audible, but in the most heavenly voice. 

“YN!” 

“TOMURA!”

You sounded so scared. You should be.

When he finally caught sight of you, you were already sprinting toward him at full speed.

Rage filled his chest. 

“WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING- oof.”

Suddenly he’s tackled into a hug, with your arms wrapped tightly around his neck. You squeeze him so close, afraid he might slip away and be lost forever if you let go.

You! You were-... you were... hugging him?

Oh. 

His arms fumble to wrap around your waist and he hugs you. A relieved sigh falls from his lips. 

Oh.

God, he loved you so much.

“My sweet darling, are you okay?”

“I thought I lost you…” you mumble against his chest, sniveling voice muffled. 

His heart beamed at the words, and he runs comforting hands up and down your back to soothe your shaking. 

“Never.” He pressed a dry kiss to your scalp. “I’m not letting you go ever again. I promise.”

You both stand in the middle of the street for a moment longer, Shigaraki grinning and you trying to slow your tears. 

When your body seems to calm in his grip, he leans back and scans your beautiful form up and down.

“Now let’s go home, love.”

“Okay… and Tomura?” 

God, he loves the way you say his name.

“Yes?” 

“Thank you.” His heart flutters.

Oh no, you were never leaving the house again. Shigaraki could never let you go after this. You were his. He would be the only one to hold you ever again.

“Of course, darling.”

Dabi:

It was the first day he had finally let you out of his home. 

He had taken you on a “date” of sorts, going up deep into the woods to watch the stars. It was far enough away that no one could hear your screams if you tried to get away. 

Thank God you didn’t. 

In fact, you seemed almost happy, holding his hand and swinging it back and forth as you both traveled home. He couldn’t help but smirk at the smile on your face.

The peaceful night was ruined when a hero recognized him. A battle was on, and Dabi was forced to let you go.

“YN, run!”

“B-but I-”

“RUN!” 

He loved a good listener, and he loved you even more, but he couldn’t afford to let someone take you away. 

You disappeared into the night, dashing away as he’d ordered. Good girl.

The hero, if you could even call him that at this point, was burnt to a smoking crisp in minutes, because how dare he ruin Dabi’s first date with you?

But… where did you go?

The stitched man wasn’t sure where you had gone, even after searching for however many hours. It was like you had disappeared without a trace.

Surely you didn’t… leave, did you? No. No, you would never.

Another hour passed.

YOU BITCH!

“YN WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?!”

Blue flames licked at his palms as he charged down the street, eyes darting back and forth.

“I WILL FIND YOU!”

“Dabi?” 

A meek whisper sounded from the dead-end alley across the street.

“Dabi?” Just a tad louder, your fearful voice mumbled his name, but he stayed silent. 

He could hear the blood pumping in his ears. Fury settled in the pit of his stomach, and he wanted to pounce on you so bad. 

But he wouldn’t. No, he wouldn’t.

He would much rather you come to your predator like a lamb to the slaughter. 

Blue eyes glowing in the light of his flames, he narrows his gaze and skims the murky street for even the slightest movement. Then your head pops up from behind a dumpster.

“Dabi!” your voice shouts in… relief?

Dabi’s fingers itch to wrap around your throat, but the urge falters when you cry out in joy, standing up fully and dashing towards the confused man.

“Wha…?” 

Any air he had gathered is forced out of his chest when you shove his blazing hands away and trap him in your arms.

“YN-”

“I was so scared when I couldn’t find you!” You whimper against his chest, leaving his mind a muddled mess. “I thought- hiccup- I thought that hero killed you and started coming after me.”

The rest of your words grow into a panicked rambling as you break down against him, hands gripping his upper back tighter and tighter with every gasping breath you take. 

You were so terrified, trembling and shivering and crying. It was so beautiful.

A sly grin works its way onto Dabi’s face and he sneaks a hand up to brush through your hair. 

“Shh. Shh. You’re okay now.” 

You were so perfect.

“It’s all gonna be okay.”

God, he loved you so much.

“Nobody’s ever going to take you from me.”

“Promise?”

Oh fuck. 

You were such a good girl, so obedient. 

Dabi’s fingers twitch while combing through your hair, tangling deeper into the strands. Then his other arm encircles your hips and stiffens like solid metal.

Dabi simpers finally, pressing his upturned lips to your cheek. 

“Oh, I promise, darling. I swear my life to it.”

Please give Oreo kisses for me... Hes so cute... He looks so done I love it

Eh, its true he is Pissy™. He really do got that rbf, but I promise he is babie. I’ll def give him kisses for u😙😙

What's in a Virtue (Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x Reader)---Part 3

*GIF not mine*

Summary:

Gaz wants you, but the hotel bar you work at has rules; when a bartender calls dibs, all others have to back off. It’s how the peace is kept, and as the new girl just trying to rack up some savings, you’re not willing to rock the boat.

But Gaz doesn’t take kindly to you avoiding him, and he’s never been one to beat around the bush. From confessing his love on the first night you met to shouting your name seven times from across the bar, he’s not letting you off the hook that easy. Not when he’s seen the proof that you’ve fallen just as hard for him.

A/N: mwahaha, and they said it couldn't be done. those who doubted me shall gaze upon my very first (and perhaps last) complete series! Victoryyyyy! I hope you enjoy!

Word count: 8374

Part 1 Part 2

   You’re pretty sure you didn’t hear him right. 

You’ve got morning-after brain, and his chest is so hot and adamant behind you, and his breath is right next to your ear. Plus, your stomach is growling with a pit only chocolate-chip pancakes and white peach oolong can fill. 

And he’s doing that tracing thingy again. G. A. Then what?

R. Maybe.

And that leads you to think you might’ve just maybe heard him correctly, because why the hell is he drawing his last name on your hip so brutishly that it twinges? 

“Um.” You stiffen. “What.” 

Not really a question. The way you say it, it comes out more like you don’t want to know the answer even if you really did ask. 

Kyle groans that long, gruff way, husked past his vocal cords and throbbing a path through your entire body. “Look, I get it.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Just let me… ah, fuck, I know it sounds ridiculous, love, but hear me out.” He moves away, giving you space to think while he leans against the counter and grips the edge, tight. 

“Wait,” you hold up a hand before he can start talking again, because you need a minute. Several minutes, actually. A whole assload of minutes to comprehend the suggestion he’s just thrown at you. “Wait, wait, wait. Are you serious?”

This is probably just what Kyle’s morning-after brain is like. It makes stupid, sudden suggestions that he just blurts out on a whim with no regard for how it’ll land. In all fairness, you doubt it’s ever done him wrong before. Even in a regular headspace it’d be hard to tell him no. 

Never mind that he’s shirtless, and that his broad shoulders eat up the space of three cupboards, and that his gaze is doing that thing again—that unfair thing where he towers over you but can still make you feel like he’s kneeling, dips his head so those pleading irises look up at you. 

“Dead serious, love.”

There’s an air about him that’s resolute, despite it all. He’s tender but stern, decided and confident in his conclusion. He’s shedding his clothes and skin, leaving himself belly-up for you to bite. 

“Kyle…”

“Too soon?” He doesn’t even look hurt. Just expectant. 

You shrug helplessly. “Yes? Very too soon, don’t you think?” You spin around, fiddle with the pancake mix but don’t open it. The mug you’ve microwaved for your tea is probably cool at this point, and you try to turn that into your biggest problem of this morning. 

Not the special forces sergeant who lives life at three-hundred miles an hour, exuding such a new energy in here that you can’t remember the basics. It’s the morning after, and as beautifully new as Kyle is, like the stretch of new blue jeans, he’s not threadbare enough in here yet. Too tight, sucking the air out of your own home and leaving you all prickly and sweaty and nervous. 

And he wants you to move in with him? Right now? This soon?

It’s easy, when you turn your back to him and lob your hand towards the microwave handle, to pretend that your biggest problem can be amended in minutes. 

Because now, despite that itchiness of Kyle’s gaze on your face, your biggest problem is that you haven’t even begun to steep your tea. That’s a huge deal. You’re supposed to do it seconds after the microwave beeps, pull the mug out and let the steam soak into the tea bag that you swing for a bit, always have to watch the foggy-air disruptions back and forth. Then you steep it, let the water grow murky for ten minutes as you cook the rest of the meal. Add sugar, an ice cube because you’re scared it’ll burn your tongue like the first time, and stir while you pour syrup on your plate. 

You’re horribly set in your ways, so much so that you hate—actually hate—the newness Kyle’s thrust upon you. It took him twenty-four hours to upset everything. 

Well, not everything. Just you. While you feel fresh out of the box, everything around you has been preserved in mundanity. 

If you took two rights and a left from this building, you’d find a sandwich shop owned by a short man with an orange cat. If you went two floors up, you’d find a pack of graduate students; one more floor, and you’d see Mrs. Beverly and her purse dog. If you went into your living room, finagled with your window a bit, the shutters would close in a perfect angle so that the sun falls on your couch but doesn’t glare on your TV. 

You know it takes you twenty-seven minutes to get to work in the morning right after you brush your teeth. It takes you fourteen minutes to walk home after you clock off. Thirty more minutes to order food and settle in, Netflix the pinnacle of your night before you nod off in a tank top with exactly three holes and short shorts you’d bought under the duress of a busted AC.

You have milk and eggs both two days away from expiration in your fridge, along with old Chinese takeout. You have books with crackled spines and ruffled pages on your bookshelf, and a muddy stain on your entryway carpet from two days after you’d bought it. A bedroom unruly and unbidden, clothes strewn everywhere.

You could envision it all, see it all because you knew it all. Have known it all for the months that this place has been your home and you’d begun working at the hotel bar. You could have the rest of your life mapped out by tomorrow if you really wanted to. It’d be safe. Predictable. Boring, in that average way you’ve always known. None of it would be moving by so fast that you wouldn’t get a break to think of the consequences. 

None of it would make you feel like you’re reaching new heights by jumping off cliffs, taking big, stupid risks that wind up working all the damn time—and solely because Kyle makes them work. Because he runs seven steps ahead of you and lays out the golden carpet for you to step on, telling you it’s okay to keep pushing forward.

The phone calls, the talks, his touch and voice. All of it closing in on you, molding you into something fresh and unseen. 

But that’s just it. It’s still just you who’s changed. 

Not Kyle, who’s certainly been like this his whole life. Who’s used to making snap decisions that have an impact, gotten so damn used to doing that that he carries it with him now. 

And it’s not Mariano or his cat Garfield, or the ham and swiss you get on Fridays. It’s not Jared and Samantha, both of whom play Mario Kart after writing another page in their theses. It’s not Mrs. Beverly and Chloe, or Jeanne, or your family or friends you haven’t texted in a while. 

Only you. 

You’re stripped to your marrow, neurons and fibers spilling all over the place because—oh hell—you’ve grown too big for all this. Kyle’s had you melting and flowing fast and sharp since he first showed up in your life, and you’re moving too fast to feel out that old stagnancy. 

But there’s an ugliness that lives inside of you too, that hates how uncomfortable every little step forward is, even if you can’t stop taking them. 

It’s exposing. You feel naked, but not in the new, comfortable way Kyle’s helped you discover by virtue of his longing. More naked like school nightmares and too-small bath towels. Naked like someone’s going to douse you in lemon juice and salt any second to watch you writhe. 

“Kyle.” Your hand’s still propped on the handle. The microwave beeps again, impatient. “Last night was—God, it was amazing.” You open the door, pull out the mug despite how lukewarm it’s grown. “Best I’ve ever had, by a long shot. But…”

“But what, love? You’re scared?” His voice is barely above a whisper, and you’ve no doubt he’d watched your mind run and run circles around itself, and had had enough time to form an argument of his own. “It’s too much? A lot to ask? I think that too, love, but we’re running out of time.” He rises to his full height, and you try not to shy away at how much space he takes up when he’s grim and serious. 

He’s massive, bigger when he’s panting over you, sleek hips pressing down, suppressing your twists and jolts. He’s gotten better at trapping you, too. It’s intimidating. Thrilling, in better circumstances.

You can’t think straight anymore. He smells like pine all over again, and looks it too. 

“Come back with me to England. We’ve got bars—bars I can bother you at. We’ve got universities for second chances. I’ve got a flat with plenty of room, plenty of money to—”

“Kyle, please.” The whine rips from your throat, and you drag two hands over your face. 

In the corner of your vision, you don’t miss the way he stiffens and swallows a bit. But then he says your name through choked sigh, and rasps, “I know it sounds fuckin’ crazy—I feel like a bloody fool saying it out loud. But I don’t want to lose this, and I can’t keep comin’ back here to start us from scratch every few months.”

You don’t know what to say to that, can’t stop bobbing your mouth open and closed, trying to find those useless words that might explain what’s holding you back.

Something like, It’s only been three months.

Yes, but Kyle knows that too. And he still wants you. 

You don’t even really know him.

Sure. But what was there to learn that he wouldn’t offer you on a silver platter?

It’s going to fall apart. It always does for you. Months will pass, and he’ll realize he made a mistake. He’ll kick you to the curb, and you’ll be back to square one. 

A coaxing palm cradles your cheek, and a warm thumb prods over your lower lip, both of which make you flinch out of your thoughts. Kyle tips your head up, up, up until you’re looking at him, brown irises gentle and luring.

“I can see it, you know. That cruel little brain of yours is whirring so loud it’s makin’ me nauseous.”

Your eyes fall closed, and you reach up, grapple at Kyle’s wrist, massage the tender spot at its center. “I’m sorry.”

He inhales, ragged and slow. Exhales, blowing past your flyaways. “For what, bunny?”

You continue to caress the baby-soft skin of his wrist, marveling a bit at how different it feels from his rough fingertips, from his scarred thighs, his bruised back. “I need… time. A little bit to think. Consider things.”

The last thing you wanted to do was tell him to leave. You felt like an idiot for even implying that space from him was the something you needed right now. You know the silence will swallow you whole when he’s gone. 

“You want me to go?” he breathes out, and his face crumbles. Likely, he didn’t want to leave. He could barely be goaded out of your bed, and now this? 

Kyle looks like he wished he hadn’t asked, hadn’t said anything. Those mournful brown eyes slip to the counter, where your mug and pancake box sit, then back to you, to your eyes and nose and lips. 

Your lips. He prods at the bottom one, like he can’t help it. The caress slows to a stop when he pinches his eyes closed and tips forward, dropping his forehead to yours. “But I don’t wanna leave, love,” he mumbles. “Scared if I do, you won’t let me back.”

You don’t think you could ever keep him out. Not out of your house, and not out of your head. But your brain feels unspooled and uncollected, and all that’s left are too-sweet cotton-candy wisps that can’t quite latch onto anything. 

“I…”

Don’t want you to leave either.

I want you to stay. I want to move in with you. I want every night to be like last night, and every morning to begin like ours did.

I want it all to be ours.

Your hands rise up and brush against the dips and swells of his chest. Goosebumps blossom under your touch. 

“Kyle, you know this isn’t goodbye. It can’t be. I need you to tell me you understand that.”

He sighs again.

“I know, love. I know that.” His thumb wanders over the arch of your cheek. “I’m used to all this, with you. All the pullin’ away and coming back.” He chuckles bitterly, a bit breathy. “It’s just so fuckin’ hard this time ’round.”

Your chest feels like it’s split open, gaping and pouring out. But your mind, or what’s left of it, knows you need this. You need the separation from him, deserve time to think through all he’s offering, all you could barely repay him for in return. 

The debt between the two of you is yawning. But if you gave in and told him yes, all you’d be left with is uncertainty. 

Not even a man as perfect as Kyle can make up your mind for you. 

“One more kiss before you go?”

He takes you up on it before you can say any more. 

His lips are a harsh press against yours, bruising enough to leave them puffy for hours. He kisses to consume, to swallow you up and spit you out wanting more. 

Gentlemanly as Kyle can be, there’s not a glimpse of it to be seen now. He’s not playing fair, at the moment. 

He hooks a finger under your chin and holds you steady, keeps you close and running out of air as he slips past your defenses, the hot, wet press of his tongue on top of yours. It’s instantly dominating before you have a chance to fight.

And then he’s toying with you, kneading you back into the fray with long prods and swipes, his stubble from the morning a heady friction on your skin. He’s playing and caressing and devilishly stroking needy whimpers from you, fingers dancing along your skin, drawing circles on your skin and whines from your throat. That dangerous tongue of his performs another sweep about your mouth, then slips back. Kyle begins worrying at your bottom lip, teeth digging in so harsh and quick —

—and he tears away from you so abruptly that you gasp, can’t even see straight. Suddenly you’re cold and alone, panting and losing your balance without Kyle’s sturdy form keeping you upright. 

You only realize what had happened when you hear a rustling from your bedroom. Kyle reappears seconds later, avoiding your gaze as he zips his jacket up over his bare chest, legs and hips clad in last night’s jeans. 

Subconsciously, you pick at the neckline of the black cotton tee you’re wearing—his shirt, one you guess he doesn’t want back before he leaves. “You don’t want your—”

“Don’t take it off—not yet, yeah?” He meets your eyes for the first time in two minutes, and there’s little brown left to them, all dilated pupils and a consternated furrow. Even his lips, wonderfully swelled, are tugged into a small frown. “Keep it on f’me. I’ll come back for it when you’re ready.”

But you don’t know when that’ll be. How could you possibly make an unbiased decision when the damn thing still smells like him and you can’t forget that ravenous look in his eyes when he’d first found you in it?

Kyle’s hovers near the door, hand tight around the knob like he can’t quite figure out how to open it again. He glances back at you over his shoulder, lets himself take you in, take the entire scene in. He even looks back at your bedroom, where the sheets are rumpled and need to be washed. Then he settles on you one last time, jaw set, muscle feathering a bit.

“Call me. Text me. Anything, darling. But don’t you dare forget about me.”

The door closes with a slam.  

~~~~~~

The first day, Gaz is sure it’s fine. You need time to think, and that’s okay. He can handle that. He’s handled it multiple times.

And, yeah, when he’d gotten back to his hotel room, he had to sit for a moment, staring at the wall. Had to replay that whole night all over again. 

Then again. 

He did the same thing with that morning, reimagining licking the sweat off your thighs, sliding up and burying his face into your stomach, pawing at your body wherever you’d get the loudest. Replayed the feeling of your supple palms and soft fingertips—every inch of you was so damn soft, fleshy and yielding in his hands—wandering over his cheeks, his lips, his scalp. 

Fucking beautiful. Every goddamn second of it. 

Gaz, that first day, tries not to linger too long on how it’d ended. 

So stupid of him to bring that up. Suggest for you to move in with him when obviously you both functioned at two vastly different paces. 

Isn’t it ridiculous that he can’t even bring himself to think it’s crazy? He can’t find it in him to say no, that’s bullshit, because who are you and why the hell did he ever think moving with a woman he’d only known for three months was okay—desirable, even?

So bloody desirable it almost crossed that line and became imperative. 

He spends that night checking his phone, wondering if you’ll call him again, borderline tears and needy like yesterday.

That was his favorite aspect of yours so far—when you needed him, you needed him badly. You needed him while you choked back gasps and almost-sobs. You needed him while you breathed a little sigh of relief at the sight of him and jumped into his arms. You needed him with that first kiss, shy and tentative, but trying your best to imitate reckless abandon—until he taught you properly. 

He’d spent that whole night watching you be shocked at yourself for how badly could want him, all confused and flushed when you’d noticed your fingers digging into the buttons of his trousers. A little stunned “o” formed on your lips when you’d dug your nails in, body trembling with exhaustion, and still begged him for more. Kyle, please. More.

Gaz only convinces himself to take a shower for the night when the thoughts become too much. He almost trips over his own feet in a mad scramble when he sees his phone flash, only to find a notification for an update. 

He goes to sleep in a sour mood. 

The second day goes about the same. He wakes up late in the afternoon (because, due to your midnight upset, he was still on his Middle-East sleep schedule), spends way too much time remembering and staring at his phone, waiting for a buzz or a ring. Eats his dinner and drinks in a deathly silence. 

Because silence is unnerving to him now. You’ve changed that much in him. Every second spent in lonely quiet feels like a waste of his time. 

But you don’t call. And you don’t text. 

You don’t do any of it for the next three days. 

Gaz wallows even worse. He gets antsy, goes to the hotel gym and sprints on the treadmill, because he knows if he runs outside he’ll find himself at your place. He goes to stores, buys himself another black t-shirt, same size and brand as the one that you’d worn, that’d cinched in at your waist and flared out to capture your hips and thighs. 

He wanders into the bookstore next door and finds a few of the ones he’d spotted on your bedroom bookshelf whenever you’d tapped out on him. He flits through a few pages, eyes catching on the naughty words, and reads through for… wistful entertainment, at least. 

Research purposes, at most. 

And Gaz chuckles to himself, winking at the girls that try to wander into the section inconspicuously. The same ones who surely have as good a poker face as you, and who immediately vacate the area at the sight of an invader. 

It would be more fun if it was you he was teasing. Same pink ears and face, same eyes avoiding contact at all cost, fingers fidgeting at the hems of your sleeves.

A longing ache floods his chest so directly and intensely that he has to take a second, breathe and set down the book so he can center himself again. That same flood of cognizance about his situation hits him when he’s on missions, when the victims’ sobs finally get to him or he looks too long in the eyes of a dead man. 

Like he’s yanked to the surface after hours underneath the tide, and the sun shines so brightly his eyes burn. But he’s seeing and feeling everything he’d shoved deep down, knows exactly what led him to this moment. 

Gaz doesn’t go out much after that. 

Not the next day, or the day after that. Not even the next two days after those. 

It’s around this point that he wishes you would just put him out of his fucking misery. He’s so tired of thinking of you before he goes to bed, dreaming of you, then waking up to phantom touches all over his body. He’s driving himself up the walls trying not to call you, break into your house and just steal you back to England anyway. 

Patience. Son of a bitch—patience. God, you strung it out so thin with him that it could snap like a rubber band and hurt you both. 

It’s midnight of the tenth day of no contact with you that Gaz’s finally got his sleep schedule under control, and he’s twisted up in the sheets, body caked with sweat. 

Well, actually, he’s in Prague.

He’s rapidly approaching a target in a dusty, dark alleyway. Just before they turn the corner and get into public view—can’t let that happen, have to maintain cover—Gaz wrestles them away from the glow of the streetlamps and back behind a dumpster, kicking away their gun while he wrenches a biceps around their neck—

But it’s your voice ringing through the air. Your pleas and sobs pierce his conscious too late. Your neck snaps so loud he flinches, and all the while his mind is screaming no, no this can’t be right. She’s not the target. She’s never the target. 

Gaz scrambles away, tearing off the sheets and rolling out of bed. 

Jesus Christ.

He has to see you. 

After that, just needs to make sure. Needs to check that you’re still in tact, your sweet neck not cracked and limp, eyes not dim and silenced. 

He rises to his feet and can’t find his Goddamn socks anywhere. A yellow glow from the window lets Gaz catch himself in the mirror at the perfect moment, and he can see the thick sheen of sweat that covers his body head to toe. 

You deserve better than that. Better than a sweaty, desperate man with no patience pushing his way into your house and demanding an answer, a single word, fucking anything from you. 

Even a nod or a shake of your head would settle his poor heart. The damn thing aches in his chest all the time now. 

Gaz slips into the bathroom for a quick, cold shower, stubs his toes against the not-wide-enough walls of the tub several times, and ambles out a bit slower and far more jittery than he’d gone in. 

He’s shifting a pair of pants up his not-yet-dry legs when he spots it. 

A dim flash from the hotel nightstand, where his phone is plugged in. 

Gaz freezes.

Surely it’s not…

Well, it might be…

But he’d been gone for not even five bloody minutes; that’s not even fair!

Suddenly, he’s kicking off the pants and hurdling over the bed, buck-naked and scrambling for his phone.

No, no, no, no, no, no, NO.

But yes. It’s a voicemail from you. Three minutes and forty-seven seconds, and he wasn’t there for any of it. 

He presses it with wide eyes and a heaving chest, and something stabs him, hard, cruel, and swift right in the center of his gut when he hears your voice. 

“Wow, I’m getting deja vu.” You laugh, but it’s empty and short. “I’m really hoping you didn’t sneak off to a mission without telling me. That would, uh…” Your tone grows dreary, even as you huff another laugh. “That would really suck. But I’m sure I deserve it.”

You thought he’d leave you?

You can’t see him, and he knows that, but he still shakes his head, brow furrowed because no, no, no, he would never do that to you. Damn that evil brain of yours. 

“I just… um, I just had a dream, though. Wanted to tell you about it. It wasn’t even bad so, like, I don’t even know why it woke me up.” Some shuffling, and a sniffle. “Well, I mean I do, but… okay, fine, I’ll just tell you. 

“It was pretty lame. Nothing big, but I was hanging out in an apartment—a flat, you might say—which is a stupid name for an apartment, but you Brits don’t even know what chips are, so whatever. I’ll let it go. 

“Anyway, I was sitting on the couch kinda bored, and then you came in. Came back, really. It’s like that background knowledge thing you get in a dream, where you only know exactly what’s going on the moment it happens? But you were back from a mission, and I had dinner and a hot bath ready, and you…”

Another sniffle. Gaz hovers over the phone, waiting for those seconds to dwindle down, needing to know how you felt when the message ended so he could call you and be…well, be whatever the fuck you needed him to be in that moment. 

“I don’t know. We were about to kiss, and then I woke up and you weren’t even there and I just…hated that. The idea of that. Of you not being there when you could’ve been. And knowing that the only reason you weren’t was because I was being so stupidly stubborn.”

You sigh, then, and get too quiet for him to hear without crouching closer. “Kyle, if you still want me even at all after this, I…” You suck in a long breath, and he hears that little hitch at the back of your throat. “I need it to be slow. Slower than what it’s been. Especially if… if it’s gonna be the same apartment. I’ve never had anything like this before. Never felt it. And I’m scared of, well, all of it, honestly.

“But I’m more scared of never taking that chance with you. And you’ve been commuting to my home, my country all this time, so… you know, maybe it’s time I reciprocate. Reciprocate a lot of things.”

Then someone knocks on his door.

~~~~~~

Kyle never directly told you which hotel room he was in. But when he’d kicked his pants off and you’d watched them soar over your bedroom floor that night you’d called him over, you’d laughed into his kiss at the sight of his wallet, his key card, and some loose change rattling across the floor. 

The next morning, you’d picked it all up while he was in the bathroom, where he was hopefully not glaring at the impulsive hickey you’d given him. You’d snagged his t-shirt for yourself, some womanly, possessive part of you wanting to squeeze yourself into his clothes, whether it would fit or not. You’d felt like a damn fool crammed into it—until Kyle saw you for the first time, and the look he gave you made your stomach clench. 

You’d organized the rest of his things onto your dresser, only eyeing the room card, and the number sharpied on the back, passively. 

Room 428. 

You knocked on the door now, pulse thump-thump-thumping against your eardrums. 

An “Oh fuck” was muffled and low through the door. 

It didn’t sound like you’d woken Kyle up, and you admit that you’d been seriously considering the fact that he might’ve left for a mission while you were in AWOL mode. A bit of luck, really, that it was actually him, still here after ten days of radio silence. 

But you’d know that gruff, British grumbling anywhere, and your body began to tremor. Small, at first, in your fingertips and toes. Then your knees felt a little loose as time went on and all you could hear from Kyle’s end was quick footsteps and the snap of fabric. By the time the door whipped open, your every breath came out stumbling, like waves over jagged rocks.

And Kyle…

Oh. 

Oh, Goddamnit. 

Ten days was too long for both of you. 

Because Kyle, for all his effortless handsomeness, was a wreck. Untidy stubble’s laid claim to his jaw and throat, and his lips look bitten raw. Deep-seated crescents curve under each eye, lined and dark and angry. He’s draping himself against the door with the black curls on top of his head in complete disarray, and watching you with a low-lidded gaze. 

Gaunt, worn, weakened. Like the life has been drained out of him. 

But it’s still Kyle. There’s a phantom of his old self in his form now, a tautness to his shoulders and neck, slight bend in his knees, vigilance in his whiskey eyes. You’ll have to reel his spirit to the surface.

Looking at him now, though, it hurts to think you’re the one who’d done it to him. So damn hard to believe that he takes absences of you like shots to the heart. It’s lovely, to be so wanted by Kyle Garrick. 

Harrowing, too. 

There’s a learning curve to holding his tender heart in your hands and trying not to squeeze it too hard, too often, but you get the feeling you’ve been treating it like a stress ball. You forget that he keeps himself at this rough idle for you. That he always carries soft, warm feelings all the time, and lets them fester behind the velvet steel of his abdomen.

“Did you get my voicemail?”

He nods a little. 

“So you heard that I…?”

Another nod. 

The air is thick and straining with his silence. All he is right now is two eyes watching you and ten long fingers flexed against the door, features bordering on unreadable. 

But there’s yearning. There’s always that fierce yearning with Kyle.

You lean a little closer, don’t quite know whether to be disturbed or flattered at how his nostrils flare when he suddenly sniffs. 

Then he hums, low and deep.

“Peaches,” you mumble, recalling months ago, a staunch memory of his words about your perfume. 

“Tha’s right, bunny,” he mutters. His fingers peel off the door before he lurches toward you, a lovely swoop in your gut when he hauls his arms around your waist, tilting his face to yours. He takes another sniff, this one nestled against the top of your scalp. “It’ll smell like peaches.”

When Kyle takes a step backward, his arms remain iron-stiff around your back, dragging you with him. Step for step for step until you’re in his hotel room, kicking his door shut with the heel of your shoe. 

His hand rises and sweeps back the hair stuck to your neck, already slanting his lips over your pulse point, teething at the skin. “My flat,” he whispers. Then he scoops up your jaw, tilts your head to the other side and reattaches his mouth to the next indent in your throat. “My bedroom.” Another readjustment of your head, aligning himself just below your chin, your head tipped all the way back, blurry, blissed-out eyes locked on the ceiling. “My sheets.”

“Kyle.”

His fingertips dig in hard enough to leave purple dots against your lower back. “All of it’ll smell like peaches. Like you.”

You pry him off with a tugging grip at his damp hair, only slightly intrigued by the water droplets that you now notice litter his skin. 

A bit too busy trying to think back to why you’re here, outside of getting his hot mouth all over you again, to try and care about something so minor. 

There’s an indignant huff against your bobbing throat before he draws back. Kyle looks damn near put out by the fact that you hadn’t let him keep sucking distractions into your skin, and his teeth bare slightly when he grumbles, “What is it, love?”

Lest you forget Kyle first and foremost loves to grope at the plush of your thighs, he does so now, mindlessly, detrimentally to your train of thought. “There’s—there’s so much to figure out, Kyle.” Your words are more like a sputter, wild spilling past your teeth. “There’s getting my stuff there, and passports, and visas. Things that take more time than how long we’ve known each other.”

The golden gleam of his smirk almost takes you out of commission. One second he’s bitter about his mouth and the lack of your skin against it, the next he’s pulled back far enough to meet your eyes dead on, confident like he knows you inside out. 

“Bunny, when you first started to walk, did you go ’round asking everyone what running felt like instead of trying it?”

You… don’t know what that means. Like at all. 

And you’re fairly certain you wouldn’t be able to figure it out even if you weren’t exhausted from four-hour sleep and the wandering of calloused fingers. 

“Kyle—what?”

The deep timber of his chuckle floods your ears like spools of silk. It’d almost be mean if it wasn’t the same playful laugh he used to give you from across the counter, one hand on a drink, the other reaching for yours, and if he hadn’t done it with little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. 

“I just mean…” he pauses and strokes at your thighs a little slower, “that all of this has felt so bloody natural. Like I’m made to be doing this. Like I’m learnin’ how to walk all over again. And you…” One hand departs, rises and encompasses your cheek, thumb swiping over its swell. Kyle’s features soften. “Love, you make me want to run so badly.”

Your hands fist against his chest, but you know he can still feel the quivering that’s begun. That slowly showers over your body, tip of your skull down to the bottoms of your feet, electrifying and frightening.

You say his name again, startled at how much you want him. 

He’s not wrong. Not even close. Being with him is like warm sweaters, or old socks, or scuffed shoes. Things that always just fit.

But it’s new, these butterflies frenzied in your stomach, this chain reaction of shivers and sparks of pleasure and licks of sweet heat. 

New, and timeless. Confusing, and so damn easy. 

“I’ve got connections, love. And so much time for you. All the time in the goddamn world.” His hips press into yours, and once more, he begins to sway.

And, once more, you follow suit.

“And there’s bars aplenty in England, love,” Kyle whispers the words against your forehead. “If that kickin’ little mind o’ yours feels like it has to repay me—pain in my arse, but I’d let you do it. Even though I wouldn’t mind it if you could just sit in my apartment and look real pretty. That’s always on the table for you.”

“Definitely off the table, Kyle.”

“All right, all right, fine.” He peppers kisses over your face. “So long as you’re there each time I walk through that door, yeah?”

~~~~~~

Gaz can smell it from the hallway. 

The heavy scent of chocolate and those pretty candles you love to light, along with a lingering hint of peach. The door to his flat towers, ominous and contingent, like if he doesn’t open it now, any second it’ll slip away and he’ll be back on the field, gunsmoke thick in his eyes and throat. 

Coming home is always a little hard.

 He’s unwinding vertebra by vertebra, trying to fracture himself into small enough pieces to fit through the door. And there’s the crotchety stiffness of his limbs, too long for these halls, too sturdy for a scene soft as this. 

Gaz shoots for quiet and hits dead silence when he twists the knob. Slips through the doorway and takes in this little fault he’s discovered in reality, phenomenon he’s kept under wraps for the past year or so. 

Because entering the pocket dimension of his flat is nothing short of ascendant. Every damn time. 

The air in here is velvety smooth and warm. Not unbearably, for July—it almost feels like the warmth of a sweaty palm still interlaced with his, making his body all syrupy slow. The lights have been dimmed and everything in view from the doorway is more shadow than actual features. London, like the determined sadist it is, is gray and drizzly outside each of his wide-open windows, helping none with his search.

That is something he’d had to bargain for—open windows. Gaz doesn’t mind the subpar reward any creeper might receive peeking into his home, but you weren’t as convinced. The task to win you over had become almost insurmountable when he’d grown too greedy in the living room and you, with eyes only barely comprehensive over his shoulder, locked gazes with an elderly woman across the way and screeched.

But he’d won, and it seemed you honored your promise now. 

Speaking of you, he doesn’t even spot you the first look-around. Even as his nerves meld into the sleek familiarity, panic splices through his gut when he glances once, twice, then thrice around. You’re not running toward him like he desperately wishes you would. You’re not hovering over the kitchen stove, or digging through the fridge. You’re not even curled up in the window seat, sipping on a steaming mug. 

Gaz knows he was quiet, but he didn’t know he was too quiet. 

It becomes increasingly obvious that you’d had plans to greet him. 

Because not only is his favorite meal still sitting over the burner, and the kitchen’s covered in dirty dishes, but you’re lounging on the couch, plush thighs crossed one over the other with a book in hand, clad in fantastically sparse lingerie of frilly black lace that leaves meager gaps for his memories to fill in.

With a stuttering breath, he fills the gaps in tight. 

Your lazy fingers scrape at the corner of a page, then you flip it with a bored sigh, shifting a little by hooking your heel over the top of a sofa cushion, splitting your legs wide so he can see—

His pack drops to the floor with a thunderclap of noise. 

Your body jerks all at once, a quick shriek splitting the viscid atmosphere in half. 

Your wide, prey eyes latch onto his while you grapple at your chest, book having been launched halfway across the carpet. “Kyle, you son of a—could you have been any quieter? What the hell?!”

He barks out a laugh. The potency of your voice saying his name is already swimming through his mind, and he reaches back and closes the door while you rise to your feet. “Sorry, love. Next time I’ll just crawl through the window, yeah?”

“Fuckin’ may as well have,” you grumble, adjusting the stringy straps of your bra. Your skin is all blank and pale right now from months of his absence, white space where amaranthine marks should be. 

Four months. The longest the two of you have been apart, and every step you come closer that heady scent of your perfume prickles its way up his spine. 

“My sweet little bunny, precious love of my life—what have you been up to, hmm?”

Your hands slot on your hips, and you pout up at him. The build-up of energy crackles all over his skin the longer you stand so far away from him, but you’ve still settled for a lecture instead of a kiss. “Well, I had this whole plan where I’d feed you and bathe you, and then we’d fuck like rabbits, but I guess that’s out of the question now.”

Gaz snickers, the abject disappointment raw on your face. “How is that out of the question?”

“Timing’s off and you ruined the whole sexy vibe I was aiming for.” You fold your arms, and Gaz shamelessly drags his gaze down from your face. “You really suck, you know that?”

His lips part in that effortless grin you so easily drag out of him. “So sorry, love. If you come over here, I’ll be sure to apologize quite thoroughly.” Gaz lifts his arms, holds them out and gestures his fingers enticingly. “I’ll have your forgiveness in a matter of seconds.”

Your expression’s all stubborn and prickly, but you sway forward a little anyway. “I…” You grunt and stomp toward him, let him wind his entire body around you, and relax a little when his palms massage and dig into your shoulder blades. “I really did have everything planned,” you mumble into his chest, fingertips all twisted up in the back of his shirt. 

Gaz is starting to get an idea about what’s going on. 

Only about half the candles are lit throughout the flat, the majority of which are near the bedroom. The bathroom light is still on, door opened a crack, but there’s unpacked bath bombs strewn about like you gave up halfway through. Even the kitchen is more messy than usual after the nights that you cook. Only half the pots and pans look actually used, the rest an anxious jumble of utensils and ingredients he knows you didn’t need to make chocolate-chip pancakes alone. 

It looks like you were distracted. So very terribly disturbed by something that you could only commit half a mind to all your ideas. 

With him, you’re rarely left to your own devices for this long, and it shows. 

Gaz can see it, feel it, and practically smell it all over you. Despite his embrace and what should be relief about his return, the muscle and tissue all over your body are pulled taut, bowstring-tight and ready to pitch forward at any second. 

He hums, feels the tension in your spine only grow as he draws little circles against your skin. “I know, love. I see it. Candles, and the dinner, and the bath.” He kisses your forehead, grins wider when all you do is huff and puff. “Did so well. I know it’s hard.”

It only serves to wind you up more. “I’m supposed to be the one massaging and calming you. Feeding you and taking care of you after your mission. This is…” you hiss a curse, nails scraping at his waist now. 

“S’okay. I’ve been through this hundreds of times.” His fingers dance a little lower, teasing that arch in your back that you curve a little harder against him. “I know exactly what you need, bunny. Sort you out so you can get back to your plan, yeah? Just need you to let me take care of it.”

“I don’t…” you shake your head. “I don’t know why I just—I mean, all of the sudden it’s you, and I can’t—”

You fall silent so fast when he shushes you, presses a too-short kiss to your lips. Already, he can feel the verve traveling through your very bones. He lets his words brush along your lips when he repeats his promise. 

“Know jus’ what you need. Let me handle it.”

~~~~~~

You’re straddling his thighs with a fork in hand, watching in a satisfied stupor as the plate balanced on his chest rises and falls at a rapid pace. 

Sticky, flushed, and sated all over, you saw off another sliver of pancake and hold it up to Kyle’s lips. He accepts it greedily, lets his head knock back against the headboard with a euphoric, close-lipped smile. 

He hadn’t been… wrong. 

Which is to say, you’d somehow managed to get yourself so worked up in his absence that the second he returned, all you’d wanted to do was jump his bones, sans any of the prelude you’d planned.

A warning would have been nice, now that you think about it. Anytime around four months earlier when he’d first begun preparing you for his absence without you even knowing it, would have been superb. 

Instead, he’d let it fester in you, like he’d planted himself a gift, fruit ripe for the plucking at a later date. 

You want to be mad. 

Can’t quite bring yourself to, though. 

A bit too… preoccupied. 

There’s still sweat dripping at Kyle’s temples when he cleans off the plate, hands still squeezing in distracting patterns around the meat of your thighs. 

“Fucking delicious, love.” He laves his tongue at the corner of his lips. “My two favorite meals.”

“You’re horrible.” You scramble off him unsteadily, trying to keep both you and the dishes in your hands balanced. “I should get a bar of soap for that mouth of yours.”

Kyle laughs first, then groans, swiping his hands down his face. “If you’d said that shit in the barracks, love…” he calls after you, tutting in the distance while you deposit the plate in the sink. You almost trip on your skimpy lingerie set from a couple hours ago while stumbling your way back to the bedroom. 

“Am I supposed to know what that means?” You raise a brow at him even as you tug on his arm, drag him out of the bed and down the hall. 

After it all, Kyle had insisted you keep up the plan. Didn’t want that guilty conscience of yours to fester and, even worse, those pancakes to grow cold. He’d poked at your cheek, voice slurring a little from exhaustion as he whispered, “Gotta stay awake, love, or your li’l rabbit heart’ll feel all sad tomorrow.”

So you’d rolled off the mattress and made the trek back through the apartment, and, admittedly, you started to feel guilty about the mess you’d left during your hazy planning earlier. 

You recalled trying to think of ways you could impress Kyle but not being able to think clearly after slipping on the lacy panties; too caught in imagining how he’d tear them off to really notice how half-baked the rest of your plan was. 

And how all you could think about was him serving you, which really wasn’t fair. It’d been over a year since you’d started living together, and when he went off on missions, it was an unspoken promise on your end that you’d welcome him back in calm and comfortable ways. 

His first few missions had been just that—romantic kisses and big, sweeping arcs of hugs; slow dances around the living room and the kitchen, sweet, bubbly champagne with dinner. 

All you’d managed this time around was half-assed pancakes, lacy panties, and a cold bath that you hadn’t been patient enough to finish prepping. 

You remember that you hadn’t even been exhausted today. The opposite, really. You’d been buzzing from head to toe the moment you got his call, mind too frantic to ever really stick to your old habits. 

Kyle kneels down beside you outside of the tub, three bath bombs encompassed in just one of his absurdly large hands. The other is curling your hair around a single index finger. He’s patiently busying himself by touching you, playing with some part of your body or other like he’s always done. 

One morning he’d had an absurd obsession with your left heel, and he’d nipped at the tendon out of sheer curiosity. 

You’d almost kicked him square in the face. 

But he gets new little obsessions with you all the time. Each day, he’s poking and investigating at a different part of your body, and he always—always—has to feel it against his teeth. 

And you let him. Even now, as he hinges his jaw around your shoulder. 

A true adventurer, unafraid to explore with all that he is. Wants to discover every little thing in a million different ways. 

You lean forward and wrench the faucet off, then pat at Kyle’s cheek. “Bath bombs, please.”

When he thunks them in the water, the air in the room floods with lavender and chamomile. The tub’s still fizzing purple when he clambers in and hauls you in after him, slowing your descent into his lap just enough that only a bit of water dumps over the edge. 

A long, drawn out sigh ruffles the loose hairs atop your scalp. Kyle’s hands sweep all the way up to the underside of your breasts, then way back down to the middle of your thighs, back and forth, back and forth. For the most part, you try not to move, try to let the aches melt away with the heat.

You drop your head back into the crook of Kyle’s neck and shoulder, tipping your face a bit to look at him. 

Everything’s fuzzy. Pleasant. Legs and arms weighed down by gratification, gut slick with sated heat. And your heart thumps wild and proud, bum-rushed red and gold. Natural and gleaming. Normal and perfect. 

“Can we stay like this forever?” Kyle asks again, a lifetime later. You’re only one year wiser when you nod yes, of course, how else would we be?

He burrows you deeper against him, trying to meld your skin into his because it’ll never be close enough. Touching and bruising and biting only mollifies it, this wonderful new appetite only Kyle can feed. 

It’s crumbs of food, or the tiniest sips of water. 

Or spare oxygen.

Kyle hunches over you, hard body slipping against yours. Soughs, like you hit just the spot. 

“Can’t believe you kept gettin’ away from me before all this. Tested my patience so bloody much to get here, bunny.”

You smile, tilting your head and pressing a tender kiss to his cheek. “It’s your best virtue, Kyle.”

The Miracle of Childbirth (Oikawa x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: Yours and Oikawa’s children were the most amazing creatures on Earth… except when they acted like munchkin-sized pain in the asses. 

A/N: Here’s a little imagine to celebrate 500 fUcKiNg followers, like holy shit!! Goddamn that’s amazing tysm :)))! (Also, it hasn’t actually happened yet, but I’m like two followers away so I’m gonna count it cuz I’ll be busy tomorrow.)  It’s more Oikawa shit bc he’s just a hot piece of flat ass, and I’m dying for more domestic stuff w him. I got it from this prompt by @otpdisaster​, so enjoy!

Word count: 880

        There was no greater feeling than when you first looked into your twin children’s eyes while lying in your hospital bed. They were your shade, but had the long, curled lashes of their father. Aiko already had Tooru’s smug smirk down, and Reo had his brown tufts. 

        “They’re beautiful,” you had whispered, cooing softly when Reo wrapped his miniature fingers around your pinkie. Tooru nodded softly at your bedside, cradling your little girl in his arms and smiling down at her. 

        “They’re perfect,” he mumbled back, running a gentle thumb over her cheek. “They’re gonna be the best volleyball players on this side of the world.” You giggle lightly and shake your head while brushing over your boy’s fuzzy scalp, hugging his swaddled form closer to your chest. 

        “I’m sure.” You sigh happily as your husband pecks Aiko’s forehead, causing her to let out a small huff. 

        Every chubby little foot, every puffy tummy was gorgeous in your guys’ eyes. Nothing they could ever do would ruin the way you viewed them as the lights of your lives. They were nothing short of miracles. 

        Except for when they acted like little gremlins. 

        “WE CAPTURED THE DEMON!” You pause at the words and stare confusedly at the door. With a furrowed brow, you unlock your home and step inside, only to see a literal nightmare. 

        Stray pillows and blankets were splayed everywhere in your living room. The couch was cushionless and there was a homemade fort in the center of it all. It was primarily supported by four dining chairs dragged out onto the lounge’s carpet, but had a barrier that consisted of the sofa’s fundamental sections and stuffed animals from the children’s rooms. Two hefty comforters overlapped above its foundation and stood as an accessible entrance to the inside. 

        Both Aiko and Reo ran circles around the fortress with victorious war cries, waving their nerf guns wildly above their heads. “We captured the demon! We captured the demon!” Their yells echoed throughout the whole house as they scrambled up the stairs, presumably to grab more ammo. You, throughout all of this, had watched in a mixture of horror and amusement. 

        “Tooru?” you called out, glancing around the house for any sight of your husband. 

        “Mmmpf mmpf!” A muffled voice hummed from within the fort. Releasing a heavy sigh, you set down your keys and purse on the coffee table before kneeling down on the carpet. You crawl on your hands and knees to the fort, pushing aside a blanket and peering in. The sight before you was almost laughable. 

        Surrounded by a barrage of nerf darts and duct taped to a flimsy tea party chair was Tooru, gagged with a bundled pair of socks. Glitter sparkled in his brown hair and one plastic dart stood like a unicorn horn from his head while he frowned at you. 

        You could only smirk. “Need a little help?” He narrows his eyes, throwing a lazy glare your way. . 

        “Plugh,” he spits out the sock, “Welcome home.” 

        “Gee thanks,” you snicker before gesturing up and down at him. “So what, uh, what happened here?”

        “Our children might become criminals.” He shakes his head wildly to loosen his forehead decoration, but it sticks like a piece of gum on the underside of a table. Tossing his head back in frustration, he lets out a loud groan before wiggling his captivated form at you. “You mind?”

        “I guess I must.” You decide to show him pity and unwrap his hands, snorting when you rip off some arm hair. 

        “Owwie!” he pouts while rubbing his wrists, rising up from the plastic pink chair. After flicking away the nerf dart, you lead the way back into the outside world and Tooru squints at the change in lighting. 

        “How long were you in there?”

        “Too long,” his eyes are haunted while he stares disorientedly at the wall. “I can’t believe my own children think I’m a demon.”

        “Yeah, well, I’m the evil mom who won’t buy them McDonald’s every night. We all got problems.” As daily tradition, you peck his lips softly before walking into the kitchen to prepare dinner. 

        “What’s on the menu tonight?” He follows you and winds his arms around your waist, settling his chin on your shoulder while you sift through the cupboards. 

        “Green bean casserole.”

        Two gasps sound from behind you. 

        “Oh no, they’re both demons now!” Reo exclaims.

        “GET ‘EM!” Aiko shouts, and suddenly you’re being used as a human shield while Tooru screeches behind you in terror. Neft darts begin hit you in savory and unsavory places, and one even pokes you in the eye before-

        “Hey, look, now Mommy’s a unicorn too!”

He Accidentally Confesses (Haikyuu!! Fake Texts)

(Tsukishima Version)

A/N: tehee it just came to me, enjoy!

Can you please do a part 2 of Pumpkin Eater? With a fluffy ending please, this fic broke my heart 😅

Pumpkin Eater (Kuroo x Reader) ~Part 2~ Second Chance

*GIF not mine*

Summary: Last night, your friend sent you pictures of Kuroo with some girl at a random club. Not only was he a liar, but he was also a cheater, and you couldn’t stand to be with him after this.

Part 1

Part 2 (Never Again)

A/N: Hehe, people can’t handle the angst. I get it, I’m the same way. All righty, as per request, here’s part two of Pumpkin Eater! Enjoy!

Word count: 2478

        “We were on a break-”

        Click.

        “Identity theft is not a joke, J-”

        Click.

        “I broke it. It burnt my hand so I punched it. I predict in ten-”

        Click.

        The remote was taken from your loose grip and the television turned black. 

        “YN.”

        “Hmm?”

        “This needs to stop.”

        “What does?”

        Your friend sighed at the sight of you huddled deeply in a mountain of blankets. Dark circles hung like bags under your eyes, contrasting wildy with your ghostly pale face. Every muscle in your body ached with the slightest movement, too stiff from staying in one position for… three days? Four?

        “You’ve been sitting on my couch and moping for a week.”

        Oh, a week. 

        “You need to get up and move, or at least do something,” Christie groaned, throwing the blankets out of your reach and grabbing your hand. She gave it a gentle squeeze and softened her gaze. “I know it hurts, and it sucks.” Squeeze. “But maybe you should talk to him-”

        “I am not talking to him!” you cry out, ripping your hand away and standing on numb legs. “Christie, he cheated on me. There’s no excuse for that!” 

        Her eyes widened in surprise and she nodded solemnly. “Okay, but let me show you something first.” Before you could ask, she stood and left the living room, disappearing into the hallway leading to the bedrooms. 

        To a certain degree, she was right. You needed to get back to it. For the past week, it felt like your life had been set on pause. Every restless hour of sleep you got was filled with memories and nightmares mingling in the most stomach-churning way. Each dream was just about identical. It was always Kuroo and some faceless woman, laughing at you and leaving you behind in a mess of tears and shame as they walked away. 

        You always woke up with a whimper and forced yourself to stay awake after, too afraid to feel that pain again. 

        Some days… you wondered if he felt the same ache as you. If he felt just as empty and lost. Like a piece of his own body, his own heart was missing. Did he… did he feel the same way?

        Suddenly, Christie storms back into the room and drops an object on your lap. A phone. And with closer observation, you realize it’s your phone. 

        “Now, I am going out tonight and looking for a man at the club. If you want to join me, great. If you don’t…” she sighs and licks her red-shaded lips, “I guess that’s fine too.”

        It’s only then you notice she is completely decked out. In a signature little black dress and ruby pumps, she looks ready to knock men out dead. Bronzer sparkles in the brightness of her apartment’s light fixture and mascara makes her eyes bulge in the most baiting way. 

        You, on the other hand, are a complete mess. You’re wearing a week-old sweatshirt (Kuroo’s), and very loose, tightly cinched sweatpants (also Kuroo’s). Each piece of clothing has an emphasis on the sweat, and the only thing glittering on your face is the sugar from your cinnamon donut, aka yesterday’s breakfast. You felt like a trash can, and you certainly had the appearance to match. 

        Christie smooths the skin-tight skirt of her dress down as much as possible before taking a seat beside you on the sofa and grabbing your shoulder. After she turns you to face her, she gives you a tight smile and pulls a Cheeto out of your hair, tossing it to the floor with a heavily disguised sneer. “YN, all I ask is that you don’t let this hold you back forever. Just,” she grabs the phone in your lap and presses it into your hand, “read and listen to the messages. Please. For me.”

        She waits for your nod before standing up and grabbing her purse. With a flip of her straightened hair, she throws it over her shoulder and gives you a small smirk. “Now I might be coming back home later tonight, or I might not, we’ll see,” she winks. “But if I do, don’t expect us to be silent.” With one last giggle at your disgusted face, she disappears into the hall of her apartment building, slamming and locking the door behind her.

        You watch the exit for a couple more seconds before glancing down at your phone. While heaving a sigh, you press the power button and clench your jaw in anticipation. 

        Shit.

                                ~~~

        99+ texts was the symbol on your message app, along with 65 missed calls. 58 of those were from Kuroo, and almost every single one held a voicemail. It was like he was trying to crank up your phone bill just to spite you. 

        After a much-needed shower, you were working your way through every one of them, listening and deleting in an incessant pattern. You rubbed the towel through your damp locks, drying them before trying to run a brush through it in a failed attempt at looking tamed. In the meantime, a message played in the background. Kuroo’s voice crackled through the speakers in a broken tone. 

        “YN… Kitten… I need you back-”

        “Voicemail deleted.” 

        “Hey, it’s me again. Look, please call me back-”

        “Voicemail deleted.” 

        “YN, I don’t care if I have to call you a million times, I’m going to win you back. I love you so much more than you realize. And I’m not gonna stop until you’re in my arms again Kitten. We’re meant to be-”

        “Voicemail deleted.” You pulled your trembling finger away from the screen and choked back a sob. The brush clattered to the floor as you snapped up the phone and hugged it to your chest. 

        You shouldn’t have- Goddamnit!- you should not have let the message run on for that long. But it was just so nice to hear his voice claim that he loved you again. Loved you still.

        But that’s all it was. A claim. 

        “Goddamnit,” you hiss under your breath, clenching your eyes closed as tears trickled down your cheeks. At a slow pace, you mosey your way out of the bathroom, dropping back onto the sofa and crying out the pain. 

        You wish it was as easy to get over some as they say, but the fact is that it’s not. You loved him, and-

        Knock knock.

        Shit, she’s back already?! You scrambled to your feet and tightened your robe around your bare form, approaching the door swiftly. You definitely did not want to stick around if Christie had brought home a male companion. That would just be… ick. 

        Knock knock. The person slammed their fist against the door harder this round, and you yelled back, “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

        Whipping it open, you instantly slammed it shut once more at the sight. 

        Kuroo.

        “YN!”

        “Nope,” you shook your head, “fuck that.” 

        His fist bangs against the door once again, almost knocking it off its hinges. 

        “YN! Please let me see you!” 

        His voice sounded raw, like it was scraping past his throat with every syllable. You assumed yours sounded the same. 

        “Just open the door!” 

        “No!” you screamed back, evidently shocking Kuroo into silence. You stood in anticipation, waiting with your arms crossed for another retort, another plea. But nothing came. 

        Noises shifted outside in the hall, and you saw shadows moving under the door before the light was snuffed out completely. Kuroo’s back and skull made contact with the wood, echoing a dull thud as he settled into a seat on the floor directly outside the apartment. 

        “YN, please,” he muttered, quieter this time. As much as you hated him, you hated the sound of him sad even more. Seeing his presence today just reminded you that love doesn’t fade away after a relationship ends. At least not instantly. 

        You slumped to the carpeted floor too, sniffling and hugging your knees to your chest as you watched the entrance. Distractedly, you petted the fluffy fabric of your pure white robe as you waited. For what, you weren’t exactly sure. 

        Minutes passed, and all you could hear was the occasional snivel out in the hall. Your heart panged at how close he was. All your pain, all your suffering could be cured by a simple embrace of Kuroo’s. Your body and mind knew this, but your emotions refused to falter. 

        “Kuroo-”

        “Tetsurou,” he corrected tightly. 

        You sighed deeply and continued, ignoring the swift beating of your heart. “Why did you do it?” 

        A long pause left you dropping your chin down to your knees, and Kuroo cleared his throat before responding in a croaky voice. “I… I don’t really know. I was wasted, and I should’ve never drank that much. And she looked like you. And I- God, I was an idiot. But she was nothing to me, meant nothing to me.” His head banged against the barrier before he kept going. 

        “YN, you need to know you’re the love of my life. You’re,” he huffed out a breath, and you could hear him adjust his position on the floor. “You’re it for me. I can’t function without you. For the last week, I haven’t slept more than an hour, or eaten or anything. I just… please, I need you by my side.” 

        Not in a million years would you ever admit it, but you felt the same. Like you needed him to think straight, to help you focus, to keep you grounded. He was the one for you too. You just didn’t understand why he did what he did. 

        “I don’t know if I can trust you again.” You struggled to keep your words steady, and dug your fingernails into your knees when they cracked up at the end. 

        “I’ll work to gain back your trust, YN, God I swear I will. I just need you to give me another chance. I’ll never hurt you again, ever.”

        Tears streamed down your cheeks, but you pushed yourself up to your feet and approached the door anyway. It was the only wall you had left between you and him. He had broken down every other, and this was your last layer of protection. 

        With your hand on the doorknob, you hesitated to open it. You didn’t want to be hurt again. Never. You never thought he would betray you like that. You thought he loved you just as much as you loved him. You couldn’t even think about being with another man.

        So that’s why you pulled your hand away. 

                                ~~~

        Four hours had gone by. You figured Kuroo had gone home a while ago, and you had settled onto the couch, forcing yourself to laugh at a comedian’s stand up just to feel better. A hot chocolate steamed in your hand as you curled up in a blanket, trying to erase the pain in your heart.

        Footsteps clicked outside. Stilettos. Then whispers occurred. You sighed at the inevitability of getting kicked out so Christie could get it on with her new friend, but then she knocked.

        “Hey YN, you mind getting the door for me?” Her voice didn’t slur in the slightest. In fact, she didn’t even sound buzzed. Shaking away your suspicion, you rose and opened it for her, keeping your gaze locked on the television to wait for the comedian’s punchline. 

        “Christie, did you even drink while-” You were cut off by the feeling of someone’s long, strong arms embracing you. 

        The sensation was too familiar to be her. It was tight and warm and loving and comforting. It sprung tears in your eyes and washed a wave of uncontrolled contentment over you. 

        “Kuroo,” you choked out. Said man’s arms tightened around you. 

        “Don’t,” he whispered, his low volume muffled against your neck. “Please don’t call me that.”

        “Tetsurou,” you breathe out, “you were out there that whole time?”

        He chuckled bitterly and brushed his lips over your bare shoulder. “I love you. Fuck, I love you so much. I would do anything for you.”

        You snorted lightly into his own shoulder, running your hands up and down his back comfortingly. You enjoyed the feeling of him. You missed it. “I love you too.” Lips curling into a grin, Kuroo leaned back and began to pepper your face in kisses at the words. Then his hands crept up to the back of your head and tugged you closer, slamming you against him in a passionate kiss. 

        You both moaned at the feeling. It had been too long, way too long since you had been with each other. 

        When a loud clearing of a throat sounded, you pulled away, giggling when Kuroo tried to follow you. Your forehead pressed against his and you both stared deeply into each other’s eyes, watching with adoring gazes. 

        “I missed you.”

        “I missed you too.”

        “Yeah, that’s great and all,” Christie chimed in, “but can y’all move in together again? YN, I don’t know if you noticed, but you made my place look like a rat’s nest.” You snapped away from Kuroo in a split second and glanced around the room. You finally had enough clarity to take in your surroundings and- shit- she was right. 

        Blankets and wrappers and clothing were thrown haphazardly around the room. With a nervous giggle, you shrugged and gestured to the sight. “Umm, sorry?”

        “Yeah, yeah,” Christie scoffs with a smile before tossing you your backpack. “Just get outta my sight, lovebirds.” 

        Kuroo unraveled himself from you and intertwined his hand with yours. “She’s right,” he mutters, nuzzling his nose against your ear. “Let’s go home.”

        You nodded and gave Christie a grateful nod before waving goodbye. 

        In minutes, you were downstairs and outside, walking home in the chilly, midnight air.

        “Shit, it’s cold out,” you whined, huddling closer to Kuroo’s side.

        “Maybe it’s cause you’re only in a robe,” he snickers. Your eyes widen in realization before you glance down and shriek. 

        “Shit,” you swivel around and lock your eyes on the apartment building, “we gotta go back to Christie’s!”

       An arm winds around your waist and halts you mid-journey, tugging you closer to a nice source of heat. “Oh hell no,” Kuroo shakes his head before throwing a hand under your knees. In one swift movement, you’re up off the ground, being carried bridal style in the opposite direction. “We’re going home. I finally have you back, and I’m not gonna spend another second without you in my arms.”

I was wondering if you were going to continue the Luna hunt fic you have? I really liked that one and just wanted to know!

oof yeah so like heres the big daddy issue thats biting me in the ass is that i spent like four hours writing the second part about five months ago but then i scrapped it bc it was trash. Interestingly enough, i recently came up with the most cliche fucking ideas for a second part of that fic--u know, the exact ideas that every single person has thought of while asking me for a second part that i had no clue abt thanksforthatguys anyways yeah we'll see if i got time to write it

maybe one day

I'm so glad you enjoyed the first part tho! What was ur fav part?

*Tips toes back into the request box* Hey! It's me again, I got another yandere!Garou idea, what if he had a childhood friend who was always there for him and defended him from bullies and he fell in love with them and he confessed but his crush tried to reject him in a nice way and he just snaps.I'm so sorry that i keep requesting yandere!Garou content but I really love how you write him and portray him (and because I'm a simp for him too),

Turning the Tables (Yandere Garou x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: The monster never gets the girl, but why not? Garou never knew, but what he did know was that that was about to change. He was getting the girl… getting you, whether you want him or not.

A/N: *Almost passes out writing this at 2 am* Ehh, I really wish this one could have been better, but I already procrastinated enough on it. Sorry it took so long, and I really hope it fits what you wanted. This idea was great, and I only wish I had a better time writing for it. But anyways, in all honesty, I hope you like it!

Word count: 2525

        “Haha, look at the monster cry!”

        “Beat him up, he’s evil!”

        “Take him out, hero! Take out the villain!”

        The calls were all the same. Every game, they would cheer as Tacchan stood over him, kicking him and hitting him with the nearest stick. 

        “Take that, monster! And that!” 

        Why? What did I do? What made me the villain?

        “Stop hurting him!” 

        The pain stops as Tacchan is shoved away. A girl-- you-- kneels next to him, surveying him for bruises or other wounds as he stays curled up on his side. 

        “Why are you defending him, YN? He’s not the hero. He’s just the dumb monster.” 

        You fix a fierce glare on the school’s pretty boy, keeping a comforting hand on Garou’s shoulder as you speak. “You know, heroes lose too sometimes.” 

        Those words… someone finally understood. Someone finally believed in what he believed, was willing to fight for what he was willing to fight for. You stood up for him. You stood up for the monster.

        It was those words that left Garou falling for you. Addicted to you.

                                ~~~

        Why couldn’t the monsters ever win? Why couldn’t they defeat the hero or succeed in their plans? 

        Why couldn’t the monster ever get the girl?

        Garou never knew why, but one thing he did know was that, looking at you, he was going to change that. 

        I’m getting the girl.

        “I’m just saying I think you’re overreacting.”

        “Pshh, says you!” You shove him away and stick out your tongue. “Where finals are concerned, your opinion is irrelevant. You dropped out; therefore, I get to bitch about finals all I want!” 

        The pair of you walked side by side down the street. Once in a while, your hands would brush at the proximity, and Garou did all he could to resist intertwining your fingers with his own. 

        Be patient.

        “Well, maybe you should try actually studying instead of watching anime.”

        “Maybe you should shut up.” 

        He only grinned as you pouted, continuing down the street at what must’ve been ten at night. Both of you had just left the cinema after a particularly disappointing horror movie. Garou had vetoed the other options, which consisted of two superhero movies, one documentary, and three cheesy chick flicks. He had hoped that you would duck into his shoulder at any jumpscares, but the movie had been dreadfully bare of any actual horror. 

        Through the glowing streets of City S, you guided Garou back to your apartment building, leading him up the steps and to your door. 

        “Shit, it was freaking freezing out there!” Your hands tremble as you try to unlock the door. After the key finally wiggles its way into the lock, you let out a noise of relief before leading him inside. “Why don’t you stay here and warm up before going back to- oh where was it you said you were staying again? A lovely three-story mansion with a backyard hot tub?”

        Scoffing, Garou observes as you toss your coat aside on the kitchen table and collapse onto the couch. “I’ll have you know my shack is actually quite warm compared to the outside.”

        You hum, unimpressed as he settles down on the cushion beside you and lays an arm out directly behind your head. “Yeah, sure. Because fifty degrees is always considered warmer when compared to forty-nine.”

        “Exactly,” he nods, smirking at the laugh it drags out of you. A comfortable silence falls over your living room as you lean your head back on Garou’s arm. You were always so comfortable and accepting of him. You thought the same way he did, always considering the villain’s feelings along with the hero. You shared his sense of humor, his adoration for children, and his deep devotion to your guys’s friendship. 

        Truly, Garou believed there was no way you didn’t feel the same. Every hug and kiss on the cheek you gave him assured him so. He just had to tell you. 

        If he confessed first, he knew you would feel confident enough to say the same. 

        “Garou.” All too suddenly, he’s dragged out of his thoughts of you by you yourself. He doesn’t mind, though; listening to your voice was a million times better than imagining it in his head. One too many times had it not been enough when he sat in his hideout, imagining you lounging around and planning out his next hero attack by his side. 

        Your hand stretches over his lap to grasp his own as you sit up and turn to him, one leg folded while the other hangs off the couch. “Honestly, I really think you should stay here tonight.” 

        No, he would never refuse that. Not in a million years. You wanted him here. This time, you invited him to stay in your home. 

        It was much better than when he used to settle for intruding while you slept, crawling into bed beside you and watching you slumber long before the sun rose. It was always harder to leave than it was to enter. 

        “YN…”

        “I know, I know, but I hate to see how you’re living right now.” You tear your gaze away from his intense one and shake your head. “My spare room is always open.”

        No, no, that’s not what he wanted. 

        “It’s got a mattress and everything. It’s gotta be better than the bale of hay you settle for.” 

        “I don’t sleep on a bale of hay!” 

        You raise a brow and he rolls his eyes, grumbling his response. “It’s not as uncomfortable as you think.” 

        “C’mon Garou, you need this. And honestly, I don’t mind you staying here! I promise.”

        That wasn’t his issue. Of course, he wanted to stay here too, but for different reasons. You wanted to keep him inside and safe like a friend should. 

        He wanted to sleep on your bed and hold you in his arms. He wanted to wake you with breakfast in the morning, kiss you before you left for school, greet you and help you with homework when you returned. 

        He wanted to make love to you on the counter, in the shower, on the sofa you both sat on right now. 

        No longer could he stand this platonic bullshit anymore, and he knew you felt the same. 

        I’m getting the girl. 

        “I’d be a shitty friend if I didn’t let you stay here for at least tonight-”

        “Why don’t we both sleep in your bed then?”

        Garou finally shifts his body to face yours, mirroring your position and pulling the arm off the back of your couch to drop it into your lap. His fingers splay out along your thigh but you don’t bother to stop the movements. 

        Jaw dropped, you stare at Garou in shock. “W-What?!”

        “You heard me.”

        “Yeah, I heard you, but I don’t think I did it too good.”

        “Then I’ll repeat myself.” Garou leans closer, face just inches from your own as he whispers, “Why don’t we sleep in the same bed for the night?”

        Never before had you seen the look in his eyes. With enlarged pupils forcing away their natural yellow, they practically glow with desire as he leers over you. Part of you wants to lean back, but you just keep thinking no, this is Garou, my friend. He’s just teasing.

        “Very funny, Garou,” you snort, placing two hands on his solid chest to push him away, but you gulp when he doesn’t budge. 

        “It wasn’t a joke, YN.”

        God, he was so close you could feel yourself sweating under his gaze. He was too close; his body was too hot. Slipping away from his long fingers, you stand up and stumble into the kitchen. A glass of water, that’s what you needed to clear your head. 

        Rage floods Garou’s chest at the aversion and he doesn’t hesitate to follow you. “YN-”

        You hold up a finger to pause him while you swallow glass after glass of water, hoping and begging that this was just a joke. Surely he wasn’t serious, right?

        After your fifth glass, Garou huffs out in irritation and snatches the water away from your lips, slamming it to the table before folding his arms. “YN.” 

        “Garou.”

        That look in her eyes, it can’t be fear. No, no she loves you just as much as you love her. She’s just shy.

        “YN, I’m in love with you.” His cheeks almost burn at the confession, but he continues. “I have been since the day we met, when you stood up for me.” 

        Guilt floods your features before you turn your head, hugging yourself for comfort. “Garou, I don’t… I don’t know what to say.”

        “Just tell me the truth. Tell me you feel the same, YN, because I know there’s no way you don’t.”

        “But Garou-”

        “Just say you love me, YN, and we can finally be together like we should be.” When he takes a step closer, you take one back, and that’s when the love and hope in his eyes crumbles. 

        “Garou, I’m sorry. I do, a-and I will always love you-”

        “Then why-”

        “-as my best friend.” 

        Cracks fill his chest as the words settle in his stomach like a rock. His heart twinges at the words as they echo in his ears. 

        A friend? That’s all he was to you? A FRIEND?!

        “Take it back, YN.” His head has dropped, shaking back and forth incessantly as he mumbles the words. “Take it back.”

        “Garou, I’m so sorry.” 

        Crash.

        You flinch at the sight, watching water drip down your walls as broken glass falls to the floor. A chair at your kitchen table gets kicked into the wall as well, splintering off a wooden leg and leaving a hole in the paneling. 

        A scream rips its way out of your throat when Garou picks up your table, throwing it in the same direction and not even flinching when it breaks into flying pieces. Fear holds your heart tightly in it’s grasp as he approaches you, face scrunched up in fury. 

        “Why, YN?” The words are spat with disdain. “Why won’t you just admit you love me back? What’s stopping you?”

        You whimper and back away slowly, scared to anger the beast more. Too bad the damage had already been done. Garou kicks a dent into your fridge, allowing the cold air to hiss out and fill the now-dusty room. 

        “Garou, please!”         “I won’t use you, YN! I won’t cheat on you, or go behind your back! I love you and only you!” 

        “Garou!” Fearful tears slide down your face after you run into the counter, completely and utterly helpless. You feel trapped in your own home. 

        “And I won’t hurt you…” he trails off, ignoring your flinching as he looms closer, “...not unless I have to.”

        “Please, just stop!” Your emotions are at an all-time high as you frantically draw in breaths, filling your lungs as fast as you can when this monster approaches. “I’m sorry!”

        The more you speak, it seems, the more furious Garou becomes. While you slump to the cold floor of your kitchen, he turns your house into a war zone. 

        His voice, heightened with pain, never stops talking as he trashes your house, punching holes in the walls and chucking furniture everywhere. 

        “Why YN?!”

        “Why don’t you love me?!”

        “You’re mine!”

        “I’m not letting you go!”

        “I’ll make you love me, I don’t care what I have to do. You will love me.” 

        Even after ducking your head into your knees and plugging your ears, you couldn’t block out the shouts, the crashes, the tornado that was Garou ripping through your house and destroying everything you owned. 

        “You don’t love me?” he scoffed, running his bloody hands through his hair and shaking his head. “She doesn’t love me, she doesn’t love me, she doesn’t love me.” 

        When he returns to the kitchen to see you, he can’t help but crumple to the ground.

        Your face is tucked between your legs and your body visibly trembles on the floor. Garou bites into his lip at the sight, rage wilting into despair as he kneels in front of you.

        “I can fix this,” he shakes his head. “I will, I promise.” Without a second thought, he nudges your hands away from your ears before dropping his head to your shoulder and letting out a shaky sigh. 

        Tears soak through your shirt for all the wrong reasons, but you can’t get away. By now, he’s pressed your forehead against his chest and wiggled his way between your knees, mumbling words you assume he thinks are reassuring as he runs his lips up and down your neck. 

        “I can fix this, YN. I’m not gonna lose you. I swear, I’m not letting you go ever again.”

        Before you can do anything to get away, he’s rising to his feet and taking you with him. 

        Your arms instinctually wrap around his neck so you don’t fall back, bile crawling up your throat when he smiles and hums in approval against your skin. “Good girl.”

        By force, your legs are wrapped around his waist by his hands, now settled below your thighs as he squeezes the flesh appreciatively. “Yes, YN, let’s get out of here. I’ll fix all of this, just let me get us out of here and then we can discuss this.”

                                ~~~

        Garou got the girl. The monster finally won.

        He couldn’t fight the grin off his face as he held you tighter, brushing the hair out of your eyes as you slept without a care. 

        The gentle touch woke you from your pleasant dream, leaving you forced to confront the nightmare that was reality. 

        “Morning Angel.” A kiss to your forehead left your skin crawling. 

        “Garou… please-”

        “Ah, ah, ah, none of that today. I don’t want to have to gag you again.” His finger booped your nose as if he had just teased you with a toy. The horribly familiar grip on your waist was just as bruising as it was yesterday, and the day before, but it was still a pleasant exchange for the shackles that had kept you in place for the first two weeks you were in Garou’s hideout. The gag had stayed on your face for the same amount of time, but even the memory made your heart seize. 

        “You’re a monster.” 

        God, he actually smiled at that.

        “Oh, I know, Angel. And soon, you’ll love me for it.” He pauses only to hug you closer. “Just like you used to.”

Nail Polish and Peer Pressure (Bakugou x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: 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. 

A/N: Google searched “asshole synonyms” for this. I ain’t sorry. Not my best work, but I really wanted to write something, so please enjoy!

Word count: 1220

        “Hey, YN, thanks for the badass nail polish. It’s super manly!”

       “Of course Kirishima!”

       That ticked him off. Even his best friend had gotten his nails painted by you. The whole class was now writing, tapping, and gesturing with their painted nails however they could, and it was all thanks to your seemingly endless supply of that toxic shit. Bakugou was sick of it. 

       It all began a couple days ago, when the blond and you were hanging out in his own room.

                               ###

       “What the hell is that smell?” Your boyfriend sniffed the air with distaste, looking over from the computer he had been playing on. There you were, sitting on his bed with a bottle of polish precariously balanced on one thigh. The other leg was a makeshift surface on which you painted your nails maroon. 

       “Seriously?”

       “Seriously what?” you asked obliviously.

       “Get that nasty shit off my bed before you spill it!” he demanded, spinning around in his chair to face you. He glared at the bottle you innocently gestured at him.

       “What, this? You’re really that scared I’m gonna ruin your precious sheets with a little nail polish? C’mon Katsuki, I’m not that clumsy.” He scoffs at your obvious lie and raises a brow at you. You purse your lips and roll your eyes, giving in. “All right fine, you’re right! But I’ll be careful, I swear.” Following your plea, you throw out your best weapon imaginable: puppy dog eyes. 

       It was ineffective.

       “No, now close that shit before the stench becomes permanent.” He turns back to his computer without another word and returns to his game. 

       “Fine,” you stand up and walk over to his door, awkwardly trying to open with your elbows since your fingers weren’t exactly dry yet. “Then I’ll go do this elsewhere.”

       “Fine.”

                               ###

       Since then, you’ve been painting everyone in the class’s nails, even the guys. Just three days ago he had walked in on you adorning Deku’s hands with emerald green in the common area. Jealousy was his initial reaction, as all he could see was the small twerp’s hands near your lap as you giggled. Then it got worse to see his fingers resting on your thighs while you chatted and laughed together. 

       “YN!” Bakugou had shouted at you. You glanced up with wide eyes from your task, then recognized the look in your boyfriend’s eyes.

       “Oh calm down, Katsuki. It’s not like you were gonna let me paint your nails.” Bakugou almost exploded at your tone. “Besides, Izuku was just wondering what all the fuss was about. There’s nothing wrong with wanting pretty nails.” Those words combined with the fact that you had called that loser by his name pushed the blond over the edge. He was slowly being driven insane.

                               ###

       “Hey YN, some girls at the mall yesterday totally complimented my nails. Thanks again!” the bubbly gravity girl spouted. Bakugou’s arm tightened around your shoulder at the praise, and he snarled at the sight of disembodied hot pink nails floating into the classroom. 

       “I absolutely adore the sparkles you gave me, YN. You’re a goddess!” Aoyama praised next, twirling around and waving his hands in front of yours and Bakugou’s faces before dramatically falling into his seat. This was ridiculous. 

       Everyone, and he meant everyone in the classroom except for him had painted nails of all colors. “Oh, you gotta be kidding me,” the miserable future hero muttered as he watched Todoroki pass with red and white nails. “I’m gonna hurl.”

       He missed the smug smirk that grew on your face, and you swiftly kiss him on the cheek before separating and returning to your own desk just as the bell rang. 

       It was only a matter of time.

                               ###

       Deku stood over the bruised and beaten blond, shoving his painted hands in front of his face while laughing victoriously. “Well, well, well, looks like I finally beat you, Kacchan,” the green-haired boy boasted. Bakugou only groaned in pain on the hard asphalt of the street, unable to move as the bruises began to darken. 

       “I guess you could say it was all thanks to these,” he continued, flashing his emerald nails near Bakugou’s two black eyes. “Tell YN I’m grateful-”

       Bakugou sprang up from his bed in a cold sweat, gasping and feeling his body for any bruises, only to come up clean. “It was all a nightmare,” he groaned, ducking his head miserably into his hands. “This is fucking stupid.” And yet, why did he want to go to your room now? The pupil-burning red digits of his alarm clock told him it was too late; it was midnight. But he didn’t care. If Bakugou had one more stupid nightmare over fucking nail polish, he was going to lose it. 

                               ###

       “YN!” Who the hell? “YN, open up! Open the goddamn door, YN!” Your boyfriend. Of course. Checking your phone, you moaned at the time while slumping off your bed and onto the floor, worming your way to the entrance an enraged blond currently stood behind. 

       “Did you bring me food?” 

       “What? No-”

       “A stuffed animal?”

       “No! I-”

       “Then why in the goddamn fuck are you here at-” you whip open your door and glare into his crimson eyes, “the asscrack of dawn?” Your menacing whisper was challenged with a raised brow.

       “It’s only twelve.”

       “It’s only bedtime,” you mocked with a sneer. “What do you need?”

       “You need to paint my nails.” Oh, oh this was good. Who needed prank TV shows when you could have all this? You disguised your victorious expression by dropping your head and groaning dramatically. Sweet, sweet revenge was near, and you could almost taste that salty bitch. 

       “Fineeee. But wash your hands first.” He tried to object, but you cut him off with a wave of your hand. “I’m not painting over your crusty-ass sleep nails.” 

       “The fuck are ‘sleep nails’?” your blondy grumbled under his breath, but nonetheless made his way over to your bathroom. Trembling excitedly after watching him walk away, you swiftly texted the class group chat you had made a week ago with great news. 

You: U guys can remove ur nail polish now. Bakugou finally gave in ;)

Kaminari: Thank GODDD, I’m done with this yellow crap on my fingers

Kirishima: Me too, but at least we’ll finally get to see Bakugou with girly nails

Mina: Man, I’m gonna miss my pink sparkles!!

You: It’ll be worth it, trust me

       You set your phone down just as Bakugou turned off the lights in your bathroom, but the buzzing of notifications continued. 

       “What asshole is texting you at midnight?”

       “Probably the same kind of knucklehead that would yell at me through my door at midnight.”

       He scoffs before flopping down onto your bed beside you. “Whatever, let’s just get this over with.”

       “Wonderful.” Your eyes twinkle wickedly as you open your nightstand drawer, displaying a wide array of nail polishes even a rainbow would be jealous of. “So what color were you thinking?”