#doing nothing but learning how to train her

[yanderenightmare]

jujutsu kaisen- which yanderes are really scary? i love the one you did about bnha, like which ones are just show, and which ones are really dangerous ones!! 💘

Yandere JJK

♡ FEAT: Nanami, Gojo, Geto, Sukuna, Itadori

♡ TW: NSFW, noncon, yandere, kidnapped reader, pet-play, degradation, caging, punishments, manipulation, forced submission, other stuff...

♡ FEM reader

♡ Kento Nanami

He’s scary because he’s so strict. 

He’s got house rules and expects you to follow them—no exceptions. Oh, and when you fail to do that? He expects you to take your punishment without any fuss.

“You know what you did wrong, baby. Be a good girl now and make it right, and I’ll forgive you.”

Yeah… you’ve yet to learn how to do that…

Stupid as you know it is, you always try to run—and it always makes it worse.

Your ass stings, smacked raw after three dozen hits. You sit with it on your heels, kneeling before the man who dealt the blows. That would have been the end of it if only you’d managed to take it properly—you could have been done. But now here you are, tears on your face, hiccups still raw in your throat, as he fastens the collar around it.

He doesn’t take kindly to you when you try to avoid responsibility. Accepting your punishments is one of those responsibilities.

It’s about humility, knowing when you’re wrong, and a matter of integrity to accept the consequences. And as Kento makes clear, a good girl should have both. And if you have neither, well, then you don’t deserve to be treated like a good girl, now, do you?

And that's a real shame. You see, because good girls get to eat their dinner at the table. They have the right to take warm showers, can sleep in the bed, and wear clothes. They’re even allowed to have hobbies after they’re done with all their chores. 

But bad girls, however? They don’t get any of that. 

Because a bad girl is no different from an animal. Bad girls get their dinner in a bowl on the floor, are hosed down in the tub, sleep and stay in their cage whenever their master’s out, and walk around on all fours naked with a collar around their throat until they’ve proven themselves worthy of being a good girl again.

And how does she do that?

Why, by obeying and serving her master, of course.

And so, even a whole week later, you're still stuck sucking his cock through the thin black metal piping of your cage, just like a glory hole.

His fingers interlock with the bars above you, holding them tight enough to make his knuckles whiten, rattling the cage somewhat each time he rocks back and forth.

He doesn’t talk to you much when you’re in this state. Small talk and sweet nothings are reserved for good girls. While bad girls, naturally, only deserve commands like sit, open up, tongue out, suck. 

“Turn around.”

Your breath is erratic, throat abused, voice weak, saying, “Yes, master.”

You’re not allowed to call him by his name, only when you’re back to being his good girl. For now, you’re not his pretty wife; you’re just a caged critter he’s training, and as such, you’ll refer to him appropriately with the proper title.

You honestly don’t know which is worse sometimes, acting like his ever-sweet housewife or this, this fucked up pet-play.

You twist around on all fours in the small cage—face down, ass in the air, as you press your cunt up against the cool metal bars and await getting fucked just like an actual animal.

He’s laid out a baby pink dress on the bed, all frills and ruffles like the things dolls wear—a clear sign. This is the last day of your probation—if you manage to pass the test, that is—meaning, be a good pet and take the pounding.

The cage rattles even more after he drives himself inside and sets his tempo.

It’s hard maintaining the position, painful, but you hold it as good as can—keeping your cunt pressed flush against the wire so hard the fat of your ass and thighs squeeze through, leaving cross-hatched markings on the skin, staying there for every harsh thrust until he's filling you up with his load.

When he’s done, he crouches down, asking sternly if you’re going to be his good girl from now on. And you, despite knowing how the cycle repeats, nod your head, desperately wanting out of the cage even if it means wearing whatever he dresses you in and doing whatever he tells you until the next time he deems you’re due for a demotion.

♡ Satoru Gojo

Gojo’s scary for the opposite reason from Nanami.

Where Nanami is structured, Gojo is random. You never know what to expect or when his switch is about to flip or go apeshit.

Most days, he’ll act like your boyfriend and treat you like his girlfriend. Ignoring you when you don’t play along. He just boops your nose and calls you his grumpy little tsundere with a fond smile on his lips.

He’ll be so lax with you then, allowing you to call him names and fight him. Pulling you to him and spinning you about, doing whatever he wants, treating you like a doll. Laughing at your protests as if they’re all just jokes.

Other days, he’ll be much the same, but even more lax, so lax that he might even actually listen to you, throwing his hands up in surrender, saying “okay, okay” when you growl at him not to touch you.

He’ll act, somehow, somewhat normal on those days as if the two of you just happen to be living with each other. He won’t insist on you being his girlfriend or him being your boyfriend, won’t force you to be lovey-dovey, and won’t force his own lovy-dovey-ness onto you.

On those days, he actually seems to accept that you don’t love him, and you can pretend he’s just this roommate you don’t like. You'd call it his sane days. But at the same time, you think you could even stab him, and he wouldn’t care. So, it's more like his too-tired-to-care-or-something days.

Then there's his demon days.

On those, you don’t get away with anything without him shoving it in your face how little anything you do matters.

He’ll be nasty about it, too. Grinning at your struggle as he pins your wrists above your head and holds them there without budging, making it painstakingly clear that no matter how much strength you put behind it, it’s nothing to him. 

He might even lift you by his hold, haul you off the ground, up onto your tippy-toes, and further, until you’re no longer touching the floor, have you hanging there, like he’s nailed you to the wall.

At those times, it’s as if all he wants to do is make you squirm.

Cupping your cunt in his other hand, he tickles the slit before filling you with two of his ever-long fingers. Breath hitting your cheek and neck, where he whispers filthy teasings in your ear, his sharp blue eyes beholding you with a glint and a smirk on his lips.

He strives to make you cum, but it’s not about your pleasure—it’s about proving a point. The point being, everything in your body surrenders to him, so you should give it up already and accept it.

And still, he doesn’t really tell you to stop fighting—he just mocks you with false coos, “All I want is to see the look on this cute face when I make you cum. Come on, show it to me. We both know you’re gonna, so just give it up already, yeah?”

He only snickers when your cunt flutters around his fingers, eagerly watching you try denying it by shaking your head and biting your lips from squealing.

“That’s it. So fucking cute. And it’s all fucking mine.”

Sadistic glee is painted on his face as he furthers your humiliation by treading your sensitive walls over his cock next. Up against the wall, your thighs around his torso, his mouth on your neck with tongue and teeth.

No matter how you push on his shoulders and chest, he doesn’t budge—just continues to have his way.

You never know which mood you’re waking up to. Delusional boyfriend Satoru, strange roommate Satoru, or this, sadistic Satoru, or someone completely different, someone who’s in all matters of likelihood way worse like that time he cam home covered head to toe in blood and still insisted on fucking you then and there.

♡ Suguru Geto

You started off as a simple temple follower before Geto became the new head priest. You’d been brought into it by your parents from birth. They’d both tried leaving when the organization changed. It would have cost them their lives if they hadn’t had you to offer instead.

And so you become one of his personal servants.

It wasn’t so bad in the beginning, to be honest. You had other maids to find solace and solidarity in. It was only when he took closer notice of you that you started feeling the urge to run away.

Geto is an understanding and patient person. And so he allowed you many liberties, such as letting you talk your way out of coming to his chambers when he requests you, knowing it’s only a matter of time before you run out of excuses.

It’s only when you abuse those liberties that he deems it fit to punish you. When you, just like your foolish parents, take his loose reins as an opportunity to run away.

Naturally, you don't make it far. You should have learned from your parents' mistakes. But, where he was more than happy to stain his pristine monks' robes with their blood, he doesn’t lay a hand on you.

No…

He leaves that to them. 

The many monsters he summons—all slimy, bulky, bumpy ones that drool over your pretty skin as they tear your clothes off and start groping you, rearing your every orifice with something gross.

You scream in the beginning. Then you sob. Then you go silent, whole body limp and twitching, eyes miles away.

He calls them all off when you’re spent—when you don’t even have the strength left to lift a finger, and all you do is lie there where they’ve left you, in a heap of your own undoing.

He doesn’t even say anything. He just snaps his fingers, ordering some other servants to come and collect you.

Lying on the floor, your vision fades in and out as you watch his long robe drag along the floor, steadily moving away from you until disappearing.

The other servants bathe you and dress you, erasing all traces except for those left on the inside.

You don’t see him until later. And this time, the very sight of him makes you shiver.

He asks you which you prefer: how you can choose to behave and be treated like his favorite, or pull a stunt again and be reduced to a plaything.

And this time, it’ll be forever—he doesn’t do third chances.

Your hair’s still damp, and you're wrapped in the fluffiest of all robes, and still, you feel raw and cold and dirty beyond relief as you nod your head and whimper out how you’ll behave.

He smiles then. That kind smile he uses with those sorry people who come to the temple to have their problems fixed—the one where his eyes will crease, and his lips will stretch just far enough to curl at the edges and betray him. 

This time, when he touches you, you accept it by lying still and spreading your legs. 

Vowing to both him and yourself that you’ll never be so dumb as to go against him ever again.

♡ Sukuna

You don’t dare fight him at the start, nor do you run. You don’t even dare think about it.

Tales of the king of curses made you more than willing to bend over backward if it meant staying alive. And somehow, it’s enough to get in his good graces. 

It’s not without sacrifice, of course, being his concubine. He’s not the easiest to please. But watching the way he cuts others into pieces before setting those pieces ablaze, you figure catering to the monster is better than being his prey.

You might be his favorite for now, but you know you’re not any special. That’s to say, you don’t think he’d spare you if you tried running away. In fact, you’re quite sure he’d set his domain off and level everything within a mile’s radius.

Again, not because you’re anything special to him, just out of principle. 

You’ve seen him do worse for less. In the end, all that really matters to him is that his word is law, and if anyone goes against it, they pay the hefty toll of death by utter annihilation.

You know this, and yet as the months go by and you grow more comfortable by the day, you do end up becoming a little brazen. A little naughty. A little too naughty for your own good, maybe... Walking about in expensive silk and jewels, wicked smiles, and coy catlike eyes, playing games with the king of curses and deadly poisons as if you’ve become immune.

“What would you do without me, huh?” you drawl, lying on top of his naked chest, softly lulled by the rise and fall of his breathing while listening to his heartbeat betray the fact that he is, in fact, still somewhat human.

The two of you had just finished up, now lying sweaty in the afterglow. He’s got an arm propped up behind him against the headboard. The other three he keeps on you, petting your skin. Cuddling.

He quirks his brow down at you but neither of his faces react much, regarding you like the silly creature you are and talking to you just so,  “Going somewhere, are you?”

You trace the black ink on his chest. “Oh, you never know... One of these days, I might just run away. Never to be seen again. Leave you here with your dick in your hand.” Your finger reaches the apex of his chest, giving it a tap while you look back up at him, a sly smirk on your lips. “Or, well… dicks in your hands.”

His eyes, all four, squint while eyeing you.

“Are you now…”

There’s a sudden rush, you don’t know where you are for a second or what’s happened. Getting your bearings, you realize you’ve been spun on your back, still in bed, though now lying beneath him.

He seems much bigger this way, terribly big, caging you with his four arms.

“I was…” Your voice comes out as a whimper this time, stripped of all things insolent, now weak and soaked in building fear. “I was just… joking. I didn’t mean anything by it… I–”

“You didn’t mean anything by it, huh?” he cuts you off, leaning down until his head’s next to yours, breaths warm and heavy, hitting your neck and chest.

You squeeze your eyes shut, frozen in place, thinking his teeth are next, knowing he’s no stranger to the taste of meat, knowing he has the palate for it.

His mouth brushes your throat. His teeth follow shortly, gracing your jugular.

But, right before he’s about to puncture your skin comes a chuckle instead, then a whisper, “I’m just fucking with you, brat.” 

The bite still comes, but it's barely hard enough to be called that. Just enough to make a bruise, but nothing you’re not used to.

Still, having your life flash before your eyes is not something you recover from quickly, keeping your breath caught in your throat, just beneath the spit and sting left there by him, leaving you mute.

He, however, is feeling uncharacteristically chatty.

“Not that it would matter either way…” He draws back with a smile, leering down at you with an amused expression written plainly across both his faces, stroking your cheek with his thumb, making your breath stay stuck. “You wouldn’t even be able to leave this room, let alone this temple, without me knowing about it.”

His lower arms lift your thighs and spread them. You only now realize he’s hard again.

“But, to humor your question, if you ever dared leave me…” His grip tightens, his black nails sinking into the doughy flesh. “Well, I’d simply haf’to bring you back, now wouldn’t I?”

His grip seizes, turning gentle again. And your brows furrow, needing to blink.

That’s a little boring, you almost say, only to realize you’re able to breathe again. “You wouldn’t punish me?”

He smiles warmly, admiring the confused pout on your face while rubbing soothing circles over the moondents he left on the insides of your thighs.

“Nah…”

His softness is a little offputting, and so still makes you shiver as one of his upper hands slips down between you and starts playing with you all leisurely.

You only barely get the question out, “Why not?”

He hums, entering you with his fingers, feeling the silky slick left there from before, something proud written on his face. His voice is something nearly unrecognizable with what he says next, though, you suppose, he’d already been acting unlike himself. “If you rip just one petal off a flower, it loses all its beauty.” 

Your breath stops short again, this time for a different reason.

He thumbs your cheek, then curls his digits inside you, making you keen. 

He smiles in return, then says, “And I prefer you just the way you are.”

And it might just be the scariest thing to ever leave the tip of his tattooed tongue. You don’t think you’ll ever be able to breathe again.

“Don’t get me wrong, though, pretty flower,” he continues with a grin, feeling your walls clench around him. “The thing is, no matter where you go, no matter how far, and no matter how well you hide. I’d still find you.”

His hand then goes from your cheek to thumbing your chin—still just as deceptively softly, whispering just so, “Even if I’d haf’to obliterate every last person on earth to get to you. It wouldn’t matter.”

You swallow thickly at that, feeling his lips ghost yours, feeling some of that brazenness return for some reason, making you whisper back at him. “You’re crazy.”

He hums out a chuckle again. “Mh, to push me that far… I’d say you’re the crazy one.”

♡ Yuji Itadori

He doesn’t listen.

He’s like Gojo in that regard. He doesn’t take you seriously.

With his view of life and his knowledge of real horror, he doesn’t take anything seriously anymore.

His life is a waking nightmare, and you? You’re his sitcom.

You thought he was going to be gentle your first time together. And he was, sure, to some degree. He’d prepped you on his fingers and tongue first. Having taken his time with it, getting you puffy, wet, and hot to go. 

You’d been ready, feeling good, sitting on the bed, watching him undress, smiling and happy, biting your lip as he lifted his shirt off, revealing his chest and all those perfectly cut muscles of his. 

Everything was going well at the start. But that’s not to say he didn’t totally bulldoze you in the end...

His sweats were next, and you felt your lower belly do somersaults, needing him like you’d never needed anything else.

But then, when he dropped his boxers, and you finally saw the sheer size of him, you could only reel back in silent shock.

Eyes round and glossy in the dim light, switching between looking up at him and it as if your stare alone could keep it at arm’s length. 

You swallowed thickly, trying to ease the sudden pang of anxiety, making your heart shudder in your chest. But it was to no use. When he took a step toward you, you couldn’t help but bring your knees up to your chin, as if on instinct, locking your thighs together before shaking your head.

“That’s not gonna fit—I was wrong, I’m not ready.”

To which he only blatantly disregarded with a smile, “Pff, don’t worry.” Shaking his head right back at you with a chuckle, then insisting with casual neglect, “It’ll fit.”

Still, watching him climb after you on the bed, you shuffled backward away from him and the threat pointing right at you, repeating, “No, I’m serious, I’m not ready.”

“Baby, relax,” he drawled, stroking his rough hands up and down your thighs to comfort you. “Trust me, alright? I’m gonna make you feel real’ good,” he promised with a wink, hooking his beefy arms under your legs and, without further warning, parting them and pulling you closer, making your back hit the bed with a bounce.

The impact made you blink, and when your eyes opened again, you were all but face to face with it—the massive thing bobbing above your belly, struggling to carry its own weight, and even larger up close.

Honest to god, it must be the size of your forearm. No doubt, it’s going to tear you in two.

Your entire system goes into full alarm. And again, you repeat, now with urgency, “No, Yuji, really, that’s not gonna fit–”

This time, he just laughs—as if you’re only cracking a joke and the laugh track within his head is going nuts.

“You’re supposed to squeeze a baby through here,” he smiles, already pressing the tip against your wet entrance. “Compared to that, this’ll be nothing.”

♡ Toji, Mahito, Yuta, Naoya, & Megumi coming...

♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist ♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[pencil-n-pen]

──────BROKEN DOWN AND HUNGRY FOR YOUR LOVE ───

⋆౨ৎ˚˖ ࣪

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touchstarved ! rookie! reader x training officer! tim

summary: Tim had said ‘no more rookies’ after Lucy, but well. Things don’t always go according to plan. Just like you never thought you’d be staring at your training officer’s arms, wondering how they feel wrapped around you.

cw: daddy issues (seriously this is a tim x reader like. don’t we all have daddy issues) mild depression, descriptions of child death and abuse (it’s one scene and pretty easily skippable but yk police call stuff) tbh could be read as platonic this isn’t super romantic i just want tim to hold me i don’t care how he does it

a/n: in this universe chenford never happened even tho i ship it with every cell in my body. also im only like halfway through season two so take my depiction of characters and events with a grain of salt. buckle up this one’s LOOOOOONGGG

title taken from Lover You Should've Come Over by Jeff Buckley (jeff buckley i miss u)

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Tim Bradford has really nice hands.

This is, undoubtedly, not at all something you should be noticing about your training officer. Probably the most strict, unpredictable, unrelenting, high-key-wants-you-to-fail training officer in the LAPD.

And yet.

Here you are, noticing.

His arms are really nice too. The chords of muscle flex in a particular way while he drives. Especially when turning or when he’s conducting a car chase and his hands go white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

You think to yourself that his hands are probably warm. Tim seems like the kind of man to run hot.

Tim also makes sure that you understand how much he doesn’t like you.

You get it. Kind of. He’d been on his way to becoming a sergeant when it’d been decided that during the coarse of his career, not enough of his officers actually made it past being a rookie.

“One last go,” The captain had said on your first day, “Should be easy. This rookie’s the most self-sufficient thing since Officer West. If she doesn’t make the cut, I want to know why.”

So yeah. You’re pretty sure Tim tuned out the conversation after hearing ‘one last go’.

Additionally, you two have… clashing personalities. You’ve always prided yourself on being self-sufficient- on not needing anyone else. But Tim makes it his mission every single day to remind you of all the million different ways you need to rely on your partner and need them— need him.

It’s annoying on a good day and humbling on a bad one.

And then there’s the matter of Lucy Chen. One of the few rookies to survive the Tim Tests and actually make it past rookie, all the while gaining his respect and friendship.

You don’t even try to hope to reach what she accomplished. Lucy Chen is an inspiration, a pipe dream, and an unreachable standard wrapped up in blue. It’s clear that Tim is proud of the cop she’s become. Proud of his work.

You’re not sure he could ever be proud of you.

But you didn’t raise yourself to be a quitter. So you get up everyday and take the Tim Tests in stride. You work and learn and learn and work and pretend the lack of relationship or bond you have with your fellow rookies doesn’t bother you.

You pretend you don’t dream of being held by warm arms and wake up in the same position, alone and cold.

You pretend the heated blanket you bought during the Academy with your meager funds feels just like human warmth. You pretend it’s enough.

And you do what you always do: you manage.

—

Like with any job, there’s good days, and there’s bad days. You try not to dwell on the bad days, but you usually end up doing so anyways, usually in your silent, empty apartment as you try to fall asleep.

Your shift today is only half over, and you’ve already lost a suspect during a chase —Tim ended up catching her, and the look he shot you as he cuffed him was nothing short of fiery— you accidentally tampered with evidence —in your defense, you weren’t aware that piggy banks were used to move drugs, but accidentally dropping it made you want to crawl into a hole and die— and the cherry on top was the suspect you apprehended today, who, in her desperation to get away from you and jail, kicked you in the leg while she was on the ground. With her very long, and very skinny heel.

‘I got stabbed in the leg with a stripper’s heel’ isn’t a sentence you ever thought you’d say, but here you are. The wound isn’t that bad, thankfully. Just all the usual pain that comes from being stabbed with a fairly blunt object.

You sit in an uncomfortable hospital chair in the waiting room, elbow digging into the hard, wooden armrest and holding your head up by your forehead, while your other arm presses on the still sluggishly bleeding wound on your lower, mid thigh, leg stretched out in front of you.

You’re tired.

Recently, the bad days have outweighed the good ones. You knew this would be the case when you signed up to be a cop. You knew your apartment would feel empty and cold, but you thought that maybe, maybe, you’d make a few friends in your coworkers and it wouldn’t feel so unbearable.

But it turns out there isn’t enough time to make friends when you’re busy trying to get the highest scores in the Academy. And by the time you graduated, you’d been written off as a stuck-up teachers pet. Tolerated by the other rookies at best, occasionally sneered at and mocked at worst.

No fellow rookies, no friendly coworker, no nice neighbors in your apartment. Your training officer doesn’t like you, and the watch commander regularly enjoys singling you out for rookie-typical ridicule.

You’re tired.

The wound on your leg hurts like a bitch, already bruised to hell and back in that way that blunt force injuries usually do. Your pants are dark and sticky with blood, and the hand that’s applying pressure is uncomfortably tacky as you bleed, clot, and dry, over and over again.

It’s shitty. You feel shitty.

The fluorescent overhead lights are making your head pound and there’s so much noise in the waiting room, overlapping and, for lack of a better term, stabbing your eardrums in a pounding beat, and the pain is starting to make you a little nauseous, or maybe that’s the smell of anti-septic, and you fucked up so badly today, and oh god what if you get sepsis or a staff infection, that heel was so dirty, who knows where it’s been, and why won’t you just stop bleeding, and—

“Boot.”

—you haven’t called your mom in ages, she deserves better than that, and god your leg really hurts, and you don’t want to go home after this because—

“Rookie.”

—you’re most definitely being sent home, you got stabbed with a fucking heel for christ’s sake, and unlike after a normal shift you won’t have the exhaustion to just send you straight to bed, chores be damned, your apartment is so, so so quiet and you hate it—

“Hey!”

Snapping fingers in front of your face and Tim’s shout jolts you from your pain-slash-panic-induced spiral, and you reflexively clench your fists, then hiss in pain as your grip tightens over the wound.

He’s crouched in front of you, dark, steady eyes scrutinizing your face.

“Sorry,” you huff, face hot with embarrassment. “It’s, um, it’s loud in here.”

He just nods once, looking rather unimpressed. You resist the urge to fidget.

“You good to stay here while I go back out?”

The thought of waiting in the ER alone, and then more than likely catching an Uber to the station and then ignoring possible doctors orders to drive yourself home from there is… less than pleasant.

But if it has to be done, then it has to be done.

“Yeah,” You say easily, the lie slipping right off your tongue. “Yeah, yeah I’ll be good.”

Your injury had already been called in, so Grey wasn’t expecting you back at the station. Tim would go back on shift and you’d take care of yourself like you always do. You’ll be fine eventually. You always are.

You expect Tim to take the easy out. You’ve handed it to him on a silver platter. Express permission to not have to deal with you anymore today.

He sighs, unexpectedly, then stands, and you look down so you don’t have to watch him walk away, and wait to hear the sound of his retreating footsteps.

They don’t come.

The chair next to you creaks as someone sits down in it.

As Tim sits down in it.

You blink, looking up at him. “Officer Bradford?”

He’s crossed his arms across his chest, sparing you a small glance. “What?”

You look down at your lap. “Nothing.”

He doesn’t say anything, just pulls out his phone, clearly texting someone —probably Officer Lopez— and pretty much ignores you as you wait to be called back.

His presence is enough, though. It chases away some of that creeping panic and chill in your chest. You relax in increments. Your posture slouches, your hand unclenches, and you feel like you can take a breath without throwing up.

Eventually, your name gets called, and maybe you just look especially pathetic as your stiffly and shakily climb to your feet and begin ambling towards the indicated trauma room, but you hear another annoyed sigh, and then Tim’s mumbling “Here,” and then your arm is around his shoulders and his arm snakes behind your back and just above your waist.

And fuck.

If you thought that having him near you was something, having the arms of the man you’ve literally dreamt about doing nearly this exact same thing is… it’s a drug.

Your skin is on fire where’s he’s quite literally holding you together as you awkwardly shuffle across the waiting room. His hands are warm even through the under shirt and your uniform shirt. The rush of chemicals in your head is dizzying at the contact, your brain startlingly aware of each and every place the two of you are connected.

To him, it’s nothing. To you, it’s everything.

If this is what hard drugs feel like, you sympathize with the addicts. All it takes is his arm around you, safe and steadying, and you’re gone. Hooked.

You try your best to file the feeling away in your head, to commit it to memory, so later, when those bad days have their cold nights, you can take it out and remember it. Remember what felt like to be even half wrapped like this. Supported and steadied.

It’s an uncharacteristic show of care on Tim’s part. He’s not exactly a touchy-feely kind of guy. He’s more like the ‘deal with it or quit’ kind of guy.

But he’s helping you here, now. More than he knows.

You don’t comment on any of this, of course, because you don’t want to draw attention to how much you’re leaning into his touch.

You hope he writes it off as needing help walking.

—

The first night after the stabbing —Tim does not let you drive yourself home, though looks vaguely impressed that you were completely willing, and instead drops you off and has Officer Lopez drive your car back to your place— is great. You sleep clear through the night without waking up once. The memory of Tim holding you up, touching you, is fresh in your mind. Sleeping is easy. You arrive to work for once not faking your enthusiasm under layers of professionalism. You actually, genuinely feel okay.

As the weeks progress though, you start flagging.

By the time a month has gone by, you’re downright miserable. You didn’t realize just how empty your chest could feel after actually feeling how warm and full it could be.

This, of course, means doubling over on professionalism, because there’s absolutely no way that anyone can know how much you’re starting to fracture, bit by bit. You’re strong, put-together, and self-sufficient. You take Tim’s training in stride and you never complain. You don’t rise to the bait when you get singled out for hazing, and laugh when you become the subject of a rookie prank.

You do not stare at Tim’s arms or hands out of the corner of your eye when he’s not looking, you do not imagine the big pillow you hold at night is him, and most importantly you do not even entertain the fantasy in which Tim holds you, really holds you, and you don’t have to keep it all together anymore.

It’s not realistic. You’re always going to hold everything together. You always have and you always will.

But sometimes, every now and then, you get something well and truly right, and Tim says “Good job, boot.” And he means it. Gets that crinkle near his eyes and that twitch in his jaw when he’s trying not to look impressed or pleased. And it chases away the empty, just for a little bit. Makes how hard he pushes you just a little more worth it, each time.

It’s starting to get to you, though. Has been for awhile. Because it’s a bit pathetic, isn’t it, to think these things about your training officer? Someone who would never, ever do the things you want him to do? As trivial and stupid and childish as they are?

And look. You’re not stupid. You know exactly why you’ve fixated on Tim Bradford specifically. You’re well versed in the art of “intellectualizing your feelings so you don’t have to feel them” and your want of your training officer’s touch is no mystery. He checks all your boxes- Brooding, emotionally unavailable, harsh, attractive, and more importantly, in a position of power over you. So you get it. Daddy issues, your emotional needs not being met growing up, blah blah blah. It’s whatever.

What’s not whatever is your inability to stop obsessing over it. Him. You need to get a grip.

You want to become a detective. And, not to mention, you’ve worked incredibly hard to be a damn good cop.

But here you are, sitting in the shop with Tim, spacing out when you should be paying attention because you saw one of your old friends post the anniversary for her and her boyfriend last night and now you can’t stop thinking about how she probably look at every couple and wonder how it feels to have someone around, constantly, to soothe the near permanent ache in your chest and itch under your skin.

She probably doesn’t have the ache or itch at all.

“Boot!” Tim barks, voice sudden and loud. “Where are we?”

You jolt in place. “Uh—“

Tim slams on the brakes, your seatbelt snapping against your chest. “I’ve been shot. I’m dead. Where were you just now?”

You scramble for an answer. “I was—“

“Your head wasn’t here,” He jams a finger onto the center console. “And in this line of work, that means you’re dead. It means people die on your watch.”

He starts the car, and without the crackling of dispatch over the radio, it’s awhile before he speaks again.

“What’s wrong?”

The words sound so foreign coming from Officer Bradford that you pause.

“Is that a trick question? Is the answer…um… I should focus more…?”

“Well, yes, and no,” He responds, face set in a slight grimace, “Yes, you need to focus more, but no, that wasn’t a trick question.”

When you don’t immediately respond —what are you supposed to say to that?— he keeps going.

“You’re spacey. You don’t get spacey. But you’ve been all over the place lately, so something’s up.”

“Nothing’s—“

He levels you with a Look.

Now it’s your turn to sigh.

One of the main reasons you didn’t get along with other students at the Academy was your unwillingness to sacrifice your career for a social life. You didn’t tell anybody your sob story— didn’t need the pity, didn’t care what they thought.

And you don’t really want to tell Tim either, but for a different reason. An opposite one, really. You do care what he thinks. A lot. And you don’t want to sound whiny or sensitive or any less of a capable cop. You need to prove to him that you can do this.

But Tim also has the best bullshit sensor of anyone you know, and will immediately see through you if you try to lie.

“I moved to California right before I started at the Academy. I was focused and career driven. And I’ve never really been social. It just, uh, kind of hit me, I guess. That my family is a thousand miles away.”

“What, you don’t have any friends from the Academy?”

His confidence in your social skills is nice, if not very misguided.

You shrug. “I gave up everything to move here. I thought that if I went out to bars and parties, I’d lose focus and fail. I couldn’t, and still can’t afford to.”

Tim’s saved from responding by a call close to your location crackling out from dispatch. And thank god for that. You’re sure as hell not itching to restart the conversation, and besides. Tim wants you to get your head in the game, so you do. Complete and utter focus on the call.

It goes well. But Tim doesn’t say anything as you climb back in the shop, not even a not-displeased hum.

“That’s stupid, you know.”

You look up from where you were checking something in the system. “What?”

“This thing you’re doing. You’re not even living. You’re just going to work and then going home. Your performance is shitty because you feel shitty.”

You gape for a second before rushing to respond. “My performance isn’t—“

“Yeah, it is. Don’t argue me on this, boot. You’re drowning, is what you’re doing. You have no work life balance. You’re going to burn out, and then you wash out.”

He turns to you, eyes bright and jaw set. “And you better not wash out, because you’re my last rookie and I need you to win.”

Right. Yes. Of course. Tim needs you to win, so he needs you to get focused, and get real.

The smile you give him is perfectly practiced and hollow. You ignore the nausea churning in your chest.

“Don’t worry. I don’t do anything other than win.”

—

Even though it’s most definitely stupid and insane, you ignore Tim’s advice. Since when have you had the energy to do things outside of work but rot in bed? And besides. Going out would mean losing precious sleeping hours, which are already hard enough to come by as it is. You don’t need to make your energy levels any worse than they already are by adding going to bed late on top of incredibly fitful sleep.

So it’s fine. You’re handling it.

—

You’re not handling it.

You’re exhausted. All the time. The more tired you are, the more you have to work to make sure your performance at work isn’t suffering. Which makes you more tired.

And you just… can’t sleep. You toss and turn all night, wake up a million times, and usually end up reliving your worst cases with added bonuses, like Tim being injured, and then berating you for it, and then the watch commander calls you into his office and fires you.

And then there’s the guilt. The sickening, nauseating guilt that follows you day after day, choking and clogging your throat because you know you’re better than this. You’re better than this. But you’re not getting better.

You should’ve taken Tim’s advice, maybe. Should’ve heard it two, three, maybe four months ago and extended yourself to other people and tried going out, making a routine of trying new things other than sleeping, watching tv, or working, but it’s too late now and you’re just so fucking tired.

And alone.

Really, really, alone.

When you finally lose it, it’s because of a call. A bad one. A really bad one.

It’s a little girl. No older than nine or ten. Her mother had reported her missing when she’d come home from work and her daughter and her husband were missing. At first, the report hadn’t been taken seriously, but the mother begged and pleaded. It was Lucy who’d pulled up the woman’s husband and found several previous charges for domestic violence and abuse that dispatch had sent multiple units after the child.

Whom you found. Locked in a car.

You were the one to break the window. You were the one to get her out.

You were the one who had to call an RA unit for a nine year old girl, not conscious, not breathing.

Tim pulled you away from the scene. From her. Kept a hand on your shoulder and steered you towards the shop, and you were shaking. Are shaking. You’re in the shop. You can’t get your hands to stop shaking.

Tim is uncharacteristically silent. He doesn’t start the car. You can see him watching you out of the corner of your eye. You need to stop shaking. You need to get it together.

It’s just. That was you. Could’ve been you. Almost was you, once or twice.

You spent a lot of time in locked cars growing up.

“Boot,” Tim says softly, too softly, he’s babying you, “You need to take a minute.”

“No, no,” The first no is shaky and the second is no better but you need to be fine, “I’m fine, I’ll be fine. I need to adapt, need to get used to this kind of thing.”

He makes a noise of annoyance in the back of his throat. “No you don’t. Becoming desensitized to this kind of thing isn’t what you want to happen. Trust me.”

You breath is starting to hitch a little, and your eyes are beginning to burn. Why can’t you stop shaking? It happened so long ago.

“I’m fine. I’m— It’s okay. We should get back on the road.”

Your voice wobbles at the end. You clench your jaw, steel yourself against the onslaught of emotions and will yourself to just get a fucking grip.

“Hey,” Tim starts, voice that lower, gentle tone he sometimes uses on victims, and that’s messed up, because you’re not a victim, just dramatic, “It’s okay to not be okay after something like that.”

“I’m fine!” You snap, “I survived. She didn’t.”

Oh.

You feel the first few tears begin falling, and immediately scrub them off your face as fast and as hard as you can.

“I’m sorry,” You half-whisper, mortified at the action of crying and snapping at him. “I’m sorry, this is, this is really unprofessional—“

You hunch, pressing the heels of your hands so hard into your eyes starbursts of color are whirling behind them.

Tim doesn’t say anything, which only adds to your mounting anxiety, until you hear the semi-familar sound of him typing on his phone, and then a steady tik. Tik. Tik.

You look up, your eyes already puffy.

Tim sets his phone down on the console between the two of you.

“That timer is set for ten minutes. For ten minutes, you are not going to be fine. Ten minutes while we drive. Got that?”

You sniffle pathetically. “Ten minutes is a long time to put up with me crying.”

He shrugs. “If I give you your ten minutes, and you get this out, then you’ll be more focused on the job. Seems like a fair trade off to me.”

You’re not expecting the firm hand to land on your shoulder.

“This was your first d-o-a. Even the best cops are shaken after something like that. It changes you. That is not something be ashamed of.”

You let yourself lean into the touch, ever so slightly. The tears start falling easier after that, and, still not entirely comfortable with crying in front of your TO, you cover your face with your hands.

The crying bit is over in only a few minutes. The rest of the time on the timer is spent staring down at your lap and trying to calm yourself down, and when that doesn’t work, you pull out your phone and soothe yourself by organizing one of your Pinterest boards. Ah, the peace that comes from setting arbitrary rules that affect no one and organizing pictures based on these rules. Bliss.

Tim only removes his hand after you stop crying, which. You try your best to memorize the touch —no matter how mortifying the circumstances— and try your best not to think about how it almost seems like starting to catch onto the messier parts about yourself you’d like to keep hidden.

—

Sometimes it’s hard not to feel well and truly and completely alone.

You know you’re not. Not really. Not if you tried harder, extended yourself more. Made an effort to get out there. But you don’t have any energy for efforts. You don’t have anything left to give.

Tim’s touch and approval and just there-ness haunt you on your off days and are, if you’re being embarrassingly and horrifyingly honest, the only thing you really look forward to anymore.

You like your job. You do. But you’re tired. And how many times can you say that? Can you think that?

I’m tired. I’m tired. I’m tired. I’m tired. I’m tired.

Please, someone, put me down, let me go, give me a minute, I’m tired.

So it’s not really surprising when you get sick.

You’ve been running yourself absolutely ragged, day in and day out, and when you wake, feeling like death warmed over, you don’t even groan. It makes your throat hurt.

Your head pounds with pressure from your sinuses and your hands shake as you put on your uniform in the locker room. Your slow-and-unsteady gait gathers a few looks as you make your way into the, surprisingly empty, roll call room.

Is it really empty if one person is in it? Tim’s in it. He’s leaned up against the front desk, where you usually sit with the other rookies. Only time you’re really ever near them. He looks mad. Why’s he mad?

“Boot,” He starts, voice low, and that’s never a good sign, “Is there a reason you decided not to show up to roll call today?”

You blink, thoughts going about as fast as a fish in frozen water, “But it’s not time for roll call yet.”

It’s not. You woke up when your alarm went off, took cold medicine (probably more than you’re supposed to, and the wrong combination of them, but who cares) and drove to the precinct. Same as you always do. Minus the cold medicine.

Tim frowns. He’s always frowning. He frowns deeper. “You’re over an hour late.”

That…doesn’t make any sense. How’d you lose an hour of time? Did you fall asleep somewhere along the way? You don’t remember falling asleep. You’re not missing any memories, no blank spots, no black outs.

“Boot!” He barks, and you flinch and the noise, pressing a hand to your forehead as if that’ll help the sharp stab of pain in your head that accompanies his raised voice.

Tim is downright glaring at you now. “Are you hungover?”

“No!” You reply indignantly, then instantly regret it due to the burn you now feel in your throat, “I’m just like. Kind of sick.”

Did that come out convincing enough? You’re sure you can still work. You worked through every cold and flu and fever back at the Academy. You can totally do this, right?

Tim pushes off the table and stalks towards you. arms crossed. He uncrosses them as he gets closer and—

Oh. That’s nice. His hand’s cool.

Your eyes flutter shut, unbidden, as the cool skin of the back of his hand presses to your forehead. If your eyes were open, you’d be able to see that his frown has taken on a concerned brow furrow to accompany it, but you’re too busy enjoying the simple contact to notice. Or keep your eyes open.

He takes his hand away with a sigh, and you stumble forward a little.

“You feel like you’re on fire. Jesus- did you drive here?”

You nod, to avoid angering your throat, and end up angering your headache instead.

“Yeah, you’re going home.”

Panic stabs you in the chest.

“No!” You rasp, “I’m fine. I’m a rookie, it’s my job to keep working no matter what—“

“It’s also,” Tim interrupts, “Your job to take care of yourself, but you’re shit at that, which is why you’re sick in the first place. So I’m going to drive you home and make sure you’re not going to die by yourself while you’re sick.”

You shake your head. “I used to work through being sick all the time at the Academy, I can do it.”

“And you were stupid for doing that too. The key difference here is that you’re not responsible for peoples lives at the Academy. I’m not going to get shot today because you’re too hopped up on cold medicine to cover me.”

“But—“

“I’m sorry,” He growls, “Were you under the impression that you have any sort of say in this decision?”

You close your mouth.

“That’s what I thought. Go wait at my desk while I clear this with the watch commander.”

You trudge solemnly to his desk, head and vision swimming. Great. Now Tim’s upset at you and you feel awful. Why is everything so terrible?

You slump into the chair at his desk, dropping your head onto your arms and allowing your eyes to close. The walk from the briefing room to Tim’s desk exhausted you. And your uniform feels extra uncomfortable.

You just want to be at home, not sick, and maybe sleeping restfully for the first time since becoming a cop. Maybe you’re not cut out to be a cop. Maybe you should quit. Maybe—

Someone gently shakes your shoulder, and your straighten, blinking blearily.

“Come on, up we go.”

A strong arm hooks under yours and carefully hauls you up, and let out a small whine at the movement. Tim’s desk is comfortable. And smells vaguely like him.

“Don’t give me that. I’m taking you home. We need to go get your stuff from the locker room.”

You whine again, as if the noise will somehow convey everything you’re feeling at the moment.

I don’t want to leave the temporary and fake saftey of Tim’s desk. I don’t want to go home cause my home is empty and I’m sick. I’m extra miserable because I’m sick. My brain isn’t working and I don’t remember what locker I put my stuff in. I don’t even know if I brought my stuff. Is it somehow possible for my technical-boss to take me to his house instead and tuck me into his bed that smells like him and has him in it so I can sleep next to another human being and feel safe for even twenty minutes?

Of course, none of this is relayed to Tim, who’s currently half holding half dragging you over to the locker rooms, grip firm but not unkind.

After assuring you that no one else is even going to be in the locker room because you’re now over an hour into your shift, he goes with you and helps you find and take your stuff. In your sick daze, you did manage to bring your bag and water bottle, but neglected to put any water in your water bottle or put your wallet in your bag.

Tim just mutters an “Alright, come on,” once your stuff has been acquired, and escorts you out to the parking lot.

Two things occur to you.

One, Tim is no longer dressed in his uniform. Instead, he now sports jeans and a dark gray henley.

Two, you’re both headed towards the personal parking lot.

If Tim isn’t in work clothes anymore, and he’s taking you towards his car, that means he’s not just dropping you off at your house.

He is, presumably, going to look after you. Because you’re sick.

He ushers you into the passenger seat, going so far as to help you up and grab the seatbelt for you. He leans over you when he does it, and there’s a second where he’s pressed against you and it’s so nice and you kind of want to live in the moment forever but you can’t because you’re sick and he’s mad at you and he shouldn’t have to deal with this and you should’ve been better.

You sniffle just as he starts the car, momentarily thankful for the engine turning over hiding the sound, but unfortunately, the second the tears start, they don’t stop.

Tim notices immediately, because of course he does.

“What’s wrong?”

You hiccup a half-sob. “I’m sorry. I should’ve called out.”

“Yeah, you should have.”

You sniff again, harder, cause now your nose is running. “I thought I could do it. I thought I could handle it.”

He eases the car out of the parking space. “Having a brain-cooking fever isn’t really something you can just handle.”

He eyes the fat tears rolling down your cheeks and you see the muscles in his jaw work.

“Why didn’t just call out sick?”

“I don’t like calling out. I wanna be a model employee. Model officer. Wanna be reliable. I wanna be—“

You swallow, voice hoarse and wobbly. “I just wanna be good.”

The car is silent for awhile. A long while. Tim doesn’t respond, and with your nerves now thoroughly fried and your immune system making a minor attempt on your life, you’re pretty sure you fall asleep.

You wake to Tim shaking you, albeit gently, and helping you out of the car. He instructs you to leave your bag and to go inside and change.

He really doesn’t have to tell you twice. You feel awful. So bad. Terrible. Horrible.

Changing clothes only serves to exhaust you further, so you trudge out to the living room and collapse onto your couch, shivering. There’s a blanket only a few feet away, but it’s just so far.

You hear your front door open and the sound of heavy-footsteps, and then there’s the creak of your shitty fridge opening and a few mumbled curses.

You ignore the noises behind you and dedicate all of your energy to grabbing the remote off the coffee table and finding something you don’t have to think about watching. Maybe Criminal Minds. Or Bluey.

“I,” Tim starts, then annoyedly snatches the blanket off the end of the coach and drags it up over you, “Am going to the store, because your fridge looks like it hasn’t been used since the eighteen-hundreds. Don’t die while I’m gone.”

“Okay,” You say, but your voice is hoarse and muffled by the blanket so it comes out more like, “Mmomhay.”

You end up watching Jurassic Park, because nothing makes you feel better like dinosaurs and people getting eaten by them. Classic.

Tim does return at some point, right about when you’re thinking of just binge watching every single Jurassic Park/World movie, and starts making noise in your kitchen. Which you also ignore.

You’re doing a lot of ignoring today.

It’s easy though, is the thing. Tim is cooking something, if the sounds of grocery bags and pots and pans and chopping are anything to go off, and he’s handled you and his’s shifts, so there’s no work to worry about, and you’re really honestly too sick to think about any other things that need to be done.

Tim’s taking care of it. So you don’t have to worry, cause he’s cooking something, and people are getting eaten by dinosaurs on the tv in front of you, so maybe everything will be okay for the time being.

The okay feeling comes to a swift and brutal end when Tim comes around the edge of the couch and tells you to sit up.

“M’ comfy,” You mumble, indignant.

He rolls his eyes, ever exasperated. “You can’t eat soup while laying down.”

“Watch me.”

“No. Come on, sit up.”

You whine as he pulls you forward, stuffing pillows behind you so you don’t actually have to put effort in to staying upright. He then places a tray you didn’t know you owned (maybe he bought it?) on your lap and places a small bowl of soup and a sleeve of saltines.

Your eyes begin to burn with unshed tears again.

Tim groans. “It’s just soup, Boot.”

You sniff harshly. “No one’s made me soup before.”

He sigh’s long-sufferingly, but his vocal exasperation is undermined by the careful way he dabs at the tears on your cheeks.

“Thought you liked your mom.” Tim says, a question hidden in his voice.

“I do. But we were really poor, so she couldn’t really afford to take time off work because I was sick. And I got sick pretty often so,” You pick up your spoon with shaky fingers. “I got good at taking care of myself.”

“Yeah?” Tim says, opening the package of saltines for you, “Then where’d all that skill go?”

He clearly means it as a joke, but you still can’t help the small stab of guilt in your chest.

You set the spoon back down. “I’m just really tired.”

He doesn’t sigh again, but he does purse his lips in that way he does when he’s upset about something and can’t quite decide how to show it.

When he moves, it surprises you. He takes the soup off your lap, moves the tray to the little coffee table by your couch. Turns the TV volume up. Loud enough to hear the audible crunch of the Spinosaurus battling the T. Rex.

Then, he reaches forward and just. Reaches his arms around your waist and back and pulls you forward, then borderline man-handles you into a comfortable position with your legs now where your head used to be, and your had pillowed on his shoulder. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you just that much closer.

You couldn’t have stopped yourself from melting into the embrace even if you weren’t hopped up on cold medicine.

After a few minutes of mindlessly watching a Spinosaurus go on a rampage, he speaks again.

“You wanna know what I think?”

You nod into his arm, face smushed.

“I think you got really good at making people not worry about you. You probably had to.”

For a brief second, you think about hunger, and sickness, and locked cars.

“And I think that in my haste to get through this training period and make it to Sergeant, I didn’t bother looking deeper to find out if you were lying or not.”

You shift in place, now a little uncomfortable as the conversation has switched over to you. “It’s not really your responsibility.”

“It is,” Tim says easily, tone-matter-of-fact. “You’re my rookie. And it shouldn’t have taken me this long to learn what kind of training and support you needed.”

You sit up at his words. Which is a huge mistake, because then you get really dizzy and nauseous and there are weird stars dancing across your vision.

“You—“ You pause, taking a deep breath, “This is police work. I shouldn’t have to be coddled every step of the way.”

“Lay back down,” He tugs you down by your waist. “You aren’t coddled every step of the way. You’re a capable cop. You’re good at your job. I’m not holding your hand. I’m giving you what you need.”

You sink lower on the couch, trying to hide your face from this mortifying experience. Unfortunately the closest thing to hide your face in is Tim’s side.

Oh well. Beggars can’t be choosers.

He rubs your back consolingly. It only feels a little patronizing.

“But,” He continues, “I don’t know what you need if you don’t tell me.”

“I don’t want to bother you with that. You’re my T.O.”

“And you’re my rookie,” Tim continues smoothly, “I can’t send my rookie out on the streets if any criminal can get to her through a hug.”

“Hey,” You grumble, “That’s mean.”

“No it’s not.”

You pull your face away from his side and go back to facing the TV.

“But what if I need this a lot? What if my brain gets… screwy when I’m alone for awhile, and this is what fixes it?”

“Then I’d say it was a fairly normal reaction and need.” Tim shrugs.

You look up at him questioningly.

“Look. I didn’t have a great dad either. It’s not…” He trails off, jaw working. “Bad things happened to you. You dealt with them the only way you knew how. But now you need a little extra help. That’s all.”

“That sounds like something Lucy would say.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “How could you tell?”

The conversation lulls into a gentle silence. Tim continues trailing his hand up and down your side. Up and down, up and down, up and down. And occasionally pause to rub, knead, or scratch. All of which you lean into with equal amounts of shame and enjoyment.

“You’re like a cat,” He mumbles, eyes trained on the still rampaging Spinosaurus, “Can’t believe I didn’t make the connection before.”

You don’t have it in you to do anything more than make a non-committal hum.

A couple beats pass.

“Thank you.”

Tim’s hand trails a little higher on the next pass, his large palm curling up over your shoulder and to the back of your neck.

“For what?”

⋆౨ৎ˚˖ ࣪

masterlist | kofi

taglist:

@wowzabowza69 @4kirstein @marvel-z0mbie @mca-attack21 @winchesterkenzie @daithideolishmer18 @entoxicant @scarlet-issilly

[neveragent]

Small talk

Bob Reynolds x reader

Summary: For the both of you small talk never stops there.

"You never told me how you ended up with us," Bob said. I looked up from my book. The former widow next to me shifted uncomfortably. "I... should probably get something to drink." Without another word, she stood up and left the room. "Did I say something wrong?" "No... not really. It's just an uncomfortable topic. But I appreciate the question, tho." My gaze shifted to the skyline of New York. "I... am a former Avenger. That was my third family. More or less... Officially, I was a part of them. Unofficially... I was just a woman. Unimportant and without any special skills. I was only a part of them because Coulson insisted on it. Coulson was my superior at Shield. Shield had been my second family. And that... was a great time. That was the first time I felt like I was doing something good. Because... before that... I had been a sniper for the Navy SEAL. I was in Afghanistan. It wasn't always nice. Coulson got me out of there and I will be thankful forever. He was killed when the Avengers were forming. I don't know what I hate more the time at war or my time with the Avengers..." I felt his finger tracing over mine. "You aren't unimportant. I enjoy you being here." "Really?" He nodded. "Thanks. That means a lot."

I opened my book once again. The whole time I felt Bob's eyes on me but I didn't say anything. He was like a fawn. Easy to scare away. Yelena also came back with tea. "Oh, c'mon, as if the book is really that interesting." I didn't look away from the words. "You should try it too. It's relaxing." She fake gagged and now I finally lifted my eyes. "I think I do also have a Russian book?" "Really? You understand Russian?" "Yes. I learned it at Shield." I saw her eyes shining but probably she noticed my small smile since she put back on her hard mask. "Doesn't change that reading is still silly." "If you ever change your mind, feel free to take the book out of my room."

After some time she left the room, saying something about training but I heard my door opening some minutes after she had left. "She's a softy, isn't she?" Bob mumbled. "Oh, c'mon, she basically adopted you. Of course, she is a softy." He looked down at his book, clearly blushing. "You are very nice to me. All of you," he whispered. "That's what a family should do. And I think that's what we are now." I knew he had something on his mind. But he didn't dare to speak. "You okay, Bobby?" He nodded. "Okay, then I'll take a quick shower." I stood up and left the room. Maybe if I hadn't been this fast, I would've heard Bob mumbling. "Family... as if someone would want it..."

Later that evening, we sat at our dining table. Just me and Bob. Ava and John were on a mission, Yelena refused to eat as a family and Alexei was in some bar. Bucky... he had some meetings with the government. "Do you wanna talk about your past?" I asked Bob. "You already do know the whole story." "You sure?" He nodded. "Bobby, you are important to me. You know that, right?" He nodded again. "Then why don't you ever tell me about your nightmares?" His head shot up and I could see some fear in his eyes. "It- It's nothing." "Okay." "Can we just do some small talk?" "Yeah, of course. How was your day?" "You don't have to pretend that you like me. I am a horrible person and I also hate myself. Don't pretend you think any different. And you look really cute by the way," he said without even breathing once. I stopped breathing for a second and all I could do was blinking. His eyes grew big. "I am so sorry. I-" "How could I ever hate you, Bobby?! You are such a sweet man!" I nearly yelled. How could he think that I hate him? "Stop lying." "I don't lie." "I killed the whole city within minutes." "No, that wasn't you. You saved New York. That's what you did. The Void wasn't your fault." "Yes, it was. I was too weak to fight against it." "Bob, stop thinking like that. You saved me. You literally saved me."

"Shoot! You have to shoot!" The sweat was running down my forehead. My hands were trembling when I tried to shoot. I was lying on a building, watching my target fighting with another Navy SEAL. "C'mon, shoot!" My superior was yelling again and again. I knew that the terrorist would kill my colleague. But I was afraid. Afraid of missing. But also afraid of killing at all. I felt a hand on my shoulder. "You won't be able to change the past." Bob. The feeling of familiarity was crashing down on me. I lived that day already. It wasn't real. I won't shoot. No matter how hard I try. I didn't shoot that day and I won't shoot now. "Bob, what are you doing here?" "I don't know, honestly." I stood up from the dirty roof. Bob took my hand and we walked through the door that would lead to the stairs to get out of the building. But we weren't standing in front of stairs but in a hotel room.

"You killed Anderson. His blood is on your hands. You weren't able to follow a simple instruction," my superior yelled. A version of a younger me was standing behind us. Still shaking, tears running down her face. "You missed?" Bob whispered. "I didn't shoot at all. Shooting is easy in theory but hard in reality. To take someone's life... it isn't as easy as they try to tell you at the academy." I felt his fingers tracing over my hand. "I like that about you. You kept your emotions. You are innocent." "I am everything but innocent, Bob. By now, I have taken so many lives... I've lost count." "Because they made you a killer. Maybe Shield was your happiest time. But it was also the time that changed you the most." "Yes, maybe." I felt how he pulled my arm. We walked through the door of the balcony. But it wasn't the noise of the streets that greeted us but an attic. "What's this?" "That's one of my rooms. I am always hiding here when... the other one is in charge." "It's cozy in here." "Yeah, it is." I heard some yelling from downstairs. "It will stop soon," Bob said fast. I saw the pain in his eyes. My arms wrapped around his body without me thinking much about it. "You deserved better." "We both did," he mumbled. "Let's do some small talk. That's easier," he whispered. "Yeah, why not." Then I felt his lips on my hair. I pushed him away from me. But softly. "I- I'm so sorry, I-" I grabbed his collar and pressed my lips on his. "Why only doing it halfway?" He grinned. "Right..."

I still felt his lips on mine when I was thinking about it. But I didn't tell him about it. Bob still can't remember what happened in the void. And I don't wanna pressure him into stuff. I want him to fall in love with me again because he wants to and not because I tell him to. "What are you thinking about?" "Nothing. Let's just go back to the small talk."

[am1va]

: sukuna x reader ❤️‍🔥

After transferring to Jujutsu High after a horrible life in a traditional school that everyone else seemed to thrive in, a girl finds herself in the midst of battling, curses, cursed energy, heavy lore and chaos and the deaths of many awaiting in the future. Though, has no idea was Gojo has gotten her into. Will she regret coming here even after fighting for her life back in her previous school? Or will it be bittersweet on both the people of Tokyo and Shibuya?

details:

- enemies to lovers (because that’s part of the plot)

- this takes place around the same time in the beginning of JJK where Yuji is the vessel of Sukuna.

- there is a lot of plot

If someone asked me what kind of sorcerer I was..I wouldn’t necessarily have an answer. Looking back into the past—when I first joined Jujutsu High, standing outside Principal Yaga’s office, I remember overhearing Sensei Gojo (who was trying to be subtle about it by the way) talking about my so-called “out-of-this-world” cursed energy, and how it was nothing they’ve seen before. How I might need extra extra support around Campus, walking to my new dorm right next to the rest of the first years, having occasional emotional check-ins, different kinds of cursed energy training, and way more. Furthermore, even went as far as to assign me a person to supervise me all day long on weekdays, so on weekends I get to roam around and do what I want with anyone I know, for example, Yuji or Megumi or the squad of second years. Though it wasn’t that easy. I would still have my supervisor check in on me every few hours as if I were a fragile thing that were bound to break if not checked in every single day and that it was supposed to keep me emotionally stable.

On the other hand, it showed they cared about me. I mean, I might have traumatised them a lot with my struggles and my life back then before I fully transferred here. To Gojo, it was obvious the moment he visited me in my school (after telling me he does that for all his students who he believes are different and have potential) that I wasn’t like anyone else in my class. I obviously had been through it.

Sitting calmly on the concrete steps, while watching Maki and Panda have their daily brawl, I've come to the realisation that..things maybe do get better. As time passes of course. Having this small but extremely valuable moment of emotional stability is huge for someone like me. I think that's what keeps me going in life, the stillness of simple moments where nothing matters but the present. Not stressing about any systems or teachers or homework like it was at my previous school. I will forever be grateful for the peacefulness of moments like these, in places that aren’t heavily structured, like traditional schools. I’m simply grateful, but I know for sure that I still have a ton of healing and potentional to be covered, according to Gojo and Nanami.

That was all 1 month ago. And by that time, I’ve covered almost a quarter of my training that was set by both Principal Yaga and Nanami. From letting out any emotion I felt to anyone within a radius of 10 metres, to learning how to ground myself in moments of intensity’s.

The courtyard is clear today, not like yesterday’s heavy rain. As usual, it’s basically a necessity for me to sit on the edge of the stone steps as it keeps me grounded, watching Yuji chase Panda with something that looks awfully familiar to…. Gojo’s socks? Nobara is yelling at them—the usual. Yuji’s one of the most unique people I’ve got to know throughout my time here. He matches my inner weird girl just perfectly, like 2 peas in a pod. He’s someone that always makes my day drastically better and emotionally. I knew the moment I saw him on the first day, he was simply different from the other students and I couldn’t ask for a better friend. On another hand, we’re only really the more energetic ones at times, not like Maki who’s currently leaning against a post of the field, eyeing the duo, or like Megumi who quietly sits a few feet across from me on the steps. This time a month ago, I would’ve felt out of place—but I’ve heavily built a barrier about not letting those feelings consume me. A flash of energy lights inside me, but it doesn’t project. Counting that as progress, If I manage to regulate and remember, I’ll write that in my healing journal later. “Your zoning out again.” Megumi speaks up, getting up and dropping beside me lazily. “Doesn’t mean I’m gonna do something reckless.” I snicker, looking at him with a small but my usual full-of-life smile. It’s clear to anyone that talks to me, knows I appreciate them with only a quick expression. This is the kind of thing that keeps me going in life. It’s obvious in the way my eyes scrunch up. I’ve been told at times I’m the “happiest and brightest” person they’ve met, but I know they’re probably only talking about small moments like us interacting, not my whole lifetime. Definitely not the past or what my future could be. I glance at Inumaki, who’s sitting cross legged a few steps down from me at the bottom, leaning his back against the concrete side.

“Salmon” He says. That makes me unexpectedly give him an itty bitty smile. These people never fail to make me feel…grateful for them. Grateful to be alive to experience times like this.

I cringe at the reminder. I don’t want to notice these things, but when Megumi pushes his hair back mid-training and the sun hits him just right— yeah, I can never ignore it. I think what’s scary is how good looking the boys here are. I’d never admit it but my brain involuntarily keeps track of it without my permission and it’s the most awkward thing it can do in a place of seriousness and strength. I tell people I don’t get crushes easily. But it gets to a point you know? Harder to believe when I have to sit across from Inumaki and Megumi. I think my cursed energy most definitely would embarrassingly spike, ending up with the entire lunch table knowing what I felt. It wouldn’t be a simple wave, no. But very intense and strong. And if that happened….I wouldn’t know what to do with myself anymore. Sometimes I curse myself for being like this. Feeling every emotion possible no matter how embarrassing it could be. But then I remember, according to Gojo: “You could probably beat the King Of Curses because of the way you are, you know.” Plot twist: I didn’t know what he was talking about. In a different perspective, the reminder would be helpful to talk about with my supervisor, who’s always consistent on timing and should be here any moment. These past few days have been painful. Holding back heavy emotions like that on the lunch table lately, take a toll on me and I really don’t think I could hold them in any longer when it comes to lunch today. Meaning only one thing— I’m going to have to tell him about my feelings. I don’t even have time to process before—

The unmistakable tap of Nanamis shoes to my far right. Waiting until he’s close, I turn my head in his direction, having to tilt it to his dominating height. Undeniably, everyone in Jujutsu High already knows my schedule like clockwork. The worst part is, he doesn’t even make it subtle in the slightest everytime he comes to collect me for my Daily Check In, which is basically a daily routine to check how I’m doing emotionally day to day. To keep me stable. It was weird at first, being “that” student, one with a specially tailored schedule and emotional support supervisor that walks me around as if I’m a child. Everyone used to stare the first few times Nanami came to get me mid-lunch or mid-training. Yet, now they don’t pay attention to it, making me less insecure about it overtime. I’ve learnt that weird is not bad, not here atleast. It was only requested by my Dad who deeply cared about his daughter and her wellbeing before I got to fully transfer here. With that said, it’s safe to say all the adults in Jujutsu High know about my depressing life when I first came here..like every single bit of it. I cringe at the thought at times. The weird part is that I don’t even have to ask if they know, it’s obvious by how much support I’m given. The first thing I notice is that he’s carrying my healing journal, tucked right in his hand. We take turns on who takes my journal, depending on what I tell him towards the end of each check in session. He uses it for daily logs and information I write in there about how I’m doing throughout the past few days. On another hand, I’m the one who writes every daily summary, what I did that day, what conversations I had with my friends, little funny things I noticed that day when everyone else didn’t, my achievements, failures, improvements. Overall, everything in my curious monologue. No matter how pointless it might be, Nanami had insisted I write down everything that comes to mind.

"Let's walk." He says, tilting his head down to me, voice firm but calm. Basically, it's like another way of saying "Let's do the usual."

I don't argue. I slowly rise to my feet and climb the first few steps until I'm at the top, looking behind me once more, everyone says goodbye. I wave back and give a small smile. "Yuji! She's going!" Nobara and Maki yell in sync to a flailing Yuji still chasing Panda. "Dang..I was hoping to decorate your journal!" Panda pauses as he turns his attention towards me. With that, I look from Nanami's hand holding it, then back to him. "I might get it back tomorrow." I shrug helplessly. But the tiny trickle of cursed energy of content bubbles within my stomach, I think that's his way of showing he cares. Just before turning my head back to start my walk with Nanami, I catch Inumaki watching me. Only a flicker of something in his eyes, concern? Interest? I don't have the chance to think much about it before I fully turn my gaze to my supervisor. Within a few seconds, we're already a few feet away from everyone in the courtyard before he says “What were you guys doing?” He asks, the usual.

“Panda and Yuji were training. I was only watching.” I say simply as we continue our walk across the stone path. “How were you feeling as off then? And today of course.” He questions, this time pulling out my healing journal and flicking through it slowly. “I’ve been feeling normal. Nothing crazy.” I tell him, I again cringe at the thought of having to tell him about my..feelings at the lunch table lately. I don’t want to say he’s noticed me looking to the side for a second. I couldn’t have been that obvious, right?

“So there’s nothing you wanna tell me besides that?”

I stay silent for what feels like forever—

“Take your time.” He says gently but professionally. Eventually, we make it to the other side of the school, pausing in front of a pack of trees swaying melodically.

I hesitate, now debating whether or not I should say it, knowing full well there would be consequences if I don’t anyway.

Everyone would think I have a crush on all the guys

It’ll be oh so embarrassing.

I’d never come out of my dorm again.

Unprovoked, my cursed energy crackles light a firework, letting out a few sparks within me at the thought of..him. King Of Curses. I learnt about the cursed thing in one of Gojo’s lectures about high-level threats. Fuck. Ever since that day, my cursed energy reacts to it. I hate myself for this. I’ve always had a type for…bad guys.

Another thing on the list to talk to with Nanami. 100%.

“I—“ Hesitating once more, I’ve noticed the more energy I put into something I’m already afraid to do beforehand, it just makes it worse. Looking straight ahead once more at the towering trees—the leaves as dark as night— “Would you prefer to talk inside instead?” I nod a bit too quickly, once again low-key cringing at myself for that. Hopefully he didn’t see.

……

The both of us make our way to our usual spot, the Schools private library wing. Although every day I use different areas like the Zen Garden: a quiet, tatami-matted room with wall length windows and floor cushions. The perfect room for what my brain craves, sunlight. Warm, comforting sunlight coming in through the sliding shoji doors. 3-4 indoor plants fitted into a glass case, too. The empty but private library wing: a corner of the school's library that’s pretty much out of use. I don’t need to worry about anyone being in there as Nanami always makes sure beforehand. Sitting comfortably on opposite sofas, he sets down my journal on a low table, legs slightly spread and his suit looking perfect as per usual. Way too quiet areas like these can make me feel two ways— nervous or confident. And right now, based on what I pretty much need to tell him, I'm nervous. As hell.

I’m staring down in my lap, trying. He’s probably noticed. Hell, how hasn’t he by this point? Trying to come up with the words. Words words words—

“How about you tell me what you did today?” He interrupts my trillion voices without even hearing them. How did..?

At this point, I feel like I’m wasting time. Precious time. I need to tell him this session because if I don’t, then I’ll have to go inside lunch and suffer once more and I can’t hold that many strong feelings in this time. Do I tell him what I did today? Or should I just tell him about my feelings first? Pffft. As I’ll just spit it out. Why am I so indecisive with the order things go— I’m gonna tell him one way or another so why am I worrying—

Is it more difficult for me to say it because he’s a man? Or would I be more confident if it were a women? Wait, why am I even thinking of that right—

“I need to say something.” I blurt out awkwardly. I think that gives him a heads up, especially after being silent for so long. He continues staring at me, before nodding. That makes me more confident, more welcome. Thank you, God.

“S-so, at lunch every day..” I pause, building it up makes me feel more at ease. Another nod. “I..felt like I needed to tell you..I don’t really wanna sit with everyone from now on.” Okay that’s progress.

“I— especially with the boys..” I tremble. “Like..Megumi, Yuji and..Inumaki.” I say, shyly. I can’t do this.

“Why is that?” He questions. Now here comes my least favourite part..

“I..I don’t know—“ I’m fidgeting now. “I…I..” I don’t know how to say it. I didn’t even plan on what kind of wording I would even use for a situation like this. “I feel…kind of..shy. Around them, I mean.” I confess, and would you look at that, I can already feel the heat rush up my chest. I don’t think I can look at Nanami anymore. I mean pretty much the whole time I haven’t. I look down at my lap once more. “That’s not unusual.” I blink. “You're only 15, at an age where you're still actively growing. Emotion and attraction-wise.” He opens up my journal. I exhale, relieved.

“Nothing to be ashamed of, especially in new environments.” He stares at a page of my journal for a moment before tilting his head back up and facing me. “Anything else you wanna talk about?” That was it. I couldn’t be more relaxed. My trust in this man is high, I didn’t have a reason to be scared if he was so grounded. Suddenly I feel the atmosphere change, I’m freer and calmer. Lesson learnt.

Suddenly as soon as he asks that though, my mind instantly flickers towards my second embarrassing thought I don’t wanna admit to him after that. Not now, not yet.

Ryomen Sukuna.

King of Curses. Residing in Yuji like an ancient fossil. The most powerful. The one to never be let out for any sort of reason, unless humanity wants to die. Spiteful, selfish, and a violent little thing. Only being contained because Yuji hasn’t eaten all 20 fingers, and the fact that he can maintain control over him. It’s eerie to think about, considering I hang out around him every single day. My thighs involuntarily clench at the pack of emotions and what I should actually be feeling instead.

Nope, not gonna tell him.

“I would prefer sitting with Nobara and Maki, is all.” I slowly tell him, looking forward for once. Once again, he gives me a reassuring nod.

..

I didn’t admit it earlier, but a small flicker of cursed energy drummed inside me at the thought of Sukuna. It faded as quickly as it came, though. If I’m not mistaken, something..just something, In the air changed. Everything else in the present moment is drowned out as I hyperfixate on solving this..mystery. Both interested, but a strange, intuitive need to figure it out. Not only that but I could feel something shift inside my chest as well as if It was life itself, turning mine into a completely different direction.

“Let’s talk about your progress this week.”

Whatever it was, it’s gone. I don’t have a trace anyway.

I force a nod— and just like that, the lesson continues.

-

Within the belly of Yuji’s vessel, something pulsed.

Sukuna’s eyes snapped open from their slumber at the sudden shift. Scanning, he realised it wasn’t a threat, necessarily. Not yet. A wave of emotion. Raw, and intense emotion. The silence was deafening, until a wicked snarl spread across the curse’s face. As if he was unsure what to make of this unfamiliar emotion he has just experienced for the first time.

“Well now…what the hell was that?”

[instead-of-sleeping]

Hello! Can I have The Three Sisters X Reader by any chance please? (Platonic for Pudding á la Mode Cookie) Thank you so much!!

-Akbrain

A/N: Sorry if it took this long but I had to go at a summer camp and I had to do this while working at my summer j*b, hope you like it :3 Word count: 411

Choco Drizzle Cookie prefers calling her partner by their name but occasionally she uses dear or dearest

Since this relationship thing is new to her you have to be careful when approach her from behind, thanks to her training she has learned how to crumble someone that is sneaking behind her

But don’t worry, she will soon recognise your footsteps

Even if she loves silence, she adores the sound of your voice, when you are talking about something you are passionate about or cheering her during training

She doesn’t show much affection especially in public. If you hug or flirt with her however she will slightly blush but will try to hide it if someone else is there

“Thanks for be here for me… you have made my life more sweet.”

Unlike her older sister, Green tea mousse Cookie is very flirtatious, finding always a way to make you flushed

She can and will spoil you with shiny trinkets, jewellery, food, games nothing is too expensive for her and she loves to bring something from wherever her previous mission was 

Also she would buy matching clothes especially green ones 

Very touchy

When going out on public she would have an arm around you to keep you close 

“I have many shiny treasures but you are my most precious one”

At first PALM Cookie won’t trust you, always being high alert around you and suspicious of every moment 

I mean her family is often targeted thanks to their missions of course she thinks you are just acting to get closer to them 

After her older sisters explain the situation she will warm up to you (also the star candies you gave her certainly helped not get blasted) 

But prepare yourself to be dragged around in every activity she’ll do 

You should also prepare yourself to stop her in case someone accidentally activate some kind of deadly mode, something that unfortunately happens often 

Being the youngest she was always been the centre of attention and with you won’t be any different, she even go as far to snatch you during a date with her sister giggling while doing it

The biggest honour you’ll get as her best friend will be sharing pudding with her, doesn’t seem much but It means the world to her

“What should my pair my pudding with? You pick!”

[christ-with-a-why]

i got a puppy and she's obviously adorable but oh my god i'm exhausted

[saturnniidae]

I think Astrid Hofferson has a bad case of the 'my childhood was wasted, I grew up too fast for something ultimately proven pointless.' Syndrome and that she deserves to get to do silly things she missed out on and take up new hobbies, even if she's not particularly good at them–it's purely for the experience yknow, and learn to finally breathe no longer needing to be on constant high alert and get to be truly happy

[victory-cookies]

tell me why I just had the most productive conversation about adhd and autism with a stranger in the audience for a musical

[5-htagonist]

okkkk but demon king!dungeon lord!laios wherein Something Something happens and laios not only devours the lion inheriting the kingdom................ but perhaps the lions curse manifests differently too....

[op1umeyes]

Firefighter!Simon who meets you when your apartment goes up in flames, breaking down the crumbling excuse of a door to make sure that everyone had been evacuated from the building. Gaz was having a laugh about how someone ‘could sleep through that shit’ as Simon had to wake up this poor girl who just wanted to sleep after her stressful day. Firefighter!Simon who answers all your questions with a gruff tone, navigating through the burning building. On one hand, he’s glad you aren’t screaming and crying about the building but on the other hand he wasn’t used to people asking him questions. You ask him things like his favorite color, his favorite food, how many times he had punched people in the face, and about his opinion on everything under the sun. He was on his seventh ‘you need to stop talkin’, ma’am, yer wastin’ air’ when you started coughing.

When you got to the ambulance, Firefighter!Simon didn’t say no when you asked him to go with you to the hospital. Johnny raised an eyebrow at Simon as he maneauvered his hulking body onto the seat next to you. For some unknown reason, Firefighter!Simon didn’t want you- nosy and kind and pretty you- to be hacking up a lung by yourself in the presence of someone like Johnny. And when your breathing started slowing and you weren’t looking around with bright eyes, Simon let you slide your hand into his gloved one.

Firefighter!Simon who, miraculously, has the night off. He decides to stay in the hospital until you wake: thinking it would be the gentlemanly thing to do to make sure your friends or family were made aware of the devastating fire. But when you finally blink awake and Simon asks all his questions, he’s stumped when you hit him with a ‘I don’t have any family’. Simon can’t stop himself from blurting out ‘You c’n stay with me. If you want.’

It takes a full day for you to be cleared before Firefighter!Simon picks you up from the hospital to take you to his (more than) humble abode. He finds that you quickly find happiness in the kitchen, but are more than disappointed to see he has barely anything to cook or bake with. “A damn shame” you say. With the remaining daylight hours, Simon finds himself driving you to a little supermarket in the corner of the city he hadn’t had the time to be explore. You insist on buying everything, telling Simon (a man who you really knew nothing about) it was the least you could do since he saved you from homelessness. And dying.

The rest of your first day in your temporary home with Firefighter!Simon is spent cooking. You whip up a marvelous pasta dish with hearty meatballs that almost make drool seep from Simon’s lips. He sits at the island watching you move around his space like you’d been there millions of times, an unfamiliar feeling blooming in his gut similar to fondness. Since picking you up some new clothes, Simon had learned a little bit more about you than Simon thought healthy. It was unfortunate enough for him to have been unable to get laid in over three months, but it was even more unfortunate that he had such a pretty bird in his apartment making him food and insisting on being near him when he sure as hell couldn’t make a move on her.

Firefighter!Simon who gets comfortable in his routine with you. On the days he’s not at work at assfuck 0200, he’s up making a simple breakfast for you and him before rhe day starts. You’ll eat and concerse a little awkwardly but that wont stop you from asking all about how he slept and if his buddies wanted more of those monster cookies you’d made to thank them for saving you and your fellow tenants. Simon had to relay many praises of your work in the kitchen, only ommiting the details and sly jokes about how ‘Simon’s girl’ was already taking care of the family. You’d go to work by bus or train- depending on how you felt- and then come home and make dinner or reheat leftovers. If Simon was at work, you’d laze on the couch in the main room and watch television and read. If Simon wasn’t at work, you’d bring the softest blanket from the room Simon had placed you in and watch a movie. More often than not, you would scoot closer and closer to Simon before falling asleep against him. When you woke up, you were in your bed- undoubtedly carried by Simon. Oh well. Its what friends do.

Firefighter!Simon who sees you as a friend. It’s basing your third week in his home and he feel comfortable around you. You’re good at reading his silence- the set of his shoulders and the future of his brow say enough- and he can’t be more thankful of that. For someone so new to his life, you seem to know exactly when to let a comfortable silence fall between you and when to start chattering about them things that come to your mind. But when you are the silent, short-tempered, and fatigued one, Simon is more than scared to get in your way. “Needa talk?” He offers, sliding you a cup of steaming coffee when you level a glare at the mug that had irritated you at such an inconveniently early hour. You heave a sigh and your head crumbles down into your arms. “I’m a mess, Si,” you tell him. Though your voice is muffled, Simon hears the shakiness in your throat trying to escape. He rounds the corner of island and places a large palm on your back in his attempt to comfort you. You are wrapping your arms around his neck and buring your face into the frail fabric of Simon’s shirt before he even knows what’s happening. And- as avoidant as Simon is to physical touch that doesn’t occur during work hours or when you fall asleep on him or when you slid your hand in his gloved hand during The Ambulance Ride- Simon didn’t mind your arms and warmth around him. When you started shaking in his arms was when Simon had to clench his jaw. It pained him that it pained you- and he didn’t even know what was ailing you! Simon tried to soothe himself with the knowledge that he was giving you the best comfort he could offer.

A day later you wake up to a crime scene in your underwear in the middle of the night so you decide to take a midnight trip to the convenience store a literal block away without letting Firefighter!Simon know. I mean, hey, he needs sleep and you were not going to wake him up to let him know you would be gone for a total of five minutes! But when you were on your way back to his house, you noticed someone following you. As you turned right for the third consecutive block, you finally fumbled for your phone.

Hearing you say ‘hey baby’ at 0146 had Firefighter!Simon’s head spinning. He was a little dazed because of the abrupt awakening but your casual greeting was wnough to jolt him awake. “Y/n? Whadda ya- what-?” He couldn’t finish his question before you interrupt him. “Hey do you think you could pick me up? I think I got a little lost.” Simon shoots out of bed, hitting the speaker button as he goes to slip a shirt on. “Where are you? Do I need a knife? Are you okay, dove?” He slips his shoes on and is out of the door faster than he is when he gets a work call. “Yeah, I’d bring the knife, babe,” you answer on the other line, more than loud enough for the man who is following you to hear. “I’m about four blocks away, by the Casey’s. You have my location.” Simon peels out of his driveway and immediately clicks on your profile to find the map with your smiling face. “Talk to me, y/n. I’m almost there.” Your breath is shaking on the other end and Simon doesn’t want you to be scared. “I think I could go for some Italian, Simon,” you say truthfully. “A minute away” Simon tells you, tires squealing as he turns down the streets you were hightailing down. Simon steps out of the truck after shifting it to park and the guy scatters. You’re running into Simon’s open arms before he could take a third step toward you. “I’m sorry,” you murmur “I kinda… started my period and didn’t want to wake you but then-“ Simon just shushes you, running a large hand down your back. “Let’s go home, love.” Simon scooped you up easily, tucking the obnoxiously loud crinkling plastic bag into your lap as he easily carried you to the passenger seat. Home. Yeah, Simon and his place had become your home.

[bi-writes]

thinking about being the new addition to tf141. you are an asset given to laswell by the CIA, a timid little thing but your aim is always on target, and you are quiet, tech savvy, and you do as you're told. (18+, dark)

just how lieutenant riley prefers. he dwarfs you. the first time you meet, your eyes nearly come out of your head from how wide they go. he's so large, and you feel so tiny compared to him, and even though he does nothing but a disinterested once over, it is obvious to the rest of the team that you might just be his favorite.

it's most obvious in the subtle touches. when you're getting ready to jump, ghost comes up from behind and tugs on your parachute, nearly topping you over making sure it's secure. when you're getting ready in the back of the humvee, he reaches over and buckles your thigh holster for you when he notices the strap is coming loose. you nearly choke when you feel his big hand between your thighs, and you stare up at him with wide eyes when his pinkie moves up the seam of your zipper when he tugs his hand away.

and then the way he's on your six is unlike anything else. like glue, chest pressed to your back, his gloved hand squeezing your waist as he moves you every which way he pleases because you're so small to him, so easy, and he growls under his breath when he touches the curve of your hips or the fat of your ass.

maybe you might enjoy it if he wasn't so fucking awkward about it. if he didn't stare at you without blinking. if he didn't adjust his cock in his jeans right in front of you. if he didn't grip you by the back of your head, tugging you any way he wanted as if scolding a kitten using the scruff of their neck.

you think the team would notice by now--that they would step in, tell ghost to back off, but they turn a blind eye. they tolerate this behavior, and you don't know if it's because ghost is so good at his job, they don't want to, or that they are so afraid of him, they refuse to say anything.

or maybe they approve. maybe it keeps ghost at bay. maybe it keeps a lion in his den. a spider in its nest. maybe indulging ghost in his fucked form of flirting and socialization is what keeps the foundations of this team right where it needs to be--and you realize, slowly, that maybe that is why you're here.

because ghost likes them soft, and they need to put a muzzle on their dog.

so when you feel him in the dark, slipping a gloved hand under the blanket that keeps you warm at night, he is pleasantly surprised to find you awake. and even more surprised to feel your hand slipping the soft lace of your panties right into his fucking pocket.

"they teach y'that 'n basic training? how ta give y'r knickers to y'r lieutenant, eh?"

"no," you whisper, and when you meet his eyes in the dark, he looks so hungry. he's untamed, no training, he's used to getting what he wants with no resistance. you turn over in bed, and you don't get to see the way he sucks on his teeth when you let your knees fall, revealing the pretty place between your thighs, soft and puffy and wet, just waiting for a good mutt to eat her up. "but i learned other things."

"tha' right?"

"yeah," you say softly, and you turn over onto your stomach, pushing back onto your knees right in front of him. he bends, leaning over until he's pushing his masked face right into the seam of your cunt, and you grip the sheets tight when he inhales deeply, a rumble following as both of his hands grip either side of your ass and spread you open for him. you're drooling, wetting the nylon fabric, and you gasp when you feel the wet, warm muscle of his tongue suck on your folds through the mask. it's lewd, and you're wetting the material so much it sticks to the strong lines of his face, but he continues, tilting his head to the side as he laps at the pretty slick that dampens your thighs.

"what'd y'learn then, swee'eart?"

not how to fuck your lieutenant. but...you did learn to keep them happy.

"h-how to be a good girl."

and you think you feel him smile.

[writersdrug]

Someone sent an anonymous ask about Soap being all whiny and jealous, complaining to Simon about how lucky he is to have such a pretty, curvy girl and Tumblr swallowed it 😫 (This is gonna be a 2 parter)

Warnings: nsfw, threesome, sub soap and reader, dom ghost, training, voyeurism

But I can imagine Ghost would be so sick and tired of it. Johnny's constantly yapping like the mutt he truly is: "Yer a lucky man, LT. Findin' a pretty bird like that." "Where'd ye get her? Need to find one for myself." "She as soft as she sounds?"

Ghost wants to snap at him for talking about you like that - he shouldn't be talking about you at all. But he knows the poor man is just lonely, aching to have something soft and supple like you. Your smiling face smushed between Ghost's fingers when you come to drop off the lunch he forgot. The jeans that fit snuggly around your ass and thighs, the shirt that hugs the swell of your breasts, stretched thin as it barely contains them... poor Johnny boy can't help but whine at the sight of something so appetizing, so soft and warm right there - he's jealous of his LT. How did someone so hard around the edges pluck something so sweet?

Simon hates to see him so upset, pouting in the corner like a scolded puppy as you stare at your boyfriend with stars in your eyes. Johnny could have a girl, but he gets overeager: fucking them on the first date, leaving them sore and bitten and tearful. He's too rough, and they're quick to excuse themselves, fleeing the next morning and blocking him from all social media.

Johnny needs to learn to be patient and gentle with his toys. He's nice enough to let the sergeant practice with his own pretty girl, and you're more than happy to assist Soap with his green-eyed monster.

After a nice dinner at his LT's house, served by you - along with some bronze, liquid courage - Johnny sits on the recliner, chatting with Ghost, who's relaxed on the sofa. You enter the living room and stand next to Simon, biting your lip excitedly and staring between the two of them. Simon wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you to sit on the arm of the sofa.

"Y' think she's pretty?" He asks Johnny, who blinks.

Gorgeous. Comely. Ravishing. "Course I do." He responds plainly, trying not to get worked up over the way you're perched next to his LT so prettily.

"Yea, you do..." Simon mutters, squeezing the flesh at your thigh. "What's it you said? 'She must look nice, spillin' out my hands’?"

Soap is nothing short of mortified. His eyes are wide, staring back at Simon - he doesn't know what to say. He said those things within the secrecy of his conversation with his lieutenant - he didn't expect him to repeat it outside of that bubble, let alone in front of you, the person in question.

"N' what else was it? 'Need t' have a pretty li'l wife with a rack like that to lay my head-"

"Simon!!"

Soap finally glares at his LT, his fingers digging into his own thighs. His heart is pounding in his chest. Is Ghost trying to get you to hate him?

You giggle and stand upright. "It's ok, Johnny." You coo, slowly walking over to him with your hands behind your back. "I like it. It means you like me."

Soap has little time to do anything but grunt when you swing a leg over his thighs and seat yourself in his lap. Your cleavage is right there, just inches from his face, and he can feel the bare skin of your thighs burning through his trousers.

"Help me take this off?" You tug at the skirt of your dress, looking down at him with those innocent, glossy eyes.

He can't breathe. His clothes are too hot and too tight, his cock nearly choking in the confines of his pants. He looks to his lieutenant for help - Ghost just smiles, like he's watching his favorite porn. He might be, depending on how this plays out.

"Go on, Johnny. Slowly."

Johnny wants to be anything but slow, once he realizes his best friend is showing you off like a collectible toy. He looks back up at you, watching the way your plump lip catches between your teeth. He carefully reaches around, grabbing the back of your neckline and tugging the zipper down - slowly, as he was instructed. He can barely focus on the movement with your breasts right there, imagining what they'd taste like between his warm lips. The shoulders of your dress fall away, revealing the lacy bra you're wearing. He looks up at you, drool pooling under his tongue as you slide your hands over his shoulders, one coming around to play with the base of his mohawk.

"You can take it off." You whisper.

He wastes no time, his hands smoothing up your back and unclasping your bra in one motion. He helps you pull it from your shoulders - your breasts, round and full, now pressing against his chest. He wants to touch. He needs to touch.

He shoots a hungry, pleading look to Ghost - he nods back at Soap, which is all the sergeant needs to absolve his filthy behavior. He closes your breast in his palm, eyes hazy as he takes your nipple into his warm mouth. He hardly has to move his head forward because you lean into his mouth, your fingers grasping at his hair and your back arching deliciously. Johnny groans, using one hand to dig his fingers into the thick flesh at your hips, and his other to press his palm against your lower back. He shifts himself down as his tongue swirls around your nipple, groans leaving his throat and reverberating against the bud, quickly hardening from his ministrations. You sound so sweet, high-pitched coos and soft breaths pouring from between your lips as you press your weight against Soap, shoving your breast as far into his mouth as he can take. You kiss the crown of his head, whispering a good boy against his skin.

He practically whines, bucking his hips upwards, relishing in how your body grounds him into the sofa cushions. He releases your breast with a pop and quickly takes the other one into his hand, sealing his lips over it with a hum. He looks up at you through wanting, begging eyes as you toss your head back, squeezing your thighs around his hips. His tongue undulates against your stiffening peak, slobbering around the underside of your breast as he gives you another experimental jerk of his hips. You gasp, rolling your hips back down onto him and staring at him with your lust-blown pupils.

His cock is demanding to be let free. He's going to fuck you hard, he's going to pound you into the chair until you're begging, showing his LT just how much of a good boy he is. He's never felt this blazing forest fire within his veins, setting off nerve after nerve and burning a trail right down to his hard, throbbing member.

He hooks his fingers into the hem of your soaked panties, fully intending to rip them off - but you quickly grab his wrist and yank his hand away. He looks at you, blinking through his trance as a look of confusion settles on his face. "Wha's wrong?"

You giggle his expression - the sound goes straight to his tip with another rush of blood. "These are for Simon." you whisper, slowly pushing yourself off of Soap's lap. He lets his arms fall to his sides with a desperate look, letting you back away, right into Ghost's waiting lap.

"Gonna show ya a thing or two, Johnny." he says, pulling you back to his chest. "Teach ya a few tricks, maybe you'll be able t' keep a woman longer than a day." he pulls a switchblade from his pocket and flicks it open. The blade drags down over your belly - you chew your lip as it electrifies your skin, the tip sliding lower and lower until he's running it over your pussy. The fabric is soaked as he lingers there, the sharp edge barely separated from your cunt by your flimsy, drenched panties.

You stare at Soap, not once breaking eye contact as Ghost slices through the fabric. Soap's mouth is agape in disbelief and lust, enamored by the sight before him. He can't tear his eyes from the view of your sopping, glistening pussy, watching as Simon slides his thick fingers over your folds. He catches his thumb under the hood of your clit and you jolt, shooting a hand down to grab his wrist - but he doesn't stop. You whine and mewl, leaning your head back against his shoulder as he flicks the bud, strumming over it slowly.

He stares Soap in the eyes, watching his reaction. "Alright there, Johnny?"

He's drooling, mouth hung open, hypnotized by the way your muscles clench with each stroke of Simon’s thumb. “… Aye…” he manages to say – his fingers dig into the cushions beneath him as he tries to control the urge to tear across the room and drive his cock into your cunt, fucking you against his lieutenant’s chest the way you deserve: rough and hard. Simon’s been teasing you too long; you need to be ravaged, orgasm after orgasm pulled from you, faster than you can think.

“Let me have a go, yea?” he says boldly, looking at Simon with desperation. “That’s what this is, right? Ye want me to fuck ‘er nice? I’ll do it. I’ll do it, sir – I’ll take good care of her-“

“No you won’t.” Simon interjects before the dog can get too riled up. His fingers are now strumming up and through your folds, and you’re panting and staring at Johnny with needy desire. “’S why you can’t keep anyone. You’re too eager.”

The truth shoots through Soap’s chest like an arrow, and he meets Simon’s gaze. He’s obviously rock-hard in his trousers, he won’t even attempt to hide it. Simon’s got a cocky, knowing smirk on his face, and you… poor you is just wishing Simon would spit out what he wants to say, so the three of you could get on with the show.

“Gonna teach you a few secrets, sergeant.” Simon says, and Soap isn’t sure what to think about having his rank used in this situation. “My girl needs to cum.” He pulls his fingers away from you – you whine in frustration, but are quickly silenced when two, thick digits are stuffed into your mouth. You obediently clean off your own slick with your tongue, looking back down at Johnny with a heavy, lidded stare.

“I’ll make her cum.” Soap says quickly. If this is a matter of whether or not he can make someone cum, he’ll pass that test easily.

“You’ll do it right.” Simon growls. “Need to understand the difference between getting’ your cock wet and pleasuring ‘er. ‘S my girl ‘n I won’t have you roughhousing ‘er. Got it?”

Soap’s throat bobs as he swallows. It was another task, another order from his superior. He clears his mind of any preprogrammed, lustful thoughts, sent straight to his brain from his achingly hard member – this wasn’t about him. It was about following instructions. He was a good soldier, he could do that much.

“Yes sir.”

Simon nods. He shifts hips, pulling his fingers from your lipsand grabbing your hips. You grab his forearms for support as he spreads his muscular thigs, forcing your legs farther apart as they rest on either side of his knees. Slick dribbles down from your pussy and onto Simon’s length, which is about to tear a hole through his pants.

“Then get to it. Sick of hearin’ you yap all day about not bein’ able to keep a girl. Put your mouth to good use – we’re about to fix that.”

[kianamaiart]

a 14+ rating on a magical girl show isn't as much of a big deal as people think it is. there's obviously madoka magica, and even sailor moon got very depressing in the original manga. most original magical girl animes were heavily sanitised by 4kids-type dubs - cardcaptor sakura had a kid marry her teacher, ojamajo doremi had a kidnapping episode, and in sailor moon's last few volumes the protagonists die one at a time. idwtbamg's violence is unique because it's direct with real weapons, not because it exists in the first place.

The issue is, this is Japan's rating system (hence why these shows were watered down when they got here). This very specific age range is hard to find in the US and even harder to sell. You'll usually find ages 4-12 and adult and nothing in between. Animation studios don't know how to market to teens and find them to be a risky demographic to make stuff for. Infinity Train, Avatar, Jentry Chau and maaaaybe Owl House are the closest examples done here that I've seen try to lean towards that audience/even get greenlit.

I've seen MANY of my friends and colleagues pitch around hoping to cater to this demo but their pitches usually get axed in development because studios don't think it'll be successful.

Studios are incredibly metrics based nowadays and are still only looking at cable numbers or streams. And when you think about it that way, yeah it is risky to cater to teens because teens generally pirate the shows that they do watch (if they're not just watching youtube). Which isn't a bad thing but studios don't see that. They don't see that teens make up a HUGE majority of online fandoms because that alone doesn't make them money. It COULD but that would require doing merch and learning how to pivot into engaging with online spaces which is, again, too risky for them. They can't replicate the success of studios like GLITCH or Spindlehorse, who have hit that teen demo PERFECTLY, because if they do try, it'd require them to dismantle the VERY OLD system and reassess EVERYTHING.

[aleksatia]

What would the LaDS do if MC just had enough of the whole secret keeping/manipulation/stalking/controlling behavior and ran away? Like she made sure all of the ways they're keeping tabs on her don't work anymore, secretly leaves to live elsewhere, and never comes back? Like she's GONE gone and can't be found.

Thanks so much for the question and the idea — it made me spiral beautifully into angst territory. 🖤 At first glance, this is how I imagine things would unfold in my headcanon.

Every LaDS reacts differently, and honestly… some of them never really recover. I poured my heart into each of their perspectives, so if you see it another way, I’d love to hear your take. Always open to different interpretations — especially when it comes to pain like this. 😌✨

UPD: Requested continuation is here:

Sylus | Rafayel | Caleb | Zayne (coming soon) | Xavier (coming soon)

🦅 Sylus

(He doesn’t lose things. He takes, he keeps. But this—this is loss. A slow-rotting, world-tilting, soul-gnawing kind of loss.)

The Moment It Hits

It’s a shift in the air. An emptiness where something vital used to be. His breath catches, fingers tightening around the crystal glass of whiskey.

He calls you. Nothing.

He tracks you. Nothing.

He tears the city apart—contacts, satellites, underground networks. Nothing.

Then it hits. You’re not hiding. You’re beyond reach.

Does He Blame Himself?

At first, no. You’re just being difficult. Testing limits. He trained you too well in the game of power.

Then the days stretch. The silence rots in his gut.

Maybe he pushed too far. Held too tight. Loved too hard.

But if he had been softer, would you still be here? No. You were always going to run. He just never thought you’d win.

First Day

He sits in his study, staring at the last glass you touched. His fingers hover over the rim, but he doesn’t pick it up.

The Nest is in chaos, men scrambling for orders, but he says nothing. Just listens to the empty resonance where you used to be.

He doesn’t sleep. He barely moves. And when dawn breaks, he realizes—you’re still gone.

First Week

The silence is unbearable.

He smashes a mirror. Then a chair. Then an entire fucking room. But the noise doesn’t bring you back.

Music. That’s the answer. The organ swells under his fingers, but the sound doesn’t fill the void. It just makes it worse. The walls of his mansion tremble with the weight of his grief, but no one dares to stop him.

The first time he says Kitten, it’s barely a whisper. The second time, it’s a growl. The third—it’s a plea.

First Month

He kills a man just for saying your name. He kills another for looking at him wrong.

The city learns to be silent.

The organ plays every night, each melody heavier, darker—until one evening, he simply stops. Because music is agony now.

He thinks he hears you sometimes. A shift of fabric. A sharp inhale. But he turns, and there’s only the crushing weight of absence.

Five Years

People say he’s gone mad. That he talks to ghosts. That he’s lost his edge.

They don’t understand. He hasn’t lost it. He just has nothing left to prove.

He still feels you. Somewhere distant. Beyond his reach but never truly gone.

New Relationships? Don’t be ridiculous. He fucks, maybe. But no one’s ever allowed to touch his soul again.

He doesn’t chase anymore. Because one day, the universe will break in just the right way, and you’ll be within reach again.

And when that day comes—you’re not running anymore.

🌊 Rafayel

(He always smiled through pain. Painted beauty over grief. But when you disappeared, not even art could hide the collapse.)

The Moment It Hits

He waits three days before admitting to himself that you're really gone. Not late. Not upset. Gone.

Your studio key still sits on the shelf. The mug you always used — untouched. He tries calling. Messaging. Pretends he's not panicking.

Then he checks every port, every passage, every gallery, every alleyway where your soul might've left a trace.

You’ve vanished. And he knows—you didn’t want to be found.

Does He Blame Himself?

Every minute.

He retraces every word, every joke, every lingering glance he didn’t take seriously enough.

Maybe he should’ve said it clearer. Or sooner. Or not at all.

Maybe if he hadn’t tried so hard to keep it light, you would’ve known how deep he really felt.

First Day

He draws you. Over and over. Not from memory — from guilt.

He tries to remember how your mouth looked when you smiled through frustration. How your eyes dimmed when you thought he wasn’t watching.

He doesn’t eat. Doesn’t sleep. Paints until his fingers bleed.

First Week

He keeps thinking he hears your voice in the wind. That you're just out of frame.

Sits by the harbor, waiting for a boat that never comes.

Finishes a canvas. Stares at it for an hour. Then sets it on fire.

Tells himself he’s fine. He lies beautifully.

First Month

People ask where you are. He says you're traveling. Or healing. Or chasing a dream.

But the gallery knows — there’s a new collection in the works. All unnamed. All in shades of drowning.

The walls of his home are covered in your outlines. He keeps the lights low. Pretends it’s intimacy, not absence.

The world starts to lose its color. For a man who once saw millions of shades, everything dulls. Muted. Grey.

He stops using yellow entirely.

First Year

He vanishes beneath the sea. A whole year. Gone.

They say he swam through old ruins, sang to coral reefs that didn’t sing back.

He gathers shells—perfect, fragile—and crushes them into powder, making pigments no one's ever seen.

But they all come out grey.

When he finally resurfaces, his skin is colder. His voice is softer. His art—wordless grief on stretched canvas.

When asked what inspired them, he says: “Nothing. She’s not mine anymore.”

And when no one’s looking, he traces your initials into wet paint. Every time.

Five Years

He exhibits a piece called "When Silence Learned to Scream." It sells for millions. He doesn’t show up to the opening.

He no longer draws faces. Only fragments—lips that look like yours, fingers that used to hold his brush.

He’s touched people. Kissed some. Loved none.

He still sets a second cup of coffee. Still leaves the balcony door unlocked. Just in case.

The color never comes back. He just learns to fake it.

He doesn’t wait. He just… exists beside the ghost of you.

✈️ Caleb

(You were the only thing that made him feel human. Now, he’s just another machine built for war—functional, efficient, and dead inside.)

The Moment It Hits

He notices the silence first.

Your messages stop. Your routine shifts. Something’s off, but he tells himself you just need space. You’ve always needed space.

He checks on you through the usual systems—his eyes, the satellites, the passive trackers he swore weren’t invasive, just precautionary.

Nothing. Not disabled. Not broken. Gone.

His knees hit the floor before he can stop them. His hand wraps around the metal tag you gave him—the one he swore never to take off. It digs into his palm so hard it leaves a mark.

Does He Blame Himself?

He doesn’t even need to ask. Of course, it’s his fault.

Maybe if he had held you a little looser, if he had let you breathe, if he hadn’t always been watching, waiting, bracing for the day you’d run.

Maybe if he had been less Caleb and more someone you could love without suffocating.

But it’s too late now.

First Day

His body stops feeling like his own. Like his mechanical arm, the rest of him loses sensation.

He moves, eats, speaks, salutes—out of habit, not need.

But sometimes, when no one is watching, the pain surfaces.

And when it does, it swallows him whole.

First Week

He takes every mission no one else wants. The more dangerous, the better.

Tells himself he’s just doing his job, but deep down, he’s testing fate. Daring it to take him.

It never does.

He always comes back. And he hates it.

First Month

He stops cooking. No more spices, no more warmth, no more shared meals.

Only bland, military rations. Fuel, not food.

He doesn’t touch your photo albums, but he doesn’t throw them away either.

Let them rot with him.

First Year

He hasn’t eaten apples since the day you left.

Too sweet. Too alive. Too much like you.

The dog tag you gave him is still around his neck. A brand. A wound. A curse.

He tries. Once. With a woman from the med bay. She was kind. Gentle.

But when she reached for his hand—his jaw locked, his throat closed, his stomach churned.

He excused himself. Never tried again.

Five Years

His name is legendary. His rank? Higher than anyone imagined.

The man who never dies. The ghost pilot. The one who walks away from wreckage without a scratch.

He used to hate attention, but now? Now his inaccessibility makes women chase him more. He lets them. But never sees their faces. Never lets them touch his scars. Never lets them hold him the way you used to.

Because pain is all he has left of you. And he’s not ready to let it go.

🧊 Zayne

(Some men burn in their grief. Some men drown in it. Zayne? He freezes. The world still turns, the city still moves, and he walks through it like a ghost wearing a doctor’s coat. Precise. Detached. Functioning. But never living.)

The Moment It Hits

He finds out through absence, not presence.

You were always predictable in small ways. The way you fidgeted when nervous. The way you always texted before vanishing for a few hours. The way you left traces of yourself in his space, even when you didn’t mean to.

But one day, all of it stops.

Your number disconnects. Your bank account closes. The security cameras catch nothing. Too clean. Too final.

You didn’t just leave. You erased yourself.

Does He Blame Himself?

No. Not at first.

Because blaming himself would mean accepting that he miscalculated, and he does not make mistakes.

He spends months analyzing. Running simulations. Mapping out every logical reason why you left.

None of them make sense.

Then, one night, while sitting alone in his office, he makes the mistake of asking himself the one question he’s been avoiding—

What if it wasn’t logic? What if it was just pain?

That’s the first time he doesn’t sleep.

First Day

The hospital is quiet. Too quiet.

He operates. He consults. He performs at peak efficiency because the alternative is stopping, and stopping means thinking.

At the end of the day, he unlocks his apartment and stares at the empty space where your things used to be.

He stands there.

Just stands there.

First Week

His routine doesn’t break. Not once.

5 AM runs. 12-hour shifts. Research until 2 AM.

No deviations. Because deviations lead to cracks.

The first time someone mentions your name, his scalpel slips.

It never happens again.

First Month

He starts closing doors he once left open.

Stops looking at his phone. Stops checking messages.

Your coffee order is deleted from his usual café’s system.

He doesn’t erase you. That would be emotional.

He simply moves forward.

First Year

He doesn’t say your name anymore.

When people ask, he says you’re gone. No details. No elaboration.

But his residents whisper.

How their attending stopped smiling. How he works more than sleeps. How his precision became ruthless.

They never mention the fact that he never, ever, takes cases where patients have your eye color.

Five Years

The rumors are true. He has a daughter.

No one knows the mother. No one dares ask.

He never talks about it, never brings her to the hospital, but he leaves every shift at exactly the same time—always back before she falls asleep.

He teaches her to count constellations on the ceiling. Reads her anatomy books like fairy tales.

She has your eyes. People notice. Whisper. But no one asks.

And when she laughs—it’s a sound that shatters something in him.

When she asks, “Was Mommy like me?” He pauses. Looks at her. Then, softly: "She was... the part of you I’ll never be able to explain."

He never married. Never will.

And sometimes, when the room is too quiet, and she’s asleep in his arms—he looks at her face and wonders if loving someone this much was ever ethical.

🌌 Xavier

(He doesn’t fall apart. He folds in. Quietly. Gracefully. Like a dying star still casting light no one realizes is already gone.)

The Moment It Hits

It starts with your resignation.

No dramatic exit. No farewell. Just one line in the system: “Resigned. No forwarding information.”

You, who lived for the Hunt, for duty. You, who said this was everything.

He tries to message. Silence.

Asks around. Friends. Colleagues. Command. They say you just… vanished.

Then one day, he walks past your old apartment—someone else lives there.

Your scent, your presence, your trace in the universe—gone.

Does He Blame Himself?

He tries not to.

Tells himself you were always drifting, always meant to disappear.

But the silence between you, the things he never said— “Stay. I need you.” “I was never calm, I just didn’t know how to show it.”

They echo in his mind louder than any explosion.

He doesn’t hate himself. But he never forgives.

First Day

He stays on duty longer than needed.

Doesn’t take off his coat. Doesn’t go home.

Doesn’t even speak, unless the mission demands it.

At night, he stares at the ceiling and wonders if you’re staring at the same stars.

First Week

He starts bounty hunting again. Harder. Deeper into uncharted zones.

He sleeps more—but worse. Dreams flicker like static.

When he returns, they say he’s become faster. Colder. Lethal.

No one dares ask why.

First Month

He stops wearing light colors.

White fades into grey. Grey fades into black.

He says nothing about the change.

But those who know him realize: he’s mourning.

And it’s a mourning that will never end.

First Year

Women try. Of course they do.

He’s distant. Beautiful. Untouchable.

He lets a few in—physically. But only when the emptiness claws too loudly.

He never sees their faces. Never lets them stay the night.

One once whispered, “I could love you, if you let me.” He didn’t respond. Just walked away.

Because you never had to ask. You already did.

Five Years

He’s still hunting. Still tracking the lost, the dangerous, the damned.

He walks through warzones like a shadow of starlight.

No one has seen him in white in years.

They call him a myth. A legend. A ghost.

But he’s just a man who would trade eternity for one more day with you.

Just one day.

Just once—to see your face again.

[sakuraszn]

A BOXERS STRUGGLES !

ft. boxer!katsuki bakugo x f!reader

summary: Bakugo is fiercely dedicated to becoming Japan's number one boxer, but he faces inner conflict when he starts developing feelings for someone. His fear of distraction threatens his rise to the top, creating tension between his personal life and his aspirations. As their relationship deepens, he learns to balance his love for her with his desire to succeed in boxing. [wc: 5k]

The gym stank of sweat and blood. The air was thick with the sounds of fists pounding heavy bags, the rhythmic shuffle of footwork against the mat, and the sharp commands of coaches drilling fighters into champions.

This was Katsuki Bakugo’s world. The ring was his domain. The roar of a crowd? Just white noise. The only thing that mattered was the moment his fist connected—the instant he proved, without question, that he was better.

His opponent staggered back, legs wobbling. His ribs were bruised, his breath shallow. He was still standing, barely, but Bakugo could already see it in his eyes.

He was finished.

Aizawa’s voice rang through the gym. “Stay sharp, Bakugo.”

Katsuki Bakugo stood in the center of the ring, fists clenched in his taped-up hands, his breath controlled despite the fire burning in his chest. His opponent for today’s spar was already on his knees, clutching his ribs, coughing through the pain.

“Get up,” Bakugo growled, shaking out his fists. “I ain’t done with ya’ yet.”

The other fighter grimaced trying everything in his power to rise, but before he could, the coach called it.

“That’s enough, Bakugo!” His trainer, Aizawa, sighed from outside the ropes, arms crossed over his chest. “I told you to spar, not destroy.”

Bakugo clicked his tongue and turned away, grabbing a towel from the corner post to wipe the sweat off his face.

“If he’s too weak to take a hit, he shouldn’t be in the ring,” he muttered, stepping out of the ropes.

“That ‘weak’ fighter you just knocked out was ranked fifth in the region.”

“Then I guess I’m already top four.”

Aizawa exhaled through his nose and shook his head lightly, but there was the ghost of a smirk in his otherwise impassive expression. Bakugo had talent—raw, explosive talent that had propelled him through the rankings faster than anyone had expected. But he had a fatal flaw.

He fought like a man trying to bury something.

Something he was afraid to lose.

Bakugo exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as he looked down at his fallen opponent. It wasn’t personal. It never was. The guy had stepped into the ring knowing what he was getting into. If you weren’t ready to fall, you shouldn’t be fighting.

“Damn, man!”

The sound of Kirishima’s voice cut through the noise before Bakugo felt a heavy arm slap against his back. “That was sick! You dropped him like a sack of bricks.”

Bakugo clicked his tongue, walking toward his corner to unwrap the tape from his hands. “Tch. If he went down that easy, he shouldn’t have been in the ring with me.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. You’re a beast.” Kirishima laughed, leaning against the ropes. “Which is exactly why you need to come out tonight. We’re celebrating.”

Bakugo shot him a glare. “The hell we are.”

“C’monnn, man! You’ve been tearing through the ranks like crazy. People are talking. You’re undefeated, making a name for yourself, and you’ve got fans.” Kirishima smirked. “I mean, how many guys get this far at our age?”

“I’m not doing this for a goddamn party,” Bakugo muttered, tossing the used tape into the trash.

Kirishima groaned. “Bro. You never do anything outside the gym. You don’t even celebrate your own wins.”

Because there was nothing to celebrate. Winning wasn’t the goal—it was the standard.

Bakugo was going to be the best boxer in Japan. That wasn’t just some damn dream or some nice idea to hope for. It was a fact. Something inevitable. And if it wasn’t inevitable, then he just had to train even harder than before.

There was no reason to slow down.

No reason to waste time at some party.

But Kirishima was still looking at him, hopeful as ever, and Bakugo knew the bastard wouldn’t shut up about it.

He clicked his tongue. “Tch. Fine. But I’m not staying long.”

Kirishima cheered. “Hell yeah!”

This is a waste of time.

Bakugo knew it. He knew he should be in the gym, working on his footwork, watching fight tapes, doing something, anything, to get ahead of the competition.

But he ignored the voice in his head, just this once.

Plus, was the worst that could happen?

The party was loud. So agonizing loud.

The bass from the speakers thumped through the floors, shaking the walls of the packed apartment. People were everywhere, drinking, laughing, talking too damn much. Some of them he recognized—fighters from the gym, people from the local boxing circuit—but most of them were just randoms.

“Here.” Kirishima shoved a drink into his hand.

Bakugo took one look at it and scoffed. “I ain’t drinking that shit.”

Kirishima rolled his eyes. “Man, at least pretend you’re having fun.”

Bakugo didn’t respond. He was already regretting this.

He didn’t belong here.

This wasn’t his world.

He was about to leave when Kirishima perked up, eyes lighting up as he spotted someone across the room. “Oh, shit! She actually came.”

Bakugo barely glanced over. “Who?”

Kirishima grinned. “That girl I told you about—(Y/N).”

Bakugo finally looked.

You weren’t flashy like some of the other girls here. You weren’t trying to be the center of attention, weren’t draped over some guy’s arm, weren’t looking at him like he was some kind of goddamn celebrity.

You were just sitting there, talking to a friend, nursing a drink in your hand. You didn’t even seem all that interested in the party at all.

And somehow, that was the first thing that made him notice you.

Kirishima nudged him. “She’s cool. I think you’d actually like her.”

Bakugo scowled. “Tch. Since when do you set me up with people?”

“I’m not setting you up,” Kirishima laughed. “But seriously, man. You need to talk to people who aren’t trying to punch you in the face for once.”

Bakugo rolled his eyes. He wasn’t here to meet people. He was here to get Kirishima off his back, and then he was leaving.

But then, as if you could feel him looking, your gaze flicked over to his.

And you smiled.

Not in an over-the-top way. Not in that annoying, flirty, “I’m just here for the fighters” way.

Just a simple, amused smile. Like you knew something he didn’t.

And for some stupid, infuriating reason, that was enough to make him stay a little longer.

You didn’t approach him first.

That was the second thing he noticed about you.

You weren’t like most people who came up to him at these kinds of events—all wide-eyed admiration and empty compliments. You weren’t trying to impress him.

If anything, you were unimpressed.

And that… bothered him.

So when Kirishima finally dragged him over to introduce you, Bakugo was already in a foul mood.

“(Y/N), this is Bakugo,” Kirishima said, grinning. “Bakugo, this is (Y/N). She’s cool, I swear.”

You gave him a once-over, raising an eyebrow before smirking. “Yeah, I know who he is.”

Bakugo narrowed his eyes. “Tch. That so?”

“I’ve been to a couple of your fights.” You shrugged. “You don’t let them last very long, huh?”

He scoffed. “Why the hell would I?”

You tilted your head. “I dunno. Wouldn’t kill you to put on a show for once.”

Kirishima snorted. “Damn. She’s got you there, man.”

Bakugo clicked his tongue, crossing his arms. He wasn’t used to people talking to him like this—like he was just some guy instead of a rising champion.

But you weren’t mocking him.

You weren’t flirting, either.

You were just… talking to him.

And for the first time in a long time, Katsuki Bakugo wasn’t sure how to respond.

This was bad.

This was exactly the kind of distraction he couldn’t afford.

The next day arrived as Bakugo got out of bed, the sunlight streaming through his window, casting a warm glow across his room. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and took a deep breath, steeling himself for the day ahead. As he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, he could still feel the weight of the events from the previous night lingering in his mind, making it hard to focus.

Bakugo didn’t do distractions.

He trained. He fought. He won. That was it.

He didn’t waste time at parties, didn’t fuck around with meaningless shit like relationships or making friends outside of the gym. There was no point. The only thing that mattered was getting stronger.

So why the hell had he stayed at that party longer than he intended?

Why the hell had you stuck in his head?

It pissed him off more than it should have.

It wasn’t like you had done anything special. You weren’t drooling over him like most people who recognized his name. You weren’t trying to get something out of him. You weren’t even acting impressed.

You were just… there.

And for some stupid reason, that was what made him notice you.

Tch. Whatever. It doesn't even matter anymore.

He wasn’t gonna waste time thinking about some random girl.

So, as usual, he threw himself into training.

The gym was empty except for the steady rhythm of his fists pounding the heavy bag. It was late—so late that even Aizawa had already left for the night, trusting Bakugo to lock up when he was done. The only sounds that filled the space were the heavy thuds of leather meeting flesh and the occasional creak of the building settling around him.

His body ached, but it wasn’t enough. The burn in his muscles was a reminder of how hard he was working, yet it only fueled his determination. He needed more. More speed. More power. More control. He needed to push himself past his limits, to go beyond what he was yesterday. Each punch felt like a step toward a higher version of himself, a way to stave off the ever-looming fear of being left behind.

Because if he didn’t—if he slowed down for even a second—someone else would catch up. The thought danced tauntingly in the back of his mind, an insidious whisper that he couldn't shake off. He refused to let that happen; he wouldn't allow anyone to inch ahead of him.

So he fought harder, faster, his focus narrowing like a predatory gaze. The world beyond the gym faded, blurring into insignificance as he lost himself in his routine. He was so absorbed in his relentless pursuit that he barely noticed when someone else walked into the gym. The door creaked softly, almost lost in the noise of his efforts, and he instinctively increased his intensity, a faint flicker of curiosity stirring deep within him. Who would dare interrupt his sanctum?

“Jesus. Do you ever go home?”

His fist stopped mid-swing.

He turned, scowling, only to find you leaning against the doorway.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

“What the hell are you doin’ here?” he snapped.

You shrugged. “Kirishima told me you’d still be here. Thought I’d stop by.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Tch. Don’t you got somewhere better to be?”

“Probably,” you said easily, walking further into the gym. “But this is more interesting.”

That threw him off. Most people didn’t stick around after his fights. Not unless they wanted something.

But you weren’t asking for anything.

And that was what made you dangerous.

He grabbed his water bottle and took a long sip, trying to ignore the way you were watching him.

“You train like you’re running from something,” you said suddenly.

He nearly choked on his water. “The fuck did you just say?”

You leaned against the ring, arms crossed, studying him with an expression that was way too goddamn knowing. “You fight like there’s something chasing you.”

He scoffed. “Tch. You don’t know shit about fighting.”

“I know about people,” you shot back.

His jaw clenched.

Because that was the problem.

You weren’t looking at him like a fighter. You were looking at him like a person. And that threw him off. It wasn’t just the intensity of your gaze; it was the way you seemed to see him—past the tough exterior, into something deeper.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

You didn’t go away after that initial encounter. Somehow, you kept showing up—at the gym, at his fights, infiltrating his thoughts at the most inconvenient times. You’d sit on the sidelines, a calm presence amidst the chaos, watching with that same unreadable expression that both intrigued and frustrated him. You didn’t fawn over him. You didn’t try to flirt or get his attention. You were just… there.

And no matter how much he tried to ignore you, he couldn’t shake the feeling that you were gradually unraveling him.

“Yo, you good, man?” Kirishima asked after a particularly exhausting sparring session, wiping sweat from his brow.

Bakugo scowled, his irritation simmering just below the surface. “The fuck kind of question is that?”

Kirishima smirked, a knowing light in his eyes. “I dunno, dude. You’ve been off lately. Like, you’ve been extra agitated every time (Y/N) is around.”

Bakugo’s fists tightened into balls at his sides, his heart racing. “Shut the hell up.”

Kirishima just laughed, unfazed. “Bro. You’re so obvious.”

There was nothing obvious about it, at least that’s what he kept telling himself. The truth was, every time he caught a glimpse of you cheering for him—your lips curled into that soft smile, your eyes sparkling with pride—he felt something shift inside him. Something he wasn't prepared to confront.

It was maddening how a simple presence could ignite a fire in his chest.

He cursed under his breath, pushing the thought aside. There was nothing to even talk about, nothing to feel. Because whatever this was—whatever you were doing to him—he wasn’t gonna let it get in the way.

He refused to let his heart get tangled in the mess of feelings he didn’t understand. But deep down, a part of him wondered if perhaps being a fighter meant more than just throwing punches. Perhaps it meant fighting for something—or someone—worth it.

So, as always, he did the only thing he knew how to do.

He trained harder.

And harder.

And harder.

Like he could beat the thought of you out of his head.

Like he could make himself stop wanting something he wasn’t supposed to have.

But no matter how hard he tried…You were still there.

And that was the real problem.

After that night, things… shifted.

He stopped avoiding you. Stopped pretending you didn’t exist.

You still weren’t pushing to be in his life, but somehow, you were just there—closer than before.

And maybe… just maybe… he liked that.

A little too much.

Recently, You started showing up at the gym more.

You never interrupted his training, never got in his way, but he could feel you there. Could hear the way you’d tease Kirishima when he dropped a weight. Could hear your voice in between the rounds of his sparring matches.

And you wanna know the worst part about it?

He started looking forward to it.

“You’re getting better,” you said one day, watching him hit the pads with his trainer.

He wiped sweat from his brow, smirking. “Tch. ‘Course I am. I’m not some weak-ass rookie.”

You rolled your eyes. “Never said you were. But you used to just go for the kill every fight. You’re starting to actually think in the ring.”

His smirk faltered.

Because that was true, too.

He fought like a ticking time bomb, each punch a detonation of raw power that sent shockwaves through his opponents. His reputation was built on pure brute force, but recently… everything had shifted.

He was evolving.

Taking a breath.

Learning the game.

Maybe it was because, for the first time, he had someone whose opinion actually mattered to him.

Shit.

This was spiraling out of control.

It wasn’t just in the ring anymore.

You started showing up in his life outside the gym, too. After every match, you’d be there, thrusting a water bottle into his hands before he could even catch his breath.

“You’ve got to hydrate, dumbass” you’d tease, rolling your eyes like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

And hell, he found himself addicted to the way you called him a dumbass with that playful grin.

Then there was that one night when Kirishima dragged him to a late-night diner, and there you were—totally unexpected.

But instead of bailing like he usually would, he took a seat next to you in the booth. He picked at his food, captivated by your animated argument with Kirishima about something ridiculously trivial. When you nudged his arm, asking for his take, he found himself responding.

Because he wanted to.

Because you were a blast.

Because, for just a moment, fighting faded into the background.

That’s when things got really complicated.

The real trouble started the moment he stopped denying it.

When he started craving your presence.

When he caught himself stealing glances at you when you thought he wasn’t looking.

When he realized your laughter was now his favorite melody.

And then the late nights came, when he lay in bed wide awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering what you were up to.

Did you think about him, too?

Oh hell.

He was in deep.

And he had no idea how to navigate this storm brewing inside him.

Bakugo didn’t know what the hell was wrong with him.

Scratch that—he knew.

He just didn’t want to admit it.

For weeks now, he’d been stuck in his own goddamn head, trying—and failing—to pretend that you weren’t the reason his focus was slipping. Every training session, every sparring match, everything just felt… off. It had gotten worse.

Everything about you messed with him.

The way you chewed on your lip when you were thinking, lost in a world that felt miles away. The way your voice softened when you spoke to him, just a little, as if he wasn’t the disaster everybody painted him to be. The way you looked at him—eyes bright and curious—like he was more than just his fists, more than the explosive temper that often burned those around him.

And now? He couldn’t fucking stand it.

Because he wanted you.

Badly.

And it was driving him insane.

“So,” Kirishima said, leaning against the locker room bench, arms crossed with that unnerving spiky smile plastered on his face. “You gonna tell her, or are you just gonna keep making that face forever?”

Bakugo scowled. “What fucking face?”

Kirishima smirked wider, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “The one you’re making right now. The ‘I’m a grumpy volcano that’s about to erupt’ face.”

With an annoyed grunt, Bakugo yanked off his gloves, throwing them into his locker as if they were the source of all his problems. “I ain’t makin’ a face.”

“Dude.” Kirishima exhaled dramatically, rolling his eyes. “You like her. It’s painfully obvious. You get all weird and broody whenever she’s around.”

Bakugo turned his back, trying to hide the heat blooming in his cheeks. “I ain’t broody.”

Kirishima ignored him, shoving his hands into his pockets with a casual confidence that only aggravated Bakugo further. “And she definitely likes you, too.”

That made him freeze.

His fingers tightened around the straps of his gloves, heart hammering in a way he really didn’t fucking like. The thought of you returning his feelings stirred something inside him—a mix of fear and hope that twisted his stomach into knots.

He forced a scoff, trying to mask the turmoil. “Tch. You don’t know that.”

“Bro, she watches your fights like she’s trying to figure you out. No one stares at someone that much unless they’re either obsessed or in love.”

Bakugo clenched his jaw, irritation bubbling up.

Love.

No.

That wasn’t what this was.

It couldn’t be.

Right?

Kirishima leaned forward, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “I’ve seen the way she lights up when you walk in. When she cheers for you, it’s like she’s rooting for a hero.”

He paused, letting his words settle into Bakugo's mind, each one weighing heavier than the last. “You could have something real, man. But if you just keep pretending it’s nothing—”

Bakugo cut him off, spinning around with a fierce glare. “Shut it! I’m not in the mood for your sappy bullshit!”

Kirishima raised his hands in defense. “Hey, I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. You can’t keep running away from this. It’s like you want to explode but you’re holding it back. Just tell her how you feel!”

But the thought of putting himself out there, of opening up, felt like a different kind of explosion—one that terrified him. A battle he wasn't sure he could win.

“What if I…?” His voice trailed off, the whisper fragile, almost foreign to him.

“What if you what?” Kirishima pressed, leaning in closer, eyebrows furrowed in genuine concern.

“What if she thinks I’m a total loser?” Bakugo shot back, the words slipping out before he could catch them.

Kirishima chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Dude, she’s been right by your side through everything. Trust me. She sees you. The real you. Not just the angry guy who blows stuff up.”

And in that moment, all Bakugo could do was stare into his friend's earnest eyes, the wheels turning in his mind. He felt the pressure build within him—not just the pressure of his own chaotic thoughts, but a surge of longing that was hard to ignore.

“What if I try?” he muttered, almost to himself.

Kirishima’s face split into a grin. “Now you’re talking! Just think about it. Taking a leap like this can lead to something incredible. And who knows? You might just find that she’s waiting for you to make a move.”

Bakugo took a deep breath, gripping his locker. The thought of finally breaking free from this never-ending cycle of confusion was both terrifying and exhilarating. But deep down, he knew he couldn't keep pretending anymore.

With every passing moment, the desire to grab you by the shoulders and confess everything grew stronger. He would have to face his fears—head-on, just like he did in every fight.

“Alright,” he growled, determination erupting within him. “I’ll do it.”

As Kirishima gave him a confident nod, Bakugo felt the familiar rush of adrenaline that accompanied every fight—but this time, it was for something much more important than just victory. It was for you. The challenge had been accepted, and he was ready to stop being the broody, angry guy everyone expected him to be.

Bakugo would fight for this, and he wouldn't back down. Not now, not ever.

Kirishima nudged him with his foot. “Dude, just confess already. It’s not like she’s gonna reject you.”

Bakugo exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair.

Confess?

He wasn’t that guy.

He wasn’t soft. He wasn’t romantic. He didn’t have a way with words.

And what if he messed it up?

What if you looked at him differently?

What if—

Kirishima snapped his fingers in front of his face. “Oi. Stop thinking so damn much.”

Bakugo growled. “I ain’t—”

“Yeah, yeah, you ain’t thinking, whatever.” Kirishima rolled his eyes. “Just tell her.”

Bakugo let out a long, frustrated sigh.

Fine.

Fuck it.

If he was gonna do this, he was gonna do it his way.

Finding you wasn’t hard. You were always around the gym, watching his fights, teasing him after sparring sessions, lighting a fire in his chest that he couldn’t quite understand.

And just like always, there you were—sitting on the bench outside the gym, scrolling through your phone, waiting.

Waiting for him.

His stomach tightened at the sight.

He shoved the feeling aside and made his way toward you, stopping just a foot away.

You glanced up, a bright smile breaking across your face. “Oh, hey! Good fight tonight. You didn’t completely destroy the guy in the first round this time. Progress.”

He ignored the jab, shoving his hands into his pockets to hide the slight tremor. “Come with me.”

You blinked, surprised. “Uh. Okay?”

You stood, raising an eyebrow, but didn’t argue when he began to walk away—leading you down the dimly lit street. The hum of the city buzzed around, cars thudding in the distance, the faint flickering of a streetlamp overhead matching the anxiety in his chest.

Finally, he stopped near an empty park, hands still deep in his pockets. The air felt electric, charged with anticipation and the weight of everything he was about to say.

You tilted your head, your curiosity making you even more breathtaking. “So… what’s up?”

He exhaled sharply, staring at the ground like it held the answers to all his questions.

Fuck.

Why was this so hard?

He could beat the hell out of seasoned fighters, could take punches that would knock most guys out, could bleed for his dream—but standing here, he felt utterly paralyzed.

His hands curled into fists with frustration.

Then, finally—

“I like you.”

Silence.

The words hung in the air, heavy and final.

Slowly, you blinked.

“…Wait. What?”

His jaw clenched. “You heard me.”

A small smile tugged at your lips, transforming your face into a canvas of joy. “I think I did. But you might have to say it again.”

His eye twitched. “I swear to god—”

You laughed, the sound like music ringing through the night.

It irritated him and thrilled him all at once, making his heart race faster.

You crossed your arms, a mischievous glint in your eye. “Okay, let’s pretend I didn’t already know that. Why do you like me?”

His stomach flipped, twisting in a whirlwind of nerves.

“Tch. The hell kinda question is that?”

“A very fair one.” You raised an eyebrow, challenging him to explain the impossible. “C’mon, Katsuki. If you’re gonna confess, do it right.”

His face burned hotter than a raging flame.

This is a mistake.

Why the hell am I doing this?

But he was already in too deep.

So, fuck it.

He took a tentative step closer.

Then another.

Until you were right there, just inches away, your teasing expression faltering as you realized the gravity of the moment.

His voice dropped lower, rough yet full of depth. “I like you because you don’t take my shit.”

You inhaled sharply, eyes wide with surprise.

“I like you because you don’t look at me like everyone else does.”

Your breath hitched, and he noticed the way your lips parted slightly.

“I like you because you’re in my goddamn head and I can’t get you out.”

Your gaze flickered down to his mouth, and he saw everything shift in your expression, a mix of surprise and something he dared to hope was desire.

And then—

He kissed you.

Hard.

It was a surge of emotion, raw and unrefined. All teeth, heat, and a desperate need, as if the world around them had vanished and there was only you and him in that moment.

This wasn’t some innocent little crush.

This was him breaking.

Breaking down walls that had stood for too long, walls that had been built to keep everyone—and everything—out. But you had found the cracks, slipped through them before he even realized what was happening, and now—now—he was caving.

Your fingers fisted into his shirt, desperate, pulling him closer like you couldn’t get enough. And fuck, that was all the encouragement he needed.

He growled against your lips, something raw and almost dangerous, his hands gripping your waist in a vice, holding you there, pinning you against him like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the goddamn earth.

You gasped, and he took advantage of it, deepening the kiss—hungry, reckless, all-consuming. It was messy, all teeth and heat and the undeniable, electric pull between you both.

He wasn’t thinking anymore.

He was just feeling.

You tasted like something dangerous. Something he couldn’t get enough of—like a match striking against gasoline, igniting something deep inside him that had been waiting to burn.

His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you flush against him, and he let out a shaky, almost desperate breath against your mouth.

More.

He needed more.

The feeling of your body against his, the heat of your skin seeping into him, the way your nails raked up his back, sending a sharp shudder through his spine—it was fucking addictive.

He had been starving, and now that he had this, now that he had you, he didn’t know how the hell he was supposed to stop.

Your lips moved in sync, perfectly, like you had been waiting just as long for this—like you had wanted him all this time, too.

And when you moaned softly against him, he damn near lost his mind.

His hand slid up your back, pressing against the curve of your spine, holding you impossibly close, swallowing the sound like it was his—because it was.

You were his.

And the realization hit him harder than any punch he had ever taken.

By the time he pulled back, panting, his forehead pressing against yours, he could feel your breath against his lips—shaky, unsteady, just as wrecked as he was.

You looked up at him, lips swollen, eyes dazed, and fuck, he had never seen anything more perfect.

He smirked, but it was different this time—softer, but no less intense.

“Tch. Told you,” he muttered, his voice rough from the weight of everything he had just let go.

You exhaled, blinking up at him, breathless but grinning, and shit, that smile—that goddamn smile—made something inside him snap all over again.

“Okay. Yeah. That was definitely a confession.”

He huffed a laugh, his chest still heaving. “Damn right it was.”

And when you reached up, tracing your fingers along the sharp edge of his jaw, tilting his face back down to yours, he knew—he fucking knew.

There was no going back from this.

The world could go to hell, the entire damn boxing circuit could collapse, and he wouldn’t care.

In that moment, with the stars shining overhead and the world spinning just for them, Bakugo felt something shift inside. No longer just a fighter or a hot-headed boxer—he was yours.

And he wasn’t letting you go.

Mine, he thought, and he knew he was ready to face whatever came next—together.

And for the first time in his life, he wasn’t afraid of wanting.

© sakuraszn! xoxo

art creds: gsony24

[lqveharrington]

Loathing | D.M.

summary: you and draco have loathed one another since first year, but you know something happened over the summer before your sixth year. he had changed.

pairing: rival!draco malfoy x potter!reader

includes: fluff, angst, bleeding, both of them being oblivious, both of them taking care of each other

a/n: unadulterated loathing (guess who watched wicked last week?)

The moment you met Draco Malfoy – well, the moment he insulted one of your friends and then wanted to be friends with your brother – you knew you would loathe him for the rest of your life. From every glare from across the room to house rivalries, you loathed him for all you had. Especially when he ruined your Yule Ball experience by knocking the eggnog on you and refusing to explain why, only glaring instead.

But something changed in your sixth year. He changed.

Usually, the second you got on the train to Hogwarts, he would find you and start with the insults, but this year was different. Hell, when you were trying to find Harry on the train when you got to Hogwarts, Draco walked past you without even sparing a glance. He wasn’t even in his Slytherin robes, he was just in a black suit.

Then when the quidditch season started, you learned that he had quit his position as seeker and chance as quidditch captain. You were surprised he lost almost all interest in the sport itself when he used to brag on and on about how good he was at the game. Everything he used to egg you on about was close to nothing, and it worried you just a little.

You knew something was different – he was different – and wanted to know what happened, but you knew your friends couldn’t care less about the Slytherin Prince.

“Hermoine, please tell me you noticed something wrong with Malfoy.” You murmur and enter the potions room, eyes instantly meeting the gray and blue eyes you were speaking of. He quickly averted his gaze and stared down at his potions book instead, making you frown. “He hasn’t been throwing enough insults at us this year.”

“Is that not a good thing?” She creases her brows and takes her seat beside you, pulling her potions book out of her bag. Hermione looks at you with slight unease, not really understanding why you were asking in the first place. “Besides, why should you care? Don’t you hate him?”

You don’t respond, only spinning your ring and bringing your attention back to the Slytherin Prince himself, your teeth kissing your lips in your own turmoil. He looked so tired and… Helpless. You wanted to understand what he was going through despite everything he had put you through. He was still a student at Hogwarts. It may seem out of the ordinary from your usual loathing, but if something serious was going on, you hoped to Godric that he would be okay.

For the rest of class, Slughorn assigned the most ridiculous sounding potion to create. It was supposedly the most powerful love potion in existence and when Slughorn said it could help anyone identify their true love, you doubted it. It was only when Harry properly made the potion did you test the theory out. It seemed like Lavender was having a day with the potion and kept batting her eyes at Ron, making you and Hermoine roll your eyes in annoyance.

When Slughorn called the rest of the class in pairs to come over to smell the potion and describe what they smelled, you still believed people made up with what they smelled. You thought they were just believing they smelled the person they liked. From Hermione smelling freshly-mown grass and new parchment to Harry smelling some kind of sweets, it seemed quite fake.

And you could have gotten away with not having to smell the potion when you unashamedly yawned the second Slughorn turned to look over.

“Miss Potter, since you and Mr. Malfoy seem to have found this task boring, why don’t you both come up and tell me what you smell.” Slughorn beckoned you up toward Harry’s cauldron.

Pursing your lips, you do your best not to roll your eyes as you made your way over to the cauldron, only to be overwhelmed with Draco’s cologne when smelling the potion. You glance at him from the corner of your eyes, noticing he was just as confused as you.

“Maybe tone down the cologne, Malfoy.” You mutter to him and try to find a scent that wasn’t just his stupid cologne.

He rolled his eyes at you and leaned his head down, practically hissing into your ear. “Me? Your fucking shampoo is blocking all my senses right now.”

“Like you can smell that right now.” You turn your own head and glare at him, the tension growing larger and larger.

As if you were in a staring contest of who could hate the other more, you forgot about the class and only the loathing you felt for the blonde in front of you. However, the class soon began to felt the tension, uncomfortable with how you two were behaving. Whispers began to fill the air, but you two continued to bicker.

“Maybe use less product, Potter.” Draco suggested and flicked a piece of your hair off your shoulder, ignoring the way his cheeks flamed at how close the two of you were at the moment.

You crossed your arms and squinted, hating how he had to bend just to be at eye level to you. “Says the one practically bathes in Dior Sauvage—”

“Mr. Malfoy and Miss Potter, please, go back to your seats. We have gathered all the information we need.” Slughorn spoke with an amused smile.

For the rest of the week, it seemed like the entire student body was pointing to you and whispering. Even if you were just switching classes or sitting in the Gryffindor common room with Hermione, eyes averted to you before they eventually turned away when they caught your eyes.

You didn't understand what was going on. It felt like everyone you knew began to have a knew found hatred toward you and it bugged you. Even Harry gave you questioning looks from time to time. You don't remember doing anything cruel and vile.

Eventually, you did give up guessing why everyone was giving you dirty looks. You ignored all their staring and only acknowledged the people you knew didn't mean any harm toward you. It soon became a habit for you to leave the trio alone for a good hour or two, spending time to practice spells in the room of requirements; Mainly casting your Patronus and watching it have the time of its life.

Well, until one day the room began to change on its own.

“Hello? Room of requirements?" You stood abruptly and looked around at the changing room, your Patronus dissipating in thin air.

The room began to shift in size, becoming quite large in size with piles and piles of junk. As you tripped over the old trinkets decorating the room — trying to find the exit to the ever expanding room — you cut yourself on the sudden arrival of a rusted sword.

Holding your cut hand close to you body, you glared at the room like it was your least favorite thing in the entire world. "This is not what I asked—“

“Fuck.”

You heard the voice whisper before you jumped back in surprise when the person banged on something wooden. So someone who needed the room more came. That's why. As you tried to make your way out a give the person privacy, you tripped back into another pile of junk, making you wince.

“Shit.” You mutter and do your best to remove yourself from the pile, pursing your lips when you heard footsteps approach you.

Before you could even try to hide, the said person appeared right in front of you with their wand pointed at your face. You followed the wand up until you met their eyes, making you inwardly groan at your luck.

“What are you doing?” You spoke at the same time, both of you rolling your eyes at the same time.

Hastily, you stood up from your spot on the dirtied floor and dusted your clothes off, mentally cursing yourself for being ever so clumsy.

“I asked you first, Potter.” Draco tucked his wand away, glancing down at your bleeding hand. He frowned and moved around you.

You stepped away from him, still nursing your hand. Unsure of what he was going to do, you simply answered the question truthfully.

“I was using the room to practice my spells, but it changed because apparently your needs were far more important than mine.” You watched him dig through dusted cabinets and drawers, looking for something. “Now answer mine.”

“I don’t have to.” He muttered and pulled out some type of cleanser and a kit, making you recoil at the sight. You hated the doctors and it seemed like Draco was ready to operate on your hand.

“You know? I think I should go before—" You start before he raised a brow at you, looking down at your injured hand and then back up to your eyes. "What?"

“You could get in trouble, you know?” He gestured to your hand before guiding you to sit on a bed that seemed too clean to be one of the old trinkets lying around before. "You need to clean your hand before it gets infected. Everything in here is old and dusted."

"Then I will clean my hand on my own, thank you very much." You yank the cleanser from his hands and pop the cap open. You stared at your wound before looking at the bottle, already regretting your choice.

"What?" He looked over your face, noticing the hesitation in your facial expression. "Do you need me to do it?"

"Yes, please." You whisper quickly, shutting your eyes tightly when you felt him lightly dab your cut with the cleanser. You bit your lip when it stung, nodding when he told you it would be over in a second.

“I'm done." Draco murmured and threw the cloth in the trash, watching you slowly open your eyes and look at your now bandaged hand. He nodded at you before standing, finding his way back over to a wooden cabinet.

You looked around the place, noticing the fresh bedsheets and glass of water that surely hasn't been sitting there for Godric knows how long. Tucking your injured hand in your free one, you wandered the small sleeping area before stopping at all the books piled next to it.

"Malfoy, what are you doing in here?" You take a book from the top of the pile and read its title. The Fundamentals of Vanishing Cabinets. You raised your brows in curiosity, looking over at him to find him already staring. "Well?"

“Like I said, I don't have to answer you.” He murmured and stepped toward you, taking the book from your hands.

You stared at him and frowned. His image was even worse up close. You could see the bags underneath his eyes and the gel from his hair completely gone from how many times he ran his fingers through his hair. When he glanced down at you, you were once again millimeters from each other before you both pulled away in confusion and guilt, like your skin was on fire.

“Are you getting enough sleep?" You ask as he walks toward the cabinet again, but this time, you followed him over. "I don't see you eat enough during dinner either."

“You watch me, Potter?” He spoke in amusement, lips turning down to hide the smirk that wanted to present itself to you.

“What? No!" You splutter out and look away, face flamed in warmth. "Only in hatred.”

"Whatever you say." He murmured and began tinkering with the cabinet, placing a green apple on the top shelf. "Stalker." He whispered, earning an annoyed glare from you.

“Just answer the question. Why did the room change to this mess?” You look at the bed you assumed his stayed in and then change your gaze toward the cabinet he seemed so intent on working on. “And why are you spending all your time on this old cabinet?“

He opened his mouth to speak when he winced and clutched his left forearm, making you panic ever so slightly. Draco moved to sit on the bed, pursing his lips and trying to think of anything but the pain being emitted on his arm.

You frown and take his arm in your hands, pulling his sleeve up only to silently gasp in surprise. Draco pulled his arm away and tugged the sleeve down, glaring at you.

“You’re a death eater.” You look at him with wide eyes, stepping back in shock. You looked between his arm, his frantic eyes, and then the cabinet. Your head was reeling at all the information you learned. "You got the dark mark—"

“You can’t tell anyone.” Draco whispered, almost pleading you to not tell a soul. If you told Harry, then everything would go to shit. But when he saw your face clear of all shock and shift to remorse, he knew you wouldn't go against his wishes despite him being a real threat to you and your brother.

“Why? Why did…” You move closer and clutch his arm, pulling his sleeve up again and wanting to trace the design. When he stopped you, you looked up and knew it would hurt. You nodded and thumbed the skin below it, eyes looking over the ink. “You didn’t have a choice, did you?”

Draco nodded and shut his eyes when you continued to thumb the empty space, opening them when you stopped. He knew that the gears were turning in your head when you stared at him like he was you next project — which he knew you would never call him that despite the loathing you had for him.

After seconds of silence, you open your mouth and speak softly, thumb moving over the space once more. “Can't you tell Dumbledore at all? Maybe he could do something to protect you—“

“That’s not how it works.” Draco stopped your movements and tugged his sleeve down. He caught you hesitating to look over the mark again, tilting his head to the side when you took a seat beside him. "Why are you still here?"

"What do you mean?" You murmur and trace the bandage over your hand before looking up at him, meeting his blue-gray eyes. "I can leave if you want me to. But I want to know if you'll be okay if I leave first."

You kept eye contact with him for a little longer before looking away, eyes finding interest in a silver crown in the corner. You weren't sure why you cared so much about him. It was like a switch flipped on in your mind. In all your years at Hogwarts, his taunting was a constant in your life. So when that went away, you knew something was wrong and you wanted to make sure he was okay, even if your brother hated him. It was an instinct you suddenly gained.

"Why?" He stared at the mirror across from him, catching your eyes through the reflection once more. "Is it because you want more material to tease me about?"

"Godric, no." You huff and run your fingers through your hair. "I'm not a monster, Malfoy." You let a small smile slip through when he raised his brow at you. "I'm not a monster!"

"Not saying you are, Potter." He finally smiled at you. But even through the smile, you could see how exhausted he was. With whatever he was doing for the Dark Lord, you just hoped he would be fine in the end. "If I tell you I'll be okay, will you leave me be so I can finish my task?"

You turn your head to look at him properly, looking in between his eyes. You sighed and broke eye contact, "Yes." You look back up and find him millimeters away again, making you squint. "If you don't come to potions tomorrow with any kind of retort, I will be in here waiting for you, understand?"

He rolled his eyes and nodded, "Whatever gets you out of here, Potter."

Nodding, you stand and dust off your clothes once more. Talking with Draco civically was quite a feat, but you knew it was for the better or worse. But just before you could leave the room, you heard his voice ring out to you once more, you first name falling from his lips instead of your last.

"Don't use that strong of a shampoo anymore, yeah?"

You send him a half smile, "Only if you don't apply your entire bottle of cologne."

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