The Gift-Giver (Yandere Garou X Reader)

Avatar: The Last Airbender/Legend of Korra Masterlist

☔ = Angst

🌦️ = Angst to Fluff

💥 = Crack

☀️ = Fluff

💋 = Smut

🖤 = Yandere

🔔 = Request

🟪Imagines🟪

Sokka:

■  Baby Fever 🔔💋☀️

You were great with kids, and it just so happens that your husband Sokka wants to give you a few of his own.

Warnings: Pure smut, breeding kink, dirty talk, unprotected vaginal sex, (slight??) cum play

Zuko: 

■  Hot With Envy 🔔🖤💋

After seeing you laugh with another man at his five-year reign celebration, Zuko must show you who you belong to.

Warnings: Possessive sex, dirty talk, vaginal sex

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

🟣Headcanons🟣

Mako with Dragon!Hybrid Airbender Reader 🔔🌦️

Yandere Desna and Eska Headcanons 🔔🖤

Yandere Ozai Headcanons 🔔🖤(slight 💋)

Yandere Sokka Headcanons 🔔🖤

Yandere Zuko Headcanons 🖤

Eeee I was so excited to see you pop up on my dash again!!! Welcome back, I hope you’ve been well!

Aaaaaaa it's nice to be back ur so sweet for this message tyyyyy

i hope ur well too anon, even tho this message is like 2 yrs old probably, i hope ur doing great!

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

*GIF not mine*

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

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

Word count: 3345

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

It’s his unflinching gaze.

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

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

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

You know why you’re here. 

Well, sort of.

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

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

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

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

But the lieutenant says differently. 

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

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

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

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

You don't.

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

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

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

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

“You know my name.” 

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

And you still haven't got a clue. 

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

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

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

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

“Why do you keep doing this?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He keeps you doggy-paddling for it.

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

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

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

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

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

That, and a small, velvet box. 

No…

No, you won’t open it. 

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

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

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

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

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

Well, not yours. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ideally. 

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

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

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

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

It… fits him. Strangely enough. 

Is this what you called him?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It must have gotten too heavy to bear. 

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

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

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

“Nothing.”

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

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

Bradley tells you your name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not even lime?”

“Especially lime.”

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

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

“Exactly.”

Bradley hummed. “Gladly.”

OMFG I JUST SAW THE PART THREE WAS POSTED AN HOUR AGO, BLESS YOU!!

✨ again

asdklfjaksdfxasdsfa

He Wants You to Sit on His Lap (BNHA Headcanons)

*GIFs not mine*

A/N: yall...it’s been a while hasn’t it? I hope you’re all doing well, and maybe this is weird, but I’m really glad you guys are reading and enjoying my stuff💜 I do want to post more, I really do, but right now it seems like all that will come out is headcanons. I don’t know what the future holds!!! BUT--perhaps we shall call the next few weeks… wait for it... headcanon season (dun dun dun). Anyways, enjoy!

Word count: 1288

Kirishima Eijirou:

“YNNNN”

First he draws out your name.

“YNNNNNN please!”

Then it’s the nicknames. 

Pumpkin, sweetcheeks, babygirl, princess.

One time he even says “lover” but after a fierce glare and a not-so verbal tirade, he decided it was best to leave that one for the bedroom.

Once you make it past the first phase of whining and bitching, he moves onto his second, more convincing tactic.

Those goddamn puppy dog eyes

You’d think a manly man like Kirishima would refuse to stoop so low

Oh how wrong you are.

His bottom lip juts out and you can just see the smallest glimpse of his razor sharp fangs looking more pg-rated than ever as he pouts at you. 

And once you look, you can’t go back. Like Medusa, he’ll have you stone-solid, unable to look anywhere else but into those eyes that make guilt pool in the pit of your stomach. 

A little glimmer in his eyes once he knows he has you hooked as your glare falters. 

And then

“...please?”

Damn him. And his muscular thighs under yours. And his immovable arms wrapped around your waist. But most of all…

Damn that fanged smile of victory. 

Kaminari Denki:

Oh yeah. He’s gonna annoy the hell out of you. 

Not so much like Kirishima with the pet names--as he’s certainly been on the receiving end of a vicious punch one too many times

(should have known “sugar tits” wasn’t gonna fly with you)

--but more so with the puppy dog eyes. Quickly, he realizes that is quite ineffective on you--or, perhaps it is just ineffective for him

Either way, as previously mentioned, Kaminari will beg for you to sit on his lap until your ears bleed. 

One time he even short-circuited your headphones when you tried to block him out. A risky move, indeed, but somehow he didn’t manage to fry every one of your brain cells. 

“YN!”

“Hey! Hey! YNNNN!”

“Hey YN, come sit on my lap!”

“Come onnnn, I promise I won’t do anything!”

“Okay, maybe I will, but I promise it won’t be anything you won’t enjoy!”

He was great at annoying you, and, to be honest, it worked most days. However, there are always those few exceptions where he truly just… gets under your skin. 

“No, Denki! Now, let it go!” The words explode from your lips like a popped balloon, and in seconds you know you’ve made a mistake. 

Hindsight, days like these almost always happen during your time of the month (yeah, yeah, TMI, I know), and that of course was part of the reason you were apprehensive about sitting on his lap.

But, shit, even the most heartless of people would give in to those misting eyes. 

He’d go silent, glancing away with a small nod and an “okay” you could barely hear over a pin dropping. 

And your heart climbs up your throat when that easy smile of his doesn’t return in seconds. 

Give in. Always, always give in to a sad Kaminari. 

“YN, you don’t have to-”

“Shut up,” you grumble, wrapping your arms just a bit tighter around his shoulders as you drop your face to his neck. 

He stays silent. But, naturally, that’s just not Kaminari’s style. In seconds, you feel his normal grin return as his hands slither down your back, reaching just to where your body meets his lap. 

“I told you,” he squeezes the muscle, “this was the best position for a butt massage.”

Fuckin’ perv. 

Todoroki Shouto:

Ha

Pfft.

Pft. 

Yeah right

Like you’re strong enough to deny this man that one time in his life he actually asks you to sit on his lap. 

Don’t kid yourself. 

“YN?”

“Hmm?”

There’s a hint of pink on his cheeks as his hands nervously run up and down his thighs. But buried deep, deep in his heterochromic eyes, so deep even you couldn’t see it, there’s a touch of mischief. 

“Can you sit on my-”

Fuck yes.

“Fuck yes.”

In the blink of an eye, you’ve settled yourself into his lap like it was your own personal throne.

(If you had told him those exact words, he would have shown you another one)

His hands, shaking at first, settle on your shoulders, then on your hips, until finally he skittishly sets them palms-down on the cushion of the couch. 

After a minute, he finally acknowledges your look of confusion and shrugs a shoulder. 

“I don’t know what to do with them.”

Good lord.

Glancing at the ceiling for just a second, you take a deep breath for patience before grabbing his hands and wrapping them around your abdomen. 

“Put them here,” you mumble, avoiding his gaze and making a move to spin on his lap and press your back against his chest.

Except--

“Fuck.”

You freeze, not moving an inch (which seemed to be complete irony considering his situation). 

“Don’t move like that.”

Ha

Pfft.

Pft.

He shouldn’t kid himself. 

Of course you were going to move like that. 

And now, you were going to move like that all night long.

Midoriya Izuku:

Not in a million years will this boy ask you to sit on his lap. Even if you told him to ask you, he’d still burn brighter than a tomato before stumbling out an excuse and sprinting away. 

But you knew. 

After a while of being together, you began to see his ticks. His little hints that he wanted you to come closer. 

And then just a little closer. 

And then so close that you were practically (literally) sitting right on top of him. 

Yeah, you knew his ticks. Midoriya is a shy boy, if not a boy who refrains from asking things of others that may or may not cause them to go even slightly out of their way to help him. 

But you knew. 

Interestingly enough, when he wants you to sit on his lap, it’s not anything major. 

First, he licks his lips. Not in an “I wanna taste you” kind of way--more like a “Hey, you got any spare Chapstick?” kind of way.

Then his hands will twitch. And he’ll lean back in his seat and stare at you.

*at your thighs

And finally, his legs will stop bouncing (because, really, when do they ever do that?)

His mouth will open and close repeatedly like a fish, almost like he’s trying to say your name but he’s suddenly forgotten how to speak. 

It’s awkward looking, really, and it certainly did take you a while to learn exactly why the hell he was looking at you so. 

But then--hallelujah--it finally clicked. 

And then you’d rise from your seat, make your way over to him, and plop down into his lap, ruffling his hair and pressing small kisses to the freckles dotting his cheeks. 

“If you wanted me to sit on your lap, you should’ve just said so,” you grin. A small whirl of contentment conjures in your chest when he rubs his hands up and down your sides.

It takes him a minute to summon the words he so desperately wants to say, and as that time passes, he peppers his own kisses along your chin.

Then they come to him.

“Thank you, baby.”

Oreosmama’s Masterlist

AVATAR: THE LAST AIRBENDER/LEGEND OF KORRA

CALL OF DUTY

HAIKYUU!!

MY HERO ACADEMIA

ONE PUNCH MAN

STAR WARS

STRANGER THINGS

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

Other Fandoms:

Chaos Walking:

🟣Headcanons🟣

When He’s Sad (Todd Hewitt) 🌦️

Criminal Minds:

Spencer Reid: 

■  Envy on Leave 🌦️

After failing his field test, Spencer is stuck on desk duty for a week. You, his usual partner for cases, get put with Morgan for the newest case, and Spencer can’t say he’s a fan. Oh no, he’s not a fan at all. 

Jujutsu Kaisen: 

Gojo Satoru:

■  Ten to None (Soulmate AU)🌦️

Soulmates’ markings add up to ten so soulmates know just how much of a danger their soulmate is to them. You have a ten on your wrist, so you know your soulmate must have a zero. There’s just one problem: no one in history has ever been worthy of a danger rating of ten, so who the hell is the supposedly “invincible god” were you fated to? 

Peaky Blinders:

Michael Gray: 

■  Gray Chains (Yandere) 🖤☀️ 

Michael needs to see you. It’s been three days after being shot by Luca Changretta’s men, and he knows you need to see him too–especially since you’re chained up against his headboard for trying to escape from him too many times. 

■  Lost and Found (Yandere/Sequel to “Gray Chains”) 🖤🌦️ (🔔?)

Michael is weak and desperate for you after being bedridden with his gunshot wounds in the hospital, but after weeks of caring for him, you know your feelings for your former kidnapper have grown into something you don’t dare confess. One night, when you almost let your feelings slip, you decide to flee. Michael won’t let you go so easily.

Queen’s Gambit:

Benny Watts: 

■  April Showers ☀️

All dolled up and ready to confess, you await a certain chess champion’s visit as a thunderstorm rages outside. But the longer your phone call stretches on, the closer you realize he may be to feeling the same about you.

Seven Deadly Sins:

Ban:

■  More Than a Name (Soulmate AU) ☀️

While escaping from the Holy Knights who are chasing after not her, but the name on her wrist, YN runs into the last person she expected to see so soon: Ban, her soulmate. 

Top Gun: Maverick

Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw:

■  Look Me in the Eyes 🌦️

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

Just a Little Confession (Kuroo x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: A confession to Kenma doesn’t end as well as you thought it would, but luckily a tall, kind third-year is there to save the day. Still, confessions suck, and relationships are hard to read sometimes.

Author’s Note: I kinda love this one, so have fun and enjoy! (Edit: hehehe SO... this fanfic was... a little more personal than most, so if that’s why it seems a little... different, that’s why. I’m glad you guys have liked it tho!)

Word count: 4635

        Glancing around, you instantly noticed that none of your friends were in this class. It was your first year in high school, but you didn’t know a single soul around you. Hesitantly, you sat at the assigned desk the teacher had given you, and flushed in discomfort while you observed the groups of companions around you. You had never really been an extrovert, more often choosing to stay in your own personal bubble, so this was just a bad situation from the start. 

       Soon, your painful solitude was quickly demolished when the bell rang and a boy with chin-length black hair sat in front of you. You hadn't seen him before, but judging by the way his shoulders hunched over and his head tipped down, you assumed he didn’t have any friends in the class either. This was your chance to finally make a friend, you thought, reaching out your hand to tap his shoulder and introduce yourself, but the teacher swiftly interrupted your idea. 

       “Good morning and welcome to Nekoma, class. Today, we will start off slowly with an icebreaker.” The room broke out into a collective groan, hushed instantly with a small glare from the teacher. “It’s not that bad, I promise.” Now, she spoke with a forced smile, and you hid your small grin behind a hand. “All you need is a piece of paper and a partner.” Uh oh, that did it. After those words, everyone in the room performed the cliche “look to your bestie for project-partner safety” move, and now you were stuck in your lonesome, huffing and holding your chin in your hand as you waited for the teacher to notice your seclusion. Making eye contact, the teacher at once suggested, “Kozume, YLN, why don’t you two work together?” Raising your eyebrow, you watched as your original plan reformed itself, as the black-haired boy in front of you twisted in his chair to look back at you. Giving him a soft smile and introducing yourself, you observed as he quietly did the same while retrieving a piece of paper from his bag and setting it down on your desk. While making small talk, you could tell that you had finally found a friend, or at least someone to converse with, in the class, all thanks to the both of you being loners. Oh yeah, it’s all coming together, you thought to yourself victoriously.

                               ~~~

       To your own satisfaction, you and Kenma had become great friends, sharing an interest in video games and in dodging responsibilities. Most days, you needed a friend exactly like him. If you were panicking for a test, his lax attitude would calm you down. If you were happy for no reason, he would faintly return your wide grin, only for it to drop a second later as he would glance away and ask why you looked so weird. If you were miserable without a say, he would speak carefully and calmly with you, not truly showing an interest, but attempting to, and that was all that mattered to you. 

       One time, you vividly remember him indirectly complimenting you after you had spoken badly of yourself. Pouting like a child, you had crossed your arms to cover your body as you stated, “God, I look terrible today. I’m too fat.” 

       Kenma had rolled his eyes and replied, “Don’t say that about yourself, it’s not true. You shouldn’t be so mean to yourself, I think you’re cool.” He stated it without remorse, as though you could not prove him wrong, as if he believed it to be fact and nothing less. That’s when it began; that was when your crush on Kenma sprouted. No guy had ever complimented you before, so his words struck you like an arrow to the chest. 

       That night, after rambling about the day’s events in your diary, you slammed the book closed and stared up at the ceiling, replaying the scene in your head like a movie. Growing red at the memory, you hugged your journal to your chest as you thought to yourself, this is so not okay.

                               ~~~

       A year had passed, and Kenma was now in a different class as you, not that it truly got him off your mind. Sure, you didn’t think of him as often, but he still lingered there. You harbored feelings for him that could never be taken away, only because he was the first guy who had shown interest in you, and it felt good to be wanted. At this point, you still acknowledged the fact that last year, your relationship had been purely platonic and nothing more. But that never stopped you from believing it could evolve into something more romantic, and you held onto that slim chance like a lifeline. Until today. 

       The day had begun particularly terrible. First, you were on your period. Hormones were crazy and you felt like exploding on someone at any second. Second, you had just taken a test that you were not very confident in the result of, and just wanted to go to lunch and eat your sorrows away. Then one of the few acquaintances that you did have in your class this year, who had also been in the same class as you last year, decided that she could cheer you up with some delightful information about your old friend (and secret crush). 

       “Hey YN, did you hear that Kenma got a girlfriend.” Your heart stopped for a split second, and suddenly your throat decided to close up for no reason whatsoever. 

       Intaking a small breath, you replied, “Wow, that’s great for him.” But it hurt you, and you cursed yourself for being so affected by this little tidbit of information. You hadn’t talked to him in over a year, so you had no right to be… jealous? Or disappointed? One of the two. 

       “Yeah, she’s the daughter of the substitute in…” Her voice faded away as she rambled on about things you just didn’t need to hear right now. You gazed off into the distance, suddenly finding the chalkboard behind her very interesting. Looks like it could use a good cleaning, you thought to yourself, tilting your head slightly to view it from a different angle. What a magnificent piece of- you were cut off from your “lights on, but nobody’s home” moment when the lunch bell finally rang. Flinching at the clangor that suddenly occurred, you sped off to sweet, glorious foodland, i.e. the cafeteria, leaving your friend in the dust while simultaneously cutting her off mid sentence. Now that’s multitasking. 

                              ~~~

       At last, you arrived home for the day, and quickly made your way to your room. An urge to cry arose the instant you saw your diary. It was tempting you to write down what had happened today, but you really didn’t want evidence of this day forever. He has a girlfriend, he has a girlfriend, he has a girlfriend. Like a song with the worst chorus ever, that thought played on repeat in your head. Luckily, you decided to change the station, grabbing your earbuds from your nightstand and plugging in both ends of the cord accordingly, thankfully on the first try. As every normal teenager does, you instinctively choose a song that both forces you in your feels even worse and also makes you feel better, like you weren’t alone in this unjustified pain. We haven’t talked in months, so it’s understandable that he’s moved on. Especially since we weren’t in a relationship in the first place, you thought to yourself, feeling like a mature adult handling the situation rationally. But no matter how many times you whispered that in your head louder than the music in your ears, it never stopped you from hugging your childish, but necessary, stuffed animal tighter and allowing a few tears to slip. 

                              ~~~

       Thank goodness, your sport was finally in season, and you were ready to play. After working your butt off and inspiring yourself with more than a few videos on YouTube, you were totally ready to kick names and take ass, and no one would stop you. You had after-school practice today, and both you and your teammate chatted happily as you walked into the cafeteria to refill your water bottles. As soon as you reached your destination, however, you heard a familiar, monotonous voice greet you. 

       “Hey YN,” Kenma spoke, and you just about gave yourself whiplash while swinging around to see him give you a small smile and wave before continuing past with his tall, third year companion. You hadn’t uttered a word, but instead opted to give a meek wave as your voice caught in your throat. After watching him disappear into a crowd on his way to the gym for volleyball practice, your teammate cheekily elbowed you in the side and waggled her eyebrows at you suggestively with a sly smile. 

       “He totally likes you,” she teased while resealing her water bottle. You synthetically guffawed at the thought, frantically shaking your head at the thought, but your eyes, still wide from watching Kenma walk away, begged to differ. 

       “He doesn’t like me,” you refuted, but the butterflies in your stomach began swarming with hope at the thought.

       “He totally does!” She supported her opinion with an encouraging smile.

       “No he doesn’t, because he has a girlfriend, and I like him,” you confessed, and your mood took a swan dive at the memory. Oh right, he has a girlfriend. 

       “Oh,” was your teammate’s only response, and the subject was quickly dropped from conversation. And even though she seemed to give in to that fact quite instantly, you weren’t so sure anymore. Her words enlivened something inside you, gave you a bubble of hope that panged at your heart. Uh oh, I have an idea, you thought, and it was bad. Really bad. But you liked it. 

                               ~~~

       For the first time in your life, you decided to confess to a guy you liked. You had never done it before, but all your friends always talk about their less-than-ideal confessions, and now it was your turn. It’s a part of life everyone must experience: an action born of pure humility with just a sprinkle of hope that led to either a relationship or self-loathing. Either way, you believed you were ready for it. Sadly, no one’s ever really prepared, and you just kind of have to go for it. So that’s what you were doing. Maybe it was a bad idea, but it also felt like a rite of passage into becoming a true high schooler. The shame or pride coming from the other end, whichever you received, would contain a life-lesson for relationships. Plus, you had weighed the odds of whether he had broken up with his girlfriend, and felt pretty confident in your results. And so, there you were, restlessly shifting from foot-to-foot in the middle of the school cafeteria, waiting to intercept Kenma on his path to practice. Slightly lightheaded, you took a few deep breaths as you allowed your eyes to survey the bunch of students around you for the blond-and-black haired volleyball player. Finally, you spotted him, even though his shorter stature had made it difficult.

       “Kenma!” you called out victoriously, grabbing his attention in a flash. His gold eyes seeked out the voice, and a small smile grew on his face when he saw you approaching. Stopping in front of him, you felt the telltale signs of nervousness beginning to grow throughout your body, and you hurriedly hid your clammy hands behind your back. “H-hey umm,” you stopped yourself, gulping anxiously and thus swallowing the stutters escaping your lips. Your body, in exchange, gave you a propelling wave of confidence, which you allowed out of your mouth in the form of, “I just wanted to tell you that umm…” you trailed off, your mind going blank and your jaw slacking as you stared at him. Confused, Kenma’s brows furrowed while he watched you zone out in a matter of seconds. Oh f**k me this is embarrassing, you thought to yourself, quickly swallowing the fly you had caught before shaking your head. Thanking any deity that roamed in the sky for granting you a single moment of clarity, you took the chance and quickly blurted out, “I have a crush on you, and I’ve had it since last year, and… yeah.” While that didn’t last long, but at least you got the job done, right? Bouncing on your toes, you braced for impact while fighting the urge to run away and/or throw up from nervousness.

       “Oh, umm, wow YN, that’s really nice of you to say, I guess,” he mumbled, and your brow raised in confusion at his words. “But I have a girlfriend.” Oh, there it is. Slowly, your breath hitched, and your nerves began to calm from the blanket of disappointment that had been dropped onto your body like ice cold water from a bucket. Why do people do this again? Does it ever end well? ‘Cause right now, it’s kinda sucking major butthole. 

       “Oh, ok, so I’m gonna go now I’ll see you around,” you babbled, turning around without another word and making a beeline for the exit of the school. Not a soul had been around to witness the downfall of YN, not that it would have been any more mortifying than it already was. 

       You wanted to laugh. You wanted to make jokes until the pain faded away, and the tears evaporated. But your body denied the request, and instead you got a sniffle. Then another. Then another, until your whole face looked like a new, mucusy waterfall discovered right here in Tokyo. Disgusting, and it felt disgusting too. What a horrible feeling, plan, and experience, all wrapped into the world’s shittiest present. Nobody wants to cry in school, though, so you pushed open the exit doors and let them slam behind you without a care for the loud sound it made. You promptly slumped down the wall beside the doors and let loose. Surprisingly, you weren’t one to cry often, and when you did, it was normally an especially wretched occasion. Does this one count, because it sure as hell feels like it counts. Hugging your knees to your chest, you gladly welcomed the stars that floated behind your eyelids from clenching them shut so hard, and greeted the tingly sensation growing in your arms from clutching your legs tightly happily as well. The pain was a distraction, until it wasn’t the only distraction. 

       A presence crouched down in front of you, but you refused to look up. In this school, you had no image to maintain, but you sure as hell still didn’t want to flash your sniffling mug to whoever sat in front of you. So he took the first step. 

       “Hey, are you okay, YN?” The male voice was gruff and hesitant, but still compassionate enough to make you want to give in and take comfort in his arms. Right now, you didn’t want to ask how he knew your name. All you knew was you needed support. Hell, any source of sympathy you could be given right now you would accept gladly. Gradually, you raised your head and looked at the boy in front of you, almost bursting into tears for a second time at the sight. Although your eyes burned from the light around you, along with the sudden release of pressure thanks to opening your eyelids, you instantly recognized Kenma’s tall third year friend. Suddenly, you felt like you would be better off alone again, and lord how you wished that were true. But you weren’t superhuman, and you had emotions, and needed comfort. So when the guy noticed your original plan of burrowing back into yourself once more, he gave you an undeniable proposal, swiftly opening up his arms in offering of a hug. 

       To be clear, you weren’t the type of girl to enjoy being a damsel in distress. Generally, you would deny hugs from strangers, and you rarely felt comfortable even hugging your friends, but right now you needed someone, anyone who would listen, or even just hold you and let you cry on their shoulder. So you softened yourself up and acknowledged this fact, accepting the hug while slowly falling forward into his warm arms and weeping quietly. While trying to stop the fresh wave of tears loading up in your ducts, you attempted to distract yourself by thinking about your… shoulder-to-cry-on’s name. It started with a K, that much you knew. However, when he began to softly caress the back of your head, the new wave of tears unleashed without warning at his tender actions. Yes, it hurt to be rejected by Kenma, but this overwhelming need to cry in someone’s hold travelled deeper than that. Your diary no longer could contain all the emotions you felt trapped in your mind for the past few years now. Finally, you realize that pen and paper just won’t do it: you need someone else by your side to prevent you from truly exploding. In the third year’s arms, you felt cared for, for the first time in a long while, and it felt good. On the surface, you felt greedy and selfish. Who were you to take up this guy’s time with your tears? But then you remembered that he offered first, and yeah, maybe he wasn’t enjoying it so much right now, as surely you weren’t a great sight to see, but surely he could tell how much you needed it. And no one should deprive another from letting their guard down and just plain old crying. So for a few more minutes, you relished in his grasp, wondering how much time had truly passed while waiting for your tears to slow. What a stand-up guy this dude is, you thought, I hope he’s really happy in his life so he doesn’t have to feel an ache like this. Yes, you barely spent enough time with Kenma to truly blame all of the tears you had shed on him, but he had still been your first real crush, and your first confession and rejection, so it still tore a wound in your heart. Besides, it feels good to cry. 

       When your eyes and nose began to dry and all that was left of your blubbering was puffy, red cheeks, you pulled back away from the guy, laughing awkwardly and wiping at your face with the sleeve of your school uniform. “Thank you,” you mumbled gratefully, giving him a soft smile, “I really needed that.”

       “Of course,” he replied, smiling and nodding understandingly. 

       “So umm, what’s your name?”

       He cracked up at your question, and you giggled softly with him, cheeks burning at your own obliviousness. “Kuroo, my name’s Kuroo.”

       I knew it started with a K.

       “Well, thanks Kuroo, I’m sorry if I ruined your- Oh crap I ruined your shirt!” You gasped in surprise at the large splotch you had left behind, a damp mark circling the collarbone and shoulder of his blue blazer. Once more, he chuckled at your reaction and shrugged off the jacket, revealing the typical white and black shirts underneath. Folding it on his lap, he patted it down before leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

       “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.” You purse your lips and huff slightly at his dismissive attitude. You wanted to repay him, and covering his blazer with your own snot and tears was not sufficient enough payment, no matter how much you wanted it to be. “It’s fine, I swear,” he insisted with a smirk, snickering at your panic. “Now tell me. What happened?”

                               ~~~

       Walking through the halls, you couldn’t seem to help the smile stuck on your face. Kuroo looked down at you and grinned back, tightening his arm around your shoulders and squeezing lightly. “Why are you so smiley today? Not that I’m complaining, but it’s kinda freaking me out, so feel free to explain,” he teased, poking the side of your cheek after you had stuck your tongue out at his comment. After that fateful day when your confession to Kenma had flopped, Kuroo had stuck by your side like a fly on a piece of crap. On the first day, when he spotted you in the halls, he came over and gave you a small side hug, wrapping his lanky arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. At first, you blushed and shyly pushed at his chest to move away, embarrassed like a daughter would be of her father. But now you began to cherish his hugs and clingy actions, almost missing them whenever you were in class or at home. The pair of you currently had a routine going: Kuroo would spot you in the halls and call out your name, and you would look up, approach him and wrap your arm around his waist as he pulled you into his side, his thumb caressing your collarbone. Slowly, Kuroo began to worm his way into your daily life, and you allowed it. On days where you were unhappy, he would walk you to class and even bring you a treat from a vending machine if he had the chance. On days where you seemed particularly upbeat, he would give you a grin back and poke your cheeks, commenting on how beautiful you looked when you wore a smile. Things were great, so much better than before that you easily forgot how spontaneous this change in your daily life had been. All because you were simply… happier.

       “I’m just thinking about how your hair looks like a chicken,” you laughed, squealing after he pokes you in the side as revenge.

       “Excuse me, it’s called a ‘Rooster head,’ look it up. Plus, you said you liked it,” he exclaimed, making a disappointed noise at your betrayal. 

       “Eh.” You shrugged.

       “Eh, EH! What does ‘eh’ mean?! Part of the reason I like you is because you don’t make fun of my hair, too, so don’t test me,” Kuroo shamelessly admitted, messing around with your own locks in revenge as you tried to wrestle away from his destructive hands. After finally escaping his grip, you both said your farewells as you stepped into your classroom, a pleasant, irresistible smile on your face. 

                               ~~~

       The day had turned gloomier for the rest of the school when it began to rain outside, but it just so happened to be your favorite weather, so you didn’t complain one bit. While sitting at a table in the cafeteria, you closely inspected your umbrella, hoping to see what had made it utterly useless. Losing yourself in the moment of trying to think of how an umbrella is constructed, you don’t realize a figure is approaching until it’s too late. Then you hear it: the squeaky steps of tennis shoes. Looking up to identify the student, you instantly tense up at the sight and forget your emergency exits. Good thing you’re not on a plane, ‘cause you would be fu-.

       “Hey YN,” Kenma speaks, interrupting your train of thought. His golden eyes are piercing straight through you, making you feel paralyzed and helpless. 

       “H-hey Kenma, long time no see huh,” you laugh nervously. “So how’s your girlf-” 

       “So you and Kuroo, now, huh?” How many times is this motherf****r gonna cut me off- wait what? His tone was sharp as a knife, and even though he had only uttered those words, you already wondered what you had done wrong. You felt like you were trapped in a boiling pot of water, the temperature slowly rising as you sat there, stuck. 

       “Huh?” was the only response that escaped your lips questioningly. 

       “YN, I really do care for you, so let me just warn you now. Kuroo has had a lot of girlfriends, and they come and go real quick, so be careful. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

       Kenma’s voice had turned soft along with his eyes, but all you could reply was “Huh?” Neglecting your confused look, the volleyball player walked away without another word, leaving you alone with your umbrella. “What the hell was that?” you looked down and asked the object. Sadly, it didn’t respond, nor did it work, so you stood up and accepted your fate, leaving Nekoma and trekking through the rain to your house. As the droplets soaked through your school-issued blazer while you sauntered, your mind never strayed from wondering what the hell Kenma had been talking about. 

                               ~~~

       Laying down on your bed and contemplating your encounter with Kenma did wonders on your habit of overthinking things, but at least you finally think you’ve figured it out. Did Kenma think you and Kuroo were dating? Well duh, obviously. But was he jealous of Kuroo, or was he just looking out for his old friend? The part of you that still harbored feelings for him, because if you didn’t know, that shit doesn’t fade away even after a few weeks, desperately wanted to believe that he was jealous. Plus, every girl loves to hear how a guy is jealous over her. However, you knew Kenma, and you knew his only two emotions were slight excitement and boredom. So you had to throw that idea out the window, which left you with the other half of contemplations about whether Kuroo and you appeared to be a couple. You supposed the hugging made it seem that way. That, and the fact that the day you had confessed to Kenma, you had told all your friends before that you were going to confess to “someone.” Also, all those times your friends had said you and Kuroo were a cute pair. And that one time you kissed him on his cheek because he had given you chocolate on a bad day. And whenever he kisses you on the side of the head before dropping you off at class. And that one time when- Holy crap! Do you like Kuroo? Are you two dating and you didn’t even notice? Moving on to the most important questions: did you like Kuroo, and did he return those feelings? Your hand twitched towards your phone, and you blinked down in surprise. At this point, your heart was beating rapidly as you stared into the black screen at your own reflection. Should you call him? Are you tired of asking questions and ready to get some fucking answers? Dear God yes. Swiftly, you snatched up your phone and looked at Kuroo’s contact. When he had placed his number in your phone, he had also added multiple heart emojis around his name as well. Huh, never realized those were there. When contemplating between the call and text button, your finger had accidentally skimmed so close that you hit ‘call.’ 

       “Shit, shit, shit, shii...take mushrooms, hey Kuroo.” You were interrupted in the midst of your nervous cussing when a voicemail started recording after your cheek had accidentally pressed the one button. “Um, so I just wanted to know if you like me and if we’re dating. Talk to you later, okay byeeeee.” You hit end call and groaned while running your hands down your face, shoving your phone as far away from your lap as possible. The stress from… whatever the hell you wanna call what you just did, was starting to get to your head, so much so that you decided to take a nap to sleep off the embarrassment. 

                               ~~~

*Two missed calls from 😻TETSUROU😻*

*Three notifications from 😻TETSUROU😻*

😻TETSUROU😻: Hey, are you serious?

😻TETSUROU😻: Did you really just call and ask that?! Seriously???

😻TETSUROU😻: Ofc I like you, we’re dating, dumbass, so I kinda have to 🙄 <3

And you deserve so many more!! Congrats on the milestone, and I can’t wait to see you meet so many more🥳🥳💜💜

Y’all….

I can’t freaking believe this.

Freaking 50 followers… I absolutely cannot believe this would happen to me. At first I had hoped that I would at least get like 20 or something but I did not expect 50

Thank you guys so much!! I’m honestly so happy at this moment and I want to cry cuz each and everyone of you are amazing for going out of your way to follow me, a stupid teenager with a dream. Thank yall so much TwT

I would tag each and everyone of you to show my appreciation but I have no idea if yall would be ok with that so I wont

But I’m going to tag my friends lol

@pswaney12 @oreosmama @nakochan @bloodyphoenix

Can I be tagged in reborn please?

For sure!!

I know everyone is saying this, but I really do love Reborn, and I hope u continue it soon! Hope ur doing well!

ahhh goodness yeah looking back especially now at my writing in reborn im rly struggling with how to continue it like my portrayal of the reader was so cringey pls just let her die in ur mind omg

and that sucks cuz i have like a 3000 word note chock full of future chapter ideas but i just dont know how i could ever continue without rewriting the whoel thing. what truly sucks tho is that hq fandom is dying now that the manga has ended so not many people care much for the story anyway, and why put so much effort into something no one will care for, u know, especially when it's something you partially regret.

even so, im glad you have enjoyed the story, anon. maybe one day i shall continue it, perhaps with new characters or smth, but for now the story shall patiently wait for its day in the sun