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posh--bee · 2 months ago

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falling for you (into the deep end) || Aaron Hotchner

pairing → Aaron Hotchner x Reader

summary → One second, you're standing next to your father's pool, ready for a cold drink on a hot summer day, and the next you're suddenly falling into said pool with a man you have never met before in your life. A man who shortly after introduces himself as Aaron Hotchner to you, your father's unit chief and friend. Yep, this is definitely your worst nightmare come to life.

warnings → meet-cute, fem!reader, rossi!reader, reader has rossi's last name, reader wears a bikini, reader is down bad immediately, Aaron is the sweetest guy ever, but also down bad, (unspecified) age gap, a cuss word here and there, short description of a hypothetical crime, no y/n used

author’s note → I wanted to write something for Hotch, preferably with a reader who is Rossi's daughter. Throw in a quirky and slightly awkward meet-cute and voilà—here we are! I'm pretty sure Rossi's mansion doesn't have a pool, but who cares, now it does! This fic kinda developed a life of its own near the end so let me know what you think about it <3

word count → 4.8k

masterlist(s)

series masterlist || ⋆part 1⋆ part 2 - part 3 coming soon-ish :3

The soft ripple of the pool's aquamarine water rocks you gently, caressing your sun-warmed skin, the smell of chlorine, sunscreen, and what can only be described as summer tickling your nose.

The leaves of the trees surrounding your father's property rustle in a lazy breeze and you open your eyes, the clear sky that greets you as brilliantly blue as the water you're floating in, your arms and legs spread like you're mimicking a very happy and very relaxed starfish.

It's one of the hottest days of this year's summer and you decided to enjoy it thoroughly in the best way you know how: By lazing around your dad's house—sorry, mansion—eating his food and commandeering his pool until you're all wrinkly, while he is at work, catching the worst monsters humanity has created.

You will always be worried about him when he's gone but you've only ever known a world where that is what your father does; hunting down killers, teaching others to do the same, or writing books about understanding and capturing these dangerous people. And making a ton of money in the process.

Naturally, he never wanted you to follow in his footsteps, knowing how dangerous, how grueling, how draining his work can be, hoping that his only daughter would choose a different path for her professional life.

And naturally, you defied his wishes.

Kind of.

Only last week, after years and years of studying and researching and writing papers and pulling all-nighters and drinking enough caffeine to power an aircraft, you graduated with a PhD in Forensic Science and can now proudly announce yourself as Doctor Rossi instead of Miss Rossi.

That's why you're currently back at your father's place, simply enjoying doing absolutely nothing before you're officially joining the workforce, hopefully helping to catch many more of the monsters your father and his team hunt and developing the methods and practices of your field further.

But for the moment, you're content to simply float in the pleasantly cool water, watching a single lonely cloud drift across the endless blue sky before you decide in a stroke of pure genius that a cold and fruity drink is exactly what you need to make this perfectly carefree day even better. You let yourself grow heavy in the water, your body sinking to the tiled bottom of the pool where you remain motionless for a few seconds, admiring the mesmerizing shifting patterns the sunlight paints underwater before you kick off the tiles, your fingers wrapping around the metal bars of the pool's ladder as soon as you reach them.

You climb out of the pool, water cascading down your body and creating a small puddle on the sun-warmed wooden planks of the patio at your feet. You grab your towel from one of the fancy deck chairs and quickly dry yourself enough to go to the kitchen and make yourself a drink before leisurely sipping on it while you lie in the sun, a hopefully good book keeping you company until you decide it's time for another relaxing activity.

With your game plan fully formed, you set it in action, going over to the sliding glass door that leads back into the house when you catch sight of your reflection in it, briefly pausing to fix the top of your—if you might say so yourself—super cute and flattering bikini.

But before you can then reach for the handle, a silhouette of a person appears behind the glass out of nowhere and the door slides open all the way, revealing a man you have never seen before in your life standing in front of you.

In your father's house. That you thought you had to yourself.

Oh hell no.

Immediately, your heart jumps into your throat, your pulse spiking in pure panic and you stare at the stranger fearfully, your brain frantically scrambling to find the best course of action that doesn't lead to your pictures ending up on one of the boards at your father's workplace—one photo showing a candid shot of you smiling, probably from your recent graduation, while the others would document how the killer left your broken and bruised body behind on the patio, your blood painting the wooden planks red, seeping into the cracks between them, maybe even dripping into the pool's clear water and staining it with clouds of diluted blood.

The stranger's dark brows furrow in concern, and when he gently, carefully says your name, it does nothing to calm you—not in the slightest. Your body is stiffly frozen on the spot while your fight-or-flight response is busy flipping a coin and waiting to see which side it will land on.

But then the stranger takes a step towards you and you spring into action, yelping in alarm and instinctively taking one, two, three steps backwards—away from him—which you quickly realize was a big mistake when the terrible feeling of having missed a step makes your stomach drop.

And then time slows down.

With a startled cry you fall backwards, flailing your arms helplessly but without a chance to regain balance when your back foot is already hanging over the edge of the pool. The stranger's eyes widen in surprise and he urgently reaches for you, his warm and strong fingers actually closing around your wrist firmly, trying to pull you back towards him—but it's too late.

Your momentum makes the stranger lose his footing as well and not a fraction of a second later the two of you break the pool's glittering surface in a joint, enormous splash, instantly submerged by the water.

Little drops of it are still raining down on you when you and the stranger come back up at the same time to gasp for air, your pulse ringing in your ears, looking and feeling more than a little disoriented. Your wide eyes find the deep brown ones of the unfamiliar man next to you and he silently stares back at you with an equally befuddled expression.

He's extremely handsome, your brain notes unprompted, even with his previously styled hair now completely wet, the dark strands sticking to his forehead and sending droplets running down his sharp features, some stubbornly clinging to his eyelashes and even the tip of his nose. Naturally, his clothes are completely soaked too, his dress shirt now clinging tightly to his body and it embarrassingly takes you a moment to avert your eyes from this sight, from his chest, and shoulders, and arms, especially when you notice the way he has the sleeves rolled up above his elbows.

With warm cheeks that have nothing to do with you lazing around in the sun all day, your gaze snaps back to his face which looks like he's still trying to comprehend what just happened.

And that's when the horrible realization dawns on you.

That maybe this man who didn't show any signs of aggression towards you and even tried to save you from falling, who knows your name and is dressed in suit pants, a dress shirt and nice shoes might not be a serial killer coming to end your life after all.

And you just made him fall in the pool with you—completely clothed.

Oh no. Not good. Very not good.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry! Are you—are you okay?"

The words tumble out of your mouth franticly, your voice too loud, too shrill, a wholly different kind of panic settling in that makes your hands tremble and your stomach feel slightly sick.

The stranger lets out a high-pitched, breathless laugh, an amused kind of disbelief on his face when he answers, "I am, yes. Are you alright?"

His deep voice is good-humored and kind, the kind that makes your knees go a little weak despite yourself and all you manage in response is a quick little nod, threading your fingers together in front of your body, nervously playing with them under the water.

You watch him brush the hair from his forehead with one large hand, slicking the wet, jet-black strands back, water running down his arm, droplets getting caught in the dark hairs on his forearm and he quickly looks at the probably very expensive and now very drenched watch on his wrist before his kind gaze finds yours again, saying, "I'm sorry I startled you like this. I thought Dave texted you I was coming over. He has some old case files on his desk he asked me to review while he's still at the office."

As soon as these words leave his mouth, your cheeks and ears flame up in shame while your eyes widen in horror. Because that means this man who is currently in the pool with you is an FBI agent, a highly skilled profiler working on the same team as your dad, and it's all your fault that he took a completely involuntary dive with you.

And then, as if you're not already wishing for the bottom of the pool to open up and just swallow you whole to end your misery, he adds the one thing that makes this surreal situation even worse.

"I'm Aaron—Hotchner. It's good to finally meet you. Your father talks a lot about you."

Cool.

Cool cool cool cool.

Because of course, of all the agents your father works with you just made Aaron Hotchner, the BAU's unit chief and your dad's very serious, very important and very no-nonsense FBI boss fall in the pool with, completely clothed, and probably ruining his expensive shoes and watch and wallet and phone in the process.

Sure.

No problem.

Definitely not one of the most humiliating things to ever happen in your life.

You are going to drown yourself in this pool.

With your mind and body locked in a continuous state of distress, you exhale a trembling breath that does nothing to calm you, the words just spilling out of your mouth, your voice cracking pathetically as you try to explain yourself and apologize to him, completely distraught.

"Oh god, I'm so so sorry, I—I didn't know—I left my phone inside and haven't checked it in hours—If I'd known you were coming over, I'd—I'd never—oh my god—"

To make matters even worse you have to realize with renewed horror that tears are welling up in your eyes and you stubbornly press the heels of your hands to your eyes as you gasp for a breath, struggling to keep your emotions under control and regain even the semblance of composure. You refuse to make an even bigger fool out of yourself in front of him than you already have.

But that's nearly impossible when Aaron's voice is so infuriatingly understanding and kind, his tone soft and comforting.

"It's alright, you really don't have to apologize to me. You didn't know and I scared you half to death. It's not your fault, so don't worry about it, okay?"

But how can you not worry about how much you messed up when this is probably the worst first impression you have ever left on someone—and that includes the time you destroyed someone's side mirror with your own car only to learn a few days later that that someone was your then-boyfriend's very unamused mother when you visited his parents for the first time for a very uncomfortable and icy dinner. (Your mind still likes to torture you with this little incident when you're busy trying to fall asleep, basically dooming the relationship from the very beginning, but in the end it was for the best—because that woman would've shown up wearing a white dress to her son's own wedding. So you're pretty sure you dodged a huge bullet there.)

You risk a glance at Aaron through the gaps between your fingers, the reassuring smile on his face making you feel a little silly, a little overdramatic but it also makes you calm down enough to let your hands drop from your face. Not that you had any chance not to, not when he's looking at you like you couldn't do anything wrong in his eyes, ever.

"I mean it, it was just an accident. Don't blame yourself for that."

He says it with so much conviction that you're almost ready to believe him, but the unhappy frown still clings stubbornly to your face, still mentally berating yourself over this whole situation you actually had very little control over.

That's why you jump almost a foot into the air (the water you're still standing in) when a warm and big, big hand gently squeezes your naked shoulder. Aaron is somehow so much closer than before, looking down at you and steadily holding your gaze while all you can do is dumbly stare back into his eyes, captivated by the sparkle of amused patience in them, by the way his dark eyelashes frame them so perfectly, following his sharp features to the slope of his nose, further down to his lips, wondering just how they would feel pressed against yours—

Nope—!

That very attractive and very wet man in the pool with you is still your father's colleague and friend, you remind yourself with burning ears, letting out an involuntarily awkward little giggle that ends in a dramatic sigh, your whole body deflating under the comforting weight and warmth of his hand on your skin.

You manage to smile up at him despite your chest still feeling a little too tight with anxiety while butterflies undeniably start to stir in your stomach.

"Thank you for saying that," you murmur defeatedly as you try and fail to tear your gaze from his eyes. "But I'm still sorry about your clothes and watch, and everything else too."

But he simply shakes his head, easily dismissing your attempt to apologize once more, shutting down your offer to pay for the damages that would surely follow before it could even pass your lips.

"It's fine, really. All of these things can be replaced. I'm just glad you didn't hurt yourself."

How can he just say things like these with that stupidly attractive and smooth voice of his while his hand deliberately rubs up and down your arm and not expect you to fall for him right then and there? Because you're pretty sure that's what's happening right now, without you having the slightest of chances to stop it.

But that's a problem you will have to deal with later, you decide, because right now the two of you are still just standing in the water together, and while your attire is completely pool-approved his very much isn't and you probably should get him at least a towel and some dry clothes to change into.

So you softly tell him as much, nodding your head towards the house, "I could get you some of dad's clothes so you can change, I hope that's okay."

"That would be perfect, thank you," Aaron answers, a grateful smile on his lips and you can't help but notice and appreciate the enticing crow's feet framing his eyes while he does.

You give him a timid smile in return, mumbling, "It's the least I can do."

He only gives your elbow a final tender squeeze in reply before pulling his hand back, his fingers lingering on your heated skin for just a moment longer and you can't find it in you to complain about it, not when a pleasant shiver runs down your spine at that.

Crap. You're in so much trouble already.

Reluctantly, you look away from him and turn around, heading to the pool's ladder, your whole arm tingling with the ghost of his touch but you try to ignore it as best as you can—which isn't all that much.

You climb up the steps first before holding out your hand for Aaron even if it's not strictly necessary. You're delighted when he takes it anyway without hesitation, your whole hand swallowed in his firm grasp, a discovery that makes your stomach do a funny little flip.

"I hope this at least takes the first place of the most memorable ways you ever met someone for the first time," you joke as Aaron emerges from the pool, finding some humor in this absurd situation as you watch his soaked clothes lose probably half of the pool's content on the planks of the patio, the wet fabric sticking to his body unpleasantly. But you don't miss the quick upwards quirk of his lips despite him looking like a pretty miserable, drowned rat now. You try to cover up your amused snort with a cough, but you know he can't have not caught it.

He however takes it in stride and graciously ignores it, instead starting to take off his watch while saying, "It absolutely does. And I can't say I wasn't wishing to cool off all day today, but that wasn't really what I had in mind. Not that I'm mad at all about this spontaneous opportunity to take a swim with you."

He smiles at you, fully, boldly, and you're probably mistaken when you think you saw just a sliver of shyness shining in his eyes because you're too distracted by the rest of his face that looks somehow even more handsome than before.

"Well, in that case, you're very welcome," you play along easily despite your heart slamming almost painfully against your ribcage. "And what can I say, I just love to leave a lasting first impression."

You're blessed with that charming high-pitched laugh of his again while he lays his watch on the patio table before his hands move to the buttons at the top of his shirt—which is not something you should find as enticing as you do.

"You definitely did. I just hope you don't make everyone you meet for the first time fall for you like that."

The words take a moment to fully register in your mind as you're busy admiring his deft fingers working on the first button of the shirt, but when they do something must suddenly take possession of you because your mouth curls into a teasing smile without you really meaning to and you casually hum, "Hm, no. Just you."

Aaron's fingers freeze mid-movement, his gaze so much more intense than just moments before but to your own surprise you don't shy away from it, keeping your eyes locked with his as he carefully utters his next words, his voice just a little rougher.

"That must make me pretty special, then."

You consider his words with a slow tilt of your head, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip to keep the eager smile threatening to overtake your face contained, your heart hammering away in your chest and your head feeling slightly dizzy. The daring and impulsive part currently in control of you makes you step directly into his personal space without hesitation where you can openly admire the small amount of chest hair peeking over the collar of his t-shirt which immediately cancels out the disappointing discovery that even in this heat he's wearing multiple layers.

"It probably does, Mr. Hotchner," you practically purr in reply, your voice almost unrecognizable to your own ears as you bring your hands up to his chest.

Your eyes never stray from his when you nudge his hands away from his shirt and replace them with your own, your fingers shaking visibly as you slowly, deliberately slide another button through its respective hole for him. And he lets you, his lips slightly parted, his gaze so much heavier, so much more heated than before that you have to suppress a full-body shiver.

You know it's not appropriate to do what you're doing right now, not with a man who is easily ten years your senior, who you never met in person before today and—most importantly—who is not only your father's superior but also his friend. And before today you would have never given in to your impulses like that, simply shoving them to the farthest corner of your mind where they would come back to haunt you during sleepless nights, making you wonder what could've been if you had just taken a chance for once in your life.

You don't know why it's different now with Aaron Hotchner of all people, what it is about him that makes you act like this so suddenly, so uncharacteristically bold, but you can't stop yourself—and to your thrilled delight, it doesn't seem like he wants you to either.

Not when you can clearly see the nice blush dusting the apple of his cheeks pink. Or when you notice the anticipation in his eyes, his tongue absentmindedly peeking past his dry lips to wet them. Or when you catch his pupils dilating as his attention snaps down to a droplet of water shining on your collarbone, his eyes following its path utterly transfixed as it slowly runs down between your breasts, the soft swell of your chest on full display for him thanks to your bikini top hugging you so perfectly.

To your astonishment, his gaze doesn't make you uncomfortable or exposed and you don't shy away from his attention—quite the opposite. You let yourself revel in it, a pleasant tingling sensation spreading from the very tips of your fingers to the rest of your body, making you feel confident and desired in a way few, if any, people have in the past.

He makes you feel cherished, the (poorly hidden) want in his eyes only increases this feeling.

But most importantly—he makes you feel safe.

That's what's so different about him.

So it's not surprising that you're lightheaded in the best way possible when your fingers slowly trail further down his shirt, smugly smirking up at him when he realizes he was caught red-handed ogling his friend's daughter's scarcely clad chest.

You see his Adam's apple work uneasily in his throat as he tilts his head slightly, not being able to meet your eyes anymore, his whole posture suddenly uncomfortable and stiff and the look on his face downright terrified. You find everything about this incredibly endearing and equally entertaining, the way his cheeks are now deeply red and probably burning hot to the touch, the tips of his ears very much in the same condition and his hand flexing by the side of his body as if debating whether physically pushing you away and creating some distance between the two of you would somehow remedy the situation.

But he doesn't, instead his gaze guiltily flickers to meet yours for a split second and then his lips part for the first words of a sincere yet deeply embarrassed, stammered apology. Yes, Aaron Hotchner, the ever-serious, ever-composed, big bad FBI agent who stares down serial killers for a living, who doesn't even flinch when the barrel of a gun is pressed against his head, actually stammers, evidently not used to losing control like this, not used to allow himself to give into temptation, anything that would expose that behind his almost perfect mask is simply a man, a human, with tragically repressed wants and needs and desires.

But you smile up at him, kindly, giddily, because you're really not used to someone like him giving you this kind of attention and you refuse to let yourself feel bad about it now and start to overthink it, so you simply say, "It's okay. I don't mind."

And then, because it's the truth, you add, "Not when it's you."

Your words cause a quick succession of emotions to flash across Aaron's face—regret, surprise, doubt, relief—only to finally settle on something so soft, so gentle, so close to adoration that your first, entirely instinctual reaction is to shrink and hide away from gaze.

But he doesn't let you, holds your gaze steadily and brings his hand up to yours still lightly resting against his chest. His fingers curl around your much smaller palm and he has the audacity to smirk at your very obvious, very telling reaction to this as if your roles weren't reversed just moments before. But then he gently presses your hand against his chest, his hand still covering yours and you immediately forgive him.

Because like this, you can feel the heat of his skin slowly bleed through the wet fabric of his shirt and into your own skin. You feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the low hum forming there when your other hand moves with a mind of its own to rest on his shoulder, anchoring you to him further.

But most importantly, like this, you can clearly feel his heartbeat mirror the almost frantic, thundering pace of your own.

It's as confusing as it is exhilarating, knowing that for some bizarre reason, you and this stranger (because as many times your father has talked about Aaron, you have never met him before today) feel the same magnetic pull towards each other, and without knowing who moved in first you're suddenly breathing the same air, your faces close enough for you to count each individual dark eyelash and admire every single detail and imperfection of his handsome face.

Questions linger unspoken in the small space between you—Is this okay? Should we really be doing this?—but the small impatient noise escaping you is enough to dissipate them immediately.

He moves in even closer and you let your eyelids flutter shut, your heart stuttering in your chest when you feel his breath fan across your face, feel his lips hesitantly brush against your own, the faint touch enough to send a spark of overwhelming pleasure down your spine, the eruption of butterfly wings in your belly like nothing you ever felt before in your life, before finally—

Finally—

—the devastating sound of the front door falling shut echos through the whole house, your father's cheerful voice calling out both your and Aaron's name.

Your eyes snap open in horror, your heartrate spiking alarmingly, and like you were burned you push away from Aaron, desperate to create even the illusion of distance between the two of you. You're lucky you don't fall in the fucking pool again but only because of Aaron's quick reflexes, his arm wrapping around your naked waist and urgently pulling you flush against him, thankfully not losing his footing this time.

Terrified, you stare up at him, both of you frozen in this blatantly incriminating position—entirely too close, too intimate for two strangers, a daughter and her father's friend—his palm burning into your naked skin while your dad's footsteps are coming closer, and closer, and closer—

In a last, desperate attempt to save yourself and Aaron from being discovered like this your tardy fight-or-flight response kicks into gear again, urging you to—albeit reluctantly—exit his hold and rush towards the house, fleeing the scene of the crime and leaving poor Aaron to explain what happened to your father.

You don't stop when you run past your dad, only squeaking something unintelligently about getting some dry clothes when his confused voice calls after you, your wet feet almost causing you to slip and fall on the cold and hard marble floor but somehow you make it to the safety of the upper story, making a beeline to the master bedroom's dressing room.

With your heart beating painfully inside your chest, you curl up into a miserable ball of anxiety and regret in the middle of the room, not caring that you're dripping pool water onto the expensive carpeted floor, your shaking hands coming up to cover your face.

What the hell were you thinking? How will you be able to face your father—or worse, Aaron—ever again?!

You press the heels of your hands hard enough against your eyes that stars and shapes overtake the darkness of your vision, contemplating if staying inside this dressing room for the rest of your life is really that bad of an option.

But you're startled back into action when Aaron's calm but carefully controlled voice followed by your father's boisterous laughter travels up the stairs to you and you pick yourself off the floor before hectically digging through your father's clothes until you find something passable for Aaron to change into.

As you descend the stairs, knees weak and threatening to give out underneath you, your anxiety pressing heavily against your chest, you wonder helplessly how you will survive the rest of this day, how you will ever survive seeing Aaron again after today.

Because this afternoon, while he fell in the pool with you, you fell for Aaron Hotchner.

(And he fell in love with you, too.)

series masterlist || ⋆ part 1 ⋆ part 2 - part 3 coming soon-ish :3

divider by @/cafekitsune

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner imagine #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic #criminal minds #criminal minds x you #falling for you series

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writesvani · 2 months ago

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down low | 02

boxer! jungkook x collegestudent! reader

SUMMARY: There's no love, there are no fights with Jungkook—just a twisted addiction that keeps you crawling back. You tell yourselves it’s not toxic. After all, you never argue, never get jealous. Just fuck, lie, and slip back into the arms of the people who will never know.

It’s not love.

But it sure as hell isn’t nothing.

friends with benefits au, situationship au

TRIGGER WARNINGS: cheating, drug use (weed), smoking, explicit sexual content, emotionally toxic relationship, manipulation, infidelity (jk and y/n are cheating on their partners with each other), unhealthy coping mechanisms, morally gray behavior, emotional detachment

comment here for the Down Low taglist;

SERIES M. LIST;

— previous chapter // next chapter (pending...)

wc: 4k // date: 25th of April 2025

CHAPTER TWO — Inhaling You, Exhaling Guilt; happy reading my gummies...

AN: hey besties. new “down low” chapter is here and it’s unwell, just like me. this was supposed to be a 15k word monster but i said absolutely not and chopped it into 3 parts—so yeah, this ends on a cliffhanger. no sex yet. i’m sorry. (i’m not.)

BUT the tension? the dynamic? it’s sizzling. they’re one touch away from absolute disaster and i love that for them.

left some easter eggs in there too, so if you catch ‘em, scream at me in the comments or my asks. i’m lurking.

note goal is 600 bc you’re all feral and i believe in peer pressure. hit it and you’ll get part 2 real fast.

read. suffer. tell me your thoughts. love u forever, even while emotionally tormenting you.

The shift is... just another day. The usual crowd of regulars is here, sipping their espressos and making small talk that you would rather skip entirely. The day has been routine too—classes, a quick lunch with Taehyung, then straight into work. It’s all repetitive. It’s boring. And the worst part? You’re counting down the minutes until you can sprint to Jungkook’s apartment the second your shift ends at 10pm. You hate it. You crave it. And Jungkook’s not making it any easier.

Because right now, you're standing there, phone in your clammy hands, staring at a picture he just had to send you. Jungkook, in the middle of his boxing practice, hair messy, tattoos peeking out from his oversized black shirt, a cigarette hanging from his lips like he owns the damn world. He’s standing outside—because Namjoon doesn’t let him smoke inside (honestly, who’s the athlete here?)—but Jungkook looks so fucking good you almost forget where you are.

He knows it too. He knows exactly what he’s doing. That picture isn’t just a tease; it’s a reminder. A reminder that you should be thinking about being in his bed, not focusing on perfecting lattes. But here you are, trying to breathe through the urge to drop everything and run to him.

You can’t focus anymore. Your brain is mush, your hands are clumsy, and the espresso machine might as well be a spaceship for how little you're processing. You accidentally make an espresso instead of a double one for Mark—the sweet old man who comes in daily and tips in coins like it’s 1993. He stares at you like you just insulted his entire bloodline. You apologize, mutter something about being tired, and shuffle back to your station.

But your hands are twitchy. Your eyes dart to your phone every two seconds. Still nothing. Jungkook hasn’t sent anything else—no texts, no pics, no emojis. Just that one, cursed, sinfully sexy picture of him looking like every wrong decision you’ve ever made and wanted to make again.

And now? Now you’re stuck. One hour left of your shift and your brain is spiraling. You’re mentally unwell. Not in a tragic, poetic way. In a feral, "why isn't he texting me back when I clearly need to ride his face into next week" kind of way. You're restless. Desperate. Left alone with your thoughts and an absolutely unhinged amount of need clawing its way through your body like a caffeine-craving demon.

Only your message stares back at you, mocking, lingering, and gnawing at the edges of your sanity. It’s there, like a cruel joke, one that you can’t stop laughing at even though it’s slowly driving you insane.

you: stop teasing me kook

And then, nothing. Not a single reply. Left on read. Just like always.

Jungkook has this game down to a science, doesn't he? The art of push and pull—never fails to leave you dangling on the edge of your patience, teetering on the line between wanting to strangle him and wanting him to do the same to you. You’re on the verge of losing it, fingertips hovering over your phone, waiting for the next message that might never come. He knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s like a power play, a twisted form of control that drives you crazy in ways you can’t even put into words.

Every time you’re about to meet up with him, just when you think you’re close, he disappears. Doesn’t answer. Doesn’t care. Leaves you with nothing but your own burning desire and a game you never agreed to play. It makes you want to scream.

And it makes you want him more.

But despite the shrill, maddening thrill of his little game, there's one thing you're sure of—Jungkook wants it. Wants you. And that’s what makes him predictable. Comfortably so. It’s the only thread of stability in this whole mess. Because no matter how long he leaves you on read, no matter how quiet he goes, as soon as the clock strikes 10PM and your shift ends, like clockwork, your phone pings.

JK: when will u be here?

You smirk, your fingers moving fast.

you: 20 minutes

He waits. Not long. Just enough to keep the suspense alive. Just enough to remind you that he’s still in control.

JK: kk, see u baby

And that’s all it takes. You're spiraling again—but this time, you're sprinting into it willingly.

Jungkook smirks as he opens the door, like he��s been waiting his whole life just to make you roll your eyes. He leans against the frame with that infuriating ease, one hand—the tattooed one—tucked into the pocket of his grey sweats. His hair’s still damp, messy in that way that makes you suspicious he’s doing it on purpose. He smells like wood, citrus, and a hundred bad decisions. His black oversized shirt hangs just right on his frame, clinging to his shoulders, draping like it has no idea it's breaking rules just by existing.

And fuck him. Fuck him for looking that good.

“You’re late,” he drawls, head tilted, eyes dragging down your body like he has all the time in the world.

You raise a brow. “Didn’t you say I should be here until 11pm? It’s only like, half past ten.”

He shrugs, lips curling. “I did say that. But you always come earlier. I know you wanna see me as soon as you can.”

You scoff, pushing past him. “Jesus, Jungkook. Knock it off and let me in.”

He laughs behind you. Slow. Knowing. Dangerous.

You flop down onto his sofa like it’s your own personal throne. There are new pink pillows you don’t recognize. With a lazy smile, you say, “Cute pillows.”

“Thanks, baby. Eunji got them from IKEA the other day.”

You nod, lips curling. “Noted. I should tell Tae—these would totally match his softboy vibes.”

Jungkook drops down beside you, digging into his pocket like he’s searching for treasure. You already know what’s coming. Sure enough, a small greenish bud peeks out from a crumpled tissue.

“Didn’t know we were smoking tonight,” you murmur, eyeing him.

He shrugs, effortlessly picking the bud apart with skilled fingers. The way he moves is distracting. Methodical. Confident. Hot.

You shift in your seat, trying to ignore the tightening in your core.

“When are we not smoking?” he says with a smirk, not looking up.

“True,” you mumble, sinking back into the soft fluff of Eunji’s precious IKEA pillows. Silly girl. She has no idea the kind of things they’re about to witness.

You glance up—and Jungkook is watching you. Of course he is. Eyes hooded, a smirk ghosting his lips, like he’s waiting. Like he’s daring you to say or do something.

Then, slowly—so slowly—his tongue drags across the rolling paper.

He knows what he’s doing. And he does it anyway. On purpose.

You watch, helpless, skin prickling, heat curling low in your stomach. It’s obscene the way he licks it—like it’s not even about the joint anymore, like it’s about you. About this.

And the worst part? You’re not strong enough to look away.

You’ve never been strong when it comes to Jeon Jungkook.

“What?” Jungkook asks, one brow raised as he brings the freshly rolled joint to his lips like it’s second nature.

“Nothing,” you mutter, eyes tracking the flame as it flickers, kissing the end of the joint. He inhales deep, the ember glowing bright red before he exhales slowly, like it’s an artform. Smoke curls out of his mouth in slow, lazy tendrils, and you’re already annoyed at how sexy he looks doing the bare minimum.

He grins — cocky, annoying, knowing — and pats the cushion beside him like he owns the place. Like he owns you. You don’t even hesitate. You shift closer, tucking your legs beneath you, pretending you don’t care that your thigh brushes his.

Jungkook takes another drag, then coughs lightly, voice raspy as he waves off the moment with a half-laugh. “Okay, don’t clown me. This shit’s stronger than I thought.” His eyes squint just slightly, like he’s studying you. “So… uh, how’re your friends? Lena and Bob, right?”

You stare at him flatly. “It’s Lara and Rob. Do you seriously not remember their names after all this time?”

He shrugs like it’s not a big deal, but the smirk playing on his lips tells you he’s doing it on purpose. Just to get a rise out of you. “Close enough. They doing okay?”

You sigh. This is the worst part. The awkward five minutes of half-assed small talk before the inevitable. Before the high kicks in and his hands are on your skin. The two of you always dance around it — pretend like this isn’t transactional, like this isn’t just desire dressed up as casual banter.

“Lara just broke up with her boyfriend,” you say, grabbing the joint from him and taking a slow hit.

Jungkook leans back into the couch, one arm draped along the back of it, watching you. “Oh, the dude who studies Econ?”

You blink at him. “What? No. That was like… two years ago. This one studies Law.”

His mouth drops slightly. “Wait, hold up. Are you telling me we’ve been doing this for two years?”

You don’t say anything at first. Just pass the joint back and exhale a laugh, soft and a little bitter. “Yeah. Way before Taehyung and me.”

He tilts his head. “Shit. I forgot you even dated Kai.”

You chuckle. “Jungkook, we started hooking up way before Kai. Don’t act like you don’t remember.”

He stares at you for a beat, the room quiet except for the faint buzz of the overhead light and the sound of the joint crackling in his hand.

“So,” he says slowly, lips quirking, “what I’m hearing is — you’ve basically cheated on everyone with me.”

There’s something infuriating about how pleased he looks with himself. You raise an eyebrow, snatch the joint from his fingers again and hold it between yours like a crown jewel.

“Wouldn’t you like that,” you say, lips curling into a lazy smile. Smoke drifts out from between your lips. You don’t break eye contact.

His smirk deepens. “I do like it.”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach twists anyway. Because God help you, so do you.

“So, what’s up with you?” you ask, tilting your head as you hold the joint between two fingers, eyes flickering toward his. The smoke rolls from your lips like a sigh, curling into the space between you like a secret.

Jungkook shrugs, leaning back deeper into the couch, his arm brushing yours just barely. “Nothing much. Just chilling. Boxing and all that.”

You hum, eyebrows raising with mild amusement. “Wow. Riveting stuff.”

He shoots you a lazy grin. “You asked.”

“Yeah, and I keep forgetting that you’re emotionally unavailable until at least two joints in.”

He laughs, soft and warm, and it does something to you that you don’t want to look too closely at. You pass the joint back to him and try not to stare at the veins on his hand or the ink decorating his fingers like poetry you were never meant to read.

For someone whose body you know so intimately—every line, every scar, every sound he makes when you kiss the right places—you know next to nothing about his life. And that’s part of the deal. Or maybe the whole deal.

Jungkook takes a drag and blows it out slowly. “What about you?” he asks. “How’s the glamorous life of overworked and underpaid?”

You snort. “The usual. College, work, crying in coffee-scented bathrooms.”

He chuckles again, eyes crinkling, and it hits you how rare it is to see him smile like that when you're not on top of him.

You glance down at your nails, picking at a chipped corner of polish. “Tae and I are going on a small trip next weekend.”

That gets his attention. “Yeah? Where to?”

“Dunno yet. Probably something basic. Mountains or a lake house. Just wanna get out of the city for a bit.”

Jungkook nods slowly, lips parting like he wants to say something more, but he doesn’t. Just lets silence settle between you again.

You don’t push him. You never do.

“This reminds me…” Jungkook says, plucking the joint from your fingers like he owns it—and in moments like these, he kind of does. He leans back, smoke curling around his face like it knows he’s trouble. “Eunji wants me to meet her mom next weekend.”

You scoff, tilting your head. “Damn, dude. How are you gonna survive that?”

He grins around the joint. “Bruh. I’m perfect meet-the-mother material.”

You snort. “Right. Because mothers love tattooed boxers who smell like weed and moral ambiguity.”

“Whatever,” he says, exhaling smoke like it offends him. “You’re such a hater.”

“Not a hater. Just realistic.”

He glances at you, amusement twitching at the corners of his lips. “You think I’m not charming enough?”

You deadpan, “I think you’re more lie-to-your-daughter’s-face material.”

He bursts out laughing, tipping his head back. “Shit, that’s fair.”

You smile, watching him. He’s still hot when he laughs. Annoying, infuriatingly hot.

“But yeah,” he adds, voice dropping a little, “that probably won’t be happening. I’ll have to lie my way out of that one.”

You give him a dry look. “Thank god you’re a good liar.”

He smirks, eyes flickering to yours. “You’d know.”

“God,” you say, eyes fixed on the ceiling, “can you imagine if Eunji actually found out?”

Jungkook exhales a puff of smoke, slow and smug. “She’d kill me. And probably come for you too.”

“She wouldn’t even get the chance. Tae would commit murder first.”

He hums, passing you the joint. “Tae’s scary when he’s mad.”

You take it, inhale deep. “He is indeed. Have you seen his stare? That’s not normal. That’s serial killer energy.”

Jungkook laughs. “Yeah, and yet you still cozy up to him like he’s a weighted blanket.”

“You’re just jealous he takes me on cute brunch dates and actually remembers my birthday.”

“Wow,” he gasps dramatically. “Are you implying I’m not boyfriend material?”

You look him up and down, slow and deliberate. “I’m saying you’re situationship in denial material.”

He bites his lip to hide his grin. “That’s rich coming from you. Miss I’m loyal to my boyfriend except for every time I text you at 2 a.m.”

You groan. “Don’t act like you don’t eat it up.”

“Oh, I do,” he smirks, shifting closer, “especially when you come over all pouty, pretending this isn’t your favorite part of the week.”

You narrow your eyes. “You talk too much.”

“You like it.”

“Unfortunately,” you mutter, flicking ash into the tray.

He leans in, voice soft and cocky, “Bet Tae doesn’t make you squirm with just words.”

You look at him, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Bet Eunji doesn’t know you like being choked a little.”

He raises a brow, but doesn’t deny it. “Touché.”

“And for the record,” you whisper, fingers brushing his thigh, “you’re not boyfriend material. You’re just my favorite craving.”

He grins, low and dangerous. “That’s the sexiest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“You know,” Jungkook starts, tapping the ash off the joint, “sometimes I think Eunji likes the idea of me more than she likes me.”

You snort. “Well, you do post thirst traps and quote Nietzsche in your captions. Anyone would fall for the illusion.”

He gasps, mock-offended. “Are you saying I’m a fraud?”

“I’m saying you’re a curated experience.”

“Damn,” he laughs, nudging your thigh with his knee. “And yet here you are, front row, backstage pass, meet and greet.”

You shoot him a look, amused. “I never said I wasn’t a fan.”

He smirks. “You’re more than a fan. You’re the president of the Jungkook is a Bad Idea But God He’s Good in Bed club.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you say, even though your grin is impossible to hide. “I’m vice president, at best.”

“Oh really? Who’s president then?”

You take a long drag, pretending to think. “My vibrator. That one never leaves me on read.”

He laughs so hard he coughs, waving smoke out of his face. “Okay, okay.”

You lean in, eyes gleaming. “Bet Eunji doesn’t make you laugh like this.”

He quiets, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. “She doesn’t make me laugh like this. Or moan like you do.”

You blink, caught off guard. “That was dangerously close to being sweet.”

“Don’t worry,” he teases, eyes dragging down your body, “I’ll say something trashy in two seconds.”

You chuckle. “You always do.”

“Maybe it’s a defense mechanism.”

“Maybe you’re emotionally constipated.”

“Maybe,” he murmurs, watching you, “but you like me better that way, don’t you?”

You don’t answer, but your silence is loud enough. And Jungkook hears every part of it.

He shifts closer. The joint is forgotten now, burning down between his fingers. His eyes drop to your mouth for a second too long, like he’s deciding if it’s worth it. Like kissing you is both a gamble and a given.

“You didn’t answer,” he says, voice lower, teasing, but almost careful.

You tilt your head. “About what?”

“Me being emotionally constipated. You liking me better that way.”

You smirk, but there’s a beat of honesty in your next words. “I don’t like you better that way. I just… like you.”

His gaze flickers—like the words hit somewhere deeper than you meant them to. And for a second, neither of you says anything. The tension isn’t new, but this feels… heavier. Messier.

“You’re dangerous when you say shit like that,” he murmurs.

You smile. “And you’re dangerous when you don’t.”

He drops the joint into the ashtray and leans in like gravity's pulling him toward you. His nose brushes yours. His breath smells like weed and cinnamon gum and something distinctly him.

“Last chance to stop me,” he says, voice so low it vibrates in your chest.

You blink slowly. “Last chance to kiss me before I change my mind.”

He chuckles—just a breath—and then closes the distance. His lips press to yours, soft but certain. There’s no hesitation this time. No teasing. Just warmth and the kind of familiarity that should scare you but doesn’t.

You kiss him back, one hand curling into the front of his shirt, the other finding his jaw. He tilts his head, deepens the kiss, sighs into your mouth like he’s been waiting all day for this exact moment.

And maybe he has.

When you pull back, slightly breathless, his eyes are still on yours. “So…” he whispers, “was that emotionally constipated, or…?”

You grin. “Still very much constipated. But in, like, a hot way.”

He groans. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” you say, tugging him back down, “you’re still kissing me.”

And he is. Again and again.

He kisses you again, but this time it’s messier. His hand slips to the back of your neck, pulling you in like he can’t stand the space between you, like it’s a personal offense. Your mouths crash together, lips sliding, breath hitching. It’s not soft anymore—it’s hungry. The kind of kiss that bruises, that says everything neither of you will ever admit out loud.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, still damp, pulling just hard enough to make him groan into your mouth. He kisses like he fights—like he needs to win, like he needs to ruin you a little just to feel okay again. His tongue grazes your bottom lip and you open for him without thinking, without hesitating.

“Fuck,” he mutters into your mouth, “you taste so good.”

You don’t even respond—you’re too busy climbing into his lap, straddling him like it’s muscle memory. His hands find your hips, gripping hard. Like he’s grounding himself. Like he needs the pressure of your body against his or he’ll fall apart completely.

Your lips are swollen already, your breathing ragged, but neither of you stops. Teeth clash a little, tongues fighting, his hand sliding up under your shirt to find skin. It’s clumsy, intense, addictive. You break the kiss just to catch your breath, only to dive back in like you’re starving for him. Like you’ll die if he’s not kissing you.

“Fuck, baby,” Jungkook groans, lips trailing down to your jaw, your throat. “What are we even doing?”

You pant against his skin, fingers clawing at his shirt. “Being so bad.”

He laughs, breathless, mouth still on your neck. “The best kind.”

And then he kisses you again—hard, deep, messy like a confession neither of you dares to say out loud.

He kisses you like he needs it to breathe. Like it’s not just a kiss—it’s survival.

Your mouths crash again, sloppy and desperate. It’s the kind of kiss that makes your teeth bump and your lips burn, the kind that leaves your head spinning. Jungkook’s hand is cradling your jaw now, thumb brushing your cheek as if that could balance out the chaos happening between your mouths. Spoiler: it can’t.

Your hands are roaming—up his chest, into his hair, pulling him closer when he’s already close enough to melt into. He shifts under you, groaning low in his throat when your hips accidentally roll forward. His fingers dig into your thighs like he’s trying not to lose it.

“Fuck,” he hisses, breaking the kiss just long enough to catch your eyes. His pupils are blown wide, lips red and shiny, jaw clenched like he's trying to get a grip. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Good,” you whisper, yanking him back in.

This time, the kiss is slower—but not softer. It’s a drag of tongues, a teasing nip to his bottom lip, a moan you try to swallow when he licks into your mouth just right. Your nails scrape his neck and he shudders, pulling you tighter against him. Your chest presses flush with his and neither of you can tell where one ends and the other begins.

You don’t know how long it goes on. Minutes? Hours? A lifetime? You’re half in his lap, legs tangled, hair a mess, and breath coming in short, needy gasps. And yet he’s still kissing you like he doesn’t care about oxygen. Like nothing else matters.

And maybe right now, in this twisted little moment where everything is all heat and tongue and hands that won’t stop wandering—you believe him.

He kisses you between sentences—like the conversation is an afterthought, like talking about other people while kissing you is normal. Maybe for you two, it is.

"Does Eunji ever kiss you like this?" you mumble against his lips, barely giving him space to breathe.

He lets out a breathless laugh, teeth grazing your bottom lip before he tugs it. "No. She kisses like she's saying goodbye all the time."

You pause at that, then kiss him again—harder. His hands settle on your waist, dragging you closer.

"And Taehyung?" he whispers into your mouth. "He still hold your hand when you sleep?"

"Sometimes," you pant, mouth brushing the corner of his. "Only when he's not too tired."

Jungkook hums against your skin, mouth trailing down to your jaw, then your neck. "Do you miss it?"

You tilt your head, let him kiss down to your collarbone. "No," you whisper honestly, then pull him back up by the chin to kiss him again. It’s messier now. Hungrier. Your lips glide against each other like you’re both trying to erase the names you just said.

"She makes me breakfast, you know," he murmurs between kisses, "Packs fruit in little containers like a mom."

You lick into his mouth, teeth grazing his tongue just slightly. “You ever think about her when we do this?”

“Only when you’re being mean,” he teases, nipping at your lip. “You?”

"Only when I feel guilty," you admit, then kiss him deeper—because guilt can wait.

His hands are tracing foreign paths under your shirt, his mouth never leaving yours, like he’s punishing you for every moment you spend talking about anyone that isn’t him.

"Fuck," he groans, pressing his forehead to yours, lips still brushing yours with every word. “We’re the worst.”

You kiss him again. “I know.”

But neither of you stop.

taglist part 1: @mochi13 @wobblewobble822 @jkvamp @sunnikthv @kimyishin @asyr97 @pjmname @shesscorpio7 @daarla07 @jeontids @bellefaerie @kissyfacekoo @lily-lilacsky @bammbi-jeon127 @httpjeonlicious @belleilichil @minghaosimp @marrtyaa @septemberskies @yok00k @ioanatodorova @rokshi @b2407 @boommoom @kookienooki @avawants2havefun @bhonbhon @taekritimin123 @oraiseok @thenamesathy @superchamchi88 @lenamercedesworld @candygalx @notsevenwithyou @heesuvk @ahgasegotarmy116 @jeonsinsatiablekitten @saki-gojo @piratekingateez2001 @0-0rot @bangatanily @justbelljust @plusultra0 @softhaes @bangtanily @justbelljust @gguk-lvr @gukkie7 @beomluvrr @iamworldwidehandsome

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kwanisms · 9 months ago

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Kinktober 「10:10」 — j.yunho

» ateez menu | yunho menu | kinktober masterlist «

➮ wereleopard!Yunho × fem!Reader wc: 3.3k summary: Yunho hadn’t been on a date in ages when he managed to land a date with his cute coworker, Y/N. Cue one awkward first date and a handful of other successful ones, Yunho feels like he’s starting to settle into his growing relationship. The only thing holding him back is that his girlfriend is so small and it drives him mad with the desire to pin her down and unleash his inner beast. He finally comes clean when Y/N asks him why they aren’t more intimate. genres/themes/au: angst/fluff/smut; supernatural, horror, thriller; non idol au, monster idol au warnings: adult dialogue, female reader, reader is smaller than yunho by a lot mention of alcohol consumption, supernatural and horror themes, mentions of: caffeine consumption (coffee lol), office dynamics, work relationships, coworkers to lovers, leopard mating habits in the wild (lol); sexual content (18+ mdni), see smut warnings under the cut! taglist has been moved to reblogs join my taglists! kinktober taglist is closed! Strikethrough means I cannot tag you. MINORS WILL BE BLACKLISTED & BLOCKED. AGELESS BLOGS WILL ALSO BE BLOCKED.

a/n: i had a lot of fun with this one and like i mention in the smut warnings under the cut, Yunho's cock is... less than human lol. if that bothers you, don't read this. I'm not called monsterfucker for no reason! i don't really have much else to say about this so thank you for reading and as always, this is a work of fiction and all characters are not reflective of their respective irl counterparts. for entertainment purposes only.

smut warnings: teratophilia (aka monsterfucking), size kink, praise (f receiving), unprotected sex (use condoms pls), use of pet names (baby, babe, sweetheart, kitty, little one, etc), dom!Yunho, sub!Reader, Yun has a huge d!ck (because of course he does), biting (f receiving), scratching (f receiving), non-human genitalia (because he’s a werecat, he has a barbed d!ck. Does it make sense? No. Do I care? Also no. don’t like it, don’t read it ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ i’m not responsible for your media consumption lol), I think that’s all but just let me know if I missed something. kinks: Size kink + praise dialogue prompt: ❛❛ Try to stay quiet for me, kitten. Can you do that? ❜❜

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Being a werecat had its advantages and its disadvantages.

For instance, Yunho was extremely agile, light on his feet, and fast despite his large stature. All positives in his book. He was always the fastest and most graceful in gym class. Everything athletic came naturally to him.

The cons were it was rough on his dating life. In his teens, he didn’t even bother dating because he was too busy with school and sports but when he finished college and started working, dating became a strange and foreign landscape for him.

Until he met you of course.

When he first encountered you in the break room, he froze upon seeing your tiny frame at the coffee maker. He’d been working at the office for six months by that point and he’d never seen you before. The moment you turned away from the counter, stirring your mug of coffee, and your locked eyes with him, Yunho knew it was all over for him.

You were quite possibly the most beautiful person he’d ever seen, your light makeup and soft lip color. The cream and black button down blouse with sheer sleeves and the tight black pencil skirt that hit just below your knees, hugging and showing off your curves had him weak in the knees.

He was doomed before you even opened your mouth.

You quickly introduced yourself, stepping forward to shake his hand. The feeling of your tiny hand in his was one he would not forget easily. You were so small compared to him. It ignited within him the desire to protect you from the entire office.

He learned you were part of the IT department while he worked in human resources. You were a transfer from another location of the same company and had just started a few days ago. Yunho took you under his wing immediately despite having only been there a few months but he knew if he didn’t act now, someone else might beat him to it.

You started taking your lunches together and sending messages back and forth. Yunho started to show you around the city when you were off work and you became fast friends.

That friendship for him blossomed quickly into a work crush but he never in a million years thought you might also like him and so when he overheard you telling another coworker about your work crush, his heart sank, thinking you had developed feelings for someone else.

It wasn’t until he heard you say his name that he perked up and realized that you liked him back.

It took him an embarrassingly long time to work up the courage to ask you out and when he finally did, you accepted his invitation for dinner immediately. He’d worried himself so much with you potentially rejecting him, despite knowing you had a crush on him, that he didn’t even have a plan in place for the date but he quickly mapped it all out, scoring a reservation at a really nice place near the river.

Dinner was amazing, the food was spectacular, the conversation was flowing as was the wine and afterwards, the two of you found yourselves walking by the river, admiring the lights of the city. Yunho wanted more than anything to hold your hand and when he finally took the plunge and took your hand in his, he was a goner.

The date ended with him walking you to the bus stop and you had ask him to bend down so you could kiss his cheek before boarding the bus bound for home. Yunho had ridden that high for the rest of the weekend leading into the following Monday and safe to say, he was already smitten.

One date turned into two, which turned into another and soon the two of you agreed to be exclusive. There were thankfully no rules in place that prohibited dating coworkers so long as the two parties weren’t in the same department which you and Yunho were not so it was allowed.

Months flew by and while your relationship progressed romantically and emotionally, physically was another story. That’s not to say you hadn’t kissed. Of course you had. Yunho loved nothing more than kissing you, especially when you were perched on his lap but it never progressed past that.

Yunho was afraid of hurting you. He was quite large, not just in stature. His nature as a wereleopard also meant that he was a great deal more… animalistic. He didn’t have normal human parts. Just like a male cat had spikes on its penis, Yunho had similar protrusions, albeit not as sharp but he knew that it couldn’t be comfortable, having those raking against the inside of your body.

On top of that, he was afraid he might be too rough with you. So as much as he didn’t want to, he often pulled back when things got a little too heated.

It was no different as he sat on your couch, having come over with take out on a Friday night, your designated date nights. That night it was a night in with take out and a show the two of you had gotten into together. Empty takeout containers sat on the coffee table along with a half empty bottle of wine and empty wine glasses.

The tv played softly in the background as you sat perched on Yunho’s lap, fingers twisting through his hair gently as your lips moved against one another, tongues meeting in a languid dance, neither seeking control. His large hands held your tiny waist as you moaned into his mouth, grinding lightly against him.

Yunho had started the evening with an erection, covering it with one of your blankets while you ate and watched TV but when you climbed on top of him, he couldn’t hide it anymore as it strained against his pants, begging for release. When you rolled your hips again, pulling away to leave a trail of kisses down the column of his neck, Yunho finally spoke up.

“Baby,” he croaked, voice hoarse from having not used it in a long while. “Hmm?” you hummed, kisses down to the spot where his neck and shoulder met, a sweet spot of his. You pulled the collar of his shirt away to kiss and nip at the spot, making his mind go blank briefly.

“I-” Yunho let out a moan as your tongue ran along the exposed skin. “I should probably get going.”

You raised your head, lips brushing against his ear. “Why?” you whispered. “Tomorrow is Saturday,” you reminded him. “We don’t work tomorrow.” You pressed soft, wet kisses on the underside of his jaw, one of your hands sliding from his hair down his chest. “You could finally sleep over,” you murmured as your hand continued its path, one that was heading right for the front of his jeans.

“I-I…” Yunho was grasping for a reason to not spend the night despite the fact that he so desperately wanted to. God did he want to spent the night so fucking bad. He wanted more than anything to take you to bed, make love to you and wake up next to you in the morning.

“Please spend the night, Yuyu,” you cooed softly, fingers moving to undo the button of his jeans. Yunho snapped out of it and firmly pushed you back, holding you steadily on his lap as he looked at you with wide eyes. You stared at him in confusion. He could only imagine what was going through your head.

“It’s not a good idea,” he finally said. Your expressions shifted from confusion to dejected as he rejected your advances yet again. ‘Fuck. Don’t look at me like that.’ He hated telling you no, especially when he wanted the exact opposite. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said softly. “It’s just…” he trailed off, knowing there was no easy way to explain his reluctance to you.

Never did he expect that you thought the problem was you.

“Do you not want me?”

Your question paired with the crestfallen look on your face made his heart break.

“You think I don’t want you?” he asked softly, moving a hand to cup your cheek. “Baby,” he said with a sigh as you leaned into his touch. “I want you so bad. I want you so bad it hurts,” he continued. “I’m just trying to protect you.” Your eyes opened to look at him. “Protect me?” you asked. “From what?”

Yunho let out a heavy sigh. “From me.”

Your brows knitted together in confusion. “I don’t understand…” you whispered. Yunho took a deep breath before speaking. “I’m not normal, Y/N,” he started, taking your hands in his, pressing his palms against yours before lacing your fingers together. “I’ve told you about the curse,” he explained, looking up as you nodded. “That you’re a wereleopard,” you replied.

“Well, there are things about me that look human and for the most part, I am rather ordinary,” he continued to explain, looking down at your intertwined hands. “But in some ways I’m quite… odd.” You let out an impatient noise, pulling your hands from his and pushing his shoulders back so he was leaning against the back of the couch, you leaning against him as you twisted your fingers into his hair, playing with his locks. “I’d say extraordinary,” you argued with a smile.

Yunho couldn’t help the smile that rose to his face. “You’re sweet,” he said softly, giving you a quick kiss. “But I’m serious,” he added, smile falling. “I wish I could explain it,” he continued with a sigh. “But it’s difficult.” You pressed a couple kisses to his lips and cheek. “Then show me,” you suggested. “Please Yuyu?” you added when he opened his mouth to protest.

“Baby, I don’t want to freak you out. It’s… weird.”

You frowned, sitting up and looking at him. “You are many things, Jeong Yunho, and weird may be one of them but that’s never deterred me before, has it?” you asked, tilting your head. Yunho smiled again, a chuckle rising up from his chest. “No, I suppose it hasn’t.” The smile returned to your face.

“Then just show me,” you repeated. “I promise I won’t go running for the hills.”

Yunho sighed and nodded, guiding you off his lap. “Just, promise me you won’t… freak out?” he asked as he started to undo his jeans. You nodded. “I promise, babe,” you replied, eyes wide with excitement as he undid his jeans, pulling the zipper down slowly. He raised his hips, pushing his jeans halfway down his thighs.

You could see his cock already straining against his underwear, a dark patch of precum staining the fabric. It made your mouth water and soon you wanted more than to just see it. Yunho took a deep breath before sliding his hand into his boxers, pulling his cock free and your eyes widened as you took in the sight.

It was not what you were expecting. It was mostly human shaped, flesh colored with a bulbous head darker than the rest. A small bead of precum seeping out of the slit. The shaft was pale, veiny like most cocks but what set it apart from the rest were the small bumps around the base of the head. You leaned in closer to inspect, seeing that the bumps were actually pointed.

You looked up at Yunho. “Can I touch it?” you asked softly. Yunho looked surprised by your lack of disgust and that you were more curious and willing to touch him. He nodded, moving his hand to the base of his cock as you reached out a small hand, fingers wrapping around his cock just under the head.

Seeing your tiny hand on his cock nearly sent him over the edge but he managed to keep his composure as your fingers moved, dancing lightly over the head of his cock. “Oh,” you said, sounding surprised as you rubbed the pad of your finger over the spines of his cock. “I thought they would be sharper,” you murmured. Yunho was struggling to keep his breathing steady as you wrapped your fingers around his cock once more. He let out a hiss, head falling back onto the couch cushion.

Curiously, you leaned over, giving the very tip of his cock a lick, cleaning the precum that had gathered there. Yunho let out a gasp, hips bucking as you sat back up, giving him a cheeky smile. “It’s not weird,” you finally said. “I think it’s actually neat,” you added, glancing down at his cock. “I wonder what it feels like,” you added, fingers brushing the spines once more.

“You wanna find out?” Yunho asked, his voice dropping an octave. You looked up at him, meeting his dark gaze. Wordlessly, you nodded. “Yes,” you breathed out as he held out a hand. “God yes,” you exclaimed, taking his hand. He pulled you back onto his lap, pulling you into a kiss as you settled against his cock, the underside pressing against your cloth covered crotch.

“Fuck,” Yunho groaned as you kissed down his neck, fingers moving to undo the buttons of his shirt. Once you had it undone, you pushed the material aside, exposing his toned chest and abs. “C’mere,” he said, grabbing the back of your neck and pulling you into another heated kiss, tongue sliding against yours messily. “One second,” you murmured, pulling away.

Yunho watched as you climbed off him, tucking your thumbs into your shorts and slowly pushing them down, along with your underwear until it fell to your feet. Stepping out of them, you quickly removed your shirt and climbed back onto his lap as he shrugged his own shirt off, having removed his pants and underwear while you were stripping.

“Wait,” Yunho said as you grabbed his cock, lining the tip with your slit. “I need to prep you, baby,” he said as you sat down, sinking on his cock. You let out a moan, taking the head of his cock with ease. “Fuuuuck,” Yunho moaned, head falling back as his hands gripped your waist tightly.

He underestimated how wet you were as your walls enveloped him. “So big,” you moaned, pausing halfway down his shaft. “It’s okay,” Yunho cooed. “Take your time, little one.” You moaned, resting your forehead against his, your hot breaths mixing together as your body slowly adjusted to the massive intrusion.

As you sank further, taking more of his thick cock inside you, the bumps added to the sensation. Each inch stung, a dull burn as your cunt stretched around him. “Fuck, taking me so well, kitty,” he purred, reaching up to cup your cheek. “Can you take more?”

Without answering, you sank further until the tip of his cock was pressed against your cervix. You had taken every single inch without prep like a champ and Yunho would not forget it. Nor would he let you forget it. “Such a good girl, taking all of my cock. It’s like you were made for me.”

Your walls squeezed around him. “Fuck, you’re so tiny,” he said, as his hands moved up your sides. “Such a small little kitty taking my cock like a good girl.” The praise went straight to your core and you wanted more. As you raised your hips, you let out a strained moan, feeling the spines at the base of his cock head lightly rake against your walls.

“Oh holy shit,” you gasped, freezing. Yunho’s hands steadied you. “Are you okay?” he asked breathlessly. You nodded. “It’s different,” you answered. “But I like it.” You continued, more of his cock sliding out of you as the spines scratched the inside of your cunt. You sank back down on him, moaning loudly as the tip of his cock hit your ceRvix.

“F-fuck!” Yunho groaned, fingers digging into your skin as you started to move faster, bouncing on his cock, each pull dragging the spines against your walls and making you cry out. It didn’t hurt but it was definitely a much different feeling. It took ‘ribbed for her pleasure’ to a whole new level.

Your thighs started to burn as you tried your best to keep up but Yunho could tell you were getting tired and your legs were going to give out any moment with the way they were shaking. “Stop,” he gasped. “Let me.” Yunho easily turned, depositing you onto the couch on your back and was sliding back into your walls, as he pushed your thighs to your chest.

You cried out as he thrust into you roughly, feeling the spines on his cock drag against your walls. “Yunnie!” you whined as he fucked you against the couch, the room filling with the sound of his hips hitting yours with each thrust. Your hands moved to his back as he pounded into you, the feeling of his hard cock ramming into your cervix making you cry out.

Yunho let out a growl as he felt your nails raked down his back, the feeling spurring him on. Just as quickly as he started, he pulled out of you. He easily maneuvered you onto your stomach, re-entering you from behind and stilling there as he peppered kisses along your shoulder.

“Try to stay quiet for me, kitten. Can you do that?”

You nodded eagerly but the moment he started moving, you were unable to keep quiet as he slammed into you roughly. He never expected you to actually keep quiet but he thought he might as well try seeing as you had neighbors. They would just have to deal with the noise.

You pushed back to meet his thrusts, making him groan into your neck. You cried out in both pain and pleasure as you felt his teeth sink into your shoulder, his hips never faltering as he fucked you roughly. It was much more raw and animalistic than you’d ever had it but you loved every second of it.

“F-fuck,” you cursed. “M’gonna cum, Yunnie!”

Your whimpers and moans urged him on, hips snapping against your ass with a renewed vigor as he pushed you towards your orgasm. “That’s it,” he breathed in your ear, letting go of your shoulder and leaving a deep impression of his teeth in your skin. “Cum on my cock like a good kitty.”

Your walls spasmed around him as you came with a cry of his name. He didn’t stop, chasing his own high as he thrust harshly into you until his own orgasm finally washed over him, releasing his cum into you with one final thrust. You let out another moan as his seed filled your cunt and he stayed there, making sure every last drop made it into your spent hole.

As you lay there, panting and covered in sweat, Yunho littered kiss after kiss along your shoulder, licking the spot he’d bitten down on before kiss up your neck and cheek as you turned your face towards him. “That’s why you were keeping from me?” you asked breathlessly with a chuckle.

Yunho laughed, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I thought you wouldn’t like it,” he admitted. “I can be an animal in bed, or in this case, couch.” You laughed again, letting out a sigh. “Next time, let’s do it on the bed,” you murmured. “More space.” Yunho chuckled. “Give me five and I’ll be ready to go again.” You lifted your head, turning to look at him.

“Again?” you asked, eyes wide. You were exhausted. How was he not? Yunho chuckled as he pressed a kiss to your temple. “I told you,” he replied. “I’m not entirely like normal men. I’m a wereleopard.” He turned your face towards him, pulling you into a kiss as you felt his cock start to harden within your walls.

“And in the wild, leopards mate up to over two hundred times over a few days,” he added between kisses. He pulled back to look at you with a devious smile.

“And we have all weekend, sweetheart.”

©️ kwanisms 2024 | all works on this blog are protected under copyright. Do not repost, continue, or translate my works. All graphics made by me.

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citrinae · 9 months ago

Text

you have trouble sleeping.

contents; hurt/comfort, implied trauma, anxiety. i’ve been feeling a little off these days so here’s a band-aid to read at 3 am.

ft. the monster trio | masterlist

⋆ ˚｡༄ luffy

during one of his nightly trips to the kitchen, luffy sort of expected to see some additional measures applied to keep him from the fridge, all locked up and forbidden, but what he didn’t anticipate was to find you on the way there, slumped on the floor and with your back pressed against the railing. it was long past midnight. he also knew it hadn’t been long since your last turn at the crow’s nest.

“i switched with nami,” you explained to him as soon as he took the spot next to you.

“why?” he pressed on, wide, widening eyes tracing the contours of your face. “is she sick?”

you told him that no, she’s fine, i just didn’t feel like going to bed today.

“are you sick?” he tried again.

a couple of beats later, you shook your head, hinted at a smile. luffy was your ear, just as much as you were his, but he was your captain too, and the last thing you’d want was to burden him with thoughts which were likely to crawl away with the sunrise.

“i’m good,” your cheekbones ached under the heaviness of your eyes. “a little restless, maybe.”

the ship creaked and hummed through these seas you recognised too well. you stared at the sails, pulling at the ropes to keep the ship on its path, hopelessly trying to find the straw hat jolly roger, or at least its shadow, something, in the dark. knowing where you were headed would have you going back and forth the deck like a caged beast, vicious and unrested, but reminding yourself that this time would be different, you were different, at least permitted some air into your lungs.

then your focus fell to the front of your shoes, and you saw it, a head wearing a straw hat outstretched across the floor. luffy’s hand was warm when he placed it on top of yours.

“it’s alright,” he said, his voice soft and throaty. “you don’t have to tell me anything. you’re our friend, we’ll be there for you no matter what.”

it wasn’t like you hadn’t been aware of that before. luffy had made a persistent point out of it ever since the first time you stepped aboard his ship, and he’d kept on saying it, we’ll be there, i’ll be there, with the voice of both a friend and a lover. what you felt thankful for instead was the way he always chose the right moments to say it. a minute passed, and you found yourself dropping into luffy’s lap, arms curling themselves around his waist in a most heartfelt hug. “thank you,” you whispered. it didn’t take long for him to pull you tighter against him, resting his chin upon your head.

“no need,” luffy said, and he meant it. “now, how are your lockpicking skills?”

hearing this you could only raise a brow. “‘i’m going back to sleep’, is what you meant to say.” what you’d have wanted him to say, had the smile on his face not widened any further.

“not tonight i’m not,” kissing your head. “and we’re gonna need some meat if we want to maintain our energy for tomorrow.”

⋆ ˚｡༄ zoro

you made it a habit to watch your boyfriend train. for minutes, and then hours, you would sit quietly as beads of sweat rolled off his biceps, muscles tanned and mapped with the vicious throb of his veins as weights were added on. he only realised something was wrong when, one time he felt like pushing his routine a little past the usual hour, you refused to move from your spot, despite the dark circles forming under your eyes and the yawns leaving you each time you opened your mouth.

when he asked the first question, you tried deflecting it with something clever like the fact that the hotness in the room was your caffeine shot.

“you’re lying,” he said, tilting his head to the side. the towel thrown around his neck was wet and discoloured. “go to bed.”

you pretended you hadn’t heard him.

he asked a second question, “what’s the deal, then?” crossing his arms. “can’t fall asleep by yourself or something?”

you said nothing. the dimple dug at the corner of his mouth collapsed.

“oh,” he said after a pause.

you shrugged, faintly, “it’s just harder that way.”

it was embarrassing to say it out loud. you knew one should never back away from voicing their feelings, and yet, these words felt like downing a pack of spikes on some really bad-tasting pills.

“alright,” he spoke with so much determination, his voice was thick. soon you noticed zoro’s hands were no longer preoccupied with his towel, nor the metal he’d been staining with sweat about moments ago, but with you, flat and hot around your thighs as he hurled you over his shoulder. “guess it’s time for both to crawl in.”

the world started moving by itself as zoro carried you up the stairs, and the palms of your hands were chilly, even more so when the strain behind your eyes took to something like guilt.

“sorry,” you said. “didn’t mean to take you from your training.”

yet before the silence would begin to worry you, zoro’s voice scraped the air once again. “nah,” his hand tightened around your waist. “like my master said, ‘the skill of a true swordsman also lies in knowing when to stop’.”

⋆ ˚｡༄ sanji

some nights, sleep caught you the moment your head sunk into the pillow. and there were other nights, like this one, when nothing seemed to do the work for you, swamped in thoughts of all shapes and colours. deeper they dragged you, no matter how much you tossed and turned, or how hard you tried to focus on the nothingness behind your lids. then a meaner one pulled you even further down, quickening the pace of your heartbeat. you turned back to the side, dragging your knees to your chest, but just as you did, a kiss felt its way to your shoulder.

“dearest,” sanji’s voice was a drowsy breath against your neck. “is everything all right?”

with this he wrapped his arms around you, thumb moving across your skin, and you gladly accepted it, the care, the affection, enclosing the space between your restless body and the warmth of his chest.

“got some trouble falling asleep, is all,” you assured him, at which he hummed, still caught somewhere between life and sleep—that one place you currently felt banished from.

“are you thinking about them, mon coeur?” the movement of sanji’s hand on your skin was unhurried, pleasant.

you kept your eyes closed. “lately it’s like i can’t think of anything else,” and you weren’t lying this time around.

normally confessions like this one would have rendered your boyfriend a mopey trainwreck, “what have i done to anger you so, oh dear lord, for i have been denied residence in my lover’s heart.”

this time was different, in subtle ways you couldn’t really place.

his nose ran a touch across your neck and to your jaw. “let me bring you some tea,” he said eventually. “red tea is best for keeping the bad thoughts at bay.”

and usually the first thought coming to your head after this would have escaped you as less demanding and more like a thing of habit, “please don’t trouble yourself for me.” but tonight you were different too, face cold and hands shaky and exhaustion setting a feverish fog inside your head.

you pressed your cheek against him. “no,” you said. “don’t leave me alone.”

sanji settled a leg over your hip, held you tighter. “no leaving then,” a peck on your temple. “and you can fall asleep thinking about the breakfast i’ll be making tomorrow morning.”

#one piece x reader #sanji x reader #vinsmoke sanji x reader #zoro x reader #roronoa zoro x reader #luffy x reader #monkey d luffy x reader #one piece scenario

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apteryxparvus · 6 months ago

Text

AITA for exposing my pro volleyball player boyfriend's monster addiction on r/fridgedetective?

Pairing — Suna Rintarou / Reader

Word count — 2,046

Content warning — none

Summary — When you accidentally expose your boyfriend for hoarding an ungodly amount of Monster energy drinks in his mini fridge, the internet takes it and runs wild.

You don’t think twice when you head to your boyfriend’s mini-fridge. Suna always keeps a stash of snacks and drinks in there for late-night movie marathons, and you’re desperately craving a fizzy hit of Ramune soda. But when you open the fridge…

Monster Energy.

Monster Energy everywhere.

You don’t even spot the soda you’re looking for. Just rows upon rows of neon cans stacked like Tetris blocks, along with an alarming number of Chuupets squished in the corners. Who needs this much caffeine and sugar?

The fridge hums ominously, as if judging you for your surprise.

Naturally, you take a picture and post it.

For science.

You don’t expect much. Maybe 10 or 20 upvotes, and a couple of comments from bored strangers confirming that, yes, Suna’s energy drink consumption is borderline criminal. After all, it’s just a silly post on a silly subreddit, nothing to lose sleep over.

But when you groggily check your Reddit account the next morning, your notifications are wild. It’s not just a handful of upvotes—it’s thousands. Your post isn’t just trending on r/fridgedetective; it’s made the Reddit front page.

There’s an overwhelming flood of comments, many of them calling out your boyfriend by name. A part of you wants to laugh—because, really, how did they guess so fast?—but another part of you is too scared to even open Twitter or any other social media platform. You just know someone has screenshotted it and blasted it across the internet; probably with a wild caption like: “Suna Rintarou EXPOSED by his own partner”.

The sheer absurdity hits you like a train. Your boyfriend’s unhealthy obsession with energy drinks and frozen treats has gone viral. Your boyfriend has gone viral.

And, at this point, you’re not sure if you should wake him up to warn him, or just quietly pack your things and go into witness protection.

Among the chaos of Reddit notifications, your phone buzzes with a few messages. A quick glance tells you it’s from two very predictable sources.

Kita: Just empty the fridge and restock it with healthy food. He’ll grumble, but it’s for the best.

Atsumu: WOW I CAN’T BELIEVE U TATTLED ON MY BOY LIKE THAT 💀💀💀

You sigh, rubbing your temples. Against your better judgement, you open the Inarizaki High alumni group chat—and immediately regret it.

Atsumu is clearly living for this. You should’ve known better.

He’s on a rampage, flooding the chat with screenshots from Twitter.

"Suna's fridge contents have NO BUSINESS being this cursed."

"Suna Rintarou EXPOSED for his crimes against hydration."

"Monster sponsorship when???"

It’s one caption after another, each one wilder than the last. You groan, burying your face in your pillow, as if that could block out the chaos unfolding on your screen. You can practically hear Atsumu’s wheezy cackles through the text, and his twin brother, Osamu, is doing nothing to help—just spamming the chat with popcorn emojis like he’s front row at the circus.

You sigh, fingers hovering over the keyboard as you prepare to grill Atsumu for being the absolute worst at 7 AM. But before you can type a single word, the bed shifts.

Suna groans softly, stirring beside you. His arm slides over your waist, pulling you closer as he burrows his face into the crook of your neck.

“Mm, what’s with all the buzzing?” he mumbles, his voice heavy with sleep.

“Nothing,” you lie, way too quickly, throwing your phone across the bed like it’s radioactive. You lean in to press a kiss to his forehead. “Don’t worry, just go back to sleep.”

It almost works. Almost. But your phone keeps vibrating obnoxiously—no doubt Atsumu is still spamming the group chat with screenshots and whatever unhinged commentary he’s decided to add. You curse yourself for not muting him earlier, but now it’s far too late.

Suna groans again, this time with the exasperation of someone who just wants five more minutes of peace. He shifts, reaching for the phone you so desperately tried to avoid.

“Why’s Atsumu spamming the group chat so early?” he asks groggily, his thumb already swiping across the screen.

“No reason!” you blurt out, sitting up too quickly. “You don’t need to check—”

But it’s too late. The moment Suna opens the chat, his expression shifts. His sleepy indifference hardens into something sharper.

Betrayal.

Two days later, you’re settled into your couch, blanket wrapped snug around your shoulders, laptop propped up on your knees. Kodzuken’s stream is set to start in fifteen minutes, and if you’re going to survive whatever chaos the streamer’s chat is inevitably bound to bring, you’re going to need a heavy caffeine boost.

Your eyes slowly drift to the mini fridge in the corner.

You’ve been trying to avoid it ever since the whole incident. But you cannot deny the itch for something cold and fizzy to keep you awake. There’s a moment of hesitation as you chew on your lip, before you finally stand up and pad over.

“Okay… alright,” you mumble to yourself, hand hovering over the handle. “It’s just a fridge. How bad can it be?”

You pull it open.

And the sight nearly makes you drop to your knees.

Gone is the chaotic hoard of neon green Monster Energy cans and suspicious, almost-melted chuupets. Instead, the shelves are pristine, almost squeaky white, gleaming as if the fridge belongs to some sort of soda commercial. And every single slot has been replaced with your favorite soda flavor.

Each glass bottle has a sticky note attached to it, the handwriting unmistakably Suna’s—slightly tilted to the right and a little lazy, like he couldn’t quite be bothered but also cared just enough.

The first note you pick you reads: “I’m doing this for you, even though it hurts 💔💔.”

Shaking your head in disbelief, you pick up another bottle, the condensation slick against your palm. This note reads: “Please don’t post me online again 😔💔.”

A third one in the far back reads: “I hope you’re happy. My dignity is in shambles.”

You choke back a laugh, clutching the bottle to your chest like it’s some sort of love letter.

Everything is just absurd. Dramatic. Completely unnecessary.

But so him.

Kenma’s notification pings from your laptop, reminding you his stream is starting soon. But for a moment, you just stand there, bathed in the soft glow of the fridge light, staring at the ridiculous display of Ramune bottles and heartfelt stickies.

Dinner is a quiet affair, save for the occasional clink of chopsticks against bowls and the soft fizz that Suna’s Ramune soda makes as he takes a long, dramatic sip. You can’t help but glance at him as your phone buzzes with another notification from the group chat.

The #monstersmvp hashtag Atsumu created is still going strong.

You unlock your phone, and cover your mouth trying to stifle a laugh—Atsumu’s latest spamming spree is a trainwreck you cannot look away from.

“What now?” Suna asks, voice flat as he picks at his food.

“‘tsumu keeps sending the eulogies from the hashtag. Ready to hear the best of the best?”

“No,” your boyfriend deadpans, taking another slow, deliberate sip of the fizzy drink.

Ignoring him, you start reading anyway. “Okay, here goes,” you clear your throat, holding the phone up dramatically. “Rest in power: Gone but never forgotten. Suna’s energy drink hoard was a beacon of poor nutritional choices and excessive caffeine addiction. Taken from us far too soon by the merciless hand of justice (a.k.a. his girlfriend). May its legacy live on in vending machines and gas station coolers everywhere.”

Suna rolls his eyes, but you can see the corners of his mouth subtly twitching, like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Wait, wait,” you say, scrolling further. “It wasn’t Suna’s blocks that made him a true legend. No, it was his fridge full of Monsters. The stash stood as a tall, proud monument to his dedication to caffeine and chaos, but alas, all good things must come to an end. In lieu of flowers, please send Ramune soda.”

He takes another slow sip of his soda, gaze fixed on you over the rim of the bottle. “These people are unhinged.”

“You mean your fans are unhinged,” you correct, waving your phone at him. “You brought this on yourself, you know.”

He sets the bottle down, resting his chin in his hand as he smirks at you, that lazy, infuriating smirk that makes your heart skip a beat even when you’re annoyed with him. “You’re awfully invested in this for someone who caused the whole mess.”

“Excuse me, you’re the one who kept a hoard of energy drinks like some kind of cryptid!”

“And you’re the one who made it go viral.”

Suna shakes his head, clicking his chopsticks. “If I ever get my stash back, I’m putting a padlock on that fridge.”

“Sure,” you tease, scrolling through the wall of text messages. “But you’ll have to bribe me first.”

The morning after starts with the doorbell buzzing like it’s got a personal grudge against your sleep. You groan, burrowing deeper into the blankets as Suna mumbles incoherently beside you.

“Are you gonna get that?” you ask, voice muffled by the pillow.

“Nope,” he replies, eyes still closed.

The buzzing continues, persistent and annoying, until you finally throw the blankets off with a groan. “Fine, I’ll do it. But if it’s Atsumu, I’m kicking him.”

Shuffling to the door in your pajamas, you swing it open, ready to give whoever it is a piece of your mind. Instead, you’re greeted by two delivery people dressed in head-to-toe Monster Energy attire. Hats, shirts, gloves—even their shoes have the Monster logo.

“Delivery for Suna Rintarou?” one of them says, all too chipper for this ungodly hour.

Behind them is a massive, industrial-sized fridge wrapped in black and neon green, the Monster Energy logo glowing ominously on the front.

You blink. “You’re joking.”

“We’re not,” the other delivery person says, already wheeling the monstrosity closer.

You stand frozen as they maneuver the fridge through the door, parking it in the middle of your living room like it belongs there. By the time Suna wanders out from your bedroom, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, the delivery people are gone, and the fridge looms like some sort of otherworldly deity.

“What the hell is that?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.

“Your consequences, clearly,” you grumble.

“You think it comes pre-stocked?”

You stay quiet, keeping your distance from the fridge as if your glare alone might short-circuit the thing. If you got too close, you’d be tempted to whack it with something—like the baseball bat you keep by the door in case of emergencies.

Suna, unbothered by your lack of answer, wanders closer, hand lazily brushing against the neon logo before gripping the handle. He looks back at you with a smirk.

The door creaks open.

Even though the fridge isn’t even on, it’s packed to the brim with dozens upon dozens of Monster cans. Shelves sag under the weight of every imaginable flavor—there are classics, tropical blends, tea-infused hybrids, even some cans with foreign text that scream exclusive import.

“How is this fridge even stocked? It’s not on.” You can’t hold back the groan. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Look at this,” Suna says, picking up a can with a holographic label. He holds it up like it’s some kind of treasure. “I didn’t even know this flavor existed.”

“Put it back,” you say, your voice sharp. “I’m gonna set it on fire, I swear."

He doesn’t listen. Instead, he grabs another can, then another. “They’ve got the white pineapple, the tea blend... oh, and the zero-calorie peach! This is insane.”

“I’m gonna lose my mind.” You bury your face in your hands, trying to process the sheer audacity of the situation. “Who does this?!”

“There, there,” Suna teases, patting your back. “Want a sip?” he asks, cracking open a random can.

You glare at him, contemplating the consequences of slamming the door shut on both the cans and his smug face. Instead, you stomp to the couch, plopping down, and muttering, “I’m calling ‘tsumu. This has his name written all over it.”

Suna’s laughter echoes through the living room, followed by the distinct hiss of him opening yet another can.

Author's note: phew, editing the Reddit posts took ages 🤧 please ignore any discrepancies between the profile pictures of the users pls

i’ll marry whoever buys me a fully stocked redbull fridge, no questions asked

#haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #suna x reader #haikyuu x you #suna x you #haikyuu x y/n #suna x y/n #haikyuu imagines #suna imagines

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 8 days ago

Text

Mission Control 28

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, blood, stalking, pregnancy and allusions to abortive measures and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Captain Hydra

Summary: a man marches into your life on a mission

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

The house is silent. It has been. More than usual.

It isn't the silence that bothers you, it's the solitary. You know he's not there. You just have a sense about it. It reminds you of the place he took you before. When he left you alone. What happened when he left you alone.

Denial. That lasted all of three seconds. There’s no denying the evidence.

Anger. That stuck around. It’s there still. You’re angry not just about that thing he put inside you, but that he even brought you into the situation to do so. He didn’t just make this baby, he stole a life from you. It wasn’t much, but it was yours. Then he took it for himself and now it will go to the child.

Bargaining. You try and you try to convince yourself that you’ll be okay. It’s not that bad. You can do this. Shouldn’t you want a family?

With him? With that monster? You settled. You let yourself get comfortable. That doesn’t change what he’s done. He’s mangled you so much you can’t even recognise yourself. Not in a mirror or in your own mind.

Depression. Nothing new. That’s always been there. Maybe even before him. It’s like the air has been sucked out of the room every time you remember and you never forget.

Acceptance. You can’t. You can’t accept this. You are grieving more than your body, more than this pregnancy. You are grieving for yourself. How do you do that?

So you revert. Step two. Anger. White hot anger.

He did this and then he left you. Again. Why would he take you only to keep abandoning you? He can rip apart a man with his bare hands but he can’t face this? He might not be the man he once was, but he sure is still a man. Typical.

You sit at the table. The tea is cold. You shouldn’t have caffeine but frankly you don’t care. It’s not just about the baby, you don’t have the energy to take care of yourself. The most effort you put in was opening a packet of crackers and you’d have one before your stomach turned.

You leave the mug on the table with the rest. You don’t bother counting them like you don’t count the days. There’s something rancid stinking up the kitchen. You go back to bed, yourself pungent with stale sweat.

You drag your feet into the bedroom. You stop short. He’s back.

The Captain. Steve. Whatever he is now. He sits on the bed, a piece of paper in his hands. It’s wrinkled and a corner’s torn off. He crinkles it as he stands. He nods at you.

You turn back, ready to march away. You hear him. It isn’t often that you do. He sneaks up on you. He grabs your arm. You spin and shove him off you.

“How long’s it been? Weeks?” You snarl.

He looks down and puts up two fingers.

“Only two?” You scoff. “Wow. Great.”

His blue eyes flick up and he frowns. He raises the page and wiggles it at you. There’s a gleam in his eyes. Desperation.

You sigh and cross your arms. He unfolds the paper and shows you the jagged writing, words scribbled and scratched over. You bit the insides of your cheeks. You snatch it and spin away.

Your heart is racing. Your ears ring with rage. You should crumple it up and throw it back in his face. You almost do. You stop yourself as you see your name at the top. Written ten times in a row.

You take a breath and stop. You read with your back to him.

‘Taken. Scared—bad people. Made bad.’

You pause as you examine the script. The lines are jagged like he’s fighting himself with each letter. You continue.

‘Alone. I kill. I hurt. I alone.’

You fidget. You’re angry. Remember.

‘Long time. Orders in ear. No mouth. I obey. Obeyed!’

There’s a whole line of scribbles.

‘I remembered. Mother. Friend. Men fighting. Hole in the ground. Guns.’

There’s a drawing of a tank and explosions, crosshatched to one side of the page. Trees splinter and smoke plumes.

‘Memories.’ The single word hangs below.

‘See you. Remember more. See you and sun hot. Sky big.’

A squiggle stretches across the rest of the line, as if he couldn’t decide his next words.

‘I try. I hurt. You.’

Exes in a clutter before the final word.

‘Sorry’.

You focus on that word. Your stomach is tight. You try to find your anger.

You walk away. You go back downstairs and to the window in the front room. You look out at the melting snow, water trickling from above.

Captain America died valorously in 1945. That’s what they taught you in school. It’s what was pasted over the commemorative copies of The Times. That wasn’t true. He’s right there with you.

All those years, has he been like this? Broken and silent. Alone. You hang your head. It has to be the hormones.

His footsteps approach from behind. You face him as you clutch the paper. He holds up the tablet.

You get closer to read the page. It isn’t the dictionary he uses. It’s a business page. For a clinic. ‘Reproductive services and procedures’... Oh.

You fold the paper and hold it out. He lowers the tablet, his brow furrowed, and he takes it. He rests it on the screen.

“You understand. I want it gone.” You say.

He nods.

“You took everything from me.” You hiss, tears beading in your eyes. He nods again. “You ruined everything. My foot, my... my...” You can’t finish as your throat clogs. “I don’t want this. You know that.”

He winces. His face slowly hardens. He slips the tablet under his arm. He signs.

“But I need you.”

You cross your arms and shrug.

“The baby is gone and this never happens again,” you barter.

His throat tightens. He signals yes. Then something else. ‘Broken. Bad.’

You sniff. “Yes, you are.”

#steve rogers #captain hydra #series #mission control #drabble #steve rogers x reader #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #au #marvel #mcu #captain america #avengers

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fated-normal-767 · 5 months ago

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Yeah I think so but red bull (especially the fruit flavoured ones to me) have that energy of wanting to look cool but you’re buying like 250ml of drink for like £2 and it does not even taste good. Like what. I get that some people like it but if I see someone drinking red bull im like “okay” and if i see someone drinking like a 20p red bull rip off that almost definitely tastes the same im thinking “okay i respect the energy here” like people convinced red bull is worth the price are odd to me . Boy you could get 10x that much for the same price if you went to some shitty little corner store and got some off brand shit . I’m trying red bull flavours today because there’s a girl in my art class who drinks like 4 red bulls every day of these 2 fruit flavours and I’m so curious about if they’re actually any good or if it’s just commitment to a brand. I tried the ‘forest fruits’ one and it’s better than original red bull for sure but it’s worse than Every monster flavour I’ve tried and I found some of them really boring. It definitely tasted like that blackcurrant cold medicine liquid people get sometimes but I do love a medicine taste so I liked it but. Wouldn’t buy again as once again you can get really cheap versions and honestly I can’t ever taste the difference really. But for red bull it was good so on a red bull scale I’d give it like a 6/10 with the original being like a 3 maybe. 4 at best.

Red bull flavours are named like vapes which makes sense because both of those things are kind of mid at best I think.

Yeah true but they also have that trashy appeal to them yknow what I mean ? Red bull is like a vape but more masculine but also without the nicotine probably j think maybe

#now the next one I’ve not tried yet I have the highest hopes for so I’m trying it last of the 2 #it’s called the winter edition one #and it’s ’iced vanilla berry’ which does sound like a vape #I have friends who vape every brand names them shit like that #I just don5 appreciate red bull trying to be classy and worth two quid that’s shite #I ❤️ shitty little cheap drinks that know what’s up #advertising which prioritises 1. caffeine content 2. cheapness #like no one is thinking oh I’d like a lovely referencing drink to make me feel hydrated and happy I’ll get a red bull #* refreshing #I do not actually think monster is much better with the pricing but I respect their designs more #this is all just my view of the quality : general vibe : cost ratio #I have a lot of drink based opinions as many know #like monster pisses me off on occasion with their evil product release strategies which keep me away from trying new flavours #but the cans are well designed and they know their audience #obviously red bull has an audience too but it’s like.#why. to me #it’s so popular it loops back round to ‘there’s 500000 cheaper and just as good alternatives’#and if someone’s like exclusively drinking red bull it’s like people who exclusively drink coke to me #you are there for the brand not the taste I think #if people like brands I guess that’s Them #but I don’t . unless I’m after a specific monster energy flavour I do mainly drink rip offs of my favourite flavours honestly #ultra Rosa and the green apple have special places in my heart because there’s no nice alternative to those #but there’s a brand called relentless that does monster adjacent flavours for occasionally almost a third less

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dee-writes-anime · 16 days ago

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IM SO SORRY FOR SPAMMING REQUESTS!!!! I have so many good ideas

So im a biiig redbull and monster fan (the energy drinks) and currently on gojo brain rot rn-

So imagine if reader is a teacher like gojo, special grade sorcerer. And is a littleeee younger (last tike i checked gojo is 28? So can reader be 25?) and reader is training with yuji , inomaki(?) , panda, megumi and maki

Gojo decided to watch them train, and reader is very VERY hyped up from the 10 redbulls she’s had, and gojo noticed and calls her out for it. 😭

She’s embarrassed and gojo chucks a water bottle at her and then decided to spar with her, and it goes on for a loooong ass time, and all the students are entertained, and reader pulls a power move on gojo as he tries to hit her while sparing, and pulls a similar move maki did in the jjk 0 movie but instead kicks out gojos legs out and slips him up and wins the spare

So later shes calmed down and in secret they’re dating :0 (SUPRISEEEE) and he scolds her for having so many redbulls and just hugs her while doing so as she comes down from the rush???

Soooo fluffy!!!! For our baddie 🤩, im loving that word, and i may or may not be high on redbull rn

MONTY! Eat sleep drink

Rockin' Redbull

FEATURING Satoru Gojo x Reader

SUMMARY You're hyped up on caffeine and Gojo decides to show his worry by sparring with you

CONTENT WARNINGS fluff!, reader is absolutely CRACKED OUT, worried gojo, jujutsu high students being actual students (!!)

AUTHORS NOTE Gojo is a parasite that lives in my brain. That's it. That's the note. Side note: King and Queen have been highlights in my verbal rotation these days. "get it King" is a proud example of this.

The sun was blinding—high and sharp and merciless, like it had a grudge against everyone beneath it. The rooftop training field shimmered under the heat, the concrete warm enough to fry an egg and the breeze almost useless. It was the kind of afternoon where everyone wanted to be anywhere but here.

Then you arrived.

You didn’t walk onto the field. You rocketed onto it like a chaotic comet of cursed energy and carbonation, half-jogging, half-skipping, hoodie sleeves bunched at your elbows, a mangled Red Bull can in one hand and what was probably your eighth or ninth of the day tucked under your arm.

“LET’S GO, BABY SORCERERS,” you shouted, skidding to a dramatic halt. “TIME TO GRIND!”

Yuji fist-pumped like he was born for this moment. “YEAAAH! I’m so ready!”

Inumaki glanced at you with a calm “Tuna mayo.”

Panda clapped once with the rhythm of a sports chant. “Someone’s overclocked again.”

Megumi, already stretching in the shade, didn’t look up. “Why are you like this.”

“I’m dialed in,” you declared, popping open the next Red Bull with a fzzzt that sounded suspiciously like doom. “Fully optimized. Mentally turbocharged.”

“You’re going to rupture something,” Megumi said flatly.

“Like a brain cell?” Yuji asked.

“She doesn't have any left,” Megumi deadpanned.

You took a long sip from the can. “I have become caffeine, destroyer of self-control.”

Maki leaned on her practice staff, raising a brow. “You realize this is a sparring session, not an MMA title fight, right?”

You grinned at her, jittering like a kicked beehive. “It is now.”

Panda tilted his head. “How many of those have you had?”

You blinked. “Define ‘had.’”

And then, as if summoned by sheer dramatic timing, he arrived.

Gojo stepped out onto the field like a model strutting into a battlefield. He wasn’t even pretending to hurry—just strolled up in his black uniform, blindfold half-lowered so you could see the faint curve of amusement playing on his mouth. His silver-white hair glinted under the light like it had its own gravitational pull.

The moment he saw you, he stopped walking.

Then blinked.

Then slowly turned to the rest of the students. “You let her drink how many Red Bulls?”

“She didn’t let us stop her,” Maki muttered.

“She threatened to fight a vending machine,” Panda added helpfully.

Yuji nodded. “It was kind of impressive.”

You struck a pose mid-field, vibrating like a hummingbird with an attitude. “Nothing can hurt me! I’ve surpassed mortal limitations!”

Gojo raised a brow. “You’re going to vomit on your own shoes in about twenty minutes.”

“Then I’ll vomit with honor!”

He sighed, like a man used to being surrounded by lunatics. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Your face flashed hot, and before you could even think of a comeback, a cold bottle of water came flying at your head.

You caught it just barely. It thudded into your palms with icy finality.

“Hydrate,” Gojo said, looking deeply unimpressed. “Before I put you in a holding cell with the cursed corpses.”

Yuji gasped. “She’s getting detention?”

“She’s getting intervention,” Megumi muttered, still stretching, still over it.

“I’m not that bad,” you protested.

You cracked open the water and poured some over your head dramatically like it was a baptism.

Gojo tilted his head, studying you with a smug, unreadable smile. “You know what? If you’ve got all that energy to burn…” He paused. “Why don’t you spar with me?”

The entire rooftop froze.

Panda’s eyes went wide. “Wait. For real?”

Maki blinked. “He’s serious?”

Yuji let out a full-body gasp. “OH MY GOD YES—”

You paused mid-sip, water dribbling down your chin. “You wanna fight me?”

Gojo smirked. “Unless you’re too scared, Red Bull.”

You grinned, eyes shining, blood singing, muscles buzzing with cursed energy and terrible decisions.

“Oh, you’re so on, Snowflake.”

The heat was still clinging to the rooftop, but it wasn’t the sun making the air shimmer now.

It was cursed energy.

Gojo stood loose and unreadable in the center of the training field, rolling his shoulders back with deliberate, relaxed movements. His blindfold was off now, folded and tucked into a pocket—those eyes sharp as cut glass and fixed on you with a slow-burning curiosity. He wasn’t smiling.

Not yet.

You were still coiled with caffeine and adrenaline, bouncing lightly on the balls of your feet. The tremor in your limbs wasn’t nerves—it was fuel. Unstable, wild, and stupidly potent. The Red Bull rush was peaking, and Gojo? He was standing in your line of fire with that smug, infuriatingly calm look on his face.

“You sure you’re ready?” he asked, tilting his head.

“I’m fueled by science and bad decisions,” you replied, cracking your neck. “Let’s do this.”

The students scrambled back instinctively, creating a wide circle around the sparring ring. Yuji practically vibrated with excitement. Panda pulled out a bag of popcorn from God knows where. Inumaki sat down cross-legged, eyes locked on the center. Maki stood still, watching with her arms crossed, the glint in her eye the closest thing to amusement she ever allowed.

Megumi just sighed and crouched beside a stack of water bottles. “If either of them levels the building, I’m not helping clean up.”

Gojo raised one hand lazily, fingers curling in that taunting “come on” motion. “Show me what that energy of yours is good for.”

You didn’t wait for a countdown.

You moved first.

One heartbeat you were standing still, the next you exploded forward—curse-enhanced speed cracking through the air like a bullet. Your fist came in fast, low, aimed for his side, but Gojo slid out of reach with impossible ease, feet barely whispering against the ground. The aftershock of your strike cracked a chunk off the tile floor.

“You’re fast,” he said mildly, turning on his heel. “Not faster than me.”

You spun, grinning. “Guess we’ll find out.”

You closed the distance again, throwing a feint left before twisting low into a sweeping kick. He stepped clean over it, countered with a flat-handed strike toward your shoulder. You blocked with your forearm, the impact reverberating down to your teeth.

“You’re holding back,” you said through clenched teeth.

Gojo tilted his head, stepping into your space again. “So are you.”

For a moment, everything sharpened. Your bodies moved around each other in precise, blinding rhythm—strike, block, twist, pivot. It was like dancing with knives. Your cursed energy pulsed with each movement, bright and erratic, while his remained cool and impossibly smooth, flowing around him like he didn’t even have to try.

Yuji had stopped cheering. He was just staring, slack-jawed.

“They’re insane,” he whispered.

“They’re insane and reckless,” Megumi muttered, arms crossed. “Great combination.”

“Pass the popcorn,” Maki said under her breath.

Panda whispered, “This is way better than class.”

You threw a series of sharp jabs, ducked under his counter, then spun around behind him—but he was already there, waiting for you. He grabbed your wrist, twisting it with just enough pressure to warn you, not break you.

“You’re gonna crash soon,” he murmured.

Your eyes flashed. “Then I better end this fast.”

You twisted free, body bending back in a full arch to slip under his arm before launching yourself into a jump kick aimed at his shoulder. Gojo caught you midair—of course he did—and shoved you backward with a palm to the chest that sent you skidding across the ground.

You crouched low, breathing hard, grinning wide.

He wiped dust off his uniform and gave you a look.

A real look.

Curious. Challenging. Like he was finally seeing what you could do. Like he wanted more.

You surged forward again, ducked one swing—then dropped your center of gravity, pivoted, and swept his legs out from under him.

Your heel cracked against the back of his knee with a satisfying thud. Gojo’s eyes widened—not in pain, but in surprise—as he lost balance. You didn’t hesitate. You moved into a spin, rose up just enough to plant your foot on his chest as he landed flat on his back, winded but grinning up at you with his hair a mess and one arm thrown lazily over his head like this was the best day of his life.

You stood over him, panting, one knee bent, hair falling into your eyes. “Who’s crashing now?”

He blinked up at you. “You just Maki’d me.”

“I learned from the best.”

Gojo let his head fall back into the cracked tile. “Incredible. I’ve been publicly humiliated. I might retire.”

“I’ll send flowers.”

“You better.”

Across the field, the students erupted in shouts and laughter. Yuji threw both fists into the air like you’d just taken down a final boss. Inumaki nodded approvingly. Panda was filming. Maki smirked faintly, just once, before returning to her neutral stance.

Even Megumi… cracked the smallest grin.

You stepped off Gojo’s chest and flopped beside him, your body still trembling from adrenaline and caffeine, heart jackhammering in your chest. Your arm brushed his.

Gojo didn’t move right away.

Then, softly—just for you—he muttered, “That was hot.”

You didn’t answer. Just smiled at the sky and let yourself breathe.

The hallway lights buzzed low and warm, and the lounge was nearly empty.

You were curled up sideways on the couch like a cat that had tried to fight God and won—barely. The hoodie you’d half-stripped during training was back on now, draped messily over your shoulders like a blanket, your body half-wrapped in a throw someone had left behind weeks ago. Your head throbbed dully. The caffeine high had cracked apart hours ago, leaving behind a sluggish ache and the unmistakable fuzz of dehydration and regret.

You were still clutching the now-empty water bottle like a lifeline.

The door creaked open.

You didn’t bother lifting your head. “If it’s Ijichi, tell him I’m dead.”

Gojo’s voice answered, dry and amused. “What a coincidence. I was just about to say the same thing about you.”

You cracked one eye open.

He strolled in like he owned the damn room—his uniform jacket slung over one shoulder, collar loosened, hair damp from a recent rinse. No blindfold. Just those too-bright eyes focused solely on you, filled with that familiar gleam of smugness… and something softer buried beneath it.

“Still alive?” he asked, coming to a stop in front of the couch.

“Debatable.”

“You look like someone who tried to fistfight a vending machine and lost.”

You squinted at him. “I won. I got the Red Bulls.”

Gojo clicked his tongue. “Ah, yes. Victory through organ failure.”

You groaned and slumped deeper into the cushions. Your voice dropped to a mumble. “I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Tough. You’re gonna.”

He dropped his jacket on the armrest and sat beside you, shifting until you could feel the warmth of him just barely brushing against your side. He didn’t say anything at first. Just reached over and pulled your hood up gently, letting it fall over your head like a soft reprimand.

“Ten cans?” he murmured.

“Thirteen,” you corrected automatically. “But one was sugar-free, so it doesn’t count.”

Gojo sighed, leaned back, and tilted his head to look at you. “You know you don’t have to kill yourself to prove something, right?”

You closed your eyes. “I was just trying to keep up.”

“With who?” he asked, genuinely confused. “You wiped the floor with me. And I’m the strongest.”

You snorted softly.

But he didn’t let it go. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced, and said—quieter this time—“You’re already good enough. You don’t have to run yourself into the ground to be impressive.”

There was a silence that followed that. Thick, honest, uncomfortable.

You didn’t say anything.

So he moved first.

Gojo leaned over, and before you could process it, you were being pulled into his lap like you weighed nothing. His arms wrapped around you tightly, one hand settling low on your back, the other resting against the crown of your head.

You let yourself collapse into him—bone-tired, brain-fried, and strangely at peace. His chest was warm beneath your cheek. His scent was clean, bright, familiar—like soap and sun and something electric that only belonged to him.

“You scared me,” he said against your hair.

“I sparred you,” you mumbled, eyes closed.

“Exactly,” he whispered. “You sparred me while chemically unhinged. I had flashbacks to Suguru’s cooking.”

You laughed—low and rough.

He held you tighter.

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” he said. “I get it. You want to be strong. You want to keep up. But you can’t protect others if you’re wrecking yourself in the process.”

You went quiet for a while. Not because you disagreed. Just because it was hard to hear when it came from him—from someone who had made self-destruction look like an artform.

“…I’ll cut back,” you said eventually.

Gojo hummed. “One can a day.”

“Two.”

“One and a sip.”

You sighed into his collar. “Fine.”

His hand moved gently along your spine. “Good. ‘Cause I happen to like you with functioning kidneys.”

“You like me?” you teased weakly.

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of your hood. “Don’t push it, Red Bull.”

#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu sorcerer #gege when i catch you gege #dee's asks #jjk #gojo saturo #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jjk gojo #jujutsu gojo #jujustu kaisen #gojou satoru x reader #gojou satoru #gojo #jujutsu satoru #jjk satoru #satoru gojo x reader

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kingtomura · 5 months ago

Text

Vitality | 6

Summary: You were always told heroes and villains had no place in your home. Not when there’s an increase in crime, not when there’s monsters on the loose in Hosu and certainly not when the man in your home raises a hand to you. All it takes is one impulsive decision to change your life forever. content: shigaraki tomura x female reader, slow burn, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, reader has a quirk, graphic depictions of violence, past abuse, past sa, angst, pstd, eventual smut, dark themes, found family LoV, mdni wc: 6.2k | prev | chapter 7 | m. list | read on ao3

Three.

That’s how many people died on the mission with Dabi. Three people lost their lives because they challenged the League of Villains and they paid for it.

But the worst part of all is not the fact that your nose still holds the putrid smell of charred flesh, it’s not even that this trip has given you more insight on the Cremation Villain himself.

No, the worst part of it all is that you feel stronger.

You feel as though you could take on anything — like you finally had a chance to take your power back.

Dabi was right when he said it’s you or them.

That phrase had been thrown at you over and over again in the past by your father and only now had it clicked in your mind.

You were finally in a space to do something about it.

And you had support.

Dabi may not be the friendliest of the League, but you know now that there is more than meets the eye when it comes to the distant villain.

So instead of a baseless fear, there is a newfound respect for the man, and it stays with you even through his snarky remarks and flippant exits from the base.

Those same thoughts are expressed in the mission recap you give to Shigaraki.

You’ve both found yourselves back into the rhythm of the roof. A quiet pocket away from the world.

“But there were three of them, and the one with the illusion quirk — I’ve never seen anything like it.” You go on, words falling from your tongue as you recall the recent experience. The blaze of Dabi’s flames left phantom tingles in your fingers and you bring a hand up to gaze at it.

Shigaraki is quiet as he listens on, taking a sip from his fizzy drink.

(Toga swore she couldn't find his usual sugar filled soda and now he’s stuck with a rosy pink drink and not nearly enough caffeine.)

There's a warmth that spreads throughout your chest as you bring your hand back down.

You missed it out here, even if the mission had only been a few days long.

“So,” Shigaraki’s low voice starts, capturing your attention at once, “there were no problems?”

“Hm,” you look to the night sky and then back to your hand, memories flooding your mind as your shoulders drag a slow shrug, “not entirely. Things got a little tense at one point when they got me, though.”

“Got you?” He echoes, surprise in his voice so slight it goes unnoticed.

You continue on, “Yeah, I thought it was over for me. The illusion quirk was trickier than I anticipated and the paralysis quirk was dangerous.”

Shigaraki brings a hand to his neck, the light scratching raising no alarms as you think back to your trip, almost excited to tell him how you finally stood up for yourself and did something about your situation.

“But the paralysis only worked because he touched me, and—“

“Someone touched you?” His tone held a tension so tight it made your words stall.

“Yeah, but Dabi, he—”

“Why were you on the front lines?” Shigaraki cuts you off, voice as sharp as the nails that rake across his neck.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and you quickly find yourself slipping into dangerous territory, unsure if your next answer would be one to put you on the chopping block.

There’s a pit in your stomach beginning to form as you wet your lips.

This anxiety, it’s all too close to home.

You try to still your thoughts and answer in a way that would salvage this situation, “Well, it was because of Dabi, but he saved me—!”

Shigaraki doesn’t want to hear it.

“He could have gotten you killed.”

Or worse, your breath hitches at the thought. It hangs in your mind, trailing behind his words.

Yes, you could have been killed but the reality is much, much worse.

But you can’t bring yourself to say it.

Not aloud.

Not to Shigaraki.

“Reckless,” he mutters, more so to himself than to you, “we don’t need to take risks like that so soon.”

His rambles fade into the night as your mind races at what could have been, the light touches and mocking jeers pulling your attention from reality.

Shigaraki’s next words are the only thing to pull you back to shore.

“No more missions.”

Your eyes snap to him. “What?”

“It’s too much of a liability. We need a healer here, at the base — alive.”

You stare at him, dumbfounded that your leader has, in so many words, grounded you.

“But, Shigaraki—” You go to complain but he’s heard enough.

Your leader stands and makes his way to the exit without another word, nails still biting at the skin of his neck and effectively leaving you to sit in the somber company of the whistling wind and city lights.

————————

For hours on end it’s been a constant stream of punches, kicks and newly formed bruises on skin.

“You have to hit harder!” Toga calls out to you as her clone gears up to strike at you once more.

You groan as your fists come up again, dragging with the weight of your exhaustion as her doppelganger licks fresh blood from her knife. She hasn’t backed down once and shows no signs of slowing up.

There’s nothing more you can do but brace yourself and plant your feet. Even though you were tired, you would be damned if she got the chance to call you out on it. So instead, you put on a brave face and prepare.

The clone jumps with a speed that rivals the real thing and knocks into you with enough force to send you tumbling to the ground.

You go down with a yell and channel your energy into coming out on top of her.

With a bit of force and a lot of focus you manage to do it. Toga’s clone is restrained below you, her soft face clinched in pain as you pin her arm behind her back.

“Yes, good job, little bird!” Toga calls from her perch, “Now finish it.”

The knife her clone once held has fallen to the ground out of her reach, but well within yours. It should be no problem taking her out.

Finish it.

No big deal.

The clone struggles beneath you as your breathing grows heavier, feeling the weight of Toga’s gaze as it pierces your back and makes you sweat.

“C’mon! End it and we can be done for the day.”

There was nothing you wanted more than to be done for the day so you could head back to your room to decompress from this relentless training.

But…

You hesitate.

It may have been easy to come out on top with the man from the mission, but this was different.

Clone or not, it’s too much like her, and Himiko has done nothing but support you.

Her clone looks back at you, and you drop your gaze.

You just can’t do it.

Your eyes close as you hear Toga’s faint steps along the grass. She finishes the job without a second thought and her doppelganger turns to muck beneath you.

The substance it was made of clings to your bare knees and palms.

“What happened?” She questions, standing over your kneeled form and casting a shadow over you and your doubts.

The clone substance begins to evaporate while your eyes focus on her sleek school shoes that probably haven’t stepped inside an actual school in years.

“I... I don’t know.”

“You were able to help Dabi on the mission, weren't you?” Even though you can’t see her face, you can feel her concerned expression from the tone alone. “You’ve taken someone down before.”

“That was different. This one,” you pause, cautious of your next words. “She looks too much like you.”

Silence stretches between you both, loud and uncomfortable as it fills the forest fields with nothing but your awkward vulnerability and her heavy expectations.

One fact remains the same.

You are not a villain yet.

You realize there won’t be a response as the quiet drags. So, out of words and tired, you sigh and flop onto your back. The soft brush of the green grass molds beneath your body as you relax, your exhausted gaze finding the deep blue hue of the sky above.

There's not many clouds out today.

You hear Toga’s steps above where your head rests as she follows suit to lie down nearby, a calm sigh leaving her lips in the process.

Curiously, you turn your head to the side and take in her relaxed features — her golden eyes closed and cheeks dusted pink as she basks in the sun.

“Just you wait, little bird,” she coos, catching your attention with a smile spread across her lips.

“Hm?”

“You’ll be free to do whatever you want, you know?” She starts with a yawn and you wonder if she’ll end up napping out here, “Tomura will make sure of that.”

Your eyes wander back to the sky.

She speaks as if she believes it with her whole heart, and expects you to believe too.

Your eyes catch an airplane cutting through the infinite blue now, leaving its own trail of clouds behind and you watch it fly with placid interest.

Free, huh…

————————

He shouldn’t care.

He shouldn’t care and he doesn't care so why was this entire ordeal making his skin itch?

Tomura paces the space of his messy room as the prickly scratching habit makes itself known once more.

He can’t keep doing this. He can’t keep losing his temper around you.

Had recent events taught him nothing? He was supposed to be in charge, damn it.

What would sensei say?

Tomura scoffs at himself. It would probably be something along the lines of, “a mission’s success is more important than the losses taken,” and lucky for Tomura, there were no losses.

But there could have been.

Frustrated, Tomura crashes into his computer chair in a heap as he brings the machine to life.

He’s quick to pull up a search tab and make sure the various seeds placed for his future endeavors remain planted.

There is a goal to accomplish, a bigger picture and he can’t spend more time than necessary on something as simple as unmanaged feelings.

No, Tomura needed to grow. Sensei tried to make him aware of that.

Tomura closes one tab and opens another, typing your name into the search bar and taking note of the results.

Your articles are dwindling.

Good.

The sooner that false story leaves the eye of the public, the easier it will be for you to move on.

The sooner you move on, the sooner you’ll be able to reach your full potential.

The sooner you can do that… the sooner Tomura can stop wasting his precious time on you and your striking familiarity.

It's beginning to drive him mad.

Tomura is a leader, but he has no time to play therapist to those with troubled pasts. If that were the case he would have a private venting session with all of his League members.

He wants everyone to flourish and stand on their own. The operation just works better that way.

But…

That’s easier said than done.

Tomura leans back in his desk chair and takes a breath.

Dabi finished the job as intended, which means there's no one for him to take this rising frustration out on, and he’s become too high profile for his usual walks.

The roof was a compromise of sorts. Somewhere he could get fresh air without putting himself at obvious risk, but now—

Damn it, his thoughts cycle back — they always seem to cycle back — to the mystery that you are.

Tomura taps a finger on the desk as his thoughts run rampant.

No, he can’t let himself be blinded by curiosity. Especially not if it's going to interfere with his temper. He has to stay focused.

This isn't only about him now.

There’s a bigger picture to be revealed.

He has to take down All Might.

He has to focus.

Tomura closes the remaining tabs on his computer and shuts the system down.

The last of the lingering light in his room comes from his desk lap and it shines down on a lone scrap of paper resting on his desk.

It’s a polaroid.

One of a blond boy, locked in chains and muzzled like an animal.

The photo catches his eye and Tomura feels the puzzle pieces of the world snap back into place.

His rampant thoughts cease.

Yes, it’s best for everyone to find their place here, to flourish and stand on their own.

The mission before was just a precursor for what he had planned, and with a few more preparations the League could make their next move.

His sparse brows lift in amusement as he remembers how close his next goal is to fruition.

This was it.

With careful fingers he picks up the photo, a wicked smile dancing onto his features as his mind regains its much needed clarity.

In the League anyone could become what they want to be, and Tomura would be the one to ensure that.

————————

Everything feels humid.

It feels oppressive and stuffy and you can’t breathe.

Your lips purse as you try to break free of the spell that bound you. There’s no way to know when or how, but you were trapped.

Your eyes are open, but you can’t see.

The noises you try to make from your mouth don’t come out, sending you further into a panic. Your limbs try to hit at anything, but feel submerged in jello. There was no way out of this and you couldn’t shake the sinking feeling that if you didn’t do something soon you’d surely suffocate.

The sounds of muffled laughs and deep voices plague your ears as the unwanted feel of feather light touches dance along your skin.

Those touches soon turn harsh — hungry and biting for more of you than you could ever hope to give.

Your head starts to spin with the overload of feelings, your mind racing as you continue to fight against this assault.

You wake with a scream.

Out of breath and panting, you grip your cotton shirt, looking around your dark room for any signs of intruders.

There's no one there with you. The area is still and silent, the only noise to keep you company is the loud ringing in your ears as you try to make sense of what you know realize was a nightmare.

It’s the dead of night according to the clock on your nightstand.

Reaching over, you turn on the lamp, it’s dull light doing little to illuminate the space. You make due with it for now, though — thankful as it chases away the rest of the fog from your mind.

You feel shaken and outside yourself as your eyes dart around the room, your mind wanting to ensure that you are alone to bear the burden of bad dreams.

You are, and it was just a dream.

This mantra plays on repeat in your mind as you bury yourself beneath the blankets and try to go back to sleep.

But it’s no use.

Every time you close your eyes that sickening feeling claws its way back into your mind, haunting you like a lingering ghost.

The more you try to close your eyes and forget, the more unsettled you feel.

After countless minutes of tossing and turning bring you no comfort, you give up altogether and sit up, facing the night head on.

You can’t go back to sleep like this.

Any other night you would take this as an opportunity to find peace on the roof.

Your hands clench the plush of your blanket, pushing those thoughts away. You haven't been to the roof since that night, and maybe it was better that way.

Staying out of Shigaraki’s way feels more comfortable and making yourself small feels familiar.

So, rubbing the fast fading sleep from your eyes, you examine the contents of your room, scanning over the growing number of books on your bookshelf to the papers tossed haphazardly across your desk.

You pause.

There, sitting atop the desk, is the black gaming system Shigaraki gave you.

It hadn’t moved an inch since he gifted it to you that night.

But it wasn’t from lack of interest.

Ever since your conversation with Shigaraki on the roof, the training you had been doing with Toga had tripled to the point where your body ached from the extensive exercise.

You knew it had been Shigaraki’s doing, but your body was too exhausted to find him and complain about it afterwards.

Your body was too tired for anything afterwards, even disruptive dreams were rare on those nights. The only thing on your mind had been the ache of your muscles and the warm bath that would follow your rigorous routine.

You hadn’t dreamt at all.

The relief of retreating to your welcoming bed was too strong.

But now that’s changed.

Toga has left for a mission and you’ve found yourself with more free time on your hands than you would like to admit.

So, as phantom hands and lingering leers cling to your mind, you stand on shaky legs and reach your desk.

It’s cold, you note as your fingers brush over the scratched device, picking it up and searching for the power button. Some part of you doubted it held a charge after how long it's been sitting, but the bright white light of the screen startles you as it turns on, its cheerful chime loud in the silence of your bedroom.

There’s already a game inside.

A silly humanoid cat creature with a blue cap pops up on screen and you take a seat back on your bed.

It’s a colorful sidescroller that's not too difficult to get the hang of.

Getting lost in the game feels easy as you lie back and continue to mash buttons and beat the levels.

It’s… cute.

And distracting.

So distracting that you don’t even realize you’d fallen asleep until your eyes flutter open the next morning.

Days go by and the game has captured your attention more and more.

Toga is still away, and with her absence comes a lull in your tasks. You haven't completely put off training, but the break feels nice. Being strictly a healer comes naturally to you, and beyond that there isn’t much else for you to do.

The bar upstairs has been a more welcoming area. With its more lively crowd, you have a little more fun being around others instead of your secluded bedroom.

Shigaraki is in his usual place, slouching on a stool at the far end of the bar, while Kurogiri slides you another glass of the fizzy clear soda you swear you’re not becoming addicted to.

And you’ve brought the console with you.

Level after level, you soak in its bright colors, the semi-difficult puzzles and all around fun of the game.

Until you reach level nineteen.

You’ve been at it for hours, but the result is the same. Run, jump, kick and fall. Your character falls deep into the digital abyss and you’re stuck looking on as he respawns and bounces idly in place.

“God damn it.” You curse under your breath as your character dies for the fifth time in a row. You’re left to huff a sigh as you place the system down on the counter and glare at the empty glass of soda before you.

The game is fun, until it’s not.

You halfheartedly wonder if all games were this way as Kurogiri notices your frustrations and quietly refills your glass.

With a quick nod of thanks to the apparition you take the glass, downing the drink and sending your frustrations with it as you come back to reality.

A quick scan around the bar shows you that there aren’t many people in today, but that’s okay. Sometimes it's nice to just not be alone. And when there’s one too many members present things get… loud.

Your gaze lands back on the game, wearily debating if you should ask your leader for help with it — he gave you the damned thing after all — but you pause.

Shigaraki is quiet as he flips through a newspaper, completely unbothered by commotion beyond his readings.

You haven’t spoken since that night, you’ve barely even seen him.

Your brows furrow as those familiar anxieties begin to rear its ugly head yet again.

At home you would know if your father had a problem with you. The silent treatment only lasted so long before he would—

No.

You weren’t home anymore. There was nothing coming to get you or hurt you. You take a breath and turn towards your leader.

“Hey, Shigaraki,” it’s hard to be certain from the hand covering his face, but you believe he hears you, “Could you, maybe, help me out with this level? I can’t get past it.”

You try to stop the small tremble as you hold the small console out to him, half expecting him to completely ignore you like he ignores the racket around him.

But he doesn’t.

Shigaraki turns his head, eyeing the game and then looking back at you.

He reaches out, taking the system. His gentle touch surprises you as his careful fingers grip the system with a care only years of mandatory practice could cultivate. Those dangerous hands were free from the confids of his partial gloves, and you suspect that he prefers it that way.

They’re weapons and with his lifestyle it’s best to be ready for anything.

(You will yourself not to think of the implications your rooftop nights have — the nights where he is gloved and unguarded.)

It takes him no time to sink into the game, a soft tsk as he seems to find exactly where you went wrong.

“Here,” he hands it back to you, mindful not to brush his fingers against yours. “There was a platform above the hole. You had to jump at a certain angle to see it.”

The character on the screen cheers as he completes the level, but you remain stuck in place, unsure what to say besides a muttered thank you.

Somewhere inside you almost wish you had more to say.

Nightfall comes and the other members begin to clear out, but Shigaraki remains.

You debate retiring to your chambers as well, silently dreading the gray walls that await you.

The faint sounds of glass clinking meets your ears as Kurogiri puts cups away, fully absorbed in his task of shutting down the bar.

You move to stand, knowing you were better off heading to your room than the roof, better off heading to bed where your nightmares will undoubtedly chase you awake once more.

But…

No, you shake the thoughts from your mind.

You have the game. It shouldn't be a problem to play until you fall asleep.

The chill is the first thing to greet you as you open the door to your bedroom.

The silence is next.

A sigh leaves you as you make your way over to the bed, tossing the game onto your bedside table and allowing yourself to fall into the sheets.

No matter how much you try and fight the feelings they just won't go away.

You can’t deny it.

You miss the roof.

And even more, you miss gazing out at the city and you miss not being alone.

Silent nights with Shigaraki were… nice. Peaceful. The most peace you had gotten in a long time.

It takes a moment but you sit up, knowing sleep wouldn’t find you anytime soon.

Even if your leader wasn’t on the roof tonight, you could at least get some fresh air. It’s an easy option, you convince yourself as you grab the extra blanket Kurogiri gave you during your first week here.

You push down the worry clouding your mind and leave the desolate place you call your bedroom.

There’s an almost giddy feeling rising within your chest as you make it to the secluded space. A feeling that makes you feel like you’ve discovered a grand secret and it was yours and yours alone to keep.

For some reason you didn’t think Shigaraki would be there. You’d convinced yourself that maybe he felt the same way you did, too preoccupied with the sour note the night had been left off on and fully crossed out the roof as his hiding place.

But, no.

He’s sat in his usual spot, sipping his usual energy drink and looking out at the night sky,

Your steps are light as you slowly make your way over, gentle as if he would make a dash for the exit and leave at any slight sound.

But he doesn’t.

No, Shigaraki sits there, hand no longer obscuring his face. He’s so still you almost think he hasn’t even noticed you.

A naive thought.

Your leader seems more aware of his surroundings than the average villain.

Your steps stop just before you reach him, but his gaze remains fixed on the city lights.

“I brought you something,” your voice is soft, uncertain as you watch him take another sip of his drink. You knew the silence would last forever if you hadn’t broken it first. And it's not a lie, technically. It can be for the both of you.

Finally, he turns to you, eyeing the blanket in your hands.

“I thought it would be nice to have something to sit on.” You fight to keep your words from catching in your throat, but it’s hard. His piercing red gaze does nothing to soothe you and his lack of words makes your anxieties heighten.

“Are you stuck on another level?” His voice breaks through the tension and your shoulders begin to relax.

If he seems bothered by your presence he doesn't show it.

“No, I—” you pause, debating your next words — things feel so fragile right now. “I just wanted to come out here again.”

The wind whistles, carrying the strain of your worries on its back as you watch your leader.

“It’s been a while.” You continue, watching Shigaraki’s ashen hair blow in the soft wind.

“You’re free to do what you want, you know,” he says between another sip. “You don’t need permission.”

“Right.” You mumble, eyes cast down at the cemented roof he sits on, “stand up for a second.”

Shigaraki watches you, but does as he’s told, giving you an opportunity to spread the blanket below and it's an honest improvement to the space.

The quiet that spreads between you is more familiar. More comforting.

It lets you fall into the ambiance of slow cars and the calm city, the open air of the outside being just what you need to calm your mind and relax. You feel more confident in the unfiltered space, away from those gray, claustrophobic four walls of your bedroom.

“I wouldn’t mind some tips, if you had any,” you start, stopping that train of thought and pulling out the gaming system. The chime of the start screen fills the air and you bite back a smile.

He watches, the residual light from the screen shining against his face, making those ruby eyes shine brighter. “I might.”

You take the initiative and scoot closer to him, feeling a childish elation at the idea of learning something new about your borrowed game.

Shigaraki doesn’t stop you, but he makes no attempt to move closer, only reaching for the device and starting a new level.

“Here,” he tilts the screen, allowing you a better view as his character runs towards a wall. The faint smell of fresh linen meets your nose, it's soft against his well worn black hoodie. You try to ignore it, knowing your mind would wander but the proximity forces you to take note.

You never thought Shigaraki would smell bad, per se, but you didn’t think it would be noticeably nice.

Cozy, even.

“And if you do that right…” he continues, pulling your attention back to the tutorial at hand, “you should get… this.”

A box appears above the character and he jumps, claiming three extra lives and you would be impressed if you weren’t trying too hard not to show how distracted you were.

“O-oh! That’s cool.” Your hand finds the hem of your shirt, nervously picking at the seams as you watch on. Shigaraki wasn’t quite done showing you the tricks of the game and you wordlessly thank the stars for the distraction.

This time, he leans over giving you a much better view of the game as his fingers press the controller buttons rapidly. “If you time it just right you can do…” his words trail off as the character makes contact with an enemy, making it disappear while gaining a power up. “This.”

The character jumps, its new and boosted form reaches higher than he could have without and meets the finish line. Shigaraki wins.

“Whoa.” You breathe and in any other case you would try to say more, show more enthusiasm, but you can’t ignore the soft scent of oatmeal and cinnamon. Shigaraki smells… warm.

“It gets easier when you know where to look.” He finishes the demonstration and there's no chance you’ll be able to replicate his tutorials.

So you nod, hoping that the night sky will hide the growing flush in your cheeks.

Childish. Stupid.

You try to shake off the sprouting feelings.

It’s probably just your mind playing tricks on you, anyway. An act of kindness that sends your brain haywire.

“I didn’t think games like this were your type.” The words fall from your lips before you realize.

Shigaraki raises a sparse brow, more curious than irritated. “What games do you think are my type?”

“Hm,” you pause, stopping to really ponder what may or may not be Shigaraki’s type, “I’m not sure. To be honest, I didn’t think I would like this game as much as I do, to be honest.”

“You’ve never played anything like this?”

Your smile is somber as it bites the bitter taste of your past. “No, my father had me on a pretty tight leash. I didn’t play much of anything. There was one game I really wanted though. Um, I think it was pocket monsters?”

“You’ve never played pocket monsters?” Shigaraki’s tone is usually even, but even he can’t hide the genuine surprise.

You spit a laugh. “No, he saw that they battled or whatever and shut any dream of that down. Its,” your voice fades as you face the reality of your past, “Kind of depressing, really.”

Shigaraki stays quiet, watching the way you sigh. You wonder if he were looking through you, peering right into your mind and uncovering all of your dirty, disgusting past.

If he were able to see all of that — to see all of you — what would he say?

After a moment he turns away, seemingly having gotten his fill of your damaged disposition and bringing his attention back to the sky above.

“You would probably be a water type trainer.” He says suddenly, catching your attention.

“Hm? What makes you say that.”

He shrugs, a lazy half lift of his shoulders. “It just fits you.”

“Yeah?” Your eyes are caught on his fingers, the way those hazardous hands grip the console, careful not to hold it in a way that would harm it. Forever cautious that those hands would make it disintegrate into a pale dust and then nothingness, doomed to ashes as it would blow away.

You can’t imagine how stressful a quirk like that would have been to grow up with.

“You would be a ghost type trainer.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm,” You nod, eyes cutting away from his hands as you try to stomp down the sheepish feelings rising in your chest. “It’s in your name.”

Mourning.

The words go unspoken, hanging in the air between you. It hangs heavy and you want to continue, need to continue.

You think of your leader and his growing gang of misfits, you think of the way there were no questions asked when taking you in and his previous words of encouragement.

Tomura Shigaraki may be a dangerous villain, but he’s shown you more consideration than the person who was supposed to raise you.

“You seem like the type… to see the beauty in abandoned things.” You fight through the nerves and speak your mind, unwilling to back down with how far you've gone. “Things that may have been forgotten, or lost…”

Himiko’s words echo in your mind, then Dabi and his hardened expression.

“... Things without a home.”

The silence stretches for a long time, you almost worry that you’ve said something wrong, but you can't help but feel a little happy to have gotten that out of your mind.

You pick up the conversation again.

“You know, talking about games with you, I,” your eyes meet the blanket below, your digits picking at the hem of it. “I feel like I've missed out on a lot.”

Countless nights of telling your friends you can’t meet them at the movies, can’t go with them to stay-away camp, can’t do anything.

The only thing you can do is wait and watch your life pass you by in a prison dressed up as a broken home.

“Do you ever feel this way?” The words slip out before you're able to catch them, the ache of connection too desperate to stay hidden inside.

You don’t know much about Shigaraki, but you know that his upbringing must have been unusual if he’s turned out this way. Yet he’s here, trying to fight against what he believes is injustice. There has to be something that drives him to keep standing.

The quiet stretches and you’re about ready to change the topic and pretend you hadn’t asked anything.

“Sometimes.”

Your head turns to him, surprised.

He gives his half shrug again. “But there’s no point in sitting in something that can’t change. The past is the past. Carve your own future.”

You bring your knees to your chest desperately trying to fight off the familiar burn of tears in your eyes. Once you would start, it would only be downhill from there.

“I just want to be normal.”

“Normal is subjective.”

“Yeah, well, tell that to society.” The words are bitter and they leave a sour taste on your tongue, knowing there is no way to live a life where you are just like anyone else.

To be someone who’s had the comfort and privilege of growing up in a healthy, stable life.

To live in a world where you could only read the articles about some home invasion in another city and gasp in disbelief that something like that could ever happen.

In this fantasy world, you would shake your head in disappointment, make some comment about society going downhill and show the story to a friend for validation. Then you would close the page and move on with your day, forever forgetting about travesty because situations like that don’t happen to normal people.

But that isn't how things work.

Not for you. Never for you.

“You should take that feeling and hold it close.”

Your brows furrow as you turn to him, your impending spiral screeching to a halt.

“Foster it and let it grow.” Shigaraki continues, handing his gaming system back to you with such careful hands. So, so delicate and gentle, unable to even risk a brush of your fingers. Somehow, this feels even closer than if he had touched you. “Why should they go on about their lives while you suffer?”

His voice is soft.

It's tender, as if you were fragile enough to break with words alone. Your heart thumps against the cage of your chest as you hold the game tight, bringing it close and allowing it to anchor you. This conversation feels familiar, like the one you shared in your first days here.

Shigaraki gives a slow half smile and those warm feelings inside of you grow, spreading to your cheeks and ears while you hang on to each word, “you deserve to show the world your feelings.”

You gasp and meet his eyes, entranced as he breathes a new light into you with those words.

You see the beauty in abandoned things.

It's true.

But you never thought he’d see it in you.

A familiar roll of thunder drags you form your stupor, eyes transfixed on the gleam in his eyes and budding feelings within.

“Sounds like it’ll rain soon.” His voice breaks through, and he’s already rising from his place on the blanket.

You nod a tad more enthusiastically than you should and hurry to gather the cover, flushing deeper as you notice he’s glued to his spot.

He’s waiting for you.

Your feet patter against the concrete of the roof as you nearly skip over to him, the smallest drops of rain meeting your cheeks. Your mind races as you gather two important things from tonight:

Tomura Shigaraki is an interesting guy.

And you are a curious cat.

#shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura x reader #tomura x reader #shigaraki x you #tomura shigaraki x reader #mha x reader #my works #tomura shigaraki x you

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