You can request drabbles, headcannons, or one-shot fics.
I write angst, smut, and fluff (yandere too)
I do write for female and male audiences (x female reader, x male reader) I also write gender-neutral fics
I am uncomfortable writing for mental illnesses/disability simply because I do not have the correct credentials of knowing the disability and am worried about feeding into stereotypes with my writing
Dick Grayson was six years old when he first started wondering about his soulmate.
At the time, his greatest concern was whether pirates were cooler than cowboys. A debate he took very seriously.
His mother, however, seemed far more interested in the scrape stretched across his knee.
"Stop picking at it."
"I'm not."
"Dick."
Mary Grayson sighed and gently caught his hand before he could peel away the corner of the bandage.
The injury wasn't actually his. That was the whole reason she was tending to it in the first place.
Somewhere out there, another child had tripped and fallen.
The scrape on their knee had appeared on his moments later, bright and stinging against skin that had never touched the ground.
Dick considered this one of the most fascinating things in the world.
A person he'd never met.
Someone who somehow belonged to him. Connected to him by something no one else could see.
"Maybe they were climbing a mountain."
His mother's lips twitched. "A mountain?"
"Or a castle."
"A castle is much more likely."
"I think so too." Dick nodded solemnly. A castle explained the scrape much better than simply falling over.
Castles had stone staircases and secret passageways. Castles had dragons and villains and daring escapes.
His soulmate was probably off on an adventure.
His mother finished securing the bandage before pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
"Your soulmate must be having quite the day."
The thought filled him with excitement.
For the rest of the afternoon, Dick imagined another child racing through hidden corridors, ducking beneath traps and escaping dragons by the skin of their teeth.
The possibility that they had simply tripped over their own feet never even crossed his mind.
←↓→↑
When he was seven, he spent two days complaining about a toothache.
The pain settled deep in his jaw, throbbing every time he tried to smile.
By the third day, it disappeared as suddenly as it had arrived.
His father explained that soulmate resonance sometimes worked that way.
That his soulmate had probably gone to the dentist.
Dick immediately sat upright. "What if they were scared?"
"I'm sure they were brave."
"What if nobody held their hand?"
John looked up from the costume he was repairing. "Dick."
"What?"
"They're not stranded on a deserted island."
"You don't know that."
His mother laughed so hard from the other side of the trailer that she nearly dropped her equipment.
Dick didn't see what was so funny.
His soulmate was out there somewhere.
They might be scared of dentists. Or hated needles.
The thoughts lingered with him long after the conversation ended.
Sometimes, late at night, Dick would stare at the ceiling and wonder if they ever thought about him too.
Whether they looked at the strange injuries that appeared on their skin and imagined a boy they'd never met.
He didn't know it then, but that question would follow him for years.
↑→↓←
Dick had developed a habit of asking questions nobody could answer.
What was their favourite colour?
Did they like animals?
Could they do cartwheels?
Did they live nearby?
Did they know about him?
Did they ever wonder the same things?
His parents always answered as though the questions mattered. With interest. As though his curiosity wasn't silly.
As though wondering about the person connected to him was the most natural thing in the world.
Maybe that was where it started.
Not the soulmate bond itself, the encouragement. The way nobody ever told him to stop asking. The quiet certainty with which his parents treated his soulmate's existence.
They never spoke about them as a possibility. They spoke about them as a certainty.
That somewhere in the world, there was a person who was completely his.
→←↓↑
At night, after the performances ended and the circus grounds settled into a comfortable hush, Mary often read to him before bed.
Dick's favourite stories weren't fairy tales.
They were stories about connected souls.
The old book lived beside the couch in their trailer, its spine cracked and softened with age. The pages had been turned so many times that the corners curled.
Inside were dosens of accounts collected from all over the world.
Stories about soulmates separated by oceans, soulmates born years apart, soulmates who searched for decades, or who stumbled into one another entirely by accident.
Dick never grew tired of hearing them.
He already knew most of the endings by heart. But that wasn't the point. The point was that every story promised the same thing.
No matter how long it took, how far apart they started, or how impossible it seemed, the soulmates always found each other.
Every single time.
The certainty of it settled somewhere deep inside him. A truth as unquestionable as gravity. As natural as the rising sun.
His soulmate was out there. And one day, they would be his.
By the time Mary finished reading, Dick would already be staring out the trailer window.
Wondering how they would meet. What they looked like. If they laughed loudly or quietly.
If they liked the circus.
Wondering if they were looking at the same stars scattered across the night sky. If they ever touched the marks that appeared on their skin and thought about him.
The thoughts comforted him.
No matter how large the world felt, where he went or how many cities the circus travelled through, there was always someone in it who belonged to him.
Someone he hadn't met yet.
A person he was already learning how to love.
↑→↓←
When he was eight, before the fall, he started keeping things.
Not intentionally at first.
A postcard from a city the circus had passed through. A photograph he liked. A joke that made him laugh. A story he thought someone else would enjoy.
Small things.
The kind of things most children forgot about by the following week.
Dick didn't.
Because whenever he found something special, he caught himself thinking the same thing.
I should tell my soulmate about this someday.
The thought came so naturally he never stopped to question it.
Why would he?
His soulmate was part of his future. Everyone said so.
Some days, he imagined finally meeting them and emptying years of collected memories into their hands.
Showing them every postcard.
Telling them every story.
Introducing them to every place he'd loved.
As though all the little pieces of his life were simply waiting for the right person to share them with.
As though he'd been saving a seat beside him all along.
Years later, after Gotham, after Robin, after everything that came afterward, Dick would still remember those moments.
The scrape on his knee.
The toothache.
The bedtime stories.
His parent's laughter.
The quiet certainty in their voices whenever they spoke about soulmates.
People often assumed his faith in destiny came from the bond itself.
They were wrong.
The bond only connected him to another person.
His parents were the ones who taught him to care. To wonder and to wait.
They were the ones who taught him that somewhere in the world there was a person meant for him.
Someone important who was worth searching for. Someone worth believing in.
Long before he knew anything about them at all.
He loved the idea of them first. Everything else came later.
Before he ever even had a reason to.
Most people loved talking about destiny.
Adults spoke about soulmates with the same certainty they reserved for death and taxes. Teachers smiled when the topic came up in class. Grandparents reminisced over holiday dinners. Entire television networks built reality shows around reunions.
It was impossible to escape.
Not that anyone seemed interested in trying.
Soulmates were proof that the universe cared. Proof that nobody was truly alone. That somewhere out there existed a person created specifically for you.
People loved that idea.
You hated it. Not the concept itself, just yours.
When you were younger, you'd thought soulmate injuries sounded romantic.
A sore wrist because they spent too long writing or a tiny burn from touching a hot pan.
The sort of stories people laughed about.
"My soulmate tripped over again."
"Mine wears his rings on too tight."
"I love when she bites her lip when she’s nervous."
Everyone always sounded so fond when they talked about it. As though every ache was a love letter. Like pain somehow became sweeter when it belonged to someone else.
Bonds manifested differently depending on the pair.
Some people shared emotions, some met each other in dreams. A small percentage could hear each other's thoughts during moments of intense stress. The most common bond, however, was physical resonance.
If your soulmate got hurt, so did you.
Not the injury itself, the consequences. A broken bone wouldn't suddenly appear in your arm, but the pain would. The ache, tenderness, and limitations.
If they twisted an ankle, you'd spend the next few weeks limping around on a perfectly healthy leg.
If they got a migraine, you got one too.
Most people only experienced minor inconveniences.
Nothing life-altering. Nothing that interfered with daily life. At least, not often.
You were not most people.
You stopped finding it romantic at twelve.
Because scraped knees and accidental burns were one thing. Waking up unable to feel your left arm was another.
The pain hit without warning. One second you were asleep, the next you were on your bedroom floor screaming.
Your parents rushed you to the hospital.
The doctors found nothing wrong.
No fracture. No dislocation. No nerve damage. Physically, your arm was perfectly healthy.
Unfortunately, your soulmate's wasn't. Apparently they'd shattered theirs.
Badly.
The pain lingered for nearly two months.
Everyone acted excited.
Your soulmate survived.
Isn't that wonderful?
You received congratulations.
Congratulations.
As though being unable to lift a backpack was somehow a milestone worth celebrating.
The years that followed only got worse.
Your soulmate got shot.
They got stabbed.
Sometimes they manage both within the same week.
You developed a concerning familiarity with painkillers. The nurses at your local urgent care knew you by name. One doctor suggested keeping a journal to track symptoms.
You filled three notebooks.
Looking back through them felt less like medical records and more like a crime scene timeline.
Gunshot wounds. Broken knuckles. Dislocated shoulder. Concussion. Concussion. Another concussion.
You had spent years trying to imagine what kind of person accumulated this many injuries.
At first you'd pictured an athlete.
Then a firefighter.
Maybe a soldier.
Eventually, you'd settled on a simpler explanation.
Your soulmate was an idiot.
At the time, it felt like the only reasonable explanation.
Years later, you would discover that the truth was significantly worse.
But for now, all you knew was that somewhere out there existed a complete stranger whose self-preservation instincts had apparently been beaten to death in an alley.
And for reasons you would never understand, the universe had decided that person belonged to you.
←↓→↑
The first time you missed a school excursion because your soulmate had managed to break something important, everyone treated it like an unfortunate coincidence.
The second time, they called it bad luck.
By the third, people had started joking that your soulmate had a personal grudge against your social life.
You laughed along because it was easier than admitting how much it bothered you.
Most people, hell, everyone romanticised soulmates.
Talked about fate and destiny and finding the missing piece of yourself.
Most soul pairs experienced a handful of major injuries throughout their lives.
Yours seemed determined to collect them.
You remembered when your soulmate somehow got stabbed before your final exams. The pain had hit so suddenly you nearly collapsed in the middle of class.
Your friends had thought you were having some kind of medical emergency.
In hindsight, they weren't entirely wrong.
You sat the exam anyway.
You failed it.
The examiner wasn't interested in hearing that somebody else's knife wound had ruined your concentration.
Life kept moving regardless.
Teachers didn't extend deadlines because your soulmate had been hospitalised.
Employers didn't care that you were limping because someone you'd never met had twisted their ankle chasing God-knows-what.
The world expected you to adapt,
So you did.
You learned how to function through headaches. How to smile through pain. How to swallow frustration before it became bitterness.
You learned exactly how many over-the-counter painkillers you could safely take.
You learned how to fake being fine.
But most importantly, you learned how to stop hoping.
Because every time you wondered if maybe things would get easier, your soulmate proved you wrong.
At first you'd worried about them.
What kind of life were they living? Were they sick? Were they trapped in dangerous circumstances? Did they need help?
That concern lasted until the fourth broken bone.
Then the sixth.
Then the first gunshot wound.
The shot had been a turning point. Because normal people did not get shot. Normal people definitely didn't get shot more than once.
You remembered lying awake in bed afterward, staring at the ceiling while pain radiated through your shoulder.
What the hell is wrong with this person?
The question never really went away.
As the years passed the injuries kept coming. Sometimes there would be weeks of peace.
Then suddenly your soulmate would decide to throw themselves off a building.
Or through a window.
Or into traffic.
At least that's what it felt like.
You didn't know who they were. Didn't know their name. Didn't know where they lived. But you knew they had absolutely no regard for their own safety. No fucking regard for your safety either.
And eventually, concern became irritation. Irritation became anger. Anger became resentment.
Not because of the pain. Not even because of the injuries. Because of what they stole from you.
Your freedom. Choices. The ability to plan a normal life. Every decision came with a silent question.
What if my soulmate gets hurt that day?
You missed birthdays. Missed opportunities. Cancelled plans. Skipped events.
Not because you wanted to.
Because experience had taught you that sooner or later another injury would arrive.
Meanwhile your soulmate remained a stranger. A ghost. A burden you carried without ever being asked if you wanted to.
It always did.
It made you angry.
Not the broken bones. Not the scars. Not even the countless nights spent curled around pain that didn't belong to you.
The fact that someone you'd never met had become one of the most important influences on your life.
Without your permission, your consent, and without ever even saying sorry.
Somewhere out there, your soulmate was choosing to live their life this way.
And every time they did, you paid the price.
You wondered if they ever thought about you. If they ever felt guilty.
If they even cared.
Or if, wherever they were, they simply got back up after every injury and ran headfirst into the next disaster.
Unaware that somewhere across the country, someone was beginning to hate them.
Dick found the post three weeks later.
If anyone asked, it had been an accident. A coincidence.
The sort of thing that happened when someone spent too much time scrolling through soulmate forums at two in the morning.
Nobody asked. That was probably for the best. Dick knew himself well enough to recognise a lie when he told one.
There had never been anything accidental about the way he searched for traces of his soulmate.
The post appeared halfway down a discussion thread titled:
What's the worst injury you've ever shared with your soulmate?
Most of the replies were harmless.
Broken wrists.
Appendectomies.
A woman whose soulmate had somehow fractured their nose trying to impress someone with a skateboard.
Dick smiled despite himself.
Then he kept scrolling.
The smile disappeared.
←↑→↓
I've had more concussions than some professional athletes.
At this point, I'm convinced my soulmate has a death wish.
If I ever meet them, my first question is going to be what the hell is wrong with them.
The post went into concerning details about their injuries dating from over ten years.
Dick stared at the screen.
Read the post again.
Then a third time.
The amusement slowly drained from his face.
Because the timeline matched. Not approximately. Not close enough to be concerning. Exactly.
The gun wounds, the stabbings, concussions, fractures. The endless collection of injuries that had become so commonplace to him he rarely thought about them anymore.
His stomach twisted.
For a long moment, he simply sat there. Laptop balanced on his knees. Apartment fading into the background.
The words blurred.
Not because he couldn't read them. Because he couldn't stop.
Every sentence felt heavier than the last. Not the complaints.
Those made sense.
God, they made sense.
What hurt was everything beneath them.
The frustration. The years of accumulated resentment packed into a handful of sentences.
Not anger born from a single bad day. The kind that settled in after years of disappointment.
His chest tightened.
He scrolled further.
The account wasn't anonymous. There was a username. Years of history.
Dick clicked on it before he could talk himself out of it.
The oldest post was five years old.
The next mentioned another concussion.
A missed birthday.
A cancelled trip.
A broken rib.
An emergency room visit.
Each entry felt like another weight settling onto his shoulders.
Dick had spent years accepting pain as part of his life.
Bruises, bones and cuts all healed.
It had never occurred to him that somebody else had been dragged through it alongside him.
A stranger.
Someone who had never agreed to any of it.
Someone who had spent years waking up with injuries they couldn't explain.
Dick closed the laptop.
Immediately opened it again.
His jaw tightened. He rubbed a hand over his face.
For twenty years, he'd wondered about his soulmate. Wondered who they were. What they were like. Whether they ever thought about him the way he’d always thought about them.
A quiet curiosity that surfaced in the spaces between missions and late-night patrols.
He'd imagined meeting them someday.
Not because soulmates guaranteed a happy ending. Life had taught him better than that.
But because they'd always been there.
Every broken bone. Every near miss. Every moment he'd walked away from something that should have killed him.
They'd felt it too.
Somewhere.
Somehow.
The idea of them had become a constant. A second shadow stretching alongside his own.
And now, for the first time, he was seeing things from the other side.
The reality of it. The cost.
His throat felt tight.
tBecausehey weren't waiting for him.
They weren't searching.
If anything, they sounded exhausted by the idea of him.
And for the first time, Dick found himself wondering whether meeting him would be the last thing they wanted.
The thought hurt far more than it should have.
Dick had managed to stay away from the profile for three days.
He told himself it was respect.
Privacy.
Common decency.
They had spent years dealing with consequences they never asked for, the least he could do was leave them alone.
Three days lasted longer than he expected.
Not nearly as long as he'd hoped.
On the fourth night, he opened the page again.
Just for a minute.
Just to look.
That was the excuse, anyway.
One minute became an hour. Then two. Then the rest of the night.
He read everything.
Posts. Comments. Replies buried in forgotten threads.
Tiny fragments of a life scattered across years of internet history.
Favorite movies, music recommendations, complaints about work.
A rant about a terrible landlord. An argument over whether pineapple belonged on pizza.
Meaningless details.
Except they weren't meaningless. Not to him.
Every new discovery felt strangely precious. Like hearing a voice through a wall after years of silence.
For the first time, his soulmate wasn't an abstract possibility.
They were becoming real.
And Dick found himself wanting more.
What did their laugh sound like? What expression did they make when they were annoyed? Did they drink coffee in the morning? Did they still sleep curled up on the same side of the bed they'd mentioned three years ago?
The questions multiplied faster than he could answer them.
By sunrise, he knew more about them than he'd ever thought possible.
By sunrise, he also knew that it wasn't enough.
↑→↓←
The more Dick learned, the more impossible it became to ignore the distance between you.
You were real.
A real person living somewhere beyond his reach.
A real person carrying scars that belonged to both of them.
And once he knew that, how was he supposed to walk away? How was he supposed to forget? Keep waiting?
Dick spent years helping strangers.
Pulling people out of collapsing buildings. Talking frightened kids off ledges. Running toward people who needed help. Doing nothing had never been one of his strengths.
The realisation should have worried him.
Instead, it felt reasonable. Natural.
Almost inevitable.
By the end of the week, he found himself revisiting old comments. Looking closer.
A mention of weather. A complaint about public transit. A local restaurant.
Tiny details.
Nothing significant on their own, but what became patterns when placed together.
The detective in him noticed before the rest of him did.
A city narrowed to a suburb. A suburb narrowed to three possibilities. Three possibilities narrowed to one.
Dick stared at the screen. His pulse quickened.
A line had been crossed somewhere.
He wasn't entirely sure when.
Only that he should probably stop.
Instead, he opened another tab. Then another.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard. Long enough for hesitation to appear. Not long enough for it to matter.
Because you were out there, and you were hurting.
The first search took less than ten seconds.
The second took even less.
And when the first genuine piece of information appeared on his screen, Dick felt his heartbeat stumble.
For the first time in twenty years, his soulmate wasn't a dream.
You were becoming a person.
And Dick Grayson had never been very good at letting go of the people he loved.
The next morning began the same way most mornings did.
Pain.
You woke before your alarm, blinking groggily at the ceiling while a dull ache settled somewhere between your shoulder blades. Not terrible. Not even particularly surprising. Just another reminder that your soulmate was still out there making questionable decisions.
At least nothing felt broken.
That was practically a victory.
You lay there for another minute before forcing yourself upright. The soreness protested immediately, but years of experience had taught you how to judge the difference between annoying and hospital-worthy.
This fell firmly into the first category. Which meant work.
Lucky you.
By the time you arrived at the coffee shop, Gotham was already awake.
Rush hour traffic crawled through the streets outside. The sidewalks overflowed with exhausted office workers, students, tourists and people who looked like they hadn’t slept in three days.
Which, in this city, narrowed nothing down.
The familiar smell of coffee beans wrapped around you the moment you stepped behind the counter.
Honestly, it was one of the few things you genuinely liked about your job.
The customers were a different story.
By eleven o’clock, you’d already been yelled at twice.
Once because a man believed waiting three minutes for coffee constituted a personal attack.
The second because somebody thought you controlled the weather.
“Rough morning?”
You glanced up, the question knocking you out of your haze.
Your coworker was already grinning.
You sighed. “When isn’t it?”
“Fair.”
The lunch rush arrived shortly after.
Orders piled up. Names blurred together. Your feet hurt. Someone dropped their drink. Another person complained because their coffee was too hot.
You resisted the urge to suggest that coffee was generally known for that.
Then the bell above the door chimed.
Normally, you wouldn't have looked up.
Lunch was a bloody nightmare. There were six drinks waiting to be made, three customers already staring holes into the back of your head, and somebody was arguing over oat milk. You had better things to do.
Yet somehow your eyes lifted anyway.
The man who stepped through the door looked like trouble. Not due to anything he was doing, but because nobody should have looked like that.
For a second, your brain simply failed to process him properly.
Dark hair. Blue eyes. Tall enough to stand out without seeming imposing. Broad shoulders hidden beneath an ordinary jacket that somehow wasn't ordinary anymore because he was wearing it.
The details registered one at a time.
Like your mind was struggling to decide where to look first.
It wasn't just that he was handsome. Handsome was too simple a word. Too ordinary.
Handsome was the guy on a billboard, the actor in a movie, the model in a magazine. This felt different. More annoying.
Like somebody had reached into your head, extracted every preference you'd ever had, and assembled a person around them.
You immediately disliked him for it.
Unfortunately, that didn't make him any less attractive.
His smile appeared as he spoke to the customer in front of him. It transformed his entire face. Softened it.
Made him look approachable in a way beautiful people rarely managed.
The kind of smile that made strangers smile back. The kind that suggested he remembered names. Held doors open. Helped old ladies carry groceries.
He looked like someone that got people into trouble because they assumed nobody that nice-looking could possibly be dangerous.
You tore your eyes away.
Absolutely not.
You were not doing this today.
He was just a customer. A stupidly attractive customer. Nothing more.
Several minutes later, he stepped up to the register.
Up close was a mistake. You realised that immediately.
Most attractive people benefited from distance.
A few feet between you and them gave reality time to point out imperfections.
The lighting changed. The angles shifted. Something human emerged.
Not him.
If anything, proximity made things worse.
His eyes were brighter than you'd thought. Not just blue, more like a deep ocean colour that caught light. The kind that made direct eye contact feel strangely unfair.
There was a faint scar near his eyebrow. Another disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.
Tiny imperfections that should have made him look less attractive.
Instead they only made him look real.
"Hi." His voice wrapped around the single syllable with effortless warmth.
He sounded so fucking pleased to be talking to you.
"What can I get for you?"
For a moment, he simply looked at you. Like he'd forgotten whatever he'd originally intended to say.
Then he smiled.
And suddenly it felt difficult to remember how to breathe.
"I'll take a large flat white."
Of course.
Of course the voice matched the face.
Why wouldn't it?
You entered the order before your brain could embarrass you.
The register beeped.
He handed over his card.
His fingers brushed yours for half a second.
It was nothing, really. Barely contact at all. Yet something strange tightened beneath your ribs.
Gone before you could identify it.
You frowned. Weird.
"Name?"
"Dick."
You blinked.
He looked entirely too pleased by your reaction.
"You serious?"
His eyes crinkled at the corners as his grin widened. The bastard somehow became even prettier. "I get that a lot."
A laugh escaped before you could stop it.
Hd let out a deep shaky breath, like he'd been hoping for it. Waiting for it.
As though making you laugh had accomplished something important. Like a strangers happiness mattered.
The look vanished so quickly you almost missed it.
For a brief, inexplicable moment, it felt less like meeting a stranger.
And more like being recognised.
The city belonged to him at night.
Not officially. Gotham belonged to no one. It clawed at anyone foolish enough to try and claim it.
But Dick knew its rhythms better than most.
He knew which rooftops held the best sightlines. Which alleyways concealed drug deals. Which fire escapes groaned beneath a person's weight. Which apartment windows stayed lit long after midnight because the people inside couldn't slep.
And he knew yours.
Perched on a neighboring rooftop, Dick lowered his binoculars slightly.
Your bedroom light had turned on twenty-three minutes before your alarm.
Again.
His jaw tightened.
The bond was never subtle.
He rubbed the back of his neck, the strain from yesterday's patrol still lingered. A bruised shoulder. A pulled muscle. Nothing serious.
Yet the thought of you waking up sore because of him left an uncomfortable weight in his chest.
You sat on the edge of your bed for several moments before standing. Slow and careful. Judging whether the pain was worth worrying about.
Dick recognised the routine.
You'd done it countless times.
The first time he'd seen it, he'd nearly broken a criminal's jaw.
It was then that he'd truly realised what years of sharing injuries with a vigilante must have been like.
You'd learned to evaluate pain before breakfast.
His fingers tightened around the binoculars.
You deserved answers.
You deserved him.
The thought arrived as naturally as breathing.
Dangerous. Wrong. Impossible to stop.
Dick watched you leave for work.
Then he followed.
He knew how surveillance worked. Knew exactly how easy it was to make someone feel watched.
So he stayed distant. A block behind, sometimes two.
Just another face in Gotham's endless crowd.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
Nightwing could disappear from sight whenever he wanted. Dick Grayson found excuses to linger near coffee shops.
By eleven, he was seated across the street with a newspaper he hadn't read once.
His attention remained fixed elsewhere.
On the way you tucked loose strands of hair behind your ear when concentrating. On the tiny crease that appeared between your eyebrows whenever customers irritated you. On the exhausted smile you gave coworkers despite clearly wanting to go home.
His chest ached.
He hated seeing you tired.
Hated seeing people take advantage of your kindness.
Hated that he couldn't simply walk inside and tell everyone to be careful with you.
Because you were important.
Because you mattered.
Because.. No.
Dick shut the thought down before it could finish.
This wasn't about ownership.
It couldn't be.
The soulmate bond wasn't ownership. It was connection.
Destiny.
A promise written into both of them before either had been born.
At least that was what he told himself whenever the possessive thoughts became harder to ignore.
By lunchtime, the crowd had thickened.
Good.
That made entering easier. Less noticeable.
The bell above the café door chimed as he stepped inside.
Immediately, he saw you.
The sight struck him with embarrassing force.
Every single time.
He'd spent months watching.
Months learning your routines.
Listening to your laugh from across rooms.
And somehow the impact never lessened.
You stood behind the register looking exhausted. A little annoyed. Ethereal.
Dick looked away before anyone could notice he'd been staring.
The line moved forward.
One customer. Two. Three. His pulse accelerated.
Ridiculous.
He'd fought assassins without flinching. Faced alien invasions. Stood against enemies capable of leveling cities. Yet somehow speaking to you felt more intimidating than any of them.
Because this mattered. Because you mattered.
The customer ahead of him finally left. And then it was his turn.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Your eyes lifted to meet his. Everything else disappeared. The noise. The conversations. The espresso machines. All of the buzzing was gone, just for a second.
Just long enough for Dick to feel the strange, impossible certainty he'd been carrying since the first moment he'd seen you.
There you are.
His soulmate.
His.
"Hi." The word came out softer than intended.
Your gaze remained fixed on him. Trying very hard not to stare.
Dick nearly smiled.
You had no idea.
No idea how many nights he'd spent imagining this conversation.
How many times he'd rehearsed introducing himself.
How often he'd wondered whether the bond would feel different when you finally met.
Instead, you asked professionally, "What can I get for you?"
For one disastrous second, Dick forgot the answer. Forgot he'd ordered the same thing repeatedly for weeks specifically because it was easy to remember. How human conversation worked.
You looked even better up close.
God, your eyes. Your voice. The tiny signs of exhaustion. The familiar shape of someone he'd spent months studying from a distance. Real.
You were finally real.
"I'll take a large flat white."
Smooth.
Very smooth.
Dick internally cringed.
You entered the order.
The register beeped.
He handed over his card.
Your fingers brushed his. The contact lasted less than a heartbeat. Lightning shot through him anyway.
The first touch.
The first real touch.
Dick forced himself not to react. Years of training saved him. Barely.
Then you asked the question he'd secretly been waiting for.
"Name?"
His mouth twitched. "Dick."
The blink you gave him was immediate.
Perfect.
Dick couldn't help smiling.
For the first time all day, genuine amusement broke through the tension knotting his chest.
"You serious?"
A laugh threatened to escape him.
God, he loved your voice already. Far too much.
"I get that a lot."
Then you laughed.
His breath caught.
Don't.
Don't do this.
Don't build a future out of a single laugh.
Yet he couldn't stop.
For a brief moment, your eyes met his again. Confusion flickered there. Recognition without understanding. A pull neither of you could explain.
And for the first time since entering the café, Dick wondered if you felt it too.
If you could physically feel that he was someone who looked at you and saw the center of his world.
You frowned slightly.
Dick’s smile was warm. Harmless.
The same smile that convinced criminals he was merciful and civilians he was safe.
"Thanks," he said.
Then he stepped aside to wait for his coffee.
And for the first time in months, waiting didn't feel difficult. Because now you knew he existed.
Dick returned three days later.
Then again the day after that.
Soon, the visits became a part of his routine so deeply ingrained that he no longer questioned it.
Patrol.
Sleep.
Reports.
Coffee.
You.
The order never changed.
He learned your schedule without meaning to. Or maybe he had meant to. Dick wasn't entirely sure where the line had disappeared.
At some point, knowing things about you had stopped feeling like gathering information and started feeling lke breathing.
He knew which coworker made you laugh.
Which customer always left you irritated.
Which days exhaustion sat heavier on your shoulders.
He knew the difference between your real smiles and the fake ones. The difference between a smile that reached your eyes and one offered out of politeness. The difference mattered.
Everything about you mattered.
Sometimes guilt still surfaced. Usually late at night. During the quiet moments after patrol, when Gotham finally stopped screaming for a few hours and left him alone with his thoughts.
That was when he remembered the forum posts.
The complaints.
The frustration.
The resentment.
Years of it.
You didn't want a soulmate. Not one who left you waking up sore after fights. Or one whose life seemed determined to get itself stabbed, shot, electrocuted, and thrown off rooftops.
The thought should have hurt.
Instead, Dick found himself staring at the ceiling and feeling strangely calm.
Because you didn't hate him.
You hated the idea of him.
The unknown. The stranger connected to your life.
You hated the inconvenience.
The pain. Uncertainty.
But him?
You didn't know him yet.
How could you hate someone you didn't know?
You didn't know about the nights he spent bleeding through cracked armor because civilians needed help. About the disasters he'd prevented. The people he'd saved. The promises he'd kept.
You didn't know how many times he'd nearly told you the truth.
How many times he'd stood outside your apartment building and wondered if tonight should be the night. How often he thought about you. How he worried.
You didn't know.
But you would.
Eventually.
Dick believed that with absolute certainty.
Because every day gave him something. A conversation. A smile. A joke.
Tiny, worthless things.
Things nobody else would notice.
By the second week, you knew his order.
By the third, you smiled when he walked through the door.
The first time it happened, the entire day felt brighter.
Ridiculously embarrassing of him, he knew that.
Yet the memory replayed in his head for hours.
The way your face lit up with recognition. How you'd greeted him before he even reached the counter.
Like you were happy to see him.
Like he'd become part of your day too.
A crack in the wall.
A tiny one. But cracks spread. Eventually walls collapse.
Dick was patient enough to wait. To let things unfold naturally.
Most of the time.
You still didn't know the truth.
Didn't know that he could identify your footsteps.
Could find your apartment window from almost anywhere in the neighborhood.
Didn't know he'd memorised the route you walked home.
The backup routes too.
The places where the streetlights didn't work. The alleys he disliked.
The intersections with the highest crime rates.
Important information. Necessary information.
Someone had to know those things. Someone had to keep you safe.
The city certainly wasn't going to.
Dick smiled to himself as he watched you lock the café doors one evening.
The sun had already disappeared. Streetlights painted gold across the pavement.
You looked tired. A little cold.
Still breathtaking.
Always so fucking ethereal.
His chest tightened with pure unfiltered need.
The overwhelming, consuming need to make sure nothing bad ever touched you again. To stand between you and every ugly thing Gotham could throw your way. To erase every danger before it reached you. To make the world safe enough that you'd never have to worry.
Hell, even the need to just push you down and capture your mouth in a kiss so intimate that you’d never want to let go.
The feeling had become stronger lately. Harder to ignore.
Before, you had been a concept. A hopeful possibility.
Now you were you.
You had a face. A laugh. A favorite drink. A life.
And every day made the thought of losing you more unbearable.
You disappeared around the corner.
Dick waited.
Five seconds. Ten. Then he rose from his seat. Following. Never too close. Never enough to be noticed. Just enough.
To intervene if something happened.
Making sure you got home safely.
Just enough to reassure the restless part of himself that always seemed to whisper what if?
What if someone followed you first?
What if someone hurt you?
What if someone took you away?
The thoughts were irrational. Dick knew they were.
Most people walked home every day without incident. But most people weren't you.
His jaw tightened.
That was the difference.
People talked about soulmates as though finding them was the end of the story. Like destiny did all the work.
As if fate guaranteed a happy ending.
Dick knew better.
Finding you wasn't the difficult part. Keeping you safe was. Protecting you was. Making sure the universe didn't decide to take back the greatest thing it had ever given him was.
His gaze remained fixed on your retreating figure. Unwavering.
The possessiveness no longer startled him.
That battle had ended weeks ago.
Every justification had been exhausted. Every argument dismantled.
The truth remained.
You were woven through his life. Through his thoughts. Through every future he could imagine.
His soulmate.
His person.
The one thing in this city he couldn't lose.
And somewhere along the way, the distinction between wanting you and needing you had quietly disappeared.
Dick watched you disappear into your apartment building. Only then did the tension leave his shoulders.
Safe.
The word settled warmly inside his chest.
Safe for another night.
His eyes lingered on the illuminated window that he knew belonged to you.
Terrifyingly devoted.
The universe had tied your lives together years ago.
And Dick had no plans on fighting fate.
And if the day ever came when something, or someone, tried to take you away from him, Gotham would learn exactly how dangerous Nightwing could be when the only thing he loved was threatened.
The first time you noticed something was wrong, it didn't feel important. Just strange.
"Wait."
Your friend blinked across the table. "What?"
"You got offered a job in Blüdhaven?"
"Yeah?"
You frowned. "When?"
"A few months ago."
A few months ago.
That couldn't be right.
You'd applied for that same position. Gone through three interviews. Spent weeks waiting for a response.
And then nothing.
No rejection.
No acceptance.
Nothing.
"I never heard back."
"Really?" they said. "That's weird."
It was weird. You'd checked your emails obsessively at the time.
Nothing.
Not even spam.
Eventually you'd assumed they'd gone with another candidate.
The conversation moved on.
You didn't.
↓→←↑
Then another thing happened. And another.
"..You never told me your landlord sold the building."
Dick looked up from where he was cooking. "What?"
"The building."
You leaned against the counter. "The landlord was apparently trying to sell it last year."
Something flashed across his face.
"Huh."
"He said he couldn't find a buyer."
Dick hummed. "Guess it wasn't the right time."
You frowned.
That wasn't what the landlord had said. The exact words had been: "Every buyer that showed interest pulled out at the last minute."
←→↓↑
Then there was your ex.
Not an ex, technically. Just someone you'd gone on a few dates with before Dick.
Someone who suddenly moved overseas without warning.
You only found out because you bumped into one of their friends.
"Yeah, he was furious."
"What?"
"They withdrew the visa investigation thing eventually, but by then he'd already accepted another position."
You blinked. "The what?"
The friend frowned. "You didn't know?"
No.
No, you definitely hadn't known.
↓←→↑
The pieces don't fit together immediately.
Not until one late night, sitting on Dick's couch.
When his phone lit up.
You hadn’t even meant to look, the flash just caught your attention. The “image of the day” was a photograph.
Your photograph.
Not a recent one. Not one you’d sent him.
A candid picture.
Taken months before you met.
You were standing outside of your apartment.
"..Dick."
His entire body goes still at your tone.
Like prey hearing a gun click.
Slowly, he looks up.
You hold out the phone.
The photograph staring back at both of you.
Your pulse begins to hammer. "When did you take this?"
Nothing.
For a second, Dick just looks at you.
Then at the photo.
Then back.
“…Before we met."
Your stomach drops. "What?"
"I took it before we met." His voice is calm. Too gentle. The same voice he uses when you're upset.
Like he was expecting to tell you that everything was okay.
"I found you before the café."
The room suddenly feels too small. "How long?"
"A while."
"Dick."
"A few months."
The answer hits like a truck.
Months.
Your laugh comes out strained. Unsteady. "You're joking."
"No." He doesn't look ashamed.
If he looked guilty, maybe this would make sense. Instead, he looks concerned.
Concerned about you.
Like you're the one having a difficult time.
"Dick, that's stalking."
His jaw tightens immediately. Hurt.
Like you've accused him of something unfair.
"I was making sure you were safe."
"No." You stand. "Dick-"
Your heart is racing now. Too fast. "What the fuck do you mean you were watching me?"
And for the first time since you've known him, Dick looks frustrated.
Not because he got caught. Because you're not understanding.
"You lived alone."
"Dick-"
"You walked home after dark."
"Listen to me!"
"There were three muggings within four blocks of your apartment." His voice rises. Emotion breaking through.
"And I knew what Gotham was like."
You freeze. He sounds desperate. Terrified.
"I couldn't just leave you there." His eyes are shining now. Raw.
Honest.
The truth finally spilling out.
"You think I wanted to scare you?" His voice cracks.
"I spent twenty years looking for you."
You take a step backward.
Dick notices immediately. The devastation that crosses his face is instantaneous.
He actually believes that he's innocent. That every line he crossed was reasonable.
Because every choice was made for the same reason.
Love.
And suddenly all those little coincidences don't feel like coincidences anymore.
The failed job.
The vanished opportunities.
The relationships that somehow never worked out.
The people who drifted away.
The life that kept shrinking until Dick occupied most of it.
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the frame. For a second, neither of uni moved.
You stood frozen in the hallway outside Dick's apartment, one hand still wrapped around the doorknob, your pulse pounding so hard it made your ears ring. The argument replayed itself in fragments. Accusations, denials, half-finished explanations. None of it felt real.
Behind the door, you heard Dick's footsteps. Part of you expected the handle to turn. Expected him to come after you. To stop you before you left. To grab your wrist, block the doorway, force the conversation to continue.
Instead, the footsteps stopped. You could picture him standing there on the other side of the door. Not chasing you. Not arguing. Just... standing there. Devastated.
If he'd gotten angry, maybe this would have been easier. If he'd yelled, if he'd lied, if he'd given you a reason to hate him, maybe the hollow ache opening inside your chest wouldn't have felt so unbearable.
Instead, he'd looked heartbroken. Like he was the victim. Like you were the one tearing something precious apart.
The walk home passed in a blur. You barely remembered unlocking your apartment. The second the door shut behind you, instinct took over. Deadbolt. Chain. The secondary lock.
You checked the windows twice. Then a third time.
Only when every entrance was secured did you allow yourself to breathe.
Your phone vibrated. The screen lit up. Dick.
You stared at the name. The call rang until it stopped. A second call appeared almost immediately. Then a third. The messages started after that.
Can we talk? Please answer. I just want to know you're okay.
For a dangerous second, your thumb hovered over the screen. Then you blocked him.
The number disappeared. You blocked his social media. His email. His Spotify. Every account you could think of. Anything connected to him. Anything that could give him a way back in.
When you finally finished, the apartment felt unnaturally quiet. You'd wanted silence.
Hadn't you?
So why did it feel like something was missing? Why did the absence feel so loud? Sleep never came. Every time you closed your eyes, another memory surfaced.
The internship opportunity that had vanished after months of promising interviews. The friendship that had somehow dissolved without explanation. The coworkers who'd grown distant. The photograph.
At four in the morning, you found yourself sitting on the couch wrapped in a blanket, staring into the darkness. The city lights beyond your apartment window painted faint reflections across the floor.
You couldn't stop thinking. Every memory felt poisoned now. Every coincidence felt deliberate. How much of your life had actually been yours?
How many choices had been choices at all?
You didn't notice yourself drifting into a shallow sleep until your alarm exploded beside your head. You jolted awake.
Immediately regretted it. Pain tore through your leg so violently that for a split second you genuinely thought something had exploded. A scream ripped from your throat. White-hot agony shot from your shin to your hip.
The room tilted. Your knee gave out. You hit the floor hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. The impact barely registered. All you could feel was the pain. It burned. Throbbed. Pulsed with every heartbeat.
You curled instinctively around your leg, gasping for air through clenched teeth. "What the fuck!" The words dissolved into another strangled cry.
Minutes passed. Or maybe longer.
Time became difficult to measure when every movement felt like driving a knife through bone.
Eventually you managed to drag yourself onto the couch. Sweat clung to your skin. Your stomach churned. The pain wasn't normal. It wasn't a cramp. Wasn't a pulled muscle. It felt broken. A fresh fracture.
Then a bitter laugh escaped your throat. Of fucking course.
You’d barely survived the worst night of your life and apparently your soulmate had decided now was the perfect time to break something. Again.
The bitter laugh that escaped you sounded almost hysterical. The empty apartment offered no response. Not that you expected one.
Your soulmate had never apologised before.
Several hours later, three sharp knocks echoed through the apartment. You froze.
The sound cut through the silence like a gunshot.
Another knock followed.
Then a familiar voice. Every muscle in your body locked. You remained motionless.
Maybe he'd leave.
Another knock sounded, softer this time. Almost hesitant. "…Please open the door." The concern in his voice made your stomach twist.
You hated that it still affected you. Hated that some part of you still wanted to believe him.
Then came the sentence that made your blood turn to ice. "You shouldn't be standing."
Everything stopped. Your breathing. Your thoughts. Your heartbeat. Slowly, very slowly, you turned toward the door. The apartment suddenly felt too small. Too quiet.
"Dick?" A pause.
Then: "I brought groceries." His voice sounded tired. Careful. Like he was approaching a wounded animal. "I also got pain medication."
You stared at the door. A sick feeling began unfurling in your stomach.
"Can you let me in?" No. No, no, no. Maybe coincidence. Maybe a lucky guess. Maybe-
"You need to stay off that leg." The world seemed to tilt. Your pulse thundered.
How? You hadn't told anyone. You hadn't gone to the hospital. You hadn't even texted anyone. There was no way he could know. Unless-
The thought hit so hard it felt physical. You forced yourself upright and limped toward the door. Each step sent another wave of pain through your leg.
By the time you reached it, your hands were shaking. You opened the door only a few inches.
Dick stood on the other side. One arm loaded with grocery bags. Takeout containers balanced in the other hand. A bottle of painkillers tucked beneath his elbow.
The second the door opened, his gaze dropped.Straight to your injured leg.
"There it is." The words slipped out before he could stop them. His expression tightened immediately. "You really shouldn't be putting weight on-"
"How do you know?"
Silence.The question landed between them like a blade. Dick froze.
You felt your heartbeat climbing higher and higher. "How do you know my leg is injured?"
For the first time since you'd met him, Dick looked caught off guard. Not angry. Not defensive. Caught.
Something that looked dangerously close to guilt crossed his face. And suddenly you understood enough to make your blood run cold.
The fracture hadn't happened to your soulmate. It had happened because of them.
Dick's expression changed immediately. Not much, most people probably wouldn't have noticed, but you'd spent months learning the subtle shifts in his face. The slight tightening around his eyes. The way his shoulders stiffened.
"Angel-"
You took another step backward on instinct. Pain shot through your injured leg. A sharp hiss escaped you before you could swallow it.
Dick flinched. The reaction was instantaneous. His hand jerked forward as though he meant to catch you before he stopped himself. The concern that flashed across his face was so immediate, so visceral, that it made your stomach turn.
For a horrible second, you couldn't stop thinking about it. The way he'd known. The way he'd looked directly at your leg. The medication tucked under his arm. The certainty in his voice when he'd told you not to stand.
Maybe he really had felt it. Maybe every pulse of pain that had left you curled up on the floor this morning had reached him too.
"You knew." The accusation hung between you.
Dick's jaw tightened. You stared at him. Stared at the man standing in your doorway carrying groceries and painkillers like some devoted boyfriend stopping by to take care of you after a bad day.
"You knew you were my soulmate." For a second, one stupid, desperate second, you hoped he'd deny it.
Maybe there was another explanation. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe this entire nightmare had gotten out of control.
Dick looked down. "...Yeah."
Every injury. Every unexplained ache. Every ruined plan because somebody you had never met couldn't stop getting themselves hurt.
You remembered sitting in emergency rooms as a teenager, trying to explain symptoms doctors couldn't understand. Missing school because you'd woken up unable to walk on an ankle you'd never injured. The migraines. The broken fingers. The bruises.
The soulmate bond had shaped your life whether you'd wanted it to or not. And all this time, it had been him.
Not a stranger. Not some faceless person halfway across the world. Dick. Your Dick.
The man who knew how you took your coffee. The man who remembered insignificant details about conversations you'd forgotten having.
The man you'd trusted enough to love.
Your hand found the wall beside you before you even realised you were reaching for support.
Dick took a step forward automatically.
You recoiled.
The look that crossed his face was immediate and devastating.
He stopped moving at once. "Angel..."
"How long?" Your voice sounded strange. Thin. Distant. "How long have you known?"
For the first time since arriving, Dick looked genuinely uncomfortable. Ashamed.
His gaze dropped briefly to the floor. "Eight months."
"Eight months?"
"Angel, I know how bad that sounds-"
"You knew for eight months." Every word came out sharper than the last. "You knew and you didn't tell me."
"I wanted to." The answer came immediately. Too quickly. Like he'd rehearsed this argument a hundred times. "I did. God, I wanted to tell you from the beginning."
"Then why didn't you?"
Dick looked away. That was answer enough.
Because he'd been watching. Learning. Getting closer. Fitting himself into your life before you knew what he was.
"You let me hate them."
Something flickered across his face. A strange sadness. Not guilt exactly. Something closer to regret. "I never wanted that."
"You let me spend years hating my soulmate." His expression tightened. "I know."
"You let me blame them for everything."
"I know." The quiet sincerity of the response only made you angrier. He wasn't denying it. Wasn't making excuses. He understood exactly what he'd done. And somehow, he still thought he'd been right.
The apartment fell silent.
Dick stood near the door surrounded by grocery bags and takeout containers. The sight would have been almost domestic under different circumstances. Ordinary.
Something in his expression softened. "You don't have to do this anymore."
You frowned. "What are you talking about?"
Dick hesitated. For the first time since arriving, he seemed unsure of how to explain himself. "..You've spent your entire life paying for things that weren't your fault."
The words were quiet. Measured. His gaze dropped briefly to your injured leg before returning to your face. "I know every hospital visit."
A chill crawled down your spine.
His voice grew softer. "I know every surgery. Every cast. Every time you had to cancel plans because I did something reckless." The guilt in his expression looked genuine. "I know what it cost you."
"Dick."
"I do." His voice cracked slightly. The sound startled you.
"I know exactly what I've put you through."
For a moment neither of you spoke. Then Dick slowly set the groceries on the floor. "You shouldn't have had to deal with any of it alone."
Something about the direction of the conversation suddenly felt wrong. Dangerous. "Dick..." "I mean it." His eyes never left yours.
"You shouldn't have had to worry about medical bills because I got shot. You shouldn't have had to miss work because I decided jumping off rooftops sounded like a good idea. You shouldn't have had to build your life around my mistakes."
A humorless laugh escaped him. "You definitely shouldn't have had to spend years wondering who was responsible." The guilt in his voice was so real it almost hurt to listen to.
And somehow that made what came next even worse. "But you don't have to do that anymore."
The knot in your stomach tightened. "What does that mean?"
Dick looked genuinely confused by the question. As though the answer was obvious. "As long as I'm here, you're not dealing with any of it alone."
"You don't need to worry about rent." The words landed heavily.
You stared at him, dumbfounded. "What?"
"I'll take care of it." "No."
"You don't have to keep working two jobs." "No."
"You don't have to stress about groceries or bills or whether you can afford physical therapy."
"Dick!"
His voice remained calm. Patient. Like he was trying to explain something simple. Something reasonable. "I can handle all of that."
"You can't just decide that." "Why not?" The question came out so naturally that it stopped you cold.
Dick frowned slightly, confused. "As far as I'm concerned, taking care of you is my responsibility."
Your heart dropped. The conviction in his voice was absolute. Not possessive in the way you'd expected. Like he wasn't describing what he wanted. He was describing reality.
"You don't owe me anything," he continued quietly. "You don't have to love me back. You don't even have to forgive me. But I'm not going to stand there and keep watching you suffer because of things I've done."
His gaze held yours. Steady. Intense. Terrifyingly sincere. "You've carried this alone for long enough."
The apartment suddenly felt too small. Too warm. Too difficult to breathe in. Because you finally understood. Dick wasn't asking for a relationship. He wasn't asking for forgiveness. He wasn't even asking for another chance.
He was asking you to hand him control.
The first escape attempt had been almost gentle. A mistake, in hindsight. You’d underestimated him. Underestimated his understanding of you.
By the time you reached the outer perimeter, your leg had already started to fail in ways that didn’t make sense at first. Pain bloomed without warning, sharp, targeted, precise, as if your body had been waiting for permission to collapse.
It was him. Dick Grayson had already noticed you leaving. Already made his choice.
He carried you back without comment when he found you kneeling in the rain like you’d simply run out of endurance. Like your body had just… stopped cooperating. Like he couldn’t even feel his own pain shooting through him.
For three days after that, he barely spoke. Not anger. Not even punishment. Adjustment. Because he was learning how far he could push the bond, and how far he could push himself.
The second attempt cost you more. Not because he was harsher, because he was faster. You barely remember leaving the room. You remember waking up in a different one. Reinforced, seamless, wrong in ways your instincts couldn’t map.
Dick sat beside the bed like he’d never moved. Like time had folded around him. “You dislocated your shoulder,” he said calmly, as though that explained everything.
You tried to sit up. Your body refused. His hand rested on your wrist before you could test it further. “You pushed too hard,” he added. “I had to stabilise it.” “I didn’t-”
“Yes,” he interrupted, still calm. “You did.” But what he didn’t say, what you only began to understand later, was that he had done the same thing to himself at the exact moment you tried to leave.
The third time you tried, there was no hallway. Just motion that died halfway through becoming action. Your body locking down in controlled, precise waves of agony. Like a switch had been thrown. And somewhere behind you, his voice. “I told you not to do that again.”
When you woke, your ankle was wrapped. Your phone was gone. The doors had changed again.
That was when you understood the rule. You could try. He would let you try. Not because he expected you to succeed, but because every attempt gave him data. Every spike of your pain told him what the bond could tolerate. And every time you pushed too far, he matched you. By breaking himself just enough that the connection snapped you both back into place.
Now, in what he liked to call the living room, too controlled to feel like a home, you listened to him in the kitchen. Normal sounds. Water running. A cup set down carefully. Like nothing was wrong.
You swallowed. Your voice weak from disuse. “..I want to leave.”
“You don’t want that,” he mumbled, not looking up from the pan.
“I do.”
“No,” he said gently. “You want the version of it that doesn’t hurt.” He walked patiently over to you. His hand lifted, hovered near your shoulder, then settled. Warm. Certain.
“.. I won’t let it get that far.”
Your throat tightened. “You’re hurting me.”
This time, he didn’t deny it immediately.
He just looked at you for a long moment. Then, “No,” he said quietly. “I’m stopping you from breaking past the point where there’s no coming back.”
“You don’t get to leave anymore,” he said at last. “Not like that.” Not a threat. A conclusion.
“And you won’t try again,” he added, softer.
“Because I won’t let either of us survive what happens when you do.”
Then he turned back toward the kitchen. As if the decision had already been made. As if your life together had always been structured this way.
And in a sense, it had.
10K+ Words, 61K+ Characters, 1K+ sentences, 36 min average reading time, 58 min average speaking time.
SMUTTY LEON KENNEDY X F!READER: After a brief and scandalous encounter in the backseat of Leon's car, he takes you home to his apartment where he intends to show you just how much he admires you...
(Please note that there are mentions of scars/wounds/injury!)
--------------------------
STRAIGHT. UP. SMUT. I wrote this as a sister fic to 'Backseat' as a lot of you really enjoyed my mindless Leon S. Kennedy smut fics! And this felt like such a fun part two to write for it! As always, apologies for any and all spelling errors/grammatical errors, I wrote this late at night/early morning lol
Hope you enjoy! And keep the Leon (and Resident Evil!) fanfic prompts coming!
Bedroom
Leon said nothing on the drive back to his apartment complex, and neither did you. The silence felt heady with promise as to what was awaiting at the other end. You peered over to Leon’s right hand as it lazily hung between his legs, within his tight fist was your underwear, retrieved from the footwell of his backseat. After your oral shenanigans, you quickly pulled your jeans back up, and scrambled into the passenger seat as per Leon’s instructions.
Your mind was swimming as you continued to shamelessly watch Leon paw at the front of his jeans, your underwear fisted in his hand, coaxing his erection, trying his best to focus on getting you both back to his apartment, whilst fighting the temptation to pull over earlier than intended and have you in the back seat again.
Thankfully, Leon staved off his urges a little further, and parked up to a block of apartments, with himself exiting the car first. By the time you undid the buckle to your seatbelt, your door opened abruptly and Leon scooped up your hand and tugged on it, pleading with you to leave the car as fast as possible. Leon pulled you behind him, up the stairwell inside the building and towards a black door. The jangling sound of Leon’s keys echoing in the vast emptiness of the stairwell, filled the tense air as he rushed to feed them into his door.
You glanced behind you, a learned habit from moving around late at night after graveyard shifts, keeping a watch for prying eyes as you travelled home. Suddenly, you felt Leon’s strong arm wrap around your waist, effectively hauling you into the apartment. Leon kicked the door closed with his boot, shrugged off his jacket to the floor, and pressed your back into the wall of the hallway, his lips seeking yours.
Your eyes involuntarily rolled back as you tasted Leon, his tongue probing yours, sliding across it salaciously as you both moaned into one another’s mouths. Leon’s hips ground firmly against yours, eliciting a groan of pleasure from yourself as he nudged his knee against you, effectively spreading yourself to straddle his thigh.
“L-Leon.” You gasped as Leon’s mouth left yours, seeking out the flushed skin on your neck, where he pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses up and down your throat.
You felt Leon’s hands move from your shoulders, down to your waist, slipping further past to grip at the abundant flesh of your backside. His name fell from your mouth in a sigh as he massaged your ass, his strong hands gripping and flexing lovingly as he devoured at your neck whilst his thigh pressed to the core of you. You held onto Leon’s biceps as he ravaged you in the hallway, had it not been for his strong frame and the thigh between your legs keeping you up and against the wall, you were certain your wobbly legs would have given out from underneath you.
“You’re so perfect.” Leon mumbled against your throat, his raspy tone vibrating against your body.
You couldn’t help the way you rocked your hips against his thigh, desperate for him, for release of any form that he could give you. Sensing your need for him, Leon encouraged your movements by moving your waist back and forth, grinding you against the top side of his toned thigh. The movement made you groan loudly, and shamefully, but you couldn’t help yourself as Leon moved your body.
“That’s it…just like that.” Leon mumbled, his eyes roaming over your face as you gasped his name, cheeks flushing redder and redder as he helped you to dry hump his leg.
“L-Leon, Leon I…I can’t…I can’t-”
“Relax…enjoy it.” Leon murmured, the low timber in his voice vibrated from his chest against yours.
You shuddered, and whined as Leon continued to slowly grind you into his leg, admiring the way you moaned his name, or the way you sighed with each loving, giving squeeze he administered to your hips and ass. Leon watched you closely, intently for a few more moments, before leaning in close to kiss you, his tongue seeking yours once more as he slowly halted moving you against him.
He hummed in satisfaction against your mouth as you returned his kiss. Within a split second, Leon left you, his mouth dethatching from yours, his knee leaving your centre. Leon grasped onto your hand, tight and unwilling to let go of you as he gently pulled you down the hallway and towards what you assumed was his bedroom. For a brief moment, whilst Leon walked you both briskly deeper into his apartment, you looked around; everything was dark, modern, masculine in design and minimal decoration.
“I’ll give you the tour in the morning.” Leon’s voice interrupted your thoughts as he pulled you into his bedroom, kicking the door shut once you were inside and against his body once more.
Leon’s hands returned to your waist, holding you firmly to his front as he kissed you, walking you backwards until the edge of the bed met with your legs. You reached up, and felt for the buttons of his shirt.
“Can I?” You asked between kisses, your breathing laboured as Leon was taking every moment of advantage to kiss you.
“Be my guest.” Leon smirked, raising his hands from your waist to cup your elbows, as if to support your hands as they worked open his shirt.
With every button you undid, a fresh piece of Leon’s tanned, toned body was revealed to you, as if you were unwrapping a gift. Leon watched you curiously, head tilted to the side with a crooked smile, observing you as you undressed him, looking over his skin. He particularly liked how your fingers brushed against his abdomen as you undid the last of his buttons, before reaching up to slide the shirt off his body entirely.
As the shirt fell to the floor, you admired Leon’s upper half in its entirety, lingering on the finer details, the light blond hairs on his chest and navel, that travelled further to beneath his belt and waistband. You reached up, ghosting your fingers across his firm chest, tracing over several scars, war wounds and markers from working. You knew from the footage and case files where each and every scar had come from, evidence of his mission in Spain.
"Combat knife." Leon muttered, answering your silent curiosity, remembering all too well the searing pain that the blade delivered.
"I remember receiving the medical notes about this one." You sighed as your fingers traced over the particularly deep scar.
"You did?" Leon asked, a sympathetic frown deepening upon his angelic features as he watched you, looking him over with a faintly concerned look.
"It was part of the job to process your medical reports." You nodded with a vague shrug.
Without thinking, you looked over the scar, before leaning in close to press your lips to the uneven mark upon his skin. Leon shuddered under your touch, and you made to retract your hand suddenly, as if spooked, but he reached up and caught your wrist, halting it from moving away from his body.
“Too much?” You ask, worried you had frightened him off or made him self conscious with how you were touching him.
“Not enough.” Leon shook his head, his blond fringe partially obscuring his darkening eyes from you.
Slowly, Leon kept a firm grip of your hand, and placed it back onto his body, along with your opposite. He pressed his hands over yours against his chest, and you could feel the thump of his heartbeat under your right palm, steady, albeit slightly increased given the circumstances. You looked from Leon’s face to where your hands rested atop of his pectorals, and you flexed your thumbs to softly brush over his nipples. The sound of Leon humming, deep and gratuitous, vibrated into your palms, and you couldn’t help the smirk of pride that tugged at the corner of your mouth.
“I think we should even things out.” Leon sighed as you softly squeezed his chest, massaging his taught muscles lovingly.
Leon removed his hands from yours, and reached down to playfully tug and pull at the hem of your top, as if requesting permission. All it took was a tiny nod from you, for Leon to grasp your top, and carefully pull it upwards, leaving you half naked save for your bra. Leon stepped closer and reached around you, his head bending down to kiss at the space between your neck and shoulder, his teeth grazing your skin whilst his fingers unclasped your bra, tossing the garment to join the rest of yours and his clothes on the bedroom floor.
You watched as Leon leaned back a fraction to take you in, his hands instinctively coming up to politely cup and weigh your chest in his palms. Deciding to give you a taste of your own medicine, Leon took your right nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and rolled it softly between the pads of his fingers.
“Jesus…fuck.” You sighed, your head lulling backwards and instinctively pushing your chest closer to Leon, giving him more of you to explore.
“You’re so beautiful.” Leon hummed, as if an open commentary, continuing to switch between rolling your nipple between his fingers, and gently squeezing the entirety of your breast in the palm of his large hand.
You couldn’t respond, your words stolen from you in a gasp as Leon dipped his head down to take your nipple into his mouth, his lips fastening around your ample flesh whilst his tongue slid across the sensitive bud. Leon’s hair tickled the tops of your chest and sternum as he worked his mouth over you, alternating between sides as he kissed and sucked. Your hand reached up to embrace Leon’s cheek as you moaned his name, deep with need as you felt yourself grow warmer and more aroused with each movement his mouth delivered.
Your hands held either side of Leon’s jaw, and moved him up from your breasts to kiss you, leaving a trail of his saliva on your skin, resulting in your nipples to pebble in the cooling exposure. As you kissed Leon, you reached down to paw at the front of his trousers, immediately gasping against Leon’s mouth as you gripped his erection through the fabric. You carefully squeezed him, and smoothed your palm up and down the front of his trousers, forcing a moan up from deep within Leon.
“You keep that up, and we won’t even make it into bed.” Leon grunted, his hands tightening on your arms.
“Let me have a little fun.” You softly pleaded, your lips brushing against Leon’s as your fingers slid out his belt, which clanged as it slackened, before unbuttoning and unzipping him fully, the rasping sound of his zipper sending a shiver though both your bodies.
Immediately, you looked down between your bodies, and took in the sight; Leon’s hard cock, straining against the soft black cotton of his boxers, begging to be freed.
“I think we should even things out.” You smirked, echoing Leon’s previous words and hinting to the fact that you were underwear-less that very moment, so why shouldn’t he be as well?
Leon chuckled lazily, and watched you through hooded eyes as you lowered yourself down to the floor, making yourself eye level with the crotch of his trousers. He watched as you braced your hands against his thighs, and pressed your lips to his boxers, a thin piece of material separating your mouth from his cock. Leon’s eyes fluttered as he watched you kiss and moan against him, the sensation akin to torture, but he knew why you were doing it, as it was exactly what he had done to you in the back of his car.
“Taste of my own medicine?” Leon quipped breathlessly as his hand rested atop of your head, fingers brushing your hair out of the way so he could see you fully as your mouth ghosted over his erection.
“Something like that.” You smirked and pressed a final, lingering kiss on his underwear before reaching up to roll the article of clothing, as well as Leon’s trousers, down his strong legs.
Leon’s cock sprang free, and he exhaled deeply with the release of his tight confines. He stood proudly, and you couldn’t help the shameful feeling of your mouth watering as you looked him over in his fullness. You reached up to grasp at him, softly squeezing at the base of his cock to draw out a moan, your name falling from Leon’s mouth effortlessly. Angling him, you leaned forward and captured the rosy head of his cock between your lips, drawing him further into your mouth.
“Jesus christ” Leon hissed as you swallowed as much of him as you could, the heady taste of him filling your senses as you drew back before taking him in again.
Leon’s hand cupped your head, and helped to bob you back and forth as you sucked him off, the sound of your name and his moans, as well as the lewd noises coming from your mouth, filling the bedroom atmosphere. Leon opened his eyes briefly, and watched as you continued to pleasure him, your hand moving in tandem with your mouth. Testing the waters, Leon reached his other hand up to join on your head, and he softly canted his hips, fucking himself gently into your warm mouth. You looked up at him, watching the expression of utter bliss etched out onto Leon’s features.
“Fuck- M’sorry…I couldn’t resist…your mouth it’s- fuck it’s so good.” Leon panted, and grit his teeth as he restrained himself from moving his hips any more. Despite your consent, he didn’t want to be selfish…not yet. Tonight, he wanted you both to feel good.
You felt Leon inch a little backwards, his cock slipping out of your mouth with a loud and wet pop. For a fleeting second, you admired the string of saliva and precum connecting your mouth to the tip of him, before Leon reached down to carefully wipe your mouth.
“Stand up gorgeous.” Leon hummed as he reached under your arms to help you back up to your feet. “Pants off.” He instructed as you stood upright.
Whilst you undid your jeans, you glanced at Leon as he stroked himself, the wet sounds of your saliva as it lubricated his hand whilst he stroked, made you flush at the cheeks. You pushed your jeans down, and kicked them to the side, leaving you as naked as Leon. He let go of himself, and approached you, slowly, drinking in every inch of your naked body and savouring it as he reached up to smooth his hands over every part of you he could touch. Likewise, your hands explored his anatomy, the pair of you burying your faces into the crux of one another’s shoulders, inhaling deeply, fitting together like two pieces of a puzzle. Leon’s cock pressed and twitched against your hip and stomach, and you felt him huff into your neck.
“Stand still for me.” Leon rasped against your body, pressing a lingering, open mouthed kiss to the side of your neck, before lowering himself down to his knees.
The request in itself was simple, but in practice, you struggled to keep yourself still – let alone standing upright. The feat was only made more difficult, when Leon smoothed his hands up the inside of your thighs, politely coaxing them wider as he drew closer and closer to where you needed him the most. Leon looked up at you as he touched the seam of your sex, slick with arousal, his middle and ring finger practically gliding through you. When the tips of his fingers brushed against your sensitive clit, you wobbled and grasped onto Leon’s shoulders for stability.
“You okay?” Leon asked as you refused to straighten back up again, your body trembling as his hands continued to move back and forth through your slick pussy.
“Leon, I…I don’t think I can stand up whilst you do that.” You gasped, awash with embarrassment at how pathetic you sounded, nails digging into the firm rounds of Leon’s shoulders. But it was true, your legs trembled with every caress he administered to you.
“Then lets fix that.” Leon grinned against your skin, standing up once more, making sure you could see him as he raised his fingers up to his lips to taste your arousal from them.
Leon walked you backwards until you sat down on the bed, shuffling you back towards the headboard to allow him room to crawl atop of you. Immediately, your mind flashed to your tryst in the back of his car, how he loomed over you, eyes hungry for your flesh. You felt yourself instinctively rubbing your thighs together in search of release, some way to alleviate the dull ache inside you. Leon took a hold of your ankles, and simultaneously raised and parted your legs open to him, placing the bend of your knees on either side of his head as he lowered himself down to your body.
You watched as Leon pressed his mouth to the side of your thigh, peppering your flesh with kisses as he drew closer and closer to where his fingers had been. You trembled under him, brimming with anticipation, as finally, his mouth found you.
“L-Leon!” You gasped up to the ceiling, your head falling back as Leon began to eat at you, hungrily, slowly, his arms hooking under your thighs so his palms could rest atop of your soft stomach and hold you in place.
Your hips bucked instinctively against Leon’s mouth as he licked and sucked, his eyes never leaving your face as he watched you moan for him, encouraging him to continue. As he ate you out, you noticed his pelvis moving, grinding into his mattress, keen to seek some sort of friction whilst he indulged in your body. You felt your stomach flutter as your orgasm skirted closer and closer as Leon paid particular mind to your swollen bundle of nerves, his mouth fastening atop of it and relentlessly lavishing it with kisses and licks.
“F-Fuck! Leon I-…I’m close.” You sobbed, your skin already decorated with a light sheen of sweat as you rolled your hips into Leon’s mouth.
Leon hummed in acknowledgement between your thighs, the act of which sent vibrations right to your core and only served to enhance your growing orgasm. Just like in the back of his car, your hands flew down to grasp onto Leon’s hair, gently tugging and gripping onto his scalp as he greedily ate you out, wanting nothing more than for his name to be the only thing you can think of.
“Oh! Oh god- L-Leon!” You exclaimed, his name being the final word to leave you as your orgasm tore through you, your body spasming as Leon continued to mouth at you without a moment’s pause.
You felt him separate from your body, your eyes rolled languidly in bliss as you looked down at him, turned on by the sight of how glossy and pink his soft lips were as he smirked up the length of you, admiring what he did to you.
“I don’t think I’ll ever tire of seeing you like that.” Leon mused as he raised himself up onto all fours and crawled up your body, his cock bobbing and twitching between his toned thighs.
You reached up, and pulled Leon down to kiss you, taking him back a little as his chin and mouth was a mess of saliva and your slickness. But if anything, it only fuelled your arousal, your need for Leon, to taste yourself on his mouth was something far more erotic than you could have ever imagined, and it seemed to resonate with Leon as he groaned into your mouth in return. You felt Leon’s knee push your leg up and widen you open for him, his stomach grazing against yours, his cock resting against you, throbbing with want.
“I need you…please baby…I don’t think I can hold out.” Leon said, his once controlled demeanour faltering as he pined for you, for release that he only wanted to seek out from you and you alone.
“I-I need you too.” You panted, breathless from Leon’s kissing. You lifted your legs up to wrap around Leon’s waist, encouraging him to move.
You felt Leon slow himself down, his hands feeding themselves under your back to essentially scoop you up and off the bed. With ease, Leon repositioned you both so he sat with his back against the headboard, and you squarely in his lap.
“Plant your feet.” Leon whispered, giving you a moment to do so, using his shoulders once more as support as you hovered over his lap. “Now…sit down, and ride me.”
“Wh-what?” You asked nervously, having never been asked to do so.
“Ride. Me.” Leon leaned in closer to you to lowly grumble his request.
You swallowed thickly, and looked down as Leon’s hand grabbed the base of his cock, lining himself up with you once more. You raised your hips, lining the round head of Leon’s cock up with you, before you slowly sank down onto him.
“L-Leon” You whimpered, your hands flattening against his chest as he stretched you out, warm and tight. “Leon I…it’s so much.” You moaned, already feeling impossibly full with only half of him inside of you.
“I know…I know.” Leon cooed, his eyes never leaving your face as you worked through the mixture of pleasure and ache from the stretch. “You’re taking me so good, fuck” He huffed as you lowered further, and further, until finally you had taken Leon in his entirety.
“Oh fuck” You groaned, drawn out and guttural as you adjusted to Leon inside of you, bottoming out atop of him.
“You’re so good, look at how perfect we fit together.” Leon hummed, praising you, his lust drunk eyes roaming over every inch of you he could find, his fingers brushing stray hairs from your face so he could admire and worship you in your entirety.
Leon let go of your waist, his hands sliding up to cup your cheek and bend you slightly downward to meet him in the middle for a kiss. Everything paused, stilled and serine as Leon kissed you, though it wasn’t messy and passionate as the ones you had shared moments prior. No, this one was slow and meaningful, and you could feel every ounce of care in Leon being poured into this kiss.
“You’re so beautiful.” Leon muttered against your lips, his hands returning to your sides, and he gently grasped your flesh. “I want you to use me, I want to see you come apart on top of me.”
You felt Leon begin to rock you, his hands gradually moving your hips, assisting you as you began to lift yourself a little higher, until only the tip of Leon was inside of you, before sinking back down. Both of you grunted and moaned in unison, gradually picking up the pace as you formed a rhythm. Leon’s hands travelled over your body, up your spine to between your shoulder blades where he held you close, taking control of the pace from you, and fucking his himself up and into you, creating a loud clap with each buck of the hips meeting.
“Oh! Oh fuck! – L-Leon!” You cried out, nails digging so deep into Leon’s chest and the tops of his shoulders that you knew you were going to leave deep marks on his body.
“Too much?” Leon winced as he slowed himself down a fraction, slightly worried he had gone too far in his enthusiasm.
“N-No, just…fuck you’re…you’re stretching me.” You half laughed, half sighed, allowing the ebb in Leon’s pace to gather yourself. “It’s good…really good. Just…just a lot.”
Leon slowed down, now at a point where he was rolling and grinding his hips into you, a complete one eighty from the rapid speed he was attempting. He looked you over, and nodded, pressing his lips to your chin.
“Slowly then.” Leon agreed, and rolled his hips into yours once more.
Leon sat up fully, his knees drawing closer to support your back a little more, although mostly it was to cage you in closer to him. His arms circled around your waist, and in one smooth movement, Leon tips you backwards until you’re on your back on the mattress, looking up at him as he held you close to his body. Your hands found Leon’s toned biceps, and held onto them for support as he began to move.
Leon shuffled closer, his hand reaching between your bodies to grasp his cock. Despite imploring that he needed you so desperately, it didn’t stop Leon from teasing himself and yourself as he pushed the head of his cock through your slick sex, coating himself further in your arousal. He went as far as to tap himself once or twice against you, the sensation sending a shudder through your body as he bounced his firm prick against your clit.
“S-Stop teasing!” You half laughed, half sighed, eager for him.
“M’sorry” Leon smirked impishly with a slight head tilt, looking back down at your bodies as he lined himself up at your entrance, before slowly pushing himself back into your warmth.
You both moaned and uttered one another’s names as Leon edged himself deeper, and deeper inside of you, until his pelvis was sitting flush against yours, the head of his cock nudging that spot deep within your that made you babble incoherently with pleasure.
“God you feel so good.” Leon growled through his teeth, resisting the urge to grip onto you and fuck himself stupid into you. No, he wanted to savour this, savour you.
“P-Please Leon, I…I need you to move.” You whimpered, your heels digging into Leon’s ass.
With a huff, Leon pulled out of you, painfully slowly, before sliding back down to the hilt. He gradually increased his pace, until the sound of your skin slapping against one another filled the room, alongside your plethora of expletives and moans. The way Leon filled you, made you feel so complete and at one with him, made your head spin.
Just as your eyes fluttered closed, you felt Leon’s lips peppering along your collar bone, neck and cheek, all the while muttering words into your skin. You could feel the familiar, fluttering sensations of your umpteenth orgasm of the night approaching you, and so could Leon as his pace quickened a fraction.
“Oh god…L-Leon I’m close…I don’t…I don’t think I can…I can.” You were struggling to even string a sentence with how intoxicating the pleasure felt, coursing through your body all at the command of the man above you.
“Breathe…let me take care of you baby.” Leon huffed against the corner of your mouth before kissing you, relishing in the vibrations of your moan against his mouth.
“That’s my girl, you take it all so well.” Leon praised you, continuing his rhythm as he reached up to lick the tips of his fingers before sliding it down to press and gesture firm circles around your clit.
You could feel the mess you were creating between your bodies, your slickness and his saliva coating one another. With each grind of his hips, Leon nudged into you, a mixture of delicious pain and pleasure that made you feel like you were sinking into the mattress as your orgasm hurtled closer. Leon’s thumb brushes over your clit at the perfect angle, and it sends you spiralling, your mouth parting as you cried out Leon’s name in utter, unrelenting ecstasy.
Leon grips onto your soft waist, tighter and tighter, sure enough he’ll leave bruises, but you weren’t in the mind of caring if he marked you. His hips stuttered, and you reached up with what little strength you could to hold either side of his face, watching his blue eyes look deep into yours.
“That’s it…right there…it’s so good Leon…your so good.” You whisper and chew on your lip as Leon fucks through the remainder of your orgasm as he chases his own release.
“Fuck- I’m…I’m gonna…fuck!” Leon groaned, and pressed his hips entirely into yours as he came.
Leon’s hips twitch and jerk against you, his head thrown back, exposing his adams apple which bobs up and down as he gasps your name to the ceiling. He falters, and you feel him carefully lower his body down and onto yours. You can feel your combined release, his and yours, warm and slick as it coats your inner thighs, your bodies still connected, still full, unwilling to separate just yet.
“You okay?” Leon’s voice, raspy and doting, pulls you from your haze. You look down as his chin rests between your heaving chest, looking up the length of you.
“I think so.” You chuckle breathlessly, and it seeps into Leon who smirks and slowly presses kisses to your skin.
Eventually, Leon reluctantly pulls out of you, sparing a moment to observe as his release slips out of you. You feel his weight leave the bed for a moment, before he returns, pressing something to the middle of your legs.
“Leon?” you open your tired eyes, observing the slate grey towel in your lover’s hands as he wipes your legs and sex clean.
“We can shower in the morning.” Leon commented dryly with a crooked smirk, tossing the towel to the bed side before drawing back the covers to wrap both your bodies up inside.
You instinctively moved to his side, as if without him, you would be incomplete. Lost. Your face rested atop of Leon’s chest, ear pressed against his left pectoral where you could hear the sound of his rapid heartbeat beginning to lull and relax from his post orgasmic high. Leon’s arms wrap around you, and pull you in closer to his body, his warmth enveloping you as you both listened to the heavy rain, sleep claiming you both in the safety of one another’s embrace.
can't stop thinking about a summer love caleb, mc and non-mc becoming friends all because non-mc is a social butterfly with a slight lack of self-control, blind courage, need to make friends and finds caleb cute.
social butterfly!non-mc spots caleb first in the local skating rink one day and casually comes up to him and introduces herself and tries to make friends with him and he is acting very polite because it's rude to be rude and just lets her yammer until she is discouraged by his indifference. she notices this and she is a little discouraged and was deeply embarrassed by this subtle rejection. (but she is also stubborn so she'll try one more time?)
cue in mc coming up to the both of the, looking all wary and confused, and non-mc locks in with how cute mc is and immediately tries to befriend her too, asking her more questions about her name, does she skate her often, is he your brother yada yada yada. mc looks bewildered and looks at caleb for back up but slowly warms up to her when she realizes she's just ... very friendly and she's never had a girl friend before so she's starting to feel a little giddy.
caleb on the other hand is bewildered bc wtf just happened how did that happen. (it's a girl thing caleb ssh)
fast forward to a few years later, they're all friends and non-mc also befriends zayne and they're practically a gang at this point. caleb develops a slight crush on non-mc and zayne knows it, mc is suspicious about it and non-mc (all together now) doesn't know. he's in major denial because it's weird to develop a crush on the girl who is friend's with his little sister and cares about just above cilantro (which, really makes no difference, because she hasn't bothered him that much like when they were kids and she hangs more with mc now [and zayne too when he tags along, he guesses] and she doesn't bother him with useless stuff anymore like the homework he knows she's smart enough to solve on her own or with opening a bag of chips or carrying her bag on the way home from school. who cares if she stopped doing that right? ha ha ha)
THEN one summer, while they're all in college, they're all hanging out at the old local skating rink and then she casually drops how she had a tiny crush on caleb that summer morning they first met at the skating rink and was glad she picked up the courage to go up to him because it led her to meeting him and mc and zayne and she couldn't imagine her life without them now.
and ALL three of them look at her in various degrees of gob smacked. zayne is subtle but his brow is quirked and side-eyeing caleb. mc is open mouthed and floundering looking back and forth to her and caleb. caleb looks so dazed out and he might look composed with his quiet smile but inside he's crashing out bc wdym his crush finds him cute and he acted horribly to her and that he had a chance all those years ago?? does she still find him cute? does he have a chance? DOES SHE STILL LIKE HIM???? oh god he needs to sit down he can't breathe
a/n: hello! think i kinda went ham with the gradient text but i wanted to try it after coming across one post using and and i thought "omg you can do that with tumblr now"? and ofc you can because this is a blog and tumblr blogs can be coded with html so why not with posts and immediately went to youtube to try it out lmao. hope this was a nice read for you! i wanted a cute caleb summer love typa story and this came out aaaaa
Summary: Who would’ve known the famous football player Caleb would fall in love with a bookworm?
Taglist: @d4ncingbat @vixxieroxx @quillsanddaggers @numberonedefendorpenguin
You rush down the hall, sweat dripping down your forehead. You had stayed up last night playing an otome game. You deserved it truly. You had been pulling all-nighters almost every night to study for the midterm season. But who would’ve known you would relax so much that you would wake up late for class? Your backpack was slung on your right side as you rushed down the halls. When you realize you are close to class, you speed up.
Taking a sharp left, you bump into a hard object. The hard object comes into contact with your face. The impact had launched you to the ground. The contents inside your backpack sprawled all around. You could practically feel the blood rushing to your nose. A small groan escaped your lips as you rubbed your nose. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” A soft husky voice catches your attention. When you look up, you see a guy with brown hair and radiant purple eyes with a tint of orange in them, with a small smile on his face and an outstretched hand. You didn’t know what to say.
You quickly recover and don’t take his hand. Deciding to immediately pick up your things. Your class is still on the top of your thoughts. “It's okay, I have to go.” You state hurriedly. Picking up papers and shoving them in your bag with haste. You moved so quickly that the man didn’t have a chance to say anything. All he could do was watch you rush down the hall once again.
What you don’t see is the way he watched you leave. What you don’t realize is the number of problems that are going to enter your life after this encounter.
“Caleb? What are you doing?” Another guy calls out. ‘Caleb’ turns to this guy. “Hey, Gideon. Quick question, didn’t you say you practically knew everyone in this school and there wasn’t anyone you didn’t know or couldn’t find out about?” Caleb has a sweet smile on his face as he turns to Gideon. Gideon’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Uh, yea. Why?”
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You sat in the library, on the desk where papers were neatly stacked to your left, and your laptop in front of you. You go over to reach for your pen, but instead drop it on the floor. You let out a small groan once you realize it started to roll away. You stand up and give chase.
Your pen rolls and hits someone's shoe. You quickly go to grab it from the floor. “We can’t keep meeting like this.” A familiar voice states above you. Your eyes shoot upwards to meet a familiar face. Your eyes stare into another pair of purple ones. You stand up straight quickly. “I’m sorry,” You reply, an awkward smile on your lips. Turning on your heel so you could get back to work. “Hey, wait, can I get your name?” You turn your head in his direction. “Why?” You respond, your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. What could he possibly want your name for?
“Um, it seems like you're really good when it comes to studying. I would like to learn from you,” His hand is behind his neck as he scratches it nervously. You look him over, realizing he has on a black cap, a black hoodie, with grey sweatpants. You could see his cleats peaking out of the side of his backpack. He is obviously a typical sports player. You let out a sigh. “I don’t do tutoring,” You reply flatly, your eyes went over to your things. You will not waste your time dealing with the typical airhead sports player who’s failing their classes and is at risk of losing their scholarship. You scoff; besides, you have your own things to worry about. “Y-you don’t have to tutor me. Like, I can just watch you. Like your study methods.” You watched as the man in front of you stutters to find the right words. You found the whole ordeal a little pathetic. You couldn’t help but crack a small smile at this. Maybe he isn’t your typical jock. “Aren’t you a player on the football team?” You tilt your head to the side and ask.
It’s not really often that a guy who plays sports wants to study. But you see how genuine he is about the ordeal. Maybe he’s failing some classes and wants to put more work into them. The man’s purple eyes practically sparkle at your words. You knew of him, right? He is the captain after all, so of course, you have heard of him. A proud smile appeared on his lips, and his chest puffed up a little. “Yeah, actually, the captain of the team.” You let out a small hum in response. “My name is Caleb, by the way. Can I get yours now?” His eyes were on you. You stand there staring at each other. Caleb’s fingers twitched slightly at his side, awaiting your response. You crack a smile once you see his anxious display. You finally give him your name.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket, alerting you to your next class. “Okay, I’ll talk to you another time.” Your hold on your pen tightens, and you rush over to collect your belongings. Yet again, move so quickly that Caleb couldn’t ask for any social media platforms, let alone your number. He had stood there like an idiot. Too busy watching the way your plumped lips curve into a smile. Too busy looking at your soft skin, wondering how soft to the touch it would be.
Once again, you don’t see the way his ears turn tomato red. The way his breathing became shallow. Or the thoughts that ran rampant in his mind.
—————————————————-
The scent of coffee beans surrounded the cafe. You stood in line awaiting to be next. Money has been short recently. You comment on having to pick up some more shifts at the library. “Next.” You look up from your phone. Give the cashier a sweet smile. “Hey, can I get a medium hot chai latte with brown sugar cold foam?” The cashier nods her head. She tells you the total, you go to scan your card, and an error sound erupts. You are bewildered, your face warming in embarrassment. “Hold up, give me a second.” You fumble to check your account. You were a few pennies short. Before you could explain to the cashier, someone steps beside you. “I’ll cover it for her.”
You let out a small sigh in relief. You look up to see the familiar figure again, one you have been seeing more frequently lately. You let out a small gasp. “Caleb?” You watch in shock as he pays for your drinks and orders his own. He smiles softly at you, holding out your drink towards you. “All you gotta say is thanks, pipsqueak.” You bristle slightly at the nickname, taken aback really. Your eyebrows are knitted together. “Uh, yeah, thanks.” You reply, taking the cup from his hands. “Are you staying?” Caleb asks. You had the urge to lie, but you couldn’t be heartless to someone who had literally just come to your aid, not even a few minutes ago. You give him a curt nod. “Do you mind if I sit with you?” He has a charming smile on his lips. You fight back the huff that threatens to escape your lips.
“I didn’t know you liked this cafe,” Caleb states, his eyes don’t leave you, not even once. He is sitting across from you at a booth inside the cafe. It’s your usual booth, the one next to the window, so you don’t feel so claustrophobic. “Yep, It is.” Your answers were short, per usual. You were looking over a lab report that you need done by tomorrow.
Caleb watched as you typed away on your laptop. His eyes are soaking you in. The warm knitted sweater you wore, and the blue light glasses you wear when you are using multiple devices. He even bought the same one you got. He’s waiting for the right opportunity to wear it for another planned interaction. He couldn’t help the joyous smile that appeared on his lips. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch it. You couldn’t help but think how strange he is.
——————————————————————-
Laughter erupts throughout the room. You and your friends were in your favorite cafe. “We should totally play truth or dare.” One of your friends, Tara, exclaims joyfully. She has a bright smile on her face and a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Okay, let’s go.” You go around in a circle, everyone getting a choice to do truth or dare. Some of your friends, like Jenna, had to tell the truth about their study methods. Hazel was dared to ask the waiter out. It was silly little things. When it landed in your hands, you chose dare. Mama didn’t raise no bitch as you like to say. Tara had a devious grin on her lips. “I dare you to go to one of Caleb’s parties.” Your eyes widened in shock, taken aback by her words. You quickly shut it down. “No.” You state firmly.
Tara pouts, clasping her hands together and moving them forward. “But you chose dare. You wouldn’t go back on your word, now would you?” Tara whines dramatically. You sigh in defeat, your eyebrows knitted together in worry. “Don’t worry, you can borrow one of my dresses,” Jenna explains, rubbing your arm soothingly.
—————————————————
You couldn’t believe that you were actually doing this. The dress that Jenna gave you was a black long-sleeve dress that had the back open, which revealed the small tattoo you had on the back of your neck. The tattoo was of small stars littering your neck. You nervously looked around the room, hoping to find at least one of your friends. As you aimlessly walk around, you bump into a hard figure. When your eyes look up, you're met with purple ones. You let out a small gasp. You knew it was Caleb’s party, but you didn’t think you were going to run into him so quickly.
Before you could speak, you heard a familiar voice. “Oh, there you are!” You spin around to lock eyes with Tara, who has a bright smile on her lips. You can see the gears spinning in her head as she looks between you and Caleb. “Well, what do we have here?” You couldn’t help the sigh that leaves your lips. “I was looking for you. Where were you?” You ask her, crossing your arms over your chest and raising an eyebrow. “I was just getting a drink. But why look for me when you have company?” Tara wiggles her eyebrows, nudging you with her elbow. This movement makes you move closer to Caleb. You send her a dangerous glare as your eyes narrowed at her.
Caleb lets out a small chuckle. He then turns his attention to Tara. “Please explain to your friend that I don’t bite.” Tara waves her hands dismissively in the air. “Oh, trust me, I told her that multiple times.” A deadpan expression was on your face as you stood between the two. Tara has a goofy grin on her lips. “I’ll catch up with you later. Take care of her won’t you, Caleb?” Caleb nods his head. Before you could say anything else to Tara she was gone with the wind.
“So what do you like to do?” Being left alone with Caleb, he begins to make conversation. “Not be here.” You shake your head, the blasting of the music starting to irritate you. This is why you liked to stay home. Caleb picking up on your forming irritation quickly proposed an idea. “Do you want to go in the yard? It’s quieter out there.” He explains, tilt his head downwards to read your expression. “Yeah,” You say softly.
————————————————
The two of you lie on the backyard lawn, staring up into the sky. “Hey, can I ask you something?” Caleb’s voice was heard through the soft whistles of the wind. You hum in acknowledgment. “What do the stars mean?” He was referring to the litter of stars on the back of your neck. Caleb was sitting up now, his arm resting on his knees as his eyes stared into you. You look up at him, and you feel a little shiver go down your spine. Whenever he looked at you, you always felt like he could see into you. “It’s my matching tattoo with my boyfriend at home.” You look away from him to hide the smirk on your lips. You could hear his breath hitch at your words. “I-I didn’t know you had a boyfriend. I’m sorry for being so invasive.” He quickly says, stuttering between words. You could hear the hurt tone in his voice. His voice getting quieter with each passing word.
You quickly sit up, and you see him looking away from you. “I’m sorry! I was playing! I don’t have a boyfriend.” He turns around to reveal a teasing smile, his aegyo sal puffing up. “I know,” You let out an exasperated huff, crossing your arms. Caleb couldn’t help but let out a laugh at your expression. “I take back my apology.” You move to stand up, but your wrist is caught softly in his hands. “Ok, I am sorry. Please don’t go.” You saw the way his eyebrows knitted together, and his eyes sparkled. All you could think about is how he resembles a puppy. “Fine, but don’t do that again.” You shake off his hold, which drops instantly. You sit back down, and the two of you sit in silence for a bit. That’s when you finally speak. “The tattoo represents my mom, who died in a car accident. She always loved astronomy.”
Caleb liked the way your eyes glossed over as you stared up into the sky. “I would like to think she always has my back.” You explain softly. Caleb’s gaze never leaves you as the both of you sat in silence. A new form of relationship sparking between the two of you.
I started my Heaven Official's Blessing journey back in 2020, and I finally got all the books of the series, and it has been hands down the best series I have ever read in ANY genre of book. Like there is no reason a book has me in my feelings and I am on the train crying about it. Spoilers AHEAD!!!
It is just so crazy to read the books and realize Hua Cheng had always been there for Xie Lian. This type of devotion is out of this world. And when he "died," he always came back. He always came back for Xie Lian. Like how many times he gotta show how dedicated he is to him before he catches on.
Also, a funny thing was when Xie Lian began having feelings for him, like, come on. We know you like boys. Like we knew when you went to Ghost City and saw his true form for the first time. And I won't lie, if I were a guy, I would understand completely.
I can't wait for season 3 now that I know what's going to happen... But these seasons need more episodes cause the way they are moving, season 2 is only covering like half of book 2, and season 3 is probably gonna be the rest. Mind you, there are 8 books, so you do the math.
Food for thought. How insufferable could support course Bakugou be? Imagine all his gear having his initials, logo or picture of him. Like he'll help you but imagine he forces someone to wear a shirt say8ng he's the best or otherwise stroke his ego.
SC! Bakugo would still be the same ol' Bakugo. Instead of being cocky about his quirk, he will be extremely cocky about his inventions. And in his eyes, only the best can use/wear the stuff he creates. So no one under class 1A will be wearing anything of his. And once you all graduate, it will be only the top pro heroes.
Cause don't get me wrong, he has every reason to be cocky. His inventions are not only top-tier, but they are also very effective. Would he make the person wear something that says he's the best? Uh, no, He prefers for them to basically tell the world verbally. And if he wanted them to showcase his works, he would want the entire public to see them. This is why his inventions typically have a small portion that has his color schemes, so people can recognize his inventions.
Pairing: Caleb (LADS) x reader
Warnings: None besides slight angst
AN: Just me starting to create content for LADS cause its an addiction now.
Caleb has always loved you from the very beginning. Of course, it was more so a love that was pure and innocent. The kind of love where he would give up the things he liked for you to enjoy. The type of love where he can’t help but want to do anything to make you feel better when you’re down. The kind of love where he just wants to be that constant and unmovable pillar in your life.
This beautiful love was a constant in both of your lives. But the moment it changed to something more was during late middle school almost transferring to high school. Something in his mind shifted in a different direction. Now, the way you two laugh together, it wouldn’t just end in small smiles. Instead, Caleb would sit there, eyes going out of focus as he had a small smile on his face. Rewinding the way your eyes crinkled and how beautiful your smile was. He would think about how happy it made him knowing he was the reason you’re laughing. He wouldn’t get out of the trance until you waved your hand in front of his face and called his name.
At that moment, he would shake his head. Hand at the back of his neck as he scratched it slowly, goofy grin on his lips. “Sorry, Must’ve gotten stuck.” You playfully scold him for not helping you with your homework like he said he would. Too busy in ‘Lala land’
As they grew up, the feeling grew into small, awkward touches, but it would go straight back to the playfulness that they were used to. Despite growing apart due to age, Caleb is still the one person who knows everything about you. Caleb is truly thankful that he is still in your life, even with the different and difficult career fields you both chose. Regardless of the career you chose, he was always going to support you and always be proud of your triumphs.
Caleb would be a liar if he said the way he felt as a kid had lessened. If anything, they grew stronger. Bolder. Vibrant. If the love he had for you didn’t become anything deeper, he wouldn’t be staring at you so intently as you focus on finishing up some files. He felt his eyes soak up everything about you. From the way you styled your hair for the day, the small ketchup stain at the corner of your lips, the way your eyebrows wrinkled together when you’re focused, the way you would tap your finger occasionally on your desk. The way you would say the words aloud, quietly to yourself, as your eyes scan over the words.
He felt so much comfort in these familiar habits of yours. The same habits that would keep his anxiety away. When everything got to him, he liked the way he could always go to you. He liked the way he could always look back at the memories they created. The multiple pictures and videos of the two of you. He knew just looking at you would make his quickening heartbeat slow down significantly. You were that pillar for him. That tough rock that refused to leave. And he will be forever grateful to have known you.
pairings: yandere! clark kent x spiderman! gn! reader
tw/cw: yandere, stalking. just. creepy clark kent. more yun dream ideas that make no sense cause dreams.
You’re Spider-Man.
And in your world, that means secrets. Balance. Half-truths that hang on your tongue at work while your ribs still ache from last night’s alley brawl. You keep your head down. You do the job. You make your jokes.
You survive.
Which is why you noticed when Clark Kent started hovering.
It began on a rainy morning in July.
You barely made it to the office on time—swinging through the rain, damp web cartridges sticking, everything smelling faintly of ozone and wet concrete. You parked your car in the underground garage, your “normal” lot flooded over.
You didn’t tell anyone about the switch.
So when Clark Kent, the government liaison-slash-journalist-whatever from upstairs, appeared beside your desk with a coffee and said—
“You parked under the building today, right? Usually you’re outside, near the maple tree. But rain’s been awful, huh?”
—you froze.
He set the coffee down. Your exact order.
You tried to laugh it off. “How’d you know?”
He smiled. Kind. Harmless. A little too long. Didn’t answer.
You felt a tingle at the base of your skull—your spider-sense. Not the screaming kind. Just… a pulse. A ripple.
“Thanks,” you said quickly. “Really nice of you.”
He nodded and walked off without another word.
You stared at the cup for a full minute before pushing your chair back and standing.
Nope. Nope.
You walked down the hallway and gave the coffee away to someone else—Brian from Facilities, who accepted it with a raised brow and a shrug. “Sure, free caffeine.”
Later, when you returned from a bathroom break, there was a note on your desk.
Folded neatly. No name. Just sitting there like it belonged.
You opened it.
Not your handwriting. No name signed. Just words written:
“You’re not as hidden as you think.”
Your breath caught. Your hand moved on its own.
You grabbed a pen and began writing in frantic, looping lines:
this isn’t my handwriting this isn’t my handwriting this isn’t my handwriting—
The pressure in your skull built. And then you heard it. Shoes scuffing the carpet behind you. Too quiet. Too intentional.
Your spider-sense flared.
You turned—
Clark Kent stood behind you. Closer than he should be. He stared at the note. You tried to fold it, but he reached for it without asking. Slow, casual.
You snatched it back. Your reflexes were faster than they should be—inhuman. But he didn’t seem surprised.
Just watched you with calm, unreadable eyes.
“That wasn’t meant to upset you,” he said softly.
“Then what was it meant to do?” you shot back, throat dry.
He smiled again. Small. Patient. “You’re interesting. Most people aren’t.”
You stared. “You barely know me.”
“Mm,” he hummed, tilting his head. “Do I?”
That was it. No threats. No open admissions. Just that.
You left early that day.
After that, it escalated.
Nothing direct. Nothing you could report without sounding paranoid.
Just Clark.
Watching.
He always seemed to know where you were in the building. You’d spot him in reflections, catch him stepping out of elevators just as you entered. Once, you left a meeting room, and he was already in the hallway—leaning casually against the wall like he’d been there.
“I was just passing through,” he said.
You weren’t sure he even had clearance for that floor.
He always smiled. Always polite. Never touched you. Never raised his voice.
But your spider-sense kept whispering wrong every time he got too close.
And yet, he never blinked when your reflexes kicked in. Never looked surprised when you dodged a falling tray without looking. It was like—he already knew.
Knew something.
About you.
One day, you found another note, tucked under your keyboard.
This one just said:
“We should talk sometime. You don’t have to keep pretending.”
No name. No initials. Just that.
You threw it away.
That night, swinging between rooftops to blow off steam, you caught a glint of something high above the skyline. A figure too fast to track. Hovering just for a moment. Then gone.
You didn’t sleep.
The thing is—
You know what real danger feels like. You’ve fought monsters. Madmen. Symbiotes and cyborgs. You’ve bled for people who will never know your name.
But Clark Kent?
He scares you in a way none of them ever did. Not because he’s strong. Not because he’s loud.
But because he watches. Because he waits. And because somehow,
Summary: After getting to know you, the newest member of the 141, Simon "Ghost" Riley and Johnny "Soap" MacTavish realize that they want you. However, will the two be successful in reeling you in?
Tags: Ghoap x Fem!POC!Reader; Reader is a Soldier; Angst; Miscommunication/Lack of Communication; Insinuated Infidelity; In-World Typical Violence; Bad Military Representation; more as the story progresses
It’s not that Tomura Shigaraki thought the base of the once-great–he tucks the once into his molars, savoring it–Shie Hassaikai would be teeming with life. It’s that he thought some of them might have the balls to stick around and fight for the remnants of their organization.
But they must have been paying real-fucking-close attention, because there wasn’t a trace of a living person left in the entire facility. Which was a shame–while killing some stupid underlings wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying as destroying the hands of a fear-stricken Overhaul, it would still be a little fun.
Well. At least the rest of the League seemed to be having a decent time sifting through the hallways, the abandoned rooms. Finding things to take home or mock or both.
The sights of overturned chairs and abandoned posts both sickened and thrilled him. Sickened because, really, what unloyal douchebags. Thrilled because it meant they were afraid–afraid of the League. Afraid of him.
They should be. It was only a matter of time before everyone else was, too.
Most of the rooms are what they expected, minus any signs of existing life. There’s even some kind of hospital lab–what did that creepy asshole do in there, he wonders–amidst the various bunkers, a kitchen, odds and ends.
Still, there’s one room Shigaraki wants to find–wants to sift through himself, in case there’s anything worthwhile. More money would be nice. More vials, more secrets. More, simply put.
“Think I found it.” Dabi stares at a door that’s so irritatingly obviously the door that Shigaraki doesn’t hesitate to shove his palm against it, watching it crumble into dust with something a bit like satisfaction.
Unlike the other doors, plain grey things, this door was a sleek black metal. Probably with some fancy lock system that didn’t matter anymore.
And unlike the other rooms with their scattered papers and overturned chairs, with signs of messy life and abandonment, this room is really fucking perfect. Prim. Proper. Utterly disgusting, really, and Shigaraki is the first one to step in and sweep his hand across a side table lined with perfectly spaced vases and send them crashing to the floor.
Lovely.
“Don’t take anything yet,” he says, glancing at the others. “But tell me if you find something worthwhile.”
There’s murmurs of agreement that mingle with a general sense of curiosity. He soaks in the feeling in the air–the triumph. The thrill of victory thrumming through everyone’s chests, no doubt, the same way it’s making his whole body tingle.
Overhaul’s room is just as annoying as he is; it’s entirely expected. Immaculate. Through an open doorway, he can see a bedroom with perfectly pressed black sheets. No doubt in the closet were equally perfectly pressed clothing sets. Fucker probably had perfectly shined shoes, too.
It’s all too satisfying to plop down in Overhaul’s chair and stick his boots, dirt and mud and blood flecking off the soles, onto the meticulously organized desk. There’s probably something important on there, but Shigaraki doesn’t mind if it’s got dirt (or a boot print) on it for later.
“What’s this door for, do you think?” Toga pokes–literally–at a closed door on the side of the room.
In the beats of silence after her question, Shigaraki hears it–they all hear it: sound. From behind the door. Shuffling and scuttling. Footsteps–
Someone’s still here.
There’s a curling little thrill inside his stomach as he stands and makes his way to the door. Toga is mid-way asking about looking for the key inside Overhaul’s desk when Shigaraki places his palm on the wood and disintegrates it with his hands.
He expected an underling’s office. Maybe a second-in-command that had yet to show his face, stationed in some side office next to Overhaul. Probably someone just as organized, by choice or by command.
He doesn’t expect a bedroom. Not just a bedroom, actually, but one that is so clearly not Overhaul’s living space that it’s a bit disorienting. Sure, it’s got that same sort of annoying tidiness as Overhaul’s office and the glimpse of his bedroom.
But it’s… prettier. Softer. Touches here and there, that place it distinctly away from Overhaul himself. A soft pink comforter with matching pillows. Watercolor paintings taped to the wall. A bookshelf with spines that he vaguely recognizes–some light novels and mangas, fantasies, romances, all pinks and pastels.
And in the center of the room, a table with some scattered papers, an overturned chair…
Like someone had heard they were coming and bolted.
There’s only one place for someone to go, and that’s the only other door remaining in the room. He gestures for the rest of the League to stand by as he watches the door turn to ash.
Behind the door is a bathroom, immaculately cleaned, with a toilet room and then beyond it, a room with a tub–and inside that tub, no doubt bleach-cleaned like mad, is you.
Cowering, of course. Wearing a pretty white dress with pink flowers embroidered all over it–you’re all flounces and frills. Even from the doorway, he can see you trembling, can see your eyes all wide, pupils blown in fear.
Staring at him like a victim, like a doe. Like some pretty little thing in way over your head.
And you are, aren’t you? You’re like some fish all flopped out of the water, gasping for breath on the sand.
It’s irritating, really.
“Who are you?” He asks, none too nicely.
He sees your lips press together, and thinks, all instinct: haughty bitch.
But then he reconsiders. The pieces are put together link by link. A pretty little thing kept in a room adjacent to Overhaul’s private office, wearing nice clothes, given nice things…
“You’re Overhaul’s squeeze?”
You furrow your eyebrows, like you’re thinking way too hard. He might add “stupid” to his list of descriptors–doe, sweet, scared. Stupid.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Oh, you are sweet. You’ve got a soft, trembling voice to match your shaking form.
“His girlfriend,” Dabi drawls from behind them. The rest of the League is watching, craning their necks, eager (or indifferent) to see where this goes.
“No,” you say, then seemingly correct yourself. “Y-Yes. I… we’re…” Everything seems to confuse you, and you pull your arms tight across your chest. “Where… is he?”
Shigaraki doesn’t hide his grin. “Oh, he’s a little tied up at the moment.”
And then, odd thing you apparently are, you take a breath in. Almost in relief, he thinks. You stand up and take an unsteady step out of the tub–he finds that he likes that. Likes the way you try to straighten up a little, despite being unable to look him in the eye.
“When is he coming back?” You keep looking to the side, and tuck a bit of hair behind your ear. “Did he send you?”
Shigaraki’s lips twitches. “You ask too many questions.”
You fiddle with the hem of your dress, then. And he finds he likes that, too. Likes the way you look like some sort of bizarre doll in this bunker of Overhaul’s, some little treat he left behind.
And left behind you were–because there’s no way in hell Overhaul will be able to get you out of here himself.
“He won’t be coming back,” Shigaraki says, easily enough. “Ever.”
And oh, you finally look right at him and what is this? Something that looks like joy in your eyes.
Shit, maybe you aren’t as annoying as you seem.
“Then I…” You swallow, and there’s a crack of a smile on your lips. “I can go home now?”
Go home? Ah. Another piece clicks together. Not a girlfriend, then. A toy; a kidnapped one, anyway. Overhaul wouldn’t be the first creep to resort to kidnapping to get a partner.
“He kidnapped you?” There’s no pity in his tone, and he hopes you aren’t looking for it, because you won’t find it with him. He just wants the confirmation.
You nod, looking down at the floor again. “Yes. Um. And he… I’ve been kept here a while, so…”
While your words drift away, his mind drifts, thinking of the souvenirs from this bunker that the League’s got stuffed in their bags. Remnants of Overhaul’s reign. He ought to take something besides that fucker’s hands.
And aren’t you the perfect trophy? Some doll that Overhaul wanted and took, kept here in this stuffy bunker. You probably haven’t even seen sunlight in ages. All pretty and soft and maybe stupid, by choice or force.
Why not? He’s earned it. He has a right to anything that shitbag left behind.
Even you–especially you, with your trembling hands and flouncy dress. He thinks about the watercolors on the walls and wonders what happened if you got paint on this dress, or any other; Overhaul probably kept you in the same types of frilly things day after day.
He might, too. Or not. He doesn’t even know what he wants with you, really. He might have fun with you, might just let you go, might just keep you until you’re boring. It doesn’t matter. There’s no sense in plotting so far ahead when the real thrill is in the act of taking what he wants. And right now, in this moment, he finds that he wants you.
It’s Shigaraki’s turn to crack a smile, but there’s not much joy to be found in it.
“How would you like to live somewhere else?”
It is, of course, a rhetorical question.
–
What happened in between? You can’t be too sure; the memories are all blurs and fogs, snatches of conversation–a girl complimenting your dress and someone asking if you had any injuries, if he hurt you–and overwhelming noise.
It was easy to forget how quiet your life had been, when confronted with the outside world.
Maybe that’s why it’s all fuzzy. Your mind or your body or both went into some sort of shock, maybe, in between the bathroom to the truck to the–wherever this is. Not a bunker, exactly, like where Overhaul kept you.
It’s a bedroom, that seems obvious enough. A messy one. The man–Shigaraki Tomura, he’d told you–dumped you in here and said simply, “Don’t do anything stupid,” before leaving. The door is surely locked, though you don’t have the nerve to try it. Where would you go, if you were brave enough to run?
It would be stupid, besides, and he told you not to do anything stupid. You’re good at following orders. Well, now you are; it took training. Will this Shigaraki Tomura want to train you? What is he going to do with you, after all?
The question makes you cringe.
“What am I to do with you?” Overhaul–Kai, he insisted–would ask you, when you did something wrong. The question always carried with it the thread of being remade. Literally. The threat of his hands on you and being blown to bits and put together the way he wanted. So you answered his questions by remaking yourself from the inside out; it was gentler, that way.
Overhaul–Kai?--was… gone. Dead, maybe? They didn’t say. Shigaraki told you that he wouldn’t be coming back for you. Someone else in the truck had quipped–”He’s got his hands full”--which made one person snicker, then everyone else laugh. You didn’t know why it was funny, and you didn’t want to know.
Maybe you’ll be bait. Or ransom. Or maybe he wants you to…
On this messy, unfamiliar bed, your fingers begin to pull at the dingy, faded comforter. The threads come out with a bit of work from your fingernails, and it’s satisfying, to yank on them, as you contemplate.
Maybe he wants you to…
You know what villains might do to people they kidnap. You’ve read your romance novels. Though Overhaul took some of them away once he’d realized what they were about. Still. The thought of that is–scary, sending tingles down your back.
Overhaul never touched you like that. Sure, he looked at you sometimes. When you were asleep but when you were awake, too. Told you to stand still and ghosted his fingers just above your nightgown, until he’d pull himself away and scrub his hands raw in the bathroom.
You don’t suppose this Shigaraki Tomura will be squeamish.
As if on cue, the door swings open, and your sort-of-rescuer-but-maybe-also-kidnapper tosses a pre-warmed bowl of noodles on the bed. They bounce against the plastic wrap, and you can see the artificial color sticking to the condensation against the plastic. A pair of chopsticks lands next to the bowl.
“Dinner,” he says, before plopping down on an upholstered chair shoved into the corner of the room. He tears the plastic off his own bowl, and begins to eat unceremoniously.
You scooch back on the mattress, your clean, full skirt feeling dingier by the minute on the mattress. That was dinner? The meals that Overhaul made you come to mind–not just the meals, but the dinner itself.
Dinner was meant to be at 7pm sharp. At your table, which you’d cleaned and cleared. Dinner was meticulously thought out, he told you, each element designed to give you the best nutrition possible. Protein, fat, fiber, carbs; vegetables, lean meat, rice. Sometimes a bit of chopped sweet potato as a treat.
This–this was certainly not appropriate. And to eat it, where exactly? On the mattress? Something tingles in your chest, imagining all the germs seeping into the plastic, settling onto the noodles.
The noodles themselves were a problem, though.
You clear your throat. Shigaraki doesn’t notice. You clear it louder, and he sighs.
“What?”
You poke a finger at the bowl.
“I’m not allowed to eat that.”
As if he should know.
He blinks at you.
“Eat it, or don’t. I don’t care.”
Then he goes back to eating his own meal, and you’re left with something dull inside your chest. It’s not right–the meal. Or the setting. Or any of this, really.
Some part of you, a selfish part, wishes you were back in your bed inside your clean room; wishes that you were still waiting, colored pencils and paper in hand, for him to get back and continue on with your orderly, if captive, existence.
Well, if wishes came true, none of this would have happened in the first place.
You can’t bring yourself to touch the noodles; the thought of them makes your stomach ache. Overhaul (Kai, you remind yourself) would be able to tell you all that was wrong with a meal like that, and you try to envision what he’d say. It becomes too tiring so you simply pull your legs up and wait to find out what this Shigaraki wants.
The answer must come, you think, when he tosses his bowl in the trash bin and shrugs off his coat. It smells of sweat and dust, or is that him?
Without warning, he flops down on the mattress, almost sending you flying off the side. He snickers, and you feel warmth flush your chest as you try to recollect yourself. But even that brief loss of dignity gets lost when you realize what must be coming now.
What villains do, when they take someone away.
Will it hurt? Will it take long? How often will he do it?
He props himself up on his elbow and you can feel him staring at you. Sizing you up, probably. Deciding on how and when he’ll take you. The realization makes your heart begin to race, and cold sweat beads against the back of your neck.
When will he do it? Now? Now?
When you hesitantly glance at him, you can see he is sizing you up–looking at your dress and your socked feet and the way you’ve pulled your knees up to your chest. There’s a flash in your mind of him ripping it off, shoving you down onto the mattress, and then–then.
But it doesn’t happen. He doesn’t move towards you, despite his leering look.
Instead of hovering over you and pinning you down to the mattress, he simply scoffs. Then he sits up and grabs a game controller, turning on a system set-up at the far end of the room.
“Be quiet,” he says, “It’s been a long day, and I don’t want to mess up this level.”
Eventually, as your heart begins to settle, you stare at the cooling bowl of microwaved noodles on the mattress.
Your stomach growls.
But this would make you sick; that’s what Overhaul said.
And he’d done many things to you, but he never lied.
–
Hunger can be overcome. It can be uncomfortable, true; but you’d dealt with it before. During the days when you hadn’t been good enough yet, and Overhaul refused you anything but water, until you’d given in and behaved yourself.
So it’s not the growing hunger that’s bothering you now, as the day wears on and it must surely be nighttime.
It’s the sleepiness.
Hunger can be ignored–but this? It’s hard to ignore the way your head is starting to slap hard against your knees as you begin to micronap, unable to keep awake no matter how many times you pinch your flesh.
It’s not a gesture you’ve had to do in so long–bedtime was, well. Bedtime. A set time with set things to do, all designed–or so Kai told you–to get you the best possible sleep so your body could rest and heal. (Heal from what, he never said.)
So sitting on a mattress and feeling your body jerk in desperation as it tries to get some sleep is something new. Something difficult.
If this Shigaraki Tomura notices, he doesn’t say anything. His eyes are glued to the news, a grin on his face, his palm slapping his thigh at the action.
The news has him enthralled, so your fights to stay awake are probably not even on his radar. Which means you’ll have to bring it up yourself–that question that’s been pulling at you since you realized it must be well past afternoon and into the night.
“Excuse me…” You say, voice hoarse. You clear it, then realize you don’t know exactly what to call him. He gave his name, but that didn’t mean you were supposed to use it. So when you continue, you err on the side of caution. “Excuse me, sir?”
At this, he finally seems to remember that you’re in the room. He waves a hand at you, vague irritation crossing his features. “Just call me Shigaraki.” Instantly, his gaze turns back to the TV.
Your tongue feels heavy as you swallow. “Oh. I’m sorry. Um. Shigaraki?”
You can see him push his tongue against the side of his cheek, his eyes still not leaving the TV. There’s some sort of press conference footage playing, though you can’t quite focus on the words.
“What?” he says, almost a grumble. “Don’t ask for something to eat. I already gave you dinner. Eat it cold, if you’re hungry.”
Oh, that. You’d set the bowl on the floor once you’d decided that it was best not to eat. It would have been awful if it got knocked over and the sauce seeped through the plastic rim, after all. Although given the status of the mattress, maybe it was generous to care about additional stains.
“It’s not–” Your voice is too soft, in this room, with the mess and the TV. You try to speak up, something you haven’t done in so long. “I was just wondering, that is, I wanted to know…” Directly asking things is no longer in your nature, and your fingers find themselves playing with the hem of your skirt.
The sound from the TV stops abruptly, and you flinch. He’s muted it. He turns fully to you now, irritation written on his face. “Can you just spit it out already?”
A shuddering breath escapes your chest as you force the question out: “I just–I wanted to know, what time am I going to bed?”
You do not ask the rest, though surely it must be a given: What time are you going to bathe me, what nightgown would you like me to wear, do you prefer to brush my teeth for me or can I do it myself, am I sleeping on your bed or somewhere else?
He blinks at you, not for the first time today. “Whenever you bother to fall asleep.” The words come out slow, like you’re some inept child.
You’re starting to feel like one. Because the words hit you, the way he intends them, all hurtful and condescending. But you can’t make sense of them. Go to bed whenever? Without anything to prepare you? It doesn’t register–you don’t know what he means.
And you tell him so, as plainly as you can:
“I don’t understand.”
He rolls his eyes, and a pit inside your stomach seems to open up, tossing each irritated expression into it and making you feel worse.
“What’s there to understand?” He waves at the mattress. “Pick a side and go to sleep. Or don’t. I don’t really care.”
He turns back to the TV, clearly not interested in any further conversation, and turns the sound back on. Without so much as an order or command or at the very least, an expectation from you.
What a strange man. What a strange place. What a strange world.
There is, at first, a temptation to tell him. To explain what your needs are–why you can’t simply go to sleep. But then come the thoughts about punishment. He’d already gotten annoyed with you for simply asking. What would he do if you, bold thing, insisted on it?
And so, on this new first day of what is apparently the rest of your life, you’re left to curl up on the farthest edge of the mattress and squeeze your eyes shut. There’s a headache lingering at the back of your forehead, and hunger in your stomach, and it’s all so wrong.
If Kai were here–and he’s not, and you can’t deny that you don’t hate that fact even as your mind jolts from the strange turnabout the day has taken–this wouldn’t be happening. But this new one… this Shigaraki, maybe it’s too much to expect from him right now.
He just took you, after all, and it sounds like whatever group he belongs to was involved in something major today. A long day–a hard day. So he must still be thinking on the rules, how to properly manage you.
You need to be managed, after all. That is one thing you learned from Kai.
It’s surprising to you that you’re even able to fall asleep without everything that ought to be done. Without the ritual of the bath, without being handed your nightgown while Kai turns around and swears he won’t look, without your hair being tended to, without being tucked into bed…
Exhaustion doesn’t seem to care about rituals.
So sleep, you do; and when it takes you, it takes you hard, dragging you into a heavy slumber while the TV plays on.
–
When you wake up, it’s morning–and you are alone.
There’s a bright light streaming in through the windows and it’s a wonder you can stand up at all, with your muscles aching and the world itself feeling topsy turvy, as you fumble for the shabby curtains with one hand over your eyes. They rip a little as you yank them over the window, but at least you don’t feel blinded now.
There hadn’t been windows, before; in the bunker, that is. With Overhaul–with Kai. Just the overhead lights at first, and then eventually, a pretty lamp with a soft lilac-colored shade. A gift, for behaving; for being trustworthy enough to control your own light. It was nice to be able to turn on the light when you had to pee in the middle of the night, at least.
There are no lilac lamps here. Only an overhead light that, when you peer closely, appears to have a smattering of dead flies resting inside the lamp shade. The thought brings bile to your empty stomach, and it growls in retaliation.
You hadn’t eaten in… was it almost two days, now?
Maybe Shigaraki was getting your breakfast. That seemed right–that he’d sleep off yesterday’s havoc and spend the morning organizing his rules for you. What you should eat, and wear, and your schedule.
But what should you do in the meantime?
You stand, stretching your worn-out muscles, and take stock of the room he’s placed you in. It’s not clean, that’s for sure. Messy, to say the least. Used clothes and food wrappers are strewn about, and the whole room has a terrible sense of neglect.
If your room isn’t clean, how could you hope to get anything done?
Kai had told you that, when you argued about his expectations for your room. Everything ought to be perfectly tidy, he’d said. And after a while, how could you disagree? It only made sense. When your room was organized, your thoughts could be organized. When your thoughts were organized, everything else simply fell into place.
And maybe–maybe that’s the trick, here. Shigaraki left you alone in the morning, because he wanted to see what you’d do. Wanted to see if you’d pick up on a classic rule–keep things clean and tidy–without being told.
Before, Kai needed to train you–but now? Now, you knew the game.
A smile, faint and uncertain though it is, crawls across your face.
You’d pass this test with flying colors.
–
He’s still not sure what to do with you. The thought comes to him, faintly and then stronger, as he gets closer and closer to the bedroom where you’re being kept. It’s one thing to take what you’re due, another to decide how to manage it–how to manage you.
It’s a bit like taking in a pet, he realized over the night. You’ve got to be fed and watered and all that. Clothed, if he feels like it. He’s not sure if he does. And if you’re too much trouble, well. It might not be worth the thrill of taking what was once Overhaul’s, in the end.
He almost expects you to still be asleep when he opens the door, but as soon as he steps in, he can see you’re up and about and–
Cleaning?
The room is almost unrecognizable. He doesn’t bother much with tidying. Not when there are far more important things going on. Yet you’ve picked up every bit of trash, folded all the dirty clothes he’s thrown here and there… even made the bed. You clearly haven’t noticed him open the door, because you’re just finishing up the folding, humming a bit to yourself.
He can’t decide if he likes it or not.
“What are you doing?”
You flinch at his sudden words, and there–he likes that; the fear, the flinching, it’s familiar. He can work with it. He deepens his frown, just to see what you do.
You swallow, timidly folding your hands in front of you. All proper and prim.
“I–I thought you wanted me to clean.”
He snorts. He doesn’t know what he wants you to do, exactly, but “tidy up the bedroom” probably wouldn’t be at the top of the list.
“I didn’t tell you to clean.” And maybe it comes out snarkier than he intends to be, but so what? He’s allowed to be an ass, if he wants.
Your hands wring together, and your gaze flits down to the floor.
“But I thought… I thought…” You seem to struggle with the words, your voice getting higher, more anxious. You’re like a bird, he thinks, one afraid to fall from some carefully constructed nest in a tree. There’s an instinct to crush you until those brittle bones break–and another instinct, too. One that makes him want to scratch.
“I thought it was… a test.”
What.
“A test? Are you stupid, or something?”
When you don’t answer, just bring your top teeth over your lip and wring your hands tighter, he can’t help the almost cruel warmth that spreads in his chest. This–this is more familiar territory, he thinks.
He wonders, too, how often Overhaul made you look like that; how often he might want to make you look like that in the future.
“What did that freak do to you, anyway?” Curiosity mixes with his existing annoyance, and it clearly takes a moment for you to realize he’s talking about Overhaul.
“Overh–” You catch the words in your mouth. “Kai,” you say, and the way you say it so sweetly feels rehearsed–and gross. “He didn’t do anything.” You shake your head, like you’ve said something awful. “No! I mean. He did everything.” He watches your throat bob as you swallow. “He taught me how to be better.”
“Better,” he says, the word coming out all slow and sticky and thoroughly unimpressed.
“Yes,” you say, staring down at your feet. Your fingers pick at the hem of your nightgown. “How to be… organized.” You seemingly ignore his snort. “How to be clean. Things like that.”
“Why?” He can’t help the sneer in his voice, even if he’s dimly aware that he’s not fully committed to tearing you down just yet. “Were you a dirty girl?”
You frown and swallow and shake your pretty head. “No, of course not. He made me take a bath or shower twice a day.”
So much for teasing. You’re too stupid–or naive, whether it was natural or beaten into you by Overhaul–to get it, apparently.
He’s not sure how long he stares at you. Long enough that you stop worrying at the floor and start worrying at him, your eyes all wide and anxious and getting glossier by the minute. Soon enough, he’s sure tears will start spilling down.
He stops you before you start sputtering out apologies–and teardrops.
“That’s not what I meant.” A finger goes to his neck, scratching. The white dress, the teary eyes, the way you can’t really keep his gaze… it’s annoying. It’s endearing. Both are equally tiresome.
“You’re giving me a headache,” he says, finally. An end to the conversation, he hopes. Then he digs into the pocket of his coat and tosses its contents at you–a wrapped up egg sandwich someone pilfered a while ago, shoved into the shared fridge and forgotten amidst their recent win. “Here. Breakfast.”
You barely catch the sandwich (your reflexes sure are shit, he thinks; you’d die in the wild) but the way you simply stare down at it, words apparently caught behind your teeth, brings irritation to the forefront again.
“What?” He almost bites the words out. “Not good enough for you?” Maybe Overhaul fed you on silver platters or something equally ridiculous.
Perhaps it’s his tone, or maybe you’re just that eager to get him un-pissed at you, but you manage to unstick your tongue and stumble out something akin to an explanation.
“I’m not allowed to have white bread. It’s too processed.” You turn the sandwich over, inspecting. “And there’s mayo… it’s got too much oil, and–”
“Not allowed.” The word becomes a sneer. “Who are you to tell me what I’m allowed to give you?” Captives–that’s what you are, at bare minimum, at least–aren’t usually so damn bold.
And oh, the way your face seems to fall, the way your mouth perks around your words like a damn heroine in a novel.
“Oh, no. I didn’t mean–it’s that–” The wrapper on the sandwich crinkles as your fingers tighten. It makes his chest tighten, too. How stupid. “It’s not safe. It’ll make me sick. Unhealthy. Kai said so–”
So that’s why you turn up your nose at food? Overhaul, of all fucking people?
“Kai says,” he repeats, mocking your voice, the soft lilt of it, the way each word mimics the pitiful wringing of your hands. “Kai,” he continues, “isn’t here. So who gives a flying fuck what he said?”
He doesn’t wait to see what you say or what you do. He leaves without another word–he’ll relax somewhere else, without you and your pitiful self to think about–and doesn’t see you sink down onto the mattress. He doesn’t see the way you grip the sandwich until your fingers smoosh into the bread.
He doesn’t see the way you eventually, and oh it takes so long, peel back the wrapper and take a small and slow bite.
–
It’s only been a few days, and maybe you’re imagining it, but it seems like your stomach is finally beginning to settle. The food isn’t–it isn’t right, it isn’t healthy. That’s what your brain tells you, what your mouth wants to parrot. But you’re so hungry and–this is what Shigaraki wants you to eat.
So you should do what he says. You think. It’s still debatable, still churning around in your head. Kai taught you what was best, and now you’re here, where what was “best” seems to be entirely pointless.
You’re still digesting a microwaved breakfast that definitely wouldn’t have passed Kai’s examination when the door opens. Shigaraki enters, as he always does, without bothering to acknowledge you.
He’ll probably sit down and eat something for himself. Or start texting someone–the other people in his group, maybe. Sometimes he unwinds with video games. Or naps.
But instead, he approaches you, boots thudding on the hardwood floor. They stop right in front of you and you have just enough time to think about all the germs on the bottom of the soles before he speaks–
“Hey.”
You look up. His face is twisted today, nose screwed over, mouth turned down in a frown. You did something wrong, probably. But what? You ate breakfast, and didn’t even complain about it being wrong today. That was a good step. So what–
“You stink.”
Oh.
Shame curls in your gut with the half-digested breakfast. It’s… true. You haven’t washed for days, and you know you’ve been sweating. Shigaraki doesn’t open the windows and the room isn’t exactly a bastion of fresh air, anyway.
He jerks his thumb at the bathroom door. It’s a far cry from your bathroom back home–back with Overhaul. Messy, dirty; the hand towel hasn’t been changed since you’ve been here. And you doubt that Shigaraki cleans the toilet as nicely as Kai did (well, as Kai’s cleaner did, anyway) so the tub can’t be much better.
Still. Still, it’s what he wants, and that’s what should be done–and it would be nice to get under some hot water and have the sweat and grime and overall feeling of awfulness scrubbed away.
So you dutifully follow him into the bathroom, note a change of clothes that he’s dropped into the open sink, and then–as you should–you stand in front of the tub and wait for him to undress you, so that he can give you a bath.
But instead of ordering your arms up or having you sit on the toilet so he can peel off your socks, he simply turns away and starts to leave.
“Wait–” You can’t stop the word from coming out, can’t stop the way you stupidly reach out a hand.
He does stop. He turns around, face questioning, irritation starting to creep onto his features.
“What?” He tilts his chin towards the tub. “There’s shampoo and soap in there. Some random brand Toga stole. Is it not good enough for your highness, or what?” There’s a bit of a jeer in his tone that makes you want to sink into the floor.
“It’s not that,” you force out. “They’re–they’re fine. It’s just…” And your fingers fiddle with your dress, the fabric feeling more thin and frayed from all your worrying it. “Aren’t you going to draw my bath?”
Because that’s how it goes. Kai draws the bath. Kai undresses you. Kai tests the water, and tells you to get in. Then he cleans you or, if you’ve been exceptionally good, lets you do it yourself while he gives the orders.
The jeer in his tone becomes a snort, an almost sneer on his lips. “You really are a princess, you know that? You can draw it yourself. You’re not that stupid.”
And oh, the way your heart pounds. He’s upset, and you’re upset, and you’re not sure if it’s because he’s throwing away the natural order of things or if it’s because you’d like him to be nicer to you.
“I’m sorry.” The words feel too loud, in the bathroom, trapped in the small space with you and Shigaraki. “It’s that–Kai says I don’t clean myself up right. So he does it for me. Tells–tells me what to do, if he doesn’t scrub me himself.”
Your fingers clench hard against your fists–and then harder, when you see the emotions registering on Shigaraki’s face. One emotion in particular–disgust. Disgust, yes, and it makes you feel awful. Makes you feel dirty and stupid, and everything Kai said you were, when you hadn’t yet listened. You can’t look at his expression anymore, so you stare at the floor. At your socked feet, at the dirt between the tiles.
It’s the floor that you see when you hear him sigh, when he steps further into the bathroom and practically pushes past you to turn the water on.
Your heart speeds up–is he going to?--but as if he’s read your mind, he crosses his arms. “I’m just filling the tub for you. You can wash yourself. You remember how to do that, right?” And maybe it’s the way the question seems earnest, no longer weighted down with a mocking tone, that makes you feel better. Not stupid–not dirty.
So you nod, and smile–just a little. Just to show your appreciation.
“Good.” He grabs something–a towel–from a hook on the wall and tosses it at you. He glances away when he speaks, and you’re not sure if you’re imagining it, or if there’s really a faint hint of a flush on his cheeks. “Just… shout out when you’re done and I can help you out or whatever. If you need me to.”
He glances back at the tub, filling rapidly with hot water.
As if to burn away the flush on his cheeks, his voice turns jeering again. “I’ll leave once I turn it off. Don’t take forever in here, either, princess.”
Jeering, sure; but with something nicer mixed in, something like a flush underneath it all that makes your skin tingle.
Maybe Shigaraki wasn’t so bad after all.
–
Overhaul had clearly trained you and fucking hell, you really need to be untrained.
It’s this simple fact that helps Shigaraki decide what to do with you–that is, he’s going to keep you.
Dropping you outside would be like putting some pampered house pet on the streets–you’d be gobbled up. And if you happened to go to the police before you were snatched up by some back-alley criminal, it would complicate things, anyway.
Besides–you’re… endearing. In a way. He likes the way you ask for his permission, likes the way you stammer and stumble over your words when you get anxious.
You’re like a pet. A pet project, that’s what you’ll be. He’ll untrain all the weird fucked up things that Overhaul taught you, and make you into something better.
Overhaul had his kinks, that’s for sure. And while he’s not going to deny that there’s something really fucking hot about imagining you being his mindless doll, letting him bathe you and eating exactly what you’re told and waiting for him to come home in a pretty white dress… it’s simply not very fun.
Or practical, truth be told.
And more importantly–
He wants you to be his in the right way. He’s not some replacement for Overhaul, some step-in that you’ll simply pivot to because he’s there.
Sloppy seconds aren’t his style.
Overhaul is nothing now, a useless, handless fuckup who will rot away and forever regret tangling with him. You should forget about him, forget about what he taught you, how things were with Overhaul. (He makes a mental note: Train you to stop saying ‘Kai,’ especially so damn softly, so damn sweetly. Something Overhaul meticulously taught you to do, no doubt.)
In the end, Shigaraki is better than that failure–so you need to be better than the pet Overhaul created, too.
–
It’s not exactly clear why Shigaraki wants to keep you–but he does keep you. And he gives you something Overhaul had taken away from you: he gives you choice.
So much choice. Too much choice, maybe. Foods aren’t off-limits anymore, and Shigaraki doesn’t scold you for any awful table manners. Maybe because you never eat at a table. You’re allowed to watch TV, and even tentatively take up an extra controller to try (and fail) at the video game he’s currently playing.
He even–and it’s got your stomach in knots, as you make your way down the hall–lets you out of the room. To get some air and, today, meet other people. You’re meeting the League, the people you met (so to speak) on the day Shigaraki took you.
“It’ll be better if you get to know everyone,” he says, almost muttering. “In case someone needs to keep an eye on you while I’m gone for a while.”
The thought of Shigaraki leaving you for that long, too long, almost makes you feel sick, but you try to force it away.
“But you won’t be somewhere else too often, will you?” The question comes out too soft. Something else you’re working on; he told you to talk louder. Less like a rabbit, more like yourself. Whoever you were before all this.
Shigaraki glances back at you, something unreadable in his expression. Did you say something wrong, or not? You’re almost bold enough to ask, when he simply snorts and turns around, gesturing for you to enter an open doorway where you can hear chatter already sifting through.
But you stop at the threshold. At the sound, at the thought of being amongst a group of people. Eating whatever you wanted was one thing; but talking to a whole gaggle of others?
“Are you sure…” The words are soft, but you can’t help it. It’s easier to slip back into that place from before; to be soft and quiet and let someone else take over everything for you. “Are you sure you want to let me talk to other people? Wouldn’t it be better if I only talked to you?”
And now, you did say something wrong, because his expression twists. His nose scrunches and his lip curls up, like he’s thinking about something unpleasant. “No,” he says. “That’d be weird.”
“Oh.” Something dull hits your stomach. Embarrassment and disappointment, a terrible mixture. “Sorry.” You swallow, and add, quickly. “I don’t want to be weird.”
“Too late.”
The two of you turn your head inside the doorway in time to see someone with a burnt face and dark hair watching you, arms folded, a teasing grin on his face.
It is also just in time to see a young girl playfully smack the air next to his arm–”Dabi, don’t be a jerk! She’s not weird, she’s cute!”
There’s barely any time to decide if this is a compliment or not, before Dabi–that must be the man with the burnt face, after all–shrugs and grins. “Sorry,” but he doesn’t sound sorry in the least. The fact that the grin is edged by staples doesn’t help.
The rest of the group is sprawled about the room. On a sofa, on the floor. There’s a card game going on. Drinks on the table, along with takeout. The room looks like it was once some sort of office break room, complete with a microwave and dinged-up fridge.
The conversations that must have been going on are silent now, and you’re left standing awkwardly next to Shigaraki in the doorway. He nudges you forward, then takes a step out the door. There’s a strong urge to grab his sleeve and ask if you can go back to the room, but he begins walking down the hallway and doesn’t give you the chance.
“Um,” you say, and his footsteps in the hall stop for a moment. “Nice to… meet you?”
There’s a moment before there’s a burst of laughter, and the girl–Toga, you’ll learn later–grabs your hand and pulls you inside the room.
–
That night, Shigaraki climbs into bed with you and instead of turning over and keeping to his side of the mattress, he slots himself against your back for the first time.
The freeze response comes naturally, as your heart speeds up and your breath seems to slow down. Overhaul did this, too. When he thought you were sleeping, though.
Shigaraki knows you’re up and his fingers, pinky jutting to the side, ghost over your clothed side, caressing your hip. His fingers skitter underneath your shirt and rest against your stomach, before trailing up, bringing the fabric with it.
He cups your chest and you think the sound you make must startle him, because he pulls away without a word. But if he’s mad, he doesn’t tell you. Instead he stays pressed against your back, breathing.
Why was he still in bed?
“Don’t–” And you stutter out the next words quickly, because you’re not telling him to stop touching you. You wouldn’t dare. But– “Don’t you… want to wash your hands now?”
Something between irritation and curiosity lodges itself in his tone. “Why would I wash my hands?”
You lick your lips, and fight the urge to turn around in bed and look at him while you speak. Sometimes, when you told him about–Overhaul–the disdainful expressions he made stirred something awful in your gut. Made you feel ashamed and silly. He didn’t mean to do it, you think; but that didn’t change how you felt.
“Overhaul… when he touched me like this, he always washed his hands in the bathroom after. For a long time. Because–” The word Overhaul would mutter over and over come back, like acid rain pattering on the roof. “I’m dirty.”
You don’t want to look at him, but you don’t get a choice, because he grips both of your shoulders and lifts you up, until the two of you are sitting with your backs against the wall. The curtains are open and the moonlight washes everything out, but you can see him frowning well enough.
“You’re not dirty,” he says. “Stop saying stupid things.”
“Sorry,” you murmur, but you don’t feel sorry at all. Instead you feel–relieved. Lightened.
He frowns. “And stop saying sorry, too.”
“Right. Sorry–”
You stop with a breath left in the word and in a single beat, the two of you burst into laughter.
That’s when you lean forward and kiss him, smashing your lips against his in a brief moment before he pushes you off.
Humiliation stings your chest and you almost start crying in an instant. The world before and the world today blur into one awful moment and you apologize for things you’re not even sure about. “I’m sorry, that was–stupid. I’m awful, I’m bad, I won’t do it again-”
“Shut up. You will do it again.”
Oh. What?
You blink up at him, stupidly, yes, but it’s a nice kind of stupid. The syrupy kind that only gets sweeter when his hand grips your chin and pulls you in. You don’t fight.
This time, he kisses you. His lips are chapped and so are yours, and your mouth opens awkwardly to let his tongue in. It feels wrong and right and for once, there’s nothing old that dredges itself up with the action. No ghost of Overhaul over your shoulder, no commands, no flashbacks to being locked in closets–
Just you and Shigaraki on his bed in the middle of the night, kissing.
–
You can be annoying. Too meak, too unsure; wanting him to guide you and taking too long when he tries to give direction.
You’re a burden, that’s for damn sure, but oh, he doesn’t want to let you go.
The thoughts of releasing you on the streets seem so dim now.
They faded every time you stumbled through eating food that wasn’t perfect by Overhaul’s stupid standards, every time you looked like a deer in headlights at the prospect of washing yourself, every time you suddenly got the ick at his room and scrubbed yourself raw until he stopped you…
You wanted to be better, though–better for him. That’s what sealed it. Well, that, and that kiss, even though it was mostly teeth the first time. He likes you better for that, he thinks. Because that was you.
You’d once told him that you were afraid Overhaul would remake you, so you remade yourself. And now he’s remaking you. No, that’s the wrong word, isn’t it? He’s unmaking. Undo what Overhaul did and find out what’s underneath, Because what’s underneath–you, the you he’s seeing as he peels away each layer of bullshit–belongs to him.
That’s how it should have been from the beginning. Too bad he didn’t find you first.
–
He’s been gone for longer than usual. Long enough that Toga came in with something to eat and played a round of cards with you. Long enough that daylight came and went and came back again, and the sound of morning birds does nothing but contrast with how groggy you feel.
It was too hard to fall asleep, when your stomach was tied up with worry.
They don’t unravel even when the door opens and he comes in, expression troubled, burdened. You know something about burdens. He smells of sweat and dust, and you long to lift it from him. He’s been… nice, hasn’t he? Nice and kinder, kinder than Overhaul, although his words are often short and he sometimes calls you stupid.
He takes a look at you, at the darkened circles under your eyes and maybe he can see all the thoughts swirling around in your head, and snorts. “Go to bed. You haven’t been sleeping.”
“I can stay up,” you tell him, sitting up straighter on the bed. “To keep you company.”
He pauses, drops his coat on the chair. Something in him seems to soften and harden all at once. A vulnerable question left on the edge of a cliff, waiting to see which wait it will roll. “Why? Why would you want to do that?”
Words don’t come easily to you, even now. “I… like being around you.” It’s more than that, but you don’t know how to say it, how to peel it out from your mouth.
He eyes you with something that might be suspicion. “Don’t lie.”
At this, you stand. It feels better to stand, to be on something like stronger footing. “I’m not. I–I like that you let me do things. You don’t get mad if I eat what I want, or if I read certain books, or watch movies with you…”
He doesn’t respond and maybe it’s not words you need. Maybe it’s this–
Maybe it’s you taking a step forward and gripping his shirt and kissing him, just as awkwardly as the first time. This time, when he pushes you away, he keeps his fingers curled on your shirt. His eyes search yours and you don’t know what your expression is saying, but you try to make it say: You make me feel good and I want to make you feel good, too.
“Get on the mattress,” he tells you, but it doesn’t feel like an order. Maybe you’re sugarcoating it. Maybe not. In the end, you’re okay with it; you’re okay with turning around and crawling onto the mattress, knowing what he wants now.
It’s not how you envisioned it happening with him. You remember what you thought that first day, flashes of him taking you while you struggled and squirmed, pinning you to the bed. A villain in a book that Overhaul took away from your bookshelf.
It’s slower. Slower and maybe not sweet, exactly; but there’s some tenderness there that you can’t explain. Tenderness reflected in both your tired eyes, in the smell of dust clinging to his skin, in the way you cling to him and don’t have to worry that he’ll scrub his hands raw afterward.
Tenderness that makes you forget that Overhaul took you and now he took you, and you’re never sure if you’ll ever be your own person again.
–
When it’s over, he cleans you up. Slow but sure. It’s remarkably soft, but you don’t dare say so; if you did, you think he might push you off the mattress for good measure.
“Shigaraki–” you begin.
“Call me Tomura.” He interrupts.
“Tomura,” you say.
Something about that makes you want to cry, so you bury your head further against his chest and blink the tears away.
Later–not this morning and not for some time–you will think about whether Overhaul would have ever fucked you. What he might have thought about the mess of it all. The sweat and panting, the warm liquid between your legs that was carefully wiped away with a warm washcloth before he hopped back into bed.
For now, all you think about is Shigaraki–no, Tomura–who doesn’t tuck you into bed like you’re some precious doll but instead wraps his leg across your own, keeping you close on the mattress as sleep begins to overtake you.
His hand brushes against your hair as the world begins to turn into a formless buzz.
Ahh!.. Thank you for writing my request!.. and I would love it if you made a NSFW part 2!..
(Can you make it dark as well, please.)
yandere shigaraki x fem reader Part 1
Trigger Warning: Non-Con, Choking, kidnapping,
Your breath was shaky as you stared up at Shigaraki, brows knitted together in unexplainable horror. The crazed smile that appeared widely on his lips made his appearance even more unsettling. Your heart quickened at the sight. "It's going to be okay. I'll show you who the real villains are here." He moved downwards to place a soft kiss on your forehead, his breath making a shiver run down your spine. He stays there for a moment, taking a long breath in, inhaling your scent. His eyebrows scrunched together, what could only be explained as relief or some sort of satisfaction.
"T-Tomura, please, you have to let me go."
His hands caressed your cheek with a foreign gentleness. The smile dropped to stoicism. Unable to read his emotions, you began to feel anxious. What is his next move? Was he going to kill you? Was he going to take your quirk as well? So many thoughts swarmed around your head. Your hands began to get sweaty while they were clasped together. Your breath is becoming shaky and uneven.
It would be a lie if Shigaraki said he was sorry for making you feel this way. But the helpless look in your eyes sent something down to his cock. He held back a groan as he moved in closer. He took the ropes that were used to restrain you to the chair into his hands. You watched as they turned to dust and were dropped to the floor. For a brief moment, you believed you could escape. You swiftly use all the strength you could must to push into Tomura, taking the chance to catch him off guard. He falls back onto the ground with a thud.
With this newfound rush of adrenaline, you jumped to your feet. The door to the warehouse was only a few feet away. You could get away; you would make it out. A smile forms on your face at the mere thought. But before you knew it, you were falling down towards the ground. Your eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "You're never leaving me again." If you could believe it, but once you heard Tomura's voice, all visions of your future turned to darkness. As you were dragged down to the ground by your ankle. You let out a cry in agony as you tried to kick back at his hand.
"I didn't want to do this to you. But you didn't give me a choice." He hisses. Your clothes are beginning to gather dust right before your eyes. He doesn't give you the chance to react before he climbs on top of you to place some fingers onto your breast, massaging them slowly. He pops one into his mouth, a soft groan leaving his lips. "Please, I don't want this." You pleaded with him, voice trembling. Your teeth press down onto your lip, stifling the noises you were about to let out.
Tomura lets your breast out of his mouth with a loud and satisfying pop that reverberated around the room. His eyes scanned over your withering body, falling onto your thighs, which were squeezed together in anticipation. He places a single finger on your shoulder, slowly beginning to move it down your body. He stops at your pussy. Sliding a single finger between your wet folds. He lets out a pleased hum. "You said you didn't want this. But look how wet you are."
His finger enters you, and his pace is slow yet deep. "Come on, let me hear you." His voice was raspy against your ear. His finger began to quicken once you started squirming in his grasp. Your body began to lock up as you felt a familiar sensation creep up on your body. You tensed under him, no longer able to hold back your moans. The noises that left your lips were music to Tomura's ears. His excitement became overbearing.
He lines himself up at your entrance, the irises in his eyes practically blown out of normal proportion. Once he entered you with an impatient force, earning a loud whine to leave your lips. Finally starting to hear some noise from you filling the maniac's ego. The crazed smile found its way back to his face. He began to quicken his speed as he entered and out of you with maniac speed. You clutched onto his arms to keep yourself steady.
Your mouth agape while you shamelessly moaned. Tomura's hands fall onto your ankles, making sure to leave a few fingers out of his hold. Your ankle was moved up towards his chest, the movement somehow making his cock slide even deeper. The added pressure causes a shiver to run down your spine and your back to arch off the floor. "I missed you so much. You're never going to leave me again. I'll never let you go." His words went straight to your core, creating a throbbing sensation that tightened around Tomura's cock. The sudden constraint made Tomura whimper out. His pace quickened, and his hips moved with a messy and sloppy form.
His hips slowed as his cum spurted inside of you. "You're mine," He whispers finally.
Like, tail wagging, ears folded, hips thrusting into the air as he looks up at you with those purple pupp eyes— but he can't mount you no matter how much he wants to. Not when you have him on such a tight leash, at least.
The powerful Colonel reduced to a needy whining pup, on the verge of falling apart on his knees as you idly rub your feet against his leaking tip. It's pathetic— a big wet naughty mutt who has no shame soiling his own pants. I want it so badly 😭😣
(back with a post because I am obsessed with Love and deepspace)
You know what I need right now? A man-eater MC with Caleb or Sylus. Just hear me out...
They are already at your beck and call. Leash and all. They relinquish their control to you. You would never have to repeat yourself more than once with them.
Truly a dog walker, the way you have them on a leash. They both physically and mentally melt when you give them praise.
You just give them a look, and they get whatever you need right before them. As the saying goes, men who yearn are men who earn.
