No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, controlling behaviour, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: The Captain takes it upon himself to change your life.
Characters: Steve Rogers
Note: I am still dizzy her and there but feeling a bit better.
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.
Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.
I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖
You wouldn’t call it doom scrolling. That’s not what this is. You try not to search out the depressing headlines or the studies of the human character assuring you of your race’s inherent flaws. Yet, all those boastful posts about engagements, weddings, and promotions still make you feel crummy.
Jealous? Sure. You don’t have any of those things and it isn’t as if you can hope for as much, either. You’re in a dead-end job, living in cramped apartment with your sister and her irresponsible friend, and your romantic life is next to non-existent; not that you’ve been looking. None of that is meant for you, otherwise, you’d have had some glimmer of interest by now.
It’s like quicksand. Not very quick but it pulls you down lower and lower. Sinking and sinking until all you can see is the muck. There’s no way out now, you’re waist deep in it.
You click under your favourite communities and start a new post. You don’t make many. Mostly you read and judge silently. You’re a lurker. Like in many facets of your life. You watch, you don’t do. But you’ve had a shitty day and you need to just let it out.
Your fingers move as your thoughts boil in your head; your nagging manager, your lazy landlord, and your immature roommates. Nothing ever goes your way. Everyone else has it figured out and you’re just left to rot. You try! You do. Resumes, profiles on friendship apps, online courses; free, of course, it’s all you can afford, but you do try to improve yourself. It just doesn’t work.
You hit ‘post’ and close the lid of your ancient laptop. It’s as thick as a book. The battery doesn’t hold a charge and the fan is as loud as a jet. You fall back onto your bed and look around your tiny room. That’s all you have. This space is as much as you can call your own and not really. You rent it, it can be taken away with one of those red stamped notices.
You yawn and drag yourself up. A whole shift and you didn’t bother to have more than the bland break room coffee spewed from the off-brand pod machine and a couple sticks of gum. Tia got herself sushi before her shift but she can just ask her parents to send her money to cover her Door Dash addiction.
You plod out to the kitchen. Your sister closes the fridge and cracks the tab of a beer can. You’re sure it isn’t her first.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” Shea bobbles her head.
Funny since Donna pretty much hollered at you for interrupting her TV show. You all pitched in on the flat screen yet it’s never your turn with it. You shrug and go to the cupboard. It’s not sushi but the spicy shrimp ramen isn’t too bad...
“You work?” You ask.
“Pfft, no. Didn’t I say I was going to lunch with Mason?”
“Did you?” You take down at bowl. She probably did. You never remember. She’s always got a date or a party or a fall back. If she can’t make rent, she’ll smile a cute guy and get some money.
“He bought me some shoes! You’ll never believe.”
“Right,” you try not to seethe.
You’re scraping the bottom of the barrel. You’re eating sodium-laced noodles and holding back tears against old people wanting to print out their life story from a corrupt PDF. She’s pretty. She doesn’t have to try. Shea is all the proof you need that some people are just lucky.
You put the electric kettle onto boil and the smell of burnt—something makes your lip curl. You pop the lid and look inside. It’s brown. What the hell?
“What’s wrong with this?” You ask as you flip off the switch.
“Donna!” Shea yells, “what did you do to the kettle?” No answer. Your sister hollers again.
A door swings open and Donna stomps out with a huff. Her face is green as she has a mask spread over it and eye masks pasted beneath her lashes.
“I’m getting ready--”
“The kettle stinks,” you reach for a pot and find none. They’re all stacked and waiting to be washed. You snatch one off the top and flip on the faucet.
“Oh, I heated up some bone broth in it. I’m doing a cleanse,” she smirks. “Tasted kinda weird.”
“Bone broth?” You scoff. See. You try, they can’t even clean dishes. “Great.”
“I’m sure it’s fine, just rinse it out,” Shea says.
You scrub the pan and ignore her. You glance up as she slurps noisily from the can. Pre-drinks. Her and Donna are going out. Again. They can afford to because they don’t buy their own drinks. They don’t need to. You went out with them once and paid for all of your own, even though you’d have been happy enough with a single round.
“Have fun,” you dry out the pan and slam it on the burner.
“Jeez, maybe you should loosen up?” Donna chides.
“Yeah, come with us. Dance it out,” Shea drawls.
“No thanks,” you twist the knob and light the burner. “I have work tomorrow.”
“Call innnnn,” Shea insists.
“I can’t,” you sniff and step back to wait for the water to boil.
“Boring,” she chirps.
“Yep, I am,” you cross your arms. Your annoyed. When the go out, you’ll have to clean up this mess. You can’t handle another bout of fruit flies.
You put the noodles in and let them soften. You stir in the oil and powder then retreat to your room with the bowl of boiling cholesterol. You let it cool and put a video on your phone. You don’t want to think.
You eat deliberately. You savour the processed flavouring. You can’t go out sneak a midnight snack; Donna ate all your cookies. You label all your stuff in thick marker and she apparently can’t read.
You hear them leave. They’re loud. They leave the television on. At high volume.
You go out and shut it off. You need to sleep soon. Opening always comes after a late shift. Otherwise, how else would the corporation keep you disempowered.
You open your laptop. You’ll but on some lo-fi while you charge your phone. Heck, the fan is like white noise on its own.
The little red number at the bottom of the page stops you. You left the browser open. Someone actually responded to your post. You click and your stomach drops as you read the first sentence.
‘Sounds like you cause a lot of your own problems. Maybe try some mindful exercises and get out more. You should also consider making some friends.’
You read it over and over. You’re angry. Hurt, too. But most that first thing. You can’t stop from replying.
‘You got all that from me venting? I wasn’t asking for advice. I walk to and from work and I have friends.’
It’s mostly true. You do walk. Most days. And your sister is a friend, isn’t she? By association, so is Donna.
Before you can look up your favourite twelve-hour lo-fi, another notification pops up.
‘Looking at your post history, your diet could use some improvements. More veggies. And walking is a good starting point but you need to increase your endorphins. I’d be happy to send you some helpful guides. They’re easily searchable on the internet. We live in the age of information, you should consider taking advantage of that.’
Wow, what an asshole. He’s smug and obviously better than you. You click on his username and scroll through. Just as you expect. He posts in fitness communities. Not any videos of him but sharing tutorials and recipes for high-protein smoothies and fibre-laced juices. He wouldn’t know flavour if it puked in his mouth.
You his ‘esc’ and go back to your own post; ‘thanks for the advice. Have a good one.;
That’s it. You’re not arguing with some faceless douche on the internet. His response is as quick as the first.
‘A helpful link.’ He hyperlinks the words. ‘You should at least stretch in the morning and go outside on your breaks at work. You might work long shifts but it’s no excuse to be lazy. If you’ve been in that role for so long, you should have more than enough references to move on to something that doesn’t make you miserable.’
You don’t answer. You know if you do, you’ll just embarrass yourself. Judging by the few pics of his real life and his cadence, he’s got everything. He just thinks it’s a matter of mindset. There can’t possibly be anything else which could make things more difficult for people. You just don’t work hard enough. Duh, everyone always says so.
You close out of the page. If he replies again, you’ll block him. Simple as. You put on a lo-fi track and dim the screen. You roll over and tuck into bed. You fall asleep in a ball of stress; you have to wake up, shower, do all that human stuff, then make yourself face another eight hours of hell.
⭐
“I hate working at the fucking copy desk,” you hiss as you take your bag from the cubby in the break room. “Good luck.”
Darcy gives you a look as she sits at one of the tables, waiting for her shift to start. You grit your teeth as you should your purse and grip your jacket tight. You punch your employee number into the clock then head out.
As you march down the aisle of toner, a customer tries to stop you. “I’m off duty.”
“But I need a keyboard.”
You ignore them and keep going.
“I’m going to tell a manager, young lady!”
You don’t care. Besides, why are they looking for a keyboard in the toner aisle. The signs above with the giant letters clearly show that the computer accessories are in the opposite corner.
People are stupid. They might be able to read, technically, but they definitely lack comprehension. Just like Donna who can’t keep her hands off your snacks.
You walk home in a simmer. If you let your temper get away from you, you won’t be able to hold back when you walk into the inevitable shit show waiting for you at home. Shea and Donna hungover, probably having got into more of your sparse groceries, and amidst a brand new mess for you to tidy. You won’t not this time.
You have a mission. Go to your room and don’t come out.
As you enter your building, you find the elevator non-responsive. A tiny post-it is stuck to the doors. ‘Out of Order’. Couldn’t have made something a bit more legible?
You take the stairs. The hallway smells like onion and dirty clothes. You take out your keys as you get to your door, ignoring the rabble coming from the apartment next to yours. Before you can get your key in the slot, the door opens.
“Heyyyy, she’s back,” Shea greets. You blink at her in confusion. Is she already drunk again?
“Starting already?” You ask as you try to get past her.
“Hm, no,” she says tritely, “you have a guest.”
You roll your eyes, “don’t be a bitch, alright?”
“No, really,” she grins. You stop and look her up and down. She isn’t falling apart like usual after a Friday night. Her hair is done, her makeup too, and she’s not in her sweats.
“Is it mom?” You whisper.
She snorts, “you’re stupid. No, it’s your friend. Steve.” She backs up with a shimmy, “I think some people call him Captain.”
You make a face. What?
“Who...”
“Ahem,” a figure appears by the corner of the kitchen counter, “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
You crane to see over Shea’s shoulder. The man behind her is tall. And familiar. Steve Rogers. Your expression contorts as your lashes flutter in confusion.
“Not at all, Stevie,” Shea spins, “I’ll give you two the room. So nice to meet you.”
She squeezes by him and touches his forearm as she does. He doesn’t react. She giggles and flits off. Her door shuts but you can tell that the latch didn’t catch. She’s listening.
“Should we go outside? Get some sun?” He asks.
You glance at him again. You’re lost.
“Do I know you?” You grimace.
“After all day under fluorescent, you should really get out--”
“I-- I’m sorry, can you slow down and explain--”
“Outside. Privately,” he says.
You peek past him then look into the hallway behind you. You search your mind for an explanation. The only place you know him from is the internet or a history book.
“Like I said before, going outside can really help with mood issues.”
You hesitate and your mouth falls open. It can’t be...
“Was that you? Last night?” You shake your head.
“How about I buy you a smoothie?” He offers.
You snap your mouth shut. He can’t be serious. This can’t be real.
just… i know he gets massive character development later on in the manga, but if he had gone down the other path and given into his jealousy i could totally see him becoming a possessive, toxic masculinity ridden POS who has a death grip on his doe-eyed, nympho gf.
he walks behind you in the halls like a doberman, making other dudes who look at you cower with just a glare. everyone knows not to mess with bakugo - no one is stupid enough to think they’d get out with all their limbs un-exploded if they did - and to fuck with you, to talk to you, is fucking with him. bakugo doesn’t like people touching what’s his and you’re the most precious thing he owns.
bakugo is an angry guy, but something about you calms him down. you’re a pretty little thing - light, flirty, sexy - with baby soft skin and a smile that makes his chest tight. everyone wants you. you know it, he knows it, but nonetheless you stick by his side. his pet, his princess. god does it do something for his ego.
when he’s looking into your eyes he sees something good, something sweet that loves him back. he feels a swell of pride in his chest whenever he wraps a hand around your waist and you let him pull you in, or when you don’t fight when he grabs your wrist -burning small warning marks with his quirk - and tells you that you aren’t going out with your friends tonight. you worship him and he protects you. it works.
he wants to hoard you, consume you. he wants your life to be revolved around him and him alone. when he takes you to bed he spends hours between your legs, eating you out like a madman, forcing you to scream his name until your throat goes hoarse. “katsuki! katsuki! katsuki!” well into the small hours of the morning, until he’s positive your mouth knows how to say nothing else and the noise becomes more of a plea for mercy than an aroused encouragement. then he fucks you like an animal, thrusting into you violently, kissing you with tongue and teeth and saliva dripping down your chin, growling that you’re his and you’ll only ever be his.
and you, being the pretty, agreeable bitch you are, of course nod along, digging your fingers into his back as he cores you out.
but ultimately you aren’t surgically attached to him and you do have enough autonomy to leave, which, considering how HORRIBLE he is would probably be something that crosses your mind at least a few times. if you should choose to do that, prepare for his wrath. you can change all your classes, hide behind your friends, stay home all day - it doesn’t matter. bakugo will find you - he’ll break in through your bedroom window if he has too. crawling on top of you, pinning you down to your childhood bed, reminding you with flame dripping from his eyes that he wasn’t fucking lying when he said you’re his. now you’re gonna be good and lay still while he reminds you.
I think another reason why a yandere should take me away and withhold any kind of responsibility is because I nearly set my house on fire, and naturally that wouldn't happen if they were taking care of me
▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.
More at Masterlist
Female Reader
SUMMARY: Keigo hates threatning you - only when necessary.
WARNINGS: Implied Kidnapping; Threats.
AN: Please, reblog and give me feedback.
–
"Hey, c'mon, don't cry..."
He tries, tentatively reaching with a hand but instantly stopping at the abrupt increase of your sobbing.
"Y/n? Babe, pretty please..." he sighs, rubbing his tired eyes, "Let's just go to sleep, yeah? It’s getting late and I have to wake early tomorrow."
"Leave me alone." you howl the words out, as if you're a wounded dog. You feel like one, to be fair. Bunched up in a corner of this huge room, face contorted as you cry ugly tears and snot.
It's only been a week since you were taken from the comfort of your life, and you still can't stop the aching pain that burns your heart whenever you think about it.
During the day, it’s slightly more manageable to pretend that it’s fine, that you’ll eventually escape him, that everything will be fine.
But as soon as the dark cast of the night hits, it’s like all the overwhelming weight of sad reality starts to wear you down.
You’re so tired of him. You just wanna go home and hide underneath the safety of your blankets.
“Babe….”
Keigo sighs once again, leaning back at the adjacent beige wall as he runs his fingers through the blonde hair.
"Hate to ask, but any chance you can speed this up? Not to the part where you relentlessly beg to go home, to which I'll say no - obviously." Keigo says with such normality as if he’s asking you to turn the lights off.
"Also not the part where you cry your pretty eyes out for another 20 minutes, yell shitty things, threaten me, and so goes on…”
You gulp, with a new batch of tears forming as he tilts his head to the side, lips curling into a half-smile as if your despair amuses him.
“... but yes to the part where you finally shut up with the hysteria and we go to bed.”
You tearfully glare at him, indignation flaring up at his nonchalant words.
“I hate you. You kidnapped me!" you continue, half-choking in your own tears, hoping the hatred and anger in your face is enough to show him just how much you hate him. “I hate you!”
Keigo dismissively shrugs his shoulders, despite the new tension in his jaw as he glances at his wrist watch.
“I’m not the bad guy here, babe.”
“You-”
“If I was the bad guy…” he interrupts you, an unpleasant glint in his eyes showing that deep your words didn’t sit right with him. “...right now I’d be punching a hole into your pretty face for being such a brat. Or maybe I’d be ripping your tongue out with my bare hands, so you won’t speak bullshit like that. Maybe you’d like that better?”
Your eyes widen at that, body freezing as fear takes control of you.
For most times Keigo is laid-back and chill, but times like these are the ones that remind you that he’s just as dangerous as a villain is. He could easily hurt or even kill you within seconds, and there was nothing your quirkless ass could do to stop him.
You are at his mercy, much like you’ve always been ever since he took you.
You hate how helpless you feel.
Keigo notices your mortified reaction and walks closer, crouching in front of you.
“Didn’t mean to scare you, babe.” he says with a jovial tone. “But I really need you to behave, ‘kay?”
His hand elevates and he ignores your flinch as he brushes away a few tears.
“Enough with the tears, you’re too pretty to be cryin’ like that.” he smiles, hand lowering to grab your forearm.
He stands up, pulling you with him towards the bed.
▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.
More at Masterlist
SUMMARY: It’s your first Christmas with Bakugo and he makes sure it’s memorable.
WARNINGS: Kidnapped reader; Implied Noncon/Abuse; Minor violence.
AN: Please, reblog and give me feedback 😊 Merry Christmas!
--
There’s a knock on the bathroom door, your name being called less than a moment later.
“One minute!”
Suffocating back the sobs that insist on freeing themselves, your fingers desperately reach to wipe away the warm, sad tears that refuse to stop. You sniff, grabbing a nearby towel to wipe the gross snot that clings to your nose.
Looking in the mirror for a quick check turns out to be a mistake. Deep under eyes circles, runny nose, red puffy eyes - you look awful.
Even more when you compare your ugly crying face with the red and yellow soft cotton Christmas pajamas you’ve been coerced into wearing, the one Bakugo is matching.
Couple pajamas, he had grumbled when giving you the box. Because it’s your first ever Christmas together and he wants it to be memorable. Special.
Special for him yet a nightmare for you.
The last couple days have been hell. Bakugo’s been unbearable to deal with, having taken a week off of the hero duty just so he can spend quality time with you. You fervently wish he hadn’t.
Every moment spent by his side makes you uneasy and anxious, constantly walking on egg-shells as you await for the bomb that Bakugo is to set off.
Truth be told, you don’t want to spend time with him. You simply want nothing to do with him. He has a special way to become abhorrently overwhelming.
Forced to play house with a delusional Pro-Hero isn’t what you want.
You don’t want to wake bunched up in the suffocating embrace of his arms as his thick cock forces itself inside you.
You don’t want to set up the Christmas tree with him, pretending to care every time he asks you where do you want each fucking shiny ornament to be.
You don’t want him to kiss you like you’re his everything - like you’re a happy loving couple that has just assembled their first Christmas tree together.
You don’t want to play the role of a diligent girlfriend that peels off vegetables, sets up the dining table and washes the dishes and yet you do all of these tasks, knowing otherwise you’ll receive nothing but a nasty backhand and a speech on being a ungrateful brat, something that will sour both of your moods for the rest of the day.
You don’t want to-
There’s a harder knock on the door.
“Hey, you died in there or what?”
Tilting your face up, your eyes lock into the ceiling at the same time as you take in a deep breath that does little to calm your nerves. You’re so tired, so fucking exhausted. Can’t even spend five fucking minutes without the asshole hunting you down.
Knowing you have less than 60 seconds till Bakugo gets angry or worried enough to break down the bathroom door, something you’d like to avoid given it’s the only door in the apartment that has a lock, you reluctantly drag your feet to the door.
Bakugo pushes the door forward as soon as you turn the lock open, entering the bathroom as he takes a good look at you, fixing his glare at your red eyes, still moist from your latest crying session.
“What took you so damn long?” his question resembles an accusation, and you don’t miss the way his eyes dart around the bathroom, looking for whatever proof of an imaginary escape plan or so.
“Nothing, was just washing my hands.” you lie, offering a placating smile. Bakugo nods, although distrust is still evident in his face but if there’s one thing you’ve learned is that suspicion is like a second nature to him.
Perhaps you deserve it but now, after almost 7 months after your last failed escape attempt, you’d think you’d been able to earn some trust.
“C’mon, let’s go.”
His hand reaches for yours, hot and firm as he always is, and you follow his lead as he takes you back to the living room. Confusion rattles your mind and you look up at Bakugo as he makes you settle on the couch by his side.
“Hum…” you hesitate, lips parting as the blonde man lays his heavy arm across your shoulders, pulling you closer to him, “...I thought-”
“Huh?” he doesn’t bother looking at you, busy fumbling with the TV’s remote control. He skips movie after movie till he finally settles at one of the Home Alone movies. A Christmas classic, you think.
“I mean, isn’t it past bedtime?” A glance towards the digital watch on the wall reveals it’s five minutes till bedtime. Surprising and shocking at the same time, as never once did he let you - or him - to stay up till this late. “I thought the curfew was nine thirty?”
“Will you shut up and just watch the damn movie?” he snaps. You seal your lips tight after that, face immediately whipped to the front to stare at the cinematic 34-foot TV although you pay little attention to it.
Awkward silence reigns as you watch the movie.
Nostalgia hits you hard as the movie carries on, your mind wandering through old dusty memories. You as a child, watching this exact movie curled in between your parents, laughing your ass off at the on-screen shenanigans. Simpler and happier times.
A dull pain stabs your heart at the thought of your family. How are they coping with the fact that their daughter went missing so many months ago, not even a single clue to her case.
A part of you wonders how Christmas is going to be celebrated back in your home country, if your mom is planning to leave a sock for you in the fireplace, as she always has or if your dad is finally gonna buy that gift you had not to subtly begged for Christmas all those months ago…
Your nails dig deep into the back of your hand, a microscopic attempt to keep the tears from spilling as your eyes begin to burn. You can’t fucking cry - you reprimand yourself - if you cry, Bakugo is gonna be upset. If Bakugo gets upset, then you’ll have to deal with the consequences. And you don’t want that.
“It’s Christmas.” his deep voice breaks out the silence, so random and unexpected you’re not even sure he said anything. He keeps his face straight forward, locked into the screen, even as you’re under the impression that he’s paying as much attention to the movie as you are.
Bakugo sighs, finally looking at you and you don’t like how his red eyes pierce right through you, leaving you helpless and naked under his gaze. Like he can read every single emotion that boils inside you.
“It’s Christmas.” he repeats, voice softening. “First Christmas together, I mean.”
“Yeah.” you stiffly reply.
“Besides, we gotta wait till midnight so you can open your gifts.” he adds, pointing a finger towards the lit up Christmas tree, where some packages wrapped in red paper lay by its base.
A side of you feels curious about them, but another part warns you that nothing good ever comes with Bakugo. When did he ever give you something that is free of restrictions?
“I didn’t get you anything.”
“Huh?”
“I don’t have a gift for you.” you explain.
It’s a silly statement, although evident. You spend all day caged in his heavily-secured apartment with no way of leaving, no matter how much you’ve asked for it, and the few online shopping you’re allowed to do is on Bakugo’s laptop with the blonde man hunched over your shoulder, eagle-eyes following every purchase of yours.
Bakugo shrugs off his broad shoulders, seemingly unbothered.
Lacking the strength to further keep up with the pointless conversation you leave it at that. After a few minutes, the film fails to maintain your interest and soon you start drifting into a calm slumber, eyes drowsily slipping closed and barely aware of when Bakugo re-positions you so that your head lays onto the comfortable muscle of his bicep.
Just a small nap, you sleepily think…
“Hey, wake the hell up.”
There’s an annoying tug at your arm.
“Wake up, it’s time.”
“Hm?”
Opening your eyes proves to be a difficult task with your eyelids awfully heavy. You yawn, sleep coating your features.
Bakugo is no longer sitting by your side, but is bent in front of you, occupying all of your vision field.
“It’s Christmas, already.”
That certainly catches your attention, hands pushing against the couch to leverage you into a standing position.
“Oh.”
The clock marks exactly midnight and you stare at it, empty-minded. For a moment, you believe none of this is real, that you’ve imagined everything.
Any moment now, your family is going to start cheering and hugging you, felicitations and merry christmas’s being thrown around while everyone exchanges their gifts.
Instead, reality hits you like a brick thrown to your face in the form of Bakugo’s squeezing hug, your face being pressed against his toned chest.
“C’mon, let’s open your gifts.” he drags you to the tree, sitting on the wooden floor with his legs crossed as he pulls you into his lap, heavy arms immediately caging you in.
“Start with that one.” Bakugo nudges a box with a rectangular shape to your way.
It’s a bit heavy but as soon as your fingers reach for it, you immediately figure out it’s a book.
As you unwrap the paper from the book, Bakugo squirms and pushes you a bit backwards, so your back meets his brawny chest.
The cover of the book shows him - well, Dynamight portrayed in a comic artstyle.
“Dynamight’s Explosive Adventures”
“It’s a comic book. Part of the new merch.” he slowly says. "Hasn't been released yet, and I warned the jerk editor that it can’t be published until my girl gives it her approval.”
You are surprised to learn how much Bakugo cared about your approval and opinion. A pleasant surprise and warmth rises to your cheeks.
“That’s… really sweet.” you comment as Bakugo gives your neck a small peck.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” he brushes it off, “Just make sure to read that quickly.”
“Okay.” you almost sing the word out. You hesitate for a moment. “Thanks.”
The atmosphere feels strangely lighter, happier. It’s silly to feel like this when it’s something so small, so insignificant.
Still, you can’t stop the little smile that tugs the corners of your lips as you open the remaining presents: a shiny golden hand bracelet that Katsuki immediately fastens it down your wrist, a lip oil collection that you vaguely remember being on your wishlist.
All of them are just nice presents and you wonder if you were being a bit too dramatic about it earlier.
Reaching for the last one, Bakugo practically throws the small box into your hands, his chin resting heavily on your shoulder, his breathing obnoxiously heavy in your ears but you don’t dare to complain.
His arms tighten around your waist for a moment and you wonder if he’s nervous about this one.
You receive your answer soon enough, heart dropping to your stomach as soon as you open the velvet black box, revealing an elegant ring inside.
A diamond encrusted ring band, to be exact. A engagement ring.
No.
Oh God, please no.
All of your jovial carefree behavior vanishes into thin air as Bakugo takes the ring out of the box, slipping it onto your annular finger and you wince when he pushes it down with a brutish strength until the overly small ring finally sits at the base of your finger.
“Mrs. Katsuki Bakugo.” you can practically hear a satisfied grin behind those words.
That's all it takes for the dam that's inside your eyes to burst into miserable pitiful tears. From behind you, Bakugo growls - all traces of relaxation now gone - replaced by anger as he violently tugs your arm behind, forcing your body to face him.
“No. No fucking tears.” his tone is harsh, and he takes it upon himself to swipe his big thumbs against your cheeks, cleaning up the endless fountain of water that your eyes have become.
Your hands weakly attempt to push him away, never meeting success in putting distance between your bodies as he immediately clutches your wrists.
“I…Bakugo, I don’t want to-”
His lips capture your wobbling ones into a fervent, boiling kiss. His palm is large enough to cover the back of your head, stopping you from pulling away from the kiss. You’re trapped under his powerful strength, as you always have. You’re so stupid for fooling yourself into something that was never the reality.
He kisses you with all of his ravenous, destructive passion until you’re nothing more than a limp body, until all signs of pathetic rebellion have left your body but not your mind. Your throat dries when his burning lips move to suck little spots on the sensitive skin of your neck, too many sharp teeth involved.
Your whole body itching to squirm away from him but somehow you manage to stay as immobile as a statue. You can only cry your eyes out. You’re weak, you’re pathetic, you’re-
“You asked ‘bout my gift, right?” his voice booms in your ear and you yelp as Bakugo pushes you down to the floor, crawling on top of you like the dangerous predator he is. His calloused hands already reaching for your pajama pants.
caleb definitely gets off by using his strength on you. it really gives him a kick knowing he's stronger than you, faster than you, that he can manhandle you in whatever position he pleases with little to no strength even needed. whether it's letting you sit on his back while he does pushups or throwing you over one shoulder when you whine about not getting your way, caleb loves the idea of it. even more so when he's got one thick arm wrapped around your throat in a headlock while he pounds you from behind, the soft coo of his voice a stark contrast from the way his cock assaults your poor fluttering cunt, murmuring, "look at you take it like such a good girl, huh? you like it when I get a little rough with you, hm? yeah, you do. I can feel you clenching around me." you can hear the smirk in his voice. "nasty thing."
Yan! SatoSugu x Reader
Sum: You've had the chances, why didn't you take them. In the end you'll always just lose the purest of love.
Last part of: Can my friend join?, This is Love, Right?
** Can be read as standalone fics**
TW: Yandere Behaviors (Obsession, Manipulation, etc), Death of Child Character, Blood, Toxic Relationship Dynamics, Depression, Dubcon, Lactation, Pregnancy themes, SatoSugu, Angst No Comfort. MDNI
WC: 7.7k
A/n: I got supperrr stuck in the loop of editing, so I am just gonna post it, I feel like rereading it after the tenth time. I almost just pressed delete lol. :) enjoy!
It’s all your fault, isn’t it?
You did this to yourself. You should have walked away when the chance was there, when the door was still open, even just a crack. You should have screamed, fought, run—anything to reclaim a sliver of your freedom.
But you didn’t.
You stayed.
Was it the security? The comfort of knowing you’d never struggle to pay bills or scramble to find work? Was it the way Satoru promised, over and over, that you’d never go unloved, never feel the ache of loneliness again?
Or was it something darker? Something you couldn’t quite admit to yourself?
You told yourself it was love. You told yourself you were lucky. How many women could say they had someone who’d give them the world? Someone who, with a flick of his wrist, could bend the rules of life itself to ensure you had everything you could ever need?
So, you stayed.
Even before Suguru became part of the equation, you stayed. You even stayed when Satoru would come home in the dead of night, his footsteps a faint echo through the silent halls before his hands found you. You’d stir from your sleep as he pulled your panties down with barely a word, his breath hot against your neck.
There was no tenderness in those moments, no love—just need. A raw, consuming need he claimed you had to fulfill. And you let him, didn’t you? You let him push inside you with barely any preparation, your body yielding to him because he knew it so well.
Satoru knew the places that made you crumble, the spots where your body quivered, the way your breath hitched when his fingers grazed just right. He knew you better than you knew yourself, didn’t he? His movements were deliberate, practiced, the wet noises filling the room a cruel testament to how thoroughly he’d mastered you.
You’d given him permission. He reminded you of that often, didn’t he? That you’d said yes. That he worked so hard, carried so much, and that this was his right. That he had needs only you could meet.
And you understood. You always understood.
After all, he was the strongest, wasn’t he?
So, you let him use you.
Like a doll.
You’d lay there, staring at the ceiling, as he buried himself to the hilt one last time, his loud groans of release cutting through the stillness. A pathetic little whimper followed, muffled by the darkness, as he spilled himself inside you. And then, as if the act meant nothing, he pressed a sweet kiss to your temple, murmured something soft and indistinct, and rolled over to his side of the bed.
You stayed there, silent and unmoving, the lingering heat of his body beside you doing nothing to warm the cold ache between your thighs.
That’s when the thought would creep in. A sick, unwelcome whisper:
You didn’t even climax.
You hated yourself for thinking it. For letting it matter.
But still, you stayed.
Was it fear that held you there? Or was it hope—a desperate, foolish hope that one-day things would change? That one day, every day would feel like those rare, sweet moments when he pressed teasing kisses against your lips before dragging you out to get sweets. That he’d touch you with love, with the tenderness he so effortlessly showed to others—when he wasn’t breaking them apart piece by piece with that same teasing grin.
And now, looking back, you can’t decide what’s worse: that you didn’t leave when you had the chance…
Or that part of you still doesn’t want to.
You stayed, even when the small arguments started. The little spats about wanting him to open up more, to share pieces of his life with you, the pieces he always kept hidden. Perhaps it was selfish—maybe even naïve—but you wanted to know why he loved you.
Really, truly loved you.
But you never asked.
You saved that question, tucking it away deep into your heart, right alongside the cracks that had already started forming. You told yourself it wasn’t the right time. That maybe he wasn’t ready. That you shouldn’t push. Instead, you focused on the good times, clinging to them like lifelines.
Because they were good, weren’t they?
What other guy would give you the world like Satoru did? What other guy would bring you flowers every week—a different color each time, sometimes traditional, sometimes exotic, but always beautiful? What other guy would shower you with affection so openly, so shamelessly, pressing kisses to your skin, nuzzling into the crook of your neck as though you were the only thing keeping him grounded?
Satoru had told you he loved you. And maybe he did—in a way that wasn’t entirely built on desire, the need to keep you within his grasp, or the insatiable craving to hold you close for the rest of your days.
That’s what you told yourself, anyway.
That’s why you stayed.
Even when Suguru came into the picture—when those dark, calculating eyes lingered on you just a moment too long when his quiet, honeyed words wove themselves into your life like threads binding you to a tapestry you couldn’t escape—you stayed.
You had the choice, didn’t you? You could have said no. You could have walked away.
But you didn’t.
You stayed, and now there was no one else to blame.
So, truly, it is all your fault.
However, your heart’s at fault too, isn’t it? For leaning into Suguru's touches, craving his warmth, even when you knew deep down that he was a cruel and awful man. A man who veiled his darkness in sweetness, wrapping it in gentle words and tender caresses that made you doubt your own truths. He was a master of contradiction—soft hands and sharp edges, honeyed lies hiding an iron grip.
You could have left.
You could have said no to the whole relationship, shut the door before it ever opened.
But you didn’t.
You stayed.
You told yourself that maybe this was the best you could hope for, the best kind of love someone like you deserved. Because it was love, wasn’t it? They loved you. Even if it was conditional. Even if you had to give and give, piece after piece of yourself, just to receive a sliver in return.
Love comes in many forms, after all. And this was love.
Or so you continued to convince yourself.
This is what you deserve. That you should have listened to your gut, back when every touch felt too heavy, too lingering, too much. Back when their words seemed to wrap around you like chains instead of promises. You should have left before the walls around you closed in. Before you realized that leaving wasn’t just difficult—it was dangerous.
You had your chances, didn’t you? If only you’d taken them.
You knew Satoru would tear the world apart to find you if you ran. He’d find you, no matter where you went, no matter how far. But… would he really?
If you’d left early enough, maybe it wouldn’t have been like this. Maybe it would have been nothing more than a bad breakup, a lesson in heartbreak you’d recover from in time. Maybe, if you’d left after Suguru’s return, Satoru would have leaned on him instead of spiraling further into obsession.
But you didn’t leave.
You stayed.
Such a stupid, stupid girl.
And yet…
It was never just about them, was it?
Because you craved love too, just as much as they did. You wanted it desperately—so much that you ignored the warnings in your heart, the creeping dread in your chest. You wanted to be loved, to feel wanted, to belong to someone in a way that was absolute, undeniable, and unshakable.
And that’s exactly what they gave you.
But love like that—it came with a cost.
And you paid for it in silence, in submission, in the pieces of yourself you’d never get back.
So now, here you are, locked away in the beautiful Gojo estate. A place so grand it should feel like a palace, yet it suffocates you like a gilded cage. Every corner gleams with wealth and power, every surface reflects the life you’re supposed to be grateful for.
The maids don’t meet your eyes.
To them, you aren’t Satoru’s wife. You aren’t a partner. You’re something lesser.
A pet.
Because you aren’t the one ensuring the estate runs smoothly while Satoru is away on his endless missions. That responsibility doesn’t fall to you—it belongs to Suguru, doesn’t it? He’s the one in charge. He holds the reins, commanding the household with a quiet authority that leaves no room for question.
And you?
You remain.
The pet.
The wife.
The child-bearer.
Barefoot and pregnant, with a swollen belly to show for it, you shuffle through the estate like a ghost. Your body aches, weighed down not just by the child growing inside you, but by the chains of a life you can’t escape.
Suguru sees to it that the estate runs like a well-oiled machine, all while maintaining his title as the second strongest. His responsibilities never seem to tire him, never seem to dull his devotion. If anything, they only make him more overbearing.
He adores pampering you.
He drapes you in the softest blankets, ensuring you’re always warm. He dresses you in the finest clothes, silks and satins that cling to your growing belly, showcasing the proof of your usefulness. He loves the way your independence has been stripped away, loves the way you’ve been forced to rely on him for everything.
When did you become so dependent?
When did you start accepting his affection like a loyal dog, start leaning into the way his rough, calloused hands would trace the curve of your stomach? When did you start craving the way he’d gaze up at you with that lovesick smile, his voice low and honeyed as he murmured sweet words about the future?
“I hope the baby looks like Satoru,” he’d say, his eyes dark and soft as they met yours. Then, after a pause, “I hope it’s a girl.”
The words always made your chest tighten, made your stomach twist.
You know he must miss the twins.
It’s not just the weight of their absence—it’s the way he’s filled that void with this child, this unborn life. You can see it in the way he touches you, the way he watches you. He’s more excited about this pregnancy than you are.
And that’s the cruelest part, isn’t it?
Because to him, this isn’t just a child. It’s a legacy. A purpose.
To you?
It’s another chain.
And yet, you hate how loving he is. How he’s always there to hold your hair back when you’re bent over, heaving in the dead of night. How his large, warm hands find every knot in your aching limbs, massaging away the tension with a tenderness that makes your heartache.
It’s cruel, how gentle he can be. How he disarms you with care just when you think you might muster the strength to fight back.
There’s a constant mantra in your mind, a desperate hope that the baby won’t resemble either of them.
Because the thought of seeing their features reflected back at you stirs a fear too heavy to bear.
The thought of seeing their features reflected in those tiny, innocent eyes is terrifying. It brings the fear that every decision will feel like a mistake, that allowing any of this to happen will become an unbearable regret.
You tell yourself you hope, but it’s hard to ignore the possibility, isn’t it?
What if the child inherits Satoru’s piercing blue eyes—so crystalline they seem otherworldly, glowing even in the faintest light? The same eyes that burn and freeze you all at once, stripping you bare and exposing every secret, every hidden part of you.
Even his grin—boyish, sharp, too wide—lingers in your mind. A grin that could charm and cut in the same breath, leaving you unsure whether to lean closer or step away. What if that grin appeared on a smaller, softer face, just as devastating?
Or worse—what if the baby inherits Suguru’s gaze?
Those dark, soulful eyes that pull you in like the tide, gentle at first glance, inviting even, but hiding endless, churning storms beneath their surface. Eyes that promise escape is not an option. Unlike Satoru’s, Suguru’s smiles are quieter, softer—but no less dangerous. His smiles feel deliberate, like they’re slipping past every defense you didn’t even know you had.
Would the baby inherit Satoru’s arrogance? Suguru’s patience?
Or worse—would the child inherit both of their possessiveness?
The thought makes your skin crawl.
But the fear doesn’t end there.
Because it’s not just about the baby, is it?
It’s about you.
About how they’ve already carved themselves so deeply into your soul that you can’t even imagine a world without them. You hate that truth. Hate the way it festers inside you, a bitter root growing into every part of you.
You hate Satoru’s smirk when he strides into the estate after a mission, brushing off the exhaustion and blood as if it’s nothing. How he towers over you, his white hair catching the light in a way that seems almost ethereal, his fingers tilting your chin up with a mock tenderness that makes your breath catch.
You hate how he always knows exactly what to say to make you crumble, his voice dipping into that teasing lilt that makes your heart flutter in spite of yourself.
And Suguru—oh, you hate how he lingers. How his touch lingers. His hands are always warm, always deliberate, tracing paths across your skin as if he’s claiming you, piece by piece. Every stroke of his fingers feels like a silent reminder that you are his, that you belong to him. His voice, low and soothing, is a cruel contradiction—a balm against your nerves, even when his words are laced with quiet threats you pretend not to hear.
You hate them.
You hate the way they consume you, the way they’ve woven themselves into the fabric of your life so tightly that even your thoughts feel tangled in their presence.
And yet, as you sit in the vast, lonely expanse of the Gojo estate, the weight of your belly grounding you, you know the truth.
You’re not just afraid of the baby looking like them.
You’re afraid of what that child will mean.
Because if they look like Satoru, with his arrogance, his fire, his brilliance, how will you deny the pride swelling in your chest? How will you stop yourself from feeling that flicker of awe, even when you know you shouldn’t?
And if they look like Suguru, with his quiet strength, his steadfast devotion, how will you deny the love? How will you stop yourself from melting beneath those familiar eyes, from imagining them crinkling with joy or softening with affection?
You can’t.
And that's horrifying.
You won’t be able to ignore how Satoru has changed, how he’s become softer, more attentive in ways that make it harder to hold onto your resentment. How he lingers closer to you than he ever did before, as if the mere distance between you might undo something fragile inside him.
How he’s started resting his head in your lap as you sit together in the serene gardens, his white hair catching the sunlight like spun silk, almost ethereal. His long lashes cast soft shadows over his cheeks as his half-lidded gaze flickers up to meet yours, brimming with a tenderness you don’t know how to process.
He murmurs lazy words of affection, his voice low and warm, the kind of sweetness that drips like honey and sticks to your skin. His fingers trace absentminded circles on your thighs, soft patterns that feel far too intimate, far too easy.
And you hate how much you crave it.
You hate the way his presence soothes something raw inside you, even when you tell yourself it shouldn’t.
You hate how he’s begun helping you with the small, intimate things you wish you could keep to yourself. Like the unbearable ache in your swollen breasts, the pressure building so much it leaves you trembling, whimpering in pain. How he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even ask.
The way Satoru's lips wrap around you with loud, deliberate suckles, the sound echoing in the quiet as he eases the pressure with almost clinical precision. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t falter. His hands grip your hips to steady you, his thumbs pressing reassuring circles into your skin.
You hate the sound.
You hate the warmth of his breath against your skin, the way it prickles, a constant reminder of just how close he always is—too close.
When he’s finished, he pulls back with a satisfied hum, his lips brushing against your collarbone with a lingering kiss. His voice low, almost tender, as he murmurs, “I love this version of you.”
The words settle into you like stones. His lips, still soft from the milk, press against yours, and the faint sweetness lingers, almost cloying. Satoru murmurs more words—gentle, saccharine things that would feel kind if not for the way his hands start to roam as they wrap around your waist.
“How nurturing you’ve become,” he whispers, his tone carrying a dangerous sort of reverence.
That’s what he loves. That’s what he says.
And the way he looks at you when he says it—those bright blue eyes glinting with something dark, something that sinks its claws into you—makes your skin crawl. Because you know exactly what he means.
He doesn’t love the nurturing in and of itself. He loves how it ties you to him. How it binds you to this role, this life, this carefully constructed world where you are his and only his.
The version of you he loves is one that has no room for defiance, no space for resistance—only the space to give, to sacrifice, to bend under the weight of his love.
And that’s what makes it so much worse.
Because even as you hate it, even as your stomach churns and your skin prickles, there’s a part of you that leans into his touch. A part of you that longs for the softness, for the fleeting moments when it feels like love instead of control.
And you hate yourself for that, too
Because you know how it goes. You’ve seen it now. Lived it.
How one pregnancy ends and another begins.
The cycle repeated itself after your firstborn, didn’t it? Barely a year after you gave birth, they had you pregnant again. You didn’t even have time to recover, to heal, before they decided it was time for another.
But they love you, don’t they?
Satoru’s affection is impossible to miss—the way he grins at you, almost childlike, as he cups your face with hands that can destroy worlds but hold you as though you’re the most delicate thing he’s ever touched. How he showers you with gifts, flowers in every shade imaginable, rare treasures that sparkle as brightly as his endless energy.
How many times has he told you, in his low, teasing voice, “You’re my world, you know that? I could do anything, have anything—but none of it would matter without you.”
It sounds like love, doesn’t it?
And Suguru—Suguru loves you too, in his quiet, steady way. You see it in the way he watches you, his dark eyes softening when you enter the room, the weight of his gaze feels suffocating. He’s the one who stays calm when you cry, wrapping his arms around you and murmuring, “Shh, it’s okay. I’m here. You don’t have to carry this alone.”
And you believe him, don’t you?
They love you. That’s why they insist on keeping you close. Why Satoru kisses your forehead every morning, why Suguru runs his fingers through your hair as he whispers sweet nothings you’re too exhausted to resist. That’s why they ensure you’re taken care of, why they never let you lift a finger, why they promise they’ll always protect you.
“You don’t have to do anything,” Satoru once said, kissing your swollen belly as he grinned up at you. “Just stay here with us. That’s all we need.”
“It’s not just for us,” Suguru added, his voice softer, more measured. “It’s for you too. We want you to feel safe. Loved.”
And in moments like that, when the weight of their words settles in your chest like a lullaby, you almost believe them.
You tell yourself that no one else would love you this much. No one else would care for you so completely, so unconditionally—because this is love, isn’t it?
The maids barely acknowledged your struggles. Their gazes were cold, dismissive, even as your body ached and your mind screamed for reprieve. They would gently pry your child from your arms with hushed whispers.
“You need more rest,” they’d say, their voices soft but unyielding. “We’ll take care of them. Don’t worry.”
And what could you do? You’d watch helplessly as they carried your baby away, leaving you empty-handed, empty-hearted. As if you were nothing more than a vessel, an incubator meant to bear and birth heirs for the Gojo family.
Your firstborn was a boy.
A son.
An heir.
He looked just like Satoru.
Those piercing blue eyes stared back at you from his tiny, cherubic face, wide and curious, already holding a glint of brilliance and confidence you couldn’t deny. His hair was the same stark white, impossibly soft beneath your trembling fingers as you brushed it back, memorizing every perfect strand. Even the little smirk he gave in his sleep mirrored Satoru’s—a playful, almost mocking curl at the corners of his mouth that made your heart ache with emotions you couldn’t unravel.
You loved him.
You hated that you loved him.
And when Suguru would cradle him in his arms, his dark eyes soft and filled with a devotion that seemed to crack the carefully constructed walls around your heart, you couldn’t deny the warmth blooming in your chest. He’d whisper promises to the child—vows of protection and guidance.
When Satoru would swoop in, effortlessly spinning the boy around with an energy that filled the room with light, the sound of your son’s uncontrollable laughter echoing like music, that warmth would return. It would swell in your chest, suffocating and undeniable, a cruel reminder of the chains you wore willingly and unwillingly all at once.
This is what they wanted, wasn’t it?
This is what they’d planned all along.
And now, with another child growing inside you, you realize something that terrifies you more than anything else.
You’re not sure if you stayed because you had no choice.
Or because you wanted to.
Again, it’s all your fault.
For trying to run, again.
For thinking, just for a moment, that you could escape them.
You were far too pregnant. Belly too far swollen, body heavy and slow, every step a reminder of how deeply tethered you were to this vast estate. But the thought wouldn’t leave your mind. The desperate hope of freedom burned too brightly, too wildly, even as your body betrayed you.
Even as you were dragged back to that sickening place, back to the people that you convinced yourself—desperately, foolishly—that this was love.
You’d screamed at Suguru, the words spilling out like a torrent you couldn’t stop. You told him the child was yours too, that you had the right to hold them, to sleep in the same room, to be more than a vessel. Your voice cracked, raw with frustration and desperation, as you hurled your defiance at him.
You remember the way his gaze darkened.
He didn’t yell. He didn’t snap. That wasn’t Suguru’s way.
Instead, he stepped closer, his movements slow, calculated, as though he were approaching a frightened animal. He tilted his head, his expression calm, disarming, the warmth in his dark eyes a stark contrast to the undercurrent of control they held.
“You’re upset,” he murmured, his voice soft, soothing. His hand reached out to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears streaking your face. “And that’s okay. You’ve been through so much, haven’t you?”
The quiet warmth in Suguru's voice made it hard to breathe, made the frustration clawing at your throat turn to something else—something like shame.
“You need to calm down,” he continued, a warm calloused hand slipping down to cradle the side of your neck, his thumb pressing lightly against your pulse. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself. I don’t want you to hurt us.”
His words lingered, heavy with meaning, as he pulled you closer, his forehead pressing against yours.
“I know it’s hard,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. “But I love you. We love you. Everything we do—everything I do—is for you.”
You wanted to push him away, to scream that it wasn’t love, that this wasn’t love. But as his arms wrapped around you, strong and unyielding, pulling you into his embrace as though Suguru could shield you from the very world they had trapped you in.
“You’re everything to me,” he murmured, soft lips brushing your temple. “Don’t you see that? You don’t need to run. You don’t need to be afraid. I’ll take care of you. I’ll always take care of you.”
A voice that was so tender, so achingly sincere, that it almost broke you. Suguru's words were enough to extinguish the fire of defiance burning in your chest, to leave you standing there, trembling and helpless in his arms.
The maids saw it, didn’t they? They whispered about you, their quiet voices slipping through the halls like ghosts. They called you ungrateful. Sick. They said you didn’t understand how fortunate you were.
“You should be enjoying this,” they murmured, their words laced with thinly veiled judgment. “No responsibilities, no struggles. A carefree life. Everything is taken care of for you. What more could you want?”
What more could you want?
No choices.
That’s what they meant, wasn’t it? No choices. No freedom. No you.
Was something wrong with you? Maybe.
Maybe there was something wrong with wanting more. For wanting to feel like a person again, instead of a vessel, a doll, a beautifully dressed incubator meant to carry their legacy.
It really is all your fault, isn’t it?
Because when labor came, it dragged you into hell.
Thirty-three grueling hours. Each contraction ripped through your body like a punishment, an unrelenting reminder of every fleeting thought of rebellion, of every moment you dared to imagine a life beyond them.
The emergency c-section was chaos—a flurry of hands, sterile lights, and voices rising above the incessant ringing in your ears. You were losing too much blood. Fever scorched your skin, your body trembling as the edges of the world blurred, your thoughts slipping between consciousness and darkness.
You couldn’t make sense of what was happening. You weren’t even sure whose tears streaked your skin as they fell—were they yours? Satoru’s? Suguru’s?
You didn’t know.
You didn’t know what happened after that.
All you remember are the words.
Suguru’s voice, low and steady, cutting through the haze. He leaned close, his hand resting on your clammy cheek with an almost painful tenderness. His dark eyes bore into yours, soft yet heavy with something that made your stomach twist.
“You shouldn’t have run,” he whispered. His tone was calm, soothing even, but the edge beneath it was sharp enough to draw blood. “Look at what you’ve done to yourself. You should’ve listened.”
And for a long time, you didn’t have the strength to argue.
The days that followed blurred together. Feeling like a ghost in your body, too weak to move, too tired to speak. Satoru and Suguru hovered, their gazes flickering between concern and something you couldn't quite place. The maids continued to whisper on with their rumors, their eyes darting to you with pity or disdain, as though you’d done this to yourself.
In their eyes, you were lucky.
Lucky to have survived. Lucky to have them.
And lucky, in their eyes, to not have another pregnancy until your first two boys turned five.
Five years of peace. Or something that resembled it.
Five years of watching your sons grow, of hearing their first words, of feeling their small, warm arms wrap around you as they giggled into into your neck. Five years where it was almost believable that this was normal, where you could almost convince yourself this was love.
Because it did feel like love, didn’t it?
Until the day you overheard Suguru speaking to them.
His voice was hushed, but not hushed enough.
“Mommy is sick,” he said, tone calm and soothing like he was explaining a simple fact of life. “Sometimes she says things she doesn’t mean. Sometimes she gets confused. But that’s okay. We love her, don’t we?”
A pang sent through your chest, breath catching as you froze in the hallway. Those cruel words lies carved like knives, each one slicing deeper than the last.
He was planting seeds, wasn’t he?
Teaching them to see you the way he wanted them to see you. Fragile. Dependent. Broken.
However with fists clenched, nails pressing into palms with a sting sharp enough to ground the swirling emotions within. The urge to scream hovered at the edge, to cry and storm into the room, demanding explanations with the desperation of a cornered animal. Words burned on the tip of the tongue—protests that it wasn’t true, that sickness and confusion weren’t the chains binding this existence.
But what would they believe?
Suguru’s steady, patient voice, rich and even, always laced with quiet authority? The father whose dark eyes always seemed to understand everything, who carried himself with calm, unshakable control, even when his smiles didn’t quite reach his eyes?
Or you?
The mother who had tried to run, who had collapsed and bled and screamed, who had been scolded for her defiance. The one they saw as weak, frail, and ungrateful.
You wanted to run again. The thought burned in the back of your mind, relentless and wild.
But you didn’t.
You stayed.
Because, in the end, what choice did you really have?
But by the time your third child—a sweet boy who looked like a perfect blend of you and Suguru—turned three, the illusion of peace began to crack.
Suguru was already leaning close, his voice soft and coaxing as he murmured into your ear, “I think it’s time we try for a girl.”
Satoru, of course, was on board almost immediately.
After all, your third child was different. A nonsorcerer, just like you, showing none of the abilities your first two boys possessed. Those two had cried in the dead of night, their small voices trembling with fear as they described the horrors only they could see—things you couldn’t even begin to comprehend.
But that wasn’t why your husbands looked at Kiyoshi with quiet disapproval.
It wasn’t his lack of cursed energy that made them see him as an anomaly.
It was his heart.
From the moment Kiyoshi was placed in your arms, red-faced and wailing, he clung to you with a desperation that never faded. He didn’t want the maids to hold him, didn’t toddle after Suguru’s composed steps or reached for Satoru’s strong arms. He wanted you. Always you.
He was a mama’s boy through and through, and that was love.
A love so pure it felt like a lifeline in the suffocating world you’d been forced into.
While you loved your first two boys deeply—how could you not?—there was always a distance there, a reflection of the walls your husbands had built around you. The first two cuddled into your lap, their small hands clutching yours as they whispered things that broke you.
“Mommy, we want you to get better.”
“We don’t like it when you yell at Daddy to let you leave.”
They were too young to understand, too innocent to see the chains tightening around you.
But Kiyoshi understood, in his own way. Even as a toddler, he refused to leave your side, refused to let the maids or his fathers pull him from your arms. He was always on your hip, his little hand clutching your clothes, his head resting against your chest.
“Kiyoshi,” Satoru had said once, his tone laced with false amusement, “means ‘pure sadness.’ Don’t you think that’s fitting?”
He smiled as if it were a joke, but you could hear the bitterness beneath it.
And maybe it was fitting.
Because Kiyoshi only stopped wailing when he was in your arms, as if he already knew the world outside of you was too cruel, too cold.
By the time he turned three, Kiyoshi would toddle after you in the gardens, small, sturdy legs working hard to keep up. His face—a blend of Suguru’s gentleness and your warmth—would brighten with the purest smile. When his eyes crinkled at the corners, just like yours, you couldn’t help but feel your heart swell.
“Look, Mommy!” he’d say, holding up a flower he’d plucked from the garden, his tiny fingers dirt-stained and clumsy. “For you!”
You’d crouch down, brushing his dark hair back as you took the flower, your voice soft and tender in a way you hadn’t heard in years.
“Thank you, my sweet boy.”
And for a moment, it felt like it was just the two of you.
Like you could breathe again.
But you knew better.
As the sound of approaching footsteps always shattered moments like these. Heavy and far too familiar. You didn’t need to turn around to know it was Suguru.
His softspoken voice broke the fragile silence, calm and even, as always. “Kiyoshi,” he said, warm and affectionate, though laced with something you couldn’t quite name. “You’ve been keeping your mother all to yourself again, haven’t you?”
Kiyoshi stiffened at your side, the little hand tightening its grip on your kimono as he glanced nervously toward Suguru.
Suguru stepped closer and crouched down to Kiyoshi’s level, dark eyes softening as they met his son’s. “Come here, son,” he murmured, holding out a hand. His tone was gentle, coaxing, but there was an unspoken expectation beneath it. “Let Daddy hold you for a little while. I’ve missed you.”
But Kiyoshi didn’t move. His small fingers curled tighter into the fabric of your kimono, his face pressing into your side as though trying to make himself small, invisible.
Suguru’s gaze flicked to you, lips curling into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “So shy,” he said softly, his voice carrying a note of amused affection. “But you don’t have to be, Kiyoshi. Daddy just wants to hold you. You know that, don’t you?”
You felt your heart clench, torn between the instinct to shield him and the weight of Suguru’s presence. The tenderness in his tone, in the way his hand remained outstretched, made it all the harder to breathe.
“Kiyoshi,” Suguru said again, his voice dipping into a firmer edge, calm but unyielding. “Come.”
Reluctantly, your little boy let go of you, his steps slow and hesitant as he moved toward his father. Suguru’s smile widened, soft and reassuring, as he scooped Kiyoshi up effortlessly, cradling him with a gentleness that felt too deliberate, too controlled.
“There’s my good boy,” he murmured, brushing Kiyoshi’s hair back with careful fingers. His touch lingered, as though committing the texture to memory. “You love your mommy very much, don’t you?”
Kiyoshi nodded silently, his small face burying itself in Suguru’s shoulder.
Suguru’s gaze lifted to meet yours, a gentle smile, his tone almost playful. “You’ve spoiled him,” he said, a note of amusement threading through his words. “He’s too attached.”
You opened your mouth to respond, to say something, but the words caught in your throat.
What could you say?
That you were the only warmth in a world that terrified him? That his attachment wasn’t a flaw, but a desperate grasp at something safe?
Satoru appeared not long after, his presence impossible to ignore as he strolled into the garden, hands in his pockets and a grin that seemed too bright for the moment. His eyes, however, betrayed something softer—something that lingered only when they landed on you.
“Kiyoshi giving you trouble again?” Satoru's voice came out light, tinged with curiosity.
“No trouble,” Suguru replied smoothly, a hand still resting on Kiyoshi’s small back. “Just a little too fond of his mother.”
Satoru chuckled, shaking his head as he moved closer. His cerulean gaze flicked briefly to Kiyoshi before returning to you, that playful grin softening as he moved to brush a kiss against your temple. “Well, can you blame him?” he murmured, his voice low, meant only for you. “You’re hard not to love.”
The warmth of his affection made your heart twist, and your stomach flutter. For a moment, it was easy to forget the way his words often carried double meanings, easy to believe he was simply being sweet.
He straightened, turning his attention back to Suguru with a teasing smile. “But we’ll fix that soon enough, won’t we?”
They didn’t mean to hurt him, you told yourself. They wouldn’t.
But you knew better.
Because Kiyoshi was different. He didn’t fit into their world the way your first two boys did. And in their eyes, difference was something to be controlled.
For now, they let him cling to you. They let him toddle after you in the garden, offering flowers and dirt-streaked smiles that made your heart ache with both love and dread. For now, they allowed him to stay close, to hold onto the warmth you gave him, to believe he was safe in your arms.
But you knew it was only a matter of time.
Because your sons didn’t belong to you. Not really. They never had.
And no matter how much you wanted to shield Kiyoshi, no matter how fiercely you loved him, you knew one simple, devastating truth:
They’d let you have this for now.
But they would take him, too.
Because, after all, it’s all your fault.
For fleeing in the middle of the night.
The day was supposed to be perfect—a rare moment where Satoru and Suguru had taken the older two boys to the school, their voices filled with excitement as they promised to teach them more about the world they were destined to inherit. Your sweet boys kissed you goodbye with a tenderness that felt almost cruel, leaving you behind with Kiyoshi in the quiet, sprawling estate.
You had been on your best behavior. Smiling more, laughing when Satoru teased you, letting Suguru hold you a little longer than usual. You’d made them believe you were finally settling, finally accepting your role in their carefully constructed world.
And it worked.
So when the sun set and the house fell silent, you made your move.
You bundled Kiyoshi up in the softest blanket you could find, the small body warm and sleepy against your chest. He stirred only slightly as you slipped out of the estate, his tiny hands clutching onto your clothes.
He didn’t cry.
He didn’t make a sound.
It was as if he understood. As if even at three years old, he knew that silence was the only thing keeping you safe.
He nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, his soft breaths warm against your skin, and you couldn’t help the tears that welled up in your eyes.
The highway stretched out before you, an endless black ribbon under the faint glow of the moon. The lights of the city sparkled in the distance, a beacon of hope, a promise of sanctuary.
You walked for miles, the cold night air biting at your skin, legs aching with every step. But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Not with the faint echoes of paranoia whispering at the back of your mind.
Were they already looking for you? Did Satoru sense you slipping away even from miles away? Did Suguru wake in the middle of the night with the suffocating weight of intuition, already calling for their forces to track you down?
You didn’t know.
And you didn’t care.
The city limits were closer now, the glow of neon lights growing brighter, sharper. The faint hum of life and sound buzzed in the distance.
Kiyoshi stirred in your arms, his little head lifting just enough to peek out at the world around him. His dark eyes, so much like Suguru’s but filled with an innocence his father could no longer claim, glanced up at you with quiet curiosity.
“Mommy,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the soft hum of the wind.
You pressed a kiss to his forehead, your tears wetting his soft hair. “We’re almost there, my sweet boy,” you murmured, your voice trembling under the weight of hope and fear. “Just a little farther.”
Sanctuary was so close you could taste it.
But it’s all your fault, isn’t it?
Born a nonsorcerer.
Blind to the horrors that lurk unseen. Powerless to fight them off. Too weak to keep that sweet little boy safe.
You always imagined curses as massive, grotesque creatures—monsters so obvious that the very air would change in their presence. That the world would stop, that everything would smell of death and decay as they loomed closer.
But when a curse appears, nothing changes.
There’s no warning. No shift in the wind.
The only thing you feel is the sudden weight of your child going limp in your arms.
And then the blood.
And then the blood.
It coats the ground—dark and endless, pooling around your knees and seeping into the cracks of the earth. Sticky and warm, it clings to trembling hands, staining your kimono, your skin, your very soul.
You can’t move. Can’t breathe.
Your little boy—your Kiyoshi—lies limp in your arms, his small body growing colder with every agonizing second. Tiny fingers, once so eager to cling to you, now dangle lifelessly. His dark lashes rest softly against pale cheeks, unmoving.
He looks like he’s sleeping.
You tell yourself that, over and over, as if saying it enough times will somehow make it true. Shaking hands brush back his dark hair, trembling as you whisper his name. Softly at first, then louder, your voice splintering with every syllable.
“Kiyoshi… wake up, baby. Please.”
But nothing changes.
The world around you feels wrong—too quiet, too still. The city lights in the distance mock you, their glow a cruel reminder of the sanctuary you’d been so close to reaching. You’d promised him, hadn’t you? Promised that everything would be okay. That you’d make it there. That you’d keep him safe.
You lied.
“Kiyoshi,” you choke out again, pressing a desperate kiss to his cooling forehead. Hot tears streak down your face, wetting his soft hair as you clutch him tighter, as though you could anchor him to you—keep him here, with you.
A wail tears through the night, raw and broken, shattering the oppressive silence. The sound is unrecognizable, guttural and full of despair. It takes a moment before you realize it’s coming from you.
The blood stains everything—your hands, your clothes, the ground—but it’s the loss of his warmth that destroys you.
How did this happen?
Your mind races, replaying the moments in broken fragments. You’d been walking, your legs aching, his small body cradled against your chest. He’d been so quiet, so trusting, his head nuzzled into the crook of your neck.
You were almost there.
Then the air shifted—just slightly—a subtle wrongness you hadn’t noticed until it was too late.
You didn’t see it.
You didn’t even know it was there until his body jerked in your arms, a sharp, unnatural movement that stole his breath—and yours.
And then he went limp.
It doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense.
You rock him back and forth, tears falling freely, your voice hoarse as you beg him to wake up. Leaning to press your cheek against his, murmuring his name over and over, as if the sound alone could bring him back.
Because you failed him.
Because this is your fault.
Suguru’s arms wrap around you, their weight unbearable. His warmth presses against the chill of the night, suffocating in a way that makes the air harder to pull into your lungs. He cradles you like something precious, something fragile—like he cares, even as his words twist the knife deeper into your chest.
“We’ll take care of this, just like always,” he says, his voice soft, almost gentle. His lips brush against your hair, lingering, and the tenderness in the gesture makes your skin crawl. “You just need to stop fighting us. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
Satoru stood frozen, head bowed, white hair catching the faint glow of the city lights. Kiyoshi’s lifeless body was pressed tightly against him, his hands trembling ever so slightly as he held him close. For a moment, you thought you saw something crack in his expression—something raw, something human.
But it was gone just as quickly as it appeared.
When he finally turned his gaze to you, his blue eyes were as hollow as you’d ever seen them. “You shouldn’t have done this,” he said quietly, his voice devoid of its usual teasing lilt. “Why couldn’t you just stay?”
The question stabbed deeper than you thought possible, the shame and guilt coursing through you like poison.
Why couldn’t you just stay?
The image of Kiyoshi’s bright smile flashed, his tiny hands offering you flowers from the garden, his laugh ringing out like music in the suffocating silence of the estate. He’d been your light, your tether to something good.
And now he was gone.
Because of you.
You sagged further into Suguru’s hold, the fight draining out of you entirely. The tears wouldn’t stop, falling silently now, soaking into the front of Suguru’s shirt as he held you tighter.
“There, there,” he murmured, his hand stroking your hair in slow, deliberate motions. “That’s better. You don’t have to fight anymore. We’ll make it right.”
But there was no right in this.
The car waited nearby, its door open like an unspoken command. Suguru’s grip on you didn’t waver as he began guiding you toward it, his movements gentle but unrelenting. Satoru followed behind, cradling Kiyoshi’s small form like he was made of glass.
Your legs moved on instinct, numb and heavy, the metallic scent of blood lingering in the air.
The city lights grew fainter as the car doors shut behind you, locking you away from the world you’d been so close to reaching.
You told yourself you’d tried. That you’d done everything you could.
But deep down, you knew.
You’d never escape them.
And as Suguru’s fingers intertwined with yours, as Satoru’s empty gaze lingered on the horizon, you realized something that hollowed you out completely.
If your still open. May I please ask for a scenario with yandere Miya twins in a soulmate au where the first words of their soulmate is on their arms and theirs says ‘eat a dead dog and die’
The Miya twins always get the butt end of my soulmate hcs XD Now they get to suffer in a one shot!
Title: Disgust
Pairings: Miya Atsumu x Reader; Miya Osamu x Reader
AU: Soulmate AU
WARNINGS: yandere themes, swearing, aged up characters (last year of school)
Disgust
/noun/
a feeling of revulsion or strong disapproval aroused by something unpleasant or offensive:
“Who’s the ugly chick?”
“You’re in the way. Move.”
You knew those words were coming since you were 16 years old. One sentence in chicken scratch and the other in perfect penmanship, both scrawled out on your arm. Somehow, 13 years later, it still took you by surprise.
The Miya twins were well-known throughout the school for many reasons. For one, they were handsome. Two, they were great at volleyball, bringing the team to nationals every year.
Three, they could be utter assholes when they felt like it.
Osamu had a penchant for thinking he was better than everyone else. He was far too blunt and rude, saying cruel things with the blankest of faces. Atsumu was easily worse. He would lie shamelessly to your face, he was rude to everyone, and he cheated on both girls and schoolwork.
You had fantasized about meeting your soulmates since you were little, always picturing something romantic despite the words on your arm. Maybe you’d both reach for the same book or you’d bump into them at a party. Somehow, these words had to be a joke…
Tears filled your eyes. Not because of the insults, no, you’d heard worse. It was the fact that the universe had decided that, more than anyone else, you deserved to have the Miya twins. It was so unfair- surely there was a better match out there.
“Who’s the ugly chick?” Atsumu asked again, shit-eating grin on his face.
“I don’t know, she never talks to anyone,” said the girl clinging to his arm.
Atsumu’s grin didn’t fade as he held out a hand, “Nice to meet you, piggy.” The girls around them laughed as Osamu snorted.
Anger rushed through you, freezing your veins with fiery ice. Before you knew it, you were yelling, “Eat a dead dog and die, Miya!”
The twins’ smiles disappeared immediately, identical expressions of surprise crossing their faces. Smugness turned to panic and their personalities immediately did a 180.
“Whoa, whoa!” Atsumu raised his hands in surrender, “We didn’ say anythin’ wrong! We were just bein’ honest!”
“Honest?” you scoffed, “Well thanks sooooo much for your truthfulness.”
Osamu’s eyes darted to your arm, which you quickly hid behind your back. “We’re sou-”
“Don’t,” you snapped harshly, “Don’t you dare say it.”
And with that, you turned on your heel and stormed away, ignoring the calls for you to come back. Your hands curled into fists as the tears that threatened to fall now slid down your cheeks.
Those two arrogant, cruel assholes were your soulmates? Then you’d rather die alone.
“Did ya see the look she gave us?” Atsumu whined during practice, “Like she hated us or somethin’...”
“Can ya blame her?” Osamu snorted, “You called her ugly and I told her to move like she was an obnoxious fly.
“We didn’t know she was our soulmate back then!” Atsumu scowled.
Osamu didn’t respond. He couldn’t stop replaying the moment over and over again in his head. Your face had twisted in anger, eyes filled with unshed tears, as you rebuked them. For once, he felt guilty. Usually he was able to shake such a response off, but this was different.
You were their soulmate!
“Maybe we should, y’know, apologize,” Osamu suggested, tossing a volleyball to his twin.
Atsumu caught the ball and stared at his brother, “Apologize?” He said it as though the word was foreign to him. “Why the hell would we do that?”
“‘Cause we were assholes, ‘Tsumu.”
Atsumu’s brow drew together and a pout appeared on his lips, “I’m not apologizing for somethin’ I didn’t know at the time. She’s just makin’ this harder than it has to be.”
Osamu frowned. Deep down, he knew Atsumu felt just as guilty as he did.
—------------------------------------------------
The Miya twins were nothing if not determined. Atsumu wanted to use the direct approach- cornering you and forcing you to talk to them, but Osamu overruled that idea. They didn’t want to scare you off, after all.
First, they wanted to find out everything they could about you.
They watched from a distance as you went about your day, studying your habits and facial expressions, taking notes on your friends, and even figuring out what snacks or drinks you got from the vending machine.
Next, they wanted to make themselves useful.
Atsumu crashed into you, sending your books flying. He apologized and then forcefully offered to carry your books for you. Osamu went to the cafe you worked at part-time and left huge tips. Soon, their presence was everywhere, all at once.
You couldn’t escape them.
At first, you thought it was just bad luck, running into them so often. But as time went on, it was clear these weren’t coincidences. You got the creeps when you realized they were following you.
No matter how polite or charming they acted, you couldn’t forget your first meeting. You heard their snarky words over and over again, saw their smug grins floating through your mind.
Every time you turned around, they were there, offering help you never asked for.
the idea of oikawa not being ready when he meets his soulmate.
it isn't that he thinks you're not good enough, not pretty enough, not right for him, it's just that oikawa wasn't expecting to find you so soon.
soulmates are forever, you'll be there waiting for him when all's said and done, but his career in volleyball – it won't be. he's young, fit and hungry for it; in his absolute prime, but if he doesn't put in the effort now, give it everything, 100% of what he has... it'll slip right through his fingers.
he can't risk that.
there's a strange sort of desperation that tugs at his chest when he tries to explain, to get you to understand it. it's a sacrifice you'll both be making for the sake of the career he's dreamed of his whole life.
the way your smile slowly slips away when you realise he's not asking for you to be patient and give him grace when his focus is more on volleyball than you, he's saying he can't have you around at all, because you will distract him.
he'd lose himself in you.
it's not forever, he stresses, only a little while. you're perfect, and in a year or two when he's more settled in his role, the starting setter on the right team, heading to the championships, he'll be there to give you everything you deserve. no – more. he'll make it up to you, all he's asking for (but he's not really asking, is he) is a bit of time and space.
the light dims in your eyes, a strange, glassy look taking over, and slowly, so fucking slowly, you pull your hands from his, let them fall weakly to your side. it takes a monumental effort to not snatch them back up.
'yeah, okay.'
the expression on your face is all wrong, your voice almost robotic, but oikawa knows it's the right thing. you'll forgive him, because that's what soulmates do. you'll forgive him and then fall even more in love with him and oikawa will spend every damn day showering you in the love and affection he can. he'll drown you in it.
just give him this. let him give everything to volleyball, before he shares himself with you.
—
you're a little too good at it.
it's harder than he expected, going no contact. he was the one who wanted it – needed it, really, for this to work – but there'd been a small part of him that sort of hoped you'd ignore what he wanted and reach out anyway. he'd imagined sneaking a quick peek at his phone during a water break to see a message from you, something simple, casual, a 'hope things are good!' or 'i caught some of the game last week'. was it unfair of him to want you keeping track of him? to see how far he'd come in the days, weeks, months since he'd asked for time?
it's like an itch under his skin, and it grows. a few of his new teammates have met their soulmates, carry the marks to show for it. they're all smug as fuck about it, but the thing is whenever their soulmates are watching from the stands, they play with a different kind of fire. they're better. envy burns watching them celebrate afterwards, all hungry kisses and smiles too fucking big.
he knows you'd be there too if you could. you'd be there every damn game, all of their practices too, cheering him on. his biggest fan.
it's an ache. he goes home to an empty apartment, better than the one he had when he met you, in a nicer part of town, but no less lifeless. there's no one to welcome him home, to wrap him up in a hug, kiss him how he likes and soothe away the days stresses. no one to warm his bed, no other pussy'll ever be as tempting as yours.
i miss you.
i'm thinking of you.
would it kill you to break his rules and reach out every now and then? to give him some kind of sign that this distance was driving you half as crazy as it was him?
are you trying to punish him?
it occurs to him that you probably don't have his phone number. it shouldn't have stopped you, because it wouldn't've stopped him.
—
the first time he tries to follow your instagram you block his account.
it's irritating, until he remembers that you're probably trying to abide by his rules. he can't exactly get mad at you for that, tries not to, and instead does what any sane man missing his soulmate would do; creates a fake account, steals a picture from one of his sister's friends and uses that as his profile pic – even goes so far as to follow a bunch of your friends accounts too, just so it doesn't look suspicious or weird when he follows you too.
and for a little while, it's enough. he can see what you're up to, who you're hanging out with, where you're going. he'll watch all your stories, your friend's stories, just for a few seconds of you.
(maybe strokes his cock to a few of them, cums in his sheets gasping your name.)
you're being patient, he's being good, it's only for a few more months, he can last a little longer–
there's a new post on your insta, a snap of you and some asshole with his arm wrapped around your waist, your lips pressed to his cheek.
'Happy six months, love you a little more every day!'
Yeeeeeeeeees! I love the thought of Soulmate actively avoiding and moving on Oikawa after he rejected her.
Imagine in an interview with the team during the Olympics and the question comes up "what inspired you" and Oikawa just says his soulmates name. It could easily spread like wildfire on the internet
TW: some nsfw, dubcon/noncon, yandere, kidnapping, captive reader
part two
gn reader
Geto hates humans without cursed energy but keeps you in his bed.
There’s no point in fighting back or trying to leave—you found that out quickly. There’s a sentient guarding the door—a large mold-skinned monster. You hadn’t seen it at first—couldn’t back then. It was only after you tried running away that it became visible—all but throwing you back into the room, a wobbly distorted word leaving its toothy mouth, “Ss-taaay.”
You’d crawled and curled yourself up into the farthest corner—shaking and crying—only peeking at the monster every other minute to confirm what you’d seen.
Watching the monster obey Geto made you realize how you were different. What he mumbles about makes more sense after that—always on about monkeys and curses and sorcerers and whatnot, most of which still goes right over your head. But one thing is made clear, he’s a sorcerer and you’re a monkey—and that difference is very important to Geto.
He makes you apologize for it as he fucks you. You don’t really understand though how it’s your fault, yet you know that the more you say sorry, the higher the chance he goes a little easier on you.
It doesn’t take long before curses of your own start manifesting around you. Small leach-like creatures that suck the blood from where he’s left bruises on you. A bigger one chokes you in your sleep and licks the insides of your ear—like he usually does when he’s feeling extra pent-up.
It’s a strange development. Not what he'd expect. He’d rather have thought all your anger and hatred towards him would result in curses inclined to attack him, not yourself. But while a swarm of your own curses smothers you, there’s only one weak curse sliding over to him. Zero hostility, yet the tears dribbling down its face burn through the bed like acid. “Ple-pleaaaase kill meee.”
His ideals should have him inclined to leave them all to further torture you, and yet... He doesn’t know why, but he absorbs them all instead. Suppose… the only curse he feels you should have hanging over you is himself.
You can't even find the door, much less walk over and open it even if you did.
Other yanderes do it simply for the practicality. You become so cute and sweet—harmless little bundle of dopey softness. Happy for munchables and all too pliant when he cuddles you. He could stay with you forever like that—in your matching hoodies. You’ll protest a bit, but not for long—you get too tired and then you even start to like it. Nuzzling into him when he pulls you closer, small moans leaving you like the purrs of a sleepy kitten. That’s when his hand slips down into your panties. And all you do is croon so, so, so softly. You don’t even know what you’re doing anymore, so high you’ve become pure base instincts. Rubbing your ass back against his bulge as he rubs your clit—the two of you in a cozy spoon.
Some yanderes do it also more to their own sadistic enjoyment. Likes seeing you stumble around like a little kid after too many carrousel rides. Likes how easy it becomes to overpower you—all your struggles degraded into but cute play fighting. He can even laugh and feign defeat with you, falling into a complete laughing fit because all your hits are like the cute slaps of a declawed kitten. You tucker yourself out all too quickly for it to matter anyway. You just end up needing to lay yourself down. Your so cute his heart swells and stomach flutters, needing to kiss your little face. You’ll whine but have no more strength to fend him off—even as he pulls your panties off and starts playing with you down there with a grin on his face.
“please don't misbehave...” his voice was quiet. desperate.
“i hate you.. i hate everything about you. you're disgusting.” he hated whenever you were like this.
demons weren't usually nice. he couldn't help it though. you were sobbing, you were a complete utter mess. he hated that. he didn't want to be the reasons for your tears.
could you really blame him...? he didn't know it'd hurt you so bad.
“shh.. don't cry,” his hand cupped your cheek, wiping your tear. he moved his hand to your back, gently tracing the newly made, deep wounds. “i pulled them out since you were leaving...”
demons couldn't enter heaven. angels could however, enter hell. and you did that. it was only because you were ordered too, you didn't mean for him to fall in love.
you felt so... naked? naked might not be the right word. but without your wings, you didn't feel like yourself. you felt strange.
he kissed you. it was out of nowhere, really.
“please don't cry.”
he leaned in for a second kiss.. but this time it felt more desperate.
demon yandere who pulls out angel readers wings :3
✧ warnings: violence and force, yandere behavior, descriptions of dismemberment, blood, stalking, police, nsfw content, kissing, angst, smut, breaking in, attempted murder, cuts, dead dove, probably more stuff
✧ a/n: my most requested fic at the moment! i decided to take some of your suggestions and add my own twist at the end + yandere name reveal!
part one here!
yandere cheater wrestles you into his car after he drags you outta the cafe you’re in, unyielding as you try to pull away. the second he shuts the door and jets to the drivers side, you force yourself out the door and sprint down the street.
you hear his yells as you increase your speed, you knew you wouldn’t be able to outrun him for long. not only was he more athletic than you, but a look back revealed his terrifying expression. he was clearly set on catching you, having the advantage in his relatively relaxed clothing opposed to you, who was dressed for a date.
knowing you couldn’t beat him you came to a sudden stop of to the side of the sidewalk and he rammed into your side. stumbling back a few steps you stopped him. eyes wide and hair blown back, he looks at you mildly surprised.
“wha-” you interrupt him this time, taking advantage of his surprise by slapping a hand over his mouth.
you bring on an expression that you think is intimidating, “leave me the fuck alone, i don’t know what the hell you want but i’m not taking you back”
he scoffs like he has you all figured out, taking your hand off his mouth to reveal a smirk underneath. “guess mother dear will find out about your… escapades then”
smack!
you slap him across the face sharply, sound reverberating around you and leaving a tinge of red on his cheek. his mouth gapes as he looks back at you even more surprised, what happened to the mild mannered girl who he had cheated on dated?
“release those anywhere and i will fuck up your life asshole” you fume, hand still in the air as if to threaten him for another slap. “you’re the one that decided to cheat on me with every girl we knew. fucking own up to it”
you were sick of his shit, who did he think he was? you huff out a quiet fuck off as you pass him, shoulder bumping against his. as soon as you rounded the corner you sprint to a nearby parked cab, slamming the door on your way in.
“to the university dorms please”
yandere cheater runs after you too late, rounding the corner as you take off in the cab. poor baby, you were still hung up on him cheating? he didn’t even really like those girls anyway, they weren’t good for anything except their bodies.
but you, you were it for him. he’d do anything to see your cute smile again, to see you whimper on his cock. he felt his swollen cheek, your anger may come in the way of him proving his love, but you’d understand in the end. how deep his love ran. all he had to do was prove was that those girls meant nothing.
two weeks had passed, two long peaceful weeks. your ex finally seemed to give up, the barrage of text messages and calls diminishing to radio silence and constant gifts at your doorstep suddenly stopping. maybe you were more intimidating than you thought.
the second you got home after the encounter, you had called your mother and explained everything. although she did yell at you for a solid hour due her disappointment in you sending out explicit photos of yourself, she understood your situation. after giving her instructions on blocking your ex if he tried to reach out to her you were finally at a peace of mind. at a zen. maybe you could turn a new leaf, you deserved it.
of course you had fucking jinxed it, just when you finally thought it was all over, your ex had tried to force himself back in your life again. deep down, you knew he wouldn’t give up that easy. he’d always be stubborn to a fault.
two weeks after the encounter a small navy present box appeared in from of your new dorm room door. still groggy with sleep you rubbed your eyes and picked up the box, bringing it inside. after contemplating for a minute, you finally decide to open it. in your sleep ridden state, you reasoned that it was probably something you’d left behind at your ex’s house.
it takes a minute to register the contents of the box, but when you do
“OH MY GOD”
you scream and stumble back.
two bloodshot green- brown eyes were pressed into the shiny white silk inside, the area around them a tinge of red. that alone could be passed off as a cruel prank by some immature students but the unmistakable metallic scent of blood lingering in the air said otherwise. that and the only other item in the plush silk: a silver bracelet with the initials ‘e.r’.
only one person you knew owned that bracelet and had those eyes, your ‘friend’ eva. but you had blocked and lost contact with her after you found her and your boyfriend together in the bathroom of the mall. there’s no way she would have just lost this bracelet either, you remembered her bragging about how it was permanent. being soldering together around her hand.
you were nauseous. oh god. you knew it was him, you just knew. sure you hated her but you didn’t want her to die. what the hell, what the fuck do you even do?
before you could think you grabbed your phone calling the only person you could think of.
“can you come over quick, please?”
20 minutes later a dark haired man rushed in through your front door, spotting you curled up in the corner. your eyes wide and still staring at the open box.
“(y/n) what’s going on?” he asks softly, approaching you slowly. you just point to the box and he takes a peek, immediately slapping a hand over his mouth as his eyes shoot open “fucking hell…”
you turn to him, eyes teary “ray what do we do?”
ray was your one real friend through everything your ex put you through, and ironically your ex’s older brother. he was one that introduced you to your ex and thus he blamed himself for letting him hurt you, even though you’d reassured him that you didn’t find him at any fault.
he was reliable and kind, a shoulder to lean on when things got tough. you’d known him for almost two years longer than your ex and honestly if you didn’t meet your ex, the small crash you harbored for ray may have grown. after you met you ex you assumed that your feelings for ray had naturally died out but you couldn’t lie about the strange biting feeling in your chest whenever you saw him.
and even now he was talking care of you, taking you to the police station to talk to the police and turning in the bloody present. a few hours later you both were back in your dorm, sitting on the edge of your bed as you discussed the situation.
“look i really appreciate all this, you didn’t have to come with me to the station”
he smiles, “anytime (y/n), if it’s for you”
you smile back, face a little warm from his answer “that’s sweet”
he moves a little closer, your pinkies now you touching. “you’re sweeter, my asshole brother doesn’t know what he missed out on.” and you swear that you see his eyes flicker to your lips.
“really?” you ask coyly, leaning in slightly.
he nods slightly hesitant “if i had a girlfriend like you i wouldn’t dare disrespect her like that, i-i mean you’re thoughtful and pretty and-” he gets cut off as you lean up and press your lips to his. he immediately freezes up and you take his response as rejection, pulling away. fuck, he was obviously just being nice who even likes their brothers ex?
“i’m so sorry i though-” before you can finish apologizing ray’s lips smash onto yours, one of his hands in your hair to pull you closer and the other guiding your lips to his by your chin. in between heated kisses he mumbles,
“god i was waiting for so long,” a kiss.
“prettiest girl i’ve ever met” another heated kiss. his words of longing slur as he continues to kiss you, pulling you ever closer. his plush lips trail down your neck and to your stomach, slender hand playing at your waistband. his hooded eyes look up at you as his other hand wanders under your shirt. “can i?”
you give him a shy nod and he smiles, pulling down your pajama shorts to reveal white cotton panties. you cover your face with your arm out of embarrassment and he reaches out, keeping your arm down.
“wann’ see your pretty face, waited for it” you nod meekly and he flashes his dimples, continuing to pull down your panties and throw them somewhere behind him. your cute cunt, glistening with arousal was right in front of his face. fuck. gliding a finger up the slit, he watches as the slick from your pussy coats it. fuck.
an hour later he was in heaven, or at least you felt like it. buried deep inside your wet cunt as you moaned and squirmed under him
“ngh- fuck, so good fa’ me baby”
this was the stuff of wet dreams. he speeds up as he feels his orgasm approaching, praises and grunts slipping from his lips as he slams his hips against yours. soft skin against muscle, hot breath on your face from where he was above you. finally he pulls out with groan, wanting to stay buried in your warm. spurts of warm cum shoot up your stomach as he finally finishes.
ray collapses beside you, both of you sweaty and nude as you bathe in the afterglow. weakly, you smile at his tired form as you close your eyes, drifting to sleep in your warm bed.
bang!
you wake up with a start, wearing a shirt too big to be yours. must be ray’s. you look around the dim room and reach for ray, feeling nothing in the space next to your body. did ray… leave? that couldn’t be right. your bare feet hit the wood floor as you step towards your lamp and turn on the light. nothing.
you look around the bedroom and then head to the kitchen, turning the corner and switching on the light. immediately the kitchen floods with light and you gasp. the floor was tracked with blood, a trail leading from where you stood to your bathroom. was he hurt?! you cautiously approach the bathroom, a sharp metallic scent dominates your nose as push open the half open door.
“took a while to wake up didn’t you sleepyhead?”
your blood runs cold. it was your ex boyfriend. if the crazed grin in his face wasn’t unsettling enough the blood smearing on his cheek and splattered across his body sent alarms going off inside you. looking behind him you see the source of all the red.
ray. deep cuts run down his body, clothes shredded, and body half submerged in the now murky red water of the tub. on the tile floor next to him was your kitchen knife, covered in blood. without missing a beat you turned and sprinted to your bed stand, searching for your phone. there’s no way you would make it to the door in time, you needed to call the police and at least save ray.
haphazardly searching your bed and nightstand, you still can’t find your phone. where is it?
“oh lookin’ for your phone?” you turn to him. in his hand was the aforementioned object, light pink case looking uncharacteristically cute opposed to his blood-ridden form. “you’re a pretty deep sleeper hon, i mean i was rummaging around right next to you for this and you didn’t even hear”
“what are you doing raph?” you ask terrified, slowly inching away from him.
in response he approaches you, “what do you think? my girl runs off on me and the next time i see her she’s fucking my brother. you tryna make me jealous baby?” he leans in, expression seemingly amused but you knew better. he was pissed.
“and you’re wearing his shirt too” his large hand plays with the round collar of the tee, fingers ghosting over your collarbones.
“take it off”
eyes wide, you look up at him, “no i won-”
“take it off or he dies” raph’s face is dead serious, no traces of amusement left, stare burning into your face. “you want him to live right? i’ll call the police as long as you take it off”
you hesitate then slowly peel off ray’s shirt, letting it fall to the floor. raph had seen your body before right? it was a small price to pay for saving rays life. the action left you in only your cotton panties as you tried to preserve your modesty with your hands.
raph lets out a low whistle and steps forward, pulling you closer by the curve of your waist. chucking as you shiver due to his cold touch
“already forgot i feel baby? might needa reteach ya”
you look away from him, refusing to see the smug expression playing on his face.
at that moment you felt a wave of self hatred crash over you, why couldn’t you do anything about this? were you so weak that you couldn’t protect yourself, much less ray? but who were you kidding, you weren’t faster or stronger than raph. there’s no way you could get out of this situation with both of you alive without giving into raph.
raph places a rough hand at your jaw, forcing you to look at him. unlike his brother his touch was demanding and rash, the only purpose of it being to prove that you were still his silly girl. no matter how hard you tried to run away.
he coos at your troubled expression “where’s all that fire from before huh?” he grins at your submissive state, the one that he caused. “i’ll be nice, put your own clothes on. quick.”
was he playing with you? you take a look at ray’s shirt on the floor and then approach your closet under a guise of calmness, but a look at your shaking hands would disprove your confidence. putting on a bra, followed by a bottom and a top, then outer wear. anything to put more layers between you and him.
a look up at him reveals that he was already looking at you, probably to stop you from pulling another trick on him. he leans down to whisper in your ear but instead decides to press his face into your neck, inhaling the sweet smell. he mutters, face still in your hair “god i missed you” the sincere tone in his voice scared you the most.
he pulls away, expression distant and somewhat melancholy. “you know if you acted like a good girl from the beginning i wouldn’t have to do this”
before you can question him, his open right hand presses against your face, hard. the other hand supports your head to stop you from pulling away, body trapped. the bitter smell of something pressed on the tissue between your face and his hand floods your senses.
for the second time that night all your senses dull, and everything goes dark.
a/n: i know i know you guys wanted reader to get away from him! i just though this was more interesting then the reader getting back at raph and getting away with it. i like to make my yanderes stubborn loll. hope you liked the twist might write a part 3 ^^
✧ a/n: you guys wanted both the yan royalty and yan cheater so imma do both ‼️ i’ll post the royalty one later cause you guys are in for a treat
not proofread but enjoy! (ty for the love on the last post as well <3)
cheater bf who sleeps with your friends behind your back. it’s not like you were anything special anyway, he just tolerated you so he could get closer to some real women
cheater bf who makes you beg for the bare minimum: giving you his jacket, holding your hand during a scary movie, etc etc but does all those things for your friends with a charming smile
cheater bf who says you’re overreacting after he holds your friends hand during a scary movie instead of yours
“hey don’t be selfish, poor girl looked like she was gonna cry. what kinda friend are you?”
you miss the way his fingers trailed up her thighs halfway through the movie when you squeeze your eyes shut. terrified of the unfolding movie scene as your bf comforts another girl
cheater bf who has fucked your roommate in your dorm room bed. oh you’re asking why they look sweaty and tired? they were trying to move your bed cause she dropped something behind it ofc.
cheater bf who finally gets caught a year into your relationship after you walk in on him mid-thrust into your ‘friend’ after they both excused themselves to the bathroom during your hangout.
cheater bf who zips up his pants and runs after a sobbing you to explain but stops half way, what was there to explain anyway? you would be heartbroken yes, but he had got what he wanted didn’t he? ignoring the dull tug on his heart he returns to his dorm
ex bf who throws himself on his bed while thinking about you. finally he picks up the lingering sent of you on his bed and various items that belong to your littered across the room. little gifts to him and cards wishing him happiness. maybe you’d become more intertwined in his life than he thought
ex bf that drops your stuff at your new dorm in a cardboard box, unluckily for you, you open it at the same time and are left staring at each other. like a cat you quickly dart out, grab the box, and retreat after locking the door can’t you just look at him once?
ex bf who feels empty after your breakup, he misses your cooking, your nagging for him to take care of himself, your smiles. fuck. what was the point of being free to fuck whoever he wanted if all he could imagine was you?
ex bf who stalks your socials, irritated that you removed him from your posts and blocked him on everything. and one day when he’s on his burner stalking you, a new story pops up. it’s innocent enough, a picture of you at dinner with a small caption “dinner out”, but then he notices the masculine hand on the table across from you wearing a watch not quite made for a woman.
his blood is boiling. you’re his. his girl.
yandere cheater who scours his room for anything that reminds him of you, finally finding a shirt in the back of his closet that he didn’t find earlier. suffocating his face with the soft fabric, moaning as he sniffed the garment
yandere cheater who hurriedly ruts into his hand as he hold the fabric up to his nose, cock leaking as he fucks his hand to your scent. he cums hard, harder than he had with any of your bimbo ‘friends’
yandere cheater who finally realized what he was missing: you. he caves in and incessantly messages and calls you, showing up at your door to win back your love.
yandere cheater who grows tired, he’s always been impatient. he knows what he did was wrong, especially to an angel like you but everyone deserves a second chance right? after all you were his soulmate
yandere cheater who shows up at a cafe you’re at and sits across from you like nothing is wrong. when you get up to leave, he forces you back into the seat. whispering in your ear to not make a scene. pulling out his phone he reveals intimate pictures of you from your relationship.
“it would be a darn shame if anyone saw these hm? your poor mom would be so disappointed that her dear daughter was just passing these around”
your eyes widen and you beg him to delete them, you’ll do anything!
“just come back to me and all these will be gone”
he grins, to wide to be kind. he wouldn’t send them out anyway. your body was his alone to see. but fuck did it have a effect on you, your big eyes fill with caution.
“please there must be-“ he cuts you off.
“there’s no other way than back to me sweets”
once you shakily get up, he throws his arm over your shoulder, keeping you pinned to his side as you both leave the coffee shop. your hot coffee long forgotten on the table as the chilly air hits your faces. your body further fills with despair as you pass the ally next to the shop, spotting the date you were going to meet. face bloodied and body limp against the red brick.
your ex was always far stronger than you, far stronger than anyone else you had met too. his dedication to martial arts was one of the things that had drawn you to him. but now, his vice grip on you as he guides you to his car isn’t to prove his strength to protect you. it’s to intimidate you into giving in to him
