April Showers (Benny Watts X Reader)

Hey I was just wondering can you do yandere garou x pregnant reader

oof i just posted itty bitty bits of this with the metal bat and garou thingie but i could put some more random ass thoughts here

so

garou is a total sweetheart

yandere garou is a fucking monster

which makes him hot

how he would be great with a pregnart reader, im not so sure. but i shall try

certainly he's possessive af, which would provide you with moments like "you're not leaving the fucking house, stay right there and protect my baby"

but when you just scoff and walk past him, he'll groan and follow you. keeping you cooped up when you're on raging pregnart hormones is hard.

so he'll drag his feet after you all the way to the grocery store, and the second you step inside his alarm bells are going off and an arm latches around your waist not unlike that of a metal bar. and he'll yank you closer and haul u around and growl at other customers and shit bc this is a manchild that you are in love with congrats--hope you can handle two babies at once

lil pussy-whipped yandere garou just graduated into baby-whipped garou, so this mf levels up his AUDACITY.

suddenly you can't take care of yourself, apparently. you're not going to cook, you're not going to work, you're not going to take a piss without a safety escort and an ID scan. these are the rules

that's his baby, and you're his baby.

nothing will happen to you.

hands and lives will be taken if anyone touches you.

also daddy garou loves his baby so much omg its adorable the cheek squeezes and the gushes and the actual tears when this motherfucker feels the baby kick for the first time and goes "garou jr will be a kickboxing champ, maybe I can train him in the womb"

strap in, it's gonna be a bumpy ride

In the Black Widow’s Nest (Henry Creel x Reader) 🕷️Chapter 2🕷️

*GIF not mine*

Summary:

Prince Henry of the Creel Dynasty is finally in search of a wife, and in the spirit of courtship, King Victor has invited young royalty from all neighboring kingdoms to vie for his hand. But with so much royalty introduces the need for many more maids in the castle than usual.

Enter: You.

You’re nothing but a servant in his home, an intruder in his prized library, and an utter nuisance in his mind. But then you survive his attack, and in an unexpected way nonetheless. That makes you… interesting.

You’ve caught his eye—congratulations! Now, you must deal with the consequences of loving a heartless prince in a world where far worse things lurk in the castle than dirty garderobes.

Chapter 1

A/N: yay, another chapter! and not a million bajillion months later, either, aren’t u guys lucky? I worked hard on this one! Let me know what you think, and I hope you enjoy!

Word count: 4809

The maids of the castle did not have an organized way of awakening. The first one to rise from her cot never rang a bell, nor did she make a sound as she bumbled about the room. The others simply roused at her activity and moved to follow her lead. A soft ray of warmth would peek through window curtains, illuminating the rumpled sheets and the scuffling shoes as the ladies donned their uniforms: white pinafores over black smocks, black sleeves down to the wrists with white cuffs, white bows, black slippers.

A light chatter had begun after one maid, a new recruit hired for the season, had asked another for assistance in tying the pinafore’s bow at her back. By the time the bow was finished, the rest of the room had followed suit. Conversations erupted, and some of the more experienced women had taken to helping the newcomers with their garments. When one began to brush her own hair, so did another. When one adjusted the strap on her own shoe, so did another.

They moved as one body and looked as one body, as was expected of them. None dared to lose their opportunity to work with the castle's wages and living, especially during such a season.

The prince of the Creel Dynasty was finally searching for a wife.

The kingdom had long awaited this announcement from the handsome young heir. In preparation for the many balls, galas, and other festivities promised by this news, the castle staff had welcomed a myriad of new members, all of whom had to be trained before the kingdom could host any visiting royalty.

The maids, therefore, had the strictest schedules and regimens. The nature of their duties made it most plausible to come in contact with a royal, and such required a level of propriety unobserved by them in their previous homes.

But a new fear had struck the collective consciousness of the trainees.

One that made the threat of interacting with royals all the more potent.

You rose from your cot at the tap of the girl beside you. A fierce spasming fired along your spine, where your new wounds must have reopened from the movement.

Briefly, you considered lying back down, letting your headache swallow you whole. Considered Miss Miriam, in a devilish state, screaming at you, dismissing you, dragging you out of the castle. Crawling back home with no money, nothing to show for your promises of dragging them out of the village and whisking them away to a life of less hell. You consider coming out of the castle like you came in. Still nothing. Having nothing.

But a pretty sight struck you—Miss Miriam, with her crop, coming up behind you, and you, twisting and grabbing her by her gray hair, shoving her face into a used chamber pot.

Then swatting the old harpy with her own weapon.

A smile split your face, causing the bruise on your cheek to throb.

One day.

But until that day, you were stuck here under the shameless eyes of your own fellow maids. The show Miss Miriam had put on for the others was one that must be burned into the backs of their eyelids, because the maids did one of two things.

They watched you, or they blinked.

You folded in on yourself, turning away and grasping your uniform tucked neatly beneath your bed. When you rose back up and reached for the hem of your nightdress, you hesitated.

The gazes were so heavy you could drown. Even now, you could feel the oozing blood sticking to the thick fabric. However prominent the bruise on your face was nothing compared to artwork that mangled your back; something was peeling, another splitting, and much was bleeding. It was all one collective wound, one scab healing so slowly that any movement you made renewed the process.

You did everything quickly and quietly. You tore off your dress, peeling off fresh skin with it, and stretched the other one over your head, thankful the black smock wouldn’t stain so evidently. The gasps didn’t slow you down. You tugged on your shoes and straightened your sleeves. You whisked your hair out of your face as you worked, tightening and adjusting and grimacing your way through it.

Tears burned at the corners of your eyes, but you didn’t let them fall. You were surprised you had any left after last night—your own tongue sat as dry as a rock in your mouth. How could there be more?

But they sprang forth when you pulled the pinafore over your sleeves and realized you couldn’t tie the bow yourself. Not as tightly as it should be. Your own body wouldn’t let you do such a thing to your wound.

You needed help. Would any of them be willing to even speak to you? To be seen associating with the first pariah of the group?

You couldn’t imagine yourself doing it. Self-preservation was at an all-time high after your public whipping. Would anyone even believe that you hadn’t wanted any of this? That you hadn’t been a crown-hunting girl begging for trouble? That something bordering on preternatural had invaded your mind and drowned out your senses, and all you could do was cling onto another human as you grappled for reality—who gave a damn if the man just happened to be Prince Henry, the one person women in all the known kingdoms were trying to obtain?

No.

No one would believe you.

Dear God, you sounded deranged. One step away from fleeing into the woods waving sticks and crying demon at every creature you crossed.

The church bells, of all things, being the sounds you’d heard when your own life was slipping away before your eyes. You may as well hang yourself right now, if the king couldn’t decree it any faster.

You dropped the two fabric strings of the pinafore with a muffled snivel, cupping your bruised cheek and letting your eyes fall closed.

Three months. Just three months to shed the new label and secure yourself a permanent position in the castle. Real servants’ lodgings, proper pay, daily meals. You could live the rest of your life not acknowledged by another soul if you could just stay here, safe and content and unheeded.

What more could a person want out of life?

A gentle touch at your shoulder blade drew your attention, and you flinched away before it got any closer to your injuries. You spun around and bumped into your cot, eyeing the other maid warily. Her gaze was kind and bordered on innocent, vibrant blue barely peeking out from behind a wall of curly brown hair. She looked about your age, and at first glance, you would never notice the proud, acute way she held herself.

Like she always knew what she was doing, and yet always knew too much.

And when she offered her hands like a sign of peace, you did not try to back away again. Far be it from you to reject the first kindness you had experienced since you had arrived here.

“I can tie your bow, if you like?”

That same accent, unrefined when compared to what usually bounced off the gilded walls, and you surmise that she must have come from another small village like yours. Unlike you, however, she seemed to have less fear when navigating through unfamiliarities like castles and cruel maids.

Why else would she bother offering the one persona non grata a helping hand?

You pause at her offer, gnawing on your lip as though you had other options to consider. Perhaps there was some ill intent to her aid, but even if there was, you couldn’t figure out what and why and why bother.

“Yes…” you swallowed. “Please.”

She smiled gently and gestured for you to turn around. When her hands tied the bow, it was all light fingers and quiet conversations.

Her name was Nancy, and you learned she had come from the village next to yours. When she couldn’t get a job working for a seamstress, she wound up as something of a governess in the kingdom’s walls, traversing back and forth between her home and those of higher standings nearer to the castle. She was good at watching children, but the castle was offering far more than royalty’s butlers and vicars could afford.

And she was also very sorry for you. What happened yesterday was hard to watch.

You asked her to tighten the bow, dismissing her small hum of concern, and swallowed the bile that rose when the pinafore dug securely into the gashes of your back.

You both knew she had been fixing to leave it loose, letting you decide if the risk of an untidy uniform was worth the comfort.

It wasn’t.

The other maids, it seemed, had grown uninterested the second your wounds were covered for what would be the remainder of the day, and returned to normal conversation. Few glances were thrown your way since Nancy had tied your bow, and you noticed yet another phenomenon.

Caught up in a sea of black and white, the only difference between you and Nancy, between any one maid and another, was her hair. Brunette and blond hair intermixed with black and ginger, all blended seamlessly when plaited or swept up into a bun.

Yours hung loose and knotted down your back, and without a word, Nancy began to wisp the tendrils into a braid. You wanted to stop her, but you couldn’t. Your own arms could barely raise as high as your heart, and your hands shook the second they entered your vision, lifted to stop Nancy’s at your nape.

“There,” she murmured, dismissing your thanks, “now you really blend in. By tonight, the others won’t even remember which bed you’re in.”

“Should I be concerned they know that now?”

She laughed softly. “I suppose not, although I have overheard a few girls bitter about you being with a royal.”

You blanched. “What? That’s what they’re focused on?”

Maybe… maybe you should have guessed some of them might focus on that fact. But look where it got you, and you hadn’t even been trying.

Properly flogged, and now in the sights of one Miss Miriam.

Nancy shrugs. “Just a few. Most have been scared for you. But,” she pauses, pursing her lips, “you must understand that we’re… thankful, in a cruel way.”

Of course. You could understand that.

It terrified you, angered you to no end, but you understood it. Someone had to be a lesson for the others. A demonstration. The new maids needed a spectacle to understand where the power lied—that power did not lie solely within royalty. There were pockets of it left scattered throughout the castle, and cruel-enough servants snatched it up whenever possible, and lorded it over whoever would listen.

But… you wanted to cry at the unfairness of it all. You never thought it would be you.

The collective consciousness reigned over the servants once more, and they began to line up. You spotted a girl, younger-looking than most, step away from the door, and guessed she must have heard footsteps. Nancy nodded at you before joining a line, and you followed.

Like clockwork, the door slammed open, and Miss Miriam entered with a silencing swoosh of her black smock. When her second-in-command entered, goosebumps ran down your spine.

You could still feel yourself struggling in her arms, sobs wracking their way through you as she steadied your form for another lashing. Your heartbeat began thundering in your back, right underneath the bow of the pinafore.

“Ladies, today is a day of utmost importance.” With small, black eyes narrowed and surveying each and every young girl before her, Miss Miriam furrowed her brow and frowned, wrinkles tracing the expressions with ease. Her face pinched together so tightly it resembled a sun-dried grape. “The royal family will be welcoming four promising princesses today, and it will be your duty to clean every inch of the castle they will roam upon before they arrive. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Miss Miriam.”

“We will work as one. We will bow as one. We do everything as one, today and all days, ladies. Efficiently, and quietly.” Her eyes fell on you. “No one will cause trouble today. Understood?”

You gulped. The maids chimed together once more, and you could only mouth along with them.

“Yes, Miss Miriam.”

Her gaze left yours, and the tightening of your throat eased.

“Moira will delegate assignments. Those tidying halls will follow me.”

The hallways, all gilded columns and glistening marble, flared victoriously in the morning sun. Most aspects of the castle seemed to emphasize the Creel Monarchy’s pride, their devout sense of self-satisfaction the principal aspect of every painting, vase, and snuffed sconce.

A portrait of the long deceased King James, great-great-great-great grandfather to Prince Henry—though, you pondered calling the number of greats preceding his name into question (and the word great itself)—sneered down at you, seeming perpetually pleased to be two hundred years in the ground and still lording himself over every subject that roamed his halls.

Disdain for all others must have been passed down the family line religiously.

You dragged your eyes down and away, busying yourself instead with dusting the marbleized snoot of Julius Caesar. The crystalline windows of the castle acted like a magnifying glass against you as you worked, adding a heat to the already aching skin of your back. You were a cockroach wandering too close to a flame, and any second now you could burn up from the inside out, crushed with a crunch rather than a squelch.

Using the back of your hand, you wiped the sweat from your brow, eyes wandering dangerously to the maid who worked beside you.

Nancy, owning the more bearable appearance between the two of you, had been sent out to deliver and replace new bed sheets along with thirty other girls. But the girl beside you, taller and owning a mess of dirty blonde hair swept into an apathetic bun, had somewhat of the same spirit of Nancy. A small glimmer of rebellion shone in her eyes each time Miss Miriam wandered far enough down the glittering hallway so as to only be seen by squinting.

Then, with a wry twitch of her freckled face, she’d rasp five blasphemies she’d decided described the witch in that moment.

Musty shrew appeared to be a favorite.

The girl glanced up from where she had been polishing a rickety wooden chair and flashed you a smile, glancing each way before rising from her knees and approaching. She reached out and plopped the brush she had been using on the table holding the marble statue head, and plugged a finger into each of its ears.

“I don’t suppose Jesus here will strike me down for my profanity, will he?”

You looked down. Chiseled above its wrinkled forehead was a laurel crown, and you couldn’t recall a Bible passage describing Jesus’ sabbatical in Rome. You blinked at her.

“I’m pretty sure that’s Julius Caesar.”

The blonde glances at the statue again, gray eyes darting over it before she shrugs. “Same difference. If there is a sculpture of Jesus somewhere in this castle, I have no doubt he’s going to receive the same mouthful of feathers you’re forcing on poor Caesar here.”

“Only if Miss Miriam deems it so.” You nodded your head in the skeletal maid’s direction. “Her words are as good as gospel, after all.”

“And yet, each time she speaks, I feel like I’m taking orders from Satan.”

You let out a ghost of a laugh, biting your tongue when your wounds contract and throb.

Her face splits into a smile, and she lets out a short laugh too. Something flits along her face, though, and you get the sense you didn’t hide your pain well enough. The subject is easily danced around; the maid releases her grip on the statue and instead grasps her skirt, lowering into a teasing curtsy. “The name is Robin, milady.” Her eyelashes flutter rapidly and she waggles her fingers in the air, perfectly, in your opinion, mimicking the interactions between royalty that you’ve seen thus far. Haughty, majestic, and filled with intentions barely skin-deep.

You do the same.

She lets your name roll off her tongue a few times, letting it thud against the crisp white walls in her hoarse tone before saying decidedly, “Very fitting.”

Before long, Miss Miriam decides the hallway is clean enough and herds all the maids, the vast majority of them being newcomers like you, out and away into the next wing.

A chill wracks through you when the word “residential” gets passed down the line of one hundred girls, followed by “prince” and “bedroom” and “handsome.” You scan the white, stone columns as you pass, watching them curve into elegant archways shadowed through the frosted windows. This wing is covered in significantly less dust, and a faint scent of roses and pines floats in the air.

You try to flood out the memories, thinking vigorously about the red carpet before you, the soft slap of two hundred clogs, small shuffles and whispers. Everything around you you swallow up whole, eyes wide as though it will help you take in everything and think about nothing. But you cannot avoid it for long; not when you pass by the entrance to the royal throne room, in all its scintillating enormity, golden thrones set with silk, inlaid with gemstones, all wide open spaces.

And hovering above all four was a single, large oil portrait of the living Creel sovereigns.

King Victor, with his light blue eyes caving underneath the lustrous crown, crisp white beard neatly trimmed. His hand hovered over his wife’s shoulder, smile thin and pale.

Queen Virginia, known for her devout faith and kindness, her amber hair falling in ringlets down to her sides. She sat prim and proper on a ruby-cushioned chair, hands folded prettily, eyes dim.

Princess Alice, the spitting image of her mother, bar her father’s eyes and the last twenty years. Second only to her brother in terms of popularity in the kingdom and out, something distinctly complacent set her brows in such a way you knew instantly why she was desirable to royals and dodged by anyone below them.

And then him.

A part of you hadn’t believed Miss Miriam when she’d called him so.

Your Highness.

But as you looked at him now, standing taller than the rest of his blood, proud and ramrod straight, broad shoulders held back by an invisible force, you knew the portraitist had gotten something wrong.

The hair was right; the golden crown of tousled waves, parted neatly and befitting him far more than any scrap of the earth. The lips, pink and pronounced, and the softness of his brow, and, of course, his posture. All perfect.

But it wasn’t Prince Henry. Not quite.

The eyes. Slate blue and cold, cold, cold. How could the artist have not seen that?

Instead, they were warm and too dark a blue. Almost navy, and gentle, and so soft he almost looked like he was frozen in a smile.

No, no. That wasn’t the Prince Henry you had seen.

Where was the darkness? The cruelty? The evil that shadowed every inch of him?

This was some sterilized version of the crown prince, some unattainable, unreliable, utterly purified visage of him being displayed to the kingdoms in pastime.

He radiated divinity, in and out of the portrait. But without that quality of his that effused danger so potently, you could not help but feel the kingdoms were being sold a lie.

The nervous hiss of your name and a strong grip rattling at your wrist spared you from Prince Henry’s trance once more.

Too much power, he had. Too much… something.

“I get it,” Robin whispered, eyes flitting back and forth as the herd marched on, “completely, I understand. But, you cannot just stand and stare at royalty all day. That’s kind of how you…” she gnawed at the inside of her cheek, “you know, got into your situation in the first place. I’d hate to think what Miss Mule would do if she caught you with a Creel of all people.”

You hesitate to tell her that it was, in fact, a Creel that had gotten you in this position. But if Miss Miriam had decided to hide that information from others, you could only guess there was some merit to hiding that you’d thrown your arms around a prince that was already in high demand.

You had wound up committing one of the worst possible treasons with the worst possible man. You supposed it was quite like learning to swim a day prior and diving into a deep lake the very next day—you’d hit rock-bottom, and you’d only just begun.

To think you shouldn’t already be swinging by your neck right now, face blue and tongue swollen, had the head maid hoarded some minute amount of mercy for you.

That, or she’d known your actions had no great impact upon the integrity of the prince’s pursuits—whether it be accidental or otherwise, Miss Miriam viewed yesterday’s nightmare as a tragic attempt to escape your fate, some sick wishing turned to action wherein you wooed the prince and thus he would marry you.

Of all people. You.

You could retch at the thought.

You’d been raised proper, your parents teaching you well about respect, understanding who deserved it and who did not. They had also taught you that people could be born deserving respect, that it was some inherent betterness of their circumstances that, in turn, warranted curtsies and bowed heads.

Which, in your humble opinion, seemed utter tosh, but so be it. For now, you had a head on your shoulders, feasted somewhat regularly, and slept in warmth. Your clothing had not been sewn by your own hands, and your family was receiving enough coins to not worry about your wellbeing.

No matter that they probably should.

Far be it from you to look gift horses in their mouths, but you felt yourself afforded a nice level of circumspection after your back had been torn to ribbons for a mishap over which you had no control.

You didn’t want to marry the prince. You didn’t want to touch him, and you didn’t want to think about him. And, ignoring all the memories of his larger hands, his blue gaze, his golden strands, and how he may haunt you for years to come, you were quite certain you never wanted to see Prince Henry ever again.

Your back twinged in agreement.

The multitude of fluttering pinafores ahead of you slowed their swishing. Clomping clogs eased into a gentle tapping and finally stopped, and the movements were imparted upon the rest of the maids. A smaller form bumped into your back, and you flinched away, spinning and biting back a cry.

A maid a few years younger than you gaped her mouth, innocence and fear mingling in her expression as brown curls fell over her brow. She seemed so much smaller than the others, more unwitting. Your eyes fell to her hand, a clenched fist in the creases of your skirt, as it hesitatingly fell away.

More distanced shuffling disseminated down the corridor, and you watched the assorted heads of hair in front of you split and separate, clinging to either wall, leaving a wide breadth of distance for someone to pass through. Sunlight filtered between the silent shadows of maids and formed a golden glow of a path.

You followed the others and split off to one side, opposite a window, and grasped blindly for Robin’s hand when she didn’t move to follow. A gentle tug at the fabric of your backside conveyed that the other, younger maid had restored her grip.

From your position, the sun blinded you heavily, and you squinted as a yellow shine overtook everything you saw. White spots splattered your vision when you blinked, but you looked past the maids anyway, curiosity jostling its way down the two lines.

“Your Highness.”

So far ahead, you couldn’t see and only heard Miss Miriam and her staunch and clear-cut announcement. That same loyal tone, somewhat saccharine, frayed your nerves in a second.

The prince?

Curtsies flowed like a wave through the maids, and when you bent low, head bowed, Robin and the young maid followed on either side of you, just as gawky. Nobody rose, and, per Miss Miriam’s orders, nobody would rise until the royalty had passed.

But… dear God, wasn’t it an awful affair that you could tell who it was without even looking? That you could feel a quiet sizzle over the rows of women and girls alike, heard the soft, prideful gait of his finely polished boots.

Back in your village, you’d hated how slowly people could walk. How they’d force you to flounder behind them as they puttered, how they could wander one way and then the other, each footstep a guess. Like they had all the time in the world.

You never would have guessed that a fast pace could be just as troubling. Like he couldn’t stand to be in the same corridor with so many servants, Prince Henry was a brisk wind over the ruby carpets. Even so, you could feel the rise and fall of elation, soft gasps partnered with perfectly timed peeks.

He was a sight to behold—that much had been imprinted on your mind. But he couldn’t possibly be as rumpled as he’d been in the depths of the frosty library, hair thoroughly rakish, white tunic clinging to his golden skin. No; royals held a certain standard of propriety, even as they indulged in the most hedonistic of lifestyles. He must be sheathed in some proper velvet tailcoat, and his face must be severe and sharp, slicing along everything he saw.

Breathtaking in an entirely different way, you were sure.

No, you didn’t look. You couldn’t. You can’t.

Not even as his footsteps approach.

You focus your gaze on your swinging braids, watching them refuse to settle against some unknown breeze. A strain forms in your knuckles with how hard you grip your skirt, and your spine throbs with each heartbeat against the tightened back of your uniform.

Prince Henry slows.

The atmosphere tightens around your little grouping of maids, sun soaking into your black clothing so heavily you can barely breathe.  

We must be in front of a door, some corner he needs to turn to. Something.

Some disturbed pulsing blossoms in your gut when he stops just before you, black boots just inches away. Lithe fingers laden with metal rings hover in your vision.

Prince Henry’s too close all over again.

You want to cry out; you want to say nothing and everything. You want to sink into the furthest recesses of your home miles away just as much as you want to stand at the top of a hill and hold your arms out, waiting for it all.  

Your heart is racing—wild, damned little thing. An insufferable hypocrite after all the ways it had condemned him yesterday for what had happened.

Fingertips, gentle and soft as a single breath, rise and brush over your flaming cheekbone.

A tingle of pain jolts through the bruise so suddenly you flinch away, followed by an indifferent grunt that hangs in the air.

No pity in the sound. No remorse. Barely a hint of acknowledgment.

You want to cradle your cheek and press, hard, at the bridge of your nose, will those wobbling tears to stop. His hand hovers again, twitches near, and, when you lean some scant distance away, falls back to his side.

Within that same second, the boots that hadn’t even turned toward you stalk away. Still fast and proud, no more slows and stops. No more grunts.

But, without a doubt, it was Prince Henry. You’d peeked as the other maids had peeked.

You’d done all that they had done, yet you knew that single touch had doomed you.

That must have been his game. A nice bit of teasing for the maid who'd embraced him; let her be thoroughly beaten down to her station. It was some cruel recognition of what happened to you, some silent sanctioning of a proper punishment.  

Servant does a bad thing; servant gets punished by her peer.

Royal approves. No blood on his hands.

You were right, of course. That portrait was missing Prince Henry’s most vital characteristic: Wickedness.

When the maids rise from their curtsies, trembling thighs and huffed breaths, all eyes fall on you. A range of emotions bombard you before you can rub your cheek.

Wonder.

Awe.

Envy.

And—you can only assume from the thundering footsteps—Miss Miriam’s unparalleled rage.

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Assassin AUs

1.      ‘Wait, you’ve been hired to killthis guy too?!’ AU

2.      ‘My apologies, upon closer inspection it turns out that you are not the person I was hired to kill.’ AU

3.      ‘I haven’t decided if I’m actually going to kill you yet but first, either way, what did you DO to piss off the Canadians so badly.’ AU

4.      ‘They never told me the target was also a trained killer. Did they tell you?’ AU

5.      ‘I’m meant to kill you but I’ve been watching you for a week to work out how and you’re just too nice.’ AU

6.      ‘I’m intrigued; the last three attempts on my life were much better funded and prepared.’ AU

7.      ‘All my intel said you’re not meant to be back until next week and I’m sitting here using your flat as a sniper nest to kill a bad guy. This is awkward.’ AU

8.      ‘I can only assume we’re both missing part of the story here because that was supposed to kill you.’ AU

9.      ‘Dude, you just shot my arm off. Do they not hire assassins with an aim anymore?’ AU

10.  ‘Explain to me one more time, why exactly are you so desperate to buy this much Ricin?’ AU

11.  ‘So let me get this straight. You nuked my entire home city and you still didn’t manage to kill me?’ AU

12.  ‘Dude, no. If you kill me that just leaves you, the crazy guy and the CAT!’ AU

13.  ‘I don’t know who you are or how you got in here but I need you to give back at least some of the armoury.’ AU

14.  ‘Having drawn the short straw I’m the guy who has to explain to you why we can’t take out a hit on an entire landmass.’ AU

15.  ‘Look, I know we got off on the wrong foot back there but we are literally the only two people on this boat who are not assassins, so…’ AU

Bokuto for me is an obssesive and unstable yandere. I feel like he would force his darling to play the doting housewife for him. And he sees her not paying him enough attention, he will flip and either (1) beat her up or (2) fuck her until she's a blabbering mess 😌

You right, you right😤 he’s definitely fallen so far over the edge that he thinks you’re okay with what he does to you.

When he comes home from volleyball games, I can totally see him having you obey a strict daily routine of a hug, a kiss on the cheek, and then you bring him dinner and cuddle.

Honestly tho, there is solid evidence that this boy would love to see you covered in marks from his hands, sexual or otherwise.

(Can you imagine the smirk when he’s pounding into you? “Fuck yeah, YN, keep saying my name. Who’s the only one that can make you feel like this, baby?”)

hello! I read your reborn series and I'm in love with it, the plot and story is just immaculate. if it isn't too much, can you add me in your taglist? thank you!

Of course! Thank you so much, and I’m glad you’re liking it!🤗💜

the nail polish fic was too cute !! i loved it, you perfectly wrote bakugo’s character 😂💓

Thanks 🥰 I’m so glad you liked it! He’s an angry whacknut, so I love writing for him😂💜

Gray Chains (Yandere Michael Gray x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

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

A/N: I mean gotta admit I’m in a yandere Michael Gray kinda mood, and there’s only like two fics of that out there :( Gotta do whatcha gotta do ig. Enjoy!

Word count: 3068

        Polly’s grip on your wrist is so tight you can barely feel the tips of your bluing fingers. You’re used to such pain, though; underneath her hand are more permanent, more reddened markings from the handcuffs you had been wearing before Polly had found you.

        “We’re almost there,” she mumbled under her breath, head snapping back and forth every few minutes to search each room you passed. Your feet and calves ached from the pace she had set for the two of you, quick and impatient ever since you’d stepped out of Michael’s townhouse. You hadn’t moved this far, this fast for months. 

        Not since you first tried to escape Michael. 

        Even now, you couldn’t breathe. Every gasp of air was caught in your throat, choking you slowly while tasting of antiseptic. A sort of panic-stricken excitement ran through your body from being outside the gray walls of Michael’s home for the first time in who knew how long. 

        Just hours ago that was where you had been, one hand secured in a metal cuff that only reached as far as the bathroom, the other end of which was placed around Michael’s headboard. 

        You knew something had gone awry when Michael hadn’t returned home to deliver you your usual meal every six hours for a straight three days; when he hadn’t shyly knocked on the door to his own bedroom, a tray of homemade cooking in his hands and an innocent smile on his face; “I made you something, love.”

        Three straight days. Your stomach rumbled as a reminder even now. 

        “Speed up now, won’t you,” Polly ordered, still frantically pushing the pair of you past marble hallways filled with nurses and patients roaming. “The room is up here.”

        You’d given up asking what had happened to Michael. Polly was unresponsive to your every question, too focused on lugging you behind her to say anything else but “He’s been asking for you.”

        When you had first heard the door unlock to Michael’s house this morning, you had thought it was him. “Where the hell have you been?” you’d called, a disturbing hint of relief in your frustrated tone. If he was going to lock you up like an animal, you’d thought to yourself, he should at least have planned for times like this where he doesn’t show up for days. 

        But the second you heard the footsteps up the stairs sound lighter than normal, you sat up at attention in the bed, eyes locked on the doorway. Who…?

        Polly. Polly who had almost been hanged, who was now addicted to pills and thought she could see spirits, who was a strong, capable woman that defended others and cared deeply for her family. This was how Michael described his mother to you. He’d wanted you to meet her so badly, but only when you were ready--complaisant was what he really meant. 

        “You must be YN,” she’d said breathlessly, pausing only a second to study your situation. 

        You swallowed, unmoving from your spot on the bed. “Yes.” She was the first person you’d seen for so long aside from Michael. 

        Then she produced a key from the pocket of her coat and approached you swiftly. 

        “Yes, yes--please,” you held up your cuffed hand before her, eyes watering with relief, “please, you must get me out of here. He’s kept me here so long.” Finally, someone had come to save you, you thought. You were leaving this place forever.

        When that small voice in the back of your mind whispered, “What about Michael?” you ignored it.

        The metal chains had hit the floor with soft clangs, and she’d pocketed the key once again. You remembered rubbing a hand over the sore skin of your wrist, eyes wide with wonderment at the sight of your hand unaccompanied by gray metal. 

        Then Polly’s hand replaced your own, tight and unforgiving as she tugged at your arm. “Come along now,” she ushered you out of the house, you willingly following her like a ragdoll. “He wants to see you.”

        “What?” That’s not what you had expected her to say. 

        “He’s been asking for you.”

        You never bothered to ask who. After all, you should have never thought Michael’s mother had come to save you. 

        Gangsters, you told yourself. Criminal scum, the lot of them. You should have never taken a walk down the streets of Birmingham, and you should have never smiled at Michael Gray. 

        “They’re asleep, fuckin’ lazy scumbags,” Polly spat, slowing her pace when she caught sight of one of the larger hospital rooms. She didn’t let up on your wrist but instead pushed you into the room first before following.

        Michael. 

        What happened to him?

        Half of his upper body was wrapped in white surgical tape, while the other half was blanched enough to rival the tape’s color. His eyes were closed, puffy and rimmed with dark circles that hung over prominent cheekbones like upended crescent moons. His pale, chapped lips were held in a thin line that twitched at the new, noisier presences in the room.

        A shiver traveled down your spine at the sight of him in such a way, and suddenly your hands trembled at your sides. You couldn’t feel the pain in your wrist anymore. 

        “On your feet,” you heard behind you. A few moments, and some rustling. “Wait outside.”

        The door clicked behind you, then it clicked again. Locked. Polly came up from behind you a second later, ignoring your presence completely as she set two flasks of alcohol on the table of Michael’s hospital bed before pulling up a chair beside him. 

        Tugging off her coat, she moved to lay it over Michael’s legs until he spoke. 

        “Mum,” he mumbled blindly, his voice raw and strained from lack of use. 

        “Michael,” Polly cooed then, leaning in closer over him to dab his face with a rag. He was so broken that moving his lips to talk was strenuous enough to break a sweat. Even his fingers twitched slowly, weakly. You’d never seen him so frail and battered.

        Your heart stuttered in an unsettling way. 

        “Is she-”

        “Don’t move.” She soaked up the perspiration on his brow next, humming warningly. “You took four bullets.”

        “But-”

        “She’s here--the girl. I brought her like you asked.” Polly didn’t spare you a glance, not that you noticed. You were frozen in place, gaze still wandering over each wrap on his body. One, two, three, four bullets. He’s still alive. He’s still alive. 

        “YN,” he murmured, eyes opening a sliver. “YN. You’re here.” 

        You took a step toward him instinctively, hand raising from your side, before realizing your mistake and steadying yourself in place. 

        A smile tugged at his lips, paining him somewhat but not stopping him. He moved to sit up, to reach out for you as well, but a groan forced its way from him when he tried. With furrowed brows, he sucked a breath through his teeth and clenched his eyes shut. 

        Polly inhaled all the meanwhile, hovering her hands over his form to stop him from moving any more. “What did I tell you? Lie back.”

        “YN, please, come closer, love.”

        Polly turned her gaze towards you, accusatory. “Come!” she ordered, gesturing with her head to Michael’s other side. Her gaze fell back on him again when you drew closer to the bed, and her hard face softened. 

        Even with eyes struggling to stay open, Michael’s stare was adoring upon you. Like always, he stared at you as though you’d hung the moon and stars in the sky. You’d been under that loving, worshiping gaze for months now. Even now, it placed such a heavy weight on your chest that you found yourself stumbling closer, only flinching away when your fingertips made contact with his arm. 

        He drew you in like a moth to a flame ever since you first met. Only after he’d locked you up in his house did your feelings for him leave a disgusting taste on your tongue. 

        You stayed a few inches apart from him, ignoring how his hand struggled at his side to reach for you. 

        “Love, please. I want to feel you. I need to know you’re really here.”

        Two pairs of eyes were on you then. Polly’s glared like a coiled snake, and Michael’s pleaded like a puppy dog.

        You edged closer, letting your hand drop on top of his. Quickly, Michael maneuvered your fingers to interlock with his, and he sighed in relief. You forced your attention away from the warmth spreading in the center of your chest and onto Polly, who dug through her bag. 

        “I’ve missed you so much, love.” His thumb ran over your knuckles. “I was so afraid I’d never get to see you again. I was so scared I was never going to hold you again.”

        His words wrapped around you like a weighted blanket, heavy and overbearing yet warm and comforting. You wanted to throw up.

        “Michael,” Polly gathered his attention somehow, pulling his face toward hers as she laid out a pamphlet on his bedside. Australia, it read. “Please listen. John’s dead, and this whole town’s fucked. We need to get out of here.”

        “No,” he grunted, hand squeezing yours.

        She rolled her eyes. “You can take the girl. Just listen--there’s no mafia, no fucking American gangsters in Australia. Now, the doctor said you can walk in five weeks, and the boat leaves February thirteenth. That gives us plenty of time.”

        Five weeks. You glanced at Michael’s form, practically curling in on itself in pain. It was only held together by stitches and strips of cloth. He wouldn’t be out of the hospital for months, even if he could walk. 

        “We’re not going anywhere, Mum.”

        But you could. How could he possibly come after you, stuck here like a mummified corpse with four bullet holes in it. Without him to lock you up in his house, to tie you down and feed you and hold you, you could escape him easily. You would never have to see Michael again. 

        Your stomach growled, drawing Michael’s attention. His face fell into despair at the sound, and his eyes fluttered closed in regret. “YN, fuck, I’m so sorry. I never thought something like this would happen.”

        “Michael, please,” Polly begged, “we must go there and see your sister.”

        “Mum, later.” He looked back at you, face riddled with guilt. “Love, I’m sorry you were alone for so long.”

        “Michael-”

        “Mum!” His head snapped back to her, frustration barely concealed in his tone. “Please. Just go call Tommy and tell him to bring me a gun for the room. Business needs to be done first before we take any trips.”

        “Michael, it’s not safe. Not if we stay here. Tommy cannot protect us.”

        “Not if you don’t help him, Mum. Please,” he lay his other hand over the pamphlet, pursing his lips before pressing it closed once more in her grasp, “help Tommy first. Help the company first, then I promise we’ll board that train to Australia to go see Anna.”

        Tears began trailing down Polly’s face, and you glanced away out of courtesy. Michael was so different with his mother than he was with you. Around you, he treated you like you could do no wrong. Like you were the perfect woman, the perfect wife. Sometimes he held you as though you were made of glass, and other times he almost broke your ribs in his tight embraces. He’d whisper to you at night about how you were his greatest achievement, his greatest gift. 

        With his mother, now, he treated her as though she were a five-year-old in need of constant supervision and direction. Michael had vaguely told you about the situation with his mother, how he’d only first met her a couple years ago, but never much more than that. You had a feeling that if the Polly in front of you now were in any better shape, that same Polly that so clearly wanted you to act like a better girlfriend to her son and had dragged you down streets and through alleys just for him, then she would never give Michael’s orders a second thought. 

        Polly nodded, wiping at her tear-stained cheeks with gloved hands with a willing, yet trembling, smile. “Fine.” She rose to her feet, grasping her purse off the nightstand and shoving the pamphlet inside. “Fine. I’ll go see Tommy.”

        She moved to leave, snatching the two flasks off the table in the meantime, before she seemed to remember something. She turned back to Michael again, and her gaze flitted to yours once. 

        “The girl. I saw the state she was in, Michael.”

        He tensed, and as a result your hand twinged in pain. 

        “Do you want me to take her back to the house?”

        All of the tension left Michael’s body in a single sigh, and he shook his head once. “No,” he smiled softly, “I want YN to stay with me here.”

        She nodded slowly, eyes falling on you one final time before she disappeared out the door. When it clicked shut, Michael’s gaze latched onto you, half-lidded, exhausted, but still very much attentive to you.

        “You will, won’t you? Stay with me here, I mean?”

        Silence fell over the room. You stared down at the man who just days ago had towered over you on his own bed, hands and lips all over you, owning you. 

        “You know why I do this, love, don’t you?” he’d always say, lips running over the raw skin of your wrist, free of the cuff whenever he was present. “It’s because I need you.” Another kiss. “I will always need you.”

        Then you twisted your hand from his grasp, backing away from the bed with flared nostrils. “I,” you shook your head, “I don’t know.”

        “No, no, love, please, don’t do this to me.” Michael grunted and groaned as he fumbled against the sheets, body fighting against his urge to move. His arms raised slowly and weakly from his sides as if each had been strapped down with weights. When he reached out for you, the sweat on his wrinkled brow glistened in the sunlight. 

        “Don’t, please. I love you so much, love, don’t do this to me.”

        You wanted to argue with logic. You wanted to twist his words and say, well how could you do that to me for all that time, huh? How could you tell me you love me every day, knowing that the only reason I have to listen to you is because of the prison walls around me? If you really loved me, how could you do that to me?

        But you didn’t because--it seemed--he’d finally got what he’d wanted. Oh how you missed the days where he’d begged and pleaded with you to love him and understand him, and how you missed those times where you said you didn’t and that you hated him. And you missed when those words were the truth, because it meant he hadn’t beaten you into submission. 

        Yet.

        But he was winning, wasn’t he now?

        As he breathed faster and perspired harder and called your name louder, you rounded the bed, still just out of his grasp, before settling down into Polly’s former seat. 

        Right then, he quieted himself like a sated child sucking on a pacifier. 

        “Fine, then.” You spat, more angry at yourself than you could ever be at him--because look what you’d allowed him to do to you. “Fine, you fucking win.”

        He remained silent.

        “I’ll stay here with you. And five weeks from now, I’ll still fucking be here, helping you stand up and walk around. And then soon after we’ll go to fucking Australia with your mother. And then after that I’ll fucking follow you there too, won’t I?” You were disgusted with yourself, with the feelings he’d force-fed into you until they were all you wanted. 

        Then you grabbed his hand, still reaching for you from the side of the hospital bed, and intertwined your fingers. Perfect, you’d thought, a perfect fucking fit. 

        Michael pulled the pair of hands up to his lips, kissing along your knuckles and smiling all the while. “Thank you, love.” His lips trailed up your arm. “Thank you.” Kiss. “Thank you.” Kiss. “Thank you.” Kiss.

        He tugged you closer and closer still, waiting until you leant over him enough to pull your lips onto his. 

        You had lost this battle against your own feelings long before Polly had dragged you out of the house, you realized. It was long before the day he’d first missed his meal with you, and you knew it because instead of wondering if you were going to be fed by your captor, you wondered if the man you loved was ever going to come home to you again. 

        You also knew it when his lips separated from yours for a breath, and he wasn’t the only one who had chased for a second chance at the kiss. 

        “Stay with me always, love,” he mumbled against your lips. “I need you. I’ll always fucking need you.”

        “I know,” you leaned your forehead against his, running your fingertips over his lips, his cheek, his hair. 

        “I won’t ever leave you again, love. I promise.” His hands cupped your face, holding you in place just an inch away so you could feel his words on your lips. “I won’t ever let anyone take me away from you.”

        “I’ll hold you to that,” you murmured, tearing your gaze away from his to stare down at the tape lacing his battered form. You hovered a hand over the strips, wondering where each of the four bullet holes was. 

        “And nobody will take you from me,” he tapped your chin, pulling your attention back to his face, “right, love?”

        “Never, Michael.” You shook your head, nose brushing his. “Never.”

        “That’s right,” he hummed under his breath. “Never.”

Part 2

Hi! Can you do a yandere!Garou vs yandere!Metal Bat, maybe like the reader is friends with both of them but she is oblivious to their feelings or their flirting, they at first did not know of each other but then saw either one of them see the other with her and gets REALLY pissed.

Yandere Garou and Metal Bat Crushing on the Same Oblivious Darling (Yandere OPM Headcanons)

*GIF not mine*

A/N: Okay so honestly, this idea is so good. Like it’s legit amazing and I love it so much. But (yeah, I knew you heard it coming) I wasn’t sure if I should do headcanons or a scenario for it, but I finally settled on headcanons just so I could get it out there. That being said, I’m sorry this took a little while and I hope you like it! (Side note: Thanks for 1.3k followers y’all!!🥳🥳) 

Word count: 1630

Good lordy I love this so much. 

Lemme just say, Garou is not a shy yandere when it comes to being around you. 

You’d have to be a special kind of stupid to not notice how much he wants you.

As soon as he sees how innocent and oblivious you are, he cranks up the charm to a ten. 

Teasing, flirting, he does it all. He’s never timid about touching you, always wanting to feel you and such. His hands are everywhere, and he’s “accidentally” groped your ass one too many times. 

Though Garou doesn’t exactly take you on dates, he does try to be around you when he’s not busy beating people up. You’re just so understanding and caring about his side of things that he doesn’t want to let you go. 

God, it’s almost annoying how you laugh off every single one of his flirtations. 

Seriously, it’ll be like: 

*Garou hugs you and kisses your cheek, whispering that he loves you*

“Well dang, you’re being extra friendly today!” 

*cue facepalm*

Meanwhile, Metal Bat doesn’t know he’s a yandere. While Garou is fully aware that he would watch the world burn just to have you in his arms, this hero is a little less intense. 

In all honesty, I think Badd would only go so far as to follow you everywhere, once again, when he’s not busy being a hero. 

He thinks he’s just trying to keep you safe, and being nearby as much as possible is the most efficient way to do that. 

Often times, you’ll meet him in the grocery store or the mall at the same time he’s shopping there (and by “often,” I mean always)

Of course, he’ll have to bring his little sister along and the whole time, she’s just like “this is the fifth time we’ve been to the grocery store this week. If they don’t have what you’re looking for by now, they’ll never have it.”

Nah, but seriously, Zenko knows Badd loves you. If she sees you, she’ll try to tell you, but you only laugh it off. She’d be so confused, always saying that you’re stupid for not noticing it, and by that point, Badd’s gotta drag her away with some shitty excuse, like she’s got a dance recital or smth. 

Anyways, back to it. Metal Bat will only discover he doesn’t want you around other people when he sees you talking to other guys. If I’m honest, the moment he realizes he’s a yandere is when he finally sees you and Garou together. 

✨Story Time✨

Zenko wanted to go play at the park, and being the adoring brother he is, he takes her there. 

As she runs off to go on the swings with her friends, Metal Bat settles onto a comfy park bench to look over her. 

While he leans back and crosses one leg over the other, he catches a glimpse of another bench through a collection of trees and surprise surprise, guess who’s on it?

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees you, but you’re not alone. Wearing a beautiful sundress, you giggle and smile widely at an all-too familiar man. 

That piece of shit Hero Hunter.

Badd’s blood boils and he begins seeing red. 

Garou’s hands are too touchy-feely; the hero wouldn’t mind ripping them clean off the villain himself. 

His fingers are practically up your skirt, caressing the skin of your thigh while you animatedly tell him a story about what must’ve been your most recent trip to a theme park. 

Badd had gone with you to that theme park. He had been the one to bring you there at the insistence of his little sister. 

Fuck, he could feel himself itching to kill. Zenko wouldn’t be able to see him through the trees, i.e. that bastard was free game. 

Unsurprisingly, where Metal Bat is, his metal bat isn’t far behind. 

You never expected this to happen. 

One minute, Garou was chuckling at your story, arm thrown around your shoulder without a care in the world. 

The next, an all-out brawl was happening before your very eyes. 

You couldn’t hold back a scream; it was terrifying the way your two guy friends went after each other. 

Badd swung his bat straight for Garou’s head, only to miss and catch his tufts of hair after the latter ducked. 

Everything was happening too fast for you to comprehend, with both men moving faster than the speed of light. 

Garou delivers a spine-chilling strike directly to Badd’s head that’s got his face slowly dripping blood. Immediately after, Garou takes a hit right to the stomach that has him coughing up the same color liquid. 

By now, the grunts and yells are too loud for the entire park not to hear. Parents and children flee the area at the sight of a white-haired man flying through the trees only to crash into the metal jungle gym brutally. 

“KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF HER, YOU SCUMBAG!”

Garou’s back on his feet and blocking another swing with blue-tinted hands, taking all of Metal Bat’s force and redirecting it into the hero’s gut.

The battle leaves you cowering on the bench, watching with horrified eyes as they battle each other barbarically. Animalistic growls escape one while the other actually dodges and attacks on four legs. 

“SHE’S MINE TO TOUCH, HERO!”

Their words don’t fluster you, and that’s mostly because you don’t hear them. Their sneers and snarls are much more distracting than anything that actually leaves their lips. 

“Oh God.” The words are more a rushed sigh than anything. You whisper them in alarm as soon as you spot Zenko only a few feet away from the fight, crying much like how you want to right now. Suddenly, nothing else matters.

“Oh God, oh shit, oh God,” you push yourself off the bench and sprint toward the little girl, running straight through the park’s playground area and hurtling a slide on the way. 

At the sight of your mad dash, both men pause in their jabs, Badd’s bat only inches away from Garou’s head while said man halts a kick halfway to his side.

Both gazes are locked on you, partly in fear that you were trying to run away from the two of them. “YN,” they simultaneously breathe out, dropping their stances and watching your every move. 

“Zenko!” you call out, sliding down to your knees and gathering the sobbing girl into a hug. “Shh, it’s okay.”

Awestruck. That’s what they were. Neither could speak as they watched you mutter comforting words to the young girl and pat her back. 

Without another sound, Badd jogs over to you both and kneels down into the grass as well. 

“Oh Zenko, I’m so sorry.” At hearing her brother’s voice, the girl leaves your arms and falls into his, sniffling against his shoulder as she shivers. 

You watch the scene with an unreadable expression, not even flinching at the feeling of a hand dropping to your shoulder. “YN-”

“Don’t.” Your hiss catches Badd’s attention too, peering up from the hug to watch you shake your head. 

“I don’t want to see either of you ever again.” 

Garou’s nostrils flare while Badd hugs his sister tighter, clenching his eyes closed at the words. It’s what they deserved. 

“YN, that’s-”

“Just leave me alone.”

Months pass, four to be specific. 

Metal Bat watches through your apartment window from the rooftop, bat slung over his shoulders as he watches you sleep on your living room couch. 

“Did you get the house?” The voice’s owner had snuck up behind him, but Badd doesn’t flinch. 

“Yeah. It’s back in City Z. The place is practically abandoned, so no one will find it.”

“Good.” Garou finally saddles up beside Metal Bat, eyes softening at the sight of you.

They can’t help but think back to a few weeks ago when you had finally agreed to meet up with them. 

“You have to choose, YN.” Garou sneers at the hero next to him.

“No, I don’t.” Even folding your arms and gritting your teeth at them, you were beautiful. “You guys are- were my friends, but that was it.”

“That’s a goddamn lie,” Badd spits, stepping closer only to halt when you flinch away. He hated that look of disdain your eyes had adopted for him over the past month. 

“Who do you want, YN?” Garou insists, just barely stopping himself from reaching for your hand. 

A minute of painstaking silence feels more like a minute as you glare at both of them. “Okay,” you shrug at last, relief flooding their bodies when you speak up. 

“I don’t want either of you. Now leave me alone like I asked.”

A compromise had been struck that night. You couldn’t choose between them, they couldn’t let you go, and both wanted to ensure you would never move on and find someone else. 

“All right. It’s midnight. We only have a few hours to get everything she has before the sun comes up.”

“You brought the chloroform, right?”

“Psh, of course I did. I’m not an idiot.” 

“Okay, then let’s do this.” 

They both loved you, so, so much darling. Now, don’t fight them, and they’ll make you happy for the rest of your life.

I just read the guppy love (shouto) oh my it was just so cute sfsedfergdidridtjr anyways are you planning to make a continuation? *silently egging author-chan to qwq* anyways your writing is phenomenal as always!! Please take care of your health and stay safe ily uwu)/❤❤✨

Akfjfjidkd I’m so glad you like that one🥰 definitely one of my favorites and though I don’t exactly have any ideas for a sequel, it’s definitely near the top of my lists for fics I need to write a part 2 for!

I’m so happy you like my writing🥺🥺 and u stay safe too💖💜

Kuroo was probably looking at kenma like "My son...He grew up so fast"

Deadass dude😌 U already know Rooster Head is like