He Is Either Obsessive Or Delusional

Could you write something nsfw maybe breeding for Sokka?

Baby Fever (Sokka x Reader) (NSFW)

*GIF not mine*

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

A/N: Aight y’all, someone finally gave me permission and I went off. Seriously, hope you enjoy this cuz 👉👈 it’s a lil dirty🥺. Lemme just say goodbye to a few followers cuz I know they ain’t stickin’ around after this😑. Anyways, enjoy!

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

Word count: 3228

        Giggles erupted from the corner of the ice building Sokka stood near. Whooshes and crashes of water split through the air while he waited for you to finish your daily waterbending lessons with the youth of the Water Tribe. 

        “Now, boys and girls, let’s work on streaming the water,” he couldn’t help but move into view around the cold wall, leaning against it and watching you with a small smile. “First, find your source. It can be the ice, the water under the ice, or the water in the fountain.” 

        You waited with all the patience in the world as the seven ten-year-olds around you dashed towards their chosen sources, often pushing past each other to get there. It was only when an older boy pushed down a smaller, younger female waterbender that you interfered with their competitiveness. 

        “Kole,” you gasped, kneeling down on the ice to help the girl to her feet, “apologize this instant!” 

        The little boy, black hair in disarray and a sneer on his lips, only stuck out his tongue before grumbling, “She was in my way first.”

        By now, the girl was crying as you hugged her to your side, running your hand through her hair comfortingly. “Shh, it’s okay,” you hummed before glancing back up to the Kole with a fire in your eyes. “Kole?” 

        Sokka knew that tone and raised brow of yours from personal experience; it meant stop what you’re doing before I kick your ass to Timbuktu. 

        The submission was instant; in seconds, the little boy was scuffing the feet in front of the girl, mumbling an apology while avoiding eye contact. 

        “Kole?” you repeated, this time more insistently. He understood right away and offered his arms in a hug, as per tradition in your class of waterbending. It was a dangerous art where people often got hurt simply during training, and you had learned early on that a hug along with an apology was key to showing that their desire for forgiveness was sincere. 

        As per usual, the little girl accepted, they split away without another word, and you were able to continue on your lessons. 

        In all honesty, Sokka admired the way you handled the children. Back when he used to travel the world with the Gaang, it wasn’t completely uncommon to see rather abusive benders trying to pass on their wisdom to the younger generation. They would ignore when students became hostile and aggressive toward one another, but you, meanwhile, allowed none of that. 

        You were always patient with the kids, and only raised your voice purely for audible purposes. Not once had Sokka seen a child actually glare at you and mean it. 

        “Hey,” you smiled, shaking Sokka out of his thoughts. You joined him against the icy wall and leaned back, staring at your students alongside your husband. 

        “Hey,” he grinned back, looping an arm around your waist and pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “I saw that little altercation earlier. Why didn’t you just let ‘em duke it out?”

        You snorted and batted him on the arm, ignoring his surprised squawk. “If I let them ‘duke it out,’ then I have to deal with scraped knees and bloody noses. Trust me, I don’t wanna hear those cries and you don’t wanna hear me complain about those cries.” 

       Both of your gazes are drawn back to the class, and just beyond you catch a glimpse of the sky. 

        “Ooh, hold on, let me dismiss them and we can go home.” You pat Sokka’s arm before jogging back to the students. 

        “All right guys, let’s talk about homework!”

                                ===

        The walk home is silent as the moon just barely settles into the sky. Stars twinkle alongside it amongst the black beyond and you curl into your husband’s side more, enjoying the view. 

        Meanwhile, Sokka’s gaze is locked on your face. He just couldn’t shake off the thought of you with those kids. 

        Of course, it never bothered him before, and it didn’t really “bother” him now. If anything, he just kept letting the same thought run through his head over and over again. 

        She would be so wonderful with our children. 

        The thought of you surrounded by little YNs and Sokkas was enough to have his grip around your shoulder tighten. 

        “What’s wrong?” you ask, pulling away just as the view of your home crested in the distance. You took one look at his face and knew he was thinking more than he could handle. 

        “I just…” he purses his lips and grabs your hand, leading you closer to your guys’s hut. “Hold on. Let’s talk about this in private.”

        In an instant, you were tense, watching with slight fear as Sokka fumbled to open the door. Is he breaking up with me? Why? I thought we were happy together…. 

        You sit when he gestures you to, tentatively leaning back onto the living room sofa while Sokka sits on the coffee table across from you. The air in your part of the room is bitter, but his half seems to be sizzling with excitement and uncertainty. 

        “YN,” Sokka finally pipes up, snatching the hands from your laps and intertwining them with his, “what do you think about… um…”

        Playing the waiting game was so much worse than taking the news straight. All bush, no beating. “Well?”

        Your voice is surprisingly impatient but level, but it only serves to worsen the situation as your lover begins to fiddle with your fingers. Oh, come onnnn.

        “Spit it out, Sokka!” That pushes him to act, and in seconds, he’s got your hands turning purple with his nervous grip. 

        “Y-YN, have you ever thought about having kids? W-With me, I mean.” 

        The words, or rather the insinuation of them has you biting your tongue, holding back a surprised hum. You know the noise would only serve to have Sokka sprint out the door, scared to ever look you in the eyes again, so you refrain from even changing your facial expression. He was always so terrible at reading them. 

        “Honestly Sokka? No.” He visibly deflates, but you continue before he can scram. “But I must admit I’m not against the idea. Of course, they’ll probably be little troublemakers, but I think we could handle their— well, I could handle their rowdiness, I’m not so sure you have the- what? What’s wrong?”

        There’s this look in his eyes. It’s not angry, or nervous. It’s not even happy or hopeful. 

        No, it’s… hungrier than that. There’s a hint of desperation tinging his brown orbs that has the pit of your stomach tightening with heat. 

        “Can we try now, then?”

                                ===

        Clothing is strewn everywhere, Sokka having been in such a state of pure eagerness that he hadn’t even moved you to the bedroom. Your back is flush against the carpeted floor, the pattern imprinting itself in your skin as you grip the underside of the couch. 

        His teeth and lips are everywhere, biting and sucking where he can to mark you as his. Your other hand grips the leg of the coffee table, it’s solidity making you feel somewhat grounded as Sokka draws whatever sounds he can out of you with just his touch. 

        “Gonna fill you so much, baby,” Sokka grunts against your throat, thrusting into your thigh at the whine you give off. “You’ll be so beautiful, so full of my children.” 

        “Yes- nghh,” you choke out, hips involuntarily pushing up at his touch. His fingers— oh Goddd— drag your panties down and away from your legs, but they don’t go far. Sokka drops them onto the coffee table you hold onto for dear life before he returns his attention to you, dragging a single, long finger up and down your slit. 

        “Look at this pussy,” he smirks, pressing his other hand on your hip to keep you from squirming. “Dripping wet just for me. You want my cum, don’t you baby?” His grip is bruising and through your fluttering lashes, you can see his muscles straining to keep you in place. The indent and outline of every muscle he’s grown into over the years has your core clenching, tightening around nothing. 

        “Mmhmm- OH!” The sudden press of his fingertip against your swollen bud has you shaking, trying desperately to get away from the delicious, almost painful touch. “Ah fuck!” 

        Sokka eats those naughty sounds from your throat right up, smirking against the skin of your neck before he trails down, down, down to your chest, latching right onto a nipple without warning. 

        “Mmmfuckkk.” At this point, you’re fairly certain the things leaving your mouth aren’t even words. Your brain can barely form a coherent thought thanks to the harsh circles Sokka rubs into your bud, abusing and abusing the bundle of nerves without a care in the world. 

        Screaming at the pain-fueled pleasure, you dig your heels into Sokka’s back, pressing him closer even though you know your body can barely handle the sensations. 

        With a dirty pop, Sokka pulled away from your rosy nipple, pressing a kiss to the tip before transferring to the other. This one must have been his favorite, because you don’t even get a warning before his teeth are nipping, teasing the tender skin while he hums in delight. 

        “Oh FUCK, please Sokka!” you hiss out, hands leaving the couch support and the table leg only to dig into his hair. Somewhere along the way, his hair tie must have broken because you dig your hands freely into the dark strands that hang by his ears, tugging and pulling in a desperate attempt to tether yourself to reality. “Please.”

        “Please what, baby?” he teases, pulling away and leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses up your body to your lips. “What do you want? Use your words, babe.” His smirk brushes your mouth with every word before he captures your bottom lip between his. By now, the finger kneading into your clit has turned into a thumb, and you gasp at the feeling of his middle and ring finger filling you up. “Fuck, you’re so tight.”

        “Please fuck me, Sokka. Fill me with you cum,” you plead, hips bucking against the rapid movement between your thighs. The pace he’s set with his hand is nothing compared to what he has in mind, flashing you a shit-eating grin.

        “Of course, babe, your wish is my command.” Too soon, his fingers have left your aching core abandoned, the only thing staying behind is the thumb on your bundle of nerves, slowing its pace to draw out your pleasure. 

        The hand previously on your hip lands right next to your head, fingers flexing against the carpet as he directs his length to your womanhood. After Sokka leans back to watch his actions, you turn your head and press a kiss to his bare wrist. You don’t see it, but he smiles at the contact. 

        And then you feel it. The stretch. Sokka’s burying himself inside you, deep, deep, deep all the way to the hilt. The burn of it is only lessened by the slow patterns on your bundle of nerves, leaving you gasping. All the air in your lungs escapes in a hot second as you whine, mouth open to form an “oh” as your lover’s length opens you so deliciously.

        The dull ache loses out completely to the pleasure when he begins thrusting, driving, pounding into you at a speed that has your head lolling. 

        “Yeah, that’s right,” he grits out, “take it baby. Fuck, you take me so well.” Each word is accentuated with a harsh plunge of himself deeper into your tight heat. The high-pitched moans you let out only urge him on, feeding into the ego that fuels his dirty mouth. “Take it all. You’re gonna look so pretty with my kids inside you.”

        He sets a pace that you’re almost positive is going to leave your back with a rug burn in the morning. Every time that coil deep in your stomach tightens, every time you clench around him as he delves back into your throbbing core, the force of it all pushes you away. He can only keep you in place by returning your thighs back around his waist; they had fallen away when he first thrusted inside you, your body almost going limp at the quick wave of pleasure. 

        “This little pussy takes me so well. Can’t wait to fill it with my load,” he grunts out, hissing at the burn of your wandering fingers against his scalp. Using your grip, you tug him back down, pressing his forehead against yours and arching your back at a particularly deep stroke against your walls. The hand busying itself against your burning clit falls away to slide under you at the opportunity, pressing your heaving chest against his just to feel more of you, all of you against him. 

        “Ahhhh shit, harder Sokka!” Breathy moans fall from your lips faster than you can take them in, and you don’t notice your hands in his hair have transferred to digging into his back until he groans at the contact. As usual, he obeys your every need, ramming into you harder than you thought possible. 

        Every time he bottoms out effortlessly inside you, you’re jolted back and forth. The heat slowly building inside you is at its edge, ready to burst with just a little more. “Yes, Sokka, more! More! Fuck, you feel so good!”

        The praise spurs him on as the loud slapping of his skin against your own fills the hut, growing into an unsettled pattern as he quickens, pushing into your tight walls as fast as they can take him. “Fuck yeah, YN. Let me pump this tight little hole full of my cum. Let me see you holding my kids like you should be.”

        At his words, you feel yourself fall over the edge, throbbing and clenching around his length without warning. The scream of his name at your release helps him let go too. Plunging himself as far as he can go, Sokka stops inside your quivering core only at his limit, letting himself fill you up as much as you can take. 

        It’s warm, so warm as he releases, face dripping sweat as it scrunches up in concentration,  and it’s only when he pulls out that you realize how much he has given you. You mewl at the feeling of it dribbling, allowing your legs to drop to the floor like your hands at the sides of your head. “Oh fuck,” you sigh, letting your eyes flutter closed as Sokka leans away, shifting backwards on the carpet to watch your still-pulsing hole as it leaks. 

        You don’t acknowledge what your lover’s doing until it’s too late and you moan at the too-soon intrusion. “Sokka-”

        “Shh, relax baby,” he soothes, collecting the combined remnants of yours and his release with two fingers, pushing it back in far enough that he’s sure it’ll stay. “You’ll look so pretty with our child in your stomach. Just hold it in, baby. Keep it inside.” 

        When his hand accidentally brushes your overstimulated bundle of nerves is when you try to squirm away, only to be stopped by his hands on your ankles tugging your bottom flush against his knees. “Sokka…” you trail off in surprise when he actually pulls your lower body up on the lowest part of his thighs.

        You never knew he was so serious about having children. Of course, you wanted it too, but seeing the childlike excitement in his eyes as he allows gravity to do its work clues you in that you had underestimated him a bit. 

        “Hold it in, baby,” he repeats quietly, snagging your panties off the coffee table and sliding them back up your legs. In an instant, they’re damp with both of your releases, but he still presses the fabric against your slit like it would somehow seal the combination inside you. 

        Your heart warms when he gently lowers your bottom half to the ground, grabbing your wrists and pulling you flush against him in a hug. Your back, just as you had assumed, is rubbed raw and sore from the carpet below, but suddenly the twinges of pain are more bearable when Sokka massages the skin with gentle hands. 

        Your arms wind around his neck, leading to your fingers delving into his knotted hair as he grins into your shoulder, pressing slow kisses against the skin. 

        “God, I really, really hope that worked,” he mumbles excitedly, hands dropping down to wrap your legs around his midsection. 

        “Me too,” you giggle, holding on for dear life when he stands and carries you to the bedroom. Kicking the door shut, he totes you all the way to the mattress. The cold fur of the bear pelt serving as your blanket is a stark contrast to the hot carpet of your living room. It soothes your back as Sokka reassumes a position over you, hair hanging in his face as he settles on his knees between your thighs. 

        “So how soon can we find out?” he asks, pushing your body up far enough that he can lay completely flat on top of you and not leave any limbs hanging off the bed.

        “Mmm, I’m not sure. I think Katara said she found out after about two months.”

        “Damn.” Sokka curses as he nuzzles into your skin, sighing at the sensation of you untangling his dark strands with tender fingers. “That long?”

        “Maybe more, maybe less. Pretty sure every pregnancy is different.” Your slow combing through his knots stops when he lifts his head, flashing you a bright grin. “What?” you giggle in confusion. 

        “Pregnancy, babe. You could literally be pregnant with our child right now.” Between your thighs, he’s practically vibrating with excitement, hand slipping out from under you to brush against your stomach. 

        “Okay, okay,” you laugh, pushing his hand away and rolling your eyes. “I know for sure it doesn’t happen that fast.” 

        “Oh really?” he raises a brow.

        “Yep.”

        “You’re sure?”

        “One-hundred percent.”

        “Well then,” Sokka taps his chin in thought, “why don’t we do something while we wait?”

        “Like what?”

        “Oh, I don’t know,” his darkening gaze darts down to your bare chest, only covered in a single love bite right in the valley of your breasts. It dashes back up just as quickly, but the damage is done; pupils enlarged, you can already feel him getting excited all over again. “Maybe we should… try again. Just in case it didn’t work the first time.”

        You’re still sore from the first round, but a couple wandering fingers already gliding down to your thighs once more leaves your first answer in the dust.

        “Sure, why not,” you shrug.

        “HELL YEAH!” Sokka thanks you with a swift kiss on your nose. “Now let’s make some babies!”

Yandere ozai?

Yandere Ozai Headcanons

*GIF not mine*

A/N: Should I start watching Hunter x Hunter? Sorry, that was random. Anyways, just wanna warn you these hcs are a lil out of order, and I’m sorry. When I wrote it, I just kept coming up with more and more ideas for the “story” so I just kept adding to it. Anyways, hope you like it!

Word count: 956

First of all, you’re a maid in the castle. Yeah, of course he’s seen you in the halls and thought you were attractive, but he never really gave it more thought. 

Then Zuko and Azula’s mother left, and that’s when he got hooked on you. He felt lost and you, being the ever-faithful servant, stayed by his side and comforted him. 

(We are talking about adults here. You did have sex with him for “comfort.”)

Anyways, after that, you had sealed your fate. While you tried to get on with your life, Ozai wasn’t as forgetful. 

Honestly, I think this guy is one of those yanderes who initially don’t want to admit or believe they love you.

Like first, he’ll try other concubines. Women who will bow down to him and such. 

Then he’ll finally resort to keeping you near, allowing you to continue being a maid and such (because he initially planned on kicking you to the curb after your night together), but he still doesn’t like that he likes you. 

Part of him just feels… addicted. Like he doesn’t want to lose you. But he doesn’t like having that attachment. 

Honestly, he’ll want to blame his obsession on you, like make you feel bad for it and stuff. 

He’ll keep trying to show off with other women in the castle. 

Making out with them during breakfast and such while you’re serving them and you’re just standing around like “did you want eggs or…”

Then, at some point, he doesn’t exactly give in to his feelings, but he understands that as the leader of the world, it doesn’t matter who he’s with. 

Ozai’s not really self-concious of you ruining his image; if anything, he kinda wants to use you to flaunt how he can transform someone from rags to riches. 

At that point, he’s really fallen for you. He’s on the verge of taking over the world, his rebelling son is still banished, and he’s about to take over the last city that stands a chance against him: Ba Sing Se.

It’s a toss up of whether he wants to flaunt his world to you or to flaunt you to his world. 

You better treat everything he does like it’s amazing. Seriously, this guy is pure ego. 

If he gifts you something (which is something he does often), you must always repay him. Whether this is sexual or compassionate just depends on his moods. 

Maybe I’m wrong about this, but I really don’t think Ozai is the type of yandere to be like “you should feel blessed to be with me,” especially after he’s fallen for you. Initially? Yeah sure, he may have thought that a few times. But after he’s acknowledged the fact that he can’t let you go, I don’t think he’d rub his love in your face too much. He’d be more obsessed with showing you what he can do. 

You’re his world now, and giving you the entire world is his perfect gift. 

In the end, of course he’s captured for attempting to do this, and his third or fourth thought is “oh shit, where’s YN?”

He orders the last of all the Ozai loyalists to capture you and, I’ll be frank, he wants you to go out “together even in death” style. 

With a forced kiss, he’ll make you drink poison in his cell while he holds you in his arms (he ignores your struggling and crying). After the life has faded from your body, he takes his own swig and you go out together. 

Anyways, back to before all of this (sorry this is so out of order) right after you had sex with him to comfort his wife leaving, I think he more fell for you because you symbolized a new hope for him. 

He had made you feel so good that night. Deep down, he wanted to keep making you feel that good. 

Ozai wanted to prove to you but mostly himself that he could keep a woman and please her. He wanted his ex-wife to regret leaving him, so he was going to give you the world. 

Getting right back into it, he is a crazed king, mind you, so he will use his power for self-gain. If you’re talking to someone, no matter the gender, he’s going to banish them.

(Of course if they touch you, their life is the price of their misdeed.)

You, on the other hand, are also forced to take responsibility for your mistakes. 

It’s not uncommon that he’ll lock you away to keep you from interacting with others, but if you’re wrong-doings are especially horrible, whippings and burnings are not uncommon. (Plus, he likes the sight of his fire touching and permanently marking your skin. It’s like a physical claim no one, not even you, can get rid of. It keeps you knowing your place.)

There’s really no list of rules Ozai has set for you, but they’ve become clear to you over the years you’ve been with him.

1: No contact with others.

2: Always repay your lord for his kindness.

3: Bow when he enters and leaves a room.

4: Give him a kiss or more whenever he acknowledges your presence.

5: Never disobey an order from your master.

Truly, being with Ozai is quite simple: learn your place and no one gets hurt.

Warm Embraces (Oikawa x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: Naked cuddles with Oikawa need no purpose.

A/N: Sleeping at five am gets really hard when birds start chirping (just rewatched Say “I Love You” tho, so it’s worth it). Got this idea from this prompt by @otpprompts​. Enjoy this super short fic!

Word count: 581

        The door to your room opened just as you finally shut your laptop. The last of your homework was complete, and the giddy rush that came with that realization washed like a wave right over you. 

        “YN?”

        “Tooru.” Your parents must have let him in and directed him to your room. Your boyfriend smiles tiredly at your acknowledgement and shuts the door behind him while you snuggle deeper under your sheets. Heaving out an exhausted sigh, he unzips his jacket and lays it over your desk chair before lifting up his jersey.

        “Hey there, whatcha doin’?” Thankfully, your voice is solid and teasing, but your cheeks begin to betray you. He dismisses your blush, scoffing and rolling his eyes playfully. 

        “Don’t get too excited, horndog. I just wanna cuddle.”

        “Naked?”

        “Yep.” His shirt gets flung to a dark corner of your room before Oikawa gestures for you to join in the activity. Well, who were you to deny your Adonis of a boyfriend?

        After accomplishing that task, you both lazily burrow under your warm covers, clumped together rather tightly on your twin-sized bed. The close quarters didn’t mind either of you. You set up a random movie on your laptop while your boyfriend held you closely from behind, his silent breaths rousing the hair on the back of your neck. You set the volume of the laptop forgettably low and place it on your nightstand before turning back to Oikawa.

        “How did the game go?” Your fingers lightly draw obscure shapes on his athletic chest and your mouth curves into a small smile. With his hands resting on your exposed hips, he tugs you closer and presses his forehead to yours.

        “Good. We won.” The swirls of dark chocolate others would lamely call eyes are glimmering proudly at the memory, and his thin, pink lips curl at the corners. 

        “I hope so, ‘cause you’re really sweaty.” Your boyfriend gawks at your words and then whines exaggeratedly.

        “You’re so mean! Way to ruin the moment.” He pulls away from you with a pout and grumbles under his breath. Giggling at the action, you reach up and bring his lips to your own, giving him a short, gentle kiss to make up for it. Separating hesitantly, Oikawa licks his lips with debating eyes.

        “Apology accepted,” he declares decidedly while wrapping his arms around your waist and pinning his chest against yours. His body was warm and unexpectedly comfortable, but you busied yourself with dipping your fingers into his hair and combing through the brown locks fondly. Sighing contentedly, your boyfriend tucks his head into the side of your neck and plants affectionate kisses here and there. 

        Before long, his movements slow and his breaths become heavy. Hot puffs of air tickle the fresh marks on your skin he couldn’t resist to make. You intertwine your bare legs with his own and snuggle closer to his soft hair, not hesitating to press a small kiss into the wild, slightly-sweaty strands. The muscles throughout your body relax in his tender, tired hold one by one, and your eyes begin to droop. At last, with the sounds of Oikawa’s deep exhales and the drones of the movie behind you, you finally fall into a warm, blissful slumber.

What's in a Virtue (Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary:

Gaz wants you, but the hotel bar you work at has rules; when a bartender calls dibs, all others have to back off. It's how the peace is kept, and as the new girl just trying to rack up some savings, you're not willing to rock the boat.

But Gaz doesn't take kindly to you avoiding him, and he's never been one to beat around the bush. From confessing his love on the first night you met to shouting your name seven times from across the bar, he's not letting you off the hook that easy. Not when he's seen the proof that you've fallen just as hard for him.

A/N: idk man i accidentally googled who ghost was like a week ago and fell so deep into the hot cod men rabbit hole so here we are. Enjoy!

Word count: 8261

Gaz is pretty sure he’s in love with you. 

It’s a surprising discovery at 11 pm in an American hotel bar drinking the worst scotch he’s ever had. It’s even more surprising because he just discovered you existed all of thirty minutes ago. 

He’s got his glass swirling between two nimble fingers, trying to find that line between hating his drink and actually putting it down. And he’s watching you. 

You’re the same bartender who’d asked him (in a horrible imitation of his accent) if he’d wanted his neat scotch “shaken, not stirred.” You’d flushed after you said it and promised to leave him joke-free for the rest of the night. He’d laughed, a bit hollow from his circumstances, and told you it was all right. That he liked it, and that made you flush a little more. 

Now, you scuttle like an ant past the other worker, a blonde who’s been making eyes at him all night. Your face is split into this unabashed grin, grippable hips bouncing off the counter as you sweep by and reach below for a bottle, giving him a view of the enviable dip between your breasts. 

At first, he thinks it’s just that. Too much American booze, not enough inhibitions; both sending him into that post-mission spiral that makes him touchy and want to touch all at the same time. And he finds it’s nice to watch you rattling glasses and wiping up spills; it’s soothing, the way your eyes are alight with life in this ritzy place, seemingly unbothered by the high level of customers. He especially likes the way you mock the spoiled sods when you can get away with it. 

The hotel must be experiencing the perfect storm of weddings, proms, and business meetings—not to mention one very unfortunate layover for one very unlucky special forces sergeant. 

He watches as teens keep stumbling back to the counter with pink cheeks, flashing their IDs every time they ask for a new drink. Despite their prom getups and obvious ages, they swear they’re just guests from Mr. and Mrs. Weddington’s ceremony. 

The girl you’re with now, stumbling from her heels but selling it as though she’s tipsy, begs and begs for another lemon drop before she “goes back to work on Monday.”

You nod either way, and he watches as you make a display of pouring alcohol into one shaker and juice into another, swapping them out when the teen looks back towards her friends. 

You send her on her merry way with a sugared rim and a lemon rind, saying something like “Go easy” as she wanders back to her table. You smile to yourself, amused at this little game you’re playing with half the customers here. 

You must feel the heat of his gaze, because you glance at him then. He hopes it’s burning you up as much as it looks, that nervous pinkening of your face as you give him a shrug like what else was there to do?

And Gaz, again, thinks it’s just that. Lust. He thinks about wiping that small smile off your face with his lips, stumbling with you into his hotel room, frantic fingers peeling off clothes. He thinks about how it would be—giggly, probably, despite his surprising coordination when he’s plastered. It’d be you and him swapping words back and forth, back and forth the whole time, silence only filling the room when you’re kissing him and when you feel so fucking new it steals your and his words away. 

He doesn’t know why he latches more onto the idea of the moments afterward, the biggest thing being that you decide to stay. Then it’s more back and forth, hobbies and pet peeves and every little thing that’s been on your minds since the 2000s. He gets to know you inside and out, inside again a few more times even as your conversation runs on. 

It’s no longer lust at that point. He knows that. 

He’s ruthlessly torn from the fantasy by the blonde bartender who, judging by the looks you’re swapping with her, has gotten the entirely wrong idea about the direction of his stare. 

He swears to God he was being obvious about it. It was you—it was fucking you that whole time. 

But he’s noticed a couple things about you.

The first is that you’re quiet when your customers aren’t overwhelmingly sloshed; awkwardly so, for a bartender. You’re something of a mirror when they are, far more relaxed, laughing easy and cracking jokes, like you preferred your real self be forgotten the next morning. 

The second is that you’re soft. Around the edges, all pillowy at the hips and thighs, a sloping curve down each side. And you were soft with your words, no yelling, no arguing with customers, just easy little jabs that no drunk mind would ever cotton onto. 

You were only snappy with him the second his head started growing fuzzy. 

He wants more of it, even as the pretty bartender makes friendly conversation. 

She asks about his day, then his job, then his adventures. Three of the last things he wanted to think about tonight, let alone discuss with a stranger who wants in his pants. However, because she “loves a man with a British accent” and he’s too damn polite to give her the boot, he reveals a little. 

Yes, his job is hard. Yes, he’s jumped from an airplane. Yes, he’s killed someone. Of course they were bad.

Until they weren’t. But he won’t tell her that. 

However, above all things, Gaz is a planner. And though he’s caught the wrong fish with his bait, his plan B is working excellently. 

Gaz glances at you, brushing your hair behind your ear in the increasingly crowded room. The wide array of customers spread out among the limited seating are starting to flood the bar. You can’t pass out beers and shake cosmopolitans at the same time, and a wonderful warmth blossoms in his chest the second you glance at him too, growing desperate. 

There’s something like an apology in your eyes. You’re sad you have to ruin your friend’s chances; meanwhile, he thinks it may just be the best part of his night.

The third thing he discovers about you: you’re trying to be the wingwoman for your pretty friend here, and Gaz won’t have it. 

You’re going to have to come over here. Beg for help from your friend.

Ruin this little flirtation she’s got going on—what a shame. 

You’re too damn polite, just like him. The second he talks to you when you make your way over, you’ll think you have to stay. Humor him for a bit. He’ll ask you for a drink, forcing you to come back a second time around, when the bustle has slowed. He’ll rope you in for the rest of the night by then, and the wait’ll be over. 

He feels like a damn schoolboy when you take that first step toward him, and he’s practically vibrating when you get close enough that he can hear your voice for the second time today. It’s far less grating than your friend’s, he’s certain of it—he wouldn’t mind if it was you badgering him, is what he means.

After all, Gaz was on leave, and when Gaz was on leave, he liked things slow. Fresh off a mission, he liked to roll through the motions, order drinks and let the memories turn into static from the corner of the bar. He’d planned on calling Price and damning him for saying it was a blessing to get trapped in the US, set up at a posh hotel on the task force’s budget. 

But you stop before him, contrite eyes softening, and he’s getting better at seeing the upside of it all. 

“Hate to interrupt—I know you two are trying to get all cozy in the dark over here, but I could use your help, Jeanne. ‘Hugh Janus’ is asking for another beer and our non-alcoholic tap just ran dry.” You look off into the distance, frowning slightly. “I fear we may have genuinely drunk teens on our hands soon.”

Jesus, was her name Jeanne? Gaz hadn’t caught that. 

On the bright side, he’s able to confirm one of his sneaking suspicions. Your eyes really are fucking gorgeous up close, and they’re so expressive that he can read you like a book. 

But he hates the way you say “you two.” It’s so nonchalant. 

Was it too much to ask for a little envy? Just a hint of spite, to prove that some part of what he’s feeling, even a little speck of it, isn’t one-sided?

Your friend— Jeanne , apparently—gives him a disappointed sigh, looks at him like he and her are two conspirators planning on eloping any second. “Duty calls. I’ll be right back.”

He nods, trying to find that balance between polite understanding and absolute relief, but his head grows foggier by the minute and all he can manage is a “sounds good.”

You dive into an explanation when the pair of you are far enough away to inspect the taps, gesturing at a couple of them, and then discreetly at a group in the crowd. 

From here, he can see it a little more clearly. You’re younger than the blonde, probably just by a couple years, which means you’re newer here. Younger than him, too, since he pegs Jeanne at around his own age. 

The blonde disappears into a storage door wedged between two shelves loaded with glass bottles and illuminated white-blue. A manager, maybe.

Only thing he knows for certain from observing this quick interaction is that you’re finally alone. 

He flags you down, and his chest floods with that warm, fuzzy feeling all over again when you hustle over, genuine smile on your lips—because you’re so damn easy to read.

“Know you’re busy, ’nd I hate to bother you, darling, but can you get me another scotch? Shaken, this time, if you please.”

The pet name lands perfectly. Even through all the chatter and music, he can hear the quick stutter in your breath. Then you laugh at his joke, like you think he deserves it. 

It’s cheap of him to force that laugh out of you with a shitty joke like that, but he’s feeling a little needy. Wants a preview of what the real thing would sound like. 

Fucking music, surely. 

“I’ll go get it—”

Not yet. I need more time.

“Not right now. I’ll finish this one off while you work through that fresh hell–” he nods toward the anxious crowd “–then you can come back to me. You’ll find I’m pretty patient.”

A little less so, when it comes to you, but you don’t need to know that yet. 

The slight slur to his words must be comforting, because you give him that small smirk you’ve been conservative with all night. “I’ll hold you to that. I’ve heard Brits are perfect gentlemen; be a shame if you proved me wrong.”

“I’m all that and more, darling.” He winks. “You’ll see.”

He could be the bloody worst man on the planet, too, if you wanted. 

And he could come out and say that to you, all the things he could be for you tonight, if he wasn’t so keen on the instant change in you. 

Because here’s what he expected: a few more little flirtations back and forth, everything kept light and easy. He’d keep you smiling and smirking like that, comfortable in your own skin for just a little bit longer before you have to go back to the other customers and slither back into your shell. He’d get to see that breathtaking blush of yours, pink splotches that tell him he’s on the right track. And then he’d get your rapt attention for the remainder of your and his night, quite like he’s given you his. 

But that’s not what happens. 

Instead, you’re instantly sheepish, finding yourself leaning a little closer, so close he could reach out and run a finger along the back of your hand (a small touch, but it would certainly floor him). 

And then guilt. Pure, heart-wrenching guilt, like you’re taking every word of his to heart in the worst possible way.

Gaz panics. 

But you’re not wearing a ring, so no husband, no fiance. He guesses boyfriend or some long-standing crush he can’t—shouldn’t—burrow his way in front of. It’s a disappointing discovery, something he’ll be stewing on for the rest of the night or maybe week, depending on how long he’s stranded here. 

He’s not a fan of infidelity, and he sure as hell isn’t changing his opinion on that anytime soon. So he settles himself for a night at the bar cut short. Maybe he’ll order drinks up to his room from now on, praying the task force won’t try and shift the bill onto him. He can’t imagine coming down to the bar and seeing you will be nearly as satisfying anymore. 

“I shouldn—I mean, Jeanne really likes y—I mean, we kinda have this rule where we, um,” you fumble with the rag on the counter, suddenly invested in a stain he’s been avoiding all night. You swallow. “I’ll just, uh, bring you your drink later. As promised. I should go help her.”

And you dash off as fast as you can between the counter and the precarious wall decor, almost running into the storage door the other bartender whips open while dragging out a new keg for the tap. 

Meanwhile, Gaz… 

He has a question. 

Were you feeling all that guilt over some “dibs” rule at your bar?

He wants to laugh. The whole first-come, first-served thing makes you look as guilty as if you clubbed a baby seal. So what if Jeanne wants to ask him out? If he says no, does that mean he gets you?

Then he actually laughs a little, because it’s so ridiculous that it’s honestly cute. You care about and respect your coworkers, and support them when they’re hitting on guys at bars. So cute. You’re like the ultimate wingwoman, he’s sure, but that’s not going to change the fact that he wants you. 

But the night drags on, and this half hour of patience Gaz promised you becomes paper-slim when you pass off his drink to Jeanne and avoid his end of the bar for far longer than is acceptable. 

But you’re still giving her reassuring smiles and manning the bar as she lays her interest on thick, asking how long he’ll be staying and telling him when she gets off. 

Gaz isn’t laughing anymore. And that little thing you do where you back off and play wingwoman? Definitely not as sweet as he’d thought it was. 

Fuck, it might be the one thing he hates about you. 

Because you avoid him for the rest of the night, and he still can’t take his eyes off you. 

Not to worry, though. Gaz is a patient man. More importantly, he’s a planner. 

He’ll find a way. 

He always does. 

~~~~~~

Gaz barely sleep that night. Too busy thinking about the mission, the lives that were lost, all that blood that had coated his hands just three days ago. 

The way it bothers him comes and goes in phases. Some missions slip off him like rain water over a slick road, rivulets down drives, and he sleeps just fine. 

Others soak into him, further than skin deep, where his body becomes a subcutaneous cache of nightmares and gunpowder, and he wakes up choking, smoke filling his lungs, tearing at the tissue of his throat enough that water can’t soothe the burn. 

Mornings like this is where he fights fire with fire. 

The hotel bar is unsurprisingly destitute but still oddly open at 11 am on a Thursday morning, and he takes a seat more daringly center-staged than he had last night. He glances around, letting thoughts of you, a bartender whose biggest issue was a dibs rule on men, swathe around him. 

Admittedly, a lot of it is foggy. He remembers wanting you—a lot , actually. Too much, he might even say, but after all he drank he’s surprised he even found his way back to his room. But the place, a little more aglow with the open windows (that make his head fucking spin, by the way), looks the same as last night, which means he can still envision you wandering over every inch of it. 

And he thinks no, you probably weren’t that attractive. Maybe your snipes weren’t that funny, and he’d had no reason to get so upset with you over a rejection. And every little wish he’d had that you were the woman who could warm his bed while he was out on missions and greet him when he came home was a bit over the top, even for drunk Gaz. 

Sober Gaz knows better. Sober Gaz knows that no other human being can have that much of an effect on him anymore, because he’s had to rebuild himself after joining the military, after seeing the most honorable and dishonorable things humans can do, and he’s just not fit for something unconditional. 

Drunk Gaz, though….

Hammered and horny. That’s all it was. A terrible mixture, and he’s damn ashamed that an innocent girl like you became the target of it. God, did he even tell you his name? Or was it just instant come-on and creepy watching from the corner of the bar? 

Gaz notices he’s not alone as he lets his eyes wander; there’s a group of three elderly women jabbering in the corner, waving too-friendly when he spots them. He tosses them a dashing smile, the one that makes his grandmother’s friends burst into titters and giggles. 

It has the same effect. 

“Who knew you’d be just as charming sober?” a familiar voice rings out. 

Gaz’s heart thump-thump s forcefully.

“In all fairness, you do have a shot with them too, if you really wanted to take it.” You lean a little bit closer over the counter, one-ended smile pulling at your lips, and when he catches a trace of that same perfume, his chest twinges. 

Fuckin’ hell. 

“She’s newly widowed,” you nod to the gaggle again, demeanor conspiratorial, “and happy to be, apparently. Why am I not surprised you’re popular to all ages?”

He’s got no clue what you’re talking about. Damn, he’s not even listening. Your lips look too soft to him right now, and it’s downright unfair how domestic you look in morning light, placid and playful, like the last thing you were made for was exacerbating nightlife. 

“All ages?” he mumbles, because he can’t quite think straight, and the best thing he can do is repeat the last few words he’d heard you say before his train of thought had caught fire, derailed, and crashed explosively against brick wall. 

He’s struck still, is what he means. He can’t quite think past the idea of you, coming a little closer to him, letting him trap you against his chest. Letting him breathe in the scent of your hair as you tell him about your day—boring, maybe, if it wasn’t you who was telling the story. 

But your voice and tone, that playful edge that sounds like the sweetness of cotton candy and would taste like fucking everything to him, it draws him in. 

Gaz comes to the conclusion that not everything was a drunken haze last night. 

And he realizes that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t quite the fisherman he thought he was, trying to catch you. If anything, he was the fish snapping after your line, bait or no, wanting to be yanked out of the water and gutted until everything he ever was was bare for those pretty eyes. 

And he’s that very same fish this morning, gaping and blinking wide-eyed. 

Fuckin’. Hell. 

“My God, those teenagers last night? And then Jeanne, and the bridesmaids? And, okay, I shit you not, even the bride. You’re a menace in this bar, you know that?”

“Are you included in all that?”

If he remembers anything from the night before, it was the way you clammed up after he made his first move. You’re the spitting image of it now, pursed lips and antsy fingers, even after all that big talk. 

It’s an absent thought that flies past him in that moment, but he recalls that you were only loose enough to joke around with people already tipsy. He lets a small consideration tag along, a half-thought, really, that maybe you felt as comfortable around him as he did around you.

That, or he still looked smashed from last night.

You dodge his question completely.

“So what can I get you this morning…?” You let the tail end of the question drag on a bit, and he decides it’s because you can’t remember his name. He tries to stave off the gross pinch in his stomach by recalling there’s an all too real chance he never even told you. 

“Kyle.”

You shake your head quickly, mumbling, “No, I—I remember.”

Gaz, though he can’t help but feel like an asshole for it, grins at your stutter. 

“Surprise me, then.” He sits back, not remembering when he made the decision to lean a bit closer. “YN,” he tags on, smiling a bit more at your nervous laugh. 

You look him over, some short glance that stuffs his head full of cotton, and start working on a concoction with a small grin. 

He’s patient, minds his own business and fiddles with his phone as you shake and pour. 

No messages from Price, and Gaz shoves down any distant panic that he might have sent an aggravated text or two in his state last night. 

But no messages means no updates, which means it’s safe to assume he’ll be marooned at this hotel for another two weeks. 

Not as bad as he thought it would be, so far. 

You step away with a tray of drinks and return empty handed. Then you slip a glass in front of him, frosty and golden, slowly seeping red by a single maraschino cherry. 

He guffaws. “Mai Tai? What, no umbrella?”

You slip a mini umbrella into his drink. “You underestimate me.”

His headache is killing him. The sun’s too bright, and he’s thanking God that the music in here isn’t nearly as pounding as it was yesterday. The memories still haunt him, horizoning his mind. Every drop of blood, every plea, every blank-eyed stare. 

And then there’s you. Just you. You read like a sheet of paper, and you’re soft around the edges, and you couldn’t even comprehend half the things he’s seen. 

You spoon another maraschino cherry out of the cooling jar and pop it into your mouth, laving your tongue over it before biting down, the juices dying your tongue red. 

Fuck. 

Gaz wants to kiss you. 

He wants you to taste the Mai Tai on his tongue and sigh happily, eyes rolling the exact same way. He might die if you don’t.

“It’s on the house, only because you were true to your word.”

He gets peeks of that red tongue of yours and shifts in his seat. “What d’you mean?”

“You were patient, as promised, and I’m afraid I’ll need a little more of that today.”

Any of it. All of it, for you. Fuck, he could be so patient for you. 

Gaz furrows his brow anyway. “Didn’t know you were so greedy. Why d’you ask, love?”

“I guess you couldn’t tell from last night, but I’m a pretty shitty bartender. That’s why they got me working mornings.”

He glances at the Mai Tai. “So you’re sayin’ I’m shit outta luck.”

“I’m saying that if you’re going to let me pick your drink, you’re going to keep getting whatever’s left in the mixer from formerly Mrs. Jones’ group of three. I should warn you, they party hard.”

Gaz sighs. “What’s next on the menu?”

“More mimosas. That was their warm-up. You wanna catch up?” You frame a carton of orange juice in your hands enticingly. 

Fruity drinks from here on out. Gaz doesn’t exactly mind the idea, though he’d come down to the bar for something with more of a kick. But he’s wondering how long your shift runs if you’d worked the night before and the morning after. 

He’s got a chance here; without your friend present, your guilty conscience must feel balmed.

Gaz shakes his head, tearing a finger at the mini umbrella’s ridges. “I’ll stick to their schedule. Have a feeling I should be pacing myself with that crew.”

“Good feeling,” you nod. 

The air of silence that settles is comfortable. There’s the rattle of ice and champagne, the slow slosh of orange pooling in three going on four glasses, and Gaz watches you through it all. But he can see the way his gaze makes you nervous. Your movements are all rickety, and you can’t quite find that rhythm between shaking the mixer and making eye contact. 

Gaz wasn’t lying. Most if not all the women he’s met (sans a few of his targets) agree: he’s a kind man. Chivalrous, soothing, amiable. 

So he’s not sure why seeing your nerves gets a lovely thrill rattling its way down his spine. Sure, he wished you felt a smidge less timid, a lot more loose and sunny in his company. But, he guesses, it’s because with you, he’s willing to settle. Take what he can get; it’s not unlike a stakeout, really. He’s parked here, waiting for you to come out of your shell on your own time. 

Can’t really help that he’s greedy when it counts, though, and when you set the mimosa in front of him, he reaches before you can pull away, getting that warm slide of your fingers against his. 

“So what are you doin’ here, in a place like this, if you’re not a good bartender?”

He has to salvage your courage before you slip into the backroom for space to think. He can’t let that happen, overthinker that you are, and you’re too nice to abandon him mid-conversation. 

He’s okay with manipulating you that much. 

“Gap year. Several actually, but I don’t like to think about that.” You’re fidgeting with a rag, twisting it until the damp cotton creases under your fingers. 

“What are you gappin’ to?”

You huff out a laugh. “Med school, hopefully. Grad school, possibly. Just want to do something more, you know? Since apparently a bachelor’s gets you nowhere nowadays, and I’m just thirty grand in hole for nothing.”

“It’ll work itself out. For you, I’m certain of it.”

And he thinks he’s nailed it. 

Look. Look at all he can say and do to make you feel comfortable. And look! He can make you laugh and smile. And his touch was nice, right? Warm, gentle, everything you’d want. He’s got it right here. Waiting for you.

And then you blink, long and slow, eyes on the counter. Then…

“You know, I’m really jealous of Jeanne. I mean, she has it all figured out.”

Gaz fights the urge to grind his teeth, but he drops his elbows to the counter and cups at the mimosa. Not good enough, doesn’t burn enough. Too easy on the champagne, and he distantly wonders if you pull what you did last night all the time. 

That thing where you go easy on drinks by coming around less, or neutering them completely before you pass them out. 

That thing where you’re trying to do better for everyone , where you think you know better. He can only guess that it’s come so often with a cost to you that it’s all you know how to do anymore—giving, no taking. Helping always; never, ever hurting, no matter what you want. 

“C’mon,” he mutters, but you’re reaching for another red cherry. Chewing on it as it dyes your teeth pink. 

“She’s one of the managers here, did she tell you that? And she’s only a couple years older than me, and she’s just… she knows what she wants. And goes for it, too.”

Is that what it was? You weren’t willing to go for it? 

He’ll build that bridge for you, dammit. He’d hold you hand across the whole fucking way if you’d just let him. 

“She’s the only person in the whole area willing to give me a chance, even though I’d never bartended before.”

He lets you ramble, lets the sound of your voice sink into him, gives encouraging responses when he has to. 

Jeanne likes to go hiking. 

Jeanne likes to swim. 

Jeanne loves nights out. 

Sure, yeah, okay. But do you like any of that?

You don’t. You hate it all, actually. You even have a fear of drowning, heights, the whole works. You’re very much a homebody, curled up on your couch reading, drinking tea—not a huge fan of wine, or alcohol, actually, but don’t laugh! It was the highest paying job you could find, and yes, you do see the irony. Yes, you make a good cup of tea. Why?

Trying to find out even that much about you was like playing a damn tennis match. You won’t stop shoving the topic away, getting all insecure when he asks what you like. What you want. 

He plans to change that. 

But for now? Fine. You won’t talk about you. But he’s not going to let you talk about Jeanne. 

So you’re talking about him. 

“We don’t get much of your type around here.”

“Special forces?”

“British.” You give up on wiping the counter, instead leaning on two hands and watching him sip at the piña colada you’ve just made. He’d offered you the pineapple slice. After you’d said no, he watched you watch him bite in, wiping off the juice off his lips with his thumb. 

He had to remind himself that it was patience you were looking for, even with your lips parted in a daze like that. 

“Special forces, though, huh?” You glance around with faux wariness. “Should I be worried?” 

“Depends. How many people round here are up to no good?”

“I mean, there’s the occasional bad tipper but, between you and me,” you lean in, give a small shrug, “I deal with them in my own way.”

Gaz raises a brow, smile growing. “Maybe I’m the one who should be worried.”

“Depends. Are you going to be rifling around for a five or a twenty-five dollar tip in that wallet of yours?”

Gaz sighs, “The best company always comes with the highest price, don’t it?”

“Not as high as you think,” you laugh. 

If there was ever a groove to find between you and him, he’s finally located it. 

Five minutes too late, it seems. 

You’re glancing at the clock when you hear rustling in the storage room, and the blonde bartender that’s bloody haunting him now pushes through the swinging door. 

 “Jeanne.” You voice is a wonderful mixture of fake enthusiasm and slight disappointment. “Look who’s here.”

Trapped. That’s what he is.

And you leave without a goodbye or a glance in his direction, too. 

He tells himself you’re shy, insecure, delicate little thing that he keeps pushing the boundaries of, trying to find the edge of having you and scaring you off completely. 

Like taming a wild animal. 

Fucking patience. For all his years, all his adventures, he never knew he’d run out of it in the most civilian of circumstances. 

He sticks around a while longer, humors Jeanne’s interest. Amazingly enough, they have so much in common, who would have thought?

And who would have thought that after last night, that was the last thing he’d ever want.

~~~~~~

You’re doing that thing again, where you ignore him. 

He’d think it’s cute, how shy you were, if you only didn’t sic your friend on him each time you did it. He’s fairly certain his interest is clear. 

He’s been going to the bar for the last few days. Sometimes he sees you, sometimes he doesn’t. He prefers the former, and when it’s the latter, he’s reminded of just how shitty the alcohol is in the US, and that he’s trapped here, and how it’s starting to become hell. 

But he won’t tell you that. That your home and this hotel are the last places he wants to be on the whole planet, present company excluded. 

Despite the fact that present company feels like she has to include her friend in every conversation. He loves how selfless you are, no man left behind and whatnot, but he wishes you could see the failing attraction right before your eyes. 

You try to slip off, leave the pair of them alone, but Gaz won’t have it. If you wander too close, he’ll drag you in, call your damn name across the bar if he has to, wrench on that ever-guilty, ever-pleasing heart of yours to go and answer him, talk to him, pay him the attention he needs nightly, apparently. 

As of late, you’ve started playing this game. Gaz’ll bring up a topic, anything from the horrors of war to butterflies. 

And you think there might be some upsides to the horrors of war, maybe. And butterflies are ugly and gross, always. 

Gaz loves how beautiful the mountains are up north; you despise them. They look cold. 

But he thought you loved cold weather?

Well, you don’t like cold weather when it’s… on mountains. You guess. 

 An interesting play, he quite thinks. Such odd tactics you have running in your mind. But you’re trying so hard to be this good, loyal friend. You want so badly to find the middle ground here, please Jeanne and Gaz, let them both be happy. 

But when push comes to shove, Jeanne had dibs. And Gaz has to bear the brunt of it. 

Two weeks have gone by before Price contacts Gaz again. Tells him the 141 had lain low long enough that he can come back home and get some well deserved leave. The news makes him fucking ecstatic when he first hears it. Thank fuck he’ll never have to use the launderettes here again, never have to listen to the damned click-click-click of the aircon or the mini fridge. 

He misses so many things from home. 

Shepherd’s pie. Good cigarettes and tea. A whiskey sour from that bar just three blocks down from his flat. 

And his flat. His bed. His sofa, the kitchen he barely uses, the door that whines because he can’t bring himself to oil it; gone too long, too often for it to really matter most days. The toaster he doesn’t plug in ever because it damn well almost burned down his flat last time he was out for two months. 

All of it empty. Cold and bare. Too unused to really miss. 

Gaz slows while packing his things. He stops, grabs his phone, then lowers to the bed. He stares at the recent calls list, Captain still at the top, call ended twenty minutes ago. 

Home has a different taste in his mouth than it used to. Not horribly bad, but different enough to notice. 

It’ll be quiet. Gaz used to love quiet. 

Being here has changed something in him. 

Nothing big—all small things, in fact. 

A pondering floats down on him, comes to his mind and makes the rest of his body tighten, a coiled spring waiting, wondering. It’s such a small question, too, but things with you always seemed so small and insignificant, until he got a moment of quiet to consider it. 

Do they sell your perfume in the UK?

It’s not a huge thing if they don't. 

Really, it’s not life-changing. He’s just trying to consider never having it again, never having it flood his senses when you get too close, lean a bit closer to slide him his drink. 

Then it’s you not leaning in close ever again. Then no you, ever again. 

Gaz can’t quite make it make sense. 

Home is good. Hell, he misses it. 

But home is no set place anymore. Home could be two poles repelling each other but attracting him, pulling at each half of him, waiting to tear him down the middle while he tries to decide. 

Two fucking weeks? Gaz has to check his phone to make sure. Has that really all it’s been?

Bullshit. 

Tell him why it feels like it’s been years. Tell him why he can’t imagine going home as anything other than a misstep, one bad fucking decision away from sealing his fate. 

A slice of shepherd’s pie and a nice cup of Earl Grey—it can wait. 

A little longer, at least. He needs some time to make certain on some things. A month, maybe. On his own dime now. After all, what’s four thousand dollars compared to a missed opportunity for something better?

…He’ll see if they have deals on extended stays. 

~~~~~~

“YN.”

Nothing.

“YN.”

Still nothing.

“YN!”

You’re avoiding eye contact and maintaining a six-foot radius at all times, like he’s got the damn plague. 

It’s been the same setting for the past four weeks; corner of the bar, closer to the same dark shit that swirls in his glass now, aiming for privacy and good company. 

He used to think he was a good shot, but his accuracy’s been bloody terrible as of late. 

Twelve times. He’s tried asking you out twelve times. 

After the most recent attempt crash-landed with you interrupting to tell him about your sister’s obsession with popping zits, he considered it. Oh boy, did he consider giving up, asking himself why the hell he ever got so desperate in the first place. 

Tonight was supposed to be some last hurrah of sorts. His flight leaves tomorrow morning, and his patience with you has become so thin it could snap with a single breath. 

But he gets here, sees you. 

Sees you bustling around the bar—which, in his mind’s eye, is his flat. And you look right at home, by the way. Wandering in and out of his room, his kitchen, the living room. Curled up on the settee, your soft thighs winking at him from beneath his own sweatshirt. Then you’re dancing in the same way, hips swaying to the obnoxious beat, leaning in closer instead of pulling away when he grabs onto you like he ought to. 

For all that’s good and pure, you never distance yourself like you do now.

There’s no easily spooking the you in his head that wants him just as badly as he does you.

Your name falls from his lips an unavoidable number of times from the corner of the bar, and you finally fold.

See—wasn’t so hard, was it?

Not so painful if you’d just give in and go on a date with him now, too. 

You saunter over, a world-weary sigh falling from your lips. “My God, Kyle, you sound like a damn cockatoo over here. Or my mom, which was a bit unsettling. Need I remind you I regret telling you my middle name.” 

“Then you won’t be surprised to know you’re getting a good scolding, with the way you’ve been avoiding me.”

That same look takes up your features, pouty lips and wrinkled brow, like he’s barking up the wrong tree all over again. Might be his favorite expression of yours, second only to that little grin when you see him each day. 

The same one that keeps him barking. 

“You know it’s for a good reason, Kyle. I’ve told you this.”

“Remind me again, darling. Is it a boyfriend?”

You huff a sigh. “No.”

“Husband?”

You roll your eyes. “No.”

“Lesbian?”

“What?” You stare at him wide-eyed, and he shrugs. 

“Just makin’ sure my bases are covered. So what is it, then?”

“You’re unbelievable.” 

“I’m also dead fuckin’ serious,” his voice raises when you try to walk away. He can barely refrain from swatting out at your wrist, spinning you back around to look at him. Over the weeks, he’s discovered your biggest weakness is his eyes, and he puppy-dogs them now. “Out with it. Please.”

His white-knuckled hands ache from where they grip under the bar’s ledge, and he’s trying blessedly hard to keep still as you look him over. Every scar, every bag under his eyes, every premature wrinkle. You can see it all and more, probably even see the nightmare he had three days ago, where it was you tied up, enemy’s gun pointed at the pliable skin of your temple, your cries echoing in the empty warehouse.

Where, a building over, in sniper-position, Gaz’s frozen. His fucking trigger finger won’t twitch, and he can’t breathe, can’t move even as the gunshot lit up your skin, and he rolled out of the same hotel bed, coughing on the floor, wheezing. 

He tops off his eyes with a dashing smile, pleasant like his mind hadn’t painted the picture of you bloody and dying, still haunting him. 

Gaz isn’t as easy to read as you are. You wouldn’t be able to tell. 

“You’re looking at me like that again.”

“Like I’m whipped?” As if he could look like anything else.

“No, like…” You bite your tongue, and Gaz would give anything to know what you’d planned on doing with the hand you’d raised toward him just then, only to let it drop down at your side. “Never mind.”

“C’mon.” God , his hands ache. “Just tell me. Thought we were friends?”

“We are friends, Kyle.” You ignore how smug he gets, fixing him with a look. “But that’s all we are.”

Gaz scoffs, “I don’t get it. Just because your friend has, what, a li’l crush on me, and she doesn’t even know me, this can’t happen?”

You know what this is. He knows you know what this is. And he knows you want it, too. 

“It’s…” you bite the inside of your cheek while avoiding his gaze, and he knows it’s because you can’t think when he looks at you like that. Pleading. Desperate. And so damn breathless at the sigh of you that it makes it that much harder for you to say you don’t want him. “It’s a whole big thing we agreed on when I started working here. It’s how the peace is kept, not just between Jeanne and me—but for everyone. That’s just how we do it.”

“YN…”

You ignore him. “And I like this job, Kyle. I do. I don’t care that I’m horrible at mixing drinks, and that I can’t handle drunk people to save my life. It feels good to have something to do when I don’t know what else to do with myself, and I can’t have some little lover’s quarrel ruin that.

“And Jeanne is a great person. And I know you don’t like it when I bring it up, but it’s true. She saw you first and called it. So I’m stepping back, not getting in the middle of it because I owe it to her, and I don’t get why you won’t just do me that solid and give her a chance. You two are a much better fit than you and I would ever be—”

“You hate camping.”

You fall silent, staring at him in confusion. “What?”

“You hate camping. And the woods. The outside, really. You told me that. Then you told me your daily circuit is the bar, then your home, sometimes to the café down the street from here, but that’s rare. And that you like books, but I know s’not the cute, adventure-y ones you pretend to like. I googled a few of yours, ones I caught you sneakin’ on your breaks—dirty little bird, you are, by the way. But I like that about you. All of it. Everything you think you have to keep under wraps.”

“Kyle…”

“I like the way you say my name, too. And how soft your skin looks, and those thighs—fuck me. Is your perfume cherries, by the way?”

“Peaches,” you mumble. He nods.

“That too. I mean, every little thing, darling. I swear, I want it. Don’t care that we’re complete opposites, that you’re scared of what I do, what I’m built for. I need you to know that I want you because of that, not in spite of. I don’t need you all the time, I promise. But I don’t think I could handle it if I didn’t have you at all.”

You want him. He can see it. You’re melting into a goddamn puddle before him, wandering nearer and nearer like you can’t help it. 

What else can he say? What the hell else does he have to do to prove that he wants you so bad it’s driving him up the walls? Gaz is wrenched so tight in his seat that he could snap and hurdle the counter, drag you out of here and show you everything he’s willing to give. 

He needs a promise before he leaves. Something. 

“God, Kyle, I didn’t…” your breath stutters, but you won’t pull your gaze from his. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know you were so serious about this.”

You didn’t know? You couldn’t fucking tell? After a month of him puttering around here, begging for your attention, doing anything he could to get you to look at him—

“I thought you were just…”

Fuck. 

Gaz shakes his head.

Fuck. 

Messing with you? Teasing you? That’s all you thought it was?

He tips his head back, locking onto the ceiling. 

What could he have said during the past five weeks that would make you think that?

He runs through every conversation, every interaction, every whipped, needy look he couldn’t hold back because he couldn’t stop them around you.

And then he thinks about Jeanne. How you’ve been pushing her on him. And how he’s a perfect fucking gentleman and entertained her interest with polite conversation. 

Then there’s you, his shy little rabbit watching from the other end of the bar, so damn skittish that he can only draw you back in after she’s long left him alone. Not even surveying or passively watching, but crafting wildly inaccurate conclusions in your little overthinking head.

No. 

No, no, no, because, fickle as you are, you’re a giver. 

And Gaz’s been stealing that role from you this whole time. 

He hasn’t let you show your worth. He doesn’t need to see it, no, but you think you have to prove it. You like your trials by fire. You don’t like winning by default. 

You don’t think you could be wanted for wanting’s sake. 

In all fairness, Gaz didn’t think he functioned like that either—unconditional terms and all that. So he thought he’d had to give back. Give back so much that it frightened you, and you couldn’t hold up what you thought was your end. 

A bloody fool. That’s what he is. 

His little American rabbit plays by different rules. In the UK, women in bars are so straightforward, so honest. 

What a fuckin’ sod he is. 

His flight leaves in nine hours, and he hasn’t packed, hasn’t slept. 

Too busy thinking about you. How much of a wrench you’ve been in his plans.

He didn’t think wanting you would be like asking the world to spin the other way. 

And, hell, what’s he supposed to do when he does leave, gone off on the mission Price’s hinted to him, the one that’s halfway across the globe, and you’re back here, trying and probably succeeding at forgetting he exists. 

Fuck.

You not knowing he exists. 

Him having never met you.

The ideas make him sick. 

But Gaz…

Gaz is a planner. Above all else. 

And if you want an opportunity to show what you can give him, he’ll give you just that. While he’s on a mission, mind on worse, far more horrible things, he’ll give you that chance you’ve been itching so hard for. 

“Your phone.”

You’ve been watching him go through phases, even refilled his glass while he was out. Scotch on the rocks, this time. Like you thought he had to start taking it easy from here on out, like you think he deserves it.  

“What?”

“Let me give you my number.”

“Kyle… that’s not a good idea.”

“Don’t care, love.”

To your credit, you have a healthy amount of wariness. In several jerky movements, you pull your phone from your pocket, open it to a new contact, and pass it to him, eyeing up every little thing he types. 

Kyle (Hot Guy from the Bar) Garrick. 

His phone number. 

Then he texts himself quickly, saves your number too, and holds your phone out. 

When you grab at it, he holds tight, tugging for your attention. 

Like he hasn’t, in a most wonderfully heady way, already got it. 

“No funny business with this, love.” His features turn grim. “No giving it to your friend so she can woo me—”

“Woo you?”

He gives you a stern look. “A phone call. A text. A fuckin’ pocket dial, I don’t care. But I want it from you, or no one, yeah?”

Only after you nod, slow and unsure, does he push himself out of the barstool for the last time, nodding to you. Eyes soft as he whispers, “Have a good night, darling.”

Your eyes don’t leave him as he walks away, phone still gripped tightly in your hand.

~~~~~~

Part 2

We’re not gonna talk about how I wrote this instead of finishing part two of what’s in a virtue. We’re not even gonna talk about what this is. I’m just gonna… yeah, here ya go.

!Trigger warnings: dubcon

Body swap au with soap who just wakes up one day and says, “no fuckin’ way.”

Soap who thinks it’s the best fuckin’ dream he’s ever had.

Soap who solemnly agrees with you in the mornings that yes, the two of you do need to work together to fix this as soon as possible, but who spends his nights in front of a mirror stripped down to nothing, masturbating because it’s fucking you, and you’re so pretty when you’re panting. Soap who was always convinced that making you come would feel just as good as coming himself, and now he doesn’t have to figure that out anymore.

Soap who, fuck, has his cake and eats it, too.

Soap who grins so proud at the awkward way you stumble around in his body, too big for you. Soap who, after discovering you’d had to——ahem——relieve yourself for the first time, feels his skin fucking buzz at the fact that you can’t meet his eyes, your eyes, anymore without a schoolboy blush spreading across his own damn face.

Soap who knows you liked what you saw.

Soap who makes your body come again that night, not even thinking of your body anymore, but of your mind fumbling around in his body, experimenting with touches and caresses. Soap who imagines you knowing how to pleasure him inside and out when this is all over.

Soap who records the sound of your voice saying his name, because the lines are getting so damn blurry, and emails the video to himself. Takes pictures, too.

Would never blackmail you with them, no, no, no.

But he deletes them from your phone after sending them all to his drive.

Soap who, after everything is over, after you’ve both found your ways into your own bodies, trots after you like the dog he is wherever you go.

Soap who, after you check the deleted folder of your photos app, gets a good and proper scolding.

Soap who managed to record the entire reprimand, listening to the anger in your voice, the how dare you do that to me——to my body?! That’s so fucked up, Soap!

Soap who rewards himself yet again that night, teeth gnawing at the hem of his shirt that he hadn’t bothered taking off, just pulling up high enough to jack himself off with his back against his front door. Panting at the dash he’d made up his flat’s stairs, then panting your name, whimpering disingenuous apologies to your chiding voice.

Soap who doesn’t stop, who won’t stop until he’s got the real you screaming his name.

Yandere bokuto the boy that will pull out the emo face every time he feels like he’s not getting enough cuddles

Agsjdjsk another one about his cuddles, and y’all are both right. One day, I imagine he’ll come home just whining and whining about not getting to hold you, even though you’re busy with work or smth.

“YNNN.” Add on a lip pout, but you still shake your head no. He huffs and whimpers and rubs his face against yours, but you don’t budge.

“Bokuto, I can’t. This is really important.”

That’s what sets him off. One second, you’re peacefully typing at your desk, the next you’re being shoved into the mattress, Bokuto’s muscular form trapping you against the sheets. His eyes are furious, any innocence abandoned at your words.

“I’m more important, YN. I am.”

What about an Alternate Ending to pumpkin eater reader where Kuroo sees Y/n dating someone else months or a year later (maybe she can end up with one of the other Haikyuu characters or something?) Cause I don’t forgive cheaters 😤

Pumpkin Eater (Kuroo x Reader) ~Part 2~ Never Again 

*GIF not mine*

Summary: Last night, your friend sent you pictures of Kuroo with some girl at a random club. Not only was he a liar, but he was also a cheater, and you couldn’t stand to be with him after this.

Part 1

Part 2 (Second Chance)

A/N: Uhhh, sooooo, ermmmm. Here you go…? I hope you like it…? Idk honestly. I mean, I totally agree with you on never forgiving a cheater, but also… my other fic was written so much better. Like I’m tired as hell dude. And I’m sorry it’s late, but I rly, rly hope you enjoy!

Word count: 3335

        Buzz. Buzz. 

        “Good God, is that him again?” 

        “...Maybe.” 

        Buzz. Buzz. 

        “Son of a bitch, YN! Just block him already.” 

        “All right, all right fine! I will.” 

        …

        Buzz. Buzz. 

        “OH COME ON!”

        Terushima throws his hands in the air, giving up. You flush and tuck your phone under your thigh, hoping it will silence the buzzing. 

        It was movie night with your new friend/roommate and he had been seriously invested in the film up until about ten o’ clock, or, as you called it, “Kuroo’s whine time.”

        “BLOCK THAT FUCKER!” 

        You knew he wasn’t wrong. In fact, you should have blocked him months ago. Six, to be exact. But deep down, you just weren’t ready to move on yet. 

        “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I turn it on silent.”

        Terushima shook his head and held out his hand, giving you a pointed look. “Gimme it.” 

        “... Nuh-uh.”

        “YN,” he dragged out your name, leering closer to you. “Give me the phone.”

        “I’m good, thank you.”

        “YN!” Terushima didn’t give you another chance. His home, his rules. 

        In an instant, your back is pushed down against the couch and you’re gasping for air as Terushima viciously attacks your sides with his long fingers. Giggle after giggle tumbles out of your mouth as you curl in like an armadillo. 

        “I yield, I yield!” You hold your hands after the pain in your abdomen grows to be too much. Terushima smiles at the win and he slows his hands, but keeps them on your sides. 

        His eyes glow with… something. Something you hadn’t seen since being with him. 

        But whatever. Maybe it was just the lighting.

        The blond squeezes your sides before slipping a hand under your thigh and locating the phone. Before pulling it away, he pinches your soft flesh, completely uncovered thanks to your night shorts, and chuckles at the squeal that leaves you. 

        “Yuuji!” 

        “What?” He gives you an innocent look while tossing your phone across the room. Thankfully, it lands on his armchair. 

        All you can do is sigh and straighten yourself back up, reclaiming your original position by Terushima’s side and returning your attention to the movie. His eyes stay locked on you, so close, for just a second longer before he copies your movements, focusing back in on the movie with a small quirk of his mouth. 

        You met Terushima a month after breaking things off with Kuroo. He was the only apartment renter who wasn’t a freakshow or a cult leader, and you decided it was high time to get your own place. Especially after your friend, who had hosted you for one angsty, miserable month, kicked you out. 

        “You need to get over it, YN,” she had hissed, shoving your suitcase back into your arms before slamming the door in your face. 

        And while you were still working on moving on, Terushima was a big help. He was now your guy friend, who had many guy friends that could potentially become your boyfriends. But every time you asked him about setting you up with one of them, you were instantly shut down. 

        “You’re too good for them, YN. I’ll help you find someone better, I promise.” 

        It’s been five months, and you’re still waiting for that “someone better” to come along. 

        Now, when you had first moved in with Terushima, he seemed to be a bit of a mess. Clothes, his or someone else's, were always strewn everywhere. Girls were common midnight visitors, always sneaking out with their heels in their hands and giving you bashful smiles before slipping out the door. You would only sigh and roll your eyes. 

        “Your new girlfriend overstayed her welcome this round. I think she stole our Netflix password.”

        Terushima would then purse his lips and avoid your gaze, gulping swiftly. “She’s not my girlfriend. I promise.” 

        “Sure sure. But your one-night stand still stole our password.” 

        Since then, he’s really cleaned up his act. You haven’t seen a girl come over in weeks. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say you were becoming a good influence on him, much like he was on you. Little by little, day by day, Terushima was beginning to help take your mind off Kuroo. 

        Since the day you broke down in the blond’s arms and admitted you were still stuck on him, he’s tried to help you. He even takes you on “dates” from time to time. Just yesterday you two had gone clubbing, and though you had gotten shitfaced, you figure something weird must have happened since Terushima’s been a tad awkward around you. But then he threw open your door an hour ago, scared the shit out of you, and reminded you that it was movie night. 

        You couldn’t help it. Your eyes were constantly drawn back and forth between the horror movie and the constantly-buzzing phone. 

        “YN look! A jumpscare’s coming!” 

        Just as you turned back to the TV, the serial killer flashed back into frame, leaving you to screech in terror and burrow into Terushima’s side. His arm wraps around your shoulders and rubs your arms for comfort. 

        “It’s okay, the killer’s gone now.” His voice is low and honeyed, accompanying a slight smile as he peers down at you with his affectionate gaze. 

        God how you missed being looked at like that. But you couldn’t get attached. Terushima was like Kuroo, but ten times worse. This was because he wasn’t secretive about his love life. Your very attractive roommate had a higher body count than a war general. 

        So you kept things platonic, no matter how much your body yearned for another route. 

        No. Terushima was your friend. Your best supporter at the moment. You couldn’t lose him like you had lost Kuroo. 

        So even though you cuddled deeper into his side with every heart-stopping scene, and hugged him whenever you were feeling down, and kissed his cheek as a thank you after he would massage your back and scratch your scalp after a long day at work, you would never throw any different labels on your relationship with Terushima. 

        You just couldn’t lose this one. And with him being a player, there was no point in making your feelings more than what they were. 

                                ~~~

        Kuroo missed you. God, he missed you so much. 

        He loved you, and he would never stop trying to get you back!

        That girl, she was a mistake. One Kuroo would never make again, because you were it for him. You were his one. 

        He will call you a million more times, text you, hell even track you down to the ends of the Earth just to have you back in his arms again. 

        He would give everything just to hear you say “I love you” one more time. He would die happy if he got to see those words fall from your soft lips, carefully quirked into a smile, just once. To have you back in his arms, wearing his clothes and kissing only him….

        Fuck. He had to get you back. 

        There was no sign of you at your friend’s apartment when he finally gathered the guts to visit. Only a slap in the face courtesy of one vengeful friend of yours. He knew he deserved it, too. 

        But then… God, five more months passed. Not a single woman had been in his bed, your bed, since you left. Every flirtation was turned down, every grabby hand pushed off. The only person he wanted was you. 

        So imagine his relief when he finally found you. 

                                ~~~

        “Yuuji, do you ever accidentally hurt someone with the piercing?” Your eyes were locked on the ball of metal sitting directly on his tongue while you took tentative sips of your hot chocolate. 

        Terushima sat across from you and smirked lazily, sticking his tongue out through his teeth as blatantly as he could. “Boy YN, you sure do ask a lot of questions about my piercing.” He sets his elbows on the small, circular table and leans closer to you. “It makes me wonder if you ever want to feel it for yourself.” 

        His cologne fills your nostrils, but you don’t mind. It’s become your favorite, most comforting scent. You lean closer and mock his smirk, lowering your voice just enough so only he can hear in the crowded cafe. 

        “I do.” 

        Terushima’s pupils widen in the slightest and he subconsciously leans closer. 

        You do the same, grin growing on your face before you swiftly reach out a thumb and forefinger and snag his tongue, giggling at the surprised yelp he lets out. 

        “YN!” he pouts with a lisp, smacking your hand away and hiding his mouth behind his own. “Why are you always like this?!”

        “I don’t know Yuuji, it must be your piercing or something,” you snicker, picking up your drink once more and taking another sip. You allow your eyes to wander around the cafe, only to lock on the worst sight imaginable just behind Terushima’s head. 

        It’s him. 

        He shoves the glass doors open and barges through the crowd. Your companion takes in your panicked gaze and glances over his shoulder, sneering at the person approaching quickly. 

        “YN,” Kuroo breathes out in disbelief, hazel eyes locked on your tense form. A relieved smile overtakes his face as he reaches out for your hand. “I found you-”

        You tear away from him and jump out of your chair, stepping away as your eyes begin to water. “Don’t touch me.” 

        “YN, I-” 

        “You heard her, dude. She said don’t touch her.” Terushima fixes an enraged glare on the black-haired man, standing out of his own chair and creating a barrier between your solemn form and him. 

        “And who are you,” Kuroo spits through clenched teeth, “her new boyfriend?”

        “It-...” the blond’s jaw irks before he glances back at you, “it doesn’t matter who I am. If she doesn’t want you around, then you need to leave.” 

        “You’re not her guard dog, or even her new boyfriend. You’re just a rebound.”

        “Guys…” 

        “YN doesn’t want you-”

        “GUYS! SHUT UP!” You breathe heavily after the shout before smiling at the other customers as an apology. “Let’s take this outside,” you snarl lowly.

        Like scolded children, the two men trail after you, almost fighting over who gets to squeeze through the door first until you throw them a warning look. 

        Kuroo pushes past the blond and strides towards you in an instant, capturing you in a hug that you don’t return. “God, you don’t know how much I’ve missed you.” 

        “Kuroo, I-”

        “Tetsurou.” He corrects, voice muffled against your neck. 

        “... I didn’t answer your calls for a reason. We broke up. I don’t-... we can’t be together anymore.” 

        Your ex leans back enough to look at your face and scans it for any sign of lying. “YN, I didn’t mean to hurt you. That girl,” he shakes his head, biting his lip, “she meant nothing to me. But you-”

        “Kuroo…”

        “-You mean everything to me!” A tear trails its way down his cheek, but you don’t care to wipe it away. Your face hardens at the words. 

        “Then why did you cheat?”

        “I was wasted. And she looked like you and I missed you and I miss you still! YN, you need to understand, I love you! And if you give me another chance, I won’t fuck it up.” Kuroo brushes a hair behind your cheek and your eyes widen at the contact. “I love you so much. Please don’t let this be the end of us.” 

        “...” 

        “YN, we’re meant to be. It can’t end here. Not for us.” 

        Kuroo was wrong, and so clearly mistaken. Months ago, you would have collapsed back into his arms. Months ago, you would have cried and muttered that you loved him too, that you still loved him. 

        But now…. 

        Your eyes drifted past Kuroo, locking on a silent, dejected-looking Terushima. 

        You just didn’t. 

        “Kuroo, I can’t forgive you for what you did. I just can’t.” He shakes his head and opens his mouth to respond, but you smoothly press a finger against his lips and continue. “Even if I did, I could never trust you again.” 

        “YN, if you still love me, then that’s the only reason you need to take me back. I will work every day to regain your trust, no matter how long it takes. I’ll never hurt you again. God, I love you so much, just please, please don’t let us end here.” 

        Your relationship with Kuroo ended months ago. You both were just struggling to accept that. 

        “No, Kuroo. No.” 

        His eyes close and his head hangs, allowing his remaining tears to dribble down his cheeks. “Okay,” he finally whispers, voice silent and cracking. Then he tips his head up and presses a long kiss to your forehead, his final goodbye. 

        “I love you, YN.” 

        “I know, Tetsurou.” 

        Somehow he finds it in himself to smile bitterly at you saying his name, and he nods in thankfulness. 

        With a deep sigh, he releases you and steps back, scanning over you one last time before turning away with tear-stained cheeks. 

        You had loved him for so long. He was your first everything, your high school sweetheart, and much like him, you thought Kuroo was it for you. Your happy ending. 

        You were wrong. And deep down, you were glad you were wrong. 

        Kuroo halts in his stance on the sidewalk, just barely passing Terushima before he slams his hand down on the blond’s shoulder and grips it tightly. 

        “Don’t-” he cuts himself off to purse his lips. “Don’t hurt her like I did. Don’t let this one go.” 

        The skin under Terushima’s eye twitches before he glances up at your face. “I won’t. I’m not stupid enough to make that mistake.” 

        Kuroo smiles bitterly and releases your roommate, walking away down the street and never looking back. 

                                ~~~

        A day passed, and you avoided Terushima like the plague. 

        After seeing Kuroo once again, it reminded you of why you hadn’t ever tried moving on since the breakup even once. 

        You had gotten so attached, fallen so deeply so quickly, only to be replaced for another woman for one night. You couldn’t handle that again. The pain of feeling so easily replaceable wasn’t worth the risk.

        At least, that’s what you used to think. 

        “YN.” 

        Terushima finally snagged your wrist just in time after hours of trying to stop you. You shivered in his grip, almost horrified with how eerily similar it was. 

        “Please stop avoiding me.” Terushima stared at your face with natural puppy dog eyes, and after much internal scolding, you just couldn’t resist. 

        “I’m sorry.” 

        “It’s okay. But can we at least talk about it?”

        “It” was a lot more complex than it sounded. “It” was a commitment. “It” was a major change in your life. “It” was… was…. 

        “Yeah.” “It” was accepting you might be hurt again, but trying it anyway for love.

        Terushima led you to the couch and sat you down to face him, even though your gaze was locked on everything else. 

        “YN.”

        “...”

        “YN.”

        “...” 

        “YN, please look at me,” Terushima pleaded, palming your cheek and urging you to make eye contact. When you did was when the walls broke down. 

        The sparks his touch left against your skin weren’t right. Because why did they feel so right? 

        You loved Kuroo. Some part of you always would, along with the memories you two shared. So surely falling for someone this soon, this hard was wrong, right?

        “Yuuji.” 

        “Just… let me speak first, okay?” Terushima dropped his hand to your criss-crossed lap, running his fingers along your kneecap nervously. Tingles erupted from the contact, and fuck, they felt so right. 

        You nod and his lips quirk up gently. “YN, I know you’re probably still stuck on… umm, y’know, that guy, but I also know you must be feeling something for me too.” 

        If he had said it any other way, you would have smacked him for the cockiness of the words. But the slight nervousness that tinged his tone made you love it all the more. 

        “A-and I know that you two were like,” he rolls his eyes, “perfect for each other, but I mean come on, there’s something between us too.” 

        There was. Even Kuroo had seen it, as blinded by love as he was. 

        “But I know why you’re reluctant too. And YN,” he shakes his head hopelessly and caresses your lower thigh, keeping his gaze locked on yours, “I don’t know how else to show you, but I’m not that guy anymore. Ever since you moved in, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.” 

        “Yuuji….”

        “No other woman has made me feel the way you do,” he whispers. “And that thought kind of scares me. But I… I just can’t have anyone else. So I’m not gonna let you go.”

        You cup one side of his face with your hand and your heart stutters when he leans into the hold. Throughout all of his speech, a small grin had etched onto your face, which was nothing compared to the beaming you felt inside you. 

        Waves upon waves of adrenaline, elation, and anything akin to utter euphoria lit up your chest. A zoo stomped and trampled over the tiny butterflies in your stomach as you let out a small giggle. Terushima’s eyes widened at the sound and he instantly tried to pull away, but you swiftly smack your other hand on the other side of his face, effectively trapping him.  

        He looks down and drags his fingers away from your lap reluctantly. “Why are you laughing?” 

        You almost felt bad, but oh fuck you were so happy! You just couldn’t help it as you let out another chuckle, causing Terushima to struggle in your grip like a floppy fish. 

        “YN-”

        You finally shut him up with a kiss, pressing your smiling, giddy lips against his. So much joy bursts through your chest at the contact, and your heart flutters when the blond groans and tightly grabs at your hips. 

        He can feel your uncontrollable smiling and laughing against his mouth, and he can’t help but pull away with a confused-- but relieved-- chuckle. “Why are you laughing?” 

        “I just, hehe, I just can’t…” you trail off in snickers before yanking Terushima closer, wrapping your arms around his neck and hugging him while you attempt to stop your cackles against his collarbone. “FUCK!”

        Terushima scoffs in disbelief as he holds you against him tightly, baffled at your confusing actions. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

        “I don’t know,” you laugh into his skin, tickling him a bit. You creep your hands into his hair and tug on the strands in an attempt to focus yourself on something more serious. It doesn’t work, but Terushima lets out a surprised moan. 

        “YN!”

        “I’m sorry, I’m just,” you press an open-mouthed kiss against his neck, giggles finally slowing, “I’m really happy right now.” 

        A corner of the blond’s mouth lifts at the words and he presses you closer to his chest. “I’m happy too.” Then he tugs you far enough away that he can see your bright red face. “Now do you wanna feel my tongue piercing for real?”

        He licks his bottom lip, displaying the enticing metal bar that lights the pit of your stomach on fire. Well, at least you weren’t laughing anymore. 

        “Fuck yes.”

I don’t think your posts are showing up in the tags ): cause when I searched a couple of them from newest your new post wasn’t there

damn that sucks😔 but I also get it. It’s been a while since I posted so I understand why the tumblr algorithm wouldn’t put at the top of the tags no matter how recent I post. I’m just glad at least a few people got to read it and enjoyed it💜 thanks for telling me!!

Can I Please be added to tag me for reborn?

Yep, I got u🤩

An Enemy Hypnotizes Bakugou and He Hurts You (BNHA Headcanons)

*GIF not mine*

A/N: Got outta writer’s block with this bad boy. Enjoy!

Word count: 2138

“Katsuki, this isn’t you! Look at what you’re doing!”

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Red rage burned in his eyes as he raised his sparking hands, both trained on you. 

Gritting your teeth, you settled back into your own defensive stance. Feet planted on the hard cement, you raised your arms across your chest and braced for impact, eyes glancing back and forth to ensure no more civilians were left on the street. 

The sun shone brightly in the sky, soaking into your skin and creating a halo around Bakugou’s blond head, despite which he still looked like a devil. A leer hung on his face as he circled you, a lion waiting to pounce on his prey. 

Pro Heroes were supposed to be arriving any second; after all, this was just supposed to be a simple academy training mission. You and Bakugou were supposed to survey a local villain terrorizing the streets and observe how a Pro Hero would go about capturing him. 

They should’ve remembered who Bakugou was and realized that he wasn’t the type of person to hold himself back from a fight, however, though distantly you assumed they believed you would be able to hold him back. 

They were dreadfully wrong.

“Katsuki, I don’t wanna hurt you,” you pleaded, softening your stance a bit. 

“Cute that you think I’m the one who’s gonna end up hurt,” he sneered, curling his hands into fists. Sweat dripped down his forehead and arms, further fueling the weapons attached to his arms. 

Panic struck you as you realized he had no control over himself and that no doubt he would use those weapons on you, full force. 

There was only one way to stop him before that happened. 

You would have to attack him first, hard. 

“Just remember, babe,” you shook your head solemnly, “I don’t mean any of this, and I would never hurt you unless I absolutely had to.”

Bakugou cocked a brow and curled his lip, hands sparking now more than ever. 

“Oh, and I also don’t forgive you for eating my muffin this morning.”

A grunt escaped him as he flew through the glass window of the restaurant behind him, crashing and collapsing against a table and chairs. You dropped your leg back to the ground, worry taking over your face as you strained to see his form in the dark restaurant. 

“Katsuki?”

“YN!” All Might’s voice dragged your attention away, leading you to watch as he landed on the street a few yards away. “Are you all right?”

Glancing back into the darkness of the restaurant one last time, you pursed your lips and turned, making your way toward the Pro Hero. “I’m fine, but Katsuki got-”

The wind gets knocked out of you just as you try to take another step, a blast of pure heat slamming into you and knocking you to the ground. 

Head smacking against the concrete, you bite down on your tongue hard enough to draw blood. 

“Shit,” you wheeze out as you roll onto your back, blue sky blurring above you. The epicenter of pain is on the left side of your skull and your head pounds with every heartbeat. Whooshes of blood flood your ears and a voice calls your name before everything turns to black. 

“YN. YN. YN!”

A hand pats your cheek gently, urging you to stur. When you continue to refuse, two fingers peel open your eyelid, flooding it with pure light and increasing the headache that had only been steadily pulsing before. 

“Ughhh,” you moan, unable to form words as the same person lifts open your second eye. 

A muffled “pupils are dilating” sounds far off in the distance before you feel your body being lifted up off the hard ground and onto something softer. 

Words like “hospital,” “concussion,” and “serious” filter in and out as you try to open your eyes, even the millimeter you actually obtain being a strain. 

Where is he? You try to form the words but your mouth feels stuffed with cotton and someone shushes you. Even in the blinding brightness, though, you can see him. 

He’s struggling in All Might’s grip, unsuccessfully trying to rip both arms away and barking at every EMT who walks past--who then begins to walk even faster--as his gaze continually glances from them on to you then back. 

Bakugou stops mid-shout and grows still when he finally sees your smallest of movements--the twitch of your fingers, the blink of your eyes, and the mouthing of his name.

Every ounce of fight in his body drains in that instant, and he slumps back against All Might, shoulders and brows drooping as he holds eye contact with you. 

Even in your daze, you wonder why he doesn’t come with, why they won’t let him come with, but that question falls from your mind the instant the ambulance doors are shut and they begin to drive away. 

Two days later, you were released from the hospital. You had a minor concussion and first-degree burns on your left arm, but otherwise you made it out unscathed. 

And during that time Bakugou didn’t contact you once. Not even a lame “Hey, u good?” text. Though technology was forbidden for the first couple days after your concussion, you still snuck out your phone from time to time to call him, text him, anything. He never responded. 

You told him that you were okay, that it was okay. You knew everything that had happened wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t in control of himself. Someone had forced him to hurt you and he’d had no part in it. If he had, he would’ve stopped it, you were sure. 

Nothing. 

All you would get was a little check mark marking each and every one of your messages as “seen.” 

Now that you were coming back to school today, you could finally give him a piece of your mind after that silent treatment. 

First thing you did when you arrived was look for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. People flooded you as you entered, asking if you were okay and how many fingers they were holding up. 

You noticed they were asking all but one question: What happened? 

Although you didn’t necessarily want to answer it anyway, this still piqued your curiosity and just as you prepared your own inquiry Aizawa entered and they scurried to their seats. 

Still no Bakugou in sight. 

The most acknowledgement the weary teacher gave you after your absence was a nod and an unceremonious grunt before diving right into the lesson. 

Though your doctors would blame it on your concussion, you found yourself unable to pay attention. It wasn’t even anger towards Bakugou at this point, but genuine panic that he hadn’t shown up yet. You never even thought to wonder what happened after you were knocked out until now. 

Maybe he got hurt too, or was it possible he could still be hypnotized? No, no way. You saw him recognize you post-knockout. So where was he?

The minute class ended you were out the door and running to the dorms. If Bakugou wasn’t there then obviously this situation was more serious than you thought. 

You hit Floor Four and bounded past Kirishima to the absent blond’s room, pounding on the door with all your might. 

“Katsuki? Are you in there?”

His red-headed friend watched as you knocked, flinching each time the door shook hard enough to rattle the entire level. “YN.”

“Katsuki I swear to God if you keep ignoring me-”

“YN.” He tried again, growing anxious. 

“I’m gonna kick your ass so bad you won’t even-”

“YN.” 

“What, Kirishima, what?”

It took a few seconds to register that he hadn’t said your name the third time. Snapping your head to the other side, you faltered at the sight of the blond. 

Hair ratty and tangled, eyes puffy and sunken, cheeks pale and bloodless. If anyone were to guess, they would think Bakugou was the one who took the beating. 

“YN.” He repeated your name like he was pondering over it. 

You heard a door click and turned to see Kirishima gone, disappearing into his room. Glancing around the hallway, you realized it wasn’t exactly the perfect place to have such a serious conversation and gestured for Bakugou to open his door. 

The second it was closed, you turned back to him and threw him a dirty look. “Why didn’t you respond?”

He stayed quiet for a second, looking you up and down, up and down. His mouth opened and closed like a fish gulping, and you took the time to notice how bloodshot his eyes were. Then, finally, he spoke. “Are you okay?”

Anger swelled at his dismissal of your question, but before you erupted you noticed something. Though Bakugou’s hands twitched at his sides, every time you moved closer toward him he would inch away. 

Taking a deep breath, you moved another step closer, startled when he took one back. 

“Why are you…” you trailed off, struck by his apprehension. 

“Are you okay?” he asked--no, he insisted. When you responded “yes” he nodded slowly and clenched his jaw, turning away. “That’s good.” Instead of facing you he began to fiddle with his desk chair, rotating it from side to side. 

You step closer, reaching out your hand to touch him and sighing when you see his shoulders tense. It hurt to see him like this, avoiding your every touch like it would give him the plague. “Why?” you whispered sadly.

“I read all your texts, you know.” He turned around and leaned back on his desk, propping himself up on his hands. When his eyes met yours, you saw the crimson was filled with pain. “You said it wasn’t my fault that you got hurt, that it was someone else. Someone else burned you, knocked you out. Someone else hurt you. ” He swallowed roughly. “But that’s a lie.”

“Katsuki, no it’s not-”

“It is, YN!” he snapped, pushing off his hands and pacing “I’m the one who hurt you! I used everything I had against you, to purposefully hurt you.” When he stopped in front of you, his cheeks were puffed and red, a muscle in his jaw twitching. 

He was angry now, pissed off but you knew it wasn’t at you. It was at himself for something he couldn’t control. 

You hated it when he was like this. 

Quickly, before he could flinch away you grabbed both sides of his face and pulled him in, close. He wriggled in your grasp, even preparing to wrench your hands off with both of his own on your wrists before you raised a brow. “You really wanna do that?”

Hesitantly he dropped his arms to his sides and gave in to your hold. The muscles in his face relaxed under your touch, and you started to brush your thumbs over his cheeks with a small smile. “Katsuki,” you leaned your face in closer, “the only thing that hurt me during all that time was you ignoring me. Did you know that?”

“YN, I was just trying to-” Before he could finish you yanked his forehead down to press against yours, effectively shutting him up. 

“Did you know that?” you repeated, slower this time. 

He rolled his eyes and pressed harder against your forehead. “No.”

“Look at what I’m trying to tell you, Katsuki. The only time you ever hurt me, the only time you ever caused me pain, was when you ignored me after I was injured.”

“I’m…” ever so slowly he let his hands trail up to your hips, settling there and squeezing for just a second. He closed his eyes and let out a soft breath. “I’m sorry.”

Your mouth twitched. “Sorry for what?”

“Come on, YN, don’t-”

“Sorry for what?” you laughed, tugging him back in after he tried to pull away. 

Apologies, especially of the genuine kind, were rare for Katsuki. In fact, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d even heard those words fall from his lips. 

But here they were, some of the hardest words to ever say, laid out for you and you only. 

Bakugou’s gaze travelled up your face, pausing on your grinning lips before continuing on to a permanent stop on your eyes. His own lips perked for a second. 

“I’m sorry for ignoring you after you were hurt.” 

Carefully, like you were a china doll, he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you close. His body was harsh but warm against yours as he leaned his cheek against your hair. 

It was sweet. The sweetest you’d ever gotten out of him, but…

“God, you are one awkward hugger.”

“Don’t test me, YN.”