Drunk Confession (Anakin Skywalker X Reader)

Please work on a pt. 2 to the Luna Hunt or a series in general its so good I beg off u. I would love to see where things go with them and her father and the new queen and king

ahhhhh yeah the whole father storyline like i dont even know where to go with that

hate it when my reader's flimsy purpose to escape comes back to bite me in the booty like ouch now i gotta work with that plot strand. luna hunt is def the most requested for a second part and i swear i hear u i just haven't read this genre in so long i dont even know where to start.

scratch that, i know exactly hwere to start, i just dont know where to go after that. we'll see maybe one day ill think of smth

Please give Oreo kisses for me... Hes so cute... He looks so done I love it

Eh, its true he is Pissy™. He really do got that rbf, but I promise he is babie. I’ll def give him kisses for u😙😙

Love Me Through the Phone (Bokuto x Reader) (NSFW)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: After Bokuto leaves for an away game on Valentine’s Day weekend, you’re left to handle the day’s pleasures all on your own. There’s just one little problem--nothing comes close to what Bokuto could give you. Luckily, he offers a solution, and though it’s completely out of your wheelhouse, you find yourself desperate enough to give in.

Warnings: smut, phone sex, mutual/guided masturbation, dirty talk, slight praise kink, slight dumbification, edging (if you squint), (gentle) dom!Bokuto

A/N: Happy belated Valentine’s Day! Here’s a lil gift from me to u that I’ve had stuck on my mind for a while. Yes, yes, I know, I ain’t great at writing smut, so if someone else wrote this prompt w/ Best Boi Bokuto™ uhh… *cough cough* sendittomeplsnthx. Enjoy!

Word count: 2731

        “So… what are you wearing?”

        “Jesus Christ,” you break off into a laugh, picking up the phone. 

        “Nah, nah, c’mon, I’m serious. We gotta start somewhere.”

        Still shaking your head, you lean back on the bed once more, propped up on a few pillows but otherwise completely reclined. “Fine, fine, but anything else like that and I’m gonna have to leave you to your hand.”

        “I promise, now c’mon. Tell me.”

        “Seriously?”

        “One-hundred percent.”

        You purse your lips, debating a little. You can feel how much you want it--want him--and when you shift your hips, you can almost feel it soaking uncomfortably against your clothing. He’d texted you minutes ago with a proposition after learning of your predicament last night. 

        You’d wanted him so bad, but that alone wasn’t enough. Bokuto was off at an away game, and the distance--plus it being Valentine’s Day--only made things worse. You’d tried so hard, even trying to imagine his hand in your own’s place, even his tongue. It was just not enough. 

        Though, Bokuto didn’t seem to know how to handle the situation either. 

        “Fine, fine. I’m, uh, I’m wearing that little dress you like-”

        “Yeah?”

        “-and those silk panties you almost tore that one time.”

        “Really?”

        “Fuck no. It’s a Monday--I’m wearing sweats and a tank top, and I’m pretty sure there’s at least two rats making babies in my hair.”

        “Well at least someone’s getting some.”

        “Kou!”

        “Sorry, YN!” Bokuto whines, his voice crackling through the line. “But come on! Take this seriously.” He pauses, silence flooding your room.

        “Just… let me help you.”

        Your thighs subconsciously clench at the tone. It’s so familiar it’s like they’re preparing to be spread apart. 

        The place between your thighs is soaked by now, far more stirred than you’re letting on. The fact that your voice is still steady surprises even you at this point. 

        “You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

        “Don’t be, baby. Just lay back for me, will you?”

        “Okay.” Gnawing at your cheek, you make the choice to place Bokuto on speaker, setting him down just beside your shoulder so you can hear his every word. At this point, you’re on your back, head lain on a pillow and hands dancing along the strings of your sweats.

        “Comfy?”

        “Yeah.”

        “Good.” There’s a few shuffles over the phone, and when Bokuto’s voice returns he sounds a little out of breath, a little strained. “Good. Okay.”

        “Okay,” you nervously parrot, not really sure what else to do with yourself. Slowly, you’re beginning to gather that neither of you have done this before. Despite Bokuto sounding so confident earlier, he now seems reduced to the same anxious, aroused mess that you are. 

        “All right, now just…just follow my lead, okay?” 

        “Mhmm.”

        “I want you to go slow, no matter what I tell you. Don’t speed up until I say.” His orders, simply the thought of their implications, leave your fingers twitching closer to your arousal. The need to touch yourself was beginning to leave a yearning that ran rampant through your veins. A single spark filled your stomach with heat. 

        “Okay.”

        “Good,” he exhaled. “Now touch yourself.”

        You almost choked on your spit. “Wh-uh, I mean,” your gaze traced along the ceiling frantically, desperately trying to distract yourself from the burning in your cheeks. “Like, where?” 

        Your question had slipped out without a second thought, and when Bokuto chuckled, the flush spread to your chest. 

        “Maybe you’re right,” he pondered. “Let’s go slower than that.” A huff, then his voice returned, excited. “All right, I got it. Think of me, all right?”

        “Kou, I already tried that.”

        “I know, baby, I know. But now you can actually hear me, and you don’t have to imagine a thing. Leave it to me.”

        You were grateful he accepted your timid silence as approval. 

        “Okay, so… think of me touching you, right? Like I’m right there in front of you, baby, and I’m just running my hands all over you-”

        “Kou?” you cut him off, blindly picking at your fingernails. 

        “What’s up? You wanna stop?”

        “Can you touch yourself too?” And it’s when he falls silent that you realize how awkward that sounded. “Ah shit, I-I mean, like, I just kinda felt awkward doing it alone and like I felt like if you were doing it too I’d feel better about it and-”

        “God, YN, you thought I wasn’t doing that already?”

        “What?” 

        He scoffs, and shame begins to sour your anticipation. 

        “The second you said you were touching yourself to the thought of me, babe, I was at it. You seriously thought I was gonna sit here and just let you play with yourself while I’m over here just listening?”

        “I mean, a little…”

        “Shit, YN. I let you tie me up once and suddenly you think I like being blue-balled.”

        “Well…”

        “It was one time!”

        “Whatever, Kou! Can we just…get back to what we were doing?”

        “Fine, fine. But we’re discussing this later.”

        “Okay, okay. Just get on with it, will you? Please, Kou, I…” you pause, body once more growing aware of the situation between your legs. “I need your help.”

        “I know, babe.” Bokuto gulps, taking a second to relax himself once more. You’re busying yourself with fiddling with the bottom of your tank top now, tempted to just lift off the damned thing along with the rest of your clothes. 

        But you’re a little curious if Bokuto would mind that.

        “All right, sweetheart. Like I said, follow my lead.”

        You hum. 

        “I want you to imagine me there, right on top of you, baby. Think of how I’d push your shirt up, how I’d run my hands up your sides. Do that to yourself for me, will you, sweetheart?”

        You listen and copy his words, running your hands underneath the cotton hem and brushing your fingertips along your hips, just as Bokuto had done so many times. 

        Well, it wasn’t perfect. But his voice certainly helped. 

        “Go up higher, baby. I want you to hold those pretty tits of yours.

        “God, I can almost feel ‘em in my hands. So soft, always wanna keep my hands there. So fuckin’ pretty.”

        “Kou…” You do as he asks, but it’s not enough. You want more, now.

        “I know, I know. But remember, sweetheart, I said we’re taking things slow tonight.”

        “But-”

        “Now touch yourself. Imagine my hands playing with those cute little nipples of yours, baby. Make ‘em all tight and perky for me.” Hesitantly, you follow his lead. Your fingers draw circles, tug and caress like how you remember he would after long days. How his hands would yank off your shirt before palming and squeezing and stroking. Some days he was really mean, and your hips shifted at the thought of the dark marks he would leave scattered along your chest. 

        “Feel good?” His voice is breathless, and you’re a little uncertain of whether that means your soft moans had somehow passed through the phone line despite how much you’d suppressed them. Though, Bokuto did like you loud. 

        “So good,” you pant, hands still toying almost torturously. “But I want more, Kou, please.”

        “Fuck, baby, I ever tell you how cute you are when you beg?”

        “Kou…”

        “Fine, fine. But you know I’d play with your pretty tits longer than that. From now on, let’s go at my pace.”

        Fuck. You knew Bokuto had a pace, but when it came to nights like these, it was slower than you’d expect. Though most nights Bokuto jumped you and kept at it like a rabbit, there were just some days where he dragged things out, usually just to hear you beg for him. An ego boost, or whatever. Like he needed it. 

        “Slowly, sweetheart, bring your hands down to your thighs and spread ‘em, nice and gentle--you know how I’d peel ‘em apart.” He broke off into a grunt. “And t-then stroke the insides of your thighs, baby.”

        “Kou?”

        “What’s up?”

        “Do,” you clench your jaw, telling yourself to get over the embarrassment by now. “-Do you want me to take my clothes off?”

        “Fuck, you still have any on? Why?”

        “Oh.” You took that as a cue to tear off your tank top and sweatpants, a little ashamed by the eagerness with which you did it. That feeling only grew when you squirmed out of your panties, catching a glimpse of the glistening stain left on them. 

        An idea hit you, and though you knew it would only make you flush more, you wanted to hear his reaction.

        “Kou?”

        “Are they off?”

        “My panties are soaked.” 

        The reaction was instant. 

        “Jesus–fuck,” Bokuto hissed under his breath. You heard something akin to skin on skin as his cursing hitched, and a strangled groan filled your ears. 

        “Fucking tease,” he rasped when he finally seemed to stop himself from going too far. There was a tension in his voice that warned you he wanted revenge. “Put both hands on that wet little pussy, sweetheart. For that, I wanna hear it.”

        Finally. The second your dominant hand made contact with your swollen clit, your hips jerked up without volition. “Sh-it.”

        “Nu-uh, YN. Keep them there. Two inside, one on your clit. Nice and slow.”

        It was hard to keep a steady, controlled pace. Your hips kept bucking, your back kept arching, and the two fingers Bokuto had ordered deep inside you weren’t reaching that little spot he seemed to have memorized like the back of his hand. 

        The lone index finger you kept circling your clit wasn’t doing your sanity any favors. The muscles of your thighs began to tremble in sheer desire of some actual force, a little muscle behind the action. 

        “YN,” Bokuto’s tone was low, warning. The second you’d sped up your hands to meet your needs, Bokuto could hear your closed-mouth whimpers growing higher. 

        “Kou, please.”

        “Hands off, baby. Completely.”

        “Wha…” you opened your mouth in protest, reluctantly pulling two soaked fingers out of your weeping hole and forcing your hand away from your clit. 

        “I told you to listen, baby. And now that’s all you get to do.”

        “Kou, what-”

        “Ahh, shit.” You slam your mouth shut, biting your lip at the delicious moans echoing through the phone. “Fuck, so good.”

        Bokuto’s strained groans come quick and in between pants. You’re positive there’s a sheen of sweat covering his forehead now, his arm flexed and taut as he strokes himself. 

        “YN, baby. ‘F-Feels so good.”

        “Kou,” you plead, gaze a little unfocused as you listen to his moans while forcing your hands to stay at your sides. You feel yourself twitching, clenching around nothing. 

        “Fuck, wish I was inside you right now.” Throaty moans now filter through the crackling line, so loud you wonder if the neighboring apartment can hear--not that they shouldn’t be used to it by now. “You’re always so fucking tight, sweetheart. Always so wet and tight on my cock.”

        “Kou please, let me-”

        “Hold on. Just a little more, baby--fffuck. Know you wanna touch yourself. Spread your legs for me, but don’t touch.”

        You peel your knees apart once more, frustrated to no longer have any friction to work with. Your hips roll desperately, but it accomplishes nothing but making you more desperate. You can feel your arousal dripping down, now, soaking into the sheets. 

        “You remember before I left, sweetheart? Remember how I fucked your pretty little brains out? Never seen you like that before, so pretty and crying over how good my cock felt inside you.”

        “Yes, Kou, yes! Please, just let me-”

        “Said you couldn’t walk the next day. Said I fucked you so good you couldn’t feel your legs, baby. You feel ‘em now? All spread apart and just fucking shaking? If I fucked you right now, sweetheart, you think you could even think straight?”

        “No, Kou, fuck I need you so bad.” You threw an arm over your eyes, the other digging into the sheets as you waited and waited for permission. 

        “You only got your fingers, and you can’t even use ‘em. All you got is me, the thought of me fucking into you, turning your pretty little brain into mush. Making you feel so good all you can do is cry. Baby, I still got those scratch marks on my back.”

        “Kou-”

        “Just a few more days, sweetheart, and I’ll have you making new ones. For now though, I suppose I could let you play with yourself.”

        You almost cried out in relief, hands darting down to your aching, sopping hole, feeling as it drenched each fingertip with ease. 

        “Three fingers inside. I know you can take it. Pretend it’s me warming you up for my cock, baby, stretching you out and having you dripping all over my fucking hand.”

        He’s right, it is a stretch, and you almost whimper when you press your fingers up and against the little pleasure center deep inside you, fingertips just barely brushing. 

        “Your little clit hurts so good, doesn’t it, baby? You’re being so mean to it aren’t you, rubbing hard circles into it.”

        He pauses, breaking off into a drawn-out groan of your name. 

        “I don’t care. Go faster.”

        And you do, and he’s right, and you just can’t bring yourself to care as you press harsh patterns into your clit, struggling to pump your fingers at the same time without losing pace completely and frustrating yourself. 

        “That’s it. Say my name, baby. Scream my name while you play with yourself. Couldn’t do that by yourself, could you?”

        “Kou--fuck!” You clench your eyes shut, arching your back harder as you speed up your desperate ministrations. Heat gathers at your clit from the friction, and your slick is practically gushing now, loud and pornographic.

        Bokuto certainly got what he wished--there was no way he couldn’t hear how wet you were. 

        “You can only touch yourself with my help, can’t you? So fucking good to me, baby. So pretty playing with your tight little hole like that. Dirty little thing.”

        “God, fffuck,” you whimper, back arching when your gushing finally reaches its peak. 

        “You coming?”

        “Y-es!”

        “I wanna hear who made you feel this good. Who made you play with your own little pussy so good, baby?”

        “Kou! Yes, Kou!”

        “Good girl. Good fucking girl.” Bokuto moans one last time, loud and guttural, and the slick of your fingers brushing and kneading your clit becomes too much. Your legs, spread wide and strained, shake with the effort as your back arches against the pillows behind you, head tossed back and mouth open in a silent gasp. 

        Bokuto soothes you on your way down, small “I love yous” and “so good for mes” traveling over the line. When your body finally stops twitching, you lean over and snag your phone, turning it off speaker and pressing it to your ear. 

        “Thank you, Kou,” you hum softly, lethargic and exhausted. “That was so much better than last night’s shit show.”

        “I’m so relieved, baby.” He pauses, humming. “And glad to know you can’t seem to come without me.”

        “Yeah, well, good thing you’re coming back soon. This was good, but…” You sit up, staring at his side of the bed, a little unkempt from you rolling over to it in your sleep night after night. “I wish you were here.”

        “I know, baby. I wish you were with me too.”

        “It’s so lonely without you.”

        “I know. I miss you.”

        “Plus I finally found out where you hid those handcuffs after that night.”

        “Goddamnit, YN, just throw those fucking things out! I’m not getting blue-balled again!”

Darling Traps Them in a Room to Escape (Yandere Haikyuu!! Headcanons)

*GIFs not mine*

Ushijima and Oikawa Version

Sugawara and Kuroo Version

Tendou and Hinata Version

A/N: Man have I been wanting to write so bad lately. Here’s a lil thingy cuz I’ve really been into the thought of yandere hcs these past couple days. Enjoy!

Word count: 1996

Bokuto Koutarou:

Sobs ring throughout the apartment as you dig through nightstands and other drawers in sight. 

“YN please don’t do this to me! Please, please just let me go so we can talk about this!”

A lump formed in your throat as you shuffled through pens and papers faster, hoping, dreaming that you could make a noise loud enough to block out his cries. 

For a man who had been serious enough to plan your kidnapping for months, he certainly seemed quite immature when it came to that plan backfiring in any way shape or form. 

You’d only been searching for bobby pins for a whopping five minutes and in that time Bokuto's managed to wail his voice to pieces and give you a headache. You’d compliment him on the newfound talent but you felt it would excite him too much. 

“Bokuto, shut up will you?” Frustration had you wanting to rip your hair from your scalp, and Bokuto’s constant howling only made the idea more tempting. 

You know the words struck a chord when he gasped from within the closet. Silence followed, with only the occasional sniffle to keep you company as you rifled through the bathroom. A small whoop escaped your lips when you located a small package of bobby pins Bokuto had no doubt purchased on your behalf. 

A thousand times over did you thank your old habit of boredly watching lock-picking videos on YouTube--who’d have thought it would actually be useful?

“So… you don’t love me anymore. Is that it?”

You sat crouched next to the front door, scratching the rubber ends off the pins when you choked on your own spit at Bokuto’s question. 

“I- what?”

“Please, YN, think about what you’re doing.” If his voice earlier had been an elephant, his voice now would be a mouse. Soft, whispered, gentle.

Heartbroken. 

“I’ve been thinking about doing this for a while now Bokuto.” You swallow and return your gaze to the lock, pressing the bobby pins into the keyhole with pursed lips. “The only one who hasn’t been thinking about what they’re doing is you.”

“So you’re just gonna leave me here.” Ah, you were wondering when the waterworks would return. “All alone? Did you ever even love me?”

Delusional. The poor boy you had liked in high school was now so, so delusional. Insane enough to kidnap you from your home, and crazy enough to think you had been okay with it. Six months of unreturned affection should have told him otherwise, but it seemed Bokuto was a lost cause all the way around. 

You kept your lips tightly shut, focused more on each click of the lock than whatever grief-stricken words were leaving Bokuto’s mouth at the moment. 

“You didn’t?” His voice was clogged with unshed tears. “Not even for a moment?”

Maybe once.

“I’ve loved you ever since I first laid eyes on you, YN.” His voice returned with a new vigor, quiet all the same and yet with new undertones of will. “I know you feel the same way.”

Slam!

An involuntary squeal left your lips at the sound of the closet’s door tearing away from its hinges, crashing to the ground with an ear splitting bang. 

Bokuto stood in the doorway, black and white hair in disarray as an emotion swam in his golden gaze. You couldn’t put your finger on it exactly.

Perhaps it was anger. 

No.

Maybe sorrow?

Nope.

It was…

“YN.”

Each step he took toward you matched your heart as it pounded, his legs making quick work of the distance as he bounded toward you. Strong arms yanked you to your feet before pulling you off the floor completely. A hand under your knees and one on your back, Bokuto hauled you bridal style back to his bedroom without so much as a grunt of effort. 

The emotion. It was fear. 

Pure, unadulterated fear. 

Fear made tears trail down his cheeks, made his fingers tremble and twitch as he held you, made his heartbeat so quick you could hear it pulsing next to your ear. 

“I can’t stand the thought of losing you, YN.” Back to the bedroom. “I love you too much.” To the same bed you’ve been stuck to for months. “And I know you love me back, baby.”

No matter how much you twisted and struggled in his grip, he still managed to lock the cuffs on each one of your wrists, forcing your arms up and above your head with your legs free and kicking on the mattress.

Not again.

Quickly, Bokuto straddled your legs, restricting their movement while he ran a hand down your face. “I know you love me too,” he whispered once more, dazed eyes taking in your face. 

Those two bobby pins sitting just in front of the door, along with the rest of them, would no doubt be disposed of. Knowing the bad memory that came attached to them, Bokuto would have no qualms about burning every last bobby pin on Earth in order to terminate such a reminder. 

“No, no,” he shook his head at himself. “I know you love me. But maybe you just need a reminder that I love you, baby.” 

His eyes brightened at the thought at the same time yours widened. 

“No-”

“Shhh,” he pressed a finger over your lips, a smile now taking over his face. “Was that why you tried to leave? You thought I didn’t love you anymore?”

“Mmm!” You wriggled and shook against your restraints, not willing to acknowledge just how useless the fight was. 

“Don’t worry, YN. Of course I still love you!”

His eyes darkened. Then his tongue peeked out to run over his bottom lip. 

“But I’ll happily show you that if you still don’t believe me.”

Kageyama Tobio:

Trapping Kageyama in the bathroom was hard. Even harder than you expected. 

However, with one swift kick to his behind, he stumbled inside just enough off balance that you could yank the door shut and slip the chair under the knob before he had time to right himself. 

“YN!”

Since then, he’s been silent. Or, silently fuming. Every few seconds, you heard a huff or a grunt or a growl. It appeared he was none-too pleased to be locked up. 

Huh. Wonder how that feels.

And yet, you could find no devices to help you escape. The only furniture that even seemed strong enough to use as a battering ram was either too heavy to move or was currently stopping your kidnapper from escaping. 

Nonetheless, you kept searching. 

No keys held in obvious places. No sticks skinny enough to pick the lock. Nothing. 

Kageyama wasn’t the only one with a temporary vow of silence--even you knew not to poke the bear during a time like this. Over the last few weeks, you had learned that a silent Kageyama was worse than a loud one. 

Right now, he was a ticking time bomb behind closed doors, which meant you had to get out now or never. 

Do or die. 

Should he somehow escape to get back to you, you had no doubt you were in for some serious payback tonight. Though Kageyama had never laid his hand on you before (even while he held you captive), you had a feeling he would lose that level of restraint once your five minutes of fame were over. 

Which meant you had to escape some way or another. 

There were no windows in the house that weren’t either barred or made of glass even a bullet couldn’t get through, so those weren’t an option.

The front door… it seemed plausible. Battering ram or not, there wasn’t actually too much to it aside from a lock and chain. Maybe your own brute force was the best way to go. 

Pain erupted through your shoulder after the first attempt. Then the second. 

Third, fourth, fifth. 

Crack!

The hinges began to splinter from top to bottom, and you knew the next hit would be your last. 

Stepping back farther this time, you readied yourself for impact before-

“YN.”

Kageyama’s voice, still muffled through the door, was firm and loud. 

“I will come after you.”

You stopped in your tracks, gulping at the thought. 

“Y-yeah? I’d like to see you try.”

He huffed before you heard a thump. 

“Just don’t do anything stupid while you’re out there, okay?”

“You best believe I’m gonna-”

“Be safe, dumbass,” he hissed. 

Your heart twinged. Oh.

You wanted to hate him for everything he’s done. You really did. But… you couldn’t find it in yourself to do it. Before, when you were just the average boyfriend-girlfriend couple, things were great. When he started getting more possessive was when you worried, and when he locked you up was when you panicked. 

But it was only now that you remembered this was still the boy you loved, to some degree. 

“I will… asshole.”

Kozume Kenma:

Kenma was never affectionate. 

In fact, he hardly ever touched you. In the soundproof apartment he had you trapped in, he usually minded your space, so much so that you even wondered why he bothered with you in the first place. 

Maybe you were going crazy yourself, but you couldn’t stand it anymore. Aside from the occasional forced cuddle or hug, Kenma didn’t ask for anything of you, only that you didn’t leave. 

It was some kind of mind game he played with you. When you realized he was manipulating you into breaking away from all of your friends and family, he also realized you noticed. 

And so, he locked you up to… just keep you around?

You were sick of it. Done. Tired of the mind games. 

So while he finally let you off his lap so he could take his habitual bathroom break from gaming, you shoved his rolly chair under the door and began the search for the key. 

If I were a lazy psychopath, where would I keep my keys?

“YN, are you really doing this right now? Come on, I was in the middle of my game.”

Of course that was all he could think about. Standup guy, that one. 

“There’s a simple solution to this, Kenma. Just let me go and you can go back to your goddamn video games.”

“YN, I don’t… I didn’t want to let you go just yet.”

“What am I, a dog? You’re a freak, Kenma, just tell me where it is!”

“YN, please, can’t we just talk about this?” His voice was no different than usual, soft-spoken and untroubled as always. 

You hated it. It was like he had the situation all under control. 

Well, he did but you didn’t like to think about that. 

“Kenma, please, can’t you just see this from my point of view? I don’t understand why you keep me trapped here 24/7 for no reason! Can’t you at least tell me why?”

He stayed silent for a second, then you heard a small clink. 

A key slid out from under the door, all the way out to the tips of your toes. 

Your jaw almost dropped at the sight. That was all it took?!

“...Why?”

Why? Why take you away only to let you go so easily? Why hold you captive only to rarely be around you? Why did he do any of this?

“Because. Because I know someday you’ll come back to me.”

“How are you so sure?”

“Because you’ll never be the same after me. And one day you’ll realize the only one who ever really cared about you was me.”

You open your mouth to respond, only to find yourself at a loss. 

Without another word, you slip through the door, gripping the key with all your strength. 

He’s wrong… isn’t he?

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

Can i also be tagged to reborn? Love ur story btw! <333

Of course!! I’m glad you’re liking it☺️💜

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

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

so

garou is a total sweetheart

yandere garou is a fucking monster

which makes him hot

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

nothing will happen to you.

hands and lives will be taken if anyone touches you.

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

strap in, it's gonna be a bumpy ride

❤️❤️❤️❤️

💜💜💜💜

Can you do Shoto, Bakugou, Tokoyami, Tomura and Dabi learning their s/o was born with a heart condition but it doesn't stop them from fighting (eg. I was born with an irregular heartbeat so I'm stuck with it for life and I always have to let the doctors know say I was to need to be asleep for something a special doctor 100% has to be in the room to make sure I don't die even if the work is something small and simple)

S/O Born with a Heart Condition (BNHA Headcanons)

*GIFs not mine*

A/N: This is my first attempt at headcanons, so they might be too small or too large (or too shitty), idk (I also haven’t watched bnha long enough to meet Dabi’s character so :/). Thank you so much for the request, and I truly hope you like it! I tried to make it as accurate as possible to what I could find online, so I hope it works for you. Enjoy!

Word count: 1494

Todoroki Shouto:

If Todoroki wasn’t attached before, he sure is now. 

This man doesn’t hesitate to cater to your every need, and always supports you when you want to do something out of your comfort zone. 

That doesn’t mean he ever leaves your side for more than 20 minutes at a time, though. 

He’s grown attached to you in a way he never thought he could, and hates to see you do something dangerous without his or a doctor’s supervision. 

If you want to work out or something, he’s hesitant at first, but allows you to do so with his constant warnings not to hurt yourself and take it easy. 

He’s always willing to cuddle and comfort you if your chest begins to hurt, and slowly spoons you while massaging your stomach. (His warm hand is a dream.)

You’re still growing used to having doctors watch you almost 24/7, and when you confess this to Todoroki, he hugs you tightly and whispers that he will only stay by your side when you feel up to it.

Of course you feel up to it. This man may have part-cold powers, but he’s still hot as hell. 

You always feel more comfortable with him in the room, and Todoroki is always glad to be around you, taking as much comfort in your presence as you do with him. 

Bakugou Katsuki: 

When Bakugou learned you had a heart condition, he wouldn’t let anyone near you, treating you like a glass doll. (He barely keeps it together when your doctors come around.)

Every time one of his friends would get a little too close, he would start to growl.

If someone bumped into you in the halls, you best believe he blows up on their ass, even if it’s one of his closest friends.

“WHAT WAS YOUR DUMBASS THINKING RUNNING INTO HER LIKE THAT?! I’M GONNA EXPLODE YOUR ASS INTO THE NEXT CENTURY!”

Ten more minutes pass of him screaming at that person, and at some point you have to poke him in the side to get his attention. After that, he goes Mama bear mode.

Yes, even Bakugou has that setting.

He grabs your shoulders with concern written all over his face. “What? Are you okay? Do you need a doctor or something? SOMEONE CALL THE NURS-”

You gotta smack him across the forehead just to get him to shut up. (It resets his brain a lil bit.)

Overall, even though his friends tease him about it, he’s still fiercely protective over you, and no one aside from him is allowed in your ten-foot radius personal bubble. 

You hated how he treated you like a baby, always grabbing your arms to stop them before he snatched the item off the top shelf for you, or any other acts that he does for you that piss you off so much.

Like a pit bull on a leash, he barked and snapped at anyone you passed on the street as his hand gripped your own tightly. 

He was your little guard dog, your furious, explosive protector, and although you often argued about how you could handle yourself, you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Tokoyami Fumikage:

You already know this man perches in the corner of your room at night. 

Although he trusts your doctors, he still wants to make sure you’re okay while you sleep. 

There’s a desk in the corner of your room, and he just squats down on top of it like nobody’s business, keeping a watchful eye on your every move. 

The first time he did it, it kinda freaked you out.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“You look like Batman-”

“Go to sleep.”

From then on, you let him just watch as you slept, used to having eyes on you as you do. 

Occasionally, Dark Shadow creeps out in your dim bedroom and pets your hair gently, with constant warning from Tokoyami to be careful around you. 

As your relationship grew stronger, you would find him sitting closer and closer to you every night. 

(He scared the shit out of you one day when you awoke to find him crouched on your nightstand.)

Then, one night you stirred to him cuddling you in your sleep. You asked him what he was doing once again.

“I keep watch much better from this vantage point.”

You always ran a hand through his feathers while Dark Shadow’s presence slowly curled around you, and rarely found yourself falling asleep just as easy without him after a certain point. 

Tokoyami watches you like a hawk, and always keeps you on your pills if you take them. He’s a dutiful boyfriend, who never hesitates in making you feel comfortable and loved, day or night. 

Shigaraki Tomura: 

HAND MAN, HAND MAN

Let’s be honest here. We’re talking about a villain. We all know this mf kidnapped you. 

He fell for you first, of course, and was initially confused by your constant doctor companions. He just didn’t like how close they got to be around you, when he had to stay so far away.

He overheard your condition, and by then he had loved you too much to let you suffer, so he snatched up a doctor to take care of you in the villain’s lair as well. 

After a year of patiently waiting, he finally wore you down enough to have you love him. 

By then, he didn’t even have to request you stay in his line of sight at all times. You did so willingly. 

Whenever you wanted to go outside and go shopping or whatnot, he always held your hand to do so. With your doctor near of course.

He just couldn’t risk losing you, no matter how much you whined that you would be fine. 

He’s just as hesitant to cuddle or touch you, but still craves hugs from time to time. Nighttime snuggles are a rare occurrence.

When they do happen, he’s a bit bitter they can’t lead on farther thanks to the unwanted audience in the room.

He definitely lays his head on your chest to listen to your heartbeat.

“Still tickin’!”

In the end, Shigaraki embraces your condition with stride, and does everything in his power to make sure you’re safe and alive.... In his home…. And in his bed ;)

Dabi: 

When Dabi learns you have a heart condition, he becomes ten times more alert around you. 

If you stub your toe, he’s by your side in an instant, shouting about how you have to be careful.

If you bake a cake, he watches over your shoulder to make sure you don’t hurt yourself with any kitchen utensils used. You know, like a whisk.

“What if your finger gets caught and you panic and die on me?!”

Fight me on this, but blue fire boy’s attitude would flip a 180. 

Out of all these guys, he’s the one who’s gonna watch over you the most, acting like a self-taught doctor. 

You can’t do anything without his approval. 

One time he came home to you accidentally taking a nap on the couch. 

… *sigh*

Yeah. Dabi flipped his shit. 

“DON’T YOU DARE LEAVE MY SIGHT EVER AGAIN YN!”

“I was just-”

“NO!”

You’re the only love in his life, and he doesn’t know what he would do if he lost you. 

(Two words. Fire. Rampage.)

Just… be careful. Dabi is the last guy you want to piss off. Of course, he could never be truly mad at you, but you sure know how to push his buttons. 

He, um, he typed up a list of things you could do without his supervision. 

It’s two bullet points long.

1. Go to the bathroom.

2. That’s it.

Dabi can’t remember a time he was as attached to someone as he is to you, so when you throw your fits about wanting to do something on your own, he listens just about as well as a student in an online class. 

“Mhm, sure.”

He just doesn’t wanna lose you, so from now on, try to stay away from doing just about anything until he’s around to witness it. 

aSiDe FrOm gOiNg tO tHe bAtHrOoM oF cOuRsE

Okay so I just read your Yandere Zuko hc and I loved it!! ATLA was a massive part of my childhood, so I was wondering if I could request Yandere Sokka hc this time?? Thank you!

Yandere Sokka Headcanons

*GIF not mine*

A/N: (This lowkey got a lil 👀 near the end) Ughh yess I just love him??🥺 Thank you for the request bc he needs more recognition honestly. Hope you enjoy! (Also, thank y’all so much for 900 followers!!! akshfklsd)

Word count: 712

Truth be told, the way he fell for you was quite simple-- you laughed at his jokes.

Since then, he chased after you like a cat with a string (but we all know he’s relentless when it comes to something he wants.)

Everyone, including you, thought it was just innocent pining. You were all wrong.

It was so much more. 

You were part of the Gaang, and while traveling with them, he would always watch you with a goofy smile on his face.

Katara would try to make fun of him for it like “Ooooh look who’s got a crushhhhhh...”

“Yep.”

No shame, he’s fallen for you hard.

Then one day, he finally gets you. 

He saves you from almost getting scorched by a firebender, and in turn takes the burn himself. 

You kiss him afterward as a thank you, and that’s when you two become a couple. (Hey, where’d that firebender go...?)

All right, now to the definition of “headcanons.”

Hickeys. Everywhere. 

Every patch of skin your clothes leave bare are smothered in his love bites. 

“It’s the middle of June, YN, why are you wearing a scarf?”

Sokka hates confrontation unless absolutely necessary. Aka you’re covered in marks and he expects you to know who you belong to as much as everybody else.

This man will always give you 100% of himself. 

Like he will drop anything and everything for you. 

You want cuddles? Well fuck, guess there’s no dinner tonight. 

“Sokka, you were supposed to catch us some fish to eat!!”

“But my baby wanted cuddles!!” 

His baby.

He always tells you how beautiful you are. Every few minutes he jumps up in your face and shouts about how he’s so lucky to have you and that he loves you. 

He’s not ashamed of his feelings. Rather, he’s very proud he was able to catch get someone like you. He hugs you to his side everywhere you two go and smirks at people who stare

He’s not really one to hurt you. If anything, he’ll blame himself or everyone else. You’re a goddess in his eyes, worthy of being worshiped (only by him, of course.) Hell yeah he’ll get on his knees for you

Sokka is fiercely loyal to you. We’re talkin’ guard dog mode 24/7. As much as he’s learned that you can protect yourself, that doesn’t stop him from beating the absolute shit out of someone who’s tried to hurt you (or even looked at you).

(Body? What body?)

(The Planner™)

While traveling with the Gaang, Sokka will heavily convince you to sleep in his tent. 

Umm yeah. You’re the only one who can’t resist his puppy dog eyes💀

So anyways, every night he cuddles you to sleep (Sokka is big spoon always bc he is a MAN) in those tiny ass sleeping bags (zero proximity is key😌)

“Sokka?”

“Hmm?”

“Where the hell is my underwear?” 

As we all know, he aspires to be just like his father, so expect him to umm... want children from you. 

Call him daddy, I dare you.

Okay, here’s the deal. 

You weren’t quite ready to settle down after defeating the Fire Nation. You wanted to explore the world, visit new lands, meet different people!

Sokka was not okay with that. 

So naturally, you tried to break things off, but... oop.

I mean, technically it was your fault. 

Sokka is an excellent planner (see “guard dog” tings), prepared for every possible situation. Not even your rebellion blindsided him as much as you expected.

So he kidnapped you 🤷‍♀️

Come on, you really thought he was gonna let you go that easily?

Oh YN

You poor, sweet little thing.

Sokka loves you🥰

He would never let you go back out into the dangerous world all on your own! 

Don’t worry, you’ll always be safe in his room, in his own home, where nobody around can hear your silly little calls for help. 

(You are going to be an excellent mother to his children☺️)