Innocent Misunderstanding (Iwaizumi X Reader)

Dear Winter - AJR. Thats all i'm gonna give you. have funnnnnn

listened to the song, it was a bop. probably still in my liked songs on spotify, but i never rly came up w an idea for it. one day ill go thru a dilf stage like half the ppl on this hellsite, then i shall revisit this song for inspo

ajr is a great band but hot damn i miss their spongebob song whatever happend to that phase

Stoooop ushijima in the coming home post killed me 😭😭 I love big stoic guys who are actually teddy bears sndndnddn every one of the guys was cute but his part was my favourite 🥺

Aidnksncksksk yessss I love big scary guys being soft boys too🥰🥰 especially when it’s just for that one person they love😍 I’m glad you liked the post!!

YN: DICK!

Dick Grayson: What do you want?!

YN: I JUST TOLD YOU!

Henlo 🥺👉🏼👈🏼. I really love your writing, and I was hoping that I could request a hinata soulmate!au. I really loved the other ones. Thank you so much!

Tug of War (Hinata x Reader/Soulmate!au)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: You had a nervous habit, and to your soulmate, it was a bit cruel. From time to time, you would occasionally tug on your red string of fate. You never really saw the effects… at least, not until now. “Hinata, are you okay?!”

A/N: Haha, had this one planned out for months but never had the energy to do it. Thanks for giving me that extra push, anon! It’s a little short, but I hope you like it!

Word count: 1614

        The sound of balls whamming into the ground split through your eardrums. 

        Wham!

        “Nice kill!”

        Heavy breathing accompanied the noise, along with the heavy stench of sweat as you wormed your way to the front of the crowd. From the second-level balcony, you had a full view of the court, the benches, and most importantly, the greatest decoy. 

        Though his height was nothing to call home about, something had always drawn you to the little ginger bouncing on the tips of his toes right now. Maybe it was the way he faced every challenge head on, or maybe it was the way he would smile after bounding onto the volleyball court. You weren’t quite sure, and that’s exactly what had you fiddling with the ruby string around your dominant pinkie. 

        “It’s up!”

        It was Karasuno’s first home game. On the other half of the court was a teal and white team, Seijoh-- or… maybe it was Aoba Johsai. You never really knew. 

        All that was for sure was that the group of five or so girls beside you were all cheering for “Oikawa” with squeals like a local pig farm. When you followed their gazes, you weren’t really impressed. Sure, he was handsome, but you guessed redheads had always been more your type. 

        “Nice one, Hinata!” At the name, you leaned over the metal railing and peered down on the court, more attentive now than ever. He had just been switched out, replaced with an even shorter male, which… you weren’t really sure how that was possible. 

        While watching from the player’s box, Hinata drank from a water bottle with haste. You had never been more jealous of plastic in your life. 

        Soon, the whistles blew, and he was switched back into the game. Brown eyes glimmering, he shifted into the front row spot near a taller first year with dark hair. 

        “Watch out for that blocker, dumbass.” 

        “Why do you always call me that?!”

        Their yells didn’t exactly reach that far up into the stands, but thanks to the general air around the two, you figured your lip-reading had been more than accurate. 

        A small smile had settled onto your face as the game moved on, and not once had your fingers stopped twisting and twirling the string. Somehow, the energy of the game had seeped right into your own being, and soon you were biting your lip in anticipation. 

        “Bring it to me!”

        Hinata ran around the setter and jumped, and just when he reared back to spike--

        Tug.

         His body flailed and flew through the air like a fish out of water. The cringe from every person in the room was almost audible as soon as he crashed to the ground, the plastic numbers on the back of his jersey squealing in protest. 

        When he finally stopped sliding, he flinched right as the ball that had been set for him bonked his forehead before dribbling away. 

        For a moment, the entire gym was silent. Some’s mouths were gaped with awe, others had brows raised in concern. Luckily, not a single person saw you, watching your pinkie as though it had whispered the secrets of the universe. 

        “AGAIN?!” Hinata shouted to himself, breaking the silence and wriggling around on his back in frustration. “She’s gotta stop doing that!”

        Oops.

        “Hinata, are you okay?!” His teammates crowd around the fallen spiker in a huddle, concerned looks being served left and right. 

        In mere seconds, your face had shifted from ghostly white to rosy red, and it took you even less time to book it out of there. 

        Bad habit, bad habit!

                                ###

        All throughout your life, you had waited to meet your soulmate. Was he tall? Short? Kind? Mean? What if he didn’t even speak the same language?

        Each day, these questions plagued your mind, and somewhere along the way, your habit had grown. A little twist of the string, a small caress of the soft fabric wrapped around your pinkie, and the occasional tug when you got a little too anxious. Evidently, it was just waiting to come bite you in the ass. 

        Hinata was ruthless now. He’d been yanked out of his chair mid-class, toppled over in the middle of the street or hall, and even missed the bowl once or twice while just trying to relieve himself. All of that, he could handle. 

        Though, apparently last night had been the last straw. What felt like every minute, the string on your hand would jerk you around so forcefully you almost flew right out the classroom window you sat beside. 

        Only once in a while would you let it be obvious enough that the teacher had to ask if you were okay. Your notebook was now covered in hasty chicken scratch, eager to get in a line of notes before the next wrench of the string. Random lines of led littered the page from when he had caught you a moment too soon, but you were trying to adapt. There was a moment in between each jerk, and in those moments, you had true freedom. 

        “In nineteen-thirtysev-... ugh, nineteen-thirtysev- son of a bitch! In nineteen-thirty-- you know what, fuck it. I give up,” you grumbled under your breath, slamming your notebook closed amongst the now-constant tugs of your pinkie. There was really no point in trying now; Hinata had traded in his previous pattern of tug-wait-wait-tug for tug-tug-tug. 

        You didn’t even bother bringing your hand back up to your desk, instead deciding to let it flail around and dangle over the edge of the wooden surface. 

        Sighs of relief fill the classroom as soon as the bell rings, and you snag your backpack off the floor in the nick of time. One large rip of the string has you scrambling out into the hallway, crashing into a locker and trying to stabilize your footing. 

        “Woah, watch it!”

        “Yeah, yeah, sorry.” The student seems to either have a stick up his ass no different than a popsicle or maybe the wave of your nonchalant hand didn’t account for much of an apology. Either way, you didn’t get to stick around for long, because soon your soulmate’s pulling is practically dragging you down the hall, bouncing off the occasional student like bumper cars. 

        “I swear, Kageyama, she’ll be here. Just hold on for a second.” 

        Over the hoards of students stampeding in the opposite direction of you, you hear his voice. While you expected a vengeful snicker, you were pleasantly surprised with a giddy smile. 

        Through the bodies moving slower than midday traffic, you saw Hinata, orange hair bobbing up and down in a school window’s gleam. 

        Bob and weave. Bob and weave.

        When you surface is when you see it. Your soulmate’s not simply pulling you toward him in a conventional way. No, rather, he’s reeling the string around his other hand like he caught a fish.

        “YN?” His movements halt and in true ragdoll fashion, you do as well. 

        “Sup.”

        Hinata, the guy you had been crushing on for your entire first year of high school, was your soulmate. Last night, you could barely go to sleep with all your excitement bubbling through your veins. Your smile had been as large as the moon itself as you wiggled around on your bed, kicking your feet whenever the pent up energy came to be too much. 

        Now? That was a different story. 

        No less had it been a small wave of giddiness, but it was more a wave of pure elation. Endorphins swam around your bloodstream enough to make your head fuzzy, but making eye contact with him hadn’t been the only cause. 

        No, because in seconds, Hinata had covered the distance between you two and tackled you like an ecstatic puppy. You were high on the rush of first touch, high on the rush of finally having him hold you in his arms. 

        “I finally found you,” his voice is muffled by your shoulder and he’s got your school jacket bawled up in two fists. There’s a smile; you can almost feel him trembling against you in euphoria, but he’s not alone. 

        Every nerve ending is set on fire when your arms wrap around him too. Unable to hold back your happiness, you release a small giggle that has him pressing you impossibly closer. 

        “Yeah, you found me.”

        With that, he leans back, lips pursed in uncertainty. 

        “Umm, so do you wanna… like, erm, come watch me practice? I promise I’ll take you out after!”

        Seeing just how nervous he could be almost made you relax on instinct. An easy smile works its way onto your face. “Yeah,” you nod, body still abuzz with the tingles of his touch, “yeah, that sounds good.”

        “Great!” 

        Before you know it, Hinata’s encompassed your hand in his own warm one, leading you all the way out the school and to the second gym with a bored Kageyama on your tail. 

        “You gotta promise me one thing, though, before we go in there, YN.”

        “Sure, what’s up?”

        “Swear you won’t tug on the red string, okay? You have a terrible habit, and it always messes me up when I play!”

can i request the torn of rose akaashi part 3 when he regret everything he does to reader but it's to late pleaseeee

part 3 when i aint even got a part 2 😮‍💨 bro u gon' make me work aint u

jk jk and i mean its a good idea loving the angsty regret from his end but i kinda liked where it ended before. i feel like bois who cheat like akaashi did don't deserve any five minutes of spotlight for pity like my guy moved on while he was still in a relationship so i was never quite sure how to draw him back in to the reader and make him interested again. and once again angst is always troubling to write for me

THAT FUCKING PLOT TWIST. COP DAICHI IS ALSO YOU'RE YANDERE?! WELL SSHIIIITTTTTT THEM HANDCUFFS ARE ABOUT TO BE PUT TO USEEEEEEEEEEEE

RIGHT?? LIKE GODDAMN🥵 there needs to be more yandere of those two w one darling istg

Side note: don’t be surprised if you catch me thirstin’ on daichi/suga x readers bro. Those two plus yn = the unholy trilogy of fuck me up, daddy

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

Eeee I was so excited to see you pop up on my dash again!!! Welcome back, I hope you’ve been well!

Aaaaaaa it's nice to be back ur so sweet for this message tyyyyy

i hope ur well too anon, even tho this message is like 2 yrs old probably, i hope ur doing great!

Betrayal (Garou x Reader) *Request*

*GIF not mine*

Request: Uh hi I don't know if I had already asked this but I was wondering if you could do Garou with a s/o who is Bang's granddaughter who knows the same level of martial arts that Bang does.

Summary: You were interested in Garou ever since he stepped foot into your grandfather’s dojo. But after he attacks the others and gets expelled, you have to try and forget every emotion that’s ever festered for him over the years.

A/N: Sorry, I went a little overboard. But I loved this idea so much, and thank you for the request! Dear God, I hope and pray this one posts. (Edit: GUH I dont know how to post thisssss) Anyways, hope you like it!

Word count: 3145

       You’ve watched him for years, and over that time you had grown to admire him. Grown to admire his ambition for power.

                             ***

      “Teach me how to fight!” the white-haired boy demanded. He was roughly your age, maybe a year older, but as you watched from behind the sliding door of your grandfather’s dojo, you couldn’t help but gasp at his words. Bang, however, only smiled.

      “Okay, you can train alongside my granddaughter in the back during classes. She can teach you many things, and help you when necessary.” You preened at his praise and stepped into view, only to flinch at the snarl the new boy threw you. Well he’s mean.

      The next day, whenever you commented on his amateur form, Garou would sneer at you and deny your words. After Bang had backed up your claims several times following this, however, the boy began to lower his walls, only slightly, but enough to trust you.

      Months after that, the two of you became great friends, and harbored elementary crushes on one another like most at that age would.

      “Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!” you both shouted, Garou squealing after you smack him on the head viciously.

      “That hurt, YN!” You giggle.

      “It’s supposed to!” He glares at you playfully before attempting to tackle you, only for you to kick him back harshly into the dojo walls mid-laugh. The crash causes everyone in the room to freeze and watch Garou wiggle himself out of the indent it had created.

      “YN!” Bang’s shout causes you to jump up and stand at attention. “What have I always taught you.”

      “Restrain and control are necessary for peace,” you recite like a prayer, keeping your eyes low in an attempt to ignore your grandfather’s disciplinary gaze.

      “Good, now go help Garou wash up. And apologize.” You nod hastily and grab your friend’s hand, leading him out of the room.

      “I’m not sorry, you know,” you smirk at him with mischievous eyes. The boy copies your expression with willing ease and chuckles.

      “Are you ever?” he asks, and you proudly shake your head in response. “Oh, YN, what would your grandpa think if he knew?”

      “Don’t be a snitch, Garou,” you scold, leading him into the bathroom and gesturing for him to give you his uniform to wash.

      “I would never betray you, YN. But seriously, you gotta teach me that kick one day, it’s super powerful!” He trembles with excitement while shimmying off his karategi and handing it to you.

      “I-I don’t know. My grandfather has been teaching me since birth, I wouldn’t know where to begin with you.”

      “Ugh,” Garou huffs irritably, “that old man has never been willing to show me anything more than the others. How do I-...” he trails off while staring at you, obviously plotting something.

      “I don’t like it when you think, Garou, it usually ends badly.” His lips slowly curl up into a sly grin.

      “YN,” he drags out your name with a pleading expression, “could you be the best girl in the world and ask your grandfather to help me get stronger?” You raise your brows at him and cross your arms.

      “Garou, you know we practice restraint here. It’s all about using our opponent’s strength against them, not always using our own.” His Adam's apple bobs before he nods his head frantically.

      “Yeah, that’s what I meant. I want to learn to get better at… you know, that stuff.” He was your best friend in the dojo, and you always had a soft spot for him. You suppose it wouldn’t hurt to ask Grandpa Bang to help him. Plus, his puppy dog eyes were killer.

      “Ugh, fine!” You wave your arms at him before dropping them at your side, giving in. “I’ll do it-”

      “Thanks YN, you’re the best!” Garou engulfs you in his arms and squeezes you tightly, choking the air right out of you. But he was so warm, and you couldn’t remember the last time someone had hugged you. So you didn’t resist his grip.

      “I am the best,” you grumble, and Garou laughs before holding you tighter.

                              ***

      Unconscious bodies of people you had known since you were a baby were scattered all over the dojo floor. Your friends. As you returned to the training room of the building, you gasped at the sight of them all, and whimpered at the figure standing in the center of it all.

      “You’re all so weak,” Garou kicked the body next to him away before observing the rest. “To think I ever had to train at the same level as you numbskulls.” He sneered cruelly at every single one of them, not minding to step on a few hands on his way to the exit.

      “I’ll never get stronger here, learning restraint and all that other bullshit.” He whipped open the doors before stopping at a small voice.

      “Garou,” you whispered, tears streaming down your face. At some point in the ten years that you had known him, he had changed drastically. He had grown mad with a hunger for power, and every spar session he had with the others became serious and bloody. It seems today he had finally snapped.

      “What have you done?” Your vision blurs as your cheeks dampen. Your whole body is trembling, not only with fear but with utter, complete betrayal.

      Garou doesn’t say a word. The lines on his forehead deepen and his eyes sadden, looking away to avoid your wounded gaze. In an instant, his form disappears out the door, and at the same time a presence arrives behind you.

      “He became corrupt,” your grandfather solemnly states behind you, setting a comforting hand on your shoulder. “He grew obsessed with gaining power, and now he is expelled from this dojo forever.” You blink rapidly to dry the wetness of your eyes, but your cheeks are still stained. How could he? You scrunch up your nose to hold back another flow of tears. Why did he have to do this? Your efforts fail.

      “I’m sorry, YN.” Bang has always been a strict grandfather. Never showing physical affection, always done through praise of your abilities and gentle smiles. So when he pulls you into a once-in-a-lifetime hug, you can’t help but break down into convulsing sobs in his arms.

      Why wasn’t I enough to stop him?

                              ***

      Power had always come easy to you. It flowed through your blood, literally. Your grandfather’s genes had influenced you to become a strong, capable person. But you didn’t care to nurture that power after what Garou had done. From that day forward, you took one section of Bang’s guidance and transformed it into a future job prospect. You wanted to be a teacher, but not in the dojo.

      However, you were still only in high school, so you held onto that dream and began a job as a babysitter.

      “Tareo!” You searched high and low for the child. Every inch of that playground had been scoured by you.

      Where is that little bastar- I mean, wonderful little biscuit.

      Using rude names in reference to others was a hard habit to break, but necessary for how often you found yourself around children. You had gotten it in your time around him, always hating on others and being distrustful of them. In the time that Garou had left your life, you realized how much of an effect he had on you in your younger years. He had been, after all, your only friend.

      “Tareo, where are you?!” you shouted, checking under the slide for the third time. You groan aloud when you come up empty, receiving weird stares from the rest of the park’s patrons.

      “I’m not a bad babysitter, I swear,” you laugh nervously to the crowd of parents and kids, “the boy is just a little rat-” you cough awkwardly, “I mean, fun child.” Smiling sarcastically, you walk past the families who jump out of your path dramatically and try not to flip them off.

      Maybe he was right. Humans are soft. Bunch of sissies can’t even agree out loud that kids are a pain in the-

      “...and this one shoots bullets using a slingshot!” Tareo! You finally found him!

      “Mmhm, interesting. Can I see the book?” A random man hanging around the child you’re supposed to be surveilling! Fucking wonderful!

      “Tareo!” you push through the bushes and try to ignore the fact that there was a sidewalk five feet away, dusting off the leaves your sweater had collected. “Where have you been, kid? I’ve been looking all over… for… you.” Your semi-pleased tone dies off when you notice the man next to him. Your whole body tenses, rearing for a fight while you clench your jaw angrily.

      “Aww, and we just got to the good part too!” He spoke, smiling pleasantly at you. On the other hand, his eyes held an emotion you didn’t care to identify in the moment. You were trembling under his gaze, not with terror, but with rage.

      “Tareo, we have to go right now,” you seethed, curling your hands into fists while you stood frozen in place.

      “Or you could join us, YN,” Garou suggested, relaxing a strong arm along the bench behind the child.

      “Tareo, now!” you ordered, practically erupting with fury. The kid only sighed.

      “Sorry, old man, I gotta go. See you next time!” Tareo cheered, hopping off the public seat and stepping in your direction.

      “Bye bye, twerp.” Garou smugly waved and you sneered at him, snatching Tareo’s hand and dragging him away. “Good to see you again, YN!” he called after you. This time, you didn’t hesitate to show him the bird, much to the horror of the parents around you. Gasps mingled with Garou’s chuckle in the distance, and you tried not to revel in the nostalgic sound.

                              ***

      Grocery store sales attracted you and your grandfather like a fly to a piece of crap. Sadly, Bang had to stay behind today to teach a class, but said you were free to go without him. Occasionally, you would help him train the younger students at the dojo, but you tried to avoid doing it for too long, not wanting to remember a damn thing about him.

      “Ooh, Genos look! Eggs are on sale for cheap!” You tried not to stare at the bald man and his cybernetic friend beside you while you grabbed your own carton and tossed it into your basket.

      “Excellent find, master.” Master? “Eggs also promote healthy hair growth.” Oof.

      “I didn’t say it was for my hair!” You snickered all the way to the checkout line, hoping the bald one hadn’t heard you. You were dreaming big, because when you had first heard the robotic blond’s comment, you had choked on your own spit.

      “Twenty-seven, thirty-five is your total.” The cashier smiled good-naturedly at you, but her empty eyes whispered “kill me.” Giving her an awkward, apologetic smile, you held up the cash, only for a hand to reach in front of your own and hand her a fifty.

      “I got it,” a deep voice sounded beside you. Son of a bitch! You glared over at Garou and gave him the most disdainful sneer you could manage. “And just my strawberry yogurt too.”

      He followed you out of the store, ignoring every dirty look you threw at him.

      “Not even gonna thank me for paying? Where have your manners gone, YN?” He shook his head and pursed his lips. All right, you could play along.

      “I thought you hated strawberry yogurt,” you monotonously say, itching to sucker-punch Garou every passing second.

      “Well, I did, but recently, it’s been uh… growing on me.” He gave you a sweet smile that almost stopped you in your tracks. Faltering, you return to your earlier pace and spot a dark alley up ahead. The sun was beginning to go down, so now was as good a time as ever.

      “Cool. I like it too.” You speak distractedly, waiting for the perfect moment.

      Garou sighs deeply. “I know, that’s why I started-” Now!

      Nobody was anywhere in the nearby vicinity, so you swiftly upper-cut Garou with enough force to knock him into the dead-end alley. Tossing your broken bag of groceries aside, you clash with him just as he returns to his feet, blocking your punch in the nick of time.

      “You son of a bitch!” you scream, delivering rapid kicks and punches wherever you can find an opening. “You evil bastard!” Blue mist begins to trail after every blow you deliver, and this encourages you to go faster.

      “YN-” he blocks a rather sudden jab to his face, only to receive a kick in the no-no square. He keels over and groans painfully. “Fuck,” he mutters breathlessly.

      You step back and gather enough momentum to deliver another roundhouse kick directly to the side of his head, watching as he goes flying into the brick wall of the side-alley.

      “Rot in hell, you dickhead!” Your voice cracks and your eyes water. You hadn’t realized you were crying the whole time until you felt your soaked, puffy cheeks.

      Garou, on the other hand, is twitching on the ground, fists digging into the asphalt to find enough support to rise once more, only to flop back on the ground like a dead fish.

      “I certainly don’t miss that move,” the white-haired male chuckles, turning his head to spit out a loogie of blood. He lets out a loud groan before rolling onto his back, breathing heavily and letting out a small laugh every few seconds.

      “Why did you do it?” you whisper, head ducked and staring at your shoes, “Why did you attack them?” Your words are shaky and unstable, much like your emotions in this instant.

      “I never wanted to hurt you, YN.” He lifts his head to observe you before dropping it back down once more, losing energy instantly.

      “Then why did you do it?!” you roar, eyes wide and watching him with pure, uncontrollable rage.

      “Because,” he laughs bitterly, spitting out more blood before making eye-contact with you. His pupils are dilated wildly, almost completely blocking out the beautiful yellow that was once there. “You had it. Bang had it. His old brother, that bastard had it too.” He comes up to his elbows, leaning on one to run a bloody hand through his hair. “The power.”

      “What are you talking about?” you beg, knees beginning to grow weak. God, you were worn out, not only from the fight but also from the conversation, both wreaking havoc on your emotional stamina.

      “Water Stream, Rock Smashing Fist,” he wheezes out through crushed teeth. “You can take anybody’s power and use it against them.”

      “Garou,” your voice trembles again, “you already have that. Why do you want more? What else is there?”

      “You don’t know your own limits, YN! I don’t know mine either. Because we don’t have any.” You scoff brokenly, shaking your head and backing away.

      “Garou,” you swallow around the lump in your throat, “your search is only gonna bite you in the ass one day.” With a bitter smile, you back away and leave the alley, not wanting to look at his bruised face for another second.

                              ***

      Only a month had passed since you had beaten the shit out of him, and a lot had changed in that time. Garou had tracked you down to your own house, begging, pleading for something you don’t even remember. Maybe he wanted forgiveness, or comfort, or help and healing.

      That night, you provided it all. And he hasn’t left your side since.

      “YN! You’re home!” you smile at the white-haired man jumping up from your couch and rushing to greet you with a warm hug.

      “Yep, and you’re still here. What a shame.” You jab at him playfully and he sticks his tongue out at you before licking the side of your cheek with it. The reaction is instant.

      “Gross, dude!” you push away his face and scrub your own frantically, “What are you, a dog?”

      “I followed you around like a lovesick puppy for most of my childhood, what did you expect?” He nuzzles his nose against yours, pulling you closer via your hips and brushing a strand of hair away from your face. Every touch he provides leaves a tingle you find pleasure in easily.

      “True,” you mumble, staring deeply into his eyes while he walks backwards, still holding you. You yelp as he falls back onto your couch, taking you with him. Giggling against his chest, you try to scramble out of his grip, but he squeezes the breath out of you to prevent an escape.

      “Don’t leave yet,” he whispers against your neck, “I want to cuddle you. I’ve missed you.” You sigh happily at the feeling and relax in his hold, slipping your legs around his own to straddle him before resting your head on his warm chest.

      “I was only gone for two days you know.”

      “I’ve been missing you for much longer than that.” You rest your chin on his chest and stare up at him while he looks down at you. Your arms reach up and into his hair, combing through the white strands gently while his eyes flutter closed.

      “I know,” you whisper. Your heart pains at the thought of losing him again, even after all the terrible things he has done. The truth was, however, that deep down he was still the boy who came into your grandfather’s dojo asking for revenge. He was still the boy who fell for you, and you were still the young girl who loved him at first sight. Even though he was kind of an asshole. “I missed you too,” you whisper hesitantly. Garou smiles with his eyes still closed, and he reaches down to brush his lips against your forehead tenderly. The soft caresses of his fingers up and down along your back contrast wonderfully with the firm muscles you’re lying on and running your hands over. Every divet of his begs to be memorized by you, so you listen in the silence of the room. One of Garou’s glowing, yellow eyes pop open, this time dilated from love rather than pain.

      “You’re not gonna become one of those annoying heroes, are you?” You laugh whole-heartedly and turn your ear down onto his chest, listening to the quick thumps of his heart.

      “I just might if I get to kick your ass again.”

Garou General Relationship Headcanons (Partly NSFW) *Request*

*GIF not mine*

A/N: Yep, I’m just gonna combine these two requests bc they’re basically the same thing. As you can see, the nsfw part is labeled, so for those of you who are okay with my cussing but not with my dirty cussing, ur welcome. Anyways, hope you enjoy!

Word count: 1459

SFW:

I gotta be honest. Initially, I think Garou would see your relationship as a waste of his time. He could be training or fighting people or… y’know, fighting people. 

But then you hug him for the first time and he’s just like *surprised pikachu face*

The cuddles with this man. Really, it’s not hard to see that he’s a little starved of love and other intimacies, so you best believe you're making up for that slack. 

Spooning in bed is a must, and as much as I hate to say it, you’re always the little spoon😔. Yes, yes, I know you’re thirsting over his beautiful back, but this guy’s paranoid, and he likes to feel like the man in the relationship. Under no circumstances are you ever holding him from behind. Not even when you try to sneak up on him. 

Rip you. Guess who has to wash the blood out of his hair. Sorry not sorry. 

“How tf did you get blood in your eye??”

“Just get it out!” 

Moving on, just consider this one for a sec:

The hickeys with this dude. Have you seen his teeth??

They look more like bite marks than anything, but Garou just loves to show that you're his.

People called him Wolf Man for a reason, amirite

N E ways, you’re more become his personal nurse than his girlfriend. The goddamn blood he tracks into your house has you almost pulling your hair out, but before you can give him a good talking to, he usually crashes on your couch. 

It’s covered in a plastic liner for just this occasion.

After years of healing himself, he much prefers your gentle touch to his often shaky one. You wrap his wounds with disappointing looks 24/7, but God it just reminds him that someone finally cares about him. 

“I really wish you wouldn’t do this, Garou. I don’t want you to not come home one of these days.” Not over, but “home.” He almost spontaneously combusts after you imply that you live in the same house. 

Speaking of, he doesn’t really ask to move in, you just find a shrine of hero pictures in your spare room one day, some covered in red Xs and others left bare. Then you see him, conked out on the mattress that doesn’t even have sheets. You try to crawl in and hug his back, but this guy’s always attentive. The second the bed shifts, he rolls over and tugs you down against him. 

“Don’t move, I’m tired.” 

“LET ME SPOON YOU, YOU BEEFY BASTARD!”

“Shhh.”

Size doesn’t matter with this one. Garou’s got muscles for days, so he’s gonna haul you around whenever he can. You can be literally in the process of making dinner and he’ll just swoop you up into his arms, bridal style or your thighs wrapped around his hips, and he’ll just swing you around. Fite me, but he loves holding you. 

Everybody, say it with me now: Touch Starved.

Only five months into the relationship does he mention kids. I mean, you’ve stuck around this long, surely you’re in for the long haul, right?

He wants kids, simple as that. You figure you wouldn’t mind a couple baby Garous runnin’ around, and that’s all he needs to hear before he jumps you.

SORRY, SORRY, SORRY, one more thing, I swear.

Garou is the definition of 🤩 Ass Man 🤩

Your ass? Smacked. Hotel? Trivago.

Whether he’s in a mood to just follow you around the house, or he’s on his way out to kick some heroic booty, you best believe he’s got one hand on your cheeks. 

Cup ‘em, spank ‘em, stick ‘em in-- wait, wrong meme.

Nah but seriously, Garou just likes holding your butt, and after you’ve gotten over scolding him and turning into a tomato about it, it’s actually kinda nice. 

Legit, have you seen those hands? B r u h, they’re big bois. 

I’m going to hell for this, so just know that this man smacks your ass instead of saying hello. 

Hope you keep soothing lotion on hand🤷‍♀️

NSFW:

Excuse me, hello sub? You’ve found your dom. 

This guy is fucking… mwah *chefs kiss*

Though he doesn’t have much experience, we all know he learns quickly. 

Using those 🥵 fingers of his (hand kink anyone?), he’ll figure out what exactly makes you fall apart before his eyes. 

I mean damn, could you imagine his gaze watching you? Fuck, those golden eyes swallowing up your fucked out face as he grins that wolfish grin of his. 

Smug Bastard™

LISTEN LINDA!!

👏spank-👏ings. 

Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk. 

Like I said, he just wants to see that ass jiggle. God forbid you ever try to get your own smack on him tho. 

“Are you trying to test me, Angel?”

Tbh, I don’t think he wants to choke you. Yeah sure, if you want him to, he will, but like… he’s pretty young. Of course he knows his own strength and when to stop but… idk, I feel like that’s just too far, even for him. He doesn’t want to get too into it and, ya know… bye bye YN. 

You’re not on top. Nope, not happening. Not even once, sweetheart.

Well, maybe once. 

“You know what? Pretty sure I don’t like this. Untie me please before I break these bed posts.”

“I didn’t even do anything yet!”

Lemme just bring your attention back to the wonderful provider that is Garou. 

His teeth: sharp. His tongue: long. His fingers: Good lordy, how many times am I gonna talk about ‘em. 

He’ll hold you down and eat you out anywhere you want him. At a restaurant? Oof, hold up, give him a sec to just slip under the table, and if the waitress asks, he’s in the bathroom. 

The marks between your thighs, whether from his fingernails for holding you in place or his teeth for biting your irresistible skin, keep you from wearing shorts for quite a while. 

Seriously, I’m never gonna stop saying this, but Garou is like the guy for biting and marking you up. There’s just an animalistic side that you draw out of him whenever you cry out his name.

All right, so you help him discover this one, but thigh riding. 

This one. This. One.

Fuck, this guy’s so pretty. Tiny waist, but he got them thicc thighs, u know?

Anyways, lemme just paint you a lil picture of how he figured out he liked this. 

We all know Garou’s a lil closed off, so he’s not really one to try anything unless you’re the one to bring it up. 

Back to it, you guys were just making out on your couch. At some point, you had straddled his lap and hot damn, now we’re gettin’ somewhere.

Before he even realizes, you’ve slithered one of your legs between his and plopped down on top of his thigh. It was the perfect size, you were needy, and oh fuck, when he subconsciously flexes it bc he’s so anxious to kiss you? Ughhhh

Then he hears your moans and the hands he’s got gripping your hips with the intent to leave bruises feels you moving back and forth and he’s like “oh, well hello.”

“Ugh, fuck YN, you like this? Holy shit, Angel.”

Garou starts to help you move back and forth and before you know it, you’re releasing on his thigh. Rip those gray sweatpants, they will be missed. Damn, I mean the fabric is just soaked and-- oop, when did this ride get so slippery?

Your shuddering underneath his rough hands, but if you thought it was over, you’re severely mistaken. He loves the idea that he can get you off so effortlessly, so don’t think for once that you’re in control. *Overstimulation has entered the chat*

“Nuh-uh, Angel. One more time, I know you can do it. You wanted to cum so bad, now you get to. Keep moving.”

Fairly certain I’ve preached this one before, but… breeding kink???

Yeah, he definitely wants to fill you full of his… kids.

Hmm, not sure if he’s a huge fan of being called daddy, but if you like it, he likes it too so whatever🤷‍♀️

Aight, aight, last kink y’all, cuz this is gettin’ too long. Here’s the ultimate reveal.

You really wanna know what gets Garou off the most? 

H*nd H*lding🥵