Reborn (Bokuto/Akaashi X Reader) ~Chapter 1~

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

Deadass dude😌 U already know Rooster Head is like

hiii can i get a scenario of class 1a having to do some body guard duty for some rich families wedding, and bakugous crush not being able to go due to family reasons. when they arrived they found out it was actually the readers family, how would bakugou and the rest react thanks hehe

Dance With Me Tonight (Bakugou x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: Bakugou is pissed after he’s assigned to be a bodyguard along with the rest of the class for one of the richest families in Japan. He didn’t even want to go since you, his crush, weren’t gonna be there! But wait… surely that’s not you on the dance floor with another guy? 

A/N: Oof, sorry this one took so long! I’m actually feeling good about it, but only time will tell. Anyways, thank you so much for this awesome request and I hope you like it! (Side note: I’m just gonna leave this here in case anyone wants to listen to it while reading👀)

Word count: 2706

        This was ridiculous.

        The rented black and white tuxedo was itchy in unsavory places, the extravagant ballroom smelled highly of old lady perfume, and there were so many rich bastards. 

        Bakugou wasn’t even sure why he came. Though his class had been requested to guard the wedding and its reception, there was really no point. 

        You weren’t there. When Aizawa had broken the news that Class 1A was requested to guard one of the richest families in Japan, you were the only person with a legitimate excuse to schmooze your way out of the job. 

        “I can’t go, family’s got stuff tonight.” 

        Bakugou gritted his teeth at the thought. The room was dimly lit, the only source coming from the chandeliers hanging above as a band played slow songs at the front of the room. Couples wrapped each other up in their arms and rocked leisurely to the deep crooning of the main singer, and it was no surprise that the newlyweds were in the center of it all. 

        Envy swelled up in his throat. Everyone had someone tonight. Even the green midget had the annoying pink girl, both scouting the room while giggling and chatting. 

        Why did I even fucking come?

        “-Bakugou… Bakugou!” Kirishima waved his hand in front of the blond’s face, waiting for some kind of reaction. Finally, the latter shook himself into reality, glancing away from the murmuring crowd. 

        “What?”

        “Are you okay? You’ve been zoned out for like twenty minutes…” 

        Bakugou rolls his eyes and pushes past the redhead, once more in search of that abandoned balcony he had spotted earlier. “I just don’t know why we even had to be here. No villain’s gonna attack a crowd of superpowered rich fucks.” 

        He allows his gaze to wander the room as he strides, searching for something to do to fend off the oncoming boredom. 

        “Oh come on, Bakugou, wouldn’t that be the perfect time to test your skills? Nobody said you had to wait for the rich people to fight the villains.”

        “Yeah yeah,” he grumbles, crimson orbs still scouring the party.

        “Plus, it’s their wedding day. They don’t want to tear their nice dresses and suits. Think smart here, my friend.” 

        “Whatever.” 

        “GUYS GUYS!” A squeaky voice Bakugou can only connect to that of the perverted blond who always trails behind him around school reaches the boys’ ears. Two hands grab one of each’s shoulders as Kaminari slips between the pair, obviously eager to share some gossip. “Guess who I just saw all dolled up right here?” 

        The electric boy doesn’t even have enough time for a grand reveal; Bakugou’s ears have already perked for other dramatic whispers. 

        “Hold on, guys, is that YN?” 

        “No way, she said she was gonna be busy toni- holy shit it is!”

        At this point, the tense blond isn’t even trying to hide his eavesdropping. Shrugging the hand off his shoulder, Bakugou sticks close to the wall as he stomps over to the chattering pair, who just so happen to be Mina and Toru. Both stick out like sore thumbs in glittering, hot pink dresses among collections of no-doubt expensive pastel chiffon. 

        “Where?” he barks, leaving the girls to squeal at the sudden intrusion. Mina is the first to recover, and as she turns to him a smug glint flashes through her eyes. With a nod of her head, she gestures to the crowd. 

        “Down there in the red dress.” His gaze travels in said direction. “She’s dancing with a boy.” 

        The word leaves Bakugou’s mind in scrambles. You were here, but you were also with another guy. His chest tightens at the fact and when he finally catches sight of you, a breath is caught in his throat. 

        Maroon silk hugs tightly to your every curve, outlining your admirable figure. A sweetheart neckline adorns your chest, lined with black gems that glitter every time they catch the light above. There’s a mischievous slit trailing up your leg that stops just above mid-thigh, revealing smooth skin that seems to go on forever thanks to the black stilettos on your feet. Every edge and line is stitched the same color among the tight dress, showing more and more contrasting patterns of black and red as you sway in the boy’s arms. 

        Bakugou’s sneer transforms into an all out snarl at the minimal proximity between the two of you, completely ignorant of the uncomfortable smile on your face. Your garnet-colored lips pull back forcibly, letting out a nervous lap with every word the other man whispers to you. Face framed perfectly by your curled locks, the blond can’t ignore just how hot you look right now. 

        He also can’t ignore how much he needs that guy to stop touching you. Before he can even register it, his dark shoes are slapping against the marble floor, making quick work of the distance between himself and you two. 

        In seconds, he’s silently fuming next to you both, awkwardly staring the boy down who’s shivering in his my-maid-ironed-these slacks. 

        “Move it, extra,” Bakugou hisses, vermillion eyes burning into his enemy’s skull. That’s all it really takes, as the boy rips away from you and disappears into the crowd of swaying couples around, the only evidence of his existence being the slow-to-fade tension in your shoulders. 

        “Katsuki!” you reluctantly purse your lips, disapproving but also secretly thankful. No words can fall from your lips after that, all of them stolen away at the sudden feeling of his bruising grip on your hips. Instinctively, your hands reach up to wrap around his neck, assuming the appropriate dance position considering your location in the room. 

        “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be here?” He really hadn’t wanted to come, at least not after he heard you weren’t going to make an appearance. Some part of him feels betrayed that he had almost missed seeing you like this. 

        The room feels like it’s closing in on you. Of course you had your reasons for not wanting to admit that you were born into this crowd, but being surrounded by them is getting to you. “Can we talk about this somewhere else?” 

        Bakugou bites back the refusal on his tongue when he sees your anxious gaze, observing as it constantly flits back and forth between himself and those around you. “Okay,” he nods, squinting in the darkened room to search for… there! The balcony from earlier. He had seen it when he first entered the empty room along with the rest of Class 1A, waiting for instructions from the wedding’s director while hooking each other up with walkie talkies and earpieces. 

        “Either that’s where the villains are gonna come in or that’s where I’m gonna jump from halfway through this party.”

        “Come on.” His rough hand wraps around your wrist, dragging you along as he shoulders past offended couples who scoff at his impropriety. 

        The outside is so much more peaceful than its opposite, with the only sounds being crickets chirping in the dark forest below and melodic tunes still echoing through the ballroom’s door cracks. 

        Moon shines on the balcony like a spotlight, choosing both of you as it’s favored guests. It’s warm outside, even with the occasional gusts of wind that stick your hair to your lips, and part of you is in awe that Bakugou even found this place as beautiful as most would. Maybe you underestimated him. 

        “So why did you lie about tonight?” The blond’s voice drags you away from the balcony’s banister, urging you to turn around and lean back against it. Your gaze locks on the ground as you rub your arms shyly. 

        “It wasn’t really a lie, per se.” Bakugou snorts. 

        “Sure, and I’m not the best student in the school.” 

        “You really aren’t…”

        “WHAT WAS THAT?!” His riled shout makes you snicker, hiding a smile behind your hand. Bakugou can’t help but admire you, even when you piss him off. Though, he can’t ignore the goosebumps covering your bare arms either. The fact that the straps of your dress were about halfway down your upper arms wasn’t really helping your situation. Grinding his teeth at the stupidity of your outfit, he shrugs of his jacket and approaches you, keeping his gaze focused on the task at hand as he encompasses your shoulders with the thicker fabric. 

        “Oh, uh thanks.”

        “Yeah.”

        Awkward silence ensues, leaving the faint music of the inside to taint the normally innocent atmosphere. Bakugou doesn’t want to crack on the pressure, but part of him still wants to feel you.

        “So, erm,” he rubs the back of his neck, “do you want to dance?”

        The question makes you glance up in surprise. Was this really Bakugou? Giving you his jacket, getting all possessive and now, now asking to dance? No way. Maybe he hit his head or something. Or maybe… 

        Maybe he liked you back.

        “Sure.”

        You both shuffle towards each other, barely keeping yourselves from flushing to the fullest when you finally are close enough to touch each other again. Then the blond finally makes the first move again, quivering hands sneaking around your waist painfully slow. 

        You’re no hypocrite, being just as hesitant as he was in the act of sneaking your hands up and around his neck once more. There was something about asking to initiate the dance that made this so much more awkward than earlier, back inside when Bakugou just forced you both into it. 

        Now, it was so incredibly tedious, forcing yourselves to relax and sway to the music slowly fading out from the inside. Then at one point you threw caution to the wind and dropped your head, laying your cheek on his shoulder as you faced the wilderness beyond. 

        “So…” Bakugou finally speaks up again. His grip tightens on your hips in frustration. Obviously he heard the shakiness of his voice just as well as you had. He calms down with a clear of his throat, allowing his gaze to also fade off into the black surrounding the host building of your family’s wedding. “Why didn't you tell us?” 

        Your form tenses against his own, leaving him in a dreaded panic that you would somehow just disappear before his eyes. Then you answer.

        “I didn’t want you to see me in a bad light…”

        Bakugou shakes his head, still rocking you both back and forth in a steady pattern to the music. “YN, you shouldn’t worry about what those extras think-”

        “Not them,” you interrupt. “You.”

        “...Oh.” He’s silent for a minute, and distantly you wonder if he can feel the racing thumps that are echoing against your rib cage right now. At last he pipes up with another question. “Why?” 

        “I just,” you peel your head away to look him in the eyes, just barely avoiding biting your rouged lips, “I didn’t want you to think I was this spoiled brat who paid her way into UA. I wanted… I don’t know… I guess I wanted you to respect me.” 

        The intensity is enough to make you glance away as Bakugou stares at you in wonder. 

        “YN, I respect you in a hell of a lot of ways.” 

        From any other, the words would have left you scoffing. From Bakugou, though, they leave you redder than a cherry as you resist ducking your face into his button-up dress shirt. 

        “...Oh.” That seemed to be the response of the day. 

        The balcony returns to silence, dulled music still flowing from the party behind the doors. Bakugou’s hands, strong and firm, are still attached to your waist, encouraging the constant swaying while you keep your hands locked behind his neck. The urge to dip your fingers into his fluffy locks is taking a surprising amount of self-restraint at this moment. 

        The air of the moment is serene, strangely tranquil considering one of its residents. You feel content and relaxed for the first time in a long time, all thanks to right now. There’s no eagerness to hide yourself, nor pressure to spill any more secrets. And that’s precisely why you feel at peace with the idea of spilling your feelings now, rather than letting them out during a moment of peer pressure from others. 

        Right now, it’s just him and you, locked in an embrace and swaying underneath the moon and the stars to a faint melody of love and happiness. And it’s perfect. 

        “Katsuki…” Here we go.

        “Yeah?” His voice is soothing, strangely so compared to its usual gruffness. 

        “I like you. Like like-like you. A lot.”  

        Well fuck. That was so much more awkward than you expected it to be. In just two seconds, your mind had gone from “let’s do this” to “can I somehow burrow in his shirt pocket and die” thanks to that confession. 

        For some odd reason, Bakugou seems to agree with your train of thoughts. One of his hands leaves your waist to slip into the hair on the back of your head. Bunching up a collection of curls in his fist, he shoves your face right into his shoulder, dismissing the surprised squeal you give. 

        “What a lame way to say that.” Ouch.

        The response makes you struggle against him, growing ashamed and embarrassed as you push against his toned stomach to escape, but it’s ineffective. His grip has turned to iron, solid and unforgiving as you become more and more frantic. A plea to let you go dies on your lips when he finally opens his mouth. 

        “Stop squirming and let me talk.” 

        You do, allowing him to take a deep breath before speaking again. 

        “I…” he turns his head and gulps. You can’t see thanks to your face being squished against his chest, but you can tell by the quick pounding near your forehead that he’s just as nervous as you. “I like you too, dumbass.”

        Jaw dropping, your mouth goes dry at the confession. Then your hands fall like dead weight to your sides. 

        “Oh.” 

        “That’s it, that’s all I get?!”

        “Sorry, sorry, I just umm… I wasn’t expecting that.” You trail your hands back up over his shoulders once more, finally slipping them into the disarrayed strands. “But I’m glad.” 

        At your reply, he leans back to glance at your face. A wave of relief seems to flask through his eyes when he confirms that, yes, you do mean it.

        “Me too,” he admits, sneaking his arms back around your waist and settling his wandering hands on the small of your back. 

        The tension in the air has drawn back to a zero, and you’re still smiling giddily at the confession. He liked you back, no matter where you came from. 

        He begins to rock you back and forth once more, leading you to the slow song of the band inside as his fingers knead into your skin, flexing and unflexing with every knot your own untangle in his scalp. 

        Owls hoot in the trees beyond the balcony as the stars glitter down on both of you, washing you in dim rays. 

        It’s warm out. It’s nice out. And all you can do is hum along when Bakugou drops his head on your shoulder, huffing a relieved sigh. 

        “God I’m glad I came tonight.”

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

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

*GIF not mine*

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

Word count: 1630

Good lordy I love this so much. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seriously, it’ll be like: 

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

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

*cue facepalm*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

✨Story Time✨

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

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

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

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

That piece of shit Hero Hunter.

Badd’s blood boils and he begins seeing red. 

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

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

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

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

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

You never expected this to happen. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF HER, YOU SCUMBAG!”

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

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

“SHE’S MINE TO TOUCH, HERO!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“YN, that’s-”

“Just leave me alone.”

Months pass, four to be specific. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You brought the chloroform, right?”

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

“Okay, then let’s do this.” 

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

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

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

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

hey! are all requests open or just some? i just want to make sure before i send in something :))

All requests are open, go nuts!

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m more important, YN. I am.”

Hi. I was wonderg if you were planning to continue the (Bokuto/Akaashi x Reader) story. It’s really good

I definitely am, but I’d hate to scare you all off by spilling the beans and saying it probably won’t happen until next summer. Currently, I’m in one of the most important years of schooling, and even on breaks it’s hard to find the time.

I do have a lot more planned for the series, and the feedback it has received makes my heart flutter, but I just want you all to know it will be a while. Thank you for all the love💜💜

i love your writing! if it's ok can i request something nsfw with yandere zuko (your hc for him were really good)

Hot With Envy (Yandere Zuko x Reader) (NSFW)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: After seeing you laugh with another man at his five-year reign celebration, Zuko must show you who you belong to. 

A/N: Hey, so I finally got part of my life in order. Woohoo. Thankfully, that allowed me to finally finish this request. I’m sorry it took me a while, and I can’t promise that the others won’t end up the same way, but I hope this at least tickles ur fancy. Enjoy!

Warnings: Possessive sex, dirty talk, vaginal sex

Word count: 2916

        “God, YN. I can’t fucking believe you.” 

        Zuko was pissed. More than pissed, he was infuriated. Steam blew out of his nose every step he took as he led you out of the ballroom. 

        The fifth anniversary of Zuko’s reign as the new fire lord, and he had only lasted twenty minutes. 

        “What did I even do?!” The more you tried to pull out of his straining grip, the more bruising it became. You’ve seen Zuko jealous, possessive, hell, even straight up obsessive, but never have you seen him so green-eyed as tonight. If he grew any angrier, your hand would fall clean off. 

        “What did you do? What did you do?! Are you trying to piss me off?” 

        By the looks of it, he was dragging you towards his bedroom. The maroon halls of the Fire Nation Royal Palace were like no other; decked out in vases and other artworks of the past millennium, you didn’t dare look into the eyes of a royal painting for fear that it would fall and you would have to pay for damages. 

        “Zuko, come on. Just tell me what I did!”         His bitter laugh makes your teeth grind. “You really wanna know?”

        “Yes!”

        “You wore that stupid dress. Then you walked into that stupid party looking stupidly beautiful. Then you talked to that stupid guy!”

        “...And?”

        His storming down the halls slowed to a halt. 

        “‘And’? Fuck, YN. You’re absolutely clueless, and that’s coming from me.”

        It took you only a second to realize he had stopped directly in front of his bedroom. You weren’t an idiot; you knew where this was going. 

        “Zuko, stop. That’s your party out there. We can’t just abandon it while guests are still in attendance.” 

        “Why do you want to go back there so bad, YN?” You still hadn’t gotten a chance to see his face, but judging by the tightness in his tone, he was just as agitated as when you both left, if not more. 

        “I-I don’t-”

        “Do you want to see that man again?” The doors to his bedroom swing open hard enough to slam against the walls, leaving a harsh bang to echo around the room. When he turned back to you, there was a glint in his eyes you had never seen before. “Because trust me, my love, after tonight, the only person you’ll be able to think of is me.”

        His chambers were dark and spacious, with the ruby drapes drawn to cover the raised moon in the sky. The black carpet softened every step you took as Zuko dragged you to the center of the room, just where the bed sat. 

        It was large and lonely. The silk, crimson covers of the bed were pulled so taut over the mattress it looked as if nobody has slept there in ages. Two pillows stood at the beadboard, one too many for just Zuko. Four marble bed posts framed each corner, all leading up to connect with the high ceilings. Curtains hung between each, casting shadows over the bed from the candlelight in the corner. Zuko must have lit them while you were distracted with observing. 

        Otherwise, the room was filled with darkness, the one light barely enough to help your straining eyes. Before you could even see him coming, Zuko latched his hand back over your wrist and tugged you hard enough to have you stumbling into the bed, tripping and falling into the cozy blankets that swallowed you easily. 

        “Zuko.” You weren’t quite sure what you wanted to say. Maybe “stop,” or “let’s slow down.” You didn’t get a chance to decide.

        Seconds after you fell, he followed, his legs encompassing only one of your thighs. 

        After he dug his knee into your mound, you figured out why. 

        A moan slipped from your lips, causing Zuko to give you a smirk. Only when your hands came up to press against his chest did he capture them in his own, gathering them in a single grip and forcing them above your head. With his free hand, he trailed a finger down your cheek before cupping your jaw. 

        “Don’t worry, my love. There’s plenty more to come.” 

        At the words, his eyes darted down your body, tongue sweeping out over his lips before he slammed his mouth onto yours. 

        “Mmm,” you could only hum as he kissed you with a fevered passion. Body pressing yours deeper into the bed, he dug his knee harder against your clothed core, the pure heat radiating from his body making it seem like there were no barriers at all. 

        “Zuko.” His name escaped your lips in a breathy moan, and left him panting as he leaned his forehead against yours. 

        “That’s right, YN. Let everyone know who’s doing this to you.” Before you could respond, he sunk his teeth into the juncture of your neck, forcing you to mewl and jerk against his knee. His tongue peeked out to soothe the reddened skin, lapping up the growing sweat on your neck at the same time. 

        More, more, more. That’s all you could think of, and soon enough, you were practically humping Zuko’s leg like a bitch in heat. Though, he didn’t seem to mind one bit. 

        “Look at you, fucking yourself against me. I don’t even have to touch you to get you off.” A rip cut through the otherwise silent room like a hot knife through butter, and it took you a minute to realize what had truly happened. 

        Your dress slid off with ease, and when Zuko tossed it aside, you could see the torn threads spanning along the back of the fabric. With only a wrap over your breasts and-- albeit soaked-- panties to cover your twitching core, you couldn’t help but suddenly grow embarrassed at the situation. 

        “Wait, Zuko, maybe we should slow-” his lips recapture yours before you can finish, and his free hand begins to slide from your chin down to your collarbone. His fingertips, like little brushes of a feather, travel lower and lower until they meet the top of your white breast cloth. They dip inside, just into the space formed by the valley of your chest, and just as viciously as your dress, they rip the material away and toss it aside. 

        A burn was left behind at the harsh rip against your skin, but it’s quickly forgotten in exchange for Zuko massaging your mounds in his hand. Pleasure shoots through your core when he pinches the peaks, grinning against your lips at the whine you give off. 

        “Do you want someone else to touch you like this, YN?” Heavy-lidded eyes burn into your own, waiting with impatience for your answer. 

        “No, Zuko, only you- ah!” Your voice breaks off into a squeal when he pinches them once again before sliding off the bed to undress himself. Your chest heaves while you wait for him to return, and in that time, a thought flits through your mind-- you could touch yourself to relieve some of the ache. 

        The man seems to read your mind, and he tsks. “Don’t even think about it, love. You don’t want more punishments, do you?”

        The spanks, the hot touches, the rough bites. You couldn’t lie; the repercussions didn’t seem too terrible considering you would at least find release, but before your hand reaches down fast enough, Zuko’s already snagged it in a tight grip. 

        “Shit, you’re really that horny, love? Well fuck, let’s make this quick then, shall we?”

        In an instant, he drops your hand in exchange for your ankles, dragging you to the edge of the bed before forcing your legs apart. His thick length stands at attention by his stomach, leaving your juices to drip down your thighs in clear droplets. 

        Sightseeing doesn’t last long, and soon Zuko’s flipped you onto your stomach, propping up your knees and dragging a finger up the slick of your wet panties. 

        “This,” he growls, pulling aside the black lace enough to leave your throbbing core bare for him to see, “belongs to me.” Hands push your knees further apart, enough that your wetness can only drip down onto the sheets instead of trailing down your thighs. 

        Slap! A hand collides with the skin of your left cheek hard enough to have you cry out. “Say it, YN.” 

        “It belongs to you!”

        Slap! Another hit to the other cheek and you bury your face into the blankets, pleasure mingling with pain as Zuko less-than-gently rubs the abused flesh of your backside. 

        “You got that fucking right.”

        Then, before you acknowledge what’s happening, Zuko’s pushing himself deep inside you, faster than you can adjust and leaving behind a feeling no different than tearing your body in half. 

        “UNGH!” Instinctively, your back straightens and you try to crawl away, but another spank and Zuko’s bottomed out inside you. His member stretches your fluttering walls enough to the point of an unbearable burn, but luckily, he has enough mercy to allow you to adjust. 

        Tears prick your eyes and your fingers curl into the sheets, trying to bear the sudden intrusion as best as possible. And soon enough, you feel the ache begin to fade. 

        Zuko’s had enough sense to stop, hearing the way you cried under his first thrust, but he can’t bring himself to feel bad anymore when you begin pushing back against him. “Fuck,” he hisses when you purposefully clench around him. 

        Before you know it, he’s become feral. 

        The sound of flesh slapping against flesh fills the dark room in a frantic pattern as Zuko thrusts into you at a bruising pace. 

        “Ngh. Harder, Zuko!”

        He doesn’t disappoint, and soon, he’s driving you into the mattress with every thrust, one hand holding you in place on your hips while the other digs into your hair and yanks your head back. 

        “Shit, you’re so tight. So tight just for me, YN.”

        Mouth forming an “o” shape, you can’t even respond aas your eyes roll back from the pleasure. Your moans almost drown out the loud cracking of the headboard against the wall, and distantly, you know it could draw some curious eyes--

        “Look at your naughty little hole. Taking me so well.” 

        But you just couldn’t bring yourself to care. The feeling of his shaft dragging against your g-spot, pulling out just far enough to caress your swollen bud before plunging back inside has a coil tightening in your stomach. 

        “Fuckkkk. Zuko, I’m close!”

        “Already, love?” 

        The hand in your hair tugs hard enough to strain your scalp as Zuko pulls you up onto your knees, his chest flush to your back. With the new angle, Zuko rams into the special spot deep in your hole with every single-- holy fuck-- thrust. 

        “Who fucks you this good?” His hand untangles from your strands and reaches up around your throat. 

        “Zuko!” You throw your head back onto his shoulder and dig a hand into his sweaty hair, pulling his face down to your neck. At your silent command, his lips run up and down the skin, sucking on the skin between breaths and grunts. He follows dutifully as your body jolts back and forth, shaken violently with each drive of his hips. 

        “Who’s the only one that makes you feel like this?” 

        “Noooo- ah shit!” You can barely hold yourself up when Zuko’s hand, hot by his own command, rubs furious circles into your swollen bud. The act has you grinding into his hand while it throws you into a tailspin of pleasure, head growing foggy as you only chase a release. 

        “Nuh-uh,” he groans out, hand slowing just enough to have you whine, “say my name, love.”

        “Zuko, please! Keep going!” You have to choke out the words, the hand around your neck just tight enough to keep your breathing quick but loose so that you can speak. Your fingers tighten in his hair and around his wrist, one tugging his lips closer to your hot skin while the other keeps his hand assaulting your clit. 

        It’s too much, and you know it’s too much, but his hold on you from every end is stronger than iron. Your back arches at a particularly deep thrust that has the head of his member brushing your cervix. “Oh GOD! Zuko, I’m so close!”

        The constant clenching of your core around his length has already revealed this to him, and he keeps the fast pace that has you oh-so willing to beg.

        “Oh yeah, love? Tell me then, who owns you?”

        “More!”

        “Nope.” He pinches your clit hard enough that you spasm, but not enough to trigger your release. 

        “AGH!”

        “Say it, YN,” he captures your earlobe between his teeth. “Who owns you?”

        You can’t speak, too lost in pleasure to comprehend a word he was grunting into your ear. Each time he sinks into your dripping hole, he rubs your bud in tandem. You couldn’t even open your mouth at this point without drool dribbling down your chin. 

        “One more chance, love. Who owns you?” His teeth grit with impatience, and by now, he’s lost all rhythm. Erratically, he drives into you from behind, hips now leaving your backside red with fresh bruises. Then finally, finally, the bubble bursts.

        “ZUKO!” The scream of his name ripped through your throat just as harshly as your orgasm, liquid running down your thighs and soaking into the bed like spilled water. During this, you clench so tightly around him, Zuko almost blacks out from the feeling, releasing inside you just as fast. 

        As you fall from your high, your body begins to come back down, instantly feeling the side effects of staying in one position for too long. Your thighs whine and shiver before going just numb enough that you fall forward, Zuko having no other option than to collapse on top of you.

        His body is hot and sweaty, overheating you enough that you squirm and wiggle underneath him until he gets the hint. 

        “Oh, sorry.” 

        The phase of confidence is over as he slips out of you, allowing both of your juices to flood out of you in a delicious mixture Zuko eyes up proudly. Not long after does he fall into the space beside you, still panting and heaving in breaths while he wraps an arm around your shoulder. 

        “Come here.” 

        He doesn’t have to ask twice. Cuddles with Zuko after sex were silent and peaceful, usually followed by a shared nap for rest. 

        You settle your head onto his chest, ear right over his racing heartbeat as you lay a hand on his flexing stomach. 

        “That was…” you couldn’t even answer, instead shaking your head and settling for a grin in Zuko’s direction. 

        Though his face grows red, he nods in agreement, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. “Yeah,” he whispers, “it was.”

        The dim room falls into a silence not uncommon nor uncomfortable. Though sweaty, you both stuck to each other on purpose, wanting to be close after such a time. 

        When your breathing begins to slow is when Zuko speaks up again. 

        “Hey, YN?” 

        “Yeah?” It’s more of a yawn than a question.

        “You meant what you said, right?” 

        “What do you mean?” You peer up at him, a little flustered to see such an intense look in Zuko’s normally shy gaze.

        “When you said you belonged to me. You meant it, right?”

        Oh yeah, that did happen. In the heat of the moment, you would honestly say anything for such euphoria. Now, though, you wondered if that would one day be your downfall. 

        “Umm… well….” You wanted the conversation to die out and never be brought up again, but Zuko’s emboldened gaze was insistent. 

        “Well?”

        “Y-yes,” you drop your ear back to his heart and nod your head. “I meant it.” Anything to get out of this awkward situation. 

        “Good, my love. I’m glad. Now that I own you, no man will ever touch you again. I promise.” 

        Oh God, what trap have you just fallen into?

        With that, he rolled over and draped both an arm and a leg over your body, effectively trapping you to the mattress. 

        “Good night, my queen.”

        “Good n-night, Zuko.”

                                ~~~

        “Fire Lord Zuko.” 

        His eyes fluttered open, and the first thing he saw was you. Your beautiful face, serene and peaceful in your slumber, framed by the sunshine peeking through the drapes behind your head. Ever so carefully, he untangled himself from around you and pressed a kiss to your forehead before ushering the guard to the hall. 

        “Did you manage to find him?”

        “Yes, my lord.” The soldier averted his gaze as Zuko tightened his robe and shoved on a pair of sandals. Once he appeared modest enough for the rest of the castle, the guard began to lead him through the corridors to a dank stairway. “We’ve left him in cell seven for you.” 

        “Good. Now I can show him what happens when you try to go after my love.”

What's in a Virtue (Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x Reader)---Part 2

*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: umm so good news is second part is out as promised. Bad news is....this is not the end. I totally plan on making another part, but I don't know how soon that can be done considering life just began again. Guess we'll see. Enjoy!

Word count: 8193

Part 1

In hindsight, you’re not quite sure when you started falling so hard for the handsome guy from the bar. 

Yes, okay, there was initial attraction. Kyle was one in a million when it came to that. 

Then it was the way he looked at you. Like you saying his name and pouring him more scotch made his world spin. 

Kyle just made it so easy. Too easy. 

So dang easy that you felt guilty Jeanne was attracted to him too. You tried to convince yourself for a long, long time that he looked at her the same way. At every girl the same way. 

But that first night turned into the first week, which then turned into the first month. 

Your poor heart ached each time he slipped through the glass doors, grinned at you in relief. 

“Thank fuck you’re ’ere, love. Nobody in this bar knows how to pour a scotch better than you.”

And after that first touch, his warm fingers grappling after yours around the glass, you couldn’t fight it that easily anymore. Sure, you preferred people sober, but each time Kyle imbibed, he wanted a brush of your fingertips, and you did to. 

Everything about him screamed hard yet warm. He was big—special-forces big, apparently. And he had these little scars on his cheeks that you dreamt of at night. 

Where did they come from? Where else was he scarred? Why did a guy like him ever choose war over modeling?

Confounding. 

Even more confounding was that he liked teasing you, and only you. It was a little trampling over your feelings at first, all that fresh hope and nervousness each time he showered you with attention. But then it was steamrolling, too much all at once that you couldn’t think of him without your entire body slipping into a nervous tremble. 

Worst part was that you didn’t even know why he liked you so much. You were just as shitty a bartender as you were a failed medicine-or-anything student. You had nothing too offer him, not your too-big body nor your underwhelming lifestyle. 

But Jeanne… Jeanne was perfect for him. Loved all the stuff he did, hiking and swimming and everything you couldn’t do for five minutes without sweating up a storm. 

And just when it’s been a month and you think you’re so far in the hole for this hot tease of a customer who can’t seem to leave you alone—hot British tease, by the way, because how dare you forget him calling you “darling” with that accent—that you can’t even sleep at night without tossing and turning…

He’s gone. 

Kyle just disappears.

The same Kyle who leaves a perfect, Kyle’s-butt shaped butt-print on the dusty corner seat he loved so much. 

The same Kyle who, on the first night you met, was so damn snockered after seven scotches that he wouldn’t stop professing his love for you. (Not that he seemed to remember that the next day, or any day following, but you still hold the memory near and dear to your heart like the masochist you are.)

The same Kyle who stopped smelling like cigarettes after a while. Who once leaned over the bar just to push a little strand of hair behind your ear, rough fingertips pausing at your temple and brushing the skin in a small circle. “Just makin’ sure you’re safe ’nd sound” was the short mumble from his lips. 

Gone. 

Gave you his phone number before he left, and then hasn’t shown up to the bar for the last two weeks. 

He could’ve—well, he could’ve told you he was leaving. Warned you. Instead of this cold-turkey bullshit, you could have actually prepared. 

God. You wished you’d had time to prepare for this guy you’ve basically just met leaving you?

He’s made a mess of you.

Kyle, though… he’s Kyle. 

And two weeks without him has left you with a Kyle-hangover. You’re all achey and sad and bored—fucking bored. What happened to you being able to occupy yourself with thoughts twenty-four seven and treating men like a distant daydream?

Ironically enough, you miss not missing men just as much as you miss that man. 

Not for the first time in the last two weeks, you clock off after what has become some of the most miserable shifts of your life, and go home, curl up on your couch, and think about Kyle. 

You think about that moment where he’d demanded you for your phone, long fingers curling in a “give it here” gesture, so stern you barely recognized him. You huddle deeper into the leather cushions, feeling in your pocket for your phone. 

Timezones are tricky. Couple that with the fact that you have no idea where he even wound up, and you’re blindly searching through your phone for his contact with both eyes pinched closed, as though you’d be incriminated for the act if you saw yourself do it.

A ringing hums through the air, and you peek just to make sure you’re not being a fool for the second time tonight. Kyle (Hot Guy from the Bar) Garrick slides along your screen, bouncing back and forth so you can catch the entirety of what he’d typed. 

You can hear him saying it, like it’s tainted with his soft, playful tone. 

It’s the same voice telling you to leave a message now, and you’re so stunted by the familiarity of the sound that you don’t speak for another few seconds, having to reassure yourself that, no, that wasn’t actually him. 

A voicemail. You could leave that. 

Like all social interactions, you prefer them with a bit of distance and disconnect anyway, whether that be through phone or several glasses of alcohol. 

“Umm” is all you say for a while, staring down at the ticking seconds in your lap. 

Then “Hey” and “it’s me.”

After another pause, you realize he probably doesn’t know who “me” is, really, so you tag on your name. 

And another “umm.”

“I’m calling because…”

You don’t know. Honest to God. 

You don’t know why you’re sitting here on your couch, back straight as a pin, anxiously tearing your fingers through your hair and watching your phone screen with eyes so wide someone’d think it’s going to eat you. 

“You know, I—I don’t really know why I’m calling. I mean, you asked me to, and now that I’m sitting here, doing it, it kinda feels like a mind game or something. You could still pick up, you know. Put me out of my misery.” 

You pause. 

Wait a few seconds. 

“...But I guess you won’t be doing that. That’s great. Um.” You poke your tongue into your cheek, practically seizing up at this point. “I hope your mission’s going well. You know, stopping the… the bad guys and all that. And I hope that you’re—” safe. You don’t know if anything’s happened to him. It’s been two weeks, maybe that’s why he hasn’t called. 

You think you’re gonna be sick. 

“You know, it’d be really shitty if you gave me your phone number just to up and die on some top secret mission to save the world. I think that’d be pretty rude of you.”

Quiet, again. Still. You’re not even sure why you’d thought maybe you could hear his response. 

But he’s the superhero guy, the special soldier on a secret mission that involves killing bad, bad men and even worse organizations. 

So maybe it’s a little selfish of you to miss him. 

“Be safe. I mean, I’m sure you already know to do that, but, you know. Try harder at it, I guess. For me.”

You end the call and fight the urge to throw your phone as far away as possible, and go about your night like Kyle doesn’t even exist. 

This distance thing’ll be… easy. Maybe. 

~~~~~~

You call him the next morning. Can’t help it. 

Hearing his voice, even if it’s from the damn voicemail thingy, is soothing. Like a balm over your twinging chest. 

Leave him a message at the beep. Oh, you plan to. 

“It’s been,” you glance at your phone, “six hours since I last called you. I can’t sleep, so that’s gonna be your problem too. I had this dream where I was riding a unicorn—and I know you think this is gonna be cute or something, but just give me a second—and so we’re just galloping along in the forest, all magical like, and then suddenly I’m surrounded by these guys in SWAT gear and those helmet-binocular deals that you guys wear.”

You’re picking at your blanket, morning gunk still grimey over your teeth, wondering why your first thought of the new day—five a.m., by the way, and you have work until one a.m. tonight—was to call Kyle (Hot Guy from the Bar) Garrick.

“It was a bloodbath. My poor unicorn had to stab military men, so I’m blaming you for giving me a horrific dream like that, Mr. Military Man. Awful rude of you to drag me into the horrors of war like that. And no, you will not be forgiven until you call me back. Goodbye.”

You can’t go back to sleep. Not after that. You’ve scarred yourself sending something so mindlessly ridiculous to a man who has legitimate work to do—might even have one of the most valid jobs on the planet, and you were whining to him about your weeny nightmare. 

So you spend the rest of your day meaninglessly-choring your way to the beginning of your bartending shift. 

Jeanne hasn’t asked where Kyle’s been. She’s got a new target, a rich businessman who mainly operates in the field of pool floaties. Luckily for him, it’s almost July, which means business is lively, and so too is her interest in him. 

It’s around that time that you realize Kyle was valid in denying her at every turn, but your guilt is still slow to fade. 

Then your phone buzzes in your pocket.  

Kyle.

You whip your finger across the screen, almost dropping the phone in your haste, and read the text. 

Reread it a couple more times, because you kind of don’t understand it.

It’s not heartfelt by any means. Not Earth-shattering. And you ponder over it for the rest of your shift, glancing at it every few minutes instead of responding, because it’s so short and succinct that you get the sense it’s all he could manage during his mission. 

All it says is “More.”

~~~~~~

Calling Kyle becomes a comfort. During breaks, after bad days, sometimes early in the morning when you were too exhausted the night before. 

You feel like a fool after some time. He never once sends another text or calls back, and this time you really think he’s gone. 

But there’s a hole your apartment’s silence can’t quite fill anymore, a quiet where Kyle’s lively chatter used to be at the bar. 

So you fill it like he’s still there with you. 

The third voicemail that you leave him begins with “You never told me your favorite drink.” You spend a half hour rambling about the different drinks you could have made him, how you’re getting better at it in his absence—you’ll even make him another Mai Tai to prove it, if he promised to come back—and how scotch is horrible. You’ve tried it for the first time, and you don’t believe for a second that it’s his preference, even if he’s a hardened soldier trying to wash the pain away. 

You don’t buy it. He’s an umbrella-drink kind of guy. 

The fourth is about how you’re rethinking things. So many things, while he’s gone. You’re rethinking what you want from life, considering going back and giving school the old college try one more time. You’d had these big dreams before you’d been cowed into submission by doubts and debt. Doctor of… well, something. Anything, really. You’d just always thought doctor looked good in front of your last name. 

It looks good in front of Garrick, too. Doctor Garrick, that actually sounds pretty cool, and—oh shit, you don’t mean it like that. Not like you’d be his… 

Anyway. 

The fifth through twenty-seventh voicemails follow the same pattern. Random thoughts you’ve come up with throughout the day combined with ponderings cranky customers have drawn out of you. 

None of it, you’re certain, is interesting to Kyle at all. 

Not when he’s on a mission, taking down the evil guys and saving lives. Risking his own in the process. 

But you can’t bring yourself to stop, too caught up in the text he sent you and how blatant he’d been about his interest before he left. 

No funny business. Just you. 

That’s what he’d wanted. 

And he’d wanted “more,” too. 

Good thing you’re willing to give it to him, highly concentrated and in a large number of doses. 

You’re a giver, after all. Maybe he hasn’t noticed it yet, but if he needs these calls from you, obnoxious little chats about the mundane side of life, you’ll do that for him. Because Kyle is a good guy, and you want that chance, however slim it may be, to prove that he passed on his number for good reason. 

So you keep calling, let the voicemails stack up and up as weeks go on, continue working behind the scenes of his life, hoping it’s not all in vain. 

~~~~~~

Gaz lets the phone drop back down to his side on the barracks bunk, smiling like an idiot at the ceiling. 

He’d been a tad nervous that you’d stop after a while, sometimes considered breaking Price’s no phone rule—he never would, of course; AQ can track the IPs of outgoing signals, and the last chance he’d had to send you a message was just before moving hideouts. 

But they’ve been in too deep the past few weeks to let his wants trump the importance of the mission. 

Plus, you’d obviously understood what “More” had meant. You certainly hadn’t given him less, at any point. There was only one three-day hiatus that made him strangle the shoulder straps of his chest gear so hard the fabric cinched and remained wrought. 

And then you’d called, all apologetic and sniffly because you’d gotten some kind of bug despite it being the middle of summer—which was so fucked, in your opinion. 

They’re flying back tomorrow. Through pure luck alone, it was a shorter mission than most, a two-month intel grab that ended with only enemies KIA, but Gaz knew what was coming. 

Short missions like this meant something big was on the horizon. 

Which meant that he had to make a decision soon to lock you down or let you go. 

Not getting to hear your voice during a mission like he did now? It sounds fucking devastating. But asking you to stick around for his flighty lifestyle, spend months mucking about on your own, worrying about him and his lack of contact—it was a lot. Ultimately it’d be your choice, and Gaz is terrified that he can’t predict what you’d choose; it feels like defusing a bomb with sweaty fingers, or running out of mags in the middle of the field. 

Things were out of his hands the second he put his phone number into yours and begged you to stick around. 

He’ll have to get on his knees this time.

He’s already asked a fellow soldier, one of the American Marines who’d been recruited for a building sweep, for a ride to the hotel. By his count, he’ll be there around eight in the morning, just early enough to catch you and only you. 

Gaz isn’t quite sure what he plans on doing. Something horribly twee, if past experience is anything to go by. Can’t quite get a conscious hold of himself when he sees you. 

And it’d be bloody fuckin’ embarrassing, the way his nerves buzz just under his skin, if he was this excited for anyone but you. 

But it’s eleven pm where he’s at and you just left a message bellyaching about his radio silence again. You’ve found a way to make scotch even worse and you’re going to torture him with it next time you see his face—you promise. Unless and only unless he messages you in the next five minutes with his favorite drink so you can practice. 

It’s terrible and a bit rude, the way you can toy with his feelings through kindness. His little puppet master twisting his heartstrings so tight he can never truly unravel, all with the tenderness of a damn saint. 

Gaz stares at your name in his phone. He works out the hours, then the minutes and eventually seconds until he gets to see you, and can finally stop fawning over the photo he’d found from your public high school’s online yearbook. He’s pretty sure you don’t have that zit anymore, at least, but it’s been too damn long and he’s due a verifiable fact-check. 

His return can’t be too big. You’re not a pomp-and-circumstance kind of gal, too uncertain of your own worth to ever happily accept flowers and fanfare, even if it was just the two of you. 

He’ll work you up to things like that. Over months. Years, hopefully. A lifetime, if the universe ever acknowledges the debt it owes him for the shit he puts up with. 

But for now, he plans for small. Modest and tame. 

Something to soothe that little prey heart that itches to run each time he flirts too loud and smiles too widely (because for some reason you can’t believe you draw it out of him, which, admittedly, preserves his pride a bit). 

Suddenly, he’s got just the thing. 

~~~~~~

Eight-fucking-thirty a.m. 

Who on God’s green Earth opens a bar at eight-thirty a.m.?

Surely not the hotel director, who you’ve only seen once and with pinot staining his white mustache, of all things. 

Couldn’t be one of the many, many bar managers who, thank God for them, only work at night. They couldn’t imagine working a bar in the morning, only serving those depressing early birds and the real addicts, haha. 

Real. Fucking. Funny. 

You’re not a morning person. Never have been, never will be. 

But when Jeanne says these are the hours that nobody else wants, during which almost no customers show up, and implies that you’ll pretty much be paid to sit on your ass and do nothing, well… by God, you will be there at eight-thirty sharp, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. 

Except the only thing that’s bright is the goddamned sun outside the windows—too bright—and your bushy tail is more of a bushy mane, as you woke up about thirty minutes ago, almost late to serve fucking no one, and didn’t bother to tame it with any manner of spray or hairbrush. 

To be frank, you’re a disaster. You look like you were caught in the Tasmanian Devil’s warpath, and you have the attitude to match. 

You thunk your bag down on one of the few empty shelves in the bar’s storage room and groan, wiping a hand over your face. The only thing that could make you feel better right now would be…

God, you just love to torture yourself, don’t you?

It’s been two months. Kyle’s not going to answer. He hasn’t responded to your texts. You don’t even know if he’s alive. 

But you miss him like he is. You miss him like you know he’s on the cusp of returning any second now, and you’re standing at the door, waiting to tear it open and pull him in so close you can smell that cheeky cologne he barely deserves to wear. 

Woodsy musk and cinnamon. Shameful that you remember it so distinctly. That you’d once wandered into the men’s shampoo aisle in a Walmart to try and figure out the word for the dark, elusive scent that clung to him like a second skin. 

It wasn’t there, which means he’s fancier than your budget can comprehend. 

Or that’s just him, and he exuded it so robustly when he’d been here that you can smell it now, drawing you out of the backroom with your phone in hand, thumb hovering over his name. 

Music is playing, which is confusing because you haven’t touched the radio yet. It’s the slow croon of your guilty pleasure song, the one you love ‘ironically.’ The song you’d confided in only one other soul about. 

“Careless Whisper” plays with a slow cadence in the furthest reaches of the bar.

It comes from the same place where two brown eyes are sliding over you at a debilitating pace. 

“Fuck me” falls from those lips, that wicked British accent, as he takes in your hips for a while, then your chest, where your heart pounds so damn hard you think he can see it. Then he watches the little jump in your throat as you swallow, and he wets over his lips before glancing up to yours. Stays there, for a long, long time. 

Then he meets your eyes, and the stutter in his breath is so damn loud.

Kyle. 

Your soldier. 

The man you’ve been calling for months, with no response. 

His face is littered with an array of new wounds, like little scrapes on the apples of his cheeks you get the most bizarre urge to run your tongue over. A split in the smooth skin of his forehead, a paling scar seated in his unshaven jaw. 

His hair’s a little more clean-cut. Perks of heading out for a mission, maybe. 

And his long lashes shadow over the yearning look he’s got locked on you, sharpening and honing it like they’re fibrous whetstone. 

You’re a bit breathless as you round the bar, even more so when Kyle jolts toward you. Out of his devilishly tight black tee peeks a strip of white wrapped around his bicep, and one of his thighs is thicker than the other, suffering the same treatment under his jeans. But he makes his way closer—too slowly—and tries to stave off a wince when he gets too excited, takes a step a bit too fast. 

“Been waitin’ out here for hours, love,” he murmurs, voice breathy but rough. He holds out a hand, curls his longer fingers over yours so tight they can barely tremble. “You still got that scotch ready f’me?”

Your mind floats over the joke completely, instead filling you with worries and urges you can’t fulfill all at once. 

Because, God, it’s Kyle. Your Kyle. And he’s looking at you like that’s all he’s wanted to be. 

And he’s injured. 

He tries shrugging off your hand the second you reach for his face, fingertips hovering over the stiffness under his right eye as he mutters a “Love, don’t worry about it. ’S’better than it looks.”

“Kyle,” you whisper. His other hand falls to your hip, constricting iron-stiff around the soft flesh. 

“M’not broken, darling. Promise.”

And, because you’ve always wanted to, you cup his cheek, a puff of air bouncing off your lips when he leans into it. Turns towards the pliable skin of your palm, like he’s going to run his lips over it, but pauses when he feels you tense up. 

Something in his eyes darkens, makes you feel almost ashamed at the nervous reaction, but it’s just so much. You’ve missed him. You’re not accustomed to this, and it’s starting to dawn on you that this moment, however right and perfect and perfect perfect perfect it feels is still so fast. 

Two months. You haven’t seen him for two months. 

And now that he’s back, it feels like the two of you have been greeting each other like this forever. 

How can he make you fall so fast and still have you feeling like you’re pacing yourself?

This can’t be right, it can’t be—

“Dance with me. C’mon, before that horrible brain of yours blows a fuse about all this.”

“Careless Whisper” and that dashing smile of his, and all of his touch and proximity gets your mind all fuzzy. A good fuzzy. A quieting fuzzy. 

He’s getting too good at this is a thought that tries to stick, but recedes back into the murkiness when Kyle starts to sway. 

He urges your hips and feet to follow his lead. It’s far too easy to give in and let him have control, especially as he pulls you in a little closer, rearranges your hands and bodies until the noticeable space becomes the noticeable lack thereof. 

You’re tucked into his broad chest, warm and sturdy against you. 

He’d placed your hand right over his heart with a meaningful look in his eyes, waited until you felt the frantic thumpthumpthumpthump that leaves your face hot. 

Kyle was always confident around you. He always seemed to know what he was doing, because he was always obvious about what he’d wanted. 

But you didn’t know that you, of all people, could have this effect on him. 

That flutter of pulsations under your fingertips.

His head ducking low until his face is nestled into your collarbone.

The arm that swings around behind you until the crook of his elbow is caught in the dip of your waist and his broad palm is flattened against your opposite hip. 

It’s a little hard to face this moment, being how you are. It feels beautiful. Too beautiful for someone like you. You’re chest is so full, heart so quick, head so wondrously empty. 

You can’t think past the back-and-forth scrape of Kyle’s fingers underneath your shirt’s hem. 

But you feel like apologizing for something. Maybe you’d say sorry for how you feel in his arms, too big surely, despite the way he’s wrangled around you and holding so tight it’d take a solid minute for him to let go. Maybe you should apologize for the stupid song that’s playing, the one that everybody hates, you guess, even though you love it. Maybe you’re sorry about—

Wait. 

“You listened to all those messages?”

Kyle doesn’t make a sound. At first, at least. 

Then…

“They were the only things that kept me hangin’ on, love.” Where his lips brush these words into your skin, the nerves underneath throb. 

A sorry feels cruel on your tongue after that. 

Kyle hums into the silence, singing along a bit when the song repeats for a third time, then a forth, and your hair sticks to his face as he draws away. 

He looks like a fool, but a lovesick one more than anything. It’s dumb and stupid and ridiculous that he has to brush your hair off his face, and even more dumb that he looks like he’s enjoying it so damn much his face is split in two, top and bottom with only pearly whites in between. 

 A fool for doing all this for you, for wanting you so bad when he could replicate this with anyone, someone much prettier, and have them forever. 

“I don’t even wanna know what that dreadful mind of yours is concocting right now, darling. Don’t wanna hear a lick of it, because I know it’d make me so mad, too mad for a moment like this.”

“I don’t want to hear it either,” you whisper, letting your gaze fall to where your hand lay, to where Kyle’s heart gives off an indignant thud. 

The knuckle of his index finger knocks against your chin. “Let me silence it then, yeah?” His head tilts in an innocent way, almost distracting from how quick his heartbeats are now, agitated into a frenzy.

You nod, only partly because you’re a little worried he’ll go into cardiac arrest if you don’t. Mostly because you’ve heard about half of what he’s said by now, the rest of your brain designated to determining what he’s drawing into the curve of your hip. The hard press of his fingers is ruinous to your mental stability. 

That—right there—has to be a G. That’s the first symbol you’ve managed to decode so far. 

Kyle’s lips are so close when you tilt your head up again, and the intensity of his attention has increased tenfold. You wonder if you’d ever considered this to be the end result of all your phone calls, those nonsensical anecdotes every other twelve hours that you’d felt so guilty about sending. It felt like you’d been wasting his precious time. 

But his fervid grip on your body has you thinking the complete opposite way—that instead, you’ve been feeding this needy man before you far too much, a gratuitous enough amount that you’ve tracked him back to your house like a wild wolf you’re not really sure how to treat in the confines of your own home. 

You meant it when you said the distance made it easy. 

A is the second letter.

You wonder distantly if its shape is now bruised into the fleshy tissue of your side. 

And you wonder if he’s ever going to kiss you, leaning in so close like that.

~~~~~~

Gaz has to draw the line soon. He’s gotta find it first, but he’s so damn scared he’s gotten too close without even realizing it. 

The skin at that little sloping line between your neck and collarbone is all hot and smooth. He almost sunk his teeth into it, wanted to bite you a little and hear that little rabbit squeak of yours before you tore away, flustered. 

He can barely fight off the urge of giving the same treatment to that trembling lower lip, the fatty one you’ve ran your tongue over deliciously quick, like you thought he wouldn’t notice. 

Would it be so bad if you let him worry at it with his own teeth? Let your lips get all puffy and red from his touch, and only his?

But he’s pushing the boundaries too much all over again, and you’re back to shaking. It’s a good tremble, one he can feel through the muscles of his forearm, the one that’s flush with your spine. You’re all excited, and it’s because of him. 

All good things. 

But he knows you, knows the martyr that you are. Knows that if he feeds you now, you’ll think that’s the only meal you need and deserve, and you’ll tear away from his hold all over again, because you haven’t been giving enough. You’ve received too much already; he can see it in your eyes. 

Gaz walked in here a little too generous after all those phone calls. He thought you’d expect a reward for your diligence, and instead you’re acting like it was a burden. Undue torture for him to draw away like that, in his humble opinion. 

But fine. He won’t kiss you. Not yet. 

He pulls back a bit, unraveling his arm around your waist and settling for spelling Garrick into your other hip with a bruising pressure. It’s high time the other side of your body received the same treatment, anyway. 

If he’s tasked with quieting your mind, he’ll have to do it the less fun way. 

“So,” he mumbles, a bit ticked at how the words disturb the air, “come here often?”

A surprised laugh tears out of your throat, and you tip your head back until the delectable line of your jaw is all he can see. 

Foul play. 

Patience. Fuckin’—God, patience. He almost forgot.

Almost slipped that fucking leash. 

“You’re horrible,” you admonish with a grin, fingers curling up at his left pectoral. 

“You love it,” he whispers back. If there’s any shred of him that’s lost faith in how you feel for him, it’s the same hand that forces his last name into your hip. It wanders, for a second, up your back, behind your ribs, until he can feel that off-kilter thrumming that matches his own. 

Feels that stutter at his words.

“Love, huh?”

He tries not to freeze up. If you felt that from him, you’d have a little spike of doubt pierce right into that ever-working brain of yours. 

Gaz is so pissed he let that word slip, even casually, and scans over your face, trying to read how it landed. You were casual about it, too, but he knows that’s a touchy subject to push on. He’s toppling into bad territory. If you pulled away from him now…

“Cheesy shit like that is all I hear at my job.” Garrick Garrick Garrick. He’s pressing the letters into your spine now. “Honest. Dad jokes every morning. I’m the last one you have to worry about. It’s like going on a mission with a comedy club, that crew.”

Your smile eases up a bit, and you relax into the moment again. 

“You barely talk about your job.” You look away, seemingly finding the wooden-paneled walls far more interesting. “I didn’t know that topic was on the table.”

“The good parts are. That’s all I’ll ever want you to hear about.”

“I didn’t know you were so protective.”

Gaz is nipping at the bits to respond to that exactly the way he knows how. Of fucking course I am. It’s you. But he can’t rephrase it in any way that would soothe and not scare you off. 

So he lets your comment hang in the silence as you sway.

~~~~~~

When Kyle leaves the bar, at first it feels an awful lot like when he left that very first time. A bit disappointing that the hot, crazy drunk guy won’t be entertaining you for the rest of the night. Won’t be screaming I love you sooooo much, miss bartender gal until you clock off. 

The feeling makes you wistful.

Then—

Oh fuck—

It starts to feel like when he left for his mission. When you didn’t know if he’d ever come back, and you just missed him so damn much you couldn’t think straight, wanted to hear his voice one more time and not just saying “Leave a message at the beep.”

When you drove yourself crazy thinking about the little touches. When you dreamed about him far too much than was normal. When, more than anything, you wanted him to give in to all those little urges he seemed to hold back from you, that little grimace winding his lips when you swept to close or said something even remotely suggestive. 

And you know you don’t deserve it. You’re not fit to be the girl of his affections, the one he comes home to each time he returns from a mission and greets with a kiss. 

But it doesn’t stop you from imagining that you could be. 

You’d try to repay him for his love each time he comes home by greeting him with his favorite meal and drink. You’d massage the corded muscles of his arms and back, lead him with a shy smile into the bath set for two, and he’d have that same hungry look as you stripped to join him, splashing water everywhere in effort to tug you over to his end of the tub. 

You’d sit on his couch each day, scratching his scalp as you read a book, listening to the soft snores as he napped. You’d dance with him in the kitchen like you did today, slow sways to a song he liked this time, and then you’d play your favorite again, just to listen to those soft hums of his crooning along…

Oh God. 

You want Kyle. So damn bad.

You want his body. You want his hands all over you, eyes raking over your face, legs twisting against yours. 

You want every little thought running through his mind. You want his attention. You want his laughs, his cries, his silence when he’s protecting you from his memories. 

You want him shamelessly. Constantly. Perpetually. 

You want him so bad that you could give two shits whether you deserved him or not. 

You’d do everything in your power to earn it. Pour in your love and heart and soul into building something with him. 

And best of all, you can’t bring yourself to regret it. 

You don’t regret the way you call him that night, pleading for him to come over. It’s three a.m., and his voice is groggy and exhausted over the phone, accent thick as he grumbles, “Love, what’s wrong? What’s happened? Oh, you’re cryin’, darling, tell me where you are. I’ll be there sooner than possible.”

You relapse so hard that night. The second you saw his face all over again, you knew you couldn’t go without him. A Kyle-addict, and you didn’t even notice until it was too late. 

He’s shouting, yelling at your door like a mad drunk, but you didn’t give him any scotch that morning. None of that whiskey sour either, the one he revealed was his favorite, but knew Americans wouldn’t get right. 

You tear open the door. His clothes are in disarray, buttons all wonky. His eyes are wild and wandering over you. His hands are curled tight around your doorway, blood sapping away from his knuckles because he’s holding himself back so hard. 

You don’t care. He shouldn’t bother anymore. 

You make the first jolt toward him, and his face melts into awe.

Kyle’s lips, they taste like….

Fuck, you whine a little into his mouth. 

Like fucking rain. Like a dream. Like clouds and floating untethered.

But also corporeal, grounding. Like plain chapstick and a bit of toothpaste. They taste like fingers winding so deep into your hair and hips pushing at yours until you stumble into your living room. They taste like Kyle blindly kicking the door shut, like him pulling back with a gasp and being aglow with ardent moonlight, like him reading every little emotion on your face and shaking his head, mumbling a “fucking finally.” He tilts your head up a bit higher, swivels your face to the side so your moans bounce off the walls as he drags his tongue along your jawline, down the warm column of your throat. And then you lurch, eyes flying open as he bites into the crux of your neck and shoulder. 

“Kyle!” Your nails dig into his back, drag down and dig in again at the same tempo as his bite-pull-back-bite-again. And he does the same to the rest of your body, every little inch that gradually presents itself when the clothes come off. His lips and teeth wander without bias, but each time you try to speak he drags himself back up to your ear and shushes, soothes your concerns with mindless mutterings along the lines of “Just lemme—gimme a bit to—fuck, love” and “Need a bit of patience, darling. I’m tryin’ to play here.”

He controls every second of it. All of it. 

Like he wouldn’t stand for a single mistake. Like he needs you to know it’s worth it. 

The sun showers over him when he’s trembling, sweating, hovering over you, hands intertwined with yours, peppering your face with kisses despite his rapid chest rising and falling, when he finally collapses against you, around and inside and generally being everything he can to you in this moment. He’s bigger than the bed, bigger than the apartment, bigger than that bar and your world. 

Kyle’s smile, still charming and exhausted, is the last thing you see as he coos you to sleep. 

~~~~~~

Gaz has to bat your hand away from your phone for the seventh time. “Jus’ fuckin’ ignore it,” he hisses into your stomach. “Bloody fuckin’ thing ruinin’ this beautiful mornin’ we’re having.”

“It’s two in the afternoon.”

“Yeah, what about it?”

Despite your phone—Jeanne calling, apparently, because you’re three hours late to work, and you could’ve at least warned her you were going to be honeymooning off with the newly returned soldier boy (she’ll give you a sick day)—ruining the moment, it was still the best awakening he’s had in his adult life.

Maybe even better than birthday chocolate chip pancakes when he was a kid. 

No. Wait.

Definitely better.

He woke up to a soft caress against his cheek, found himself buried into your chest. Your breasts, as it turns out, are even more beautiful to begin his day with watching than any sunrise. 

He tore his gaze up higher and found you staring down at him, gentle smile on your lips. Your fingertips were tracing over his scars, thumbing at his lips every now and then. 

It’s not right that he hasn’t woken up like this before. Part of it makes him think he hasn’t really been living until right now, when he can’t think past your hot skin and plush thighs nuzzled close to his stomach. 

“Don’t mind this one bit, darling,” he’d said, dropping his head to feather his mouth over your belly button. “Can we stay like this forever?”

It’s genuine, and he can tell you know he means it because your cheeks turn pink. Surely it’s a lot for you in this moment. Your split-second decision last night was just that, and on his taxi ride over he’d worried himself over how you’d react the next morning. 

Your brows furrow, and your lips purse real tight while you think. 

Gaz’s trained himself to fear your thinking, but he holds off on distracting you from it now. Plays fair, even though he could be kissing his way down further and further until he could force a promise out of you; a gaspy, whiney one. 

But that wouldn’t do. He needs that rabbit brain of yours that likes to kick out and scurry away to agree with him for once, that yes, you want him to stay. You always will. 

And before he knows it, you’re cupping both sides of his face, drawing him up onto his forearms, making him crawl up your body until you press one long, hard kiss to his lips before muttering, “Yes. Let’s do it.”

Your thumbs swipe under his eyes, no doubt bothered by the dark circles, but the rumble of his voice as he praises you for giving in must tell you he’s gotten plenty of sleep. He made sure he did all of the work last night, had you follow each and every one of his commands to sit, stay, and let him take care of you, for fuck’s sake, or it’ll kill him.

All his energy, all that stamina was worked to the bone, and he feels like a puddle of goo against your form. He presses another kiss to your lips before trailing his way back down, nestling into your stomach while informing you that you’d make a damn good pillow every morning. 

~~~~~~

You’re certain nothing could ruin this moment. 

Kyle’s already back to snoring softly, little grumbles against the skin between your breasts, hands starfished at your thigh and lower back. He looks ten years younger curled up against you, the wrinkles of his face smoothed out through thorough exhaustion. 

Just seven hours ago he’d smiled at you, somehow more doting than the last, his skin dewed with sweat, and collapsed into your hold. He’d been content to run himself ragged, and now that he’s got you thoroughly trapped underneath his muscled, form, he seems intent on not moving an inch. 

His wounds still unnerve you. The bandages from yesterday could use a change, damp and wrinkled around his bare thigh and biceps. But from your position, your head leveraged on a pillow, you can see pale, ravaged skin from botched stitches and bullet holes. Uneven gouges and linear scrapes, wounds whose origins would surely pain you to listen to—most of all because he’d say it with such nonchalance. 

It’s hard to turn the sweet Kyle from the bar into this war-broken soldier before you, hard to combine them into one person and have it make complete sense. Like water and oil, the pair of them refuse to mix into one. 

You’re running the tip of your middle finger along one particularly horrifying line running diagonally down his nape when he wakes up again. His head lifts, and you let your hand slide with the movement until you’re cupping his cheek and he’s leaning into your hold. A wet kiss cools on the inside of your wrist when Kyle gets close enough. 

His limbs wrangle even tighter with yours. “What time is it now?”

“Two-thirty.”

His pretty brown eyes are locked on your face, a gentle roaming back and forth in rhythm with the slow strokes of his index finger against your knee. 

“Good. A few more hours and I’ll have kept you here all day. A personal record, one I’ll flaunt with honor.”

“We’ll have to get up at some point.”

“Maybe I’ll trap you here all week,” he ignores you, all serious consideration now. “I’ll have to check my rope supply.”

“You know, there are easier, less illegal ways to entice me into staying.”

“Don’t like riskin’ it with you.” He draws himself up and leans in, and you tilt closer to accept his peppering of kisses over your forehead, across your cheeks, down your jawline. “Each time I try to do it the nice way, you manage to slip away from me. Have to start playin’ for keeps now.”

You’re not sure if you love Kyle. 

You know you’re not quite in the same place as he is emotionally. But he certainly knows how to put you on the fast track to get there, and it starts with the way he cradles you closer—always a little bit closer—and nudges his nose just underneath your ear, releasing a sigh like touching you can make all the horrors, worries, fears slip away. Like you’re a magical woman. 

You feel like you’re made of magic, anyway. 

And you don’t regret any of the decisions you’ve made since calling him last night. Hell, since calling him that first time, when he was thousands of miles away, and all he wanted was more. 

~~~~~~

Gaz has a bad urge. A terrible one. Bloody fuckin’ day ruiner of an urge that has him peeling away and hiding out in your bathroom for too long after relieving himself. 

He’s staring at himself in the mirror while he dries off clean hands, investigating that dark mark you’d sucked into the side of his neck before he could untangle from you. 

Bad, bad, bad Gaz. 

It’s too soon. 

You don’t take “too soons” very well. Can’t handle them. 

But, well, biased as he is, Gaz thinks he looks more alive than he has in months. 

And all it was was you, injected into his veins and flowing back to his heart before being properly dispersed throughout the rest of his body, even distribution of needing you every hour of every day until he can’t even curl his toes without thoughts of you. 

No. He really, really shouldn’t.

He won’t.

Gaz steps out of your bathroom and fumbles his way through your apartment, following the sounds of humming and beeping. 

Almost blacks out at what he finds. 

You, bent over and retrieving a frying pan from your cupboards, rising up until your standing tall, wearing his goddamned shirt. The black cotton hugs your thick figure tight, but it’s too long, caps off somewhere near the tops of your thighs, lace panties barely twinkling at him just underneath

Fuckin’ Christ, bloody Jesus, Hell on a—

“Love,” he chokes on the word. “Darling. You’re killin’ me here, bunny.”

Fuck it. 

Seriously—fuck it. 

He’s gonna ask. It’s not too soon. Not for him. Not when it comes to you. 

You laugh a little. “Sorry. I know, I know, it’s too tight. But I was too lazy to find something else, so if you really want it back—”

“No.”

You pause, smile locked on your face. “Okay then. Good. Glad that’s settled. I’ll just keep making breakfast then.”

You’re on your tippy toes now, reaching high to the small pantry above your stove, fingertipping at a box of pancake mix. 

“Could you…?”

“Yeah.” He’s behind you in a matter of blinks, broad chest brushing your back before you can dart out of the way, even grasping your hip with one hand and passing you the box with the other. 

You take it from him with a fumbled thank you, the words stuttering their way out of your mouth as he swipes your hair back and behind your ear. “What’s on the menu, then, love?”

He can practically feel the current of chills slinking down your spine. He follows you, chest still against your back, step for step as you putter around, finding a whisk, a carton of milk, and… a bag of chocolate chips. 

Fuckin’ hell, don’t tell me.

“Pancakes. I’m adding chocolate chips because they’re my favorite, so don’t you dare bitch about—what, what is it?”

You palm at his forehead in confusion when he buries his face into your shoulder and groans. 

Fool. Bloody fuckin’ fool, dumbass bastard ruining everything after one goddamn night. It’s too damn soon. It’ll ruin everything.

“Love, I hafta—”

A cacophony of beeps cut through the air, and your attention slips to the microwave, where a cup sits aglow in the yellow light. 

“Sorry, that’s for my tea—”

He’s really doing this. 

Fuck it. 

Fuck. 

It.

“Move in with me.”

~~~~~~

Part 3

Nail Polish and Peer Pressure (Bakugou x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: You just wanted to paint your nails in his room, but Bakugou always had to throw a hissy fit. No matter; revenge can take many forms. 

A/N: Google searched “asshole synonyms” for this. I ain’t sorry. Not my best work, but I really wanted to write something, so please enjoy!

Word count: 1220

        “Hey, YN, thanks for the badass nail polish. It’s super manly!”

       “Of course Kirishima!”

       That ticked him off. Even his best friend had gotten his nails painted by you. The whole class was now writing, tapping, and gesturing with their painted nails however they could, and it was all thanks to your seemingly endless supply of that toxic shit. Bakugou was sick of it. 

       It all began a couple days ago, when the blond and you were hanging out in his own room.

                               ###

       “What the hell is that smell?” Your boyfriend sniffed the air with distaste, looking over from the computer he had been playing on. There you were, sitting on his bed with a bottle of polish precariously balanced on one thigh. The other leg was a makeshift surface on which you painted your nails maroon. 

       “Seriously?”

       “Seriously what?” you asked obliviously.

       “Get that nasty shit off my bed before you spill it!” he demanded, spinning around in his chair to face you. He glared at the bottle you innocently gestured at him.

       “What, this? You’re really that scared I’m gonna ruin your precious sheets with a little nail polish? C’mon Katsuki, I’m not that clumsy.” He scoffs at your obvious lie and raises a brow at you. You purse your lips and roll your eyes, giving in. “All right fine, you’re right! But I’ll be careful, I swear.” Following your plea, you throw out your best weapon imaginable: puppy dog eyes. 

       It was ineffective.

       “No, now close that shit before the stench becomes permanent.” He turns back to his computer without another word and returns to his game. 

       “Fine,” you stand up and walk over to his door, awkwardly trying to open with your elbows since your fingers weren’t exactly dry yet. “Then I’ll go do this elsewhere.”

       “Fine.”

                               ###

       Since then, you’ve been painting everyone in the class’s nails, even the guys. Just three days ago he had walked in on you adorning Deku’s hands with emerald green in the common area. Jealousy was his initial reaction, as all he could see was the small twerp’s hands near your lap as you giggled. Then it got worse to see his fingers resting on your thighs while you chatted and laughed together. 

       “YN!” Bakugou had shouted at you. You glanced up with wide eyes from your task, then recognized the look in your boyfriend’s eyes.

       “Oh calm down, Katsuki. It’s not like you were gonna let me paint your nails.” Bakugou almost exploded at your tone. “Besides, Izuku was just wondering what all the fuss was about. There’s nothing wrong with wanting pretty nails.” Those words combined with the fact that you had called that loser by his name pushed the blond over the edge. He was slowly being driven insane.

                               ###

       “Hey YN, some girls at the mall yesterday totally complimented my nails. Thanks again!” the bubbly gravity girl spouted. Bakugou’s arm tightened around your shoulder at the praise, and he snarled at the sight of disembodied hot pink nails floating into the classroom. 

       “I absolutely adore the sparkles you gave me, YN. You’re a goddess!” Aoyama praised next, twirling around and waving his hands in front of yours and Bakugou’s faces before dramatically falling into his seat. This was ridiculous. 

       Everyone, and he meant everyone in the classroom except for him had painted nails of all colors. “Oh, you gotta be kidding me,” the miserable future hero muttered as he watched Todoroki pass with red and white nails. “I’m gonna hurl.”

       He missed the smug smirk that grew on your face, and you swiftly kiss him on the cheek before separating and returning to your own desk just as the bell rang. 

       It was only a matter of time.

                               ###

       Deku stood over the bruised and beaten blond, shoving his painted hands in front of his face while laughing victoriously. “Well, well, well, looks like I finally beat you, Kacchan,” the green-haired boy boasted. Bakugou only groaned in pain on the hard asphalt of the street, unable to move as the bruises began to darken. 

       “I guess you could say it was all thanks to these,” he continued, flashing his emerald nails near Bakugou’s two black eyes. “Tell YN I’m grateful-”

       Bakugou sprang up from his bed in a cold sweat, gasping and feeling his body for any bruises, only to come up clean. “It was all a nightmare,” he groaned, ducking his head miserably into his hands. “This is fucking stupid.” And yet, why did he want to go to your room now? The pupil-burning red digits of his alarm clock told him it was too late; it was midnight. But he didn’t care. If Bakugou had one more stupid nightmare over fucking nail polish, he was going to lose it. 

                               ###

       “YN!” Who the hell? “YN, open up! Open the goddamn door, YN!” Your boyfriend. Of course. Checking your phone, you moaned at the time while slumping off your bed and onto the floor, worming your way to the entrance an enraged blond currently stood behind. 

       “Did you bring me food?” 

       “What? No-”

       “A stuffed animal?”

       “No! I-”

       “Then why in the goddamn fuck are you here at-” you whip open your door and glare into his crimson eyes, “the asscrack of dawn?” Your menacing whisper was challenged with a raised brow.

       “It’s only twelve.”

       “It’s only bedtime,” you mocked with a sneer. “What do you need?”

       “You need to paint my nails.” Oh, oh this was good. Who needed prank TV shows when you could have all this? You disguised your victorious expression by dropping your head and groaning dramatically. Sweet, sweet revenge was near, and you could almost taste that salty bitch. 

       “Fineeee. But wash your hands first.” He tried to object, but you cut him off with a wave of your hand. “I’m not painting over your crusty-ass sleep nails.” 

       “The fuck are ‘sleep nails’?” your blondy grumbled under his breath, but nonetheless made his way over to your bathroom. Trembling excitedly after watching him walk away, you swiftly texted the class group chat you had made a week ago with great news. 

You: U guys can remove ur nail polish now. Bakugou finally gave in ;)

Kaminari: Thank GODDD, I’m done with this yellow crap on my fingers

Kirishima: Me too, but at least we’ll finally get to see Bakugou with girly nails

Mina: Man, I’m gonna miss my pink sparkles!!

You: It’ll be worth it, trust me

       You set your phone down just as Bakugou turned off the lights in your bathroom, but the buzzing of notifications continued. 

       “What asshole is texting you at midnight?”

       “Probably the same kind of knucklehead that would yell at me through my door at midnight.”

       He scoffs before flopping down onto your bed beside you. “Whatever, let’s just get this over with.”

       “Wonderful.” Your eyes twinkle wickedly as you open your nightstand drawer, displaying a wide array of nail polishes even a rainbow would be jealous of. “So what color were you thinking?”