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

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

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

*GIFs not mine*

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

Word count: 1494

Todoroki Shouto:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bakugou Katsuki: 

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, even Bakugou has that setting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tokoyami Fumikage:

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“You look like Batman-”

“Go to sleep.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shigaraki Tomura: 

HAND MAN, HAND MAN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Still tickin’!”

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

Dabi: 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can’t do anything without his approval. 

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

… *sigh*

Yeah. Dabi flipped his shit. 

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

“I was just-”

“NO!”

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

(Two words. Fire. Rampage.)

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

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

It’s two bullet points long.

1. Go to the bathroom.

2. That’s it.

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

“Mhm, sure.”

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

aSiDe FrOm gOiNg tO tHe bAtHrOoM oF cOuRsE

Ignorance is Bliss (Bakugou x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: Confessing to you has turned into quite the hassle for Bakugou, as you seem to be totally oblivious to every single one of his ideas. From notes to jewelry, you don’t notice a single thing he tries to anonymously give you. Surely you weren’t that ignorant, were you?

A/N: I desire sleep. I just wanna sleep…. Anyways, here’s another Bakugou oneshot, because it’s just so easy to get ideas for him. This time, poor explody boy’s just confused. Again, thank you guys so much for the likes and follows, and please enjoy!

Word count: 3349

        To Bakugou you were… tolerable. However, in his case, those were pretty high marks. And it was because you were so tolerable that he found himself okay with the idea of hanging out with you more. He was fine with seeing you around after school, or maybe at the movies. Maybe even in his dorm room- okay, he was crushing on you. Hard. Hard enough that he found himself wanting to ask you out. 

        At first, Bakugou tried to ask for the annoying redhead’s help, but that didn’t work out so well. 

        “What about getting her candy and a teddy bear, and then telling her how you feel? Girls like that stuff,” Kirishima had innocently suggested.

        “What is she, five? Fuck no.” He shut down his sturdy friend instantly. After that, the blond had told his companion that he would figure it out on his own. If on his own meant he used Google. To be fair, it was the only other resource Bakugou could depend on at this point. So he searched up what girls like, and found a whole bunch of mumbo jumbo he didn’t really have the money for, but they were worth trying out anyway. The first thing on the list? Flowers. All right, he could afford that. 

        The next day, the blond hero-in-training barged into class much earlier than he ever had, even earlier than the loud-mouthed class captain, and plopped down a hefty bouquet of roses along with a small note attached saying who it was from in the middle of your desk. And then he waited. 

        When you finally showed up, Bakugou was practically snoring in his chair, reclined back with a small dribble of drool crawling down his chin. You didn’t greet him, but you never did, so that wasn’t unexpected. What was, however, was your reaction to his gift.

        “Who the fuck left their garden on my seat?” you exclaimed with disdain. The volume was loud enough to jumpstart the blond from his slumber. He furrowed his brows at your question, now wide awake. Here’s the thing, Bakugou knew you were a cusser. It was one of the few things he liked about you. But the fact that you had cussed at his gift... well, that kind of ticked him off. 

        “What’s wrong with them?” he demanded, but before you could respond, a loud sneeze echoed around the room. 

        Sniffing harshly, you untucked your face from your elbow and inspected the damage before replying, “I’m allergic to their pollen, dumbass.” Pinching the bouquet’s stems between your thumb and forefinger, you held it as far away from your face as you could while you carried it over to the trash. Bakugou’s voice stuck in his throat before he could try to stop you, so he could only watch in horror as you hovered the gift over the plastic bin. Watching his personal note work free from between two stems, the blond clenched his jaw and seethed silently when it gracefully floated to the bottom of the empty bin. 

        “Aww, YN, are you really throwing those roses away? They’re so pretty!” Uraraka spoke up, just then stepping into the classroom. She pouted sadly at the sight. 

        “Well, do you want them?” you offered, extending Bakugou’s gift towards her. 

        “Umm sure. I guess I’ll take them if you really don’t want them!” she agreed, accepting the bouquet and taking a whiff before thanking you. As you told her it was no problem, Bakugou curled his hands into fists and sneered. 

        “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

                                ###

        That night, the blond student consulted his old friend Google once more for advice, leering over his glowing laptop and scouring for anything that might help him woo you. “A poem, huh? Ugh, do girls really like that sappy shit?” You best believe he copied one of Shakespeare’s most popular pieces and dropped it off at your door signed with his name the next morning. Plagiarism be damned, he really wanted to go out with you. After watching the love note flutter to the ground face-down, he quickly knocked on your door and rushed away, peeking out from the wall of another hallway while he waited for you to answer. 

        “Okay, who the fu- what the hell?” you wondered aloud, whipping open your door and angrily peering out only to see no one. Glancing around, your eyes finally spotted the white paper on the floor. Lifting it up, you observed the backside of the note with a scrunched nose. Shrugging dismissively, you crumble up the slip of paper with both hands while grumbling under your breath, “Fucking litterers,” before throwing the ball into the trash can outside your door. After you returned inside your room, Bakugou came out from behind the wall and stared at where you had stood, totally and utterly dumbfounded. Were you really that stupid? Surely you were kidding with him, right? You didn’t seriously just throw away his love letter after only looking at the blank side, did you?

        Shaking his head, Bakugou abruptly remembered that yes, you have done dumber things. Just thinking off the top of his head, he could remember many incidents where you completely amazed him with your own idiocy before he ever thought much of your presence. For example, one time you had been so tired that you had run into the wall directly next to Class 1-A’s entrance, then proceeded to yell at it, “Move dumbass!” So yes, yes he could believe you had just thrown away his confession note obliviously. Bakugou shook his head at the memory before rubbing his temples, walking back to his own room to plot yet another tactic of confession.

                                ###

        Google was a godsend, and had provided him with the perfect gift. Jewelry! How had he completely managed to forget how much women love jewelry. Over the weekend, Bakugou had managed to convince Kirishima to buy him a necklace for you, one that was “your style.” In the end, his redheaded classmate arrived at school on Monday with a silver heart encasing a crimson stone on a metal chain. After silently thanking Kirishima with a small nod, Bakugou couldn’t help the small curl of the corners of his mouth while he lifted the locket up to glimmer in the fluorescent light of the classroom. His hard-headed companion, however, seemed a little disappointed in the gift. 

        “Look dude, I really don’t think YN is going to like that. She’s not really that kind of girl,” Kirishima insisted, a little concerned at how his friend would react if yet another confession plan failed. 

        “Trust me, this time I’ll get her. Plus, you know how all women love jewelry, it’s foolproof,” Bakugou assured his friend with a smirk eyes still set on the necklace. Patting Kirishima on the chest, the blond gestured for him to observe as he set down the necklace on your desk and made his way back, both preparing to watch your reaction. The redhead pursed his lips and bit them anxiously while his friend squinted with impatience. Finally, you entered the classroom and Bakugou had to hold back a fist pump. After all, he wasn’t victorious yet. Sitting down in your seat, you didn’t appear to notice the necklace, and the blond flinched harshly when you ignorantly dropped your bag on top of it. An apologetic hand settled onto his shoulder, and Bakugou was too stunned at your utter obliviousness to things right in front of you to shrug off Kirishima. 

                                ###

        He had watched you all day in class, and nothing. You hadn’t acknowledged the necklace at all, and you didn’t even notice when your notebook had accidentally pushed it off the table. The future hero’s eye twitched and his hands began to tingle in irritation. You had to be screwing with him! How ignorant could you be? 

        It wasn’t until after school when he discovered you had, in fact, noticed the necklace, but for all the wrong reasons. Miserably dragging his feet to his room, he had passed the common area, only to hear your heart-stopping voice. Halting in his tracks, he backtracked until he could see you and the pink freak standing in the middle of the room and conversing. Eavesdropping slightly, he leaned his head in to hear better. 

        “Oh YN, that’s so cute,” Ashido gushed, holding her hands to her cheeks as she observed the necklace you held in between the two of you. “Who gave it to yo-”

        “How much do you think it could sell for?” you asked distractedly, scrutinizing the gem in the center of the silver heart before peering back up at your classmate curiously. 

        “Well, i-isn’t it a gift?” she replied, her usually bright voice dropping with a lilt of uncertainty.

        “I don’t know,” you shrugged casually, “I just found it lying around.” Umm, no. Bakugou vividly remembered setting it down quite obviously in the center of your desk. Maybe you needed a nice, new pair of glasses. That could be his next gift. 

        Mina shifted excitedly from foot-to-foot with her hands folded in front of her heart before enthusiastically suggesting, “Well, why don’t you just keep it? It is really pretty!” 

        Pursing your lips, you looked at her with an “are you serious” face before promptly responding, “Because it’s not mine, duh. That would be rude, Mina.” 

        Distractedly peering back down at the necklace, you made your way to the exit of the common area with Ashido bewilderedly shouting after you, “And selling it isn’t?!” 

                                ###

        In a last ditch effort to grab your attention and confess, Bakugou made his way to the mall and searched for a clothing store you seemed to absolutely adore. On many of your clothes resided the word “Pink,” and the blonde student could distantly remember his mom always dragging through malls and passing by a shop with the exact same name. 

        Now, as he stood in front of the bright, highly feminine store, he couldn’t help but sneer disgustedly at its neighbor. Shuddering (and blushing) at the sight, he stepped into the original store, only to bare his teeth at the sight of the one register being in the connecting room. In that store. Bakugou groaned aloud, attracting attention from most of the customers and workers in the area. Snarling back at them, the blond continued to his original goal, wandering into the other, darker half of the shop. 

        “Why the hell are they the same store?!” he muttered to himself with a grossed out expression, all while keeping his head low to avoid staring at the rather lewd clothing around him. Although, it seemed unavoidable at a certain point when Bakugou accidentally ran into a table, looking up to find his path once more only to make eye contact with string. That’s it, he swore that’s all it was. Just… string. What the hell is that gonna do?! His face burned at the sight and he clenched his jaw tightly, searching for the checkout area so he could finish his business and get the hell out of this place. 

        At last, he reached his destination and slammed his palms down on the counter, causing the cashier to flinch with frightened eyes. “Gimme a Pink gift card. Twenty-five dollars,” Bakugou demanded harshly. The girl in front of him instantly lost her patience at the order, and she had to force on a fake smile before replying. 

        “Sorry sir,” her voice was snide. “We only have Victoria’s Secret gift cards here.”

        “Whatever, just give me a damn card,” he barked, shoving the cash into her hands. The teen boy was growing seriously uncomfortable in this place, and he despised that feeling. 

        “Here you go. Have a nice day!” the worker sarcastically chimed, beaming at how anxious he appeared. His lip curled at her tone and he grumbled under his breath as he navigated his way out of the vulgar store. 

                                ###

        Bakugou’s hands trembled as he set down the card on your desk. He was still shaken up over that stupid store, but whenever Kirishima asked him about it, he just shook off the question, mumbling about how he didn’t want to talk about it. Crashing down into his desk, Bakugou miserably shoved his chin into his hands, resting over the surface and waiting impatiently for you to see his gift. He wasn’t stupid this round. In a brightly colored, anonymous card, the blond had written about how he liked you and how he wanted you to buy yourself something nice. It was a genius plan, as now he didn’t have to worry about buying you something. Oh man, if only he had put his damn name on it. 

        When you walked into the chattering classroom and sat in your seat, you inspected the card thoroughly, even poking at it with your goddamn pencil. What the hell? Either way, when you finally opened it like a big girl and watched the special gift card drop unceremoniously onto your desk, you didn’t make a sound. You just… stared. You were totally silent, breathing evenly with a blank face as you inspected the card like it had the secrets to the world. Evidently, you didn’t want to know those secrets, as you abruptly pushed up out of your chair, ever-so gracefully banging it into the desk behind you. Your eyes were dark and unreadable, and you hair acted as a curtain around your face while your fingers braced against the desktop. It was like you were burning the hot pink words printed on the gift card into your brain. 

        Finally, you looked up and stared ahead at the teacher’s board while your face slowly grew enraged. “Mineta, you little creep! I’m gonna kick your ass!” Bakugou jumped at your outburst, observing shakily as you swiftly turned your head to the pint-sized, purple student in the corner of the room. As a result, the little squirt screamed in terror and ran away. You chased him out of the room, and Bakugou couldn’t help but bite his lip tentatively while staring blankly at where you had stood. 

        Kirishima, also shaken by your sudden outburst, made his way over to his best friend’s desk, glancing at yours along the way. Spotting what had made you so upset, the redhead groaned and dragged a hand down his face while shaking his head. “Seriously, Bakugou, Victoria’s Secret? That was your genius idea?” The blond nodded in a daze. “If she ever finds out,” he continued, “she’s going to murder you.” Bakugou could only nod in agreement, still shocked at your reaction to the gift. Was it really that perverted? 

        Helplessly, he stares up at his friend with desperation dripping from his face, whispering a small, “Help me.” Kirishima beams brightly at the admission, placing his hands on his hips.

        “Finally willing to listen, huh?”

        “Don’t push it.” Bakugou massages his temples, exhausted from the week's events. 

        “Don’t you worry, buddy. I have the perfect idea.”

                                ###

        There was still a small, minuscule chance that Kirishima was wrong, right? Bakugou could care less at this point, he just wanted to confess to you. You were strong, stubborn, loud-mouthed, arrogant, and infuriating. He loved it. Ever since you had insulted him back and then proceeded to kick his ass almost beat him up during a training session, he had fallen for you. Which was why he had gone to such lengths for you. He wanted to get you the perfect gift to return all the fuzzy, totally lame feelings you had given him. And apparently, according to Kirishima, a little bunny stuffed animal and a box of chocolates were the best way to begin to do that. The redhead had claimed that gifts wouldn’t make any girl, especially you, fall in love with him instantaneously. Bakugou was doubtful, but according to how all his previous plans had crashed and burned into one spectacularly extravagant trainwreck, he had no room to judge. 

        While letting those thoughts run rampant in his head, the normally tumultuous hero-in-training stood silently in front of your door, awkwardly waiting for you to answer after he had painfully knocked on it with his forehead. What was he supposed to do; his hands were chock full of stuffed rabbit and chocolates. Breathing a sigh of relief when the door opened to reveal you with a soft, sly smile, he shoved his new gifts towards you. 

        “I like you,” he mumbled apprehensively, looking to the side to prevent you from seeing his flushed cheeks. You could barely hear him, but you knew. Oh yeah, you definitely knew. 

        “Took you long enough,” you teased, hugging the presents to your chest. “No offense, but your other gifts were shit. Oh, aside from this.” Fiddling with the heart necklace and giving him a lopsided grin, you tossed the bunny and the chocolates onto your bed behind you before grabbing him by his wrists and tugging him inside, him stumbling in after you with a dropped jaw. “Speaking of, if you really want me to buy new lingerie, I’ll bring you along next time.” You laughed cheekily as Bakugou’s cheeks grew a darker shade of red, and he muttered at you to shut up. 

                                ###

        Bakugou’s arm tightened around your shoulder as you pushed open the door to the classroom, giggling at his deadpan joke while the corner of his mouth quirked up at your bright smile. Directing you to your seat, he released your shoulder and groaned while dropping your bag to the ground. “Ugh, why is that thing so heavy?” he whined, glaring at the weighted object. Laughing at his pain, the pair of you suddenly tense up at a smaller presence behind you. Instantaneously, the both of you grow pissed, you whipping around and glaring while Bakugou wraps his arm around your waist possessively. 

        “What do you want, pipsqueak?” your boyfriend hissed at Mineta. 

        The shorter male’s eyes widened and he took a barely noticeable step back before standing tall once more and proudly announcing, “YN, I was hoping you’ve come to your senses today and realized that you have wrongfully blamed me for a despicable, unthinkable action!” Well, he wasn’t exactly wrong, but that didn’t mean you wanted to admit defeat. Especially to him. Sneering and opening your mouth to respond, the little grape lifted a finger to pause you and continued, “I will, however, forgive you in exchange for a generous kiss.” Ignoring your disgusted look, Mineta closed his eyes and puckered his lips, only to open them once more at the sound of explosions. 

        Bakugou’s grip on your side was practically bruising, while his other hand was raised with an eruptive display for all to see. Snarling ferociously, the blond’s voice was gruff and threatening as he lowly warned, “You better get a head start while you can. I’m gonna beat your ass, you little creep.” Bakugou’s scarlet eyes were glaring nastily at Mineta, and if looks could kill,... well, you know the rest. The purple-haired pervert stumbled back a couple steps before he whimpered and spun around on his toes, hightailing it out of the classroom. Bakugou smiled at the sight and turned to brush his lips against yours. You placed your hand on the back of his neck to hold him there for a couple seconds, gently nibbling on his lower lip before finally pulling away. The tingles his soft kiss left behind compelled you to keep your eyes and revel in the waves of pleasure they evoked. You were content, at least until a loud bang ripped your eyes open. It was the door to the classroom swinging open as you saw the blond hair of your boyfriend disappear into the hallway. 

        “You purple son of a bitch!”

        Wincing at the roar, you hesitantly sat at your desk, sucking air through your teeth and fiddling with the silver locket around your neck.  “Oopsies.”

“Can I sit on you(r face)?” (Haikyuu!! Fake Texts)

(Middle Blocker Version) Part 2

A/N: Part two cuz apparently you can only put so many damn pics in one post🙄 Enjoy! (Side note: Suna’s was just Kuroo’s reject, but I didn’t wanna exclude him from the group😤 nobody frickin’ told me the dude only had like a minute of screen time tho?!)

Kuroo, Aone, Tendou

Look Me in the Eyes (Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: During naval training, your jet crashed and burned, taking your memories with it. But the lieutenant who saved you seems to know you better than he lets on. The only issue is that he refuses to tell you his name.

A/N: pfft half yall don’t read this anyway so imma just say rooster’s hot, oreosmama out *drops mic*

Word count: 3345

It’s not the pervading scent of antiseptic and boredom that has carved its way into your skin, nestling deep into the creases of your brow and your sneering upper lip—

It’s his unflinching gaze.

The lieutenant hovering over you, with a spoonful of green, gelatinous “dinner” posed over your lips, mumbles, “Open the hatch, the F-18 needs to land.” 

He’s a staunchly built man ornamented in the same naval jacket he’d been wearing when you first came-to in the hospital room, his lofty shoulders embellished in unfamiliar patches. Over the last two days, most of which have consisted of him lording himself over you or sitting back in the chair beside your bed, his five o’clock shadow has thickened, and the wrinkles underneath his teasing eyes darkened a shade.

The F-18 bumps against your sneer, and he chortles to himself. 

You know why you’re here. 

Well, sort of.

You know that it must’ve hurt. Like a falling-unconscious-due-to-pain kind of hurt. Black and blue splotches paint your temple and upper left cheek, and each time you force a smile, it aches. The rest of your body looks the same. In the first shower you’d been allowed, you twisted and turned as much as your burning abdomen could handle and had come to the conclusion that you were glad you didn’t remember much of what had happened.

The only real issue was that you didn’t remember much of anything. 

The story you had been told was haphazardly crafted, not unlike if a toddler had drawn a house with crayons and passed it to you, insisting it looked exactly like the one you lived in. 

It goes something like this: you were flying your jet when the engine stalled, and when you ejected, your head smacked against the windshield. You were lucky—you were unconscious when you had crumpled in on yourself, snapping five of your ribs like pencils, and when you’d landed on the ground, face in the dirt—you were so, so lucky. 

But the lieutenant says differently. 

When he found you, you were awake. You were echoing his name into the stagnant desert air, screaming and sobbing in ways that still keep him up at night. 

You know because he sleeps with folded arms on the edge of your mattress, and he rattles the metal skeleton each time he flinches. And the times when he thinks you’re too buried in exhaustion and slumber, his hand finds yours, fingertips light as air against your skin.

These are the only times the lieutenant bares that part of himself to you. 

In the mornings, when you can look him in the eyes and see the guilt buried underneath, he winces a smile onto his lips and asks if you remember anything yet. 

You don't.

And he winces again. “Back to the drawing board, huh?”

The lieutenant is a nice-enough man when he wants to be. The only issue is that he doesn’t seem to want to be. 

“Tell me your name,” you snipe, dangling over the precipice of flinging Jell-O across the room. 

This is a game he never wants to play, despite how often he wins. He has the whole naval base’s hospital staff refer to him as Sir or Lieutenant-no-last-name, and each time you ask, he’ll give you the same response.

“You know my name.” 

You don't. He’s a complete stranger. He can hold you hand and feed you Jell-O and help you hobble to the bathroom; he can brush the hair from your sweat-crusted face in the mornings and, on some rare occasions where he thinks he’s woken up before you, he’ll graze a feather-soft kiss on your bruised temple.

And you still haven't got a clue. 

Because whoever the lieutenant is, the tight grip he has on your heart is completely foreign to you. It’s a grip that says you and him aren’t just something definable—you were a we in this life; the pair of you have formed a way of living in tandem, your own intrinsic tango to which nobody else knows the steps. It’s not just like or a passing fancy. It’s not just hot static running through veins. 

This is fully fledged; this is oxygen now. The rise and fall of your chest is the rise and fall of his. The absence of it must be suffocating. 

So you don't know why he doesn’t like this game. He makes a question-answer into a back-and-forth, and then he winds and winds you up until you’re ready to snap. 

It’s not fair. God, it’s not fair. You deserve to know his name. Doesn’t he know it’s not just a tickle in the back of your mind anymore? If he was the one whose name you were screaming, didn’t you deserve to know what it was?

“Why do you keep doing this?” 

You watch his lips purse, the color bleeding out of them and into pink patches on his neck and cheeks. The spoon rattles against the tray, and the glob of green wavers in its curve. He refuses to hold your gaze like always. Self-inflicted torment disguises itself as burnt-sienna irises. The life you’ve forgotten is bowing his shoulders, and your crash, no matter the fact that he saved you, is eating away at him. 

Then the lieutenant smiles, in the fractured way—the way someone might laugh at a funeral. 

“Because knowing my name wouldn’t help you. You never called me by it, anyway.”

This, oh God—this is the closest you’ve ever gotten, and you’re still wading in the darkness. A name you’d never even call him by, what a wonder that does to your psyche. 

A name was a start; it was a first impression. There was a lot in a name. 

So you’d never called him by his name… so what?

So what, only lovers knew each other by more than a name? So what, he never called you by yours? So what, you didn’t want to ever call him by his name, never felt the urge, but felt it was rather proper considering you didn’t know what to call him at all?

He keeps you doggy-paddling for it.

The hospital room is polluted with silence for the rest of the night. Slowly, you finish the Jell-O as he sits back in his chair, watching, yet not quite seeing you. You missed when his staring felt like a buzzing fly. Now it’s a thunderstorm hanging over you, foggy and dampened, and you’re struck every few seconds with a shiver. 

He doesn’t reach out for your hand when you pretend you’ve fallen asleep. Twenty minutes past lights out, he stands and heads into the bathroom, slowly creaking the door closed and locking it before the shower faucet turns on and stays on for a long, long time. 

Where his hand should be is where he laid his jacket, one sewn patch erroneously rough against your palm. With another glance at the light underneath the bathroom door, you haul the leather jacket up into your lap, tracing the ridges and folds. You trails your fingertips along the jacket, searching for… something. Anything. 

Cold metal, a zipper slips underneath your fingers, and you sit up straighter despite the outcry of pain in your ribs. 

A pocket, and inside is a small plastic card—his ID. 

That, and a small, velvet box. 

No…

No, you won’t open it. 

No, no, because he shouldn’t even have that here. 

Why—dear God—why did he have that here?

It’s not for you. That’s for sure. You don’t even want to open it. No.

It’s not yours. It’s not yours to have, especially since he hasn’t offered it to you, and it’s not yours to wear, and it’s not yours to look at, to watch, iridescent, crystal devotion reflecting the moonlight from the room’s lone window. 

But when you lift the cover and curse the stars that the man whose name you don’t even know knows you so well, knows how beautiful it is in your eyes, and even worse, how well it fits on your finger, you know it’s yours. 

Well, not yours. 

It’s hers. The one before the crash’s. 

That’s her ring on your finger, and that’s her lieutenant grieving in the bathroom. 

This is her life, not yours. All you own anymore is the absence pulsing in your chest. 

You own the spasms in your veins, the brief and lasting panic of who am I, really?, the deficiency of life and past and love; the frail hold on this reality, on that man, on this ring. 

The rest is not yours, so you should let it go. 

Then, ideally, you should be able to float away, free from these junctions to a girl you don’t know. The man who loves her loves your face. He loves your body, and your voice, and each of the words falling from your lips, perhaps in the wrong order, yes, but he’ll rearrange them in his mind so that it matches hers.

Ideally. 

Ideally, it’s not this drowning feeling, a weight like a hand pressing hard against your chest, shoving you deeper and deeper under the current. She’s the one who breathes, not you. You don’t need to breathe. You’re an accident in this world. 

The I.D. slips from your grasp and falls to the floor. 

You’ve read it. You saw the name, the rank, the naval symbol. In the dim moonlight and the single glowing strip underneath the bathroom door, his not-really-a-smile smiles up at you from the vinyl floor. 

And now you see it, chrome duct tape peeling off the jagged stitches of a patch, the one over his heart. Another of his games: his missing call sign. 

It… fits him. Strangely enough. 

Is this what you called him?

The hospital room floods with a subdued yellow light carried out by the steam of the lieutenant’s shower. He emerges with a towel wrapped around his lower body, a sheen of wet on his cheeks you’re not certain was caused by the shower. 

Like you, this is his third shower in this room, but unlike him, he’s not wearing a smirk when he exits, bare feet padding along the cold tiles. He doesn’t spare you a glance while he pilfers through his black duffle bag, the one seated on the only other guest chair in the room—the one that never moves. 

Maybe it was a good thing he didn’t look, because you hadn’t thought to take off the ring. It was a plan as half-baked as when you’d first decided to put it on. Some barbaric, frenzied part of you, the same one that had slipped it on and hugged it close to your heart, refused to yank it off. It was another you—not her nor you, but a new one that had fallen in love with him, Rooster, without memory or qualms, the one that had no issue with him lingering in every corner of your mind; no, in fact, she preferred it.

You don’t listen to her when the lieutenant pivots back to face you, a fresh pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and the rest sourced from the duffel bag in tow, one fist curled into his towel at his waist. His eyes land on yours, and your fingers slicken with the sweat of your palms, tremble like the thumps beneath your ribcage. 

At the worst moment possible, you notice, in the hazy yellow light of 10:07 PM, that Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw’s eyes are achingly akin to whiskey. It’s the dark, thick kind that coats your tongue and hits you five seconds after you sip it like a freight train; heady, terribly intoxicating, and in large doses, coaxes out the worst side of yourself at an even worse moment. 

The ring clinks against the bed’s metal framework before shuddering against the tile floor, and his eyes leave yours to watch it rattle. The skin of your left ring finger burns from the swift twisting and tugging you’d employed in a state of tipsy panic—your plan had been to slip the ring unnoticed beneath his leather jacket, the same place you’d stuffed the velvet box. 

A breath tears itself out of the lieutenant’s chest. Tan skin rises and falls once, and his grip goes white-knuckle on his towel. 

Then he pads back toward the bathroom without a word and disappears behind the slammed door. Somehow, in some terrible way, it is even harder to breathe with him not in the room after that. 

But he bursts through the door a second later, completely negligent of the violent pacing of your heart, donned in clothes wrinkled and stretched in odd places from frantic dressing. He covers the distance with three long strides and slackens back into the plastic hospital chair, the heavy creases under his eyes never having looked so deep-seated. 

You see it now. The damage this whole experience has done to him. He’s been hollowed out, rigorously gutted to the point that one last revelation might finally crack him in half and let the despair pour out. 

You’re afraid to tell him all that you don’t know. That even though you had slid that ring on and off your finger, you still don’t know him. But, God, you want to tell him that you love him, despite knowing it won’t be enough. It’s not even enough to you, and it’s all that you have. 

Usually, he wears this sheen layer of tenderness over his face; it slips off every night when you close your eyes, and he smooths it back on in the mornings in the mirror. Some days he layers it on so thick you never even notice the grief hidden underneath. 

It must have gotten too heavy to bear. 

The silence hangs just as heavy. He runs both hands down his face, pressing hard enough that his skin emerges pink, and folds his hands, knocking them against his lips. Veins in his eyes grow redder by the second, and your heart begins a slow crawl up your throat at the watery levels of his eyelines, waiting to spill. The ring sits on the floor untouched. 

“Do you,” he faltered, clearing his throat. “Do you… remember anything?”

He’s looking at you so intensely that your skin is searing. Shame washes over you, grasping your shoulders and burying you deeply into its chest. You want to cry. 

“Nothing.”

The lieutenant stares at you a second longer, stretching it out until you’re trembling. Then he looks away, down, before reaching and retrieving the ring from the ground. He observes it for just a second, the way it glimmers in night’s imperfect lighting, and his eyes squeeze shut.

Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw, you’ve learned, will draw things out until the perfect moment has come. He will wait until the ache swells and culminates, with a tolerance so inexhaustible you wonder if, in all your time loving him, you ever bothered to wait up. He’s noticed how the darkness has swallowed both of you wholly, and only now does he offer reprieve. 

Bradley tells you your name.

And he tells you that he’s been in love with you since the first second he saw you. 

He tells you that he can’t bear the thought of losing all that you’d had, and that his world had been crumbling apart before his own goddamned eyes ever since your jet’s engine had sputtered and died. He tells you that he’s so, so fucking sorry he couldn’t save you, sorry that your life ever got entangled so messily with his in the first place, and even more sorry that he’s so useless to help you find your way back, that you can’t seem to find your way back to him. 

And when you began to cry, he bolted up from his seat and held you, whispering apologies into your hair, and you cried a little harder, because you had found your way back to him, but he wouldn’t ever care, because it wasn’t the same path you’d taken before. 

You cry because it hurts to hold him, and even more because it hurts him to hold you. You want all of the I-love-yous he’s ever said to be for you, and you want that damned ring too. 

You want that goddamn ring on your finger right now because he’d promised you that it would be yours. That first moment he’d ever seen you, stumbling drunk in a crowded Hard Deck and spilling his beer half on his Hawaiian shirt, half on yours, that he’d make up for it by putting a spendy ring on your little finger right there, despite not actually knowing where right there was. The only one I’ll ever buy, he’d hiccuped, it’ll be yours, darlin’. 

“Rooster,” you croaked into his chest. “Roo.”

A provoked sob tore from your throat, your arms and ribs aching from how tightly you clung to him, even after he froze. You surfaced from the curve of his shoulder, hands sliding past his sides, over his thrumming chest, and up to cradle his damp jawline before drawing his face down to yours. He mumbled your name, whiskey eyes potent as ever, and you smothered the rest of his question against your lips. 

You couldn’t tell who was crying anymore. Your cheeks’ dampness was his, just the same as his lips pressed against yours so harshly, so numbingly you couldn’t quite tell where yours ended and his began. It must have been somewhere close to where his tongue met yours, making up for lost time as he fought hard and fiercely for everything he’d been starved of for three, going on four, unbearable days. His hands left their leverage against the bed and latched onto your hips, rough fingertips familiarly caressing the soft slopes of your sides, and when you offered an airy moan to him, he accepted eagerly with a tightening grip. 

You separated from him with a small cry, ribs twinging. Bradley pulled away in horror, and his dilated pupils struggled to sober up to join. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, larger hands now grappling at yours and trying to remove your grasp. “You need—ice, I’ll go get you some ice–”

“Roo, no,” you mumbled, refusing to let go of him. 

He paused, and his body shivered under your touch. The familiarity of his name from your mouth seemed as comforting to him as it was to you. His lips twitched and curled, and he breathed a small sigh. The hard lines of his face grew tender as he slid his hands down to your wrists, turning and pressing a kiss to each palm. 

His heart jumped and throbbed against your fingertips, and you had no doubt he could feel the same from yours. The heat of his damp cheeks had grown infinitely warmer under your touch, and for all the nights you’d spent with just a grasp on his hand, the change was more and more welcome. 

“Don’t leave me again,” he pleaded against the skin of your palm, voice thick and bittersweet, like honey seeping through your ears. “I don’t think I can handle that again.”

He steeled himself against your mattress with one hand when you tugged his forehead down against yours, lips just whispering against one another. You smiled. 

“Was it all the Jell-O that did you in, or…?”

“Yeah, actually,” he nodded, tongue pressed against his cheek. “It was. I hope you know we’re never having Jell-O in our house ever again.”

“Not even lime?”

“Especially lime.”

You huffed, “Fine.” You pulled away, despite how desperate Bradley was to follow you. He let you fall back against the pillows with your hand still in his grasp, and he settled onto the edge of the mattress, letting his spare hand find home in the pliant skin of your thigh. Your eyes rose to the ceiling. “But it’ll cost you.”

Soft lips brushed the back of your left hand before cold metal slipped around your finger. “One of these?”

“Exactly.”

Bradley hummed. “Gladly.”

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

*GIF not mine*

Summary:

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

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

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

Word count: 8261

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he’s noticed a couple things about you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fucking music, surely. 

“I’ll go get it—”

Not yet. I need more time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that’s not what happens. 

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

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

Gaz panics. 

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

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

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

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

Meanwhile, Gaz… 

He has a question. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’ll find a way. 

He always does. 

~~~~~~

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

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

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

Mornings like this is where he fights fire with fire. 

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

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

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

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

Drunk Gaz, though….

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

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

It has the same effect. 

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

Gaz’s heart thump-thump s forcefully.

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

Fuckin’ hell. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuckin’. Hell. 

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

“Are you included in all that?”

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

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

That, or he still looked smashed from last night.

You dodge his question completely.

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

“Kyle.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck. 

Gaz wants to kiss you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gaz sighs. “What’s next on the menu?”

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

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

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

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

“Good feeling,” you nod. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s okay with manipulating you that much. 

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

“What are you gappin’ to?”

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

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

And he thinks he’s nailed it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jeanne likes to go hiking. 

Jeanne likes to swim. 

Jeanne loves nights out. 

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

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

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

He plans to change that. 

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

So you’re talking about him. 

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

“Special forces?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Five minutes too late, it seems. 

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

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

Trapped. That’s what he is.

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

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

Like taming a wild animal. 

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

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

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

~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he thought you loved cold weather?

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

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

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

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

He misses so many things from home. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Being here has changed something in him. 

Nothing big—all small things, in fact. 

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

Do they sell your perfume in the UK?

It’s not a huge thing if they don't. 

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

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

Gaz can’t quite make it make sense. 

Home is good. Hell, he misses it. 

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

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

Bullshit. 

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~

“YN.”

Nothing.

“YN.”

Still nothing.

“YN!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he gets here, sees you. 

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

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

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

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

See—wasn’t so hard, was it?

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

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

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

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

The same one that keeps him barking. 

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

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

You huff a sigh. “No.”

“Husband?”

You roll your eyes. “No.”

“Lesbian?”

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

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

“You’re unbelievable.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“YN…”

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

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

“You hate camping.”

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

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

“Kyle…”

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

“Peaches,” you mumble. He nods.

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

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

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

He needs a promise before he leaves. Something. 

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

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

“I thought you were just…”

Fuck. 

Gaz shakes his head.

Fuck. 

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

He tips his head back, locking onto the ceiling. 

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

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

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

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

No. 

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

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

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

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

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

A bloody fool. That’s what he is. 

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

What a fuckin’ sod he is. 

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

You not knowing he exists. 

Him having never met you.

The ideas make him sick. 

But Gaz…

Gaz is a planner. Above all else. 

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

“Your phone.”

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

“What?”

“Let me give you my number.”

“Kyle… that’s not a good idea.”

“Don’t care, love.”

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

Kyle (Hot Guy from the Bar) Garrick. 

His phone number. 

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

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

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

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

“Woo you?”

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

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

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

~~~~~~

Part 2

You are literally an amazing writer!!

Thank you so much, you're so sweet!! I'm so glad you like my work! (I promise I'm trying to get better so just u wait!!)

Author babe.....🥺 your angst.....has feed me well😭

Oop😳 I’m glad you like them so much🥺💜

Avatar: The Last Airbender/Legend of Korra Masterlist

☔ = Angst

🌦️ = Angst to Fluff

💥 = Crack

☀️ = Fluff

💋 = Smut

🖤 = Yandere

🔔 = Request

🟪Imagines🟪

Sokka:

■  Baby Fever 🔔💋☀️

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

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

Zuko: 

■  Hot With Envy 🔔🖤💋

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

Warnings: Possessive sex, dirty talk, vaginal sex

~~~~~~~~~~~~

🟣Headcanons🟣

Mako with Dragon!Hybrid Airbender Reader 🔔🌦️

Yandere Desna and Eska Headcanons 🔔🖤

Yandere Ozai Headcanons 🔔🖤(slight 💋)

Yandere Sokka Headcanons 🔔🖤

Yandere Zuko Headcanons 🖤

You Come Home Injured (Yandere BNHA Headcanons)

*GIFs not mine*

A/N: Another yandere post?? Hell yeah. Don’t know why, just been in the mood for some obsessive boys🤷‍♀️ Hope you like it!

BNHA Tag List (bc that’s a thing now whoop whoop🥳): @your-filled-with-determination​

Word count: 1544

Bakugou Katsuki:

Blood poured from your lip and dribbled down your chin. Your jaw ached and your ribs whined with each of your movements as you pushed open the front door, almost collapsing just as you made it inside. 

“YN?” Bakugou’s angered voice thundered from the kitchen. “Where the hell have you been?”

Even speaking was too much effort as your mind fogged, forcing you to slump into the nearest chair. The sofa felt so… so soft. 

Maybe a small nap wouldn’t hurt. 

“YN?” Loud thumps came closer and closer before a blurred form stood in the entryway of the living room. “YN!”

“Katsuki…” You struggled to keep conscious, head lolling to the side every few seconds as Bakugou’s eyes widened. 

Your state was horrific. Body littered in bruises, he couldn’t tell exactly what blood spatters came from where. You looked like you were dead on your feet. “No, no, no! Who did this?”

His teeth grinded as he struggled to caress your cheek as tenderly as possible. Hot, fiery rage lit up the pit of his stomach, almost travelling to his hands before he stopped himself from exploding just next to your face. 

“I’m…” you could barely keep your eyes open, “...so tired. I wanna take a nap.”

“No, YN, stay with me! You’re gonna be fine!” Crimson eyes were aflame with a worry you’d never seen before mixed in with the normal fury you were used to. “I’ll kill whoever did this to you! I swear!”

Bakugou could only watch as you finally gave into exhaustion, head dropping back onto the top of the sofa before your body relaxed completely. 

Angry. Angry at you for getting into this mess. Angry at the man who thought he could live after doing such a thing. And angry at himself for never trusting his gut and locking you away for good. 

Pressing a shaky kiss to your cheek, Bakugou rose from his crouch at your side and glanced toward the door. He knew what he had to do. 

The next day, you were in the hospital being treated for your wounds. Of course, they asked what happened and who did this to you, even daring to flash Bakugou a suspicious look as he stood at your side with a glare. 

There was no point in looking for the man who hurt you. He was gone. His body--or, rather what remained--was littered around the nearby forest, already being feasted upon by local wildlife. The charred bits of his existence served as a reminder that Bakugou never turned down a fight when it came to you. 

Because no one touched you and got away with it. No one.

Todoroki Shouto:

He can only watch, shell-shocked, as you stumbled into the house, leg limping and cheek a dark purple. 

“YN.” In an instant, he’s on his feet, right hand stretching out to soothe your bruise. A sigh leaves you at the feeling of cold on your burning cheek, leaning more into your boyfriend’s hold as he directs you to the couch. 

After five minutes of him checking every inch of your body for more damage, he finally leaves and returns with a cup of steaming something. 

“Drink this,” he mumbles, concerned eyes watching your every move as you gulp down the tea. 

When you set down the mug, he returns his hand to your face, running his fingers over the marking that has finally stopped swelling. 

Todoroki struggles to meet your gaze as he runs his other hand along your thigh down to your wounded knee. “Who… who did this to you?”

“It’s just part of the job, Shouto-”

“No,” he grits out, setting both hands on your cheeks to keep you facing him. “Who did this to you? Where is he?”

“The cops already arrested him, Shouto.” You reach a hand up to grasp his wrist, running a thumb along the skin. A smile works its way onto your face. “Trust me, I gave more than I got.”

A muscle twitches in his jaw before he finally nods, pulling away and standing up. “Okay. Fine. I’ll let it go. But please be more careful next time.”

Tension leaves your body at his willingness to give in and the grin on your face grows. “I will. Now what’s for dinner?”

That night, Todoroki lies on his back and stares at the ceiling, too uneasy to sleep even with you curled into his side. The cops have him. He’s detained.

But he hurt her.

Somebody hurt the love of his life and got away with it. Not for long. 

Ever so slowly, he slipped away from your hold and left his pillow in his place, stopping in his tracks just for a second to watch as you hugged the pillow tighter to your chest. 

Somebody hurt you, YN. Surely you know I can’t let him get away with that. 

Getting into the precinct was easy, but it was even easier to bribe the cops to let him see the arrests of the night. Specifically ones with bruised fists. 

“Sir, we can’t just let you-” Todoroki flashed his gaze to the fumbling cop. 

“How much?”

“W-what?”

“Give this guy to me,” he nodded toward the criminal cowering in the corner of the cell, “and you could be set for life.”

“Sir…”

The deal was made and the cop turned a blind eye as Todoroki walked out with a more-than reluctant criminal in his grasp. 

“Please, I’m sorry! I screwed up! Just take me back! Please!”

The whining never bothered Todoroki; instead, he was annoyed at just how loud it got as soon as his punishment was dealt. 

It became a question of whether the man died of burns or frostbite--either way, Todoroki knew the man was feast for the fishes as he dropped the charred remains off the bridge and into the river below. 

When he finally returned home, you didn’t even stir once as he showered off the scumbag’s touch and returned to his place in your arms with dripping hair. 

“Shouto…?”

“Shh, go back to sleep, YN.” And you did, ever so safe with Todoroki at your side. 

Because with him, nobody would dare to hurt you again. 

Kirishima Eijiro:

The second you walk through the door, Kirishima’s at your side, ushering you into the bathroom. With a washcloth, he wipes the dirt from your face and neck, stopping every few seconds to stare at the finger-shaped bruises on the skin. 

You knew it the instant you looked into his eyes. “Eijiro… don’t. You know it wasn’t your fault.” 

Guilt covered his face like a veil, draping over his entire body until it appeared as though he had let the world down in some way. 

“I should have been there, YN.” His teeth grit in frustration and his hands ball up into fists. “I should have kept you safe.”

“You can’t be there every second of every day, Eijiro.” You place a hand over his and caress the skin. “I don’t blame you for this. It wasn’t your fault.”

He shakes his head. “You’re wrong, YN. I should have been there. It’s my responsibility to keep you safe.”

Your heart warmed at his declaration. He was always so kind, but sometimes it was a pain that he would take on so much in your stead. 

“I could have protected you…”

No words you could say could bring him out of this now. All you could do was stay by his side to ensure that you were still alive and safe until he got over his guilt. 

“Let’s go.” You stood with a small smile, offering a hand to him.

Hesitantly, he accepted the offer and rose to his feet, confusion taking over his features.

“What are we doing?”

“Let’s spend the day together, inside. Just the two of us. No distractions. No outside world. Just me and you.”

The thought lit up his face in an instant and before you knew it, you were being lifted into his arms and hauled out to the kitchen. “All right, but only if you let me do all the work. You just sit and rest.”

That night, Kirishima stroked the skin of your cheek, grinning as you slept so peacefully in his arms. You were safe. You were okay. You were with him. 

He wanted you like this forever. 

Forever. That could work. The window just behind your back would need to be locked and blacked out so nobody could see you inside. The doors would need to be chained and bolted with keys only Kirishima had so he could make sure you were in his presence. No leaving without him. No going out without him at your side. Nothing.

You would be safe and in his arms forever. How… perfect.

Kirishima hummed blissfully at the thought. If today said anything about how you felt, then surely you would agree to this too. 

With this plan, you and Kirishima could be by one another’s sides forever, safe and in love. 

Just perfect.

Please reborn is so good!! i have been waiting for part 8 like anything. Please please please dont discontinue it. I really wanna know the end!

I have never liked a fanfiction with parts and this long ever. I just adore it sm.

My deperate ass has read the series thrice by now lol.

BUT DIDHOSSK TAKE ALL THE TIME YOU WANT BUT DONT DISCONTINUE IT. 😩😭

i will cry and that will be anything but sexy 💀💀

Love ya <33

you are doing amazing senpai 🥰

(I dont think you will discontinue it but i just had a feeling 😔🖐️)

Aldhsknxksksn don’t worry, it’s not going anywhere🥺 I plan to completely finish that story kinda like a resolution to myself☺️ (cuz I’ve never completely written and finished a story before🙃)

No discontinuing here! My brain didn’t bust out that new multi-chapter plot for nothin😤😤

I’m glad u like it so much, and now I can’t wait to write the next chapter!! <3

...like a while from now😔