It’s Pronounced Gif And No One Can Tell Me Otherwise

I'm so sorry it took me so long to finally read the second part. Again, I'm on my knees for desperate and in love Gaz. To have a man half as devoted as Gaz is would be a DREAM

ahhhh you're all good I just posted the final part and am mentally and emotionally exhausted...

...which means he is wonderfully whiny and needy all over again. I'm actually considering posting the blurbs i have left over from my idea doc for this fic but we'll see how this last part gets received first😬

but I'm so glad you enjoyed the second part!!🥹

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.

Just binge read what in a virtue help, I am not normal about how you write this man

✨ anon if you will because I feel like I'm going to yell at you more as soon as the third chapter comes out (if you're planing it, if not then for other fanfic you may have written)

Have a wonderful day because you have made my morning for sure 💖

AHHHH tysm ✨anon you can wreak havoc in my inbox any day. let us scream together about how much of a simp gaz can be at any given moment

a kuroo au :(( kuroo song au with ready yet by sasha sloan :((

Forgive In Time (Kuroo x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: Kuroo always teased you, joked with you during class. You couldn’t help but grow feelings for him. Evidently he didn’t return them. (Based on “Ready Yet” by Sasha Sloan.)

A/N: Sorry this is so late! Btw, you got some good taste in music, my friend. This song is just *chef’s kiss.* Anyways, I hope this is what you were looking for, and I hope you like it!

Word count: 1728

        “Hey YN.” Kuroo smiles at you and collapses into the desk next to yours. If only he knew how much that made your heart race. 

       “Hey Rooster Head.” He throws you a fake offended look that makes you giggle before he pokes your shoulder with a finger. 

       “Yeah, yeah, call me nicknames now, but soon you’ll be begging at my feet for help on the quiz tomorrow.” 

       “There’s a quiz tomorrow?!”

       The black-haired volleyball player lets out a cackle that grabs the attention of the entire room, but his gaze is still only on you. Having his attention and being able make him laugh like that made you feel… funny. Giddy, really. 

       You and Kuroo had only been friends for a few months, but within that span of time you always yearned for more. In reality, he had first spotted and identified you as a loner, one he wanted to add to his collection, evidently. 

       You didn’t mind that idea. Kuroo was kind and funny, and super hot. Somewhere, deep down inside you, you were almost sure he felt the same way. After all, he always latched onto you like white on rice ever since he first saw you in his third year class. 

       “A pretty girl like you should never have to sit alone.” Yeah, as if your panties weren’t already flying off at the sight of him. 

       Anyway, he followed those words like a devotion not unlike that of a blood oath, always claiming the desk beside yours and teasing you in any way he could. 

       God, you liked him so much. And come on, what kind of guy flirts with a girl every day without romantic intentions?

       With that thought locked in the spotlight of your mind, you glanced over at Kuroo several times throughout the school day, only getting caught about thirty percent of the time. It was okay, because each time he noticed, he threw you a wink that lit your cheeks aflame. He always chuckled at the sight, and you had to fend off any fuzzy feelings that almost made you pass out at the enticing sound. 

       Okay, seriously. It was time. 

                               ~~~

       You never really ate lunch with Kuroo, but you figured you could track him down during the time. 

       After about ten minutes of frantically scanning every nook and cranny of the school, you finally spotted him outside in the courtyard, munching on a sandwich next to a blond boy. His shorter companion was preoccupied with a game while Kuroo proceeded to chatter his ear off. 

       You weren’t surprised.

       With a deep breath of reassurance, you stepped outside into the cool breeze, hugging your school blazer tighter around yourself. 

       You got this, YN! You totally got this!

       Your heart thumped sporadically, barely making a comprehensible rhythm along with the wing flaps of your stomach’s butterflies. 

       Y-you got this, YN. Y-you… umm.

       Steps slowing, you began to realize the consequences of your actions. Kuroo still hadn't noticed you, instead digging around in his bag for the rest of his lunch. 

       Nope, you totally don’t got this. 

       Spinning on your heels, you marched back to the entrance of the school.

       What if he doesn’t actually mean it? 

       What if that’s just how he talks to people? 

       What if-

       “YN!”

       Oh fuck. 

       A hand grabs your arm and swivels you around. 

       “H-hey Kuroo, what’s up?”

       He gives you a confused smile. “What are you doin’ out here? Did you need something?” 

       Yeah, you. “Heh, umm, noooo,” you drag out the word while heavily avoiding his intense gaze. 

       Kuroo playfully jabs your side. “Oh come on, you can tell me. What’s up?” The distance between the two of you grows smaller and smaller the more he becomes more invested in the conversation, inching closer to you with every encouraging nudge. It’s too much and simultaneously not enough. Heart fluttering, you finally bat away his hand and sigh. 

       “Fine,” I can do this, “I’ll tell you.” 

       Kuroo only nods, allowing you to continue. 

       “So, here’s the thing….” 

       “Yeah?”

       Rip off the bandaid YN!

       “I like you.”

       A quick inhale, then silence. 

       “... Oh.” 

       The quiet almost kills you, leading you to scramble for something to say. 

       “I’m sor-”

       “I’m sor-”

       You both interrupt each other and pause, forcefully laughing at the awkwardness. 

       “Erm, you go first,” you gesture with a wave of your hand. Kuroo’s eyes grow pained and he looks away, rubbing the back of his neck. 

       “YN I’m really sorry, but I just don’t feel that way about you.” 

       See now, rejection was always a possibility. You knew and understood there was a chance that Kuroo wouldn’t reciprocate your feelings. 

       You just didn’t know it would suck this much. 

       For a moment, it felt like you couldn’t breathe. Your chest tightened and your throat closed up. Blood rushing through your ears, all you could do was nod numbly. 

       “Oh. Okay.”

                               ~~~

       Class was… painful. Kuroo had given you some space, as per your request, and in return your only friend in the class was now long gone. You never had anyone to talk to or ask about homework. You couldn’t giggle and make fun of the professor during class, or throw sticky notes at one another. 

       You just wish you had considered the consequences before you confessed. Not only had you gotten your heart broken, you had also lost your only companion to help make it through the school day. 

       Also, there was one other future consequence you had forgotten. 

       The school halls were empty, a sign that you had come way too early. Cursing your forgetfulness, you tightened the grip on your bag and huffed all the way to the classroom, only to be stopped by a heartbreaking sight. 

       “I’ll take you home after practice, all right baby?” 

       “Of course, see you then.” 

       Their lips clashed together in an intimate farewell, arms wrapped around each other as they swapped spit like tennis. Her hands dug into his dark hair, making it that much messier than it already was naturally. 

       And when Kuroo finally unlodged his tongue from the girl’s throat, he dragged his gaze up, up, up, just high enough to see-

       “YN?”

       In class, Kuroo always seemed just as uncomfortable and lonely as you after having to claim a new seat farther apart. Apparently that assumption was incorrect on your end. 

       A squeak escaped your lips and you froze in place. Really, what could you do? Run out of the school? Your mom would beat your ass for ditching. Just ignore it and walk into the classroom he had just made out in front of? Umm, no. You’d rather avoid that confrontation. Hide out in the bathroom? Pfft, yeah, like that would-

       Oh shit. I can hide out in the bathroom.

       Kuroo flinched at the sudden sight of you jumping into action. You pivoted and dashed down the hall in a mad sprint like a monster was after you. If anyone else was in the halls at that time, they would have seen the pure, unadulterated fear on your face and joined you in an instant, not even bothering to ask what you were escaping from. 

       It was a boy. Wasn’t it always? 

       Steps followed after you, more stretched out in the pattern of a longer stride. They only halted when you shouldered your way into the bathroom, scrambling to a stop and slamming the door in front of Kuroo’s face. 

       “YN! Hey, come on!” 

       “It’s occupied!” 

       You struggled to catch your breath as you sifted through your bag for your phone. Bingo.

       “YN please, let’s talk about this.” 

       “…”

       “YN, come on. You can’t avoid what just happened.” 

       “Watch me.” 

You: Hey mom, can you come pick me up? I’m not feeling well.

*Message sent*

                               ~~~

       Tons of calls. Hundreds of texts. Each one was adorned with a harmony of buzzes or the acoustic version of “Sexy and I Know It” —Kuroo’s choice of course. 

Tetsu😻: YN please.

Tetsu😻: Just respond.

Tetsu😻: I’m so sorry.

Tetsu😻: I didn’t want you to see that.

*Confirm name change?*

*Contact name successfully changed*

Kuroo: YN please forgive me. 

Kuroo: Just let me know how to fix this.

Kuroo: Please just say something. I’m so sorry, please just give me a chance to fix this.

       You were surprised at how much it hurt. Like a rock in the bottom of your stomach, you felt the worst emotion imaginable: complete and utter betrayal. Though you hadn’t been in a relationship with Kuroo, it still hurt to see him with another girl.

       You supposed it wasn’t really that itself. It was also the idea that he moved on so quickly. It almost felt like he had acknowledged how you felt and completely dismissed it. Watching him make out with another girl just a couple days after you confessed your feelings for him wasn’t like any other pain you had felt. 

       It wasn’t like a paper cut, but it also wasn’t like a loved one of yours had died. It just felt… achy. Like a dull gnawing in your heart. 

       Some parts of you even wanted to blame yourself. Why wasn’t I the girl he wanted? Were you not pretty enough? That girl certainly was. Not smart enough? He always had to help you with your homework, but that was when he teased you most. Or maybe-

Kuroo: I don’t want to lose your friendship. Please YN, I’m so sorry.

       ...Maybe it was because you were just that. A friend to him. Either way, you just weren’t ready to forgive him. Your heart was trampled and covered in dirt, and it could take a while before you recovered from this. 

Kuroo: Please.

       One day. One day you would forgive him. 

       You weren’t mad at him. You couldn’t be. Your feelings for him weren’t gone either. 

You: Just give me a little time please. 

       But you certainly weren’t ready to see him anytime soon. 

       Not yet. 

Kuroo: Okay.

❤️❤️❤️❤️

💜💜💜💜

Reborn (Bokuto/Akaashi x Reader) ~Chapter 2~

(Supernatural/Soulmate AU)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: How do normal people react when they get kidnapped by a vampire and a wizard claiming to be their soulmates? Because you try to choke them out with their own breakfasts. But maybe that’s just you. 

A/N: Here’s another part (finally:)) Lowkey proud of this mf. My god, I’m so happy y’all like this series, and I seriously hope you enjoy this part!

Tag List: @burntcilantro​  @alloverbutterflies​  @translucentthoughts​  @zaejia​  @momothepeachgirl <-this tag doesn’t work😔 @black-veil-chemicalz​  @miigoth​  

Word count: 6200

        “Let me go.”

        “No.”

        “Let me go.”

        “No.”

        You had been stuck in that damned cage for two weeks now. The blood red walls of the room closed in on you more and more every day, and the only sources of light you could treasure came through the window and played on the television outside of your cell. Since they had captured you, they fed you every morning, midday and night, on a schedule no different from a zoo animal. You no longer held the fuzzy feelings for them that you’d had before they kidnapped you, but for some reason you couldn’t hate them. Besides, they haven’t hurt you yet, so it wasn’t likely they ever would. 

        “Let me go.” Akaashi sighed and threw you a dirty look while locking your cage. 

        “Dear God YN, for the last time, we’re not letting you out!” His calm voice never raised more than necessary, but the heightened brow he gave you spoke enough of a threat. Never gonna happen. 

        After tucking the key into his pocket, he tugged on the bars to test if it was actually locked before taking a seat on the new, leather addition to the living room they trapped you in. You figured since your makeshift bed was made of the cushions from the old couch, they kind of had to adjust to the room’s new centerpiece. You. Anyways, Akaashi had just returned you from a bathroom break he and Bokuto would occasionally allow you. It was a minuscule amount of freedom you got to be away from their sight, but it was limited to five minutes each, excluding emergencies. 

        “Geez, Mr. Grumpypants. I just asked a little question.” He narrowed his blue eyes at you and you sneered back.

        If they were going to drive you crazy, you would do the same. 

        The only thing keeping you from truly going insane was the TV you could never reach. It wasn’t much for size, but it drawled peacefully with the news channel. It was the only way you could see the outside world, other than the room’s window, which only showed a forest anyway. You figured you were in the life-sucking, second-floor living room of some well-kept but forgotten mansion.

        Nothing decorated the maroon walls aside from one wilted, framed painting. It was dusty and wrinkled, but held three figures: you and your kidnappers. Dressed in an elegant, royal purple ball gown, you sat in what appeared to be a throne while each man stood behind your bare shoulders, Akaashi on the left and Bokuto on the right. The former wore his signature frown while his erratic companion had a wild grin. You, on the other hand, only smirked, but something akin to pure joy gleamed in your eyes. Maybe it was the lighting. 

        You constantly reamed the freakshows for getting a professional painting done of you and them in love, but they always dismissed the topic, saying it was “for another time.”

        Like hell it was. 

        “Hey dumbass,” you suddenly piped up, dropping cross-legged onto your “bed” and leaning back against the bars to relax. Akaashi only hummed in response, but his eyes had been on you the whole time you were deep in thought. “How did you douche canoes get a picture like that?” Your insults grew worse the more you stayed in captivity. 

        “You’ll find out soon, my love.”

        “Oh come on, how long is ‘soon’?”

        “Soon.” You roll your eyes. 

        “All right then. Can I be let out soon?” A muscle in his jaw twitches at the question while his eyes slowly narrow at you, leading you to throw in the towel. 

        “Fine, fine,” you rush out, avoiding his burning gaze. “Can I at least take a bath? I smell like century-old roadkill.” You sniff instinctively at your words and immediately regret the action. 

        Akaashi, however, seems to adore your idea. 

        “Oh, my YN,” he coos, standing and approaching your cell with a rare show of deviousness glinting in his eyes. “We would love to bathe you.” 

        You blanch and gulp at the suggestion, nostrils flaring. 

        “On second thought, I think I’ll keep stewing.” 

        Akaashi hums and draws closer to the bars, leaning against them with a smirk. “Are you sure, YN?” The way he says your name makes your heart skip a beat, the low murmur barely audible from your place on the ground.

        “Positive,” you snarl, remembering that now matter how attractive the man before you was, he was also your kidnapper. After you open your mouth to spout another retort, Akaashi suddenly pulls back just as Bokuto barges into the room, hands loaded with a tray of food. 

        “My love! I made you breakfas-” His ecstatic smile drops in an instant. As soon as his eyes lock on you, they change. Their color shifts from his normal gold to an intimidating red. Blood red. The sight wasn’t familiar, but it struck fear into your heart like no other, and you couldn’t help but tremble under his… depraved gaze. Something about it exuded desperation and hunger.

        You swallow nervously and his eyes dart to your throat, watching the act. A low rumble begins to echo through the bare room as Bokuto approaches you ever so slowly. The tense atmosphere of the room grows thicker as you wait for an attack, frozen in your position on the floor. 

        His lips peel back, and just as you catch a glimpse of his fangs glistening in the sun’s light, his body is thrown back out into the hall like a sack of flour, tugged by an invisible string. Akaashi levitates your breakfast tray in midair with one hand while he waves the other, causing the door to close with a slam. With a flicker of his fingers, the lock clicks and your food carefully lowers to the floor, sliding under the cell’s iron bars with practiced ease. 

        “Ignore that,” he mutters, blue eyes still trained on the entryway with a hidden display of disease. You struggle to follow his orders blindly, still shaken by whatever the hell had just happened. 

        Deep in thought, you carefully tear off small bits of the cinnamon roll Bokuto had made, chewing on the sugary goodness with chattering teeth. You were too frightened to even focus on the flavor, even though it was by far your most favorite prison food. Finally, you submit to your curiosity. 

        “Hey.” No response.

        “Hey!” Ignored.

        “Hey Akaashi!” Nothing. For two minutes you try to grab his attention, yelling his name and obnoxiously clanging against the bars with your fork, but nothing happens. Try me, buddy.

        The only source of protein Bokuto had provided for today’s breakfast was a hard-boiled egg rocking back and forth on your metal tray thanks to your frantic movements. You don’t hesitate to grab it and chuck it at Akaashi’s head. 

        Mission failed. We’ll get ‘em next time. 

        Your evil professor from two weeks ago throws up a measly hand and suddenly the egg hits an invisible wall. It falls to the hardwood floor with a dull thump while he rolls his eyes at you. 

        “Seriously?”

        “Oh c’mon Akaashi!” you gesture to the door with a nod of your head. “What the hell was that?”

        “I said ignore it,” he hisses through clenched teeth. The raven-haired man exits the room with a bang, leaving you to collapse back onto your bed and try to fall asleep again. Nothing worked though. Bokuto’s glowing scarlet eyes were burned into your retinas, and you highly doubted you would be getting good rest any time soon.

        “What the hell was that?” you repeat under your breath. 

                                ~~~

        More time passes, and you don’t even have the energy anymore to count the sunrises. You haven’t seen Bokuto in a while, but guessed that was mostly the last encounter’s doing. Hate no longer encompasses your brain when you see or think of them, although all of your feelings have grown dull at this point. You haven’t felt excitement, rage, worry, or happiness in too long. You couldn’t even force a glare anymore. Sitting in an empty cage, surrounded by nothing and no one was really getting to you. Scientists were right when they said humans were social creatures. You were dying, slowly from the inside-out. 

        Your hair felt greasy and dead. Your cheeks felt sunken and sullen. The only thing you could do in captivity was lie down and sleep. So you did. 

        You sat with your head propped up on your elbow, boredly watching the day's weather forecast instead of searching directly outside the window at it. It was sunny and hot, just like always, and yet you couldn’t even feel it. 

        A loud groan of pain outside the door causes you to jump. 

        “I can’t control it, Akaashi!” Another agonized grunt. “I need her! Your potions aren’t working anymore!” The hall is silent for a second, presumably thanks to Akaashi’s quieter tone. Then Bokuto speaks once more. “No, her scent is too much! I can’t!”

        Nothing happens for a solid ten minutes. There was a clock on the news channel, and you’d been checking it once every few seconds in between watching the door leading to the hall. Absolute silence for ten minutes after that shocking outburst. 

        Without warning, the entrance to your room blasts open and a table chock-full of colorful glass bottles and bubbling chemistry equipment floats in, one foot off the ground. A small bookcase follows, only containing titles in a foreign language that, you were pretty sure, was ancient and dead. At last, Akaashi trails in as the caboose to the furniture express, his arms raised in the air and pointed at the newest additions to the fun room. 

        “What’s going on?” You push off the ground and clasp the bars of your cell, leaning as close as you can to watch Akaashi perform his magic. With squinted eyes, he gently sets the floating furnishings on the floor, pushing them against the wall before snapping his fingers and producing a spinny chair in front of the table. 

        “Bokuto’s going wild, and I need to keep an eye on you from now on while I work.” He doesn’t dare make eye contact with you, and instead focuses on transporting in a new cabinet from the hall, carefully placing it between the books and the desk. Its shelves are filled to the brim with labeled jars and locked boxes, some glowing and some creating curious clouds of fog. 

        “Why?” you ask restlessly, gripping the iron tighter. “What’s wrong with him?” 

        At the question, Akaashi halts his movements and hesitantly turns back to you. His blue orbs drop to your neck before flicking back up to your face. “He’s keeping his promise.” 

        His promise? His promise?! What promise? You dig through your memories of every time you’ve ever interacted with Bokuto, and there was only one promise you could think of. 

        “Next time, I promise I’ll wait until you let me!” 

        It was after you found out he had bitten you. After you found out he had drank your blood. 

        Is that really what caused this? His whines out in the hall had been disturbingly pained, and every word he spoke had sounded forced through bare teeth. 

        Suddenly, his red eyes from a few mornings ago made a lot more sense. 

        He was thirsty, and you were the only juice pouch he wanted. 

        “Akaashi,” you shift on your feet and rub the back of your neck awkwardly. “Why doesn’t Bokuto just… umm…” you trail off, not exactly sure how to phrase it without sounding insane. From inside your cage. Where you had been locked in by a vampire and a wizard. Maybe you should just quit trying to sound sane from now on; it was quickly becoming a useless habit of yours.

        “Yes?” His back is still to you, but he turns his head in effort to show he’s listening while he fumbles with radiant tonics at his new work station.

        “Why doesn’t he just, like, drink from another person?” 

        The black-haired man’s posture goes rigid, and his head slowly raises to face the wall in front of him. The bottled liquids are left forgotten on the desk while he grips its edges with white knuckles. A bitter chuckle leaves him, and it shakes you to the core.

        “Oh, my love, you have so much to learn.” 

        “Do I?”

        “Yes,” he smirks. “For now, just know that the only one he willingly drinks blood from is you, and you alone.”

        The thought makes you nauseous. You hadn’t even been conscious the first time, but you already know you don’t look forward to another blood-sucking experience. “Wonderful,” you mutter bitterly, folding your arms and stepping away from the bars. 

        You don’t speak for the next hour, only watching Akaashi work with wide eyes. Every few minutes, a puff of steam or a crackle of sparks would arise from his movements. As if on repeat, he constantly switched between trailing his finger over a page of an open book, shaking random glass bottles until they had a reaction, and plucking various jarred items off the shelves to add to his mysterious concoctions. As someone who had never believed in magic or storybooks, you were mystified. 

        “Hey Akaashi?” you piped up, eyes still locked on his hand’s twirling motions as he read from the book. 

        “Yes, my love?” You still kind of hated that nickname, but in a way it was growing on you. 

        “Can I do some of that... stuff?” 

        “Absolutely not,” he responded in the same, domestic tone. 

        “Oh come on, I’m dying in here, bro!” 

        “Well, bro,” he spat out, obviously not a fan of your own name-calling, “it’s even more deadly out here. You can’t touch any of this stuff unless you want to lose your eyesight.” 

        “Well, I’d have to look at you less, so maybe it’s worth a shot, hmm?” 

        He doesn’t answer, instead choosing to let out a deep sigh and roll his shoulders back. You weren’t done, though, and decided to complain until his ears bled. 

        “Oh my God, I’m so bored.” Zero acknowledgement from your pal, but no matter. 

        “Akaashi, my dude, I’m like really bored in here.” You tap your nails against the metal lockspace, causing annoying little clinks to reverberate around the room. 

        “I’m not your ‘dude,’” he whispers, so faint you can barely hear it. 

        “My dude! I’m really bored. I could literally die of boredom right here, right now. You wanna know how bored I am?-”

        “No.”

        “-I’m so bored I could-”

        “My love!” he barks, spinning to face you with a glare. “Do you mind?” While his eye twitches and his teeth gnaw, you only shrug your shoulders with pursed lips.

        “No, not really. You’re fine.”

        Akaashi’s deep blue eyes observe you in annoyance and he finally gives in, stomping close enough that you can see each one of his long lashes. “What. Do. You. Want.” 

        “To do something, Akaashi!” You throw your arms in the air exasperatedly and spin around. “Do you know how much it sucks to be in here?” His face darkens with guilt as you give him a pleading look. “Please,” you fold your hands and pout, “please just let me do something, anything.” 

        Ashamed, Akaashi brushes a hand through his hair and bites his lip, trying to come up with an idea that won’t require you to leave the cage. At last, his gaze brightens and he snaps his fingers.

        Something crashes to the floor behind you. You spin around and gawk at the sight. 

        “Books?!”

        “Go nuts, my love.” 

        I’ll try.

                                ~~~

        “What’s the difference between eggshell white and white white?” You furrow your brows and squint at the phrase in the novel.

        “Eggshell is softer.” 

        “Really?!” Your eyes widen in excitement and you begin to wiggle on your blanket pile. “Wow, that’s so amazing! God, aren’t words just so interesting Akaashi?”

        “Are you being serious?”

        “Fuck no.” The grin drops off your face and you toss the book back behind you. Good news: Akaashi had given you a bookshelf. Bad news: every single one so far had been mind-numbingly dull. Or maybe it was the atmosphere. 

        Life seemed to be just a little more stale each day you sat in that room without Bokuto’s interrupting presence. You missed the times when he would barge in with a “Hey hey hey!” and slide your food into the cell before plopping down cross-legged and telling you stories. It didn’t matter what they were about. Sometimes it was about a dog he got to pet at the grocery store. Other times it was a bird he saw while running around in the forest. It wasn’t until now that you realized how much you actually missed him. You legitimately missed your owlish kidnapper, who had bitten you without consent.

        Somewhere deep in your mind, you guessed he was still just the same old diner customer who occupied most of your shift, then made up for it with a generous tip. But maybe, just maybe you saw him as more than that.

        “Akaashi,” you sigh, rolling over onto your stomach and resting your chin on your folded arms, “is Bokuto okay?” 

        He doesn’t respond for a minute, and the air in the room grows a bit harder to breathe. “I don’t really know, YN.” His answer, at last, isn’t exactly what you wanted to hear, but neither was the agonized roar that followed. 

        “AAHH!” 

        You scramble to your feet while Akaashi drops a glass in surprise. The glowing liquid splatters everywhere, but he pays it no mind even as it sizzles against the hardwood.

        “What the hell was that?” you whisper in terror, wide eyes watching him for an explanation. The shake of his head along with a shrug didn’t exactly comfort you. 

        Abruptly, another howl of pain cuts through the air, breaking the nervous tension like a knife. Then a scream sounds. Bangs and cracks rumble the floor beneath your feet as Bokuto, or what you assume is Bokuto, cries out in absolute torment. 

        You flinch every time he makes a noise, and frantically reach for Akaashi when he begins to walk towards the door. 

        “Akaashi, no-” He silences you with a finger against his lips and nods reassuringly before cracking open the door and disappearing into the hall, locking it in his wake. 

        One minute passes. More screams, but nothing worse.

        Two minutes. 

        Three. 

        Four. 

        On the fifth minute, or the three hundred seconds that you had counted Mississippi-lessly, Akaashi crashes back into the room with wide, panicked eyes, slamming the door behind him. 

        He sprints towards your cell with a heaving chest and waves his hand, causing the bars to fly open. Your heart rate speeds up at the sight. I’m free.

        “We have to go,” he sputters, grabbing your hand and tugging you out of the cage. His fingers clench your own so tightly, and his palms are clammy and twitching as he drags you out of the room. 

        The halls are dark, but colored the same maroon as the walls of your cage-area. You barely have enough time to comprehend all the tapestries you pass, every vase and statue and stained glass transforming into a blur as Akaashi speeds up his longer stride. Your legs burn as you try to keep up with him, and your heart races in excitement. 

        I’m free.

        Every twist and turn he leads you through gives you whiplash, and you only now know that you’ve been living in a friggin’ labyrinth for the past month or so. Each corridor has a window, and each window displays the full moon outside. It’s the only light that shows Akaashi the path he needs to take. 

        Your arm begins to ache from his straining grip, keeping it constantly extended as he flies ahead of you in a dead sprint. The burn only lessens when Akaashi slows to a stop in a large foyer. Two staircases lead down to one main entrance of the mansion. 

        I’m free. 

        You’re so close you can practically taste it. And finally, your blood rushing in and out of your eardrums, becoming so quiet that you can finally hear it. A low growl coming from the hallway just behind you. 

        “Come on,” Akaashi shouts to you, snatching your hand once again and trailing you down the steps of the right staircase in a mad rush. He pulls you out the main entrance and slams the two large doors closed behind him. The lion-faced metal door knockers clang loudly as it shuts, and Akaashi mumbles foreign words under his breath while releasing his grip on you, waving two blue, glowing hands over the crease of the doorway.  

        What was the strongest bone in the body again? 

        “This should give us enough time to escape. Then we’ll figure out how to fix him once we’re far enough away,” Akaashi chokes out, gulping down air while he watches the mansion’s entrance warily. 

        “Oh, good.” In a split second, you throw your elbow into Akaashi’s forehead, effectively knocking him unconscious. “Guess I’m still a little pissed off about being locked up though, dickhead.” You deliver a swift kick to the side of his body while leering over him with a smirk. Then you swivel back and observe your escape routes. 

        There was option one, which was a paved path that presumably led to the real world once more. Both Bokuto and Akaashi, when he woke up, would easily spot you running down this trail. 

        Or there was option two, which was the dense forest that you could barely see from the large patio of the mansion. It would be less easy to find you or track your scent, but you would have to travel slower on account of not tripping and being wary of wild animals. 

        You decided to take your chances and tore cheek towards the forest. Your legs were about to give out thanks to the marathon inside the house, so the only thing fueling you right now was pure adrenaline. You had done many amazing things with adrenaline, so you figured it could help you out now too. 

        Every rock and twig on the forest floor seemed to be out to trip you, so you attempted to hop over them with all the grace you could muster. What you hope looked like an elegant gazelle galloping on the great plains actually appeared to be a newborn giraffe bumbling around on spare strands of hay. You twisted your ankles like twenty times, but the pain only drove you harder. 

        I can make it!

        I can make it!

        I can make it!

        Wind whipped past your face and blew your hair into your mouth, but you had to settle for choking on it because every time you spit it out, it thwapped right back into your eyes. Your lungs pleaded for a break while your knees began to wobble, and the time you finally decided to give in to their whining was about the time you tripped over a fallen log and face-planted directly adjacent to a pile of what you prayed wasn’t any sort of excrement. 

        I can’t make it.

        “Fuck,” you wheeze, wiping the dirt and hair off your face before butt-scooching to lean back against a tree. Tenderly, you rub your ankles and try not to cry out at the pain. Tears stung your eyes while your muscles throbbed with soreness. Your heartbeat was tangible even in the palms of your hands. Every little thing that could hurt in your body did hurt. Places you didn’t even know existed twinged every few seconds, and you couldn’t help but rue the day you quit the gym. 

        “Shit,” you whimper quietly, biting your lip as wetness begins to pain your cheeks. How were you even supposed to return to real life normally after this? After being kidnapped by your teacher and a man who knows where you worked? Would the cops put you in the Witness Protection program? Would you ever get to see your family again? Most importantly: would you even make it out of these woods alive?

        The low growls that slow began to resound around you certainly increased the severity of that question. Your breathing hitched as you spotted something, or some things, about thirty feet away from you. Mountain lions, but twice as big, and of different colors. And from the sound of it, they were also behind you as well. 

        As a pack, they circled you, and ever so slowly, they creeped closer and closer. The one directly in front of you was nearest, and you cowered away with silent snivels of fear. It appeared to lead the group with every step it took, with its massive, black paws pressing soundlessly against the forest floor. It was barely visible thanks to its fur color, which was as dark as the night sky. It was by far the largest of them all, none of the others in your line of sight even came close. 

        As you hugged your knees to your chest and dug your back into the tree behind you, the leader loomed nearer. Finally, it was practically two feet from you, and sniffed you curiously while the others stayed perched and ready to attack. Then you got the weirdest feeling from it, like the wild feline was smirking at you. 

        What the hell? You furrow your brows and stabbed your nails into your legs, trying to stop yourself from making anymore sounds. Even the smallest reaction on your part might cause them to attack. But then a surprised mewl sounded behind you, followed by a whimper. Then another, then another until you realized that something… or maybe someone was picking them off one by one. 

        The leader in front of you huffed out a warm breath that hit you in the face as it snarled. This caused you to cry out in instinctive fear, and a loud growl echoed in response. 

        A flash of white latched onto the flank of the wild cat beside the leader, who whipped around with a hiss and a swipe of its meaty paw. The tackled feline went flying behind its attacker, then its friend was tossed away with inhuman strength as well before all that remained was the black cat in front of you. The pained mewls of the rest of the pack finally died out, and the leader whipped his tail up into a frenzy as he charged the glob of white you squinted to see. 

        Screeches, growls and grunts arose as one large clamor while you clenched your eyes closed and prayed that you would make it out alive. Large thuds and smacks were audible before it all stopped in a dead silence. You heard the telltale thumps of multiple felines fleeing the scene, and hesitantly opened your eyes to see flashes of black, orange and white all fade into the distance of the dark forest directly behind the white creature in front of you.

        The only thing you could hear was the wind whistling and the heavy panting of the animal in front of you. The woods were so dark, but in an instant, two glowing red orbs were visible on it. On him. 

        “Bokuto,” you mutter under your breath. He growls deeply in response, carefully padding closer on bare feet to you. He was covered in the tatters of a black and white t-shirt and basketball shorts. His wild hair was in disarray, and you found small, bloody scratches here and there on his body, which grew smaller and smaller by the second until they healed over as smooth skin. 

        “YN,” he grumbled tightly, dropping to his knees and slowly surveying you up and down for any damage. With clenched fists at his sides, he leered over your body, breathing heavily while his eyes finally found home on your neck. Deep in his burning eyes, you saw two conflicting emotions: hunger and shame. His lips peel back to reveal two sharpened fangs, glinting in the moonlight. You can’t help but whimper at the sight and recoil, letting out a shaky breath when he stops at the noise. 

        “YN,” he repeats, his voice needy and guilty all at the same time. His hand slowly unfurls from his side and weakly brushes a hair out of your face. You wince at the feeling of his touch and he cringes at your reaction. “YN, I-” Bokuto rears back with a whine and bites his lip, easily drawing blood with his tooth-like daggers. 

        “AKAASHI!” he suddenly shouts, red eyes flaring as he avoids your gaze. The abruptness scares the life out of you for the last time, and your brain decides it needs a break from all the recent excitement. Bokuto calls out for his partner in crime once more as your vision goes fuzzy, and with an involuntary sigh of relief, you pass out against the rough tree behind you.

                                ~~~

        “Here, my love, drink this.” Akaashi settles onto the couch beside you and hands you a cup of tea with his own magical kick. You’re finally in a new room, no more cage even though you KOed one of your captors. It has a four-poster, royal purple bed with see-through tulle hanging down around it like a protective curtain. There’s a television directly across from it, sitting on top of and in between bookshelves, stacked with stories much more interesting with the ones Akaashi had previously provided. Instead of your old window, you now have a glass sliding door leading to a balcony, which has a staircase down into a gated off garden, chock-full of every kind of flower imaginable. 

        There’s a closet filled to the brim with clothing from all different centuries, most of which you refuse to wear. And last but not least, there’s a couch right next to your private bathroom, upon which both you and Akaashi are sitting. 

        “Thank you,” you mumble, accepting it with a soft smile and reveling in the warmth it provides for your fingers. 

        After you fell unconscious deep in the forest in front of the mansion, Bokuto had Akaashi carry you home to get some much-needed rest. When you awoke, the black-haired male helped you get undressed and into a bath, and you were too worn and traumatized to care if he saw you in the nude. 

        “I’ve seen it all before anyways, my love,” he had said. You didn’t bother to ask for more information, too wrapped up in releasing the tension of every muscle in your body. 

        And now, he served you a tea like a good little butler, while you sat wrapped in a warm blanket in your new cage. It was much cozier than the last one, you had to admit. 

        “Is Bokuto okay?” you whisper, still staring into your cup of tea while biting your lip. Akaashi’s arm around your shoulder tensed for just a second, then relaxed as he pulled you closer. You give in, enjoying some form of comfort after last night’s events. 

        “He’s seen you. And I don’t know if that’s made him better off or worse.”

        “Can I see him?” Your question causes Akaashi to shift in his seat, facing you with wide eyes and a blanched face. 

        “YN, he might hurt you.”

        “That’s okay.” 

        “Excuse me?” He raises a brow and gently grasps your chin in his hand, turning you to face him seriously. 

        “Let me see him.” Akaashi shakes his head.

        “YN, he’ll-”

        “I don’t care,” you interrupt more forcefully this time. “Let me see him. I just wanna say thank you.” Akaashi licks his lips nervously and clenches his eyes closed in contemplation. 

        “All right, fine. I’ll go find him. But don’t say I didn’t tell you so.” Your lips quirk up at his fold, and you grab his hand just after he stands. 

        “Thank you.” Your eyes sparkle in the lightning, and you’re not sure but you’re also almost damn positive Akaashi just blushed. 

        “Just be careful,” he grumbles, squeezing your hand before pulling away and leaving the room. 

        About half an hour passes, and after a pat on the back for your personal ability to assume how much time has passed, the door to your new bedroom opens just a hair. 

        “YN?” Bokuto whispers through the crack. “Akaashi said you wanted to talk.”

        “I do. Please come in.”

        “I-I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

        “Please just come in.” Your beg works, and Bokuto hesitantly pushes his way inside, closing the door softly behind him. He hasn’t opened his eyes once since he entered, and you smile softly at the sight. Silent as a mouse, you rise up off the couch and slowly approach him. 

        “Y-YN-”

        “Bokuto, look, I know what’s happening to you,” you pause and wrinkle your forehead. “Well, I kinda know what you’re going through. But you helped me through all of it, and you didn’t hurt me even once. Thank you.” You cup his face gently and he inhales deeply at the affection. 

        “Can I see your eyes now?” you ask carefully. His hands trail up your sides and over your arms, all the way up to your own as he cups them closer to his cheeks. 

        “YN, I don’t wanna hurt you.” 

        “Bokuto, I trust you now.” You trail your thumbs up just under his eyelashes before returning them down to the apples of his cheeks. “Please, just let me help you.”

        After a long moment of silence, his eyelids flutter open, displaying beautiful golden orbs that shift to bright red in an instant. Bokuto swallows nervously and grips your hands tighter, his gaze constantly flickering down to your neck while a slow rumble starts to sound from deep in his chest. 

        “YN…” 

        “Come on,” you take a hand of his in your own and lead him to the couch, sitting and dragging him down next to you. Slowly, you release your grip and pull your hair back and away from your neck, tilting your head slightly to display what he needed. 

        “YN!” Bokuto growled, instinctively leaning closer before pulling back just as quickly. “I don’t wanna hurt you!” 

        “You won’t.” Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, and you wonder if he can hear it too. Without a second thought, you grab his hand once more and place it against your neck, cringing at the uncomfortable feeling already. Maybe I can’t do this. 

        “I can’t, YN. You need to know I can’t stop if I start.” 

        “You won’t kill me.”

        “Never,” he exclaims, scandalized at the thought. His hand twitches against your neck. “I just… I’m not sure if I can stop when you do feel it. God, I need it so bad, YN. I know I won’t stop.” You were ready for this like an hour ago, but now you’re beginning to feel doubts. That’s no bueno. 

        “Fuck, Bokuto, just get on with it already!” As fast as you can, you dig your hands into his hair and yank him down into your neck. 

        Your first thought was Oh, ouchie.

        Your second thought was OW FUCK, SON OF A BITCH!

        Apparently, he had a little less resolve than he knew, because that motherfucker dove right in like a rat on a Cheeto. As soon as his fangs pierced the delicate skin of your neck, you couldn’t even speak. It was like when a cat accidentally gets their claws caught in their owner’s skin, but instead of one small flinch of pain, it was hours, times like a hundred. 

        It was like getting your blood drawn, except by a human… ’s mouth. Yeah, no shit.

        It hurt, god it hurt so bad. The noises he made as he drank your blood, sucking it straight out of it’s most vital vein, were so vulgar they made you want to plug your ears. One hand of his was in your hair, not yanking harshly, but just gently leaning your head back while the other held you in place with his hand on your hip. 

        The constant stabbing feeling pulsed right through your whole nervous system with every gulp of his mouth. At first, you had attempted to thrash wildly against him, desperately trying to get away from the agonizing pain. Then, as your body and mind began to feel more tired, more drained, you could only bunch his shirt up tightly in your hands while you whimpered. 

        Every noise you made, Bokuto responded with a small groan or grunt, but his grip never let up, and eventually you couldn’t handle it. For the second time in a span of twenty-four hours or so, you submitted to your aching body and slumped in the vampire’s grip.

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Break Up Prank (Haikyuu!! Fake Texts)

(Captain Version) Part 2

A/N: it’s the most annoying thing when I can’t get like two more texts in the picture😡 anyways, y’all lucked out cuz I figured the 6 I made wasn’t enough for 2 posts, so here’s drunk Terushima. Enjoy!

Bokuto, Ushijima, Kita, Daichi

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

*GIF not mine*

Summary:

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

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

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

Word count: 8193

Part 1

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

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

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

Kyle just made it so easy. Too easy. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Confounding. 

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

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

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

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

He’s gone. 

Kyle just disappears.

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

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

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

Gone. 

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

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

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

He’s made a mess of you.

Kyle, though… he’s Kyle. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A voicemail. You could leave that. 

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

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

Then “Hey” and “it’s me.”

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

And another “umm.”

“I’m calling because…”

You don’t know. Honest to God. 

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

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

You pause. 

Wait a few seconds. 

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

You think you’re gonna be sick. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

This distance thing’ll be… easy. Maybe. 

~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then your phone buzzes in your pocket.  

Kyle.

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

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

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

All it says is “More.”

~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway. 

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

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

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

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

No funny business. Just you. 

That’s what he’d wanted. 

And he’d wanted “more,” too. 

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

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

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

~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly, he’s got just the thing. 

~~~~~~

Eight-fucking-thirty a.m. 

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

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

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

Real. Fucking. Funny. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kyle. 

Your soldier. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he’s injured. 

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

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

“M’not broken, darling. Promise.”

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

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

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

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

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

This can’t be right, it can’t be—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That flutter of pulsations under your fingertips.

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

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

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

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

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

Wait. 

“You listened to all those messages?”

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

Then…

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

A sorry feels cruel on your tongue after that. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A is the second letter.

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

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

~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

All good things. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Foul play. 

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

Almost slipped that fucking leash. 

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

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

Feels that stutter at his words.

“Love, huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~

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

The feeling makes you wistful.

Then—

Oh fuck—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh God. 

You want Kyle. So damn bad.

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

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

You want him shamelessly. Constantly. Perpetually. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kyle’s lips, they taste like….

Fuck, you whine a little into his mouth. 

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

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

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

He controls every second of it. All of it. 

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

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

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

~~~~~~

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

“It’s two in the afternoon.”

“Yeah, what about it?”

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

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

No. Wait.

Definitely better.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~

You’re certain nothing could ruin this moment. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Two-thirty.”

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

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

“We’ll have to get up at some point.”

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

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

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

You’re not sure if you love Kyle. 

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

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

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

~~~~~~

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

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

Bad, bad, bad Gaz. 

It’s too soon. 

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

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

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

No. He really, really shouldn’t.

He won’t.

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

Almost blacks out at what he finds. 

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

Fuckin’ Christ, bloody Jesus, Hell on a—

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

Fuck it. 

Seriously—fuck it. 

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

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

“No.”

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

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

“Could you…?”

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

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

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

Fuckin’ hell, don’t tell me.

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

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

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

“Love, I hafta—”

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

“Sorry, that’s for my tea—”

He’s really doing this. 

Fuck it. 

Fuck. 

It.

“Move in with me.”

~~~~~~

Part 3

Sorry for always camping on your requests 🙈🙈 but uhh dhhshd can i request a kuroo x reader (or if u do konoha pls do konoha) angst au with the song i cant make you love me by bon iver?

One-Sided Future (Konoha x Reader) 

*GIF not mine*

Summary: It’s hard to see a person fall in love with another who never intends on sharing a future with that person. It’s even harder when that person is you. (Based on “I Can’t Make You Love Me” by Bon Iver)

A/N: I’m really sorry this is so late, but I sincerely hope you like it. It might not be what you were expecting, but I saw a comment on the video of the song that just inspired me and also broke my heart, so I just hope you feel the same with this angsty fic. Again, I really hope you like it!

Word count: 900

        He was warm. 

        The bed shook as he slipped under the covers, arms wrapping around you while you feigned sleep. 

        Why did it hurt so much? 

        His grip on you never tightened. It was as simple as that. 

        His chest was hot near your back. You couldn’t feel it’s solidity anymore though. 

        There was a wall between you and Konoha now. Every inch of space between you two created a wall. You didn’t like it. 

        You couldn't stop it. 

        Sitting in silence, you waited until his breathing slowed. Then you shifted in his grip, moving closer to feel him while also turning to face him. This was the closest you had gotten in weeks. 

        He was so peaceful in his sleep, dirty blond hair splayed against his pillow. You couldn’t see his dark eyes behind his closed lids, and for that you were thankful. 

        In moments like these, you could pretend they still held love. You could pretend they would still squint in delight at the sight of you. You could pretend their pupils would still widen when you embraced him in a hug.

        But the fact was that they didn’t. Your hopes, your requited love, your shared future, it was all just a dream. A fruitless dream. 

        In your own eyes, Konoha was the one. One day, you wished you two would get married and spend the rest of your lives together. You wanted to walk down the aisle under his adoring gaze. You wanted to dip your toes in the hot sand of a gorgeous beach beside his grinning form. You wanted to watch him spill a single tear at the sight of a newborn in his arms. 

        A whole future was visible before your eyes. Every detail was beautiful. Not perfect, but beautiful. 

        Konoha couldn’t see it. He didn’t want to see it. God, how you wanted him to see it, wanted him to want it. But he didn’t. 

        Nothing was more hopeless than that wish. The idea of being together forever, loving each other for the rest of your lives was nothing but a pipe dream. Not even a pipe dream. It was just a damn dream. One you needed to let go. 

        Tonight would be your last night in his arms. You should have ended it before he joined you in the bed, but you just wanted to feel him one last time. It was a lapse in judgement, but a final farewell all the same.

        Tomorrow you will move on. Tomorrow you’ll let him go and carry on with your life. You’ll let him find someone else, someone who wanted the same things he wanted.

        And maybe one day you could find someone for yourself. 

        Still, it hurt to think that there was nothing you could do. There was nothing left to salvage in your relationship. 

        How…

        How can someone possibly describe the pain?

        It wasn’t physical, but it was damn near close. Your heart was… aching, yearning for reciprocity. 

        Konoha wanted a girlfriend. He wanted movie dates and posters at volleyball games. Study nights and silly little pranks. Posts and pictures online of the two of you everywhere and anywhere. 

        You wanted the love of your life. A man to marry and have children with. Someone to hug in joy as you watched first steps, listened to first words. Someone to go to for comfort when work was stressful or when college days began. 

        Konoha wanted good times.

        You wanted commitment. But you couldn’t force that on him. So yes, tonight was the last night with him. 

        So you wiped away your tears and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. You wrapped your arms around his waist and pulled him close, intertwining your legs with his. 

        He was warm. He always was. 

        Then you closed your damp eyes and laid your head against his chest, letting out a broken sob when his hands squeezed just a bit tighter. 

        You promised yourself this was it. This was the last night you would be in his arms. Then you would let him go. You promised.

        Then you fell asleep.

                                ***

        Within the span of a month, Konoha’s arm had already fallen over another girl’s shoulder. 

        Within the span of a month, you still felt just as much love for him as you did when you let him go. But the truth was clear before your eyes. 

        You couldn’t force him to be with you for your own dreams. 

        You couldn’t force him to love you.

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

Oop😳 I’m glad you like them so much🥺💜