Reborn (Bokuto/Akaashi X Reader) ~Chapter 4~

What's in a Virtue (Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x Reader)---Part 3

*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: mwahaha, and they said it couldn't be done. those who doubted me shall gaze upon my very first (and perhaps last) complete series! Victoryyyyy! I hope you enjoy!

Word count: 8374

Part 1 Part 2

   You’re pretty sure you didn’t hear him right. 

You’ve got morning-after brain, and his chest is so hot and adamant behind you, and his breath is right next to your ear. Plus, your stomach is growling with a pit only chocolate-chip pancakes and white peach oolong can fill. 

And he’s doing that tracing thingy again. G. A. Then what?

R. Maybe.

And that leads you to think you might’ve just maybe heard him correctly, because why the hell is he drawing his last name on your hip so brutishly that it twinges? 

“Um.” You stiffen. “What.” 

Not really a question. The way you say it, it comes out more like you don’t want to know the answer even if you really did ask. 

Kyle groans that long, gruff way, husked past his vocal cords and throbbing a path through your entire body. “Look, I get it.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Just let me… ah, fuck, I know it sounds ridiculous, love, but hear me out.” He moves away, giving you space to think while he leans against the counter and grips the edge, tight. 

“Wait,” you hold up a hand before he can start talking again, because you need a minute. Several minutes, actually. A whole assload of minutes to comprehend the suggestion he’s just thrown at you. “Wait, wait, wait. Are you serious?”

This is probably just what Kyle’s morning-after brain is like. It makes stupid, sudden suggestions that he just blurts out on a whim with no regard for how it’ll land. In all fairness, you doubt it’s ever done him wrong before. Even in a regular headspace it’d be hard to tell him no. 

Never mind that he’s shirtless, and that his broad shoulders eat up the space of three cupboards, and that his gaze is doing that thing again—that unfair thing where he towers over you but can still make you feel like he’s kneeling, dips his head so those pleading irises look up at you. 

“Dead serious, love.”

There’s an air about him that’s resolute, despite it all. He’s tender but stern, decided and confident in his conclusion. He’s shedding his clothes and skin, leaving himself belly-up for you to bite. 

“Kyle…”

“Too soon?” He doesn’t even look hurt. Just expectant. 

You shrug helplessly. “Yes? Very too soon, don’t you think?” You spin around, fiddle with the pancake mix but don’t open it. The mug you’ve microwaved for your tea is probably cool at this point, and you try to turn that into your biggest problem of this morning. 

Not the special forces sergeant who lives life at three-hundred miles an hour, exuding such a new energy in here that you can’t remember the basics. It’s the morning after, and as beautifully new as Kyle is, like the stretch of new blue jeans, he’s not threadbare enough in here yet. Too tight, sucking the air out of your own home and leaving you all prickly and sweaty and nervous. 

And he wants you to move in with him? Right now? This soon?

It’s easy, when you turn your back to him and lob your hand towards the microwave handle, to pretend that your biggest problem can be amended in minutes. 

Because now, despite that itchiness of Kyle’s gaze on your face, your biggest problem is that you haven’t even begun to steep your tea. That’s a huge deal. You’re supposed to do it seconds after the microwave beeps, pull the mug out and let the steam soak into the tea bag that you swing for a bit, always have to watch the foggy-air disruptions back and forth. Then you steep it, let the water grow murky for ten minutes as you cook the rest of the meal. Add sugar, an ice cube because you’re scared it’ll burn your tongue like the first time, and stir while you pour syrup on your plate. 

You’re horribly set in your ways, so much so that you hate—actually hate—the newness Kyle’s thrust upon you. It took him twenty-four hours to upset everything. 

Well, not everything. Just you. While you feel fresh out of the box, everything around you has been preserved in mundanity. 

If you took two rights and a left from this building, you’d find a sandwich shop owned by a short man with an orange cat. If you went two floors up, you’d find a pack of graduate students; one more floor, and you’d see Mrs. Beverly and her purse dog. If you went into your living room, finagled with your window a bit, the shutters would close in a perfect angle so that the sun falls on your couch but doesn’t glare on your TV. 

You know it takes you twenty-seven minutes to get to work in the morning right after you brush your teeth. It takes you fourteen minutes to walk home after you clock off. Thirty more minutes to order food and settle in, Netflix the pinnacle of your night before you nod off in a tank top with exactly three holes and short shorts you’d bought under the duress of a busted AC.

You have milk and eggs both two days away from expiration in your fridge, along with old Chinese takeout. You have books with crackled spines and ruffled pages on your bookshelf, and a muddy stain on your entryway carpet from two days after you’d bought it. A bedroom unruly and unbidden, clothes strewn everywhere.

You could envision it all, see it all because you knew it all. Have known it all for the months that this place has been your home and you’d begun working at the hotel bar. You could have the rest of your life mapped out by tomorrow if you really wanted to. It’d be safe. Predictable. Boring, in that average way you’ve always known. None of it would be moving by so fast that you wouldn’t get a break to think of the consequences. 

None of it would make you feel like you’re reaching new heights by jumping off cliffs, taking big, stupid risks that wind up working all the damn time—and solely because Kyle makes them work. Because he runs seven steps ahead of you and lays out the golden carpet for you to step on, telling you it’s okay to keep pushing forward.

The phone calls, the talks, his touch and voice. All of it closing in on you, molding you into something fresh and unseen. 

But that’s just it. It’s still just you who’s changed. 

Not Kyle, who’s certainly been like this his whole life. Who’s used to making snap decisions that have an impact, gotten so damn used to doing that that he carries it with him now. 

And it’s not Mariano or his cat Garfield, or the ham and swiss you get on Fridays. It’s not Jared and Samantha, both of whom play Mario Kart after writing another page in their theses. It’s not Mrs. Beverly and Chloe, or Jeanne, or your family or friends you haven’t texted in a while. 

Only you. 

You’re stripped to your marrow, neurons and fibers spilling all over the place because—oh hell—you’ve grown too big for all this. Kyle’s had you melting and flowing fast and sharp since he first showed up in your life, and you’re moving too fast to feel out that old stagnancy. 

But there’s an ugliness that lives inside of you too, that hates how uncomfortable every little step forward is, even if you can’t stop taking them. 

It’s exposing. You feel naked, but not in the new, comfortable way Kyle’s helped you discover by virtue of his longing. More naked like school nightmares and too-small bath towels. Naked like someone’s going to douse you in lemon juice and salt any second to watch you writhe. 

“Kyle.” Your hand’s still propped on the handle. The microwave beeps again, impatient. “Last night was—God, it was amazing.” You open the door, pull out the mug despite how lukewarm it’s grown. “Best I’ve ever had, by a long shot. But…”

“But what, love? You’re scared?” His voice is barely above a whisper, and you’ve no doubt he’d watched your mind run and run circles around itself, and had had enough time to form an argument of his own. “It’s too much? A lot to ask? I think that too, love, but we’re running out of time.” He rises to his full height, and you try not to shy away at how much space he takes up when he’s grim and serious. 

He’s massive, bigger when he’s panting over you, sleek hips pressing down, suppressing your twists and jolts. He’s gotten better at trapping you, too. It’s intimidating. Thrilling, in better circumstances.

You can’t think straight anymore. He smells like pine all over again, and looks it too. 

“Come back with me to England. We’ve got bars—bars I can bother you at. We’ve got universities for second chances. I’ve got a flat with plenty of room, plenty of money to—”

“Kyle, please.” The whine rips from your throat, and you drag two hands over your face. 

In the corner of your vision, you don’t miss the way he stiffens and swallows a bit. But then he says your name through choked sigh, and rasps, “I know it sounds fuckin’ crazy—I feel like a bloody fool saying it out loud. But I don’t want to lose this, and I can’t keep comin’ back here to start us from scratch every few months.”

You don’t know what to say to that, can’t stop bobbing your mouth open and closed, trying to find those useless words that might explain what’s holding you back.

Something like, It’s only been three months.

Yes, but Kyle knows that too. And he still wants you. 

You don’t even really know him.

Sure. But what was there to learn that he wouldn’t offer you on a silver platter?

It’s going to fall apart. It always does for you. Months will pass, and he’ll realize he made a mistake. He’ll kick you to the curb, and you’ll be back to square one. 

A coaxing palm cradles your cheek, and a warm thumb prods over your lower lip, both of which make you flinch out of your thoughts. Kyle tips your head up, up, up until you’re looking at him, brown irises gentle and luring.

“I can see it, you know. That cruel little brain of yours is whirring so loud it’s makin’ me nauseous.”

Your eyes fall closed, and you reach up, grapple at Kyle’s wrist, massage the tender spot at its center. “I’m sorry.”

He inhales, ragged and slow. Exhales, blowing past your flyaways. “For what, bunny?”

You continue to caress the baby-soft skin of his wrist, marveling a bit at how different it feels from his rough fingertips, from his scarred thighs, his bruised back. “I need… time. A little bit to think. Consider things.”

The last thing you wanted to do was tell him to leave. You felt like an idiot for even implying that space from him was the something you needed right now. You know the silence will swallow you whole when he’s gone. 

“You want me to go?” he breathes out, and his face crumbles. Likely, he didn’t want to leave. He could barely be goaded out of your bed, and now this? 

Kyle looks like he wished he hadn’t asked, hadn’t said anything. Those mournful brown eyes slip to the counter, where your mug and pancake box sit, then back to you, to your eyes and nose and lips. 

Your lips. He prods at the bottom one, like he can’t help it. The caress slows to a stop when he pinches his eyes closed and tips forward, dropping his forehead to yours. “But I don’t wanna leave, love,” he mumbles. “Scared if I do, you won’t let me back.”

You don’t think you could ever keep him out. Not out of your house, and not out of your head. But your brain feels unspooled and uncollected, and all that’s left are too-sweet cotton-candy wisps that can’t quite latch onto anything. 

“I…”

Don’t want you to leave either.

I want you to stay. I want to move in with you. I want every night to be like last night, and every morning to begin like ours did.

I want it all to be ours.

Your hands rise up and brush against the dips and swells of his chest. Goosebumps blossom under your touch. 

“Kyle, you know this isn’t goodbye. It can’t be. I need you to tell me you understand that.”

He sighs again.

“I know, love. I know that.” His thumb wanders over the arch of your cheek. “I’m used to all this, with you. All the pullin’ away and coming back.” He chuckles bitterly, a bit breathy. “It’s just so fuckin’ hard this time ’round.”

Your chest feels like it’s split open, gaping and pouring out. But your mind, or what’s left of it, knows you need this. You need the separation from him, deserve time to think through all he’s offering, all you could barely repay him for in return. 

The debt between the two of you is yawning. But if you gave in and told him yes, all you’d be left with is uncertainty. 

Not even a man as perfect as Kyle can make up your mind for you. 

“One more kiss before you go?”

He takes you up on it before you can say any more. 

His lips are a harsh press against yours, bruising enough to leave them puffy for hours. He kisses to consume, to swallow you up and spit you out wanting more. 

Gentlemanly as Kyle can be, there’s not a glimpse of it to be seen now. He’s not playing fair, at the moment. 

He hooks a finger under your chin and holds you steady, keeps you close and running out of air as he slips past your defenses, the hot, wet press of his tongue on top of yours. It’s instantly dominating before you have a chance to fight.

And then he’s toying with you, kneading you back into the fray with long prods and swipes, his stubble from the morning a heady friction on your skin. He’s playing and caressing and devilishly stroking needy whimpers from you, fingers dancing along your skin, drawing circles on your skin and whines from your throat. That dangerous tongue of his performs another sweep about your mouth, then slips back. Kyle begins worrying at your bottom lip, teeth digging in so harsh and quick —

—and he tears away from you so abruptly that you gasp, can’t even see straight. Suddenly you’re cold and alone, panting and losing your balance without Kyle’s sturdy form keeping you upright. 

You only realize what had happened when you hear a rustling from your bedroom. Kyle reappears seconds later, avoiding your gaze as he zips his jacket up over his bare chest, legs and hips clad in last night’s jeans. 

Subconsciously, you pick at the neckline of the black cotton tee you’re wearing—his shirt, one you guess he doesn’t want back before he leaves. “You don’t want your—”

“Don’t take it off—not yet, yeah?” He meets your eyes for the first time in two minutes, and there’s little brown left to them, all dilated pupils and a consternated furrow. Even his lips, wonderfully swelled, are tugged into a small frown. “Keep it on f’me. I’ll come back for it when you’re ready.”

But you don’t know when that’ll be. How could you possibly make an unbiased decision when the damn thing still smells like him and you can’t forget that ravenous look in his eyes when he’d first found you in it?

Kyle’s hovers near the door, hand tight around the knob like he can’t quite figure out how to open it again. He glances back at you over his shoulder, lets himself take you in, take the entire scene in. He even looks back at your bedroom, where the sheets are rumpled and need to be washed. Then he settles on you one last time, jaw set, muscle feathering a bit.

“Call me. Text me. Anything, darling. But don’t you dare forget about me.”

The door closes with a slam.  

~~~~~~

The first day, Gaz is sure it’s fine. You need time to think, and that’s okay. He can handle that. He’s handled it multiple times.

And, yeah, when he’d gotten back to his hotel room, he had to sit for a moment, staring at the wall. Had to replay that whole night all over again. 

Then again. 

He did the same thing with that morning, reimagining licking the sweat off your thighs, sliding up and burying his face into your stomach, pawing at your body wherever you’d get the loudest. Replayed the feeling of your supple palms and soft fingertips—every inch of you was so damn soft, fleshy and yielding in his hands—wandering over his cheeks, his lips, his scalp. 

Fucking beautiful. Every goddamn second of it. 

Gaz, that first day, tries not to linger too long on how it’d ended. 

So stupid of him to bring that up. Suggest for you to move in with him when obviously you both functioned at two vastly different paces. 

Isn’t it ridiculous that he can’t even bring himself to think it’s crazy? He can’t find it in him to say no, that’s bullshit, because who are you and why the hell did he ever think moving with a woman he’d only known for three months was okay—desirable, even?

So bloody desirable it almost crossed that line and became imperative. 

He spends that night checking his phone, wondering if you’ll call him again, borderline tears and needy like yesterday.

That was his favorite aspect of yours so far—when you needed him, you needed him badly. You needed him while you choked back gasps and almost-sobs. You needed him while you breathed a little sigh of relief at the sight of him and jumped into his arms. You needed him with that first kiss, shy and tentative, but trying your best to imitate reckless abandon—until he taught you properly. 

He’d spent that whole night watching you be shocked at yourself for how badly could want him, all confused and flushed when you’d noticed your fingers digging into the buttons of his trousers. A little stunned “o” formed on your lips when you’d dug your nails in, body trembling with exhaustion, and still begged him for more. Kyle, please. More.

Gaz only convinces himself to take a shower for the night when the thoughts become too much. He almost trips over his own feet in a mad scramble when he sees his phone flash, only to find a notification for an update. 

He goes to sleep in a sour mood. 

The second day goes about the same. He wakes up late in the afternoon (because, due to your midnight upset, he was still on his Middle-East sleep schedule), spends way too much time remembering and staring at his phone, waiting for a buzz or a ring. Eats his dinner and drinks in a deathly silence. 

Because silence is unnerving to him now. You’ve changed that much in him. Every second spent in lonely quiet feels like a waste of his time. 

But you don’t call. And you don’t text. 

You don’t do any of it for the next three days. 

Gaz wallows even worse. He gets antsy, goes to the hotel gym and sprints on the treadmill, because he knows if he runs outside he’ll find himself at your place. He goes to stores, buys himself another black t-shirt, same size and brand as the one that you’d worn, that’d cinched in at your waist and flared out to capture your hips and thighs. 

He wanders into the bookstore next door and finds a few of the ones he’d spotted on your bedroom bookshelf whenever you’d tapped out on him. He flits through a few pages, eyes catching on the naughty words, and reads through for… wistful entertainment, at least. 

Research purposes, at most. 

And Gaz chuckles to himself, winking at the girls that try to wander into the section inconspicuously. The same ones who surely have as good a poker face as you, and who immediately vacate the area at the sight of an invader. 

It would be more fun if it was you he was teasing. Same pink ears and face, same eyes avoiding contact at all cost, fingers fidgeting at the hems of your sleeves.

A longing ache floods his chest so directly and intensely that he has to take a second, breathe and set down the book so he can center himself again. That same flood of cognizance about his situation hits him when he’s on missions, when the victims’ sobs finally get to him or he looks too long in the eyes of a dead man. 

Like he’s yanked to the surface after hours underneath the tide, and the sun shines so brightly his eyes burn. But he’s seeing and feeling everything he’d shoved deep down, knows exactly what led him to this moment. 

Gaz doesn’t go out much after that. 

Not the next day, or the day after that. Not even the next two days after those. 

It’s around this point that he wishes you would just put him out of his fucking misery. He’s so tired of thinking of you before he goes to bed, dreaming of you, then waking up to phantom touches all over his body. He’s driving himself up the walls trying not to call you, break into your house and just steal you back to England anyway. 

Patience. Son of a bitch—patience. God, you strung it out so thin with him that it could snap like a rubber band and hurt you both. 

It’s midnight of the tenth day of no contact with you that Gaz’s finally got his sleep schedule under control, and he’s twisted up in the sheets, body caked with sweat. 

Well, actually, he’s in Prague.

He’s rapidly approaching a target in a dusty, dark alleyway. Just before they turn the corner and get into public view—can’t let that happen, have to maintain cover—Gaz wrestles them away from the glow of the streetlamps and back behind a dumpster, kicking away their gun while he wrenches a biceps around their neck—

But it’s your voice ringing through the air. Your pleas and sobs pierce his conscious too late. Your neck snaps so loud he flinches, and all the while his mind is screaming no, no this can’t be right. She’s not the target. She’s never the target. 

Gaz scrambles away, tearing off the sheets and rolling out of bed. 

Jesus Christ.

He has to see you. 

After that, just needs to make sure. Needs to check that you’re still in tact, your sweet neck not cracked and limp, eyes not dim and silenced. 

He rises to his feet and can’t find his Goddamn socks anywhere. A yellow glow from the window lets Gaz catch himself in the mirror at the perfect moment, and he can see the thick sheen of sweat that covers his body head to toe. 

You deserve better than that. Better than a sweaty, desperate man with no patience pushing his way into your house and demanding an answer, a single word, fucking anything from you. 

Even a nod or a shake of your head would settle his poor heart. The damn thing aches in his chest all the time now. 

Gaz slips into the bathroom for a quick, cold shower, stubs his toes against the not-wide-enough walls of the tub several times, and ambles out a bit slower and far more jittery than he’d gone in. 

He’s shifting a pair of pants up his not-yet-dry legs when he spots it. 

A dim flash from the hotel nightstand, where his phone is plugged in. 

Gaz freezes.

Surely it’s not…

Well, it might be…

But he’d been gone for not even five bloody minutes; that’s not even fair!

Suddenly, he’s kicking off the pants and hurdling over the bed, buck-naked and scrambling for his phone.

No, no, no, no, no, no, NO.

But yes. It’s a voicemail from you. Three minutes and forty-seven seconds, and he wasn’t there for any of it. 

He presses it with wide eyes and a heaving chest, and something stabs him, hard, cruel, and swift right in the center of his gut when he hears your voice. 

“Wow, I’m getting deja vu.” You laugh, but it’s empty and short. “I’m really hoping you didn’t sneak off to a mission without telling me. That would, uh…” Your tone grows dreary, even as you huff another laugh. “That would really suck. But I’m sure I deserve it.”

You thought he’d leave you?

You can’t see him, and he knows that, but he still shakes his head, brow furrowed because no, no, no, he would never do that to you. Damn that evil brain of yours. 

“I just… um, I just had a dream, though. Wanted to tell you about it. It wasn’t even bad so, like, I don’t even know why it woke me up.” Some shuffling, and a sniffle. “Well, I mean I do, but… okay, fine, I’ll just tell you. 

“It was pretty lame. Nothing big, but I was hanging out in an apartment—a flat, you might say—which is a stupid name for an apartment, but you Brits don’t even know what chips are, so whatever. I’ll let it go. 

“Anyway, I was sitting on the couch kinda bored, and then you came in. Came back, really. It’s like that background knowledge thing you get in a dream, where you only know exactly what’s going on the moment it happens? But you were back from a mission, and I had dinner and a hot bath ready, and you…”

Another sniffle. Gaz hovers over the phone, waiting for those seconds to dwindle down, needing to know how you felt when the message ended so he could call you and be…well, be whatever the fuck you needed him to be in that moment. 

“I don’t know. We were about to kiss, and then I woke up and you weren’t even there and I just…hated that. The idea of that. Of you not being there when you could’ve been. And knowing that the only reason you weren’t was because I was being so stupidly stubborn.”

You sigh, then, and get too quiet for him to hear without crouching closer. “Kyle, if you still want me even at all after this, I…” You suck in a long breath, and he hears that little hitch at the back of your throat. “I need it to be slow. Slower than what it’s been. Especially if… if it’s gonna be the same apartment. I’ve never had anything like this before. Never felt it. And I’m scared of, well, all of it, honestly.

“But I’m more scared of never taking that chance with you. And you’ve been commuting to my home, my country all this time, so… you know, maybe it’s time I reciprocate. Reciprocate a lot of things.”

Then someone knocks on his door.

~~~~~~

Kyle never directly told you which hotel room he was in. But when he’d kicked his pants off and you’d watched them soar over your bedroom floor that night you’d called him over, you’d laughed into his kiss at the sight of his wallet, his key card, and some loose change rattling across the floor. 

The next morning, you’d picked it all up while he was in the bathroom, where he was hopefully not glaring at the impulsive hickey you’d given him. You’d snagged his t-shirt for yourself, some womanly, possessive part of you wanting to squeeze yourself into his clothes, whether it would fit or not. You’d felt like a damn fool crammed into it—until Kyle saw you for the first time, and the look he gave you made your stomach clench. 

You’d organized the rest of his things onto your dresser, only eyeing the room card, and the number sharpied on the back, passively. 

Room 428. 

You knocked on the door now, pulse thump-thump-thumping against your eardrums. 

An “Oh fuck” was muffled and low through the door. 

It didn’t sound like you’d woken Kyle up, and you admit that you’d been seriously considering the fact that he might’ve left for a mission while you were in AWOL mode. A bit of luck, really, that it was actually him, still here after ten days of radio silence. 

But you’d know that gruff, British grumbling anywhere, and your body began to tremor. Small, at first, in your fingertips and toes. Then your knees felt a little loose as time went on and all you could hear from Kyle’s end was quick footsteps and the snap of fabric. By the time the door whipped open, your every breath came out stumbling, like waves over jagged rocks.

And Kyle…

Oh. 

Oh, Goddamnit. 

Ten days was too long for both of you. 

Because Kyle, for all his effortless handsomeness, was a wreck. Untidy stubble’s laid claim to his jaw and throat, and his lips look bitten raw. Deep-seated crescents curve under each eye, lined and dark and angry. He’s draping himself against the door with the black curls on top of his head in complete disarray, and watching you with a low-lidded gaze. 

Gaunt, worn, weakened. Like the life has been drained out of him. 

But it’s still Kyle. There’s a phantom of his old self in his form now, a tautness to his shoulders and neck, slight bend in his knees, vigilance in his whiskey eyes. You’ll have to reel his spirit to the surface.

Looking at him now, though, it hurts to think you’re the one who’d done it to him. So damn hard to believe that he takes absences of you like shots to the heart. It’s lovely, to be so wanted by Kyle Garrick. 

Harrowing, too. 

There’s a learning curve to holding his tender heart in your hands and trying not to squeeze it too hard, too often, but you get the feeling you’ve been treating it like a stress ball. You forget that he keeps himself at this rough idle for you. That he always carries soft, warm feelings all the time, and lets them fester behind the velvet steel of his abdomen.

“Did you get my voicemail?”

He nods a little. 

“So you heard that I…?”

Another nod. 

The air is thick and straining with his silence. All he is right now is two eyes watching you and ten long fingers flexed against the door, features bordering on unreadable. 

But there’s yearning. There’s always that fierce yearning with Kyle.

You lean a little closer, don’t quite know whether to be disturbed or flattered at how his nostrils flare when he suddenly sniffs. 

Then he hums, low and deep.

“Peaches,” you mumble, recalling months ago, a staunch memory of his words about your perfume. 

“Tha’s right, bunny,” he mutters. His fingers peel off the door before he lurches toward you, a lovely swoop in your gut when he hauls his arms around your waist, tilting his face to yours. He takes another sniff, this one nestled against the top of your scalp. “It’ll smell like peaches.”

When Kyle takes a step backward, his arms remain iron-stiff around your back, dragging you with him. Step for step for step until you’re in his hotel room, kicking his door shut with the heel of your shoe. 

His hand rises and sweeps back the hair stuck to your neck, already slanting his lips over your pulse point, teething at the skin. “My flat,” he whispers. Then he scoops up your jaw, tilts your head to the other side and reattaches his mouth to the next indent in your throat. “My bedroom.” Another readjustment of your head, aligning himself just below your chin, your head tipped all the way back, blurry, blissed-out eyes locked on the ceiling. “My sheets.”

“Kyle.”

His fingertips dig in hard enough to leave purple dots against your lower back. “All of it’ll smell like peaches. Like you.”

You pry him off with a tugging grip at his damp hair, only slightly intrigued by the water droplets that you now notice litter his skin. 

A bit too busy trying to think back to why you’re here, outside of getting his hot mouth all over you again, to try and care about something so minor. 

There’s an indignant huff against your bobbing throat before he draws back. Kyle looks damn near put out by the fact that you hadn’t let him keep sucking distractions into your skin, and his teeth bare slightly when he grumbles, “What is it, love?”

Lest you forget Kyle first and foremost loves to grope at the plush of your thighs, he does so now, mindlessly, detrimentally to your train of thought. “There’s—there’s so much to figure out, Kyle.” Your words are more like a sputter, wild spilling past your teeth. “There’s getting my stuff there, and passports, and visas. Things that take more time than how long we’ve known each other.”

The golden gleam of his smirk almost takes you out of commission. One second he’s bitter about his mouth and the lack of your skin against it, the next he’s pulled back far enough to meet your eyes dead on, confident like he knows you inside out. 

“Bunny, when you first started to walk, did you go ’round asking everyone what running felt like instead of trying it?”

You… don’t know what that means. Like at all. 

And you’re fairly certain you wouldn’t be able to figure it out even if you weren’t exhausted from four-hour sleep and the wandering of calloused fingers. 

“Kyle—what?”

The deep timber of his chuckle floods your ears like spools of silk. It’d almost be mean if it wasn’t the same playful laugh he used to give you from across the counter, one hand on a drink, the other reaching for yours, and if he hadn’t done it with little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. 

“I just mean…” he pauses and strokes at your thighs a little slower, “that all of this has felt so bloody natural. Like I’m made to be doing this. Like I’m learnin’ how to walk all over again. And you…” One hand departs, rises and encompasses your cheek, thumb swiping over its swell. Kyle’s features soften. “Love, you make me want to run so badly.”

Your hands fist against his chest, but you know he can still feel the quivering that’s begun. That slowly showers over your body, tip of your skull down to the bottoms of your feet, electrifying and frightening.

You say his name again, startled at how much you want him. 

He’s not wrong. Not even close. Being with him is like warm sweaters, or old socks, or scuffed shoes. Things that always just fit.

But it’s new, these butterflies frenzied in your stomach, this chain reaction of shivers and sparks of pleasure and licks of sweet heat. 

New, and timeless. Confusing, and so damn easy. 

“I’ve got connections, love. And so much time for you. All the time in the goddamn world.” His hips press into yours, and once more, he begins to sway.

And, once more, you follow suit.

“And there’s bars aplenty in England, love,” Kyle whispers the words against your forehead. “If that kickin’ little mind o’ yours feels like it has to repay me—pain in my arse, but I’d let you do it. Even though I wouldn’t mind it if you could just sit in my apartment and look real pretty. That’s always on the table for you.”

“Definitely off the table, Kyle.”

“All right, all right, fine.” He peppers kisses over your face. “So long as you’re there each time I walk through that door, yeah?”

~~~~~~

Gaz can smell it from the hallway. 

The heavy scent of chocolate and those pretty candles you love to light, along with a lingering hint of peach. The door to his flat towers, ominous and contingent, like if he doesn’t open it now, any second it’ll slip away and he’ll be back on the field, gunsmoke thick in his eyes and throat. 

Coming home is always a little hard.

 He’s unwinding vertebra by vertebra, trying to fracture himself into small enough pieces to fit through the door. And there’s the crotchety stiffness of his limbs, too long for these halls, too sturdy for a scene soft as this. 

Gaz shoots for quiet and hits dead silence when he twists the knob. Slips through the doorway and takes in this little fault he’s discovered in reality, phenomenon he’s kept under wraps for the past year or so. 

Because entering the pocket dimension of his flat is nothing short of ascendant. Every damn time. 

The air in here is velvety smooth and warm. Not unbearably, for July—it almost feels like the warmth of a sweaty palm still interlaced with his, making his body all syrupy slow. The lights have been dimmed and everything in view from the doorway is more shadow than actual features. London, like the determined sadist it is, is gray and drizzly outside each of his wide-open windows, helping none with his search.

That is something he’d had to bargain for—open windows. Gaz doesn’t mind the subpar reward any creeper might receive peeking into his home, but you weren’t as convinced. The task to win you over had become almost insurmountable when he’d grown too greedy in the living room and you, with eyes only barely comprehensive over his shoulder, locked gazes with an elderly woman across the way and screeched.

But he’d won, and it seemed you honored your promise now. 

Speaking of you, he doesn’t even spot you the first look-around. Even as his nerves meld into the sleek familiarity, panic splices through his gut when he glances once, twice, then thrice around. You’re not running toward him like he desperately wishes you would. You’re not hovering over the kitchen stove, or digging through the fridge. You’re not even curled up in the window seat, sipping on a steaming mug. 

Gaz knows he was quiet, but he didn’t know he was too quiet. 

It becomes increasingly obvious that you’d had plans to greet him. 

Because not only is his favorite meal still sitting over the burner, and the kitchen’s covered in dirty dishes, but you’re lounging on the couch, plush thighs crossed one over the other with a book in hand, clad in fantastically sparse lingerie of frilly black lace that leaves meager gaps for his memories to fill in.

With a stuttering breath, he fills the gaps in tight. 

Your lazy fingers scrape at the corner of a page, then you flip it with a bored sigh, shifting a little by hooking your heel over the top of a sofa cushion, splitting your legs wide so he can see—

His pack drops to the floor with a thunderclap of noise. 

Your body jerks all at once, a quick shriek splitting the viscid atmosphere in half. 

Your wide, prey eyes latch onto his while you grapple at your chest, book having been launched halfway across the carpet. “Kyle, you son of a—could you have been any quieter? What the hell?!”

He barks out a laugh. The potency of your voice saying his name is already swimming through his mind, and he reaches back and closes the door while you rise to your feet. “Sorry, love. Next time I’ll just crawl through the window, yeah?”

“Fuckin’ may as well have,” you grumble, adjusting the stringy straps of your bra. Your skin is all blank and pale right now from months of his absence, white space where amaranthine marks should be. 

Four months. The longest the two of you have been apart, and every step you come closer that heady scent of your perfume prickles its way up his spine. 

“My sweet little bunny, precious love of my life—what have you been up to, hmm?”

Your hands slot on your hips, and you pout up at him. The build-up of energy crackles all over his skin the longer you stand so far away from him, but you’ve still settled for a lecture instead of a kiss. “Well, I had this whole plan where I’d feed you and bathe you, and then we’d fuck like rabbits, but I guess that’s out of the question now.”

Gaz snickers, the abject disappointment raw on your face. “How is that out of the question?”

“Timing’s off and you ruined the whole sexy vibe I was aiming for.” You fold your arms, and Gaz shamelessly drags his gaze down from your face. “You really suck, you know that?”

His lips part in that effortless grin you so easily drag out of him. “So sorry, love. If you come over here, I’ll be sure to apologize quite thoroughly.” Gaz lifts his arms, holds them out and gestures his fingers enticingly. “I’ll have your forgiveness in a matter of seconds.”

Your expression’s all stubborn and prickly, but you sway forward a little anyway. “I…” You grunt and stomp toward him, let him wind his entire body around you, and relax a little when his palms massage and dig into your shoulder blades. “I really did have everything planned,” you mumble into his chest, fingertips all twisted up in the back of his shirt. 

Gaz is starting to get an idea about what’s going on. 

Only about half the candles are lit throughout the flat, the majority of which are near the bedroom. The bathroom light is still on, door opened a crack, but there’s unpacked bath bombs strewn about like you gave up halfway through. Even the kitchen is more messy than usual after the nights that you cook. Only half the pots and pans look actually used, the rest an anxious jumble of utensils and ingredients he knows you didn’t need to make chocolate-chip pancakes alone. 

It looks like you were distracted. So very terribly disturbed by something that you could only commit half a mind to all your ideas. 

With him, you’re rarely left to your own devices for this long, and it shows. 

Gaz can see it, feel it, and practically smell it all over you. Despite his embrace and what should be relief about his return, the muscle and tissue all over your body are pulled taut, bowstring-tight and ready to pitch forward at any second. 

He hums, feels the tension in your spine only grow as he draws little circles against your skin. “I know, love. I see it. Candles, and the dinner, and the bath.” He kisses your forehead, grins wider when all you do is huff and puff. “Did so well. I know it’s hard.”

It only serves to wind you up more. “I’m supposed to be the one massaging and calming you. Feeding you and taking care of you after your mission. This is…” you hiss a curse, nails scraping at his waist now. 

“S’okay. I’ve been through this hundreds of times.” His fingers dance a little lower, teasing that arch in your back that you curve a little harder against him. “I know exactly what you need, bunny. Sort you out so you can get back to your plan, yeah? Just need you to let me take care of it.”

“I don’t…” you shake your head. “I don’t know why I just—I mean, all of the sudden it’s you, and I can’t—”

You fall silent so fast when he shushes you, presses a too-short kiss to your lips. Already, he can feel the verve traveling through your very bones. He lets his words brush along your lips when he repeats his promise. 

“Know jus’ what you need. Let me handle it.”

~~~~~~

You’re straddling his thighs with a fork in hand, watching in a satisfied stupor as the plate balanced on his chest rises and falls at a rapid pace. 

Sticky, flushed, and sated all over, you saw off another sliver of pancake and hold it up to Kyle’s lips. He accepts it greedily, lets his head knock back against the headboard with a euphoric, close-lipped smile. 

He hadn’t been… wrong. 

Which is to say, you’d somehow managed to get yourself so worked up in his absence that the second he returned, all you’d wanted to do was jump his bones, sans any of the prelude you’d planned.

A warning would have been nice, now that you think about it. Anytime around four months earlier when he’d first begun preparing you for his absence without you even knowing it, would have been superb. 

Instead, he’d let it fester in you, like he’d planted himself a gift, fruit ripe for the plucking at a later date. 

You want to be mad. 

Can’t quite bring yourself to, though. 

A bit too… preoccupied. 

There’s still sweat dripping at Kyle’s temples when he cleans off the plate, hands still squeezing in distracting patterns around the meat of your thighs. 

“Fucking delicious, love.” He laves his tongue at the corner of his lips. “My two favorite meals.”

“You’re horrible.” You scramble off him unsteadily, trying to keep both you and the dishes in your hands balanced. “I should get a bar of soap for that mouth of yours.”

Kyle laughs first, then groans, swiping his hands down his face. “If you’d said that shit in the barracks, love…” he calls after you, tutting in the distance while you deposit the plate in the sink. You almost trip on your skimpy lingerie set from a couple hours ago while stumbling your way back to the bedroom. 

“Am I supposed to know what that means?” You raise a brow at him even as you tug on his arm, drag him out of the bed and down the hall. 

After it all, Kyle had insisted you keep up the plan. Didn’t want that guilty conscience of yours to fester and, even worse, those pancakes to grow cold. He’d poked at your cheek, voice slurring a little from exhaustion as he whispered, “Gotta stay awake, love, or your li’l rabbit heart’ll feel all sad tomorrow.”

So you’d rolled off the mattress and made the trek back through the apartment, and, admittedly, you started to feel guilty about the mess you’d left during your hazy planning earlier. 

You recalled trying to think of ways you could impress Kyle but not being able to think clearly after slipping on the lacy panties; too caught in imagining how he’d tear them off to really notice how half-baked the rest of your plan was. 

And how all you could think about was him serving you, which really wasn’t fair. It’d been over a year since you’d started living together, and when he went off on missions, it was an unspoken promise on your end that you’d welcome him back in calm and comfortable ways. 

His first few missions had been just that—romantic kisses and big, sweeping arcs of hugs; slow dances around the living room and the kitchen, sweet, bubbly champagne with dinner. 

All you’d managed this time around was half-assed pancakes, lacy panties, and a cold bath that you hadn’t been patient enough to finish prepping. 

You remember that you hadn’t even been exhausted today. The opposite, really. You’d been buzzing from head to toe the moment you got his call, mind too frantic to ever really stick to your old habits. 

Kyle kneels down beside you outside of the tub, three bath bombs encompassed in just one of his absurdly large hands. The other is curling your hair around a single index finger. He’s patiently busying himself by touching you, playing with some part of your body or other like he’s always done. 

One morning he’d had an absurd obsession with your left heel, and he’d nipped at the tendon out of sheer curiosity. 

You’d almost kicked him square in the face. 

But he gets new little obsessions with you all the time. Each day, he’s poking and investigating at a different part of your body, and he always—always—has to feel it against his teeth. 

And you let him. Even now, as he hinges his jaw around your shoulder. 

A true adventurer, unafraid to explore with all that he is. Wants to discover every little thing in a million different ways. 

You lean forward and wrench the faucet off, then pat at Kyle’s cheek. “Bath bombs, please.”

When he thunks them in the water, the air in the room floods with lavender and chamomile. The tub’s still fizzing purple when he clambers in and hauls you in after him, slowing your descent into his lap just enough that only a bit of water dumps over the edge. 

A long, drawn out sigh ruffles the loose hairs atop your scalp. Kyle’s hands sweep all the way up to the underside of your breasts, then way back down to the middle of your thighs, back and forth, back and forth. For the most part, you try not to move, try to let the aches melt away with the heat.

You drop your head back into the crook of Kyle’s neck and shoulder, tipping your face a bit to look at him. 

Everything’s fuzzy. Pleasant. Legs and arms weighed down by gratification, gut slick with sated heat. And your heart thumps wild and proud, bum-rushed red and gold. Natural and gleaming. Normal and perfect. 

“Can we stay like this forever?” Kyle asks again, a lifetime later. You’re only one year wiser when you nod yes, of course, how else would we be?

He burrows you deeper against him, trying to meld your skin into his because it’ll never be close enough. Touching and bruising and biting only mollifies it, this wonderful new appetite only Kyle can feed. 

It’s crumbs of food, or the tiniest sips of water. 

Or spare oxygen.

Kyle hunches over you, hard body slipping against yours. Soughs, like you hit just the spot. 

“Can’t believe you kept gettin’ away from me before all this. Tested my patience so bloody much to get here, bunny.”

You smile, tilting your head and pressing a tender kiss to his cheek. “It’s your best virtue, Kyle.”

Betrayal (Garou x Reader) *Request*

*GIF not mine*

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

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

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

Word count: 3145

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

                             ***

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

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

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

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

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

      “That hurt, YN!” You giggle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                              ***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Why wasn’t I enough to stop him?

                              ***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                              ***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                              ***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bed Head (Kuroo x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: Kuroo’s hair was an undeniable nuisance. It was a shame, though, because it was here to stay. 

A/N: I will murder writer’s block with my bare hands, just watch me. Anyways, thank you guys so much for 200 followers! Please enjoy!

Word count: 1406

        It was a peaceful morning. The sun was peeking through your closed blinds and the bird’s nest outside your window was chirping happily at the day. All was well and calm. And your boyfriend… well, let’s just say his hair decided it wanted to be your breakfast.

       “Pluh,” you spat out the strands, “ugh, gross Tetsu! Get your rat’s nest away from my face!” His head untucked from your chin and he served you a nasty glare, repositioning from his place on your chest. After he nestled into your side, you could finally breathe a full gasp of air, something you had wished to do all night but couldn’t. Kuroo had an annoying fascination with cuddling directly on top of you, claiming he wanted to “keep you warm like a blanket.” It felt like sleeping under a boulder. 

       “You know this is mostly your fault anyways.” He peeled a hand away from your hips to gesture at his wild tufts sticking out here and there. 

       “Oh please, your hair’s been a homemade explosion for longer than I’ve been around.” You smirk at him and begin prodding at the unmoving strands. They bounced right back with every poke you gave; it was fascinating. 

       “Well I know that, but you’re the only one who’s been making it worse lately.” Swatting your hands away, he gave you a smug look after his whisper. Your body hand tensed under his touch while your eyes widened. 

       “I certainly hope so,” you softly smile back and he hums. Kuroo’s long, rough fingers return to your sides and softly caress the skin there while the room quiets once more. You’re not too ticked off anymore, so you tug his head back down to your chest and embrace the feeling of his grin against your clothed front. As you silently stare at the ceiling while basking in your boyfriend’s warm presence, a fiber of pure evil itself pokes you in the eye after he readjusts his face into your collarbone. 

       “That’s it! I’m done!” You push him off and decide it’s time to finally get ready for the day. It’s six a.m. on a Saturday. You don’t have shit to do, but you certainly don’t want to stick around with rooster head fwapping you in the face every two seconds. “Next time your hair chokes me out while I yawn, I’m shaving it all off.” You point accusingly at his mop of black hair and glare at it while readjusting your pajamas, which consisted of underwear and Kuroo’s shirt from last night. 

       “Oh please,” he simpers at you, “if you did that, you would have nothing to tug on when we’re-” 

       “Shut up!” You throw the nearest pillow at his face while your own blossoms bright red. A deep chuckle echoes throughout the room while you turn away to gather a towel and clothes for a morning shower. 

       “Come on, YN, it’s only six, come back to bed.” The mattress squeaks behind you while you dig through a dresser for some pants. “I’ll make it worth your while.” His sly, husky voice is closer than before as he makes his way over to you. 

       “Nothing is worth getting stabbed in the eye again,” you try to ignore the feeling of his gaze watching you while his presence looms closer. “How is your hair even that sharp?” you mumble before locating your target. 

       “Ah-ha!” you shout victoriously before whipping around with a pair of yoga pants in hand. 

       Plmpf.

       Oops.

       Your decided clothing for the day shitwhips Kuroo across the face, who yelps in surprise. The room grows dangerously quiet as he holds his cheek from the smack and looks over at you. Run.

       It was a simple suggestion, so you listened. Letting out a terrified screech, you tear cheek down the hall and into the bathroom, slamming the door in front of a boyfriend in hot pursuit. 

       “It was a love tap, don’t get so pissy,” you exclaim while dropping your clothes onto the counter, heaving gasps of air from the small-but-sudden distance run. The door opens next to you- shit, the locks- ominously slow, hinges creaking as a dark presence stands motionless in the dim entryway. The fuck is he doing?

       You stare at the man with raised brows and hands on your hips. “What are you, a serial killer?” The serious look on Kuroo’s face drops and his fingers rub the side of his face miserably. 

       “That hurt, YN!” he pouts sullenly before stepping into the bathroom and hugging you close, rubbing his face against yours. “I need a kiss and a shower to make it feel better.”

       “Oh really?” He nods shortly. You shake your head and laugh. “All right, you big baby. Come on.”

                               ~~~

       The shower was hot and heavy for one reason: Kuroo hated cold showers with a passion. No, nothing saucy happened. You guys just washed yourselves, brushed your teeth, did the deed, washed yourselves again, then dried off and got out. Nothing out of the norm. Except when you stood in front of the mirror brushing your hair while Kuroo hugged you from behind, you couldn’t help but watch his own hair. He wasn’t wrong; it was fun to yank on in the heat of the moment. But seriously, even after a thirty-minute, finger-pruning shower, his dripping, black locks still pointed proudly atop his head in every direction. How the hell-

       “Let me fuck with your hair,” you demanded, eyes still locked on his head.

       Kuroo snickers behind you, arms tightening around your waist. “Isn’t that what just happened?” he asks cheekily, bottom lip caught between his teeth. You scoff and whirl around to face him, brush left forgotten on the counter. 

       “That’s not what I meant,” you roll your eyes, “I mean, let me, you know.” Your hands waved around wild, unknowable gestures while your boyfriend raised his brow at you.

       “Yes?”

       “Let me, like, gel it up or something,” you shrugged, reaching up to comb through the bang dangling in front of his eye. Kuroo chuckled lowly, and you stared frightened as he got louder and louder, turning into a devious cackle as he busted a gut. 

       “Okay.” He stopped laughing suddenly with a dead-serious face. “Go ahead, give it your best shot.” You cracked a hesitant smile, still shaken by his howls. After being given the go-ahead, you gathered gels, hairsprays, mousse, hell, even a straightener. Whatever you could scavenge that could do something to hair, you grabbed it. 

       At last, you hauled the basket full of products back to your room and dropped it next to an unaffected Kuroo, who watched you with bored eyes. If anyone were to see you right now, they would think you had set up a barbershop in your own room. You even had scissors, but you didn’t want to tell Kuroo about those. 

       “Are you ready?” You held up a bottle of hairspray with devious eyes, but he wasn’t intimidated in the slightest.

       “Do your worst,” he smiled back at you calmly. 

       “Oh, I will.”

                               ~~~

       Kuroo’s bedhead was forged by the gods. It was unbreakable, unyielding, and was given birth to directly next to Thor’s insurmountable hammer. You weren’t worthy. It was absolute and utter bullshit.

       “What the fuck is wrong with your hair?!” You shouted angrily, throwing the empty container of hair gel at the ground. It rolled and joined the group of used hairspray canisters. 

       “I'm untameable, baby. Don’t know what to tell ya.” Kuroo shrugged before rising from your bed and embracing you. You clenched your jaw against his chest but gave in to his hug.

       “It’s not fair,” you mumbled into his shoulder while he nodded and rubbed your back comfortingly. You pulled away slightly to glare at his black tufts. They were in their usual shape, just covered in shiny gel and crispy hairspray. I will beat you one day.

       “Whatcha doing?” 

       “Nothing.” You huddled back into his embrace, knowing you were fighting a one-sided battle. Resistance was futile. You groan and nuzzle your cheek closer to his chest while he chuckles softly. 

       Long live the bed head.

I want this job

Bad Sleeping Habits (Nishinoya x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: You and Nishinoya have some pretty weird sleeping habits. 

A/N: Just some little shorts for my favorite boy bc he’s the best! My god, if you want to love life, please search up the weirdest things people have said in their sleep. You will die laughing. Anyways, please enjoy!

Word count: 1068

        “DON'T FORGET THE APPLES!” You flinch out of your sleep to find your boyfriend sitting straight up in bed, eyes still closed.

       “Yuu, what the hell’s-”

       “GODDAMN GOPHERS… ate my… fucking carrots.” He flops back down onto the bed, letting out a loud snore as the mattress shakes from his fall. You lie beside him, eyes still open wide with fear.

       “What the fuck was that?” you whisper to yourself, scratching the side of your head and watching Nishinoya warily. After he stays silent for a while, aside from a couple snores similar to a honking semi, you slowly close your eyes once more and cuddle back into his side, smiling when his arms instinctively wrap around you.

                               ~~~

       “Pizza.” Nishinoya’s eyes blink open and quickly adjust to the dark bedroom.

       “Babe?”

       “Pizza babies,” you mumble beside him, worming your way out of bed and blindly trudging out of the room with unopened eyes. 

       “YN?” Nishinoya huffs before clambering out of bed and following your sleep-walking path. “What are you doing?” 

       “SHHH!” you harshly hiss against your finger. “Don’t blow our cover!” Your voice is slow and mumbled, and you are visibly unconscious during your actions. Nishinoya covers his mouth and snickers while you stumble into the kitchen, hands feeling blindly for something.

       “Hehe,” you giggle softly as you caress a watermelon before snatching it up and walking past your highly-confused boyfriend. He trails behind you as you step back into the bedroom and set it on the windowsill. 

       “YN, whatcha doin’ now?” He observes you as you pet the fruit like an animal.

       “The cat likes to see the sun rise,” you smile blissfully, stroking the melon once more before stumbling back to bed and passing out in the middle of the sheets. 

       Nishinoya glances at you, then at the watermelon, then at you again. He rubs his temples and grumbles, “We don’t even have a cat,” before nudging over your body and falling into the bed beside you. He’s too awake now, so he settles for watching you converse randomly in your slumber until his alarm goes off. 

       “I have clown school tomorrow.”

       “Oh really?” Nishinoya smiles at you.

       “Goddamn Tina’s always late though. Fuck Tina.” 

       Jesus, poor Tina, he thought.

                               ~~~

       The comparative sound of a loud, rapturous trumpet echoes throughout your room, disturbing you from your peaceful slumber. The stench that follows urges you to flee the bed and air out the blanket.

       “What the hell was that noise?” Nishinoya grumbles, opening one eye to look at you while you continue the necessary task. Your shirt is lifted over your nose to prevent further nasal contamination.

       “You ripped ass.”

       “Oh.” He nods before closing his eye and returning to sleep once more.

                               ~~~

       “Oooh, right there,” you whined. Nishinoya smiles in his sleep before turning and gazing at you.

       “Right there, huh?” he eggs you on with a smirk. You nod and whimper.

       “Mmhmm,” your voice is breathless. “Don’t move it.” His brow twitches in confusion.

       “You don’t want me to move? At all?” You sigh happily.

       “Yeah, keep it there.” Your nose scrunches up and you shiver while biting your lip. “Mmm, then put that one there.”

       “There’s another one?” Nishinoya’s eyes widen. Who the hell were you also picturing while you were dream-fucking him?

       “Yeah, there’s seven-hundred of them,” you scoff.

       Suddenly, Nishinoya doesn’t want to play this game anymore. “S-seven hundred?” he hesitantly gulps, “What’s wrong with just having the one?” He’s not sure if he wants to hear the answer.

       “If you’re gonna whine so much, then don’t help me build my fucking puzzle, Noya.”

                               ~~~

       “I don’t wanna die.” Your eyes fly open and you groan. It’s 4 am, what now? “I sometimes wish I’d never been born at all…” your boyfriend’s voice trails off and he begins to hum under his breath to a random tune. It was vaguely familiar to you, but you just couldn’t put your finger on it. Then his tempo sped up and his hands began to pat the mattress rhythmically.

       “I see a little silhouetto of a man,” Nishinoya suddenly speaks up once more.

       “Bum, bum, bum, will you…” he slows down once more and you think his solo is finally finished, thank God.

       “THUNDERBOLT AND LIGHTNING, VERY, VERY FRIGHTENING, ME!” You screech in terror at his sudden outburst and roll off the bed. The room grows silent while you stare at the ceiling on the cold, wooden floor. Then your boyfriend’s head pops into view after he groans, finally, finally awake.

       “YN?” he asks in a gruff tone. Although you want to revel in his husky morning voice like you normally would, you’re currently busy being totally pissed off at him.

       “Yes?”

       “What are you doing on the floor?” Your eye twitches at the question.

       “It looked lonely.”

       ~~~

       “Hey YN!” Tanaka waves at you while you enter their gym just as they finish practice. He jogs over to you and Nishinoya spots his actions in the distance. 

       “Tanaka, no!” Your boyfriend sprints towards you and his friend, but he’s not fast enough this time.

       “Did you know he screamed out your name in the middle of our overnight stay at the volleyball camp?!” Tanaka erupts into cackles and holds his stomach while you giggle along with him. Nishinoya tackles him to the ground before popping up in front of you and pointing an accusatory finger.

       “Don’t you dare laugh, we both do some weird-ass shit!” he warns, throwing a warning glare at Tanaka when he begins to howl happily at the information.

       “I’m not surprised, honestly,” you shrug, stepping closer to your boyfriend and holding his hand, “I’m more flattered than anything, I promise.” You give him a loving smile and Nishinoya returns the expression. 

       “I’m glad,” he draws you closer to you before whispering, “Now how about I help you return the favor.” You bite your lip and nod, following as well as you can while your energetic boyfriend hastily leads you home. 

       “OH YN!” A familiar voice mockingly moans in the distance. 

       “Shut up, Tanaka!”

Can I be on the 'Reborn' taglist🥺👉👈

hell yeAHHHHH🤩

Luna hunt part 2?

bro i couldnt find it either istg think i lost it somewhere someone put an amber alert find it pls

jk jk but honestly my brain has zero ideas for it like thats why it ended on such a good climax cuz that was literally all i had :( i know i could dig thru all those old wattpad werewolf stories just to find an idea but like why submit myself to my past mistakes like ew

one day, my friend, we shall see if i have an idea for it

helloo! i want to hurt. i want to hurt so bad so, can i request some kageyama cheating angst? make it as sad as possible PLEASE i love angst sm🤷‍♀️😦🥰

another one that's been in the box for years, but honestly man how sad is this idea like i wouldn't have even known where to start. Kags is such a cinnamon roll why would he ever cheat whyyyyyy

so angsty bro i could never, but it's been a couple years so I'm sure your search for cheater kageyama has been sated

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

(Middle Blocker Version) Part 1

A/N: Suna, Tendou, and Kuroo all got daddy kinks🤷‍♀️I don’t make the rules. A knee ways, can someone explain why my fake texts are always so damn horny?? I think I have a problem... ehh whatever. These ones are longer cuz the damn ideas didn’t fit, but otherwise, enjoy!

Tsukishima, Lev, Hinata, Suna

ATTENTION ALL GIRLS AND LADIES: if you walk from home, school, office or anywhere and you are alone and you come across a little boy crying holding a piece of paper with an address on it, DO NOT TAKE HIM THERE! take him straight to the police station for this is the new 'gang' way of rape. The incident is getting worse. Warn your families. Reblog this so this message can get accross to everyone.