Reborn (Bokuto/Akaashi X Reader) ~Chapter 5~

Innocent Misunderstanding (Iwaizumi x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: Last night, it was all fun and games until Iwaizumi accidentally pushed you too far. To be fair, you did underestimate his strength, so it wasn’t completely his fault. That didn’t prevent you from limping to school, though.

A/N: Same old, same old. Got an idea and wrote it in the a.m. It was just a little idea, so it’s really short. I do hope y’all like it tho!

Word count: 619

        “Woah, YN, you’re walking funny! You two must have had a wild time last night.” 

       “Shut it, Shittykawa.” You flip off the man while your boyfriend tightens his supporting arm around your waist and gives his teammate a withering glare. The dull aching in your legs is still painful enough for you to grip your boyfriend’s shoulder a little harder than necessary. 

       “You’re so mean, Iwa!” The captain’s mocking whine echoes down the hall while he walks away, and girls slowly flock to his side with every step. After his back disappears in the distance, Iwaizumi grunts at your deathly grip. 

       “Jesus, YN, unclench a little, will you?” He desperately tries to wiggle away from your claws and you dig them in harder just to spite him. 

       “Stop moving, it still hurts you know.” His face grows guilty at your grumble but he remains silent, guiding you slowly to your desk. Small twinges of discomfort arise with every step you take, the pain originating from your pelvis and traveling downward. You weren’t sore, why would you be, it was just the fact that every time your feet touched the ground with even the smallest amount of pressure, your legs would start to tremble and tingle. You sighed in relief when your newborn-giraffe imitation ends with you collapsing elegantly into your chair. 

       “How are you feeling?” Iwaizumi takes his assigned seat next to your own and stares at you with worry. 

       “Like there’s a pain in my ass now.” You weren’t lying; the ache had now transferred into your tailbone. Shit, why did he have to push me so hard? I knew we should have stopped before it got really rough. His hand drops on your thigh and comfortingly massages the skin there. Meanwhile, his olive green eyes are filled with unease, and you decide to put the blame game on pause for a second. “I’m okay,” you avoid his gaze as a blush grows on your face, “it doesn’t hurt as much this morning.”

       “Good.” His pearly whites flash at you while he gives you a rare Iwa-grin. It was beautiful and blinding, and so endangered that you only caught one once every two weeks. That’s exactly why it flustered you enough to restart the game. 

       “I told you we shouldn’t have jumped on the bed last night, though.” Leaning back in your chair, you busy yourself with picking at your fingernails disinterestedly while Mount Iwaizumi slowly prepares to erupt. 

       “You’re the one who started the pillow fight!” The volleyball player frustratedly whisper-shouts at you. The rough hand on your thigh squeezes irritably and you slap your own on top of it, pressing it down to prevent any more movements.

       “Well you’re the one who pushed me off the mattress!” The repartee ends when your boyfriend clenches his jaw and seethes silently, receiving dirty looks from you and returning them with ease.

       The squeaks of someone’s tennis shoes entering the classroom are ignored in favor of you both opening your mouths once more, armed with new retorts. 

       “So, long night huh?” A smug voice sounds behind you, and the already high tensions burst through the roof. Thankfully, both sides of the war finally agree on a single reaction.

       “Shut up, Oikawa!”

hahahaha just watched top gun: maverick and have begun preparing for my rooster phase

welp guess I’m into mustaches now

Hey, you. Yeah, you. Reading this right now. Stop what you’re doing for a few minutes and read this, okay? It’s important. It’ll only take a few minutes, I promise.

Let me start off by telling you how incredibly brave you are. I’m serious. You’re living in an uncertain world, and you still woke up today. It doesn’t matter if you got out of bed. If you got dressed. You’re awake. You’re here, with us. With the community online that loves you. You’re here. You could have hidden yourself away today. But you didn’t. You were brave and came to be with your friends today.

You know what else, though? You’re a wonderful person. No, don’t argue. Just listen for now. It’s okay. You don’t have to believe it for it to be true. You have been through so much. It has made you stronger. You are so strong. That doesn’t mean you have to be strong all the time, though. You’re allowed to be weak. You’re allowed to need to lean on someone. It’s okay. Nobody is going to judge you for that. If they do, they must have forgotten that they’ve had to lean before, too.

You are not a mistake. You’re not worthless. You bring joy to peoples’ lives. You might not even know the people that you bring joy to, but they’re there. They exist. Just like others bring joy to your life. That’s an important thing to be a part of. We need more joy in the world. I’m so glad that you’re here to help with that. I’m so proud of you for being here.

You are wanted. You are needed. If something were to happen to you, there are people that would miss you. People who would ask what happened to you. There are people that care about your wellbeing. We love you. It’s okay to come to us when everything feels hopeless. You’re not worthless. I promise.

I’m so, so proud of you and so happy that you’re here, reading this right now. I’m so happy that you’re still with us. Please don’t go where your friends can’t follow. Nobody in the world can replace you.

You can keep scrolling now. Just remember that there’s someone out there that cares about you, okay? Have a good rest of your day.

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

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

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

I just read the one with Dabi and Shigaraki getting seen by a villain and telling the reader to run and they get lost? Could I request that but with Bakugou, Shinsou and Todoroki? uwu thank you love your writing

He Tells You to Run During His Fight and You Get Lost (Yandere BNHA Headcanons)

*GIFs not mine*

Shigaraki and Dabi Version

A/N: Ajskdjd I don’t know if you actually sent this or if it just glitched but bro this request showed up in my inbox six times😂 I was just sitting there looking at it like wtffff. Anyways, I’m glad you liked the other one, and thanks for the request! I hope you like it!

Word count: 2197

Bakugou Katsuki: 

The entire street is blacked out. 

Of course, on the one night you actually are willing to go on a date with him, a villain attacks. 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Bakugou hisses, letting his hand explode for the occasional light. 

A villain with electricity powers no less. With one flick of the guy’s hand, the whole street had turned to black, but not before he saw a nice fistful of explosion approach his face. 

Bakugou had told you to run before the fight, and now that the villain was gone, you were too.

“YN!” 

“YN COME BACK HERE!”

Yeah, sure, your relationship was a bit bumpy at first, especially considering the fact that he had taken you from your own home and forced you to live with him, but he firmly believed you two had worked out the kinks over the past two weeks. 

Evidently, that was false. 

“YN I SWEAR TO GOD!”

You left him. You really had. How dare you try to leave him. You truly were dumber than he thought, because he could find you in seconds. 

He wasn’t hurt that you had taken the opportunity to escape, but you would certainly feel his wrath once you were back where you belonged.

Rage swelled in his chest as he released another angered roar into the night. 

You, on the other hand, are terrified. Where the hell is Katsuki?

It was too dark for you to see anyone or anything. No cars were on the streets, no flashing signs. It was like you accidentally stepped into a ghost town. 

In the distance, you heard shouts and thunders. The villain? No, Katsuki could take him. 

Then you saw it. A large, towering figure that was charging for you at an alarming speed. Your blood ran cold at the sight of- Oh God, was that electricity?-- in his palm. 

It was too dark to tell, but you weren’t taking your chances. Cursing under your breath, you spun on your heels and ran. 

Meanwhile, Bakugou had finally found you. His palms fired up with light as he sprinted your way, barking a single “FUCK” when you began running. You really had tried to escape. That was not okay. 

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.” Your eyes darted left and right, searching for an alleyway or anywhere else where you could hide and wait for the villain to pass. “I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die.”

Finally, you found a familiar corner, one you and Bakugou had turned at only half an hour ago. You remember an alley being right after the first building. 

Following the path with burning legs, you took the sudden turn and dashed into the alley, crashing into the wall and slumping down behind the nearest dumpster. Oh God, oh God, oh God. 

You could hear the villain’s thunderous stomps, storming right towards your dead end before they passed it completely, allowing you to release a relieved sigh. It was only when the footsteps suddenly returned that you panicked, heart practically jumping out of your chest. 

“YN!” a familiar voice barked, rage so undisguised you almost choked on it. 

“Katsuki?!” You asked in surprise, supporting yourself against the brick wall as you rose with burning calves. His crimson gaze pierced right through you. “Katsuki,” you smiled, “you’re alive!” 

Bakugou sneered at that. Psh yeah, like that lame ass villain could kill him. But that wasn’t the problem. “You bitc-”

Whatever he was going to say, you cut it off with a suffocating grip around his midsection. “Oh, thank God you found me. I thought I was being chased by that guy!” 

Your hold is so tight he can’t breath, and it’s only when his lungs start to burn that he reluctantly taps out. “Okay, okay,” he pats your shoulder, “unclench, will ya?”

His anger from earlier has almost deflated completely; your touchy-feely-ness with him kind of had that effect. “Let’s just go home.” 

Part of him was still struggling to accept that you hadn’t tried to leave him, but it faded away when you gave him that blinding smile and adorable little nod. “You sure you don’t wanna finish that date?”

Oh God, how could he ever doubt your love when you asked him that?

Shinsou Hitoshi: 

Shinsou would be damned if he let you go.

You were the light of his life. The beam at the end of the tunnel. You were his perfect match. You couldn’t leave him.

He’d promised you that he would never use his quirk on you back when you first got together, but tonight he’s afraid he’ll have to break that promise. 

A villain attacked, one who had stayed mute for the first five minutes of the fight. Right in the beginning, Shinsou knew he couldn’t have you stick around. 

“Let me help!”

“No, YN! Just go! Run!” You watched him for a couple more seconds with wide eyes before nodding and booking it down the streets, never looking back. 

Maybe you had thought it would be the last time you would ever see him. Maybe you were thankful for that fact. 

Either way, you were sorely mistaken. 

The villain finally cracked when Shinsou trapped him in a headlock, squeezing and squeezing until the guy finally wheezed out a “please.”

Then the purple-haired hero told him to dive off the nearest bridge into the river below, and he listened dutifully. 

“YN?” Shinsou called out now, slowly making his way down the street. The more time passed, the more silence heard, the faster he upped his pace. 

The distance from you was almost painful. God, how he just wanted to feel you again. Hear you again. 

“YN, please come here!” Shinsou was jogging now, lavender eyes foraging every inch of the wide open street he was on. 

He was desperate now. Never had he felt so helpless and needy, but God how he needed you in his life. 

For the first time in a long time, he felt like he had a future to look forward to-- with you. He wasn’t going to let that slip out of his grasp, even if you didn’t feel the same. 

In time, and with enough coaching, you would be perfectly happy with him.

“YN, please tell me where you are!”

Blood rushing in his ears, he began to increase his speed to a sprint, head whipping back and forth across every alley and street until he caught a glimpse of- there!

“YN!” 

Your familiar head of hair perked up at the name and you rose from your hiding spot behind a trash can. Your eyes were glistening and red, veins popping out beside the irises. 

“Hitoshi!” you wailed, locking gazes with him and quickly closing the distance between the two of you. A sigh of relief fell from your lips as soon as your arms wound around his neck. 

“God, I’m so glad you’re okay,” you mumble against his neck. He could feel the wetness of your tears, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like it. 

“Me too.” he wraps his arms around your waist, holding you just as tightly. He keeps his gaze locked on the wall behind your head while he contemplates his next move. “I thought you tried to-... I thought you were going to leave me for good.”

You snort bitterly into his neck. “Why would I ever leave you, Hitoshi? I love you.”

What if you were lying? What if you were lying to him right now? He could always ask…

But no, you said you loved him! And he promised you that he would never use his quirk on you. 

But surely it wouldn’t hurt to hear your honest answer, no?

“YN?”

“Yeah?” 

Your grip on him went slack as he felt your head drop completely against his shoulder. No doubt your eyes were glazed over right now, so beautifully vulnerable and yearning for his command. 

“Tell me the truth, darling. Were you trying to escape from me?”

“No, Hitoshi,” you mumble blankly into his skin. “I’ve fallen in love with you. I no longer feel the need to escape.” 

Breathless, Shinsou allows a grin to grow on his face as he dips his hand into your hair, petting it softly. “Good girl, YN. You’re so good to me now. So honest.”

You nod stiffly and Shinsou clicks his tongue. 

In an instant, your grip regains its previous gusto as you rub your cheek against his collarbone. “Can we go home now, ‘Toshi?”

Your mind was so trusting, so vulnerable, so pliable like puddy in Shinsou’s hands. Sure, he slipped up on his promise, but with your unconditional love, he was sure you would let it go in no time. 

“Of course, love.”

Todoroki Shouto: 

You were finally falling for him. Last night, like every night before, he laid a kiss on your lips as he returned home, only this time you responded. 

There was only one way to describe his feelings: he was addicted. To your love, to your touch, to you. 

It’d been so long since someone held him like you did, with that glimmer of adoration in your eyes. He had finally broken down your walls like you had done for him so long ago. 

He wanted to take you on a date tonight as a thank you. A gesture of gratefulness for reciprocating his love. 

But then that piece of shit attacked. 

Todoroki had no other option; he had to tell you to run. 

“YN please! Before he hurts you!” 

Fear was evident in your eyes, so getting you to flee was easy. 

And now that the villain was burned into oblivion, the hard part he dreaded had finally come: searching for you.

Within the ten-block radius he covered, you were nowhere to be found. Every divot, every ravine, every goddamn crack on the sidewalk, he searched for you. Hours passed, but he didn’t know how many. All he knew was that he couldn’t find you.

Of course, he should have expected this. 

You actually left him. 

It wasn’t like he didn’t see it coming. That kiss, no matter how much passion you had put into it, was obviously a lie. You were playing innocent, toying with his feelings just so you could really stick it to him in the end. 

He should’ve known. He knew, since he was a child, that he was an unloveable monster. He had been hanging onto you like his last thread of hope that he could be redeemed.

But now that you were gone, there was no way it wasn’t true. You didn’t deserve a freak like him, with a face not even a mother could love. 

Head hanging, Todoroki made his way home. His shoulders slouched forward as he dragged his feet along the sidewalk. Deep inside his chest, there was an ache. A longing for you, disguised as a physical pain. 

“Shouto.” 

The memory of your voice plagued his mind.

“Shouto!”

Growing louder and more insistent. No, of course he didn't want to forget you, but he had to.

“SHOUTO!” Tingles light up the flesh of where someone grabs his hand, and without hesitation, he spins and tackles them in a hug. 

“YN, please tell me this is real.”

Your cute little snort of disbelief makes his heart stutter. “Nah, this is all just a dream.”

“Don’t say that,” he grumbles into your neck. “You were gone for so long. I thought you left me.”

“‘Left you’? Seriously, Shouto? Is that why you were moping along when I finally found you?!”

“Yes. I thought you hated me for what I did to you, and escaped when the opportunity arose.” 

You tensed against him at his words. He hears you swallow. “I’m not gonna lie. The thought did cross my mind.” 

A nasty feeling crawls up his throat. “But then I realized I couldn’t.” 

“Really?” 

“Y-yes. Shouto… I realized I didn’t want to leave you. Because I-”

Here it was.

“-love you.” 

So it wasn’t a game after all. You weren’t pretending. That kiss had been real, you had meant it. A tear slipped down his cheek at the thought. He wasn’t a monster.

“I love you too, YN.” And you were never leaving the house after this. 

What a tease you were to toy with his feelings. Leave him for so long only to come back and drag him in again. For so long, you knew you felt this way, and only now, after he had searched for you for hours while you let him suffer those thoughts, you decided to confess your emotions. 

Todoroki’s love for you wasn’t a joke. And maybe, now that you seemed to understand you were his, he could finally teach you that lesson physically.

A matching mark of your own would do just the trick.

OMG HELLO HOW HAVE YOU BEEN IVE MISSED YOUUUUU

IVE BEEN GREAT GRADES ARE GOOD AND LIFE IS OKAY I MISSED YOU TOOOOOO💜💜

It would be interesting to see Osamu try to turn his life back around, come to terms with Atsumu's death and be his own person again. BUT!!! Please don't feel pressured to write a part 2 if you don't feel like it/don't want too 🥺 I was just genuinely curious if a part 2 was possible so I sent an ask. You're already giving us so much amazing content and I don't want you to burn yourself out and do any request that you don't like 🥺❣

Thank you, your words mean a lot more than you know🙏 And I’m thankful I’m surrounded by such kind people like you on here💜💜

I’ll definitely consider making a part 2 for Lapse in Judgement, as I’m also kind of interested in where I could take Osamu’s character without Atsumu by his side. The idea has definitely been noted :)

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

*GIF not mine*

Summary:

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

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

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

Word count: 8261

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he’s noticed a couple things about you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fucking music, surely. 

“I’ll go get it—”

Not yet. I need more time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that’s not what happens. 

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

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

Gaz panics. 

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

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

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

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

Meanwhile, Gaz… 

He has a question. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’ll find a way. 

He always does. 

~~~~~~

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

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

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

Mornings like this is where he fights fire with fire. 

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

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

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

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

Drunk Gaz, though….

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

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

It has the same effect. 

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

Gaz’s heart thump-thump s forcefully.

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

Fuckin’ hell. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuckin’. Hell. 

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

“Are you included in all that?”

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

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

That, or he still looked smashed from last night.

You dodge his question completely.

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

“Kyle.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck. 

Gaz wants to kiss you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gaz sighs. “What’s next on the menu?”

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

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

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

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

“Good feeling,” you nod. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s okay with manipulating you that much. 

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

“What are you gappin’ to?”

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

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

And he thinks he’s nailed it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jeanne likes to go hiking. 

Jeanne likes to swim. 

Jeanne loves nights out. 

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

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

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

He plans to change that. 

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

So you’re talking about him. 

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

“Special forces?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Five minutes too late, it seems. 

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

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

Trapped. That’s what he is.

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

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

Like taming a wild animal. 

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

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

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

~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he thought you loved cold weather?

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

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

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

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

He misses so many things from home. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Being here has changed something in him. 

Nothing big—all small things, in fact. 

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

Do they sell your perfume in the UK?

It’s not a huge thing if they don't. 

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

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

Gaz can’t quite make it make sense. 

Home is good. Hell, he misses it. 

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

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

Bullshit. 

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~

“YN.”

Nothing.

“YN.”

Still nothing.

“YN!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he gets here, sees you. 

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

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

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

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

See—wasn’t so hard, was it?

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

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

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

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

The same one that keeps him barking. 

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

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

You huff a sigh. “No.”

“Husband?”

You roll your eyes. “No.”

“Lesbian?”

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

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

“You’re unbelievable.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“YN…”

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

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

“You hate camping.”

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

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

“Kyle…”

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

“Peaches,” you mumble. He nods.

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

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

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

He needs a promise before he leaves. Something. 

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

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

“I thought you were just…”

Fuck. 

Gaz shakes his head.

Fuck. 

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

He tips his head back, locking onto the ceiling. 

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

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

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

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

No. 

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

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

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

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

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

A bloody fool. That’s what he is. 

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

What a fuckin’ sod he is. 

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

You not knowing he exists. 

Him having never met you.

The ideas make him sick. 

But Gaz…

Gaz is a planner. Above all else. 

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

“Your phone.”

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

“What?”

“Let me give you my number.”

“Kyle… that’s not a good idea.”

“Don’t care, love.”

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

Kyle (Hot Guy from the Bar) Garrick. 

His phone number. 

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

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

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

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

“Woo you?”

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

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

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

~~~~~~

Part 2

I loved your atla and lok stuff and I was wondering if you still write for them and if you do are you taking requests RN? Have a good day!

Hmmm, I haven’t written for that fandom for a while, but I wouldn’t mind writing a nice Zuko or Sokka fanfiction here or there👀👀

We can totally discuss any ideas you have! I’d love to see ‘em

The darling escape scenarios are sooo good, I love this series 😭 the fact that bokuto was afraid above all else hurt me even though I know he’s so messed up LOL but the kags and kenma scenes really surprised me! my heart usually sinks when the yandere gets out and captures reader again but this time it sank in a completely different way, watching the emotional manipulation working into reader’s thoughts 👁👄👁 I always hope for reader to succeed in escaping though, so I hope they did make it out and got away for good 🤞thank you so much for writing these fics, they’re always so fun to read!

😭😭this is so sweet!! I’m really happy you enjoyed the post as—ngl—I wasn’t really feeling too confident about posting it. The positive reviews it has been receiving in just a few short hours makes me want to write so many more though💜💜 thank you so much for this, and thank you all for the support recently🥰

I promise there is plenty more yandere content to come😌 and I’m glad you enjoyed the way I write them😚