Love Me Through The Phone (Bokuto X Reader) (NSFW)

I just went through your entire master list for haikyu, BNHA, and one punch man. My god you are amazing. You can literally write anything, smut, angst, fluff, yandere!!! All your characterization sat won point and you make YN incredibly relatable. Just wanted to sing your praises and thank you for producing such amazing content! Hope you’re staying safe and healthy!:)

This- this lowkey made me tear up. Comments like this make me want to keep writing, so thank you. Thank you so much for your kind words and compliments, from the bottom of my heart. You seem like an amazingly kind person, and I’m glad you’ve enjoyed reading what I have to offer🥰🥰 I hope you’re staying safe and healthy too💜 Have a great day💖💖

Hey! I would like to request yandere garou from opm hcs or scenario whichever you feel comfortable doing, if your not taking request right now you can just ignore this. I love your garou x Reader stories btw.

(Soft) Yandere Garou Headcanons 

*GIF not mine*

A/N: I’m glad you like them! Also, b r u h, tysm for this request bc ugh, I forgot how much of a babe Garou is. Honestly, I could talk about this boy for hours bc he’s so friggin’ 🥵 (aka this shit’s a lil long). Hope you enjoy! (Side note: It’s a lil more fluffy than anything. Lemme know if you want something darker 😐)

Word count: 1280

He’s definitely a stalker. 

I mean, what else can he be? He’s the feared Hero Hunter, how the hell is he gonna attract you straight up?

Speaking of, this means he totally kidnaps you. You’re, honest to God, terrified of this mf. 

“Please don’t kill me.”

“Angel, I would never. You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

Angel

(Side note: any and every guy you’ve ever talked to and/or are close with have mysteriously disappeared for some reason… I wonder why🤔)

He’s addicted to you in almost a childlike way (bc mind you, this fucker’s 18💀)

He’s always looking to please you while you’re locked in his home, since he’s gotta convince you to fall in love with him. Sadly… he’s got like zero experience in that arena.

Aka he won’t touch you often, not unless you explicitly state that you want it, and his idea of romance is just loading you up with gifts. 

Garou loves spoiling you, but I’m gonna be upfront when I say he likes seeing things that claim you as his. 

Deadass, he threatened a jewelry store into making you a necklace with his name on it. (Ofc he makes you wear it, but the only “punishment” you get for not wearing it is him putting it on you anyway while you’re distracted)

Though his main priority is becoming strong, Garou begins to realize that he’s losing will to become strong for himself. Now, he wants to become stronger for you. 

There were a couple times where he almost got his ass reamed by some Class S heroes, but that only made him realize that there are dangers out there he might not be able to protect you from. 

Sometimes you’re just sitting in the abandoned barn Garou hides out in and you can hear him training. Groans and grunts level 100 😳

In all seriousness though, Garou definitely treats you with utmost respect. He understands that you might not like him because he kidnapped you and forced you to stay with him. There are times where you scream and smack at him, and of course deep down he’s hurt, but he would never retaliate. 

Everytime he comes home, it’s always the same greeting. 

“I’m home, angel!”

“Go to hell, asshole!”

Eventually-- eventually-- you start to warm up to him, though, and Garou can see it. He’s an extremely observant person; he notices all your ticks and can read your face like a book, so he can easily tell when you’re starting to… well, at least not hate him as much.

For example, his heart almost burst with joy when one day you almost smiled at the sight of him. He came home from tracking down and researching more heroes to see you staring at your newest gift: a collection of your favorite books from before you were kidnapped. (He had gone to your old home and taken your bookshelf). 

“Hey, angel, do you like it?” he asks excitedly.

Your mouth twitches, and he waits and waits for more, but that’s all he gets. “Yes. Thank you, Garou.”

He went to bed with the biggest grin on his face that night. 

While we’re on the subject, I should note that he doesn’t make you sleep with him. Like I said earlier, he’s not great with romance, and he definitely knows he doesn’t wanna force himself on you and have you hate him forever. 

Garou wants you to fill the hole in his heart. He’s got no family or friends, but he knows he doesn’t need them as long as he has you. He wants you to love him unconditionally, like he never was as a child. 

All righty, let’s hop to it. 

So. Months after he’s taken you, you finally feel yourself falling for him, and seeing how lovingly he treats you, you don’t exactly resist. 

Once again, you’re just sitting in the barn, waiting for him to come home, and when he does, you jump him. 

One small kiss, then he stares at you in surprise. Then another, longer kiss, passionate and filled with want. Then another. Then another. All the way until… 😳 (see “when you hear this mf train” for more info😏)

Ok y’all, don’t get pissy at me, but *cough* breeding kink *cough*

Honestly! You can’t tell me this guy isn’t gonna want kids as soon as he finds his darling.

Can, like, can y’all just humor me for a sec? Okay.

Imagine this: Tareo babysits your kids when he’s older 😌

Akneeways, after he feels like you’ve fallen for him enough that he can trust you, he’ll take you outside. 

(One time, a guy accidentally bumped into you on the street but didn’t apologize. You held Garou back from beating the shit out of him at the time, telling him “it’s fine, it’s fine, I’m okay.” Later, however, Garou comes home with blood splatters in his hair.) 

At one point, he brings you along to meet Tareo. Ofc the boy talks smack, like “Wow, your gf’s as old as you” or “how does someone so pretty fall for your ugly mug.” 

Tbh, you thought Garou was gonna explode on his ass, but your heart warms at the sound of Garou’s snicker and the sight of him ruffling the boy’s hair teasingly. “Shut it, you little runt.” 

Now, Garou’s told you he loved you countless times at this point. He often tells you he loves you before y’all go to sleep, and he even used to do that before you slept in the same bed as him, back when you hated him. But in this moment, it’s the first time that you’ve ever felt something akin to love while watching him. (His face and voice didn’t exactly show it, but there was a sparkle in Garou’s eyes that told you he was excited for you and Tareo to meet.)

And now, it’s time for a lil story. Once again, Garou’s only 18, but it’s questionable whether he even went to high school. Keep that in mind. 

Blood was everywhere. 

Garou had only just woken up to find you, still sleeping with the red liquid slowly pooling around you. 

Oh God.

“YN!” Garou shouts in alarm. 

“Mm, what?” you groan, annoyance tinging your tone at the sudden awakening. 

“YOU’RE BLEEDING!”

“What?” You glance down while Garou jumps out of bed, dashing from the room before returning just as swiftly with his homemade first aid kit. 

“Oh. Garou, it’s fine-”

“JUST STAY AWAKE YN, KEEP YOUR EYES OPEN!”

Your eyebrow twitches in irritation and you squeal when he rips the sheets right off your bare form. With trembling fingers, he prods at your thighs, searching for the wound.

“WHERE’S IT COMING FROM?!”

“There’s no wound.”

“WHERE IS IT?!”

Finally, you smack his hands away and clamber out of bed, hobbling over to the bathroom while clenching your thighs together. 

“I’m on my period, dumbass.” 

As soon as the door shuts behind you, Garou scratches his head. “What’s a period?”

So yes, although Garou loves you deeply and has the body of a Greek god, you have to keep reminding yourself that he kinda dropped out of school just to beat up heroes. It’s okay, you have plenty of time to teach him the ropes of being with you because you’re not going anywhere anytime soon.

Sober Thoughts (Ushijima x Reader) (Partly NSFW)

(Contains a skippable NSFW scene)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: Drunk and full of bad decisions, you decide to walk to Tendou’s apartment to wallow in hopelessness over your feelings for Ushijima. But wait… why is Tendou taller and bulkier than usual?

A/N: (Oh wow, um so this turned into a smut?? I honestly don’t know wtf happened) Umm, umm, umm. What. 600 followers?? How? When? Whyyyy? ASkfadshkf whatever, thank you guys so much for your support!! I’m just gonna grin ecstatically in my corner over here. No, I don’t look like a maniac, be quiet. Anyways, I hope y’all enjoy this lil’ drunk confession oneshot to celebrate!

Warnings: SMUT!!!, cunnilingus, first-time squirting, & slight praise kink maybe??

Word count: 3636

        Tendou was a little taller than usual. And a little more… brown-haired. But you didn’t mind. You just needed to talk to someone.  

       You’ve loved Ushijima for years, ever since you first managed for his team in high school. He was so kind and sweet to you, always offering to help carry water bottles and encouraging you to be honest about the boys’ performance in a game. He loved to hear your insight, and you loved to hear his guttural voice ask for your insight. You stayed in contact ever since, all of you third years, and often went out on the weekends together. But your feelings for him eventually became too much.

       Tendou was the only one who knew how you felt, so you knew you could trust him with your drunk ramblings tonight. Seriously, you were hammered. Smashed. Absolutely shit-faced. Which explained why the wild redhead you had been friends with for a decade now looked so weird. And had a clone. Or three. 

       “YN?” Tendou opened the door to his apartment and looked down at you curiously. Did his voice get deeper too?

       “TENDOUUUUUU!” you screeched with drooping eyes. You held your arms open for a hug, but when he didn’t move a muscle you awkwardly slumped forward against his chest. “Hehe, have you been working out? You feel bigger than usual. Hehe.” Your voice held a drunken slur as you giggled into his shirt, poking the solid pec your forehead currently snuggled against. 

       “YN, it is almost one in the morning, try to lower your voice.” Ugh, he got stricter too. 

       “Jessussss, Tendouuuu, you sound like Wakajima now…” you trailed off, growing tired. He was really, really, really warm. 

       “‘Wakajima’? YN, I believe you are drunk. Shall I take you home?” You snorted at his chivalrous tone. 

       “No. You. Shall. Not,” you mumbled, poking his stomach with each word before stumbling past him and into his apartment. “Bingo,” you squinted when you spotted his sofa and trudged towards it, barely avoiding tripping over your own feet. 

       “DAMN HEELS!” You plop onto the leather furniture and hastily rip your five-inch heels off, sighing in relief as they release their satanic grip on your toes. “Ahhh, freedom.” You hiccup while throwing them in a forgotten corner of his living room, missing his lamp by just a hair. 

       “YN, please keep your voice down.” Tendou laments, trailing his bulkier form into his kitchen and grabbing a glass of water. 

       “Ohhh,” your eyes widen in surprise and tsk to yourself. “You’re right, you’re right, shhhhhhhh!” you loudly hush, throwing a finger against your lips while sagging back into his cold cushions. The TV is on, and you snatch the remote from under your dress-covered butt, giggling at the mishap while flicking through channels. 

       Tendou exhales slowly while lowering down to sit beside you, his heavier build causing the couch to dip and you to slip towards him. You allow gravity to take your head all the way to his thighs, chuckling when you land on his lap with a “flump.”

       “OH MY GOD, SESAME STREET?!” 

       “YN, please.” 

       “Right, sorry,” you nod before whisper-yelling, “Oh my God, Sesame Street!” You set the remote down on his coffee table and he places a glass of water and a bottle of pills alongside it. 

       “Aww, is that for me?” you coo, flipping your body so your back rests against the sofa and your head faces his chin. “You’re so sweet, Tendou!” 

       “YN, I’m not-”

       “Anyways,” you interrupt, kicking your bare against the slick arm of the sofa. The movement causes your little black dress to slink up your thighs just the tiniest bit, and Tendou clears his throat, desperately gluing his, hmm, dark green eyes (weird…) to your face. “I really want to talk to you about him.”

       “YN, I’m not-”

       “I know, I know,” you cut him off once again, crossing your arms against his chest. “You’ve been telling me to confess since high school, but I’m still scared!” With your nose scrunched up in frustration, you shake your head. Your hair must tickle his thighs below his basketball shorts, because he lets out a small snort that’s quickly disguised with a cough. 

       “Tendou, I just,” you purse your lips and avoid his burning gaze, “God, I like him so much. I think I might even love him.” Your voice still has a small slur, but your tone has grown serious. “He’s just… amazing. He makes me feel things I never have before, and I can’t get him out of my head at this point.”

       “Who?” Tendou asks, his recently-husky tone tinged with… sadness maybe?

       “Don’t be a jackass, Tendou,” you groan, jabbing him in the cheek as he peers down at you. “You know who.”

       “Remind me.” Even though he still has five or so twins, Tendou’s shape is slowly becoming clearer by the second. You can almost see a muscle twitching in his jaw. 

       “Wakatoshi.” Your cheeks burn, and you accidentally try to hide your face in his chest. You missed by a long shot.

       “YN!” he squeaks, turning your head back to face him while his ears tinge pink. Oopsies. Your face had almost turned to meet what was a few square inches south of his v-line. Wo-ah, guess who’s shirt lifted up?

       “Sorry, sorry!” you cry out, hiding your embarrassment behind your hands. Elmo chatters in the background about how to count to ten, which was the number of seconds it took for Tendou to respond. 

       “It’s um… it’s okay.” You can hear him gulp from your spot on his lap, and slowly uncover your face at his words. “So,” he continues hesitantly, “you like Wakatoshi?” He sounded so uncomfortable, but the mention of your crush makes your head start to swim again. 

       “Yes, I do!” Pressing your head harder into his bulky thighs, you sigh exasperatedly and fold your hands along your stomach. “What am I supposed to tell him, Tendou? It’s been years, I highly doubt he likes me back.” 

       “I’m sure he does.”

       “No he doesn’t,” you laugh bitterly. “Fuck! What do I do?”

       “Just tell him how you feel.” Tendou’s fingers start to comb through your hair, making your scalp itch every time he hits a tangle.

       “Ohh yeah, sureeee. Just go over to his apartment, knock on his door and scream, ‘I'M IN LOVE WITH YOU AND I HAVE BEEN EVER SINCE WE FIRST TALKED!’”

       “I’m sure he would like that.”

       “Pshh, sure, and then- hiccup!-and then tell him about how I can’t stop thinking about when he first touched my hand while helping me pick up the water bottles. And that time when I wrapped his finger after spiking too much. And that time when I accidentally hugged him after you guys won that game, and that… that other time… when you- hiccup!- guys lost to… that one team-” You pass out in his lap, your rant finally coming to an end as you give in to your foggy mind and aching body. 

                               ~~~

       “Ughhh.” 

       All you can do is groan. The lights out your window are so bright, and increase the burn of the already-present headache. Birds tweet melodically outside, just loud enough that you can hear it through the pounding in your brain. 

       God, what happened?

       The last thing you remember from last night is walking out of the club and down the street, then your memories abruptly cut off directly after. 

       Then you realize something. 

       THIS ISN’T MY BED!

       “Oh fuck,” you rasp, your throat still rubbed raw from the alcohol. Hesitantly, you try to feel under the sheets for your clothes, and sigh in relief when you find them still intact. The mattress you lay on is larger than your own at home, and it’s warmth begs to be reveled in for just a second, a minute, maybe an hour longer. But the fear that you’re in some stranger’s apartment reigns supreme, and you know you need to escape. Fast. 

       Scrambling out of the hefty sheets, you sniff the air instinctively while creeping over to the door. Is that… bacon? 

       Drool begins to gather in your mouth, and you creep through the cracked doorway to track down the heavenly scent. 

       Sizzles echo from down the hall, and you start to realize that the apartment appears familiar. Why am I at Wakatoshi’s? 

       Tip-toeing around the corner, you peer into the kitchen and drop your jaw at the sight. 

       Well hello there, back muscles.

       “Toshi?” you gulp, stepping onto the hardwood floor hesitantly. 

       “YN, you’re awake. I left a glass of water and some pills out for you.” He nods his head towards the kitchen counter, and you gratefully take a seat at a stool and down the pain-relievers in one gulp, choking down the cold water like a man stranded in a desert. 

       “Thanks,” you mumble, licking your lips while rubbing your temples to relieve the ache. “Hey, do you know why I’m here?”

       “Yes,” he chuckles deeply. His voice is still thick with sleep, causing a shiver to jolt down your spine. “You came here last night thinking I was Tendou.”

       You join him in giggling at the thought, shaking your head at your own stupidity. “Why in the world was I- OH FUCK!” 

       The memories clash all at once in your brain as events from last night hit you like a dump truck. “Oh my God!” you whisper, scandalized. Running a hand through your hair, you stare into Ushijima’s humored eyes while your own widen in horror. “Oh my God! You didn’t even care to tell me you weren’t Tendou?!”

       The intimidating volleyball player only hums in confirmation, setting down a plate of bacon in front of you before leaning his palms against the counter. You catch an eyeful of six pack and bite your lip at the sight, almost drawing blood when it flexes with a quiet laugh. 

       “No, but to be fair, you talked a lot last night,” he nods, throwing the kitchen cloth he had been using over his shoulder while eyeing you up and down. 

       “Could- umm, could you put a shirt on before we discuss this?” The temptation to stare is calling out your name, and you try so desperately to remember that it’s the inside that matters, YN!

       All muscles are actually interior, though, right? So you’re technically fine!

       “I think we should talk about it now, YN.” His face grows darker as he watches you swallow nervously. The seriousness in his tone leaves you to snatch up a strip of bacon and hastily chew on it.

       “Do we have to?” you ask with a mouthful of food. “Because I think if we gave it a little time, we would both forget it ever happened.” You nod self-assuredly and shrug at the proposition, but go rigid when Ushijima leans his face closer to yours. 

       “I don’t want to forget. I want to remember that forever, and I want you to tell me that you meant it.”

       “...I was just drunkenly rambling-”

       “Don’t lie to me, YN.” He snags your hand just as it reaches for its fifth bacon strip. “Tell me honestly, and you can decide where to go from there. Did. You. Mean. It.” Ushijima has only ever looked serious during volleyball. That’s just the kind of person he was. But right now was different, in a whole new, wonderful way. Because right now he’s watching you like you could place the sun in the sky. Like you could change the tides and shift the wind. 

       “Yes.” You clench your eyes shut and draw in on yourself, clammy hands trembling against the marble counter. “I’ve been in love with you ever since high school, Toshi.” 

       For a solid minute, you sit tensely and the only audible sound in the room is his hitched breaths. Then rough fingertips trace against your cheek, begging you to open your eyes as another hand encompasses yours on the kitchen surface. Ushijima’s eyes, so dark, so endless, are swirling rivers of olive green, tainted with the occasional black speck as he stares lovingly into your gaze. His sharp jaw clenches, his thin, pink lips press together and his brow furrows into a hardened line as he watches you, and you wait with baited breath for his reaction.

       “God, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear those words.” His fingers tilt up your jaw so your lips can meet his perfectly. He’s surprisingly gentle as he caresses your cheeks, your chin, your jaw. Everything. He’s so careful with you as his fingers intertwine with your own. You can feel the years of hard practice on his hands, but he handles you like a china doll. Like you would break, if he pressed too harshly, but also that you would slip away if he lessened his hold in the slightest. 

       You release a soft moan against his lips, and his chest rumbles in return as he makes his way around the counter, not separating from you for even a second. 

       Everything is slow and unhurried, from when he picks you up bridal style to when he places you down against his mattress, pressing your hips into the sheets to keep you from slipping away. A strong knee settles between your thighs, trailing closer and closer to where you need him most. 

                               *SMUT AHEAD*

       A mewl tears its way out of your throat at the feeling of him rubbing against your warmth, holding you in place as you writhe from the feeling. It’s too much so suddenly, but it’s also not enough, and you need more.

       “More,” you whimper against his lips, “I need more, Toshi.”

       “Patience, princess.” His husky whisper sends sparks down to the center of your stomach and heat gathers in your core. You clench your thighs tightly around his thigh at the feeling and he smiles against your lips. One of his hands slips under your back, unzipping your dress while the other glides down to the inside of your thigh, petting the sensitive skin and leaving your core throbbing. 

       “Hng, Toshi,” you whine desperately. He attempts to slide the tight dress off you, but you’ve grown too hot and bothered. A loud “rip” sounds through the air along with a grunt under Ushijima’s breath. Your little black dress is tossed to the side, but your mind is too hazy to care, or rather to notice. You had no need for a bra with the dress, and Ushijima curses quietly at the discovery. 

       “Fuck, princess, you went out like this?” His pupils flare at the sight of your bare chest, and he doesn’t hesitate to run the pads of his thumbs over your peaked nipples. You gnaw on your lip, trying to stay silent to not disturb his neighbors, but the ace towering over you doesn’t seem to appreciate that idea. One hand slides down your stomach, past your navel and snaps your panties against your skin while the other massages the swell of your breast. 

       “Aah, Toshi!” A slight quirk of his lips tells you he’s enjoying every move you make, and every sound you have to offer him. Your hands snap up to his hair, yanking him down into a deep kiss that implies just how much you need him. His teeth clash against yours and his tongue fights you for dominance, sharing and giving each other tastes as his hand slips into your soaked panties. 

       “God, princess, you’re so wet already. So good for me.” He smiles into the kiss before separating and pecking the tender skin of your chin and throat. A long finger glides over your slick folds for just a second, leaving you breathless and shivering in his hold. Your hands tug his brown tufts tighter when he repeats the motion, gathering your wetness and dragging it up to your aching bud, just barely brushing it. 

       “What do you want?” he whispers, biting your neck while he hovers his touch over where you desperately crave him. 

       “You,” you choke out, swallowing dryly while trying to catch your breath. 

       “Be more specific, princess. What do you want me to do?” A bruise is formed from where he nibbles just below your ear, and the sting of its formation causes your eyes to roll back into your head. Two fingertips harshly tweak your nipple, leaving you to cry out.

       “Oh God, touch me Toshi! Please touch me!” 

       “Of course, love.” His hand leaves your breast and skims your body all the way down to under your thigh, pulling it away from his knee and pressing it against the bed to open you to his sight. The other presses against your dripping sex, leaving his thumb to rub quick circles around your clit. Your body jolts and twitches from the stimulation while you scream out his name. 

       “Toshi!” 

       He nods encouragingly against your neck, urging you on while your nails dig into his shoulder blades. At last, his head moves lower and lower down your body, pressing open-mouthed kisses down your chest and against your belly button before he slides your ruined panties down your quivering legs, instantly placing himself between your thighs as soon as they are tossed and forgotten over his shoulder. Your reach isn’t long enough, so you settle for dipping your fingers into his scalp once more, scratching and tugging at every movement his thumb makes against your swollen bud. 

       Cool breaths blow against your womanhood, causing it to clench desperately around nothing. Both his hands move for a split second to draw your legs up and over his shoulders, leaving you to cross your ankles against his back while his face dips closer to your core. 

       “Toshi, please!”

       “So needy, princess,” he rumbles with a smirk, “but don’t worry. I’ll take good care of you. I’ll be the only one who touches you this way from now on.” His eyes flicker up and watch yours, swirling with desire and longing before he plunges a finger deep inside your soaked heat. The abrupt ability to clench around something leaves you crying out in relief.

       “Oh fuck, oh God yes!” 

       His lips wrap around your bud, sucking and running his tongue over it in deliciously quick intervals. Every switch is accompanied with a stronger thrust of his finger, and he adds another before curling them up against the spot deep inside of you that has you gushing more against his chin. You can no longer think straight, and the only word falling from your lips is his name at this point. 

       “Toshi! Toshi!” 

       The moans spur him on, and his fingers thrust even faster inside you, hitting your g-spot every time with a spontaneous precision that you can only thank his years of perfect spike-aiming for. Suddenly, just as his teeth nip your clit causing your whole body to twitch and scream, his fingers leave your clenching core and both his arms wrap around your trembling thighs, peeling you even more open to him. His nose digs into your clit as his tongue laps at your glistening folds like a man starved. You can’t breathe, you can barely speak as the pleasure coils tightly in your chest, choking you up in your throat. 

       “Yes, Toshi!” you sputter out, not ever wanting him to stop. “Harder! Oh fuck!” His hands dig brutally into your hips, holding you in place to prevent you from bucking against his face. The inevitable bruises are long forgotten when he groans at your taste. The vibration leaves you squealing just as his muscle delves into your aching sex. After his nose accidentally presses into your pulsing nub just a tad too harshly, the coil snaps. 

       “Toshi!” you scream, clenching your eyes closed as your whole body wracks in pleasure. Muscles in your legs flutter and tremble as you release with jumbled nonsense streaming from between your lips. Ushijima grunts in surprise at your sudden orgasm, and pulls back with burning eyes at your twitching form. 

       “Damn, princess, I didn’t know you could squirt.” His raspy words cause your eyes to rip open and you hastily get up on your elbows to see what he was talking about. 

       “Oh my God!” you whine in embarrassment, observing your wetness as it drenched his chin and bare chest. Droplets fell from his chin and dribbled into divots of his six pack while he watched you wolfishly. “I didn’t know I could do that! I’m so sorry!”

       You drop your head back to the bed behind you and cover your flushed face with embarrassment. Every muscle in your body ached from the position it was previously held in, and you screech in surprise and scramble away from a sudden brush against your overstimulated clit. You watch in shock as Ushijima’s mouth forms an abnormal lopsided grin. He observes the wetness he had collected on his index finger with darkened eyes.

       “God, I love you,” he mutters, his ravenous gaze suddenly flickering up to yours as he kneels onto the bed, slowly making his way towards you. His hands trail up from your ankles to your calves to the undersides of your knees while he encourages them apart once more, no matter how tightly you press them together. 

       “Let me make you do it again.”

Don’t Slouch (Tsukishima x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: You’ve got a bad habit. You know that. So why does that blond smartass in your class keep ragging you about it?

A/N: I’m tired, but I didn’t wanna forget this idea. I wasn’t even gonna write tonight, but we already here, so… voila. (Btw, thanks for the follows and likes!!)

Word count: 1074

        “Slouching’s bad for you, you know.” Kei Tsukishima, the tall, skinny, blond volleyball player who sat in the desk next to yours, remarked. At first, you thought it wasn’t him who spoke, as he hadn’t even looked at you when he said it, but you knew his arrogant voice. It was one of a kind. When you glanced at his blank face, it was directed towards the bag on his desk, obviously searching for something as his long fingers sifted through papers. 

       “So?” you retorted lamely, your head upturned at him with a raised brow. Though, you couldn’t care less how you sounded. You just wanted to return to studying for midterms, but his sudden blurting made you feel obligated to respond. 

       “So don’t slouch,” he shrugged simply, pulling his headphones up over his ears and leaving the classroom for lunch. Scoffing confusedly, you shake your head and return to the books, subconsciously straightening out your back and dismissing the cracks that ran through it. 

                               ~~~

       Eyes anxiously scanning over the test, you nervously searched for any mistakes you may have made on the answer sheet. Your forehead dripped with sweat, and your breathing grew heavy. Crap, why did tests always rile you up like this, especially the important ones? This sucked. Flinching when the alarm sounded, signalling you were out of time, you hesitantly rose from your desk and dragged your feet to the teacher’s desk, handing her your test with shaky, unsure hands before returning to your seat and ducking your head into your arms. The footsteps around you from your fellow classmates gathering their things and exiting the classroom did nothing to block out the snicker from beside you. 

       “You really should stop slouching so much. You’re going to ruin your posture.” Tsukishima, again, single-handedly irritated you once more in the blink of an eye. What an amazing ability he has for pissing you off. 

       Huffing out a breath, you reluctantly twisted your head to face him, muttering, “What’s it to you, glasses?” 

       “Just saying it’s a rather unhealthy habit of yours,” he mused, flashing you a small smirk while swiftly pushing his glasses up his nose. Returning his expression with a sarcastic smile of your own, you ran your middle finger down the side of your face discreetly before dropping your head back into your arms exhaustedly. Chuckling under his breath, the blond’s footsteps echoed throughout the room as he walked away, leaving you alone in your self-degradation over your estimated test results. 

                               ~~~

       The boy just didn’t seem to know how to let things go. He had criticized you for your slouching in the last year more than he had ever conversed with you in the twelve years that you have known him. That’s right, you and Tsukishima have been going to the same schools since you were both in diapers. Truth be told, you weren’t friends, but you weren’t complete strangers either. Plus, he always seemed to be a lone wolf, at least until Yamaguchi came along. So, even though he rarely talked to you before your first year of high school, his tolerance of your slouching habit seemed to have reached the end of its rope. He haughtily reamed your ass over it every single time he got the chance. Finishing the remainder of your homework for the day? Oh you bet he’s just a-waitin’ over your shoulder. 

       “Would you like some advice?”

       “Is it to stop slou-”

       “Don’t slouch.” Insert your groan here. Was that the only Japanese this guy knew?

       Maybe you’re just contentedly discussing movies with your friends? Yep, he’s got something to say.

       “Hey, YN, what’s that one series called again?” he interrupted, “‘Slouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon?’” 

       “‘Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon,’” you had corrected him tightly, jaw twitching in irritation. Eventually, you hit your boiling point; but hey, a little threatening never hurt anybody… right? 

       Four days ago:

       “Hey YN?”

       “Ughhh, what Tsukishima? What, what, what?”

       “Stop slouching so much.”

       “I swear I’m gonna strangle you one of these days, beanstalk.” 

       Two days ago:

       “Don’t slouch.” 

       “Excuse me?”

       “Don’t slouch so much. You look like the cat of a witch.”

       “Oh my Go- you know what? I’m gonna castrate you. Slowly, at first, and then I’m gonna kick it up a notch. Just for you, beanpole.” You thought it was a grand idea, but he only laughed in your face and walked away. This guy’s gonna be the reason I have a drinking problem.

       Yesterday:

       “Don’t sl-”

       You threateningly pointed at him with serious, wide eyes and raised brows. “I will snap you like a twig.” A chuckle. That’s all you got. 

       Finally, you had it. It was almost the end of the school year, and you just wanted to know why, even coming up with a theory of your own. But the question you believed you had the answer to still stood. Why did he keep bugging you about an issue that was definitely only yours to fix? So you caught him after school, and told him what you thought of his constant lectures. After all, they had kept you up all night last night, and maybe you had gone a little crazy, but you think you finally figured out why he was doing it. 

       “Hey.” You were following him down the steps of the school. “Hey Tsukishima!” you called, barely avoiding tripping over your own feet.

       “What?” he responded gruffly, turning around to stare at you with obvious annoyance. 

       “I think I’ve figured out why you keep telling me to stop slouching.” Smiling victoriously, you nodded your head affirmatively at your own statement.

       “Oh really?” he challenged with a heightened brow, a lopsided grin slowly forming. 

       “Yep. You’re just trying to tell me to stand tall. No matter what happens, what grade I get, or how I do on a test, you want me to keep my head high and my back straight. Before I figured that out, I thought it was annoying. Now, I think it’s really sweet of you-”

       He rolled his eyes before he interrupted you with pink-tinged cheeks. “Psh, that’s not it. I just don’t want my future wife to have a hunchback when we grow old together.” 

       Oh. 

       Ohhhhhhh.

Can we maybe get a part 2 of the yandere Garou 'the gift-giver' fic?? I love how you write him!

This is so sweet! I'm glad you liked the fic!

Sadly ma brain's got zero ideas for any further scenes for that fic :( feel free to send me ideas if you got any tho!

I was wondering if you were going to continue the Luna hunt fic you have? I really liked that one and just wanted to know!

oof yeah so like heres the big daddy issue thats biting me in the ass is that i spent like four hours writing the second part about five months ago but then i scrapped it bc it was trash. Interestingly enough, i recently came up with the most cliche fucking ideas for a second part of that fic--u know, the exact ideas that every single person has thought of while asking me for a second part that i had no clue abt thanksforthatguys anyways yeah we'll see if i got time to write it

maybe one day

I'm so glad you enjoyed the first part tho! What was ur fav part?

You Use the Safeword (Haikyuu!! Headcanons)

*GIFs not mine*

Bokuto and Tsukishima Version

A/N: YOOOOO, are y’all proud of me🥺 I finished a major assignment early so I could write! Go me! I really am being an adult out here like damn😤😤. Anyways, hope you like it, and uh… Happy late Halloween? Eh, too late, just enjoy! (PS: goddamn do I miss this🥺 and uh, I searched up “humping synonyms” for this?? am going to hell, see ya there)

Word count: 1789

Kuroo Tetsurou:

In the beginning, it felt good. 

“Yeah, kitten, you like that?”

Amazing even.

“Oh fuck, Tetsu, don’t stop!”

Then it… didn’t. 

“Shit, pineapple! Pineapple!” you wheezed, shoving his hips away and squeezing your legs together. “Fuck.” You rolled onto your side and pulled your knees to your chest, trying to breathe while a dull pain shuddered through your lower half.

Without another word, Kuroo slipped off the bed and observed you, wincing at the way you shut your eyes so tightly. His hands hovered over your form, wanting to help but… just not knowing how. 

His heart pinched, thundering in a way that only came from fear. “Are you okay?” he choked out, finally letting a hand fall to the skin of your back before massaging up and down. 

“Yeah,” you nodded, “Yeah, I’m good. I just, uh, just need a minute.”

“Of course, Kitten.” In an instant, he was settling in behind you, both arms slipping around your form and long fingers pressing against your stomach. “I’m so, so, so sorry,” he peppered kisses along your shoulders and up your back, “So, so sorry, baby.”

“It’s okay, I promise,” you relaxed in his grip, slipping one hand out from between your thighs and intertwining it with the familiar one on your stomach. “Let’s just… not do that again, okay?”

Kuroo scoffed, shaking his head and curling closer around you. “Kitten, you best believe the next time I even hear you say “pineapple” in public, there’s like a 50-50 chance I’ll have a heart attack. We’re not doing anything like that for a while.”

You snorted. “Anything? Really?” 

“Well of course not anything, but-”

“I knew it.”

“Hey!” Kuroo squeezed your side, and a corner of his mouth lifted at the way you jolted. “I’m sorry. Really, I am.” His voice wavered, and you just knew that if you could see his eyes, there would be a war happening in them. Guilt and despair would be battling it out right in those hazel orbs of his. 

“Tetsu, it’s not your fault!” you reassured, hiding a grimace as you swapped sides to face him. “Now we know what’s too much, right? I promise, I’m okay.” A warm smile took over your face as you cupped his own, leaving a brisk kiss against his lips. “Don’t get all sulky on me now.”

“Never,” he smirked, wrapping two fingers around your right wrist to press a kiss into your palm. His eyes never left your face, and in them you could see worry--worry and something more.

Oh.

It was pain. 

“Oh Tetsu,” you were quick to wrap him in a hug, your arms around his neck while his hands wandered up to your shoulder blades to keep you close. “I’m okay, I swear. I know you didn’t--and you would never--mean to hurt me. Please. It’s okay.”

Finally, the tightness in his muscles faded under your hold. “I know, YN, it’s just that I hate that I’m now someone who’s hurt you. I never wanted to be that guy.” His face pushed harder into your collarbone and his teeth gritted. “Especially to you.”

You shook your head and smiled. “But that’s the thing, Tetsu. You’re not. The only thing you are to me is the man I’m in love with-”

“And your best lover.”

“…Yes, and my best lover. Sure,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes as a grin grew on your face. 

“Thank God. It’s so much better to hear out loud than to read it from your diary.”

“Tetsu!”

Kageyama Tobio:

Your safe word was simple. So simple you never thought you’d have to use it.

“Stop! Stop!”

Until now, of course.

“Fuck!” Kageyama opened his lust-filled eyes, yanking himself away so hard he crashed to the floor of his bedroom. 

You, on the other hand, groaned and pressed two hands between your legs, gasping for air while trying to fend off tears. Pain shot up your spine and ebbed into your hips where Kageyama’s hands had been. The haze of passion that had fogged the room was zapped away in mere seconds, replaced with a dead silence. 

Your boyfriend scrambled off his floor and popped back up to his feet, pausing at the sight of you with furrowed brows. 

“YN…?” His tone was slow and concerned, yet his mind was anything but. When you didn’t respond, Kageyama’s diminishing self-control disappeared completely. 

“Shit,” he hissed, two hands diving into his hair and yanking at the strands without restraint. “Fuck!” His face grew red with anger, teeth bared like a wolf ready to attack. But it wasn’t you he was aiming for.

No, no, it wasn’t you. It was himself. 

“I’m so fucking stupid,” he grunted, backing away until he crashed into his own door. “Why did I do that?”

“Tobio-”

Your tone was insistent, wanting to be reassuring. All Kageyama could hear was the pain you struggled to hold back. 

“No, YN!” he barked, turning and slamming a hand onto the door knob. “I hurt you!” 

“Tobio, you’re overreacting! I’m fine!” You weren’t lying; the pain was fading away by the second. The only thing that hurt now was the way Kageyama tried to avoid you.

He whipped the door open anyway, only to stop at your final plea. “Tobio, please!”

It wasn’t the words that made him stop; it was the crack of your voice, caused only by a sudden onslaught of tears. “Please,” you sniffled. “I’m okay, I promise. Just don’t leave.”

Kageyama’s head fell, yet little by little, inch by inch, he let the door squeal to a close. Five, ten, maybe even twenty minutes passed before he turned and made his way back toward you, feet scuffing with every step. 

Your tears had stopped by now, but your eyes were nowhere near dry. “Tobio.”

Kageyama refused to meet your gaze, but he still climbed back onto the bed just across from you, letting his legs cross one over the other. 

Finally, his hands reached out and grasped one of your own, pulling it towards him and propping his elbows on his knees to give him the right height to hold it against his lips.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, each word warm against your fingers. “God, I’m so, so sorry,” his grip tightened. “I just hated hurting you like that. And I couldn’t stand that I did it during a time where I should never hurt you, YN.”  

“Tobio…” you paused, only to think of the words that wouldn’t scare him off. “I… I know you must feel like this is the end of the world or something, but it’s not. Really, I promise. I still love you, and I still trust you, completely. Nothing has changed.”

He still hadn’t looked up, but his fingers began to run along your hand in a nervous habit. 

“You didn’t hurt me. It’s sweet of you to worry so much, but really, you didn’t. Do you want to know what did hurt?”

No response.

“Okay, I’ll tell you,” you sighed, shaking your head. “It hurt when I saw that you wanted to leave so quickly. Can you… can you promise not to try and run away every time something that you can’t control happens? I want to experience everything with you, including hard times, so please don’t just… run away where I can’t follow. Can you promise me that?”

Kageyama was dead silent, and part of you was convinced he may have fallen asleep in the midst of your rambling. The only reason you knew he was conscious was because of the way his fingers kept tracing over your hand. 

“Are you-”

“I promise.” Kageyama raised his head, and for the first time in what must have been nearly a half hour, he made and kept eye contact with you. “I promise I won’t leave like that again, no matter what happens. I want to stay by your side forever.” 

“But…?”

“But,” he clenched his jaw, and in a surprising turn of events, a tear slipped down his cheek, “but I don’t want to hurt you again, YN. I still hate myself for doing that to you.” His voice was solid, unwavering. It was obvious he wouldn’t let this go for a while. 

“All right,” you nodded, sliding closer to him on the mattress and pressing your hand against his chest. The other, still caught in his grip, wiggled in effort to escape. He refused at first, gripping just a bit tighter before letting go completely and dropping his hands onto his lap in the form of curled fists. Finally free, you left both palms resting flat against his chest. “All right, I’ll let you sulk for a while.”

Then you put pressure on his chest, urging him to lie back in a form that was obviously the last position he wanted to be in. With enough force, he relented with furrowed brows and fell onto his back. “YN-”

“Feel free to frown,” your face hovered over his, doused in a nonchalant expression, “and whine,” you threw one leg over his body, “and bitch until your heart’s content.” You plopped down onto his lap, effectively straddling him and his… you know. 

“Just know that while you do that, I’m gonna be by your side,” you smirked, letting your hips slide back before dragging them forward again, “kissing and hugging and-”

“YN,” he choked out when you ground yourself on him once more, hands slamming down onto your bruised sides. “Don’t-”

“-making love to you just as much as you make these little efforts to punish yourself.”

“Fuck,” he grunted. 

“Tobio, just know that I’m in love with you more than you hate yourself,” you ground into him again, eating up the way his eyes rolled back into his head.

“So it’s gonna be a long ride.” 

Bokuto for me is an obssesive and unstable yandere. I feel like he would force his darling to play the doting housewife for him. And he sees her not paying him enough attention, he will flip and either (1) beat her up or (2) fuck her until she's a blabbering mess 😌

You right, you right😤 he’s definitely fallen so far over the edge that he thinks you’re okay with what he does to you.

When he comes home from volleyball games, I can totally see him having you obey a strict daily routine of a hug, a kiss on the cheek, and then you bring him dinner and cuddle.

Honestly tho, there is solid evidence that this boy would love to see you covered in marks from his hands, sexual or otherwise.

(Can you imagine the smirk when he’s pounding into you? “Fuck yeah, YN, keep saying my name. Who’s the only one that can make you feel like this, baby?”)

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.”

Nail Polish and Peer Pressure (Bakugou x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

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

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

Word count: 1220

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

       “Of course Kirishima!”

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

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

                               ###

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

       “Seriously?”

       “Seriously what?” you asked obliviously.

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

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

       It was ineffective.

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

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

       “Fine.”

                               ###

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

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

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

                               ###

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

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

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

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

       It was only a matter of time.

                               ###

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

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

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

                               ###

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

       “Did you bring me food?” 

       “What? No-”

       “A stuffed animal?”

       “No! I-”

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

       “It’s only twelve.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You: It’ll be worth it, trust me

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

       “What asshole is texting you at midnight?”

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

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

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