Please Reborn Is So Good!! I Have Been Waiting For Part 8 Like Anything. Please Please Please Dont Discontinue

Guppy Love was A+++ and if u have time I’d be forever grateful if u wrote another story like it😔👌

Thank you😊, I will try my best🙃💜💜

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

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

*GIFs not mine*

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

Word count: 1494

Todoroki Shouto:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bakugou Katsuki: 

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, even Bakugou has that setting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tokoyami Fumikage:

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“You look like Batman-”

“Go to sleep.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shigaraki Tomura: 

HAND MAN, HAND MAN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Still tickin’!”

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

Dabi: 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can’t do anything without his approval. 

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

… *sigh*

Yeah. Dabi flipped his shit. 

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

“I was just-”

“NO!”

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

(Two words. Fire. Rampage.)

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

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

It’s two bullet points long.

1. Go to the bathroom.

2. That’s it.

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

“Mhm, sure.”

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

aSiDe FrOm gOiNg tO tHe bAtHrOoM oF cOuRsE

The Deal (Kuroo x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: Kuroo needs your help wooing the pain in the ass cheerleader that’s your lab partner. But what if Kuroo wasn’t actually trying to pursue her?

A/N: Fuck me, it’s five am, why am I still here. I’m tired af, but fuck it, I finally wrote 5k words. I hope y’all like it!

Word count: 5062

        “YN YLN.”

        “Here.”

        Like your previous two years at Nekoma, you expected your final semesters to pass quickly and be relatively painless.

        “Psst, hey Takahashi!” Sadly, your chemistry lab partner’s relentless pursuer made that expectation all but wishful thinking.

        “Kuroo’s trying to get into your pants again,” you relay the message to her and roll your eyes when she releases a high-pitched giggle. 

        Sakura Takahashi was the bubbly captain of the cheer squad. Every day, she awoke with sunshine and rainbows outside her window. Every night, she was cuddled to sleep by a pack of kittens and puppies. Her constant happiness killed your vibe, especially when she would skip into the classroom with a smile brighter than your future and proceed to beg you for yesterday’s homework. She was also gorgeous, with legs for days and endlessly-flowing black hair. You used this to your advantage whenever bullies came around; she was a great distraction. 

        “Oh, isn’t he just so hot!” Takahashi sighs dreamily, biting her lip before glancing over at the bedheaded Casanova on your other side. 

        Tetsurou Kuroo was the captain of the boys’ volleyball club. If something had two legs and walked, you bet your ass he’s put his dick in it. He was a player with a signature smirk to match, and the last target on his fuck-it list for high school was your airhead lab partner. 

        You, on the other hand, were the unlucky wall that sat between their daily sexual tension. No matter how many times you begged Mr. Suzuki to switch partners, desks, or even planets, he wouldn’t let you move. You guessed, in some ways, he was also against the inevitable screwing of the two lovebirds. 

        “We will have a pop quiz tomorrow.” The class groans exasperatedly and the teacher nods along, “Yes, yes, I know. You’re all so busy with your jobs and your overtime and your wives and kids- oh wait,” he narrows his eyes at the class. “Don’t be such whiners. Study what we’ve gone over this week and you’ll do fine. Class dismissed.”

        The bell rings like music to your ears, and you replace it with actual music in your ears, quickly snapping on your headphones and heading out for the day. One of the daily occurrences you’ve caught onto over the past few months is that Kuroo likes to flirt with Takahashi directly over your head. One time, he literally folded his arms on top of your head and leaned over to chat with her. 

        Kuroo was growing to be the bane of your high school existence. 

        Huffing a sigh, you scramble out of the class as fast as humanly possible, not wanting to hear even a lick of today’s banter. However, something seems different at the moment. Kuroo’s not stuck back in Mr. Suzuki’s room with his ass plopped on your desktop. Instead, he’s got a hand wrapped around your upper arm, halting you from a quick escape. 

        “What do you want?” you hiss, tugging yourself away and pulling your headphones down around your neck. He smirks at you and leans in closer to your face. 

        “I think you know exactly what I want.” Totally unphased, you blink at him once while pursing your lips. Suggestively, he waggles his eyebrows at you. 

        “Don’t you dare say it-”

        “Takahashi.”

        “Oh fuck me.”

        “Just give me a time and place, baby.” While he simpers at you, you can only muster a snarl in return. 

        “Don’t call me that.”

        “You got it, Kitten.”

        Scoffing, you turn to walk away, but a hand snags your wrist and spins you right back. Kuroo’s smug look falters at the sight of your furious glare. 

        “Oh, for God’s sake!” You yank your hand out of his grip. “What do you want?” you seethe through your teeth. 

        “Like I said before, I want Takahashi,” he shrugs. You shake your head at him. 

        “My God, you are such a douche.” 

        “Oh c’mon YN, please?” He pouts and folds his hands pleadingly with well-executed puppy-dog eyes. You wonder how many girls that’s worked on before. 

        “Why should I help you?” With a deadpan look, you fold your arms indignantly. 

        “Because I know you’re a 4.0 student,” your lips quirk at this, “and I also know you suck at chemistry.” The trump card widens your eyes and you waver for just a second.

        “Pshh, how do you know that?” Your recovery is about as smooth as sandpaper.

        “Did you forget that you almost burned Suzuki’s eyebrows off in front of the whole class?” Eye twitching at the memory, you give in. 

        “Fine, what do you want me to do?” 

        “I thought you’d never ask.”

                                ***

        “I think sodium needs to go in there.” 

        “Okay.” 

        It’s the first day of your deal, and while you didn’t believe Kuroo at first when he said Takahashi was a stickler, you guessed you understood it now. After all, you had never seen them go any farther than words. Not that you wanted to see anything more, because gross. 

        In the end, Kuroo wanted to woo her like the sixties, and the first idea on his agenda was a classic. 

        “All right, now add a drop of water,” you instruct, watching carefully to make sure she doesn’t implode the entire school. A sudden jab in your side makes you choke on nothing and you glare over at your partner in crime. 

        ‘Do it!’ he mouths, frantically waving at you to get a move on. Revenge is a priority to you, however, so you rear back and smack his arm with a glare. Satisfied at the awkward squawk that escapes his mouth, you swivel back to your lab monkey and brace for social discomfort.

        “So, uh, Takahashi, do you like flowers?” 

        “What?” She shifts her gaze from the liquid-filled beakers to your face and flinches at the sight of your stiff, forced smile. You’re baring your teeth like a chimpanzee preparing to die, but Takahashi takes this in another direction. She’s a birdbrain, remember?

        “Oh, YN, I’m sorry,” She smiles pityingly at you and pats your shoulder in what she believes is a comforting way. The sound of her acrylic nails scraping your uniform actually makes your skin crawl and you lean away from the touch, still smiling like a maniac. “I just don’t feel that way about you.” 

        A muffled cackle sounds from behind you while your face falls. “Oh,” you mutter, teeth gnawing against each other. “That’s not really what I meant-”

        “It’s just that I’m kind of into guys.” She surveys your expression for any sign of a breakdown, but the only thing she spots is your nostrils flaring. Chuckles are still rumbling in the desk beside you.

        “Yeah, Takahashi, that’s okay,” you emphasize with a nod and wide eyes. “Now what fucking flowers do you like?” 

        “Oh!” Like a child with toys, she is instantly distracted from the painful previous events. The bell rings while she taps her chin, and she lifts her bag over her shoulder while responding, “I quite like petunias!”

        While she exits the classroom, you spin in your seat to face Romeo. 

        “She likes petunias.” You’re practically foaming at the mouth, and Kuroo’s cheeks are burning from his front row seat to the show. 

        “Well thanks for that.” He snickers and you flip him the bird while gathering your things. “Oh, and YN?”

        “Hmm?” 

        He pushes in his chair before winking at you. “I would have paid to see that,” he whispers. 

        “Fucking perv!” 

                                ***

        Two more weeks have passed of you being Kuroo’s sidekick in Operation: Smash and Dash and he keeps half-assing his part. Either that or he’s a shit teacher. 

        “Oh, come on YN, you aren’t that stupid. Surely you know the formula for…” his voice blends with the crickets chirping outside of his window as you zone out. Takahashi still acts the same with him, you still sit and stew in the middle of the pair, and Kuroo keeps begging you to help him get her. Nothing has changed, so what was the point of even trying to continue-

        “YN!” Your teacher, “Mr. Kuroo” as the creep prefers to be called, snaps his fingers in front of your face. “Pay attention in class!” You lazily drag your eyes away from the moon and yawn in his direction. You’re laying flat on your stomach on his carpet and he sits across from you cross-legged with a finger incessantly tapping on your textbook.

        “This isn’t a class, and you’re a terrible teacher, Kuroo.” 

        “Mr. Kuroo to you, Kitten.” He winks and pushes his glasses up his face before running a hand through his rat’s nest. Scoffing, you roll over and stare at his ceiling, only to get patted on the nose with a ruler. 

        “Ow,” you grumble, rubbing the injured area. “You’re an abusive teacher too.” 

        “Only to bad students.” His words cause a palpable shift. The atmosphere of the room suddenly grows ten times more intense and you trace your fingers on the ground nervously. Ever so slowly, Kuroo places two hands on either side of your head, effectively trapping you. He leans over you, and even though he’s upside down, his smirk still manages to take your breath away. 

        “Are you a bad student, Kitten?” 

        Oh, so that’s how he gets all the girls. Interesting. 

        You scoff abruptly and push his face away while he releases a surprised “mfphm!” Ignoring the heat that has blossomed on every inch of your body, you sit back up and pivot to confront him. The textbook between you is no longer forgotten as you snatch it up and point to a random page while avoiding his gaze. 

        “I don’t understand this.”

        “I don’t understand you,” he grumbles under his breath, accepting the book and adjusting his glasses with a twitching jaw. 

        “Excuse me?” 

        “This problem’s easy,” he stares at you from above the rims, “I thought you were a good student?” 

        “I am smarter than you and your bloodline will ever be, dillweed.” With a huff, you cross your arms and avoid his sceptical gaze. “I just… don’t understand the question.” 

        “It’s simple chemistry!” 

        “Yeah, well I just don’t get it! I’m not familiar with this kind of chemistry….”

        Kuroo’s eyes twinkle at your admission and he scoots just a tad closer. “Then I’ll just have to teach you.”

                                ***

        “YN!” Kuroo whisper-yells your name during the middle of notes and you choose to ignore him. 

        “Psst, YN!” He’s louder this round, capturing more pairs of eyes than your own. Luckily, you both sit in the back of the class so the teacher can barely hear you. The feeling of Takahashi’s gaze urges you to continue the ruse, and you bite your lip while squinting at the marked-up white board. This must be how your mom feels before she turns her radio down so she can “see the road.” 

        Sadly, your effort in focusing diminishes in an instant when your carefree cohort brandishes his weapon of choice: a pencil. As he prepares to land a devastating blow to your side, you seize the offender, accidentally brushing his hand during the event, and snap it in two before setting it back on his desk calmly. 

        Kuroo gawks at you in your peripheral vision before lightly muttering “Rude!” 

        “Hehe, loser,” you snicker before sticking your tongue out at him. 

        “YLN!” Mr. Suzuki places his hands on his hips as he shakes his head at you. “Please stop distracting Kuroo and Takahashi!” 

        “Sorry sir!” you nervously respond, hurriedly grabbing your own pencil and returning to your paper. The words still haunt you, as you have always hated being scolded by others. As they repeat like a chorus in your head, you finally catch on one name. Wait, Takahashi? With a gulp, you barely tilt your head to get a glimpse of your lab partner. Her jaw is clenched and her eyes are lit like an angered bonfire. 

        Woah, what’s up with her? You keep your gaze on her even as the bell chimes out, signalling the end of class. She seems unlike her usual self as she shoves her papers into her backpack before zipping it up and stomping out into the hall. Now that you think about it, she hasn’t asked for your homework in a while either…. I wonder if something happened-

        “YN, finally you can pay attention to me now!” Kuroo slams his hands down on your desk and leers over you. 

        “Wow, sounds like you’re getting a little needy,” you relax back into your chair and cross your arms. “Didn’t know you liked me that much.”

        “Neither did I.”

        “What?”

        “Anyways,” he waves his hands dismissivley, avoiding your eyes to take a seat at Takahashi’s desk, “I was thinking that since we already have to spend so much time together because you’re shit at school-”

        “It’s just chemistry!” He places a hand over your mouth to stop your vexed screech. 

        “-I was thinking,” he continues, “you should become our team manager so you don’t have to walk over to my house all the time. It’s kinda dangerous, don’t you think?” Like anybody would, you lick his hand in an effort to drive him away, but he raises his eyebrows back, quirking up a corner of his mouth.

        You sneer in disgust at his action before shoving his hand away. “Fucking perv.”

        “I prefer to think of it as sexy, but back to the less-fun topic. What do you think?” There’s something unfamiliar about his face; it seems almost… apprehensive in a way. Shaking away the thought, you tap your chin contemplatively at his proposal. 

        “I mean, I guess that’s a good idea,” his eyes glimmer at your words and his knee starts to bounce, “Plus my mom would like how safe it is. Sure, I guess I could do that,” you shrug at last and Kuroo’s face lights up. 

        “Sounds good,” his voice is surprisingly nonchalant compared to his body language, “I’ll introduce you to the coaches and get this show on the road.” 

        “Sounds good,” you parrot, grabbing your bag before you’re suddenly smacked with a memory. “Hey wait!” You capture Kuroo’s rather muscular bicep in your grasp to stop him from leaving. As he looks at you, his eyes glimmer with something akin to mischief. “How are things going with Takahashi?”

        His face falls and he glances down at your hand, which you swiftly pull away from his arm like he burned you. 

        “Sorry,” you mutter, shifting from side to side on your feet, “it’s just that I haven’t seen you two talk in a while. Did something happen?” 

        Kuroo’s nose wrinkles before he plasters a smirk on his face, casually settling a hand on his hip. “Nothing you need to worry about. Although, now that I think about it, I could use some more advice.” You smile in relief and nod your head. Even though you had initially hated the pair, Kuroo was slowly becoming your friend, and you were glad nothing had deterred him from his goal. It was still a goal that repulsed you, sure, but you wanted to help him. You wanted to keep helping him. 

        “Of course, what’s up?”

        “What are some things that girls like to do on dates and stuff? You know, if you could try to think like a normal girl for a second.” Your jaw drops with a gasp while he bursts into a maniacal cackle, and you don’t hesitate to smack his chest harshly. 

        “You’re such a dick!”

        “And you’re painful, oww!” Smiling victoriously at the sight of him rubbing his stomach, you ignore his pout in favor of placing your chin in your hand. 

        “I don’t really know, I guess. I kind of don’t have experience…” you trail off when you remember who you’re talking to. Kuroo glances up at you confused before he processes your words and his mouth forms an “o.”

        “Aww, YN, am I gonna have to show you what a first date is like?” he simpers.

        “No! Shut up! Just buy her more petunias and you’ll be fine!” You try to escape the room as fast as possible, but Kuroo’s lanky body blocks the exit, arms and legs both spread out to cover the area. 

        “Oh c’mon, I was just kidding,” he chuckles dismissively. “Now that I think about it, what flowers do you like?”

        “Are there any flowers that you’re allergic to?” 

        “Ouch, gee YN you’re feisty today.” He waggles a finger at you. “I bet you’re more of a rose girl anyways. You seem like the type to….” You’ve mastered the skill of zoning out Kuroo’s incessant rambling as you observe him from multiple angles. You even squat down to see if you could wiggle out through his legs. Nope. Looks like it’s going to be a straight take down.

        You take a few steps back and kick your feet like a bull. It’s your lucky day too; Kuroo’s wearing his red volleyball jacket, and he makes a perfect target. His mouth is still chattering nonstop, but you can tell his face is growing more and more confused at your reaction. Finally, when you feel like you’ve revved up enough, you make your move. 

        “Chargeeee!” 

        Kuroo falls to the ground in the hallway with an “oof” and you land on top of him, one leg on either side of his torso. 

        “What the hell, Kitten?!” The nickname slips out in the heat of the moment but you don’t bother to correct him. Instead, you pat the side of his face and clamber off him, not hesitating to use his sturdy chest as a boost onto your feet. You're still towering over him, and Kuroo’s face flushes at a certain display you're giving him. You haven’t even noticed; you’re still pounding on your chest like a gorilla while hooting nonsensically to celebrate your triumph. 

        “Umm, YN?”

        “I’m pretty sure that’s what rugby is like.”

        “Hey Kitten.”

        “I would be amazing at that sport, let’s be honest.” You step away and off to the side, only to peer down curiously at a tomato-themed Kuroo whose eyes are completely unfocused. 

        “Umm, did I tackle you too hard?” You wave a hand in front of his face, but he doesn’t move a muscle. “Hey Rooster, did I break you?”

        “YN?”

        “Yeah?”

        “You do know you’re wearing a skirt, right?” You chuckle. 

        “Umm yeah, Kuroo, they’re kind of mandatory.” 

        “Oh good, I’m just making sure you’re fully aware of what just happened.” Your forehead creases as you tug him up onto his feet. 

        “What do you mean? I just took you out like a pro-footballer, what are you talking about?” 

        “Nothing, Kitten,” he sniggers, ruffling your hair before you bat his hand away. “I’ll talk to the coaches about letting you manage, okay?”

        “Okay,” you nod, still confused, “just be sure to get checked for a concussion too. You’re acting weird.”

        “Aye aye, captain.” He mockingly salutes with a smug smile before walking away. Those words, however, they were… familiar. 

        Oh shit. You gasp in horror. “You saw my Spongebob underwear?!”

        “Aww, don’t be one of those girls, YN,” he calls out, discreetly speeding up his strides, “They’re called panties.”

        “You sick fuck!”

                                ***

        You never realized how often Kuroo practiced until you became the volleyball manager. It was every night, and more often than not, you got tired just watching them. 

        “Five more laps, boys!” 

        However, you did have to admit Kuroo was noticeably different during these times. He was less of a womanizer and more of a leader, and you couldn’t help but wonder if any girls he had been with had seen this side of him. In this way, he seemed more redeemable, more worth knowing. 

        “YN, can you grab us some waters?” Just as whiny, though. 

        You were still attempting to get used to the feeling of being called upon like a waitress every two minutes. The sweaty boys asked for this and that, and you missed the days when you had first met them. Weeks ago, they used to fall at your feet and offer to do everything for you. It felt good to be the center of attention, although apparently Kuroo gave them a stern talking to at some point, and now they don’t even dare to speak to you. Shame. 

        “Hey, Kitten,” the captain jogged over to you, slowly wiping the sweat off his face with a towel you instinctively tossed him the minute he approached. “We’re finished up now, are you ready to go?”

        “Oh, sorry Tetsu, I guess I forgot to tell you,” you wave away his offer and smile apologetically, “I’m actually going out with someone tonight, so we can take the night off chemistry. You’re off the hook for the day.” Honestly, you expected him to be pleased. He seemed to get more frustrated with you recently, even though you were understanding more and more of the topics in the textbook. But his reaction was… explosive, to say the least. 

        “What?! Who the fuck asked you out?! Who?!” With narrowed eyes, he scrutinized your face with folded, bulky arms. You flinch at his sudden outburst, and so does the rest of the team. Throwing a reassuring smile their way, you pull Kuroo over into an emptier corner of the gym to discuss the matter privately.

        “Hey, crazy, calm it. It’s not a date date, it’s just a hang out,” you shrug.

        “With who?” he growls. 

        You raise a brow at the act before rolling your eyes. “My God, Tetsurou, I’m just going to hang out with Takahashi! She said she wanted to talk about something-”

        “No!” He instantly grabs you by your shoulders at the words. “Don’t go. You can’t talk to her.” 

        “Why not?” His overreactions are concerning you, and you slowly peel off his grip before asking, “Did something happen between you two?”

        “No! Never!”

        “Never? Do you still need help?”

        “No!” He exclaims once more and you give him a look that tells him to shut his piehole just a bit. With a huff, he nods in understanding and lowers his tone. “No, I don’t really need your help anymore. Not with her.”

        “Oh,” your face falls and you bite your lip, “So does that mean we can’t hang out anymore?”

        “No!”

        “Is that your favorite word?”

        “N-” he cuts himself off in a scoff before shaking his head at you. “No,” he snickers, “it’s not, Kitten. Just, be careful with Takahashi, all right?”

        “Okay dad.” You roll your eyes.

        “It’s Daddy to you, Kitten.”

        “Shut up, you perv!” You smack his chest with a giggle and he chuckles along with you. Glancing at the clock on the wall, you huff at the time and murmur, “Hey, I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He nods with a solemn smile.

        “All right, Kitten-”

        “YN.”

        “-Kitten, be careful.” For the first time in your life, you see Kuroo hug someone. And it’s you. His slim but powerful arms wrap around your waist and he tugs you into his warm, sweaty chest, ducking his head into your neck and sniffing your hair. You would say it’s weird, but you regrettably do the same. 

        “Ok, Tetsu, I gotta be honest. I like this, but you smell.” Your phone buzzes in your back pocket just as he pulls away with a cackle. Smiling at him, you grab it and see Takahashi’s name on the front. 

        “Hello?” you answer, stepping away from him with one finger held up as you wait for a response. 

        “You’re late, so I guess I’ll just have to skip out on the whole fake hang out thing.”

        “Takahashi? Are you okay?”

        “I’m perfectly fine, YN,” her voice is lower than normal, the bubbly, cheery tone is completely nonexistent. “I just wanted you to know that Kuroo and I slept together, so you should probably stop trying to flirt with him from now on.”

        Your face falls at her words, and Kuroo mouths a concerned question at you. You don’t dare to decipher it; instead, you turn away and face the wall. 

        “Is that right?” you mutter, your own tone lifeless. 

        “You better believe it sweetheart, so just give up. We’re going to become a couple soon, just you watch. Especially at the assembly tomorrow, when we walk together on the stage.” 

        “Oh yeah?”

        “Yep, and those loving looks he gave you during class? Newsflash, YN, those were for me, you were just in the way-” You hang up with pursed lips and peel your phone away from your ear, staring at it blankly. 

        “Kitten, are you okay?” 

        Your chest feels empty, and your heartbeat slows in your upset. 

        “YN?”

        “How long?” You turn around and drag your eyes up your form to face him. 

        “Excuse me?” Kuroo steps closer and you let him, but he doesn’t move to touch you.

        “How long have you been leading me on?”

        “I don’t-”

        “How long have you been sleeping with Takahashi?” You felt like you just got cheated on, even though you had offered earlier to help him with her. You guessed, in some strange way, you hoped it was never really her you were helping him woo. 

        You were wrong.

        Kuroo’s eyes widen at your question, but he quickly tames himself, taking a deep breath and licking his lips. 

        “It was just one time.” God, it was true. “Before I asked for your help.”

        “Wait, what?” You stumble back a step and stare up at him perplexedly. 

        “I thought,” he sighs once more, “I thought that if I asked for your help and hanged around you enough that she would get the gist and leave me alone like the others. But she didn’t. She just kept calling me.”

        “So… you used me?” You were hurt, but in a whole different way now. Your heart stuttered at his confession, but now it panged with remorse. 

        “At first, yeah,” he nods, approaching you once more before looking into your eyes deeply. “But then, I guess at some point I just,” he takes one more deep breath to prepare himself for something, “I guess I just fell in love with you.” 

        Slapping your palm against your forehead, you scoff, “This is fucked up, Kuroo.”

        “I know,” he nods in agreement. Against your better judgement, you pocket your phone and give him one last hug. The breath in his lungs forces its way out of him and you pull away before he can return it. 

        “I need time to think, okay?”

        Shakily, he backs away and allows you the room to leave. “Okay.” 

        The doors whoosh closed after you exit and make your way home alone. Inside the darkened, locked up gym, Kuroo slowly picks up the stray volleyballs, not hesitating to hurl them at the wood panelling with loud grunts of fury while he finally takes out his frustration. After he runs out of ammo and his arm grows tired, he runs a hand through his wild tufts. 

        “Fucking shit. What am I gonna do, Kitten?”

                                ***

        The assembly was loud and cheerful. Nobody around you knew what went down inside that gym just a single day earlier. In the crowd of third years you were corralled in, you occasionally caught glimpses of the other volleyball boys your age, but no Kuroo. He was supposed to announce their victory, and their succession to state today. And the one to walk him up the stage was no other than Takahashi. 

        You’re dragged out of your self-deprecating, Rooster-filled thoughts by the sound of the principal clearing his throat in the microphone. It causes a loud whine that pierces your’s and everyone else’s eardrums, but you don’t have enough will to gasp and whimper like they do. Instead, your eyes lock on the pairs of people who have just arrived. One cheerleader to one sport captain, and at the end of the line is Kuroo, who is snarling and leaning away from Takahashi attached to his hip.

        The sight makes your lips twitch, and your gaze seems to have an effect on him, because his head instantly whips around in search of something, only to lock on you as he smiles softly. You only nod back and take your seat in the bleachers along with the other third years. 

        Time passes slowly as you wait and wait for the assembly to end. You almost consider ditching just as Kuroo’s turn comes up, but his actions stop you. As soon as he strides up the stairs to the stage, he wriggles his arm out and away from Takahashi. Then, he plucks the microphone out of the flabbergasted principal’s hand and taps it twice. 

        “This thing’s on, right?” The principal nods, completely discombobulated by your Rooster. 

        “Sweet, okay. YN!” His eyes search the crowd of grouped third years as your name echoes around the gym. They brighten when he spots you once more and he swings around to face you. While you want to seem calm and collected, the number of eyes now locked on you leaves you a blushing mess. 

        “Hey Kitten,” he waggles his eyebrows cheekily while holding out his hand, “Will you be my girlfriend?” The crowd falls to a hush and an uncontrollable smile takes over your face. 

        “Well?” He moves his finger in a “come hither” motion with a wink, and it has you coming down the steps of the stands in a trance-like state, pushing past your fellow classmates and occasionally mumbling apologies. With a hop, you land on the gym floor and approach him as he does the same for you. 

        “What do I get out of it?” you ask with a smugly raised brow. Kuroo grins back at you deviously. 

        “I suppose I could help you with your chemistry homework,” he steps closer and leans into your face. “You know, ‘cause you suck at it.” You can’t help but snort and bite your lip. Then you whisper three words and pull him in for a kiss that has the crowd cheering. 

        “It’s a deal.”

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

*GIF not mine*

Summary:

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

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

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

Word count: 8261

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he’s noticed a couple things about you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fucking music, surely. 

“I’ll go get it—”

Not yet. I need more time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that’s not what happens. 

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

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

Gaz panics. 

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

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

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

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

Meanwhile, Gaz… 

He has a question. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’ll find a way. 

He always does. 

~~~~~~

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

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

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

Mornings like this is where he fights fire with fire. 

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

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

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

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

Drunk Gaz, though….

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

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

It has the same effect. 

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

Gaz’s heart thump-thump s forcefully.

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

Fuckin’ hell. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuckin’. Hell. 

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

“Are you included in all that?”

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

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

That, or he still looked smashed from last night.

You dodge his question completely.

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

“Kyle.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck. 

Gaz wants to kiss you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gaz sighs. “What’s next on the menu?”

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

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

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

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

“Good feeling,” you nod. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s okay with manipulating you that much. 

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

“What are you gappin’ to?”

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

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

And he thinks he’s nailed it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jeanne likes to go hiking. 

Jeanne likes to swim. 

Jeanne loves nights out. 

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

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

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

He plans to change that. 

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

So you’re talking about him. 

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

“Special forces?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Five minutes too late, it seems. 

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

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

Trapped. That’s what he is.

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

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

Like taming a wild animal. 

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

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

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

~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he thought you loved cold weather?

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

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

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

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

He misses so many things from home. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Being here has changed something in him. 

Nothing big—all small things, in fact. 

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

Do they sell your perfume in the UK?

It’s not a huge thing if they don't. 

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

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

Gaz can’t quite make it make sense. 

Home is good. Hell, he misses it. 

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

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

Bullshit. 

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~

“YN.”

Nothing.

“YN.”

Still nothing.

“YN!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he gets here, sees you. 

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

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

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

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

See—wasn’t so hard, was it?

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

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

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

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

The same one that keeps him barking. 

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

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

You huff a sigh. “No.”

“Husband?”

You roll your eyes. “No.”

“Lesbian?”

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

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

“You’re unbelievable.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“YN…”

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

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

“You hate camping.”

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

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

“Kyle…”

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

“Peaches,” you mumble. He nods.

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

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

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

He needs a promise before he leaves. Something. 

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

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

“I thought you were just…”

Fuck. 

Gaz shakes his head.

Fuck. 

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

He tips his head back, locking onto the ceiling. 

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

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

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

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

No. 

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

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

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

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

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

A bloody fool. That’s what he is. 

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

What a fuckin’ sod he is. 

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

You not knowing he exists. 

Him having never met you.

The ideas make him sick. 

But Gaz…

Gaz is a planner. Above all else. 

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

“Your phone.”

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

“What?”

“Let me give you my number.”

“Kyle… that’s not a good idea.”

“Don’t care, love.”

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

Kyle (Hot Guy from the Bar) Garrick. 

His phone number. 

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

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

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

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

“Woo you?”

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

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

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

~~~~~~

Part 2

In the Black Widow’s Nest (Henry Creel x Reader) 🕷️Chapter 1🕷️

*GIF not mine*

Summary: 

Prince Henry of the Creel Dynasty is finally in search of a wife, and in the spirit of courtship, King Victor has invited young royalty from all neighboring kingdoms to vie for his hand. But with so much royalty introduces the need for many more maids in the castle than usual.

Enter: You.

You're nothing but a servant in his home, an intruder in his prized library, and an utter nuisance in his mind. But then you survive his attack, and in an unexpected way nonetheless. That makes you... interesting. 

You've caught his eye---congratulations! Now, you must deal with the consequences of loving a heartless prince in a world where far worse things lurk in the castle than dirty garderobes.

A/N: All i ask is that u imagine henry creel’s evil face on jace wayland’s body that’s it that’s all u gotta do, the fic will do the rest. this may or may not be a series, i do have a few ideas for it (but let it be known begging will not speed up the process). one final comment: henry creel hot. Hope you enjoy!

Word count: 4328

Amongst the cobwebs, the dust, and the black widows, in the abandoned royal library surrounded by the scent of mildew and what once was and is no longer, a pair of eyes watched your every move. Like two frozen fingers poking into the back of your skull, the gaze ran chills down your spine and tightened the muscles in your shoulder blades.

Every move you made was stiff. Despite the season outside being spring, winter had found perpetuity within the four towering walls. There were no windows nor any lit chandeliers; the only light was provided by the brass candlestick that had been forced into your hand before you were thrown into the library, with the promise of being released after ten hours or at the the sight of one hundred spotless, unblemished bookshelves—whichever came first. 

Decidedly, you had three hours left. 

The candle was almost completely diminished to a pool of wax, and the flame on its wick had long weakened and begun flickering. You suspected one last breeze would leave you in complete darkness and at the mercy of whomever was watching you from the shadows. No matter how many times you weaved in and out of the bookshelves that stood at twice your height, five parallel rows of grimy mahogany stacked with fading leather spines, you could not escape the unmistakable feeling. 

This person had not made a sound when they had entered the room. There were no new footsteps tracked in the dust layered on the floor aside from yours, and you had not even heard the twin doors creak open as they had when you entered. You couldn’t hear them over your own breathing and certainly not over the pounding of your heart. 

With every precarious flick of your feather duster over the worn titles, the clouds of your efforts mingled with those of your own exhales. You kept your gaze low, eyes focused on only the task in front of you with the hope—artificial hope—that if you did not disturb them with your own attention, they would eventually remove theirs from you. 

Time trudged by as you shifted from bookshelf to bookshelf, the clogs on your feet scraping the hardwood floors. You kept a wooden chair in tow, collected from one of the tables arranged in the center of the room, and dragged it in closer to the nearest bookshelf, clambering atop the seat and lifting onto your toes to dust the top row of books. The cobwebs were thickest here, spiders having been left to their lonesome far too long and creating their own colony. 

You could barely reach and dusted blindly, allowing the length of the feathers to do most of the work as you ignored the cramps festering throughout your calves. A soft gust of wind floated past and tousled the flyaways at your brow, and as you purse your lips to blow them back and out of your lashes, the room flickered and fell into darkness. 

The candle had finally gone out. 

You squinted and hissed a curse under your breath, your gaze snapping to the outline of the table, where you could barely make out the bowl of wax and nothing more. Just my luck, you thought as you withdrew your feather duster from the bookshelf top. You would have to retrieve a new taper from one of the maids’ closets, though you sincerely doubted the head maid would be all too pleased with your explanation.

Excuses, excuses, you could imagine her barking at you, ire swirling in her small, black eyes. Candles don’t just go out on their own.

“She’ll probably just set my hand on fire and lock me back in here,” you grumbled, huffing as you grabbed the backing of your chair to dismount. A faint tickle on the back of your hand drew your attention. “Hell will freeze over before she—”

Spider.

You yelped, a blasphemy falling from your lips as your clogs slipped on the polished wood seat. Your back hit the ground first, a pained shock shooting from your tailbone up to where your head smacked against the ground with the whiplash of your fall. 

White sparkles lit up your vision, and you sputtered out a cough, not bothering to blink them away. An ache throbbed at your lower back, pulsing at the same wavelength as the ringing in your ears and drawing a groan from your lips. An odd smarting festered up your spine, not unlike a chill. 

Carefully, you slumped back, your head resting against the hard floor and your legs straightening out. You didn’t want to get back up; you didn’t want to move. For a few moments, you let the pain overcome you while you wheezed for breath, choking on the dust that had become unsettled by your fall. It rose and hung in the dark air around you, blurred and wavering with your heartbeat. 

For a few moments, you forgot that someone had been watching you. 

And you certainly didn’t want to know where the spider had wound up. 

The smallest vibration of light footsteps trembled underneath your fingertips, and a sharp pain shot through your skull. Light, blinding and bright and excruciatingly insistent, is all you can see when the vibration stops and some glowing form hinges over you. 

“Not dead,” are the words you think you hear, husked in a monotonous, low gravel and feeding into the loud hum in your head. It’s muffled between the blood pounding in your ears and the hazy confusion that had begun to fog over your mind. 

“Not yet, at least.”

You licked your lips, eyes fluttering closed, then open, then closed again. “What?” you mumbled breathlessly. 

The glowing form dims, gradually painted by an orange hue. When metal thuds on wood, you guess it must be a candle joining your pool of wax on the table, and before long the presence hovers over you again. Tree sap swarms where the scent of mildewed books had been lingering, and, in a cruel twist of fate, you hazard a guess that this is one of the courtiers the head maid had shrilled about avoiding at all costs. 

Or worse—a member of the royal family. 

But how? And why? None of them would ever idle about in a damp, endlessly cold library. The smell bordered on revolting, half of the volumes were wrinkled and illegible, and you couldn’t walk two steps inside without grime caking your face and clothes. Not to mention, the spiders. Disgusting, horrid spiders. 

Black widows, if the head maid was to be believed. 

The wintry library would never be home to festivities of the upper class, not even the occasional unsolicited rendezvous. There were dining rooms and bedrooms and poor, innocent gardens for all the horrific things they did to one another; entire wings dedicated to the sybaritic tendencies of royalty. 

But this man before you—oh, how otherworldly he was. 

You could believe that he had been the one watching you with how his eyes pierced you in this moment, a being such as him the only one capable of having a tangible effect with a single glance. 

You took in his sharp cheekbones, the soft slope of his nose, his slate blue eyes. His face was haloed by mussed, golden hair, and two pale pink lips set against each other as a look of disinterest with ease. His entire appearance, from his lithe figure to the way his eyes dragged over you, exuded a superiority that had been trained to perfection. 

Staring at him felt like drinking a sweet wine, far too indulgent and alluring to ever be truly satiated, and yet you know all too well it would be condemning to keep on as you are. You know this man has a rank heavens above yours; his skin, tanned and unblemished, has never felt the dust and dirt that encompasses you every day, and his body has never held your scars.

In your muddled daze, you imagined barreling headfirst into damnation for acquainting with this handsome being. Whether he be a marquess or a lord or, God forbid, even a duke, being seen in such close quarters with him was strictly forbidden, especially with the royal prince’s season for courting beginning in a week. 

And then you felt yourself spiraling—you imagined him curling over you, his deft fingers sliding underneath your nape, tracing the curve of your scalp and feeling for injury. You imagined his eyes warming pleasantly as he found you safe and unharmed. You imagined he gave a damn. 

But he didn’t. He never would. 

His hands fell to his hips, the loosely fitted, half-unbuttoned white tunic he donned exposing more toned skin while he glowered down at you.

He certainly wasn’t going to wax poetic about your welfare. 

“No blood.” His head tilted to one side slightly, blond tufts of hair following suit. “And thankfully no mess. I’d have hated to invite yet another servant in here, even if it was to drag your body out.”

A shiver tore through your spine, and you had the most horrible feeling that if you died somehow in this moment, no one would bat an eye—especially not the man before you.

His voice had that regal lilt, the one you could have never gained in your small village outside of the castle. You’d only ever heard it on a few of the higher-ranking maids—certainly none of the girls you had been hired with had such accents either—as well as some passing royalty on your first few days of traipsing the castle with a guide. His voice was deep and raspy, as though he spent his days either growling out orders or not speaking at all. You wonder if that was how he found it so easy to watch you mutely.

Feeling entirely too vulnerable, supine as you were, you brace your hands against the floor and writhe your way into a sitting position, head swimming with vertigo. Bile rises in your throat, and you press your eyes closed, tight, waiting out the wave. The idea that dragging your gaze away from him had played a part in the nausea tickles the back of your mind. 

He watches, seeming somewhat interested, as you struggle.

Once, in your small village, a wolf had snuck into the farmer’s fields. You remember watching from your doorway that morning, the sun barely risen, as the wolf tackled a single lamb and began eating it alive. 

The blood coated its paws and muzzle. Bones crackled with the snapping jaws. Even after the lamb had stopped squealing, the hunger in the wolf’s eyes never quite seemed satiated. 

Something in the man’s and the wolf’s gazes made them indistinguishable to you in that moment. 

The cruel sneers and jeering laughs of the royals you’d seen so far could only contain so much antagonism. This man was cut from a different cloth. 

His body, all relaxed muscles and agile limbs, had a vigorous, agitated thing running within the veins of his arms, sleeves rolled to the elbows; the cruelty in his mien was something you had only ever encountered in wild animals. 

Panic chills the sweat on your brow. Laboriously, you wrench one hand on a bookshelf, hoisting yourself up despite the blaring pain climbing up your spine, and onto your feet. You can feel the weakness in your knees the second you try to take another step, the defiant outcry of your mind and body as you try to move, but the man is so close. The warning sirens in your mind wail. 

A hand grapples around your free wrist, insistent and rigid. 

“Stop.”

You flinch, and your first instinct is to twist away and run. His grip is iron-tight, though, and without much resistance, he spins you back to face him. Frantically, your eyes once more swallow up his bronze, toned skin in the shadows of his candle, waiting for a strike. 

In return, the weight of his gaze bows your shoulders, fostering an urge to find a corner and curl up until you can’t anymore. Something you can scarcely identify flickers through his blue eyes. He’s staring at your wrist, locked in his, and then he’s staring at you, his lips tight and his face hard as stone. Like before, you can feel him searching you, taking note of your every move. 

He’s scrutinizing you like a bug, uncertain of just how and in what way to crush you under his heel. It’s the way he had when his gaze was all you knew about him, and you have no trouble imagining yourself splatting underneath his boot. 

But a sound rings in the distance, drawing your attention away from him entirely. 

Ringing. Ringing like church bells. Ringing like the clang of the metal clapper striking tarnished ocher and rust. The kingdom’s clock tower made the same sound. 

A chime, maybe.

Or a knell. 

But you were almost positive that sound couldn’t be heard so far away, crammed deeply within the towering castle walls. Especially at its volume. 

It chimes again, and you slam both hands to your ears, heart pounding. It’s deafening. You can’t breathe, and you can barely see, still tangled up in the man’s eyes. They’ve grown so cold and strike you so much harder your teeth begin to chatter. 

“No,” you whisper, though you’re not quite sure what you’re protesting. “Please.”

His pale lips turn red as he smirks, and every angle of his face sharpens into focus. The room fades into black and white. Musty bindings and rotting pages no longer invade your nostrils. It’s like your brain is shutting off each sense one by one so you can take in more of him. 

And you can’t seem to look away. 

No. 

By the third chime, you can barely feel the pain that had been radiating through your body, and the release is almost blissful. Beckoning. You’re swathed up in the tranquility, ears stuffed with cotton and head buzzing in the silence. When your whole body starts rocking back and forth, waiting for another agonizing chime, your knees begin to feel like rubber, suddenly too malleable to stand upon.

A fourth chime, earsplitting. 

They buckle. 

You snap your hands forward in a panic, yelping when you stumble.

All your senses return as fast as the pinch of a needle. Blood roars in your ears, and soreness floods your every limb. It’s like trying to squeeze into clothes that have become too small and completely ripping the seams—all the sights, the smells, the feelings overload your brain too quickly, causing it to swell and split open. 

Your only lifeline is a radiating source of heat, and you cling to it so hard you're half afraid you might smother it. But when your embrace tightens, so too does your grip on reality. You can almost unscramble your own thoughts again—all the curse words you’ve ever known combined with prayers to the heavens above. Giving yourself into refuge becomes second nature, and you burrow further into the cradle of warmth.

A jolt runs up and down your back, and your skull feels cracked in two. 

But the eerie quiet of the library registers anyway. The chiming is gone. 

Blissful silence remains, only occasionally pierced by your gasping breaths. You want to nuzzle deeper, the warmth firm and solid, as the simmering underneath your skin wanes, yet there seems to be no space left that your form hasn’t already curled into.

“What just happened?” Your voice wavers, and it echoes back so loudly that you flinch. 

You can’t see a thing. The dim outlines of the room fuzz and blend, and if you weren’t standing on your own two feet, you wouldn’t have been able to tell up from down. But the chill still nips at your skin. The library hasn’t changed. Nothing’s changed but you. 

But there’s no explanation for the bell-ringing, the sensory overload. It must have all been in your head; it feels like any second now, your ears are going to pop and reality will flood back in. You’re alive. But whatever had just happened was as close to death as you could have imagined—

A breath away from becoming nothing. 

So what stopped it?

Even more—what started it?

The questions slipped your mind the second you heard the library door creak. The pitiful sound allowed the entrance of sunlight directed by the hallway’s window, and the stiffness of your bones crackled at the thought of even more warmth. You felt half-thawed and left for dead, save for the fount of heat caught in your white-knuckled grasp. 

You went still. 

Heat. 

Heat in the library. 

That had to have been one of the most preposterous realities you had imagined since you had first stepped foot in here seven hours ago—and you had raked through your mental fantasies quite thoroughly in that time. 

Carefully, as though jaws might snap at you from the darkness, you withdrew your arms from the motionless frame and craned your head upward. 

Dear God. 

The man was even more beautiful when washed in distant sunlight. Heart-wrenchingly so. More alluring when his hair glowed golden, combed back waves ending neatly at his nape. More potent when his gaze speared yours, his arms limp at his sides, elbows brushing the backs of your hands at his waist. 

Terribly heady.

Five seconds passed before you caught on to your ill deed, and his white tunic fluttered from the speed at which you pulled away from him. When his slender fingers twitched in tandem, you could only assume that, had you waited another second, he would have grasped your wrists so tightly the bones would have snapped. 

How could you? Oh God, this was it. It’s all over. 

You’re seized under his watchful eye, his face washed over with rage, or vexation, or downright disgust at your entirely-too-close, worthy-of-execution contact. 

Certainly, it could not be the wonder you had initially thought it was. 

That was just not possible. 

Impossible. 

Maybe. 

“YN!” 

You jump when the library’s twin doors slammed open, a crotchety, accented voice rattling against the shelves. The clomping of two clogs no different than yours—though, possibly better polished—thunder towards the pair of you, located by your and his candlesticks, stained brass and glossy gold sitting side by side on the oak center table. 

The head maid—Miss Miriam Swinebottom, which, in your humble opinion, was evidence that fate did in fact understand the concept of justice—was a woman of an angular, acidic countenance. Two beady eyes sunk deep into her skull like snakes nestled within a tumbleweed, and she had the capacity for two emotions: disappointment and fury. With a distaste for all things insouciant, the skeletal woman wielded the newly hired maids like an army of rats; she sent all of you scuttling over every inch of the castle and cleaning until your bodies were slow and stiff as though submerged in deep water. 

And you had no doubt that, the second that gaze fell upon you, she was out for blood. The terror that began pulsing in every nerve was no different than when you had first noticed the foreboding air around the blond man. You were not going to get out of this without a scratch. 

Miss Miriam took in you first, but not for long. Soon enough, both of you, as one incriminating sight, were being ascertained. 

You knew what she saw. 

One of her new maids, no better than the grime beneath her shoe, inches away from a royal. 

Unseasoned in the ways of the castle, naive to the new problem you’ve just sprouted, a true simpleton for what you’ve done. You. 

You, with unsteady eyes and flushed cheeks, his shirt unbuttoned, blond hair tousled. 

Fresh meat. 

Dead meat. 

And you hadn’t even done anything. 

You stumble back another step and hesitate to make an excuse. Words, you’d learned, were no better than handing Miss Miriam a switch. Best stay silent and pray for mercy.

Or, rather, for a quick recovery. 

Curiosity slips out of your hands, and you sneak a glance at the man. 

He’s wicked all over again. Somewhat unimpressed by the turn of events, he appears, but the emotion mingles with a strong sense of antagonism no nobility can seem to restrain. You’re only half-glad looks can’t kill. Miss Miriam would be worse off than six feet deep by now. 

To your surprise, she does not snatch you away with promises of a beating. She doesn’t get a step closer. 

Instead, the head maid folds into a low curtsy, then rises back up, bowing her head. “Your Highness.”

You tense at her actions, mind falling blank. 

No. He couldn’t be. 

Your Highness? Your Highness?

But as his gaze trails away from her and back to you, his face abruptly void, you can only stagger back another step, knees giving way into a curtsy as you copy Miss Miriam.

Waiting.

He is.

His Royal Highness, Crown Prince of the Creel Dynasty.

And here you had been, none the wiser, completely ignorant to the danger you’d just placed yourself in. 

For a long, excruciating moment, nothing happens. He does not touch you, nor does he move. The only sound filling the room is bated breath and whispering winds. 

Prince Henry. The prized catch of all the kingdoms. Aristocracy who’d never even scoff at a servant like you were here to court him. 

And you’d been so close—you could still feel the ghost of his warmth under your fingertips. 

A huff perks your ears, but you bite your tongue, waiting. He moves, one slow footstep at a time, nearing you with his polished, leather boots. You watch them as they grow closer. 

You watch them as they hesitate in front of you.

And then you watch them as they pass, each thump of leather against hardwood further and further away until there’s no doubt he has left the library. 

The older maid hitches a second longer before she rises, spitting your name like bile. “YN.” Her footsteps thunder toward you, and you barely have time to straighten before she has an iron grip on your upper arm, hauling you out of the room. 

“You had such a simple task. Clean the library and get out.” She grits her teeth, eyes flaring. “No one has used it in a decade, and yet what do I find but a dusty library and you. You, whoring yourself around the prince. And you said you weren’t a wench before I hired you.”

  She leads you down the castle’s marble hallways, dim from the setting sun yet well-lit by the sconces lining the walls. No matter how much you stumble and grunt, she drags you after her into the servants’ wing, swiftly finding the maids’ hall and barging you through the doorway. 

The room falls silent when the door slams shut, and while no crowd gathers, you are certainly the center of attention to the maids awaiting attending dinner. Stomachs are rumbling, but you have no doubt they would rather feast their eyes on this spectacle first. 

Tears pinch at the bridge of your nose. You can’t cry; you didn’t want to be one of the maids that cried. Those that did were in the latter half of the new hires who were younger than you. And you weren’t a little girl anymore. 

No crying. 

But, oh, you were scared when Miss Miriam paraded you in front of the others, hissing warnings and threats of punishment for girls who did what you had done. 

“-traipsing herself around in front of a most respected royal.” Black, burning eyes latch back onto you. “Tell me, YN, what did you think would happen?”

You flinch. 

There’s no point in looking to others for help. You don’t know them well enough to have friends. It’s been three days, and only one name has stuck. 

But you know it’s a sea of pity, disappointment, and nervous movement flowing back and forth. 

“It,” your voice cracks, and you pause, blinking rapidly. Another older maid, same regal accent, same strict demeanor, same gaze hissing you deserve this you deserve this you deserve this, approaches from behind. “It was an accident—”

You reel back into her waiting arms with a yelp. A stinging burn lances at your cheek, and if you hadn’t seen Miss Miriam’s bony hand fall back to her side, you would have thought she’d slashed open your cheek with an average kitchen knife. 

A seasoned backhand. Was there anything worse?

Miss Miriam stepped back, her appearance leaning more towards irate than strictly furious. She turned away from you, searching the walls of the dormitory. Though you had never seen it before, it hung on the wall with a single nail and a small, looped string on the handle.

A riding crop, yet you had the distinct feeling it had never been used on horses before. 

“No,” you plead when swift fingers begin untying your garment backing. “Please, it—it was an accident!” You try to yank away, but the crop swings at your head. When you lurch back, the fingers resume and Miss Miriam simply tilts her head. 

Dread claws up your throat. The edges of your vision begin contracting with your heart beat, while a shrill voice in your head begins screaming to run, to get out, to escape. Cold air assaults your bare back, and when you feel the tears begin to fall, the maid spins you around, presenting the stripped canvas of flesh to the others. 

“Let this be a lesson to you all, girls,” Miss Miriam announces. “This is not a whorehouse. You are not here to prostitute yourselves to royalty. You will not even look at them.” Her voice directs towards you, “They will certainly not look at you.”

You scream when the crop comes down, the white walls blurring, and the skin of your back wails at the betrayal. 

The tears don’t stop for hours.

Masterlist    Next

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

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

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

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

Can i also be tagged to reborn? Love ur story btw! <333

Of course!! I’m glad you’re liking it☺️💜

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

(Supernatural/Soulmate AU)

*GIF not mine*

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

A/N: Bro. Bro. Bro. Okay, so y’all are either gonna love me or hate me for the end, but that’s okay. I’m really sorry I haven’t updated in a while, but I promise the story is gettin’ good! Once again, I hate to use this excuse, but life has gotten surprisingly hectic in the last week, so I hope you’ll excuse my lack of updating. Nonetheless, please enjoy!

Tag List: @burntcilantro​  @alloverbutterflies​  @translucentthoughts​  @zaejia​  @momothepeachgirl  @black-veil-chemicalz​  @miigoth​  @blxkstar​  @keigosbitch​  @actual-smol​  @rikorene​  @idiot-juice-enthusiast​  @cherriomilkmangos​  

Word count: 4364

        “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” 

        When you were younger, you used to play at your neighborhood park with another boy around your age. His name was Kenma, and he was one of your first friends. And right now, the man currently unlocking the cuffs around your wrists looked like his spitting image, just a decade older. 

        “Give us some privacy, Kenma.” Well damn.

        The blond man only nodded in acknowledgment and left the room. It looked a lot like your bedroom back at Akaashi and Bokuto’s house. There was a large bed up against one wall, and you currently sat on it while Kuroo pulled up an armchair in front of you. A chandelier hung from the high ceilings, and it buzzed with artificial light. The only art in the room was ancient and weathered, depicting either roses or oceanic views among the cream-colored walls. The remaining furniture was a simple, carved wooden closet across from the bathroom’s entrance, and a long, velvet sofa opposite a mounted television. 

        The only difference was the atmosphere. It wasn’t friendly or loving, no matter how many times Kuroo smiled reassuringly at you. At a certain point, you lost your patience. 

        “Go to college, they said,” you lean back on your hands and sneer at the man. “You’ll be fine, they said. You won’t get kidnapped twice in the same fucking year, they said!”

        “Language.”

        “ENGLISH!” 

        Kuroo chuckled, less than impressed with your manic temper. You could tell he wanted to sit closer to you, but he respected your space. Every few seconds, his eyes would fall to the empty space on the mattress next to you, but they would flick back up to yours just as fast. His arms stayed glued to those of his chair to keep him in place. 

        “You need to calm down.”

        “I don’t need to do shit,” you snarled. “Once again, I’m locked up in another…” you waved your arms around wildly, “ancient, supernatural freak’s mansion, which I don’t even know how you guys can even afford this shit!” 

        The black-haired man raised his brow and pressed himself deeper into his seat. “I was the king of an entire kingdom, you know.” 

        “Yeah, like a thousand years ago,” you nodded, lip curled back in vexation. “What, did you pay with doubloons, or with gold coins?” 

        He only snickers and shakes his head, leaning forward while you tilt back on your palms. Your legs still hang off the edge of the bed, though, and Kuroo seems about two seconds away from fondling your kneecaps. “Kitten, you don’t have to be afraid of me-”

        “Thanks, kidnapper.”

        “-because I won’t treat you like they did.” Your nostrils flare at this. He was talking about Bokuto and Akaashi; he had to be…. 

        Were they okay?

        “Are they…” you trail off and clear your throat. The skin of your thighs seemed very interesting at the moment. “... Did you hurt them?”

        “They don’t matter right now, Kitten.” 

        “Of course they do!” You rear back and narrow your eyes at him in an instant. “What did you do to them?!”

        “They abducted you and held you in a cage for months, YN!” Kuroo finally snaps, his teeth baring with his desperate tone. “I won’t treat you like they did.” Your speed didn’t matter. He still managed to snatch your hands in his and hold them in a death grip. Thumbs ran over your knuckles in what was hoped to be comforting, but actually ran a chill up your spine. “You’re not some prisoner to me.”

        His touch, it felt so wrong. Unlike the wizard, it wasn’t gentle and calming. Unlike the vampire, it wasn’t adoring and playful. It was… you didn’t know the word, but you did know it was just plain wrong. But his words… were they right? You mulled them over for a minute, but a million memories, emotions, feelings, they all crashed against his one argument in an overpowering wave. 

        “No,” you drop your face and set your jaw. “I wasn’t a prisoner to them.” 

        “Months, YN,” Kuroo sighs, “you sat in a cell for months.”

        “They had to!” 

        “Why?” His voice lowers and he gazes deep into your eyes. The intensity makes you shift and squeeze his hands subconsciously. 

        “I-I don’t-” you stutter for an answer, but come up empty. You’re at a loss. Lower lip trembling, your eyes dart around the room as you scour your brain for anything. They said they loved you. Cared for you. Would never hurt you. 

        So then why was I trapped in a cell like that? 

        Your eyelids lowered in defeat, and you let out a shaky sigh. 

        Kuroo was a smart man. He knew when a battle was won. 

        A small shuffle signals his movement, and the comforter under you dips with the weight of a second presence. Only one of your hands has been let go; the other has intertwined with his and adjusted to his change in position. You were cold and abandoned; your thoughts left you feeling cheated. 

        Why did they hold me in a cell like that? You were only a young college student. You couldn’t have harmed them. 

        But they were so kind yesterday! So loving and wonderful and-and….

        They were your soulmates. The mark on your wrist, on the wrist Kuroo brushed against, told you so. Every mental image of them left you feeling fuzzy and warm. 

        But thinking about how they had held you like that? They shouldn’t have treated me like that. If they loved me, that wouldn’t have treated me like that. Like an-

        “Like an animal.” Kuroo’s smug voice interrupts your downward spiral, but when he turns to face you, he is the spitting image of utter sincerity. A large palm cups your cheek, and in your scrambled state, you lean into it, yearning for some form of comfort. No matter how wrong it felt. 

        “YN,” he continues, “I saved you. You needed to be saved from them.” 

        No I didn’t. They were so kind and gentle with me. They never tried to hurt me on purpose, or lie to me. Everything they did, they did so they could keep me around. Because they-

        “I love you.” Kuroo himself seems surprised at the admission, but he gulps and keeps going. “I have loved you for centuries, and I would do anything to keep you safe.” His fingertips run along the side of your face and push a strand of hair behind your ear. His hazel orbs, round ponds akin to pure gold, are so enchanting. You find yourself lost, willingly. Because losing yourself in someone else felt a lot better than crumpling deep inside on your own, wondering if you ever should have fallen in love with them. 

        Was that how fragile the love between the three of you was? So easily undermined by a black cat with an arrogant smile? Of course not. 

        “No.” Your heart swelled up to your throat, and your eyes slipped down to the mark. The spiral of three arms. And not a single one of them were disconnected. The bond between you and the others was something that should never be underestimated. Akaashi had told you that. 

        “Excuse me?” Kuroo draws back, his hand hovering over your flushed cheek with surprise. 

        They loved you too. They would do anything to keep you safe too. You just had to trust them. Bokuto had told you that. 

        “They’re here,” you hissed, narrowing your eyes. “Bring me to them.”

        The cat’s gaze hardens, and the proud look falls from his face. “YN, I’ll let you leave the house. I won’t treat you like an animal. I won’t lock you away!” 

        “I don’t care!” you shout, snapping up on your feet and towering over him. “Show me where they are!”

        “No!”         “Why not?!”

        “Because you don’t need to see them!” He rises as well, and his more intimidating presence almost makes you falter. 

        Almost. Your gut tells you to not back down. To fight. 

        To find them.

        “Yes I do, Kuroo,” you snarl, standing your ground when he stomps a foot closer. Hot breaths puff against your face angrily, and you flare your nostrils in defense. 

        “Let them go, YN!”

        “No!”

        “Just give up on them!”

        “Never! Bring me to them!”

        The banter continues for a while. You won’t take no for an answer, and neither will he. Your face grows redder and redder as time passes, and Kuroo’s pupils slim into feline-like slivers. 

        Then finally, his patience slips. With four swift strides on his long legs, he makes his way to your bedroom exit, whipping open the door. 

        In one last turn of his head, he mutters three words that break your heart. 

        “I killed them.” 

                                ~~~

        Bokuto is a fighter. He stays headstrong in his ways, loves to the max, and never falters in his beliefs. You could always depend on him to cheer you up, or encourage you. On days where you felt down, he would always sit by your side on the sofa and watch a sappy sitcom with you. He is your sun.

        Or he was.

        Akaashi was almost the polar opposite. While he wasn’t the best to confide in for comfort, he was always willing to help. The wizard was selfless, almost like a mother. If you wanted to learn how to cook, he would oversee every move you made and provide small tips. He kept you safe when you were less than careful, and showed his love more through actions rather than words. He is your rock. 

        Or he was. 

        You didn’t truly know how much time had passed since Kuroo had broken the news. Much like when you had first met your soulmates, you felt trapped. The bed-headed man had given you free reign to the world. Your door was unlocked, and you could leave at any moment. But you didn’t. 

        No, instead you wallowed in self pity. What could have been would now never be. You didn’t want to believe it. Your gut told you so. But the fact was that Kuroo had spat those words with complete and utter hatred. Hatred… and honesty. An angry man will say anything to feel better about himself, but the next day, when Kuroo re-entered your room, he spoke a truth you couldn’t deny. 

        “What purpose would I have for keeping them alive?”

        Those words struck your heart worse than the first time you had to face his facts. Before, you could hold onto the small sliver of hope you had. He could’ve been lying through the pain. 

        But now? Now, there was no hope. 

        Poison coated your tongue. You didn’t want to eat, no matter how much your stomach begged. A constant ache settled in your chest. You didn’t know how to solve it, and you didn’t know how to move past it. Could you?

        Every hour that passed, you huddled deeper into your cocoon of self-deprecation. You shouldn’t have doubted them before. You should have loved them better before you lost them. You should have-

        “All right, YN. It’s time to stop moping.” Your door slammed open, and surprise surprise, in walked Kuroo. Under one arm, he lugged a pile of clothes. In the other, he balanced a tray of pancakes and other morning delicacies. The meal, no matter how ordinary, still made your eyes water.

        He plops the food right down on your lap just as you peek out and hiss, “You have no right to tell me what to do.” 

        “Don’t test me, Kitten.” A playful glint his eyes previously held darkens. The outfit in his grasp also falls onto the bed, directly on your toes. It’s the same kind of clothing you would wear to your college, scrambling around campus and fumbling with your homework. 

        That felt like so long ago. You had almost forgotten you lived a normal life. You used to be human. 

        “We’re going back to school!” The words leave you frozen in shock, and you snap your head up to face him.

        “What?! Why?!” Kuroo sniggers and pats the top of your head patronizingly.

        “You’ve missed so many assignments, Kitten. But don’t worry, I’ll catch you up. I was very attentive while you were away.”

                                ~~~

        It’s harsh to be thrown back into the real world after feeling like your own has broken apart. Nobody around you knew what you had been through. They didn’t know you’d loved. They didn’t know you’d lost. All they knew was that you were back and alive. 

        Your old, fellow students surround you like fans with a backstage pass. Someone even snapped a photo of you. 

        Well, of you and Kuroo. He hadn’t left your side once since popping into your “new” bedroom approximately forty minutes ago. You had always assumed both your soulmates and Kuroo had their mansions (rich bastards) miles and miles away from Tokyo, when in fact it was only about a ten-minute drive. They didn’t seem to be too worried about being found by the authorities any time soon. 

        Or, at least Kuroo didn’t. 

        The sheer volume of people around you was intimidating, and you couldn’t help but default into Kuroo’s form. Claustrophobia. Wonderful, just another perk from your kidnappings you couldn’t wait to test out in society. 

        So far, it was a trainwreck. 

        Your heart hadn’t stopped hurting, but the heat gathering around you made its pace quicken. Every chatter among the crowd pecked your ears, and you struggled to contain the occasional whimper. 

        A few faces you recognized among the group, but none that seemed to care about your well being. Instead, they were all excited. 

        “Where have you been?”

        “How was your vacation?”

        “Did you really leave with Mr. Akaashi and return with Kuroo? Ugh, slut.”

        The name leaves your mind in shambles. Not once had you heard it aloud since… well, you didn’t really know. But as soon as it fell from that girl’s… Sakura’s lips, you couldn’t think straight. 

        With one arm wound through Kuroo’s, you gripped his bicep harshly in warning. Get me out of here, your eyes pleaded. The black-haired man dropped his attention to you and nodded in understanding. 

        Sadly, his definition of escape was much different from yours. While you would’ve preferred his house or, if you could be picky, Paris, Kuroo was much more realistic. “Escape” was up twenty in-classroom steps and placed in your old seats. 

        As you settled down behind the desks, the cat stayed by your side, constantly brushing up against you when given the chance. You could breathe up here, but barely. The fluorescent lights buzzing in the ceiling grew less and less blurry, so you counted it as a small win for now. 

        In your seat, you laid out all the necessary tools for learning. Pencils, pens, scratch paper and a notebook, all neatly organized and generously provided by your new kidnapper haphazardly in a backpack just before stepping into the classroom. Their perfect placements felt like the only thing you could control right now, so you moved them around with trembling hands. 

        A smooth tune whistled behind you while you fondled your number two pencils. Then a heavy weight fell on your shoulders. Literally, of course. Kuroo’s hand massaged the skin of your upper arm, thankfully protected by thick sweatshirt material, and he grinned when you threw him a glare.

        “Don’t worry, darling, I’ll keep you safe.” 

        An involuntary gasp slips between your lips. No. No! How fucking dare he?! Without a second thought, you grab his bicep and rip his arm away from you, leaving a trail of red lines in your nails’ wakes. 

        “Don’t call me that.” All emotion has slipped from your face, but the tone in your voice speaks volumes. It’s hard and stiff and angry and loud. And he had no right to throw that shit in your face. 

        Your pupils hesitantly glance back at the outburst, but Kuroo is unfazed. His eyes flicker with something, but it’s gone before you can gather the will to identify it. 

        The classroom door opens and closes, and you suck in a breath at Akaashi’s substitute. He’s about ninety years young, wearing corduroy pants attached to suspenders that strap him into his crisp, button-down shirt. There’s not a wrinkle in sight, but every two minutes he pushes up his glasses and smacks his lips together. 

        “I think he’s just trying to keep in his dentures,” Kuroo whispers in your ear. 

        The old you would have snickered, maybe even added to it. You still could. After all, his lenses were thicker than you would ever be. But you couldn’t muster the energy to speak. 

        Because you just… you couldn’t stop picturing him up there. Back when you were just his student. You could’ve noticed his lasting glances, his gaze staying on you for just a second too long. The quirk of his lips anytime you finally found the courage to raise your hand, to answer his question. 

        Suddenly, your chair grows ten times stiffer. You can’t stop licking your cracked lips with your dry tongue. Your fists curl and uncurl against your tense thighs, and your knees bounce against the desktop. 

        It’s so hot in here. You feel like you’re on fire, but you don’t want to try and get out of the sweatshirt. You want to stay hidden. 

        If they were here, they would know what was happening. They would sense it, and they would help me.

        But they could never be there anymore. 

        Your breathing quickens and shakes. Sweat dribbles down your temple as an ache focuses directly behind your forehead. 

        Bokuto would notice right away, and give me a comforting hug. Akaashi would hold my hand, and not hesitate to take me home. 

        But they couldn’t save you right now. They were gone. 

        Oh God.

        Oh God.

        They’re gone. 

        You can feel sweat festering everywhere. Even your palms clam up enough to secrete liquid. Is that even normal?

        Kuroo relaxes in the seat next to you. The occasional pink bubble appears between his lips and pops noisily before chomping back into his mouth. His eyes are dull and bored as he zones out. 

        Your own are locked on the front of the classroom, twitching and darting around. 

        He should be up there. They should be by my side. But they aren’t. They’re gone. 

        You can’t stand it. You needed to get out of there. In a dead panic, you snatch up all the utensils on your desk, scaring the life out of the cat beside you. The scrambling is quiet enough to leave the rest of the students undisturbed, but Kuroo snaps straight up and hovers his hands over your frantic arms. 

        “Are you okay?”

        Your cheeks feel green, and your throat seizes up. After everything seems to be carelessly crammed into the small backpack, you finally take one deep breath and zip it closed. Then you turn to face him with begging eyes. “Please take me home.”

        You weren’t prepared for this. You weren’t ready to be shoved back into the outside world. Just five days ago, you were happy and in love. And now, you were broken and in pain. 

        Kuroo complies with ease, his eyes glowing in delight. “Anything for you.”

        His response accompanies a smirk, something you would never hope to see in your state. It’s devious and cruel, and you feel tortured like a plaything. The words themselves break your heart. You wished they were in another voice, falling from another’s lips. 

        But they weren’t.

                                ~~~

        Kuroo has no chance to get another word in as you aimlessly sprint to your room. You just barely remember your way back from this morning, but after twenty minutes of a headless chicken imitation, you finally find your way. 

        The room is colder and emptier than you remember somehow, and its unfamiliarity breaks your walls. Tears trail down your cheeks as the door clicks to a close behind you. With stumbling footsteps, you kick off your tennis shoes and crawl into the bed, falling into a restless sleep.

        At some point in your forced nap, Kuroo tries to shake you awake, but you clench your eyes shut and bite your lip, feigning unconsciousness. After a few more pointless attempts, he leaves and allows you some alone time with a sigh, but not before a clang signals he’s left you something on your coffee table. You ignore it.

        After lying motionless for hours on your colder mattress, you give up on your dreamless sleep. By now, the sky outside your window is pitch black and sprinkled with minuscule circles of pure white. Your cheeks are stiff and the corners of your eyes are crusty from your breakdown. 

        Hesitantly, you wipe the remnants of sleep away from your eyes before worming your way out of bed. Your muscles are sore, and your clothing feels disgusting, doused in dried sweat. On wobbling knees, you clamber off the mattress and scuff your feet against the floor until you find it. Your toes make contact with a light pile of silk, and in a last ditch effort to keep them alive, you change back into Akaashi and Bokuto’s provided nightgown. 

        A wave of calm washes over you, its familiarity leaving you comforted and reassured. You squint your eyes and allow them to adjust to the darkness of your room. There, on the coffee table, is what you assume was Kuroo’s gift. Dinner. 

        A plate with cold, steamed broccoli and a grilled cheese sandwich. 

        “Wow, they really go all out here,” you mumble bitterly. Slumping onto the carpeted floor, your thighs raise goosebumps at the shift in temperature as you pick through your meal, chewing and swallowing thoughtfully. 

        You seem to have lost all self-control at this point. Not even two seconds later, tears cloud your eyes. You couldn’t help but think about them. 

        I wonder if they’re-

        Your heart thumps in your chest harshly, startling you. It speeds up for no apparent reason, even as you search through the dark for anything that might have scared, well, your body. 

        Then it hits you. This must be what happens when soulmates die. 

        The thought hammers in the final nail in your coffin of grief. More tears, just when you thought you ran out, trace paths of anguish down your face. Then your heart thumps again, almost shifting your whole weight forward. 

        What the hell?

        The pumps grow harder and harder, each more powerful than the last as you jolt forward, dropping your food and pushing up to your feet. 

        Your heart. It’s pleading with you to move. To do something.

        All you can do is follow as it smacks frantically against your rib cage. It doesn’t hurt, but as you move in the direction of your door, a rush of fuzzy feelings flow through your body in response. 

        When you place your hand on the knob, it beats encouragingly, directing you out into the silent hall. Not a sound can be heard as you play a game of hot and cold with your body. There is no drawback, only rewards in the form of pure jubilation setting your body aflame. Tiptoeing down the hall, you follow the excitement, padding your bare feet against the hardwood floor as softly and swiftly as you can. 

        You hold your breath and let it out in small streams through your stuffy nostrils, knowing that even the smallest noise could awaken the hypersensitive werecats around you. The halls are much more bare than Akaashi and Bokuto’s, and you're thankful that there are no vases to stub your toe against this round.

        The irregular bursts of elation lead you down a banister of marble stairs, past the large front entrance, and through a dark, forgotten hallway you had never seen before on your two adventures throughout Kuroo’s home. There is only one door, and it’s at the immediate end of the dusty corridor. While gnawing on your bottom lip, you creep closer and closer, finally reaching it with a relieved sigh as one large wave of endorphins hits you like a freight train. 

        In here.

        Past the rusty door is another staircase, leading deep into the basement of the mansion. The walls are covered in unidentifiable gunk, and you try not to gag as a slimy feeling brushes your forearm on the railing. The smell is less than desirable, almost akin to rotting meat, but your heart doesn’t want you to stop anytime soon. Finally, finally, you come to one final door at the bottom of the stairs. 

        Pushing past its splintered wood, you slip inside and involuntarily smile as a wave of pure joy wracks through your body. The room is large and freezing cold, with concrete floors and red brick walls. The light of the moon shines through a single window directly across from you, split in half by a row of metal bars. 

        There’s two cells, empty only for two hunched over forms. One breathes out visible clouds of air while leaning against the wall, asleep on the musty floor. In the other cell, a body with wild hair is curled into a ball, hugging its stomach and letting out the occasional whimper. The sight was the definition of miserable, but your heart loves it nonetheless. It rewards you for winning the treasure hunt with one heavy surge of euphoria, leaving you breathless and holding back a squeal. 

       Bokuto and Akaashi. They were alive.

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hii is the taglist for reborn open? if yes can i please be added to it? thank youuu 🥰

Yep, you’ll definitely be tagged in the next chapter!💜

Coucou😁, J'ai vraiment adorée la fic sur l'omegaverse avec bakugo "The hunt Moon" pourrait il y avoir une partie 2 pleeeaaaseee🙏🙏🙏

I'm glad you liked it! a second part is definitely being considered, especially considering how many people have requested it, but like i've said before i just have no clue where to go with it :(

omg wait what if i just write some headcanons in that universe anybody up for that holy shit big brain