Call Of Duty X Reader - Blog Posts

𝕶𝖎𝖑𝖌𝖔𝖗𝖊 𝕶ö𝖓𝖎𝖌 | 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖂𝖆𝖙𝖈𝖍 𝕯𝖔𝖌

Call of Duty | The Watch Dog | The Addams Family AU

·.¸¸.·♩♪♫ 𝕬ᥣᥱ᥊ᥲᥒძrіᥒᥲ — 𝕭ᥣᥲᥴk 𝕸ᥲgіᥴ ♫♪♩·.¸¸.·

₊˚🕯️♱‧₊˚. 𝐅υᥣᥣ 𝐒ρⱺ𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗒 𝐏ᥣα𝗒ᥣ𝗂𝗌𝗍 𓂃 ࣪˖𓉸ִֶָྀི ִֶָ་༘࿐

Sometimes you catch the eye of a dangerous man. Other times you're the one pursuing the danger.

What happens when said danger is an Eldritch monster, honorary uncle of the Addams, and much too tired with his existence to even consider entertaining your interest?

.𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𝔉𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔥𝔦𝔪 𝔬𝔫 𝔍𝔞𝔫𝔦𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔄ℑ

Here's my first contribution to the CoD bot pool! Decided to play around with some ideas for the upcoming Halloween season — and this came out. Warning: he's a daddy Eldritch man and sees no problem in devouring humans that piss off the Addams. Additionally, I'm not sure how unhinged the LLM will get with the universe, so proceed with caution. If people are interested, I can add the other Call of Duty men to this AU as well. Secondary warning: long intro and token-heavy character.

Made for my friend, Lewis.

| Concept Art |

Banners by @sweetmelodygraphics on Tumblr.

Love how they didn't make it sexual with rape, only consent and asking.💕

Idk how to work tumblr sorry, is this how you do requests? ☠️ IDEK IF YOUR TAKING REQUESTS IM SORRY. If you are tho could you pls do something along the lines of virgin fem Reader x König where Kö helps yn explore her body and figure out what feels good cuz she has no clue how sex works. PRETTY PLS SORRY IF YOURE BOT TAKING REQUESTS RN LIKE I SAID I HAVE 0 CLUE HOW TO WORK THIS APP TYSM 🫶🫶

let me help you | Konig

summary: request

warnings: oral(f!recieving), fingering, size kink, missionary , after care, lovey dovey Konig and totally no desperate Konig towards the end. like at all. oh and maybe some tummy bulge action

you were a christian, church raised girl. never once had a boyfriend. never went to parties. never kissed a boy. your parents were distraught when you ran away at 18. well, “ran away”. you saved since you were 16 for your own loft in the city and moved away without notice. changed your number and privated all socials. since then, you’ve been living yohr best life. so much so, you even managed to find a boyfriend.

tall man you met randomly at a bus stop coming back from your morning shift. he was going to his night shift. you had dropped your wallet grabbing your phone from your pocket and he saw it, quickly grabbing it and calling out for yoh. “your wallet. it fell back there.” he said, looking down at you.

he had a thick German accent, beautiful eyes and and well kept hair. and of course. he was insanely bigger than you. “thank you.” yoh would blush, quickly grabbing the wallet. not much was said after that, but instead you saw each other every day catching the bus.

finally, after seeing you everyday for a week, he finally went up to you this time for your number. and that following weekend you both were on a date, clicking almost immediately. and it only took him a three weeks to ask you, “can I be your boyfriend?”

you both have been together for 9 months now and it’s been the best 9 months of your life. he was caring, giving and gentle with you. he was your superman whenever you needed him to be. and he showed you the most amount of love you’d ever received.

one of the most important attributes he has is patience. you know Konigs been horny. sometimes you’ll wake up from a nap, hearing Konigs whimpers from the bathroom. it made you feel bad for not giving him sex the first couple months like most couples. but he never pushed you, never made you feel bad for it. “i understand mien herzchen. i’ll wait forever for you.” he comforted you one night when you confronted about your anxiety.

apart of the reason you hadn’t given him yoh was you were scared. scared of the pain, getting pregnant or diseases. you were raised with such a negative view of sex, the city and social media helped in changing your views yes, but you were still concerned of some of those things were true aboht sex.

the second was because yoh knew nothing about pleasuring someone. you didn’t even know how to pleasure yourself. you had tried before of course. but you didn’t know what you were doing. something he felt good, like when you would shift side to side on the couch you couldn’t help but let out a small whimper. you’ve felt the warmth in the pit of your stomach before, especially when you’d hear Konig at night or when he kissed you or even looked at you. you’ve gotten soaked before but you had no clue on what you were doing. so how could you pleasure Konig?

but tonight you put your big girl panties on and made your way to the drug store, looking for the pill. the morning after pill. Konig had no idea. he had no idea you’d been looking up things for sex. toys, positions. what usually feels good what usually hurts. you spend the last week studying up on sex and now you were ready.

when you got home, Konig was on the bed, watching whatever was on when you left. “hello libe. was your walk good?” he asked, sitting up with a smile on his face. you nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat as you placed the bag on the bed. “uhm.. look. inside.” yoh said softly, looking back and forth between him and the flimsy bag.

“did you get me a gift?” he asked, grabbing the bag in his large hands and opening it. his smile fell, a more confused look on his face. when he looked up, you clenched your jaw before speaking. “i uh.. have been looking up these things. i was curious. but now i think i’m ready.” yoh said, clasping your hands in front of you.

for a bit Konig was silent, the bag still in his hands before humming. “are you sure libe.. this isn’t because you feel rushed or or guilty or-“ “no. i swear i-i’m ready.” you nodded.

it was silent for a moment before Konig gave you a smile, reaching over and pulling you into him. he gripped the backs of your thighs, pulling them to plop you on his lap, your legs straddling either side of him. his hands cupped the side of your face, looking at your lips before your eyes.

“i’ll go slow. promise me you’ll tell me if you get uncomfortable. or something doesn’t feel good and what does feel good.” he said, looking into your eyes. your cheeks were blushed but you nodded, giving a quiet “okay”.

he smiled before pulling your face into his, your lips moving slowly against each other. his tongue slid into your mouth, moaning softly into you. it didn’t take long for your pussy to start pounding, the familiar feeling in your stomach coming back. below, you felt the hardness of his dick press against your cunt, earning a small whimper.

he pulled away, going right for your neck. he kissed the soft skin before pressing his tongue flat, sucking your skin gently into his mouth. this earned another whimper from you, this time louder than the first. yoh instinctively put your hand over your mouth, embarrassed.

“no libe move your hand.” he said softly, pulling away from your neck. “did that feel good?” he asked, pulling your hand down from your mouth. you nodded, getting nervous and looking away quickly. “use your words. i need to know for real you liked it.” he smiled. “i-i liked it.” you nodded again, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth.

he smirked and shifted, grabbing your hips. “i’m gonna lay you down. is that okay?” he asked. another ‘yes’. he moved quick, laying yoh on the bed and following after, spreading your legs to lay between them. “may i?” he asked again, tugging the bottom of your shirt. you nodded. he continued this pattern, asking and doing until you were fully naked beneath him.

his breath hitched as his eyes scanned down your naked body. “w-what?” yoh asked, shifting to close your legs and cover your upper half. but he was quick to push your legs back open, eyes meeting yours. “i cant look at you beautiful?” he asked softly, giving you a small smile.

his hands massaged your thighs as he leaned down, pecking your lips before going further down to your neck. this time, he was a bit more rough. you felt his teeth nibble gently at your skin, his tongue running over the spot he but down on. naturally, your hands found his hair and you clung to it. this earned a soft groan from him.

“you like when i bite down on your skin like this libe?” he whispered, his hands moving further and further up your legs. your heart began to pound in your chest and you grew a bit nervous of where Konigs hands were going. and he could tell as soon as your breaths began to pick up.

he stopped his hands and the biting on your neck, lifting his head. “am i going to fast?” he asked, looking down to your eyes. “n-no not at all. you can keep going.” you smiled, grabbing his wrists and moving them. but he obviously was able to halt his wrist easily. “tell me libe. i can go slower. or or talk to yoh more to relax you. anything.” he said, shifting himself.

instead of calmness, anxiety and guilt washed over you. you felt like you were asking of too much. “libe.” he called to you, lifting your chin. “i-i’m just really.. nervous.” you said, “but i trust you. i’ve just.. never done this before.” you finished, looking down to his chest.

he was silent for a moment before speaking again. “tell me what you want me to do.” he said, letting your legs go. “where you want me to touch or feel. we’ll go at your pace.” he said, smiling down at you.

a small smile crept to your face, feeling a bit more relaxed. your heart slowed, but anxiety was still very much an emotion you were tackling. but you were ready for this. and you couldn’t have asked for a better person to do it with.

“i-i wanna know what it’s like to.. to get eaten out.” you said, not daring to look him in his eyes. a chuckle came from above, followed with a “you don’t even have to ask for that one mien libe.”

Konig began to shuffle, moving to lay on his stomach. his hands gripped either of your thighs, an excited smile on his lips. “your skin is so soft..” he said softly, pressing his lips to your skin. he continued this, moving up your inner thighs until he got to your pussy.

he moaned quietly, his bottom lip tugging between his teeth. “and your pussy is so pretty.” he smiled. again, your heart began to pound. “may i try something?” he asked, following with another kiss to your inner thigh. quickly you nodded, the feeling of need beginning to trump the anxiety.

he shifted once more, his arms looping under your thighs. “i’m gonna rub your clit for a bit. is that okay?” he asked gently. you nodded quickly again. “your words libe.” he said, his thumb beginning to dance around your pussy. “yes. please.” you blurted out, barely allowing him to finish his sentence. with a chuckle, he pressed his thumb against your clit.

your hips jerked back slightly, a small gasp leaving your lips. slowly, he moved his thumb against your clit, moaning as your juices coating his thumb. "does my libe feel good when I rub her swollen clit like this?" he cooed, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh.

you on the other hand were speechless, your mouth hung open slightly. your hips bucked up occasionally, your clit throbbing against his thumb. "y-yes I love it." you moaned out, your head falling back on the pillow. but you couldn't rest too long.

"gonna taste you now. cant wait." he groaned before smashing his lips to your pussy, replacing his thumb. naturally, a gasp left your lips as he sucked your clit into his mouth softly. "o-oh my.. God." you whimpered, fingers digging into the mattress.

his tongue pressed flat against your pussy, slowly licking up your slit. when he got to your clit, he moved his tongue in small circles, finally looking up to see your hand slapped over your mouth. so he stopped.

"well that's no fun." he huffed, reaching up to force your hand off your mouth. you knew that yes, making noise during sex was normal and a turn on for most men. but you were worried you'd overdo it and eventually turn Konig off. but nothing about you in this moment, unless it was something drastic, could turn Konig off. "I wanna hear how good im making you feel schatz." he said, smiling up at you before dipping his head right back down.

this time, you felt his tongue slowly slide into your cunt, earning a gasp in response. another new feeling. he moved it in and out slowly, coating as much of his tongue he could in your juices. you whimpered out, your head falling onto the pillow. you tried to keep your hands off from your mouth, so you decided to act upon something you had read previously. gripping his hair.

this was something Konig obviously liked very much because he groaned into your pussy as soon as he felt your hands in his hair. his tongue prodded at your spongy spot earning louder, more desperate moans from you. "k-keep doing.. that. please." you whined, bucking your hips back into his face so his tongue would abuse the same spot.

he chuckled, pulling away from your pussy to spread your lips apart before going right back into your cunt. "how about.. I try something new?" he said into your pussy, kissing your clit before pulling away. you whined at the lost sensation but nodded, only caring in this moment about him eating you out again. "im gonna add a finger. get you ready for me a bit more okay?" he said, maintaining eye contact with you. when you gave him the okay, he slid one finger in slowly, humming at the sound of your pussy.

"your so wet schatz.. I don't know if I can wait any longer to be inside you." he said, watching how shiny his finger got when he slid it back out of you. you watched as his finger disappeared, grunting at the feeling of your walls being stretched. his fingers by far were a lot bigger than yours. and while yes you've managed to figure out you can put your fingers inside, it was way different when it was someone else doing it. someone who had longer, thicker fingers.

what you especially liked was when he moved his finger up and down, hitting the same spot his tongue was a few moments ago. "s-shit Koni." you whimpered, throwing your head back onto the pillow. he moved his finger slowly, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth. he was entranced by how sloppy your pussy was getting for him. "can I add another libe?" he whispered softly, not even bothering to make eye contact with you. "please." you whimpered, squeezing your eyes shut as he was already sliding another in.

it was a new feeling, being stretched out. having something.. well inside you. it was uncomfortable at first, but he talked you through all of it. "that's it libe, taking my fingers so good aren't you?" he cooed, kissing your thighs as he moved his fingers in and out of you a bit faster. you nodded quickly, your toes curling around the sheets. "c-can you go faster?" you choked out, lifting your head to meet his eyes. he smiled, pressing one last kiss to your thighs. "anything for you libe."

his fingers moved slightly faster, finger tips digging deeper into you. your mouth fell ajar, feeling your lower stomach begin to turn. "fuck libe you're clenching around my fingers. are you close?" he asked, shifting to move closer up to your face. you assumed yes. you felt something very new in the pit of your stomach. and whatever it was was approaching fast. so you nodded your head quickly, your ands finding his forearms to grip them.

"go ahead then libe cum around my fingers. you can do it." he whispered, leaning down to your bare chest. he caught a nipple into his mouth, sucking on it gently. the double stimulation pushed you towards the edge. but you got nervous. was this actually what an orgasm was supposed to feel like? "K-Konig it feels weird." you whined out almost inaudibly, trying to push away his arm. he released your nipple with a pop, looking into your eyes. "its okay libe just let it go. I got you." he said gently.

his finger went back to abusing your spongy spot and that alone was enough to finally push you over the edge. "o-oh God~" you whined out as your legs began to shake, your hands grasping onto his arm tighter. "thats it libe let it go.. let it all go." he cooed, watching as his fingers coated white with your cum.

your stomach was doing somersaults, your cunt spaziming around his fingers as they moved slower and slower. your chest rose and fell rapidly, your eyes fluttering closed. as soon as you began to realize how loud you just were, your cheeks turned a bright red.

"what?" he asked, picking up on your silence. his fingers finally slid out of your cunt, the feeling of emptiness taking over you. "I am.. embarrassed. I was so loud.." you admitted, grabbing a pillow to cover your face. as you did so, you heard Konig shuffling above you, his pants dropping to the floor.

"well..", he stripped the pillow away from you, meeting you with a bright smile, "you only gonna louder libe."

he tossed the pillow to the side before grabbing your under thighs, moving you closer into him. you shuffled to sit up, propping yourself on your elbows. "oh.." you accidentally said aloud. you had finally taken in his size, realizing how big he was. and it intimidated you. but he picked up on that very quickly.

"it will hurt just for a bit. like getting a shot." he said, leaning to press kiss to your forehead. "I promise it is gonna feel good." he said. you trusted him obviously. he was the one with experience after all. so you nodded and laid back down, swallowing the lump in your throat.

you felt him moving the tip of him up and dow, soft grunts coming from him. "you hear how wet you are for me libe? I think your ready." he said, smiling down to you. you felt ready. more horny than you were nervous. "please." you said softly, bucking your hips up once more.

König huffed, gripping your thighs to pull you closer to him. "take my hand, squeeze as hard as you want. and tell me if you wanna stop at any point. okay?" he said, sliding his fingers between yours. you nodded, gripping his hand. "your word, maus." he said again. "yes.. I promise."

he pressed a kiss to your forehead, whispering a soft "I love you" before taking his other hand, gripping his base and pressing it against your hole. "ill push in just a bit.. and then when you get used to the feeling ill move more." he said, looking dow at your cunt.

slowly, he pushed inside of you, his mouth falling ope slightly as a soft breath came from him. your eyes squeezed shut, finger nail digging into his knuckles. he was right, it hurt. horribly. and it was only the tip.

he kept to his word, stopping once the tip was in. "h..how do you feel?" he asked, looking at your tensed body. but all you could do was give him a small nod, trying to get used to the feeling of you being stretched out. "take as much time as you need." he said softly, kissing your cheek, moving down to your neck.

his other hand moved to your breast, trying to get your mind off the feeling of his length inside you. and it helped. your body relaxed slowly, your nails removing themselves from your boyfriends skin. "can I go a bit more?" he asked. you gave him a yes, opening your eyes. you looked down, trying to see how much left he had to push in.

he slid out his tip before pushing back into you, stopping as soon as your nails dug into him. he kept doing this, kissing you through it all, praising you and telling you how good you were doing for him. how pretty you looked. and when he was finally all the way in, you were already worn out.

"dont tap out now libe.." he chuckled, as his pelvis pushed against yours, bottoming out inside you. his knuckles were marked up with your nails, your own knuckles sore and white from how tight you were clutching to him. "its... a lot." you whimpered, looking down to see all of him had disappeared inside you. his face turned a bright red, a small chuckle leaving him. "well thank you.. are you okay if I start moving?" he asked, his hand still in yours. and when you gave him a small yes, he pulled out slightly before pushing himself back in.

your head laid back on the pillow, your eyes squeezing shut as you got used to the feeling. he moved slow, watching your body to make sure you were okay. your fingers dug into his knuckles again, but this time in a sense of pleasure. small whimpers slipped past you as he pulled out more, pushing back into you.

"talk to me libe.. how are you.. feeling." Konig asked, his eyes trailing from yours to where your bodies connected. he wasn't going any faster, though he wanted so desperately to pound into you. your cunt wrapped around him tightly, sucking him back in with each thrust. "g-good.. can you go faster?" you asked, followed by a soft whimper. he nodded quickly, his free hand finding your hip as he moved his hips faster against yours.

your eyes squeezed shut, the pleasure taking over your lower half. your whimpers grew louder and out of embarrassment, your own free hand slapped over your mouth again. but Konig grunted, taking that hand in his other. "what did I say libe? I want to hear you." he demanded, his eyes locking to yours. you hadn't realized it, but your cunt clenched around him, finding it sexy how dominant he had suddenly became.

his head fell, going back to watch himself slide in and out of you. "fuck you're so wet.. just for me hm?" he asked, gripping onto your hands. his hips slowly picked up, deep moans coming from him. he loved watching how shiny his cock was as it slid out of you, listening to it talk back to him as he pushed back inside. the sound of your slick making him throb inside of you. the sound of his balls slapping against your lower arse.

his tip began to abuse right at your womb, causing you to cry out in a mix of pleasure but also pain. so his hips slowed down as he panted above you. "sorry libe.. your pussy is just so fucking wet." he chuckled, finding a small pleasure in your pained face.

his hips continued, slowing making sure to control himself. he let go of one of your hands, sliding it down your body to your puffy clit, rubbing it to match his thrust. your body reacted well to that, hips subconsciously bucking up. he chuckled, watching as your body squirmed beneath him. "feels good?" he asked, moving his eyes down to your cunt.

he doesn't know how he hadn't realized it before, but your lower half had a small bulge every time he pushed back into you. he hadn't even realized you responded to his question, his eyes locked onto how his cock filled you up, almost too much. "oh libe.." he whimpered softly, his hips again moving quicker against yours.

he couldnt help it, you were so sexy to him. he was fighting the urge to completely fuck you senseless, fighting the urge to grip your throat and fuck into you deeper, pushing your legs up to your head and hearing you cry out to him about how it was too much.

you had realized how his hips moved quicker, but it felt more pleasurable than it hurt this time. "f-feels so good Koni." you whimpered, your free hand gripping the sheets beside you. for some reason, the nickname made him more desperate for you, a whimper slipping past his lips. "fuck maus" he groaned, feeling himself already getting close.

he looked up at you, watching as your boobs bounced up and down with each of his thrusts. everything about you, your face, body whimpers was all too much for him. he was growing so desperate for you. it was a new feeling for him. of course he'd had sex before. it was an obvious fact he stated when you both began to get a bit more serious. but, the wait for this to happen, the tension and small discussions leading up to this made it so much better for not only him. but for you as well.

he was so lost in his own pleasure he hadn't felt his dick twitching inside you, the lot in his lower stomach forming quickly. it didn't help how your pussy gushed and spasmed around him, his own pelvis slowly becoming wet with your slick. "m-maus I wanna fill you.. up. you gonna let me fill this pussy up?" he panted, one of his hands gripping your chin to force you to look up at him.

"y-yes please.. please Koni." you whimpered, maintaining eye contact with him the entire time. inside you, his cock twitched again, a breathy whimper leaving his lips. "fuck y-your gonna drive me crazy." he groaned, his head dropping to your neck.

his tip continued its abuse on your womb, your legs shaking on either side of him as that familiar knot came back. your nails dug into his shoulders now, crying out for him as that pleasure grew closer and closer. "cum with me libe. fuck I wanna f-feel you pulse around m-me." he moaned, pulling your lower half closer up into him.

your eyes crossed, jaw gone slack. the words, praises and soft 'I love you's' were so quiet compared to how loud you were being for him. and he fucking loved it. "I-im cumming libe.. o-oh fuck" his head lifted from your neck, eyes immediately going to your rolled back ones. your face alone made him shoot into you, your pussy pulsing around his already sensitive cock.

"I-it's gonna come... Konig~" you cried out as your legs violently shook beside him. his thumb moved quick to your clit, helping you ride out your orgasm as he breathed heavily above you, watching your body tremble for him. "s-such a good.. good girl. just for me." he breathed out softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

slowly, he pulled himself out of you, watching as his cum and yours drip from you and onto the sheets. if he wasn't so worn out, and it wasn't your first time, he'd slip his cock right back into you, collecting all the cum to push right back into you. so instead, he looked up at you to see your eyes already shut closed, your breathing soft and slow.

a small smile came to his face, taking your limp arm and pressing a kiss to your hand. "libe.. come on. at least go pee first. ill clean up the mess." he said, shaking you softly. but of course, you hadn't woken up fully. so for the rest of that night Konig did everything for you and when you were finally cleaned up fully, he would watch you as your eyes closed for the last time.

yay another request out.

This is a must have \(^ヮ^)/\(^ヮ^)/(✿ ♥‿♥)(✿ ♥‿♥)

lovingly dominant

capt. john price

tags: smut/pwp, age gap (20s/30s), size difference/kink, dom/sub dynamic, bdsm au, virgin!reader, light bdsm, praise (kink)

a/n: in a surprising twist, bunny has written call of duty again!! expect more cod stuff into december when the f1 season is over and it stops eating my brain <3

john price considered himself a little old fashioned. he thought it was better to have his birdie of the week on her back and rut into her until they both finished. he had no need for whips, chains, collars, and whatever else the world of bdsm had to offer.

but after so many missions and so many years, the pollution of combat bled into his sexual desires. he craved for control, near domination of his birdie. yes, they looked cute on their backs and their soft noises. but it looked far more appealing to keep her blindfolded, second guessing what was being done to her while price's filthy words spilled across her brain like wine on a white carpet. tainting her. tainting you.

most dominants loved a trained submissive. loved that they knew the ins and outs of the dynamic, tinkering to their liking. price on the other hand had a thing for over eager virgins. ones who got all their bdsm know-how from horribly written fan fiction. he liked to teach and guide, he liked to shape his submissive into the perfect image of what could be.

and when he met you, oh, well something else came up. an unwavering possessive need. price tried to not get possessive, this was all just a little game for sexual pleasure. but when he found out his little trainee worked at a flower shop, it was all over for him. it was only doubled down when you had your first meeting at a coffee shop and you got the most delicious looking slice of strawberry shortcake.

the cream on the corner of your mouth almost made john price lose resolve. instead he covered up with a cough before you asked, "do you want some, mister price." and who was john price to deny such a lovely girl her offer. you even fed it to him, a glimmer in your eye and gentle smile.

"it's lovely, baby girl." he said before he wiped a bit of the cream off his beard which made you giggle. that giggle seared into his brain and he knew that you weren't getting with any other man.

you met at his flat a few weeks later, and you were eager. price liked that. sex was only half as fun when the person he was fucking was almost having a good time. you came over in a big sweatshirt and jeans that were a little baggy, something that covered up. it made price curious as to what was hiding underneath.

"look beautiful, birdie." he said as he guided you inside and you got your sneakers off. you looked over at him to help you through the flat. you held onto him a little nervous, the only familiar thing in the place. price held you by the middle and let you press your face up against his strong chest.

he was in a flannel with a white undershirt and jeans. you could see the gold chain around his throat and the heavy chest hair. you had seen him naked from photos shared and he had seen you naked, but to feel it up close left a shiver of excitement through you. he leaned down and kissed you on the top of your head as he led you to the bedroom.

he said, "afterwards, i'll make ya some dinner. not the best chef, but, i can cook ya somethin' to replenish the energy you spent fucking me." he then ruffled your hair, which made your heart leap and he got you onto the bed.

you nodded meekly, you looked so small. so innocent. a girl like you should be on dated with finance guys or even the artsy kind. not a weathered, older military man like him. but even things in smaller packages can be surprising, just like when you took off your clothes and revealed a matching set of bra and panties. a soft grey colour with pastel yellow accents. it made price have to adjust himself in his jeans.

"ah, pretty girl got a surprise for me. how sweet?"

you nodded, "i wanted to make tonight special. good luck for a long... dynamic between us. so, you don't get rid of me if i suck." and soon you were in price's embrace while you still sat on the bed. your cheek pressed hard against his soft but firm middle.

he petted your head a little and said, "ah, don't worry, petal. even if you do bad tonight, i got every intention of trainin' ya. make you the perfect girl." the words spoken hit right to your core and when he pulled away long enough to strip down, you felt your eyes go wide for a moment.

a photo couldn't capture every inch of john price's skin. the scars, the tattoos, the hair, the muscle, the fat. he was like a big brown bear and it made you soaked. you shifted a little in your spot on the bed and rubbed your thighs together in anticipation. it was surprising that you were still a virgin, but you always chickened out. now as an adult, you wanted to just get it over with. but, you wanted to have fun. and why not have fun with a well experienced dom who wouldn't half-ass your first time. it didn't hurt that he had the kind of looks that would make any man with half a brain jealous.

"i hope i meet expectations." he chuckled as he put his hands on his hips. his cock stood at full attention and you swallowed. there was something so masculine about him, but not in a toxic way. he played with your hair once more before he patted your cheek, "no need to gawk, petal. i'm not goin' anywhere." and you swallowed. he chuckled before he got into bed with you and slowly unwrapped you of your lingerie like delicate christmas paper.

he hadn't been this excited to upwrap something since he got the toy firetruck as a kid. but in total fairness, you were hotter than any fire red truck. his hands grazed across your body with total tenderness and his hungry blue eyes gazed the skin.

the stretch marks, the moles, your own scarring. you were beautiful in ways that price couldn't describe. to compare you to something would be unfair to the thing being compared to your beauty. he took you by the wrist and kissed the center of it.

"this is a promise, petal. for as long as you keep me as your dominant and you my submissive, i with cherish you, adore you, and most of all. make sure that you cum over and over again." before he kissed you on the lips and got you onto your back. he admired you, "usually i like to take pretty things on their hands and knees. but, tonight's gotta be special, right, doll?"

you nodded.

he tapped your nose and said, "ah, ah, ah. that won't cut it. the words are 'yes, sir', got it? would hate to bruise that little behind during our first time."

you found your voice and said, "yes, sir." and was met with a rough pat on the cheek before price pulled away to rest on his knees to fuck you with just right. you felt heat course through your body as you took in the sight of him. burly, large from top to bottom.

course dark hair on his body, a little heft in his middle (but who didn't love that), a sparkle in his blue eyes, and hands large enough to break things between the digits. he admired you in return and said softly, "pretty little petal, yeah? ah, who let ya be so beautiful?" he chuckled as he rubbed his cock up against your slick sex, "i got so much to teach ya. how to tie ya up, how to gag ya properly. mmm, we'll have so much fun." he then pulled away to grab a condom from the nightstand. he held up the silver foil to you and said, "rule one, play safe or don't play at all."

you nodded and remembered to reply, "yes, sir."

price gave you a smile that lit you up and said, "good girl." then quickly got the condom on. he admired your soaked sex for a moment longer, "she achin' for me, huh? cute." then slowly, almost agonizingly, he inched into you and felt the spread of warmth through his body.

heaven was created with your pussy in mind. price was never a quick finisher, but he almost finished inside of you when he managed to get all of himself inside of you. he kept eyes and ears open, the type of examining done in his line of work, to make sure that you weren't in too much pain.

"ya alright?"

you nodded and swallowed.

price added, "baby girl. words." and then nodded his head when you replied that everything was okay, he nodded and said, "roger that." which made you pussy clench. a smile spread across price's face as he leaned forward. he captured your hands in his and pressed them to the bed under you. he chuckled lowly, "ah, someone likes a military man? a man in uniform gets ya goin'?" he kissed your pulse point, "ah, too cute, petal. i guess seeing that on my description didn't scare ya off." he rocked against you, "know it's a crime to mess up a man's uniform."

you swallowed, "sir. fuck." and felt the strike of heat through your body. you had to admit, you had seen a few photos of him in uniform. the beret, boots and all. and it made something turn in your stomach. only added an appeal to him that made you hot.

price replied, "i guess it worked out. because i like cute little civilians who are more than eager to make me feel good. doin' your civic duty makin' me cum, baby girl." these was a tension in his voice that made you heart hammer and your throat feel tight. the bed squeaked a little under the both of you as he continued his movements. he knew he was going to have an amazing time with you.

you whined, "please, sir."

"tell me. tell me what ya like about it? what gets my baby girl goin'? i gotta know, because maybe i can get somethin' together that'll rock your world." his words were hot and your cunt fluttered around his achy, hard cock. for a moment he was uncertain if you were actually a virgin, you took him so well.

you moaned when you felt a spark of pleasure in your core, your entire life had just been your hands and an assortment of toys. but to have price work your body beautifully was something else. you replied sweetly, "i... i want to thigh ride you in uniform." you felt a flush of embarrassment.

he chuckled, "oh that would be quite the sight, huh?" he continued to move against you beautifully, "i bet that i could make ya cum just from my thighs. rub your cunt all over it, messin' up the fabric. higher-ups will be wonderin' about the pussy stains all over the fabric. maybe if i'm lucky i'll get some of your wetness in my beard. let 'em smell you on me." and well, that excited you deeply.

you arched your back a little bit, but price kept you pinned perfectly under him. you tightened your thighs around him and he continued to work your body. it wasn't rough sex, but it also wasn't boringly soft either. he worked you at a steady pace, like a man with immense stamina. he eyed the bounce of your breasts and he moved against you.

he licked his lips at the sight of you, "baby girl." he purred, "you're a dirty girl. but don't worry." he soon held onto your wrists instead of your hands, a further act of domination, "i like 'em dirty. i like girls i can sink my teeth into. soon enough you won't be able to cum unless it's my fingers, tongue or cock in you. ya got the kind of soft skin that would bruise perfectly. but be careful, petal, i can be quite mean with a paddle." and it was met with a heavy moan. music to his ears.

you had never been spoken to like this before, but it excited you. you wanted to be price's dirty girl any day of the week. you felt excitement cross over you as he picked up the pace. the two of you fucked heavily and it left a taste of want in your mouth. this was better than anything you hoped for. it wasn't just that price checked boxes on a superficial level, he knew exactly how to make you squirm and moan. heavy noises came from your mouth as he worked your achy cunt, you felt amazing.

"ya like knowin' that i'm your first. big, scary captain makin' a mess of the sweetest cunt in the world. knowin' in a way, i got ya for life." he licked his lips. he liked that you were pure in that way, call him old fashioned. but knowing that he got to have you first was sort of like getting the first slice of cake at a party. something he wished to sweetly devour. and with you it was with heavy thrusts and filthy words. taint you to his liking.

you whined as you clenched your fists, you tensed up and he loved the feeling. he could almost read your mind with how sweet you felt. he could nearly feel your heartbeat as he fucked you. he loved the sight of you, you looked damn near perfect under him. you said between heavy pants, "please, sir. fuck, please!"

"feel good, petal? like how i take you." he moved against you further and it left him feeling the anticipation for climax. he continued to fuck your sweet body, working every last centimeter of warm skin, "remember, ya gotta ask me to cum."

his movements were overwhelming, his pace left you feeling breathless. and in your first lesson of intimacy, you croaked out, "can i cum, sir? please, i need to cum."

and price could be a giving man. he looked down at you, haze in those blue eyes as he said, "of course, baby girl. cum for me, cum for your captain." and swore under his breath as you beautifully came apart for him. he held onto your wrists tighter and groaned. it paired nicely with your sweet little moans.

"sir! fuck!" you gasped as you clenched around him. you finished and it only prompted him to move faster while you laid in such a blissed out state. no one had made you finish like that, not even your own nimble digits.

but price was just that good.

the bed creaked further and the headboard hit against the beige wall of the bedroom. he fucked you faster and made sure to cram every inch inside of you. with a few more heavy strokes, he finished into of you with a heavy groan. he fucked you through his climax before he slowed to a stop.

he wiped the sweat from his forehead and exhaled deeply, "beauty, beauty. where has the world been hidin' ya from me." he chuckled as he kissed you on the lips. you melted against him and moaned.

when he pulled out, he got up with a creak in his hip to throw out the condom before he was back in bed with you. you were both naked under the covers as price traced your form with his calloused fingers. the roughness on your soft skin made you shiver.

"how about it, lovie." he said in that low, gruff tone of his. his hand grazed across your side and behind, "how about i invite the boys over and their little birdies and we can have a little playdate. introduce you to the group."

you swallowed, "play... date?"

price pulled you closer. he held onto you the way someone would hold a stuffed animal. he smiled at you, "don't worry, petal. no one's gettin' their hands on ya. not while i'm still breathin'." his voice was tinged with a possessiveness. you nodded in response and he added, "besides, i know i'll make the boys nice and jealous with you." he chuckled, "my beautiful baby girl." then kissed you on the lips.

you could only imagine what would happen at a playdate with price's friends and their submissives. it also didn't help that it made you a little excited as well. <3

What do you want?

ive got a few ideas swirling around in my noggin right now but the one i wanna try first i want to see what you lot would prefer to read. they're all pretty similar but there'll be slight changes. It's going to be male reader since thats what im used to writing

when i say bikes i mean motorbikes/ dirtbikes. Also my asks and messages are always open, just in case any of you want something.

hi um so two of my fav writers on this platform literally reblogged another of these drabbles as i was writing this one so?? I'm buggin.

It’s the long-drawn snapping of neurons that prickle at you, eyes closed and forearm thrown over your face. A slow peel of eyelid after eyelid, foggy thoughts wisping away at a moment’s notice in the blackness of the bedroom; the ceiling is more a theory of shapes inferred from moon-coerced shadows than its usual cragginess, and you unhook your arm from the dip between your nose and forehead to reach up. Comb your fingertips through the air. 

Was it the breeze through your ever-closed window? Open now, a new development, but surely one that would rouse you like a bear from slumber. You feel large enough to be a bear, warm enough to feel tarped in fur, lethargic enough to clamber off your mattress and land on all fours and grunt like an animal. 

Maybe it was the slice of light underneath your bedroom door. You never forget to turn off the switches in your living room, the LED bulbs too glowy and insistent to sleep the way you do, curled up on one side and facing the doorway. 

Or maybe it’s because you’re not sleeping the way you always do. Not at the moment. Right now, you’re tipped onto your back, each limb swallowed up by an inch of cushion, flat like a slab of carbonite. Your body and the bed are inseparable—each pore on your skin is looped through with a stitch that dips into the sheets, rises back out and finishes with a double knot. 

All you can do is lay there. Willingly, you suppose, despite the spasms. 

A new ozone layer has settled around you, consistency of molasses, and hot to inhale. It stinks of past activity, like breaths that have been used up and tossed out. All of it cloys against your skin, maintaining a sheen of sweat to add to the discomfort. 

You’re awake now, though. 

Unhappy, but no longer unconscious. A bit bitter that you’re all alone. 

But a sharp trill pierces the air, and it hits you—that’s it.

That’s what had awoken you. 

Roused this grumpy, sticky, sore form of you that’s polyfoam-bound, torn too quick from a fundamental repose period. You’re too exhausted to moan, gripe, curse like you should. 

Even as the lights under the door flicker out, and something pushes it’s way inside with various scuffling movements. The room returns to stagnancy with a soft click, save for the lone gust of wind invading and receding at an unsteady tempo. 

Your next breath is a roiling mix of oxygen saturated with sodium and garlic. You hum aloud, a vague attempt to dissuade the bile crawling up your throat. Each time your tongue scrapes past your teeth, the morning grime collects and taints your tastebuds. 

You need water, and a toothbrush, and two tablespoons of toothpaste. Five minutes for an alcoholic rinse, too. 

Definitely don’t need the robust wafting of a pepperoni Hot Pocket up your nostrils at the ass-crack of dawn, as the mattress dips with a bulky outline. 

“Sorry, Bonnie,” a Scottish voice that is not apologetic in the slightest mumbles beside you. “Didnae mean to wake ye. Fuckin’ makes me ’bit peckish.”

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

*GIF not mine*

Summary:

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

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

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

Word count: 8374

Part 1 Part 2

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

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

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

R. Maybe.

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

“Um.” You stiffen. “What.” 

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

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

“I’m not sure I follow.”

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

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

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

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

“Dead serious, love.”

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

“Kyle…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something like, It’s only been three months.

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

You don’t even really know him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I…”

Don’t want you to leave either.

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

I want it all to be ours.

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

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

He sighs again.

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

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

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

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

“One more kiss before you go?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door closes with a slam.  

~~~~~~

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

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

Then again. 

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

Fucking beautiful. Every goddamn second of it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He goes to sleep in a sour mood. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Research purposes, at most. 

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

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

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

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

Gaz doesn’t go out much after that. 

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

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

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

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

Well, actually, he’s in Prague.

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

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

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

Jesus Christ.

He has to see you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gaz freezes.

Surely it’s not…

Well, it might be…

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

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

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

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

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

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

You thought he’d leave you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then someone knocks on his door.

~~~~~~

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

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

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

Room 428. 

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

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

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

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

And Kyle…

Oh. 

Oh, Goddamnit. 

Ten days was too long for both of you. 

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

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

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

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

Harrowing, too. 

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

“Did you get my voicemail?”

He nods a little. 

“So you heard that I…?”

Another nod. 

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

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

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

Then he hums, low and deep.

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

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

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

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

“Kyle.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kyle—what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, once more, you follow suit.

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

“Definitely off the table, Kyle.”

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

~~~~~~

Gaz can smell it from the hallway. 

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

Coming home is always a little hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~

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

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

He hadn’t been… wrong. 

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

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

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

You want to be mad. 

Can’t quite bring yourself to, though. 

A bit too… preoccupied. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’d almost kicked him square in the face. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or spare oxygen.

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

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

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

Call of Duty Masterlist

☔ = Angst

🌦️ = Angst to Fluff

💥 = Crack

☀️ = Fluff

💋 = Smut

🖤 = Yandere

🔔 = Request

🟪Imagines🟪

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

■  What's in a Virtue ☀️

Series (Complete)

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.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

🟪Drabbles🟪

Soap x Shadow Company Medic!Reader ☀️

Soap x Reader Body Swap AU 💋

Soap's feelin' a bit peckish 💥

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

*GIF not mine*

Summary:

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

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

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

Word count: 8193

Part 1

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

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

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

Kyle just made it so easy. Too easy. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Confounding. 

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

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

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

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

He’s gone. 

Kyle just disappears.

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

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

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

Gone. 

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

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

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

He’s made a mess of you.

Kyle, though… he’s Kyle. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A voicemail. You could leave that. 

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

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

Then “Hey” and “it’s me.”

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

And another “umm.”

“I’m calling because…”

You don’t know. Honest to God. 

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

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

You pause. 

Wait a few seconds. 

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

You think you’re gonna be sick. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

This distance thing’ll be… easy. Maybe. 

~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then your phone buzzes in your pocket.  

Kyle.

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

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

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

All it says is “More.”

~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway. 

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

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

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

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

No funny business. Just you. 

That’s what he’d wanted. 

And he’d wanted “more,” too. 

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

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

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

~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly, he’s got just the thing. 

~~~~~~

Eight-fucking-thirty a.m. 

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

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

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

Real. Fucking. Funny. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kyle. 

Your soldier. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he’s injured. 

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

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

“M’not broken, darling. Promise.”

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

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

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

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

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

This can’t be right, it can’t be—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That flutter of pulsations under your fingertips.

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

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

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

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

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

Wait. 

“You listened to all those messages?”

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

Then…

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

A sorry feels cruel on your tongue after that. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A is the second letter.

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

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

~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

All good things. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Foul play. 

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

Almost slipped that fucking leash. 

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

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

Feels that stutter at his words.

“Love, huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~

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

The feeling makes you wistful.

Then—

Oh fuck—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh God. 

You want Kyle. So damn bad.

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

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

You want him shamelessly. Constantly. Perpetually. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kyle’s lips, they taste like….

Fuck, you whine a little into his mouth. 

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

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

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

He controls every second of it. All of it. 

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

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

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

~~~~~~

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

“It’s two in the afternoon.”

“Yeah, what about it?”

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

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

No. Wait.

Definitely better.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~

You’re certain nothing could ruin this moment. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Two-thirty.”

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

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

“We’ll have to get up at some point.”

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

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

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

You’re not sure if you love Kyle. 

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

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

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

~~~~~~

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

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

Bad, bad, bad Gaz. 

It’s too soon. 

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

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

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

No. He really, really shouldn’t.

He won’t.

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

Almost blacks out at what he finds. 

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

Fuckin’ Christ, bloody Jesus, Hell on a—

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

Fuck it. 

Seriously—fuck it. 

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

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

“No.”

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

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

“Could you…?”

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

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

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

Fuckin’ hell, don’t tell me.

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

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

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

“Love, I hafta—”

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

“Sorry, that’s for my tea—”

He’s really doing this. 

Fuck it. 

Fuck. 

It.

“Move in with me.”

~~~~~~

Part 3

We’re not gonna talk about how I wrote this instead of finishing part two of what’s in a virtue. We’re not even gonna talk about what this is. I’m just gonna… yeah, here ya go.

!Trigger warnings: dubcon

Body swap au with soap who just wakes up one day and says, “no fuckin’ way.”

Soap who thinks it’s the best fuckin’ dream he’s ever had.

Soap who solemnly agrees with you in the mornings that yes, the two of you do need to work together to fix this as soon as possible, but who spends his nights in front of a mirror stripped down to nothing, masturbating because it’s fucking you, and you’re so pretty when you’re panting. Soap who was always convinced that making you come would feel just as good as coming himself, and now he doesn’t have to figure that out anymore.

Soap who, fuck, has his cake and eats it, too.

Soap who grins so proud at the awkward way you stumble around in his body, too big for you. Soap who, after discovering you’d had to——ahem——relieve yourself for the first time, feels his skin fucking buzz at the fact that you can’t meet his eyes, your eyes, anymore without a schoolboy blush spreading across his own damn face.

Soap who knows you liked what you saw.

Soap who makes your body come again that night, not even thinking of your body anymore, but of your mind fumbling around in his body, experimenting with touches and caresses. Soap who imagines you knowing how to pleasure him inside and out when this is all over.

Soap who records the sound of your voice saying his name, because the lines are getting so damn blurry, and emails the video to himself. Takes pictures, too.

Would never blackmail you with them, no, no, no.

But he deletes them from your phone after sending them all to his drive.

Soap who, after everything is over, after you’ve both found your ways into your own bodies, trots after you like the dog he is wherever you go.

Soap who, after you check the deleted folder of your photos app, gets a good and proper scolding.

Soap who managed to record the entire reprimand, listening to the anger in your voice, the how dare you do that to me——to my body?! That’s so fucked up, Soap!

Soap who rewards himself yet again that night, teeth gnawing at the hem of his shirt that he hadn’t bothered taking off, just pulling up high enough to jack himself off with his back against his front door. Panting at the dash he’d made up his flat’s stairs, then panting your name, whimpering disingenuous apologies to your chiding voice.

Soap who doesn’t stop, who won’t stop until he’s got the real you screaming his name.

idk what I’m doing but call me a duckling bc I be following all the ppl who use this format and it looked like fun

Soap who meets you, a medic for the Shadow Company, after he’s injured on the mission. Soap who’s dragged by Ghost up into the chopper, who you lean over and promise you’ll do your damn bestest to make sure he looks pretty by the end of this.

“Let me know if you see the light at any point, Sergeant MacTavish. That’s usually a bad sign.”

Soap who won’t stop looking you in the eyes as you work, mumbling to himself in such a thick accent you figure it’s best to ignore him, especially while finishing a suture on his chest that draws out an excessive groan.

Soap who flirts with you the entire time. Soap who’s ignorant to the gaping wound on his chest, and is much rather invested in the way your smell washes over him as you hover, ponytailed hair dangerously close to his hand. Soap who lets his head fall onto your shoulder on accident, Bonnie, so sorry, even as he sniffs for more of that shampoo and tang of sweat, because you’d been working so damn hard to keep little old him alive.

Soap who lets you wrap around him, pressing your hands against the wall and the cushion next to his thigh to get leverage to lean him up and off the cot.

Soap who clings a little too tightly to your shoulder as you lead him down and away, safely back to his base and into his CO’s protection.

“Thank you for not dying on me, John,” you say as you guide him back to Ghost.

Soap who watches you still, dazed little grin on his face even as Ghost grapples a hand at his shoulder——to hold him steady or hold him back, he’s not really sure.

Soap who wouldn’t mind staying with you, though. For a little longer.

“Anytime, Bonnie.” And he throws you a cheeky wink despite his sickly flush.

“Screwball,” you mutter fondly, waving a dismissive hand over your shoulder as you make your way back up the Shadow heli’s ramp.

Soap who grins as you go, eyeing your ass as he leans over to Ghost with a whispered, “What ‘oes screwball mean?”

“‘Fuck would I know, Johnny? Now let’s get a fuckin’ move on.”

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

Oreosmama’s Masterlist

AVATAR: THE LAST AIRBENDER/LEGEND OF KORRA

CALL OF DUTY

HAIKYUU!!

MY HERO ACADEMIA

ONE PUNCH MAN

STAR WARS

STRANGER THINGS

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Other Fandoms:

Chaos Walking:

🟣Headcanons🟣

When He’s Sad (Todd Hewitt) 🌦️

Criminal Minds:

Spencer Reid: 

■  Envy on Leave 🌦️

After failing his field test, Spencer is stuck on desk duty for a week. You, his usual partner for cases, get put with Morgan for the newest case, and Spencer can’t say he’s a fan. Oh no, he’s not a fan at all. 

Jujutsu Kaisen: 

Gojo Satoru:

■  Ten to None (Soulmate AU)🌦️

Soulmates’ markings add up to ten so soulmates know just how much of a danger their soulmate is to them. You have a ten on your wrist, so you know your soulmate must have a zero. There’s just one problem: no one in history has ever been worthy of a danger rating of ten, so who the hell is the supposedly “invincible god” were you fated to? 

Peaky Blinders:

Michael Gray: 

■  Gray Chains (Yandere) 🖤☀️ 

Michael needs to see you. It’s been three days after being shot by Luca Changretta’s men, and he knows you need to see him too–especially since you’re chained up against his headboard for trying to escape from him too many times. 

■  Lost and Found (Yandere/Sequel to “Gray Chains”) 🖤🌦️ (🔔?)

Michael is weak and desperate for you after being bedridden with his gunshot wounds in the hospital, but after weeks of caring for him, you know your feelings for your former kidnapper have grown into something you don’t dare confess. One night, when you almost let your feelings slip, you decide to flee. Michael won’t let you go so easily.

Queen’s Gambit:

Benny Watts: 

■  April Showers ☀️

All dolled up and ready to confess, you await a certain chess champion’s visit as a thunderstorm rages outside. But the longer your phone call stretches on, the closer you realize he may be to feeling the same about you.

Seven Deadly Sins:

Ban:

■  More Than a Name (Soulmate AU) ☀️

While escaping from the Holy Knights who are chasing after not her, but the name on her wrist, YN runs into the last person she expected to see so soon: Ban, her soulmate. 

Top Gun: Maverick

Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw:

■  Look Me in the Eyes 🌦️

During naval training, your jet crashed and burned, taking your memories with it. But the lieutenant who saved you seems to know you better than he lets on. The only issue is that he refuses to tell you his name.

I hope you like the drawing the character the reader that we all love to grim @blingblong55 I love her work so much go see her I love her so much keep going she is my Creator who helps inspire me to write and draw I hope you like drawing 🌱= ❤️‍🩹

⋆˚࿔ Welcome to the Café! 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

hello,my name's emile! how may i take your order? please pick your fandom and take a look at the menu below and tell me what you'd like!

(don't see something you like? ask anyways and i'll do it within reason or add it to the menu in the future :3)

────── .✦

⋆˚࿔ Who/What do I write for? 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

- call of duty

- elden ring

- the boys

- dc

- marvel

- certain anime/manga (just ask!)

-tf2

-rdr2

-bg3

-arcane

-dbh

-hannibal

────── .✦

⋆˚࿔ Menu: 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

- cappuccino: "Please let me help you."

- latte: "Not in this lifetime."

- frappuccino: "Can we skip the fight this time, please?"

- mocha: "Sorry for waking you up, go back to sleep."

- americano: (other chara talking to chosen character) "You're in love with her/him/them, aren't you?"

- doppio: "It's 3 in the morning, what're you doing here?"

- macchiato: "You said you liked it, so I got it for you."

- ristretto: "Everyone already thinks we're dating."

- affogato: "You're dangerous."

- oolong tea: "I've wanted to ask you for a while now, but I didn't know how."

- chai: "Wanna go get a drink?"

- chamomile tea: "No, I'm not jealous"

⋆˚࿔With a side of.......

- cheesecake: enemies to lovers

- chocolate cake: forced proximity

- apple pie: friends to lovers

- chocolate chip cookie: fluff

-shortbread cookie: angst

- not in stock: (senders request for a specific trope)

- on the house: writers choice!

────── .✦

⋆˚࿔ 18+ Menu: 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ (minors please DNI)

- espresso martini: "I've met strays who are more obedient than you."

- irish coffee: "Fuck, that's a good girl."

- mudslide: "You gonna beg f'me?"

-prairie buzz: "Use your teeth."

- tequila espresso: "I didn't think you'd be so responsive."

- kirsch au café: "God- Do that again."

- italian espresso: "Try to stay quiet, understand?"

⋆˚࿔With a side of.......

- black forest gateau: cockwarming

-chocolate macaron: rough sex

- vanilla macaron: gentle sex

- matcha gateau: age gap

- tiramisu: oral sex (specify which side)

- chocolate cherry cake: sugar daddy

-lemon cheesecake: body worship (specify which side)

I wonder what the reaction of the boys from COD Ghosts would be if their partner decided to break up with them because s/o no longer wants to maintain a relationship with a man who is rarely home and s/o feels abandoned (plus the boys rarely answer messages)

(*My English is not good, I used Google Translate okay 😔✌️✌️*)

✧ 𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄: Breaking up with them... ✧ 𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐌: Call of Duty Ghosts. ✧ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒: Logan walker, Hesh walker, Keegan russ, Thomas merrick, kick. ✧ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: x GN!reader . ✧ 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄: angst, comfort. ✧ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Ansgt, Breaking up, emotional experience. ✧ 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: GIRLIE YOU DONT FALL FOR THEM WORDS🚩🚩.

Logan walker:

He doesn’t fight it at first. He listens—really listens, eyes locked on yours even if everything in him wants to look away.

When you finally speak, your voice low but firm, it hits like a quiet storm: “I waited, Logan. I waited a long damn time. But you don’t come back anymore… not really. And I don’t want to feel like a ghost in my own relationship.”

His face stays still, unreadable, just like always—but his hands? They tremble, just slightly. The only sign that you’ve cracked something open inside him.

And for once, he has no comeback. No defense. Just silence—and the sound of something unspoken breaking quietly between you.

“I never meant to make you feel alone.”

His voice barely rises above a whisper.

Logan is a man who compartmentalizes to survive—he’s good at pushing pain down so it doesn’t leak out at the worst times. But he doesn’t know how to fight for something he already failed to protect.

He nods once. Eyes drop. Says nothing.

And when you leave, he just sits there, still in his gear, on the edge of the bed, staring at the door like he might will you back through it.

Later, Logan would write you a message. Not to beg, not to change your mind—just to say:

“You deserved more than my silence. I’m sorry.”

He stares at your last message for hours, eyes tracing each word like they might rearrange into something softer if he just keeps looking.

If you left a letter, he reads it five times—maybe more. Then folds it with precision, storing it in the same place he keeps old mission reports. Because to him, this? This heartbreak was a mission that failed.

He expected this, in some way. A quiet part of him always knew it was coming—like an inevitable storm on the horizon he refused to brace for.

His healing won’t be fast. He’ll keep doing the job, keep moving, keep being Logan.

But the quiet moments will be the worst—when the world finally slows down, and there’s nothing left but his own silence and that low ache in his chest. Brooding. Regret. And the echo of a love he couldn’t hold onto.

Hesh walker:

Hesh tries to reason with you—softly, gently. He wants to fix it, patch things up, hold onto what’s slipping through his fingers. But in the end… he respects you. He always has.

Hesh wears his heart on his sleeve, unfiltered and warm. So when you finally say it—that it’s not working, that you feel forgotten, that the fire’s gone dim—he goes quiet.

The golden retriever in him aches to make it right. But then he really looks at you—eyes tired, heart heavy.

“Damn…” he mutters, voice rough and low. “I thought I was doin’ right by protectin’ the world… didn’t realize I was losin’ mine.”

He doesn’t beg. Doesn’t try to trap you with promises he knows he can’t keep. Instead, he rubs a hand over his face, exhaling a rough breath, as if trying to clear the weight in his chest.

He looks at you, that flicker of respect in his eyes, even through the hurt.

“You always had that brave heart. Gotta respect that.”

His voice is steady, but there’s a quiet ache behind it. It’s not anger. It’s not regret. It’s just... acceptance.

"David... you are a perfect guy... but I guess these circumstances won't get there with you."

He nodded once, looking down, the weight of your words sinking into him.

You couldn’t help it—you leaned in just a little, hesitant, unsure.

Then, with a sigh, he met your gaze, a quiet frustration in his eyes. “Jesus, Y/N…”

Before you could say anything more, he pulled you in with one arm, a little firmer than you expected, wrapping it around your waist. You felt the warmth of his embrace, and then a soft peck at the top of your head—a gesture filled with unspoken emotion.

When you finally left, you turned to give him one last look. His smile was simple, but there was something in it—something that spoke of understanding, of finality.

It would take him weeks to heal, maybe longer. But there was an undeniable strength in his acceptance. Deep down, he knew you deserved better than the world he could give.

Keegan russ:

Doesn’t believe you at first.

"I can't do this anymore, Keegan. You're never home. I’m starting to forget what it feels like to miss you… because I’ve already accepted you’re not coming back."

When you say it, his response is flat, emotion barely rising in his voice: “You’re serious?”

You nod. You explain. Every word feels heavier than the last, and he doesn’t interrupt. He just watches you, like you’re walking away with something he forgot he could lose.

He doesn’t fight you on it—not verbally, at least. But there’s something in the way he stands, the tightness around his jaw.

And then, just when you think it’s over, he drops one final dagger: “Guess it was never gonna work. Should’ve seen that coming.”

It’s not that he doesn’t care—it’s that he cares too damn much. He’s pissed at himself. Pissed for letting it get to this point, for letting you feel like this with him. He knows he could’ve done better. And that’s what cuts the deepest.

If Keegan is with you, it means he adores you—taking you on dates, sharing quiet moments, doing everything to make you feel valued, loved.

He never thought this day would come.

That’s all he says at first, his voice flat, like he can’t quite process it.

You press him, asking if he has anything to add. He shrugs once, his gaze distant. “Not gonna chain you to someone who doesn’t show up.”

Later that night, when he's alone, he stares at the photo you took of him—your arm around his arm.

He tucks it into his gear, carefully, as if it’s a part of him that he can’t let go of. Even if you’re no longer in his life, that photo stays with him. And for years, it will.

“Hope you find someone who answers his phone more than once a month.”

He mutters it to himself, his voice rough, barely a whisper, like he’s trying to convince himself that it doesn’t hurt.

Yeah, Keegan would heal fast. Probably within a week. He’d push it all aside, bury it deep. He was good at that—at moving on, at leaving the weight of emotions behind.

But if something—anything—reminded him of you? He’d zone out for a moment, eyes distant, mind replaying that time, those moments, like they were never really gone. And just for a second, the weight of it all would hit him again.

Thomas merrick:

When you bring it up to Merrick, you expect resistance—maybe a speech full of excuses, or a list of reasons why he did what he did.

But instead, he just looks at you with tired, almost kind eyes, like he’s already been through it all before.

“I thought I was protecting you. By keeping you out of this life.”

You shake your head, your voice firm but soft: “That’s not the kind of protection I wanted. I didn’t want a soldier—I wanted you. Home. Present.”

Merrick doesn’t argue. He doesn’t try to explain or justify. He simply nods once, the weight of your words settling between you.

“I guess I failed you either way.” His voice is quiet, resigned—like he knew this moment was coming, but never knew how to avoid it.

He nods, his hand outstretched—offering it without hesitation. You take it, feeling the weight of the moment as he speaks, his voice steady but softer than usual.

“If that’s what your heart's tellin’ you, I ain't gonna fight it.”

You look at him, but he doesn’t let you linger on the uncertainty, adding with a quiet conviction, “But don’t you dare think I didn’t love you just 'cause I was gone'.”

That one hits deep, the raw honesty of it stinging more than you expected.

“You ever need anything... you know where I am.”

After you leave, he sits alone, whiskey glass in hand, the dim light casting shadows across his face. He stays upright, calm, like he’s been through this a thousand times—but the glass stays full for hours, untouched. A quiet reminder that some things aren’t as easy to swallow.

He’ll keep commanding, keep his job done straight—no distractions, no slip-ups. His focus sharp as ever.

But like Keegan, if something—anything—reminds him of you, he’ll just let out a quiet sigh, push the thought away, and move on. There’s no time to dwell.

What an old man, he thinks to himself, to experience these teenager feelings. He’s been through too much to let it pull him down.

But there’s one thing he holds onto, and it gives him some peace: He’s proud of the man he became. Proud that he was the one who stood up, who admitted his mistakes, and told you he was wrong. It wasn’t easy, but it was the right thing to do.

Kick:

He jokes at first, trying to brush it off with humor, his usual defense mechanism. But something shifts inside him as the words leave your mouth.

When you say, “I don’t feel like we’re in a relationship anymore,” he raises a brow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Babe, don’t say that. You're just mad ‘cause I forgot to reply to your message last week.”

But when you don’t laugh—when your eyes are watery but firm, holding a quiet strength that cuts through him—he sobers fast.

He leans in, voice low, almost hesitant, like he’s hoping it’s all just a misunderstanding. “You’re not serious. Right?”

When you don’t back down, when you meet his gaze with nothing but truth, he mutters under his breath, “Damn… you are.” And just like that, he knows it’s real.

He paces, his boots hitting the floor with heavy steps. He rubs his hands over his face, trying to steady himself, to think of something—anything—that could fix this. He tries to make you laugh, throwing out half-hearted jokes in an effort to ease the tension.

But when he realizes nothing he says is going to change the way you feel—when the weight of it all finally hits—he stops.

“So, what? I don’t get to be in your corner anymore? Just like that?” His voice cracks slightly, a mix of frustration and disbelief.

He watches you, waiting for any sign that this is just a bad dream, but when he finally sees that you truly mean it, his heart sinks.

After a long silence, you break it, your voice sharp but tired: “Kick, say something. You’re just keep looking.”

He exhales, the heaviness in his chest settling. “You ain’t wrong. Can’t lie and say I’ve been much of a boyfriend. Ain’t had the time to be.”

He runs a hand through his hair, his gaze softening as he looks at you, quieter now. “Never wanted you to feel second place, darlin’. That’s on me.”

There’s nothing left to say. No excuses. Just the truth. And it’s a bitter one.

As you leave, the final hug between you both feels heavier than anything that came before. The silence stretches, but even then, he can’t stop himself from saying something, his voice softer than usual—almost like a whisper of regret.

“You deserve someone who can make a home, not just stories.”

He’s accepted it now. At first, he thought you just didn’t understand the weight of his job—the danger, the uncertainty. But now, sitting in the quiet aftermath, he realizes the truth: No partner would willingly live with someone who disappears for over a month at a time.

After you’re gone, he falls into his own kind of silence. Alone. Depressed. It’s the kind of loneliness he’s used to, but now, it feels emptier.

He never talks or gushes about you like what he used to do before.

He deletes your contact from his phone. It’s the logical step, the clean break, or so he tells himself.

But your photos? They stay. He can’t bring himself to delete them all, not yet. He looks at them sometimes, the ones where you’re laughing, the ones where you’re close, just before everything changed.

And in the silence, he lets the memories linger.

Relationship Alphabet series with Cod ghosts!

Kick

✧ Pairing: Romantic.

✧ Genre: Fluff.

X GN READER

Hesh is a natural leader—strong, confident, and brave. But beneath that, he has a good heart and a gentle soul. He loves deeply, respects his partner, and would go to the ends of the earth to protect them. He’s the kind of man who makes you feel safe, loved, and cherished.

✧ Warnings: Light NSFW, and mention of NSFW content MDNI.

A – Affection

SFW: Kick isn’t overly affectionate in public, He got the courage to show his love for you in front of people and has no care, but in private? He’s got this effortless way of showing love without making a big deal out of it. A casual arm over your shoulders, a hand on the small around your waist walking through a crowd, or passing you a drink before you even ask. He’s the kind of guy who’ll sit next to you after a long day and just chatting, his presence alone making things feel lighter.

Light NSFW: He has a habit of pulling you close by the belt loops or wrapping an arm around your waist, fingers tracing absentminded circles against your skin. And when no one’s around? His lips find that spot right below your jaw, his voice low and teasing.

“Damn, you really just stand there looking this good all day, huh?”

B – Boundaries

SFW: Kick respects space and expects the same in return. He doesn’t pry, doesn’t push—he trusts you’ll come to him when you’re ready. That being said, he’s got an unspoken boundary about his past. He’ll tell you things on his own time, but he won’t be forced into it, since kick is an information technology specialist and wanted, he trained himself most importantly to be cautious.

Light NSFW: He’s down for a little teasing, but there’s a time and place. You try anything in the middle of his tech working? He’s shutting that down real quick. “Focusing, sweetheart. Save it for later.”

C – Communication

SFW: Kick is direct but reserved. If something’s wrong, he’ll tell you—but in few words, He’s a listener first, always taking in more than he says. If he’s upset, he needs time to process before talking, but when he does, it’s straight to the point. he expects the same. He’s a problem-solver, so if there’s an issue, he wants to fix it, not dance around it, Never talks about his work with you, work stays in work section, cause he don't want to mess with your head with the fucked up things he saw.

Light NSFW: He has this low, slow drawl when he talks in that tone. He doesn’t just say things; he makes sure you feel them, He is a talker, a mid one. Likes to ask you, or praising. and these words came a lot from his lips.

“Goddamit yes, You keep look at me like that!”

D – Devotion

SFW: Ride or die. If Kick is with you, he’s with you. He won’t say things like “I’d do anything for you”—he just does it. You’re his priority, simple as that. The way he looks out for you—making sure you eat, remembering little things like how you take your coffee/tea—it’s all quiet but unmistakable devotion.

I always thought because kick is a technology specialist, he is wanted especially when his pic was on the kill list, he never thought about having a partner but here he is with you, and he would kill a fed soldier if it means staying with you.

Light NSFW: He’s a patient man, but there are moments he just wants. When that switch flips, his devotion turns into something intense, lips against your ear, hands gripping just tight enough.

“You are my love. You know that, right?”

E – Empathy

SFW: Kick isn’t the kind of guy to sugarcoat things, but he’s good at reading you. He picks up on the small things—the shift in your voice, the way your shoulders tense. He won’t ask if you’re okay in front of others, but later? When it’s just the two of you? He’ll casually sit beside you, suddenly kneeling in front of you while you are sitting on the couch holding one of your knee. “Talk to me.” And not in a pleading or softy way.

Light NSFW: He knows what you like, and he will gladly listen to what you want, knows when to take his time and when to push. He listens—to words, to the way you react. It’s all about you, and he makes sure you know it.

F – Forgiveness

SFW: He doesn’t hold grudges, but he doesn’t forget either. If you mess up, own it. Apologize, and he’ll move forward, no problem. But betray his trust? That’s not something easily fixed, especially if it's after a long time of dating he didn't expect it from you so he will have two choices, leave everything behind and move on with you, or leave you with everything behind him.

Light NSFW: He doesn’t do “angry” intimacy. If he’s pissed, he walks it off before even thinking about touching you. But the reconciliation after a fight? Slow, deliberate, leaving no room for doubt that everything’s okay again.

G – Growth

SFW: Kick isn’t someone who rushes things. He understands that relationships evolve, that people change, and he’s good with that. He sees growth as something you do together, not just individually. If you’re trying to be better, he supports it. If he needs to work on something, he will—without needing to be told twice.

Light NSFW: Growth in intimacy means learning what works and what doesn’t, figuring out the unspoken rhythms between you. He’s patient, always watching for what you respond to, never making it feel rushed or forced.

H – Honesty

SFW: Kick doesn’t sugarcoat anything. If you ask for his opinion, expect the truth. Not in a harsh way, but in a direct way. If you’re upset about something and he doesn’t understand why? He’ll ask. If he screws up? He owns it.

Light NSFW: There’s no faking with Kick. He’s attuned to you, knows when you’re holding back or if something’s off. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like you’ don't know what you want.” He wants the truth, even when it’s just the two of you tangled up in sheets, breathing against each other’s skin.

I – Intimacy

SFW: Kick isn’t big on grand gestures, but his intimacy shows in small, constant ways—his hand resting on your back absentmindedly, leaning against you when he’s tired he likes it even more when he rests his head on your lap, he feels peaceful, especially that feeling when he knows he is comfortable finally with someone, pulling you into his side on the couch. It’s comfort. Security. He’s not loud about it, but you feel it.

Light NSFW: When it’s just the two of you, his usual calm takes on an edge of intensity. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t get sloppy. He watches you, listens, and takes his time learning.

“Relax. Let me take care of you.” His voice is low, all confidence, all promise.

J – Joy

SFW: His humor is dry, always the one who makes you laugh but when he laughs? Really laughs? It’s rare and warm, and it lingers. His joy isn’t big or loud—it’s in the quiet moments, in teasing you under his breath, in the way his eyes soften when you’re happy. He likes making you laugh. That’s his favorite sound.

Light NSFW: There’s a playful side to him in private, smirking against your skin, teasing just enough to make you squirm and this his joy, especually if you are a tough partner and thinks he got this power to lead you like this state.

“That’s cute. Keep making that.”

K – Kindness

SFW: Kick’s kindness isn’t in words—it’s in actions. It’s carrying your stuff when he knows you’re exhausted. It’s passing you a water bottle before you realize you need it. It’s making sure you get the last bite of something good. He doesn’t announce his kindness; he just does it.

Light NSFW: He’s attentive, making sure you’re comfortable, that you’re getting as much as you’re giving. It’s never just about him—it’s you, always both of you.

L – Love

SFW: Kick’s love isn’t flashy. It’s consistent. It’s steady hands and a quiet “I got you.” It’s trust, built over time. He might not say I love you every second, but when he does? He means it.

Light NSFW: When he really loves you, it shows in how he touches you—every movement slow, intentional, lingering. It’s in the way he whispers against your neck, the way his breath hitches slightly when you say his name. “You’re everything to me, you know that?”

M – Memories

SFW: He holds onto things—small details, fleeting moments. The first time he made you laugh so hard you couldn’t breathe, the exact way you look when you’re happy. He remembers. And sometimes, late at time, when it’s quiet, he’ll tell you.

Light NSFW: His memories are the time when he remembers the most new intimate experiences you guys had, he just likes the way he made you felt, the way when you have the full guts to tell him what you like and what you wanna do.

N – Nurturing

SFW: Kick doesn’t come across as the nurturing type, but he is—just in his own way. If you’re exhausted, he won’t say, “You need to rest.” Instead, he’ll shut down whatever’s keeping you up and quietly make sure you have what you need. He’s not a fan of coddling, but he’ll take care of you in the most practical, effective way possible.

If you’re sick? He’s grumbling while making sure you drink enough water, tossing a blanket over you without a word.

If you’re injured or hurt? He’s shaking his head but cleaning the wound himself, precise and careful.

If you’re having a bad day? He won’t push. Just silently hands you your favorite whatever thing and sits with you until you feel better.

Light NSFW: He’s all about taking care of you. He’s observant, knows when you need something without you having to say it. He doesn’t make a big deal out of it, but you can tell by the way his hands are so careful with you. “Relax. Let me handle it.”

O – Openness

SFW: Kick’s not one to easily open up. He keeps things locked up tight, prefers actions over words. But when he trusts you? When he really lets you in? It’s rare, but it’s everything.

He’s not a fan of long talks about feelings, but he’ll give you small truths in quiet moments.

Maybe it’s “I don’t talk about this shit with anyone else.” said in a rare moment of honesty.

Maybe it’s the way he leans into you when he’s had a long day, his body language saying everything he won’t.

Light NSFW: His openness in intimacy comes slowly, in layers. At first, he keeps things more physical, but as his walls come down, you start to see how much he really feels. The way his breath stutters when you touch him a certain way. The way he lingers afterward, tracing patterns into your skin, the only openness he got when he let you do whatever he wants.

P – Patience

SFW: Kick is absurdly patient. He’s a sniper—waiting is what he does. He won’t rush you, won’t push you into anything before you’re ready. His patience shows in how he listens, how he lets you come to him rather than demanding answers.

If you’re struggling to say something? He won’t press, just sits there quietly, waiting.

If you’re upset? He won’t tell you to calm down—he’ll just be there, solid and steady.

If you’re learning something new? He’ll go over it as many times as you need without making you feel stupid.

Light NSFW: He takes his time. He enjoys drawing things out, watching your reactions, figuring out exactly what gets to you. He doesn’t rush—he savors. “No need to rush, love.”

Q – Quality Time

SFW: Kick is so big on flashy dates or extravagant plans. His idea of quality time is just being with you and sparkle these times with sweet places. He’s always talkative, he likes having you there. Whether it’s sitting in comfortable any place, working out together, or just driving somewhere with the windows down and the radio low—it counts.

He’ll remember what you like, will adjust to your preferences without thinking.

If you need excitement? He’ll take you somewhere fun, something active.

If you need peace? He’s all for long walks at night, quiet conversations under night sky.

His favorite? Lying in bed late at night, just existing together, no pressure to talk or do anything.

R – Respect

SFW: Kick doesn’t throw respect around lightly—you earn it. That’s why, when he’s with you, it means something. He won’t undermine you, won’t treat you like you can’t handle yourself.

He values competence, effort, and genuine strength—and he respects you because of who you are, not just because you’re his partner.

If someone talks down to you or disrespected? He doesn’t have to say much—already tracking their location and threaten them to shut down all of them devices, and not even try to think about it again.

He listens when you talk, actually takes in what you’re saying. If you have different opinions? He won’t dismiss them—he’ll challenge them, push you to think, but he won’t ever invalidate you.

He respects your independence but won’t hesitate to step in if you need him.

S – Support

SFW: Kick isn’t the type to coddle or sugarcoat things, but he will have your back no matter what. His way of supporting you isn’t about words—it’s actions.

If you’re struggling? He won’t say “It’ll be okay.” He’ll say, “What do you want to do next?” that question means don't you dare hold back

If you fail? He won’t pity you. He’ll help you figure out what went wrong and how to fix it.

If you’re exhausted? He won’t tell you to rest—he’ll make sure you do, taking care of whatever’s weighing on you.

He’s always in your corner, even if he doesn’t always say it outright.

Light NSFW: His support extends to everything, including this. If you’re feeling insecure? He won’t brush it off—he’ll show you exactly how much he wants you, no hesitation. “You’re a goddam perfect. That’s all that matters.”

T – Trust

SFW: Trust is everything to Kick. He doesn’t trust easily, and he doesn’t give it freely. But once he does? It’s unshakable. If he’s with you, it means he trusts you—fully, completely.

He doesn’t need constant reassurances. If he trusts you, he trusts you.

He won’t lie to you, won’t sugarcoat things. If you ask for the truth, you get the truth.

If you ever break that trust? It won’t be an explosion—it’ll be quiet. Cold. And final.

He expects the same in return—if you don’t trust him, it won’t work.

Light NSFW: Trust plays a huge role in intimacy for him. If he trusts you, he lets his guard down, becomes softer in ways no one else gets to see. It’s in the way he lets you touch him, in how he lets go when he’s with you.

U – Understanding

SFW: Kick isn’t the type to push for explanations when you’re not ready to talk. If you need space, he gives it. If you need time, he waits. He’s observant—he can tell when something’s off, but he won’t force you to spill your feelings. Instead, he’ll let you come to him when you’re ready.

If you have a bad day and don’t want to talk? He just exists beside you—silent company, steady presence.

If you mess up? He won’t hold it over you. He understands that everyone screws up sometimes.

He’s not overly emotional, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t get emotions. He just processes things differently, and he gives you room to do the same.

Light NSFW: He’s perceptive in every way, which means he learns you—what you like, what makes you tick. He doesn’t need you to say everything out loud; he figures some of me out and uses that understanding to drive you absolutely wild.

V – Vulnerability

SFW: If Kick is vulnerable with you, it’s serious. It's literally another story, He’s not a man who wears his heart on his sleeve. It takes time for him to open up, but when he does? It’s rare—and it’s real.

You’re the only one who gets to see him tired, frustrated, or uncertain.

If he lets you comfort him? That’s a huge deal. He trusts you enough to lean on you, and that means everything, because since his job was so pressure on him he never had a one to reassure him everything is okay, so now you opened a new kick.

Sometimes, his vulnerability isn’t in words—it’s in letting you be close when he’s feeling worn down, seeing him in this statement, when he is at the loss of words how to tell he is not feeling good he will show his weaknesses with no shame at all.

Light NSFW: This applies to intimacy, too. It’s not just physical for him—it’s personal. If he lets you see him like that, it’s because he wants you to see all of him, not just the hardened soldier.

W – Warmth

SFW: He might not be the softest person in the world, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t warm in his own way. His warmth isn’t loud—it’s quiet, steady, constant.

The way he hands you a cup of coffee/tea without a word, already made exactly how you like it.

The way he would try to cook for you, both of you knowing damn well he sucks and ends up you helping him.

The way he knows when you need comfort, even when you don’t ask for it.

Light NSFW: His warmth is physical, too. His body heat is insane—if you’re cold, he’ll just pull you against him with zero hesitation. And in more intimate moments? Let’s just say, that warmth turns into heat.

X – XO (Hugs & Kisses)

SFW: Kick’s not that super affectionate in public, but when it’s just the two of you? Different story.

His hugs are solid—not soft, but firm, secure, grounding.

Kisses? He’s purposeful about them. He gives them whenever you want to or he want to and adore you—when he kisses you, it means everything to him.

Light NSFW: Slow. Intense. He’s not one for rushed, frantic affection—he takes his time, makes sure you feel it. And once he’s in the mood? Yeah, good luck walking straight afterward (what an odd (cringy) thing to say😍)

Y – Yearning

SFW: Kick doesn’t pine—he wants, and he waits. He’s disciplined enough to keep his feelings in check, but when he’s away on missions, you’re always on his mind.

He always flood you with texts, and the ones he does send? They matter.

He’ll quietly hold onto something small that reminds him of you—a photo, a note, something personal.

He don't do it so much but sometimes he Finds himself talking unconsciously talking about you or anything remind him of you he just goes with "Oh yeah Y/n----" says with a smile on his face a warm one.

The first thing he does when he’s back? Find you. Always.

Light NSFW: When he wants you, he wants you. No hesitation, no uncertainty. He doesn’t just miss you—he craves you. And when he gets back? You’re his for the night. Period.

Z – Zeal

SFW: Kick doesn’t do things halfway. If he’s with you, he’s all in.

He’ll push you to be your best, not because he thinks you need to change, but because he believes in you.

If someone disrespects you? They’re done. No debate, no second chances.

He’s not the loudest person in the room, but when it comes to you, he’s unshakable.

Light NSFW: His intensity applies everywhere—especially when it comes to showing you exactly how much he wants you. He doesn’t just go through the motions—he devours you, like he’s making up for lost time.

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶

Relationship Alphabet series with Cod ghosts!

Keegan Russ

✧ Pairing: Romantic. ✧ Genre: Fluff.

✧ Warnings: Light NSFW, and mention of NSFW content MDNI.

A – Affection

Keegan isn’t one for public displays of affection, but in private, he’s a different man. His affection is quiet but meaningful, shown through small gestures like brushing his fingers against yours when no one’s looking or a firm hand on your lower back when walking together, Love it when you sit on his lap, doing nothing but resting his head on ur back after a long day.

He expresses love through acts of service—bringing you coffee/drink/tea just the way you like it, pulling you closer under the covers at night, or standing protectively between you and a potential threat.

Light NSFW: In intimacy, Keegan’s affection is intense but controlled. His kisses are slow and deep, his hands firm yet careful as they explore your body. He won’t say much, but the way he moves, the way he holds you, makes it undeniably clear how much he cares.

"You feel so good." His voice is husky, lips trailing over your Skin, taking his time with every touch.

B – Boundaries

Keegan is big on boundaries, both his own and yours. He values personal space and isn’t the type to be overly clingy. If you need time alone, he gets it. If he needs a moment to clear his head, he expects the same in return.

He’s also protective of you but never possessive. He trusts you completely and won’t ever try to control you. However, if he senses something or someone is dangerous, expect him to step in with a silent but deadly presence.

Light NSFW: In the bedroom, Keegan respects boundaries immensely. He’s a careful, attentive lover, always making sure you’re comfortable. He won’t push you into anything you’re unsure of and expects the same respect in return.

"Tell me what you want, sweetheart and I’ll give it to you."

C – Communication

Keegan isn’t a man of many words, but when he does speak, he means every word. He’s a good listener and pays attention to the little details. He may not always say “I love you”, but he shows it in ways that speak louder than words.

If something’s bothering him, he won’t shut you out completely, but he’ll take time to process before opening up. He prefers to talk when things calm down, rather than in the heat of the moment.

"I’m not ignoring you. Just... give me a minute."

Light NSFW: Keegan is into talking dirty—he prefers low whispers against your ear, deep breaths, and the occasional groan that tells you everything you need to know. But if you push him, he’ll break, and when he does, his words come out rough and raw, he just has no idea what you are doing to him.

D – Devotion

If Keegan loves you, it’s for life. His devotion isn’t flashy—it’s steady, unwavering, and unshakable. He won’t fall in love easily, but once he does, he’s all in. No hesitation.

He’ll always have your back, no matter what. If you’re in trouble, he’ll drop everything to be there. And if someone hurts you? They’ll have to deal with Keegan Russ in full Ghost mode, and trust me—that’s not a good thing.

Light NSFW: In intimacy, his devotion translates into attention to detail. He’s focused on you—your sounds, your breathing, every movement. He takes his time, making sure every touch, every moment, is memorable.

E – Empathy

Keegan might seem cold and distant, but he’s surprisingly intuitive when it comes to your emotions. He notices the small things—the way your breathing changes, the tension in your shoulders, the subtle way your voice wavers.

He doesn’t push you to talk, but he lets you know he’s there. If you need comfort, he’ll silently pull you into a hug or sit beside you in quiet understanding.

"I don’t know what to say love... but I’m here. That’s not changing."

Light NSFW: Keegan’s empathy extends to intimacy as well. He’s a patient, observant lover, ensuring that he’s not just taking, but giving just as much. He’s aware of what you need and won’t stop until he knows you’re completely satisfied.

"Relax. Let me get it done."

F – Forgiveness

Keegan doesn’t hold grudges, he’s so quick to forgive either, It's like yall get into argument then him out of nowhere after hours come back and talk to you like nothing happened. he just doesn't care about these small issues, he lets them slide easily. But if you break his trust? That’s another story.

It takes time for him to fully forgive, but if he sees genuine effort, he will try. However, if someone betrays him beyond repair, they’re dead to him—simple as that.

"I won’t pretend it didn’t happen, kid."

Light NSFW: In intimacy, if there’s ever a misunderstanding or tension, Keegan prefers to work through it slowly he is a controlled man. He’s not one to jump right into bed after an argument—he needs to feel connected again before anything physical happens, but he couldn't help it with the way his body rise up with heated feelings.

G – Growth

Keegan doesn’t just stay the same—he evolves, and he expects the same from his partner. He’s not afraid of change, but he values stability.

At the beginning of the relationship, he’s reserved and keeps his emotions close to his chest, but over time, he starts letting you in, showing you parts of himself no one else gets to see.

If you're struggling with something, he won’t fix it for you, but he’ll push you to be stronger. He doesn’t coddle—he believes in you too much for that, he believes he should get a strong partner in his life.

Light NSFW: In intimacy, Keegan learns your body over time. Every experience with him is better than the last because he takes note of what makes you shiver, gasp, melt—and he uses it against you.

"You like that, don’t you? Thought so."

H – Honesty

Keegan is brutally honest— yeah with everyone around sometimes too much. but with his beloved partner, If you ask him for his opinion, be ready for the truth, because he won’t sugarcoat it.

He doesn’t believe in mind games or passive aggression. If something’s wrong, he’ll say it outright. If you mess up, he’ll call you out but teasing for to get a madness from you, and he expects you to do the same for him, and honestly he is all for someone honest with him.

Light NSFW: Keegan is into the-top dirty talk, and when he does speak, it’s low, direct, and intense—his honesty carries into the bedroom, and when if you ever do the same with him, He is all down bad for it, he already lost and forgot what he wanted to do with you.

"Damn love, who taught you how to talk like that?" Yes he needs to know the secret.

I – Intimacy

Keegan’s version of intimacy isn’t just physical—it’s trust, understanding, and the feeling of home.

Physical intimacy with him is slow and intense—he’s the type to take his time, memorize every part of you, and make sure you feel everything. But emotional intimacy? That’s something he guards fiercely.

"You’re the only one I let this close. Don’t think I don’t know how much that means."

He’ll let you in bit by bit, sharing the past he rarely speaks about, the fears he never voices. And when he finally does? That’s when you know he’s all in.

Light NSFW: Keegan is all about connection—he wants to feel you, not just physically, but emotionally. He’s focused, intense, and unrelenting when it comes to pleasure.

"Eyes on me, sweetheart."

J – Joy

Keegan’s sense of joy is subtle but real. He’s not loud or dramatic about it, but when he’s happy, you can see it in his eyes, the way the corners of his mouth twitch when you tease him, the rare smirk he gives when he’s feeling particularly amused.

He enjoys simple things—a night drive with you [be safe✌🏻], the sound of rain on the roof, the peace that comes with just existing together.

He’s got a dry, deadpan sense of humor, so if you can match that? You’ll have him hooked.

"You really think that’s funny?" He says with a completely straight face... before finally breaking into a small chuckle.

Light NSFW: Keegan might not laugh during intimacy, but he loves seeing you flustered. If teasing you makes you squirm? He’ll absolutely do it.

"Look at you. So desperate already?"

K – Kindness

Keegan isn’t soft, but he’s good. His kindness is quiet, strong, and unwavering.

He won’t baby you, but he’ll always have your back. If you're having a bad day, he won’t say much—instead, he'll bring you coffee/tea/drink, sit next to you in silence, or press a warm, reassuring kiss to your temple.

He’s gentle in his own way—steady hands on your waist, the way he pulls you close in his sleep, the way he waits for you when you need time to process your emotions.

Light NSFW: Keegan is gentle yet firm in intimacy—his kindness shows in the way he takes his time, making sure you feel safe and wanted.

"I’ve got you. Just let go."

L – Love

Keegan doesn’t fall easily, but when he does, it’s permanent. His love is deep, unwavering, and incredibly strong—a pillar you can always lean on.

He won’t be overly romantic, but you’ll feel it in every touch, every glance, every quiet act of devotion. He’s the type to stay up watching you sleep after a nightmare, to hold your hand out of nowhere and give it a kiss, to kiss you slow and deep like it’s the last time, every time.

"Christ, got any idea how much you mean to me?"

And when he finally says “I love you”? You know it’s real, because he doesn’t throw those words around lightly.

Light NSFW: When Keegan loves, he makes sure you know it—with his hands, his lips, his body, his everything.

M – Memories

Keegan holds onto memories tightly, even if he doesn’t talk about them much. His mind is like a vault, storing every little moment with you—whether it’s the way you laugh, how you take yourself always, or the exact tone of your voice when you tease him.

He isn’t the type to take constant pictures, but he keeps small mementos—your handwriting on a sticky note, a pressed flower from a trip you took together, even a stupid inside joke scrawled on a bar napkin.

If you ever doubt if he cherishes your time together, just know: he does. He always does.

N – Nurturing

Keegan isn’t openly coddling, but his way of nurturing comes through in protective instincts and subtle care. If you’re sick, he won’t smother you, but you’ll suddenly find water, medicine, and a warm blanket within reach. If you’re exhausted, he’ll just tug you into his arms and let you rest against him without saying a word.

"Go to sleep. I’ll still be here when you wake up."

And if you ever break down, he won’t ask questions. He’ll just pull you close, hand steady on your back, heartbeat solid against your ear.

"I got you."

O – Openness

Keegan isn’t naturally open, and that’s the hardest part of being with him. At first, he bottles everything up—he thinks his burdens are his alone to carry.

But over time, he learns that being open with you doesn’t make him "weak". It’s not easy for him, but if you patiently wait, you’ll see him start to unravel in small ways—a hand gripping yours a little tighter, a quiet admission at 2 AM when the world is still.

When he finally trusts you enough to let you in, that’s when you know he’s truly yours.

P – Patience

Keegan is stoic, disciplined, and controlled, but when it comes to you? His patience is infinite.

Whether it’s helping you through something difficult, waiting for you to open up, or calming you down after a bad day, he never rushes you.

"Take your time. I’m not going anywhere."

And if you’re stubborn or having an off day, he doesn’t push. He just stays close, offering his silent presence until you’re ready.

Light NSFW: His patience extends to the bedroom, too. He’s the type to drag things out, savoring every reaction, making sure you feel everything.

"I can do this all night."

Q – Quality Time

Keegan doesn’t care for fancy dates or extravagant plans— Yeah he will go with you for whenever you want but his idea of quality time is just being with you.

He loves the quiet moments—long drives at night, sitting on the rooftop watching the city lights, lying in bed with you, tracing circles on your back just going deep in his thoughts breathing in and out.

"You don’t have to do anything special. Just be here."

His love language is undistracted presence—when he’s with you, he’s fully with you. No phone, no distractions, just you and him, existing in the same space.

R – Respect

Keegan doesn’t take respect lightly. He won’t tolerate being disrespected, and he sure as hell won’t do it to you.

He values your opinions, your choices, your independence. He’ll challenge you, push you to be better, but he’ll never undermine you.

"You’re strong. I knew that the first time I saw you."

If someone crosses the line with you? Keegan won’t lose his temper, but the danger in his eyes will say enough, He is already there throwing hands perhaps.

S – Support

Keegan isn’t the cheerleader type, but his support is unshakable.

If you have a goal? He’ll push you towards it. If you’re struggling? He’ll stand by your side. If you doubt yourself? He won’t even let you start to do it.

"Hey You’re more though than you think. I see it, even if you don’t."

His support isn’t loud—it’s steady. A reassuring touch on your back, a quiet “I believe in you,” a subtle nod when you need it most.

T – Trust

For Keegan, trust is earned, not given. It takes time, but once you have it, he’s all in.

He trusts you with his life, his emotions, his everything. But if you break that trust? It’s almost impossible to rebuild.

"If I trust you, it’s because you’ve won it. Don’t take that softly."

But when he loves you, he trusts you completely—his heart, his body, his soul. He lets himself be vulnerable in ways no one else sees.

Light NSFW: In intimacy, trust is everything to him. He wants to know that you trust him just as much as he trusts you, He trusts you enough that you saw beneath his clothes and the moments you share. together.

"Let go. I’ve got you."

U – Understanding

Keegan is a man of few words, but he understands you better than you might realize. He’s good at reading people, catching onto small details others overlook.

If you’re having a bad day, he won’t ask a million questions—he’ll just hand your favorite snacks, pull you into his arms, and let you breathe.

"You Gonna tell me what happened, love?."

He knows that sometimes, you need space. Other times, you need him to just be there. He never pressures you to talk but will always be ready to listen.

V – Vulnerability

This is the hardest thing for Keegan. He’s spent years keeping his emotions in check, believing that showing weakness could cost lives.

At first, he’s walled off, refusing to let you see the weight he carries. But as time goes on, you’ll see cracks in his armor—soft confessions at night, small glimpses of the man behind the soldier.

The first time he opens up to you, it’s raw and real—not dramatic, not forced, just genuine honesty. And after that? He’ll trust you with parts of himself he never shows anyone else.

W – Warmth

Keegan isn’t sunshine and rainbows, but his love is steady and strong. His warmth comes in silent gestures—a calloused hand brushing your cheek, an arm around your waist as you sleep, the way he always makes sure you’re safe.

"You cold? C’mere."

He isn’t cuddly in public, but behind closed doors, he’ll pull you into his lap, press a slow kiss to your temple, and let you melt into him.

Light NSFW:

He runs warm, and you’ll always notice it at night—his body heat wrapping around you, his breath against your ear as he holds you close.

"You feel good against me, sweetheart."

X – XO (Hugs & Kisses)

Keegan isn’t overly affectionate, but when he wants to touch you, he makes it count.

His hugs are rare but meaningful—a strong arm around your waist, a firm grip on your shoulder, a brief but lingering squeeze before he lets go.

"Goddamit, you mean everything to me."

His kisses are intense—slow, deep, and makeout sessions full of big passion. and for teasing? He’s the type to tilt your chin up, letting his lips brush over yours until you’re practically begging him to kiss you.

"You want more? Say it."'

Y – Yearning

Keegan isn’t the type to voice his longing outright, but you can see it in his eyes, in the way he watches you, in the tension in his shoulders when you’re apart.

If he is gone for a mission, he won’t spam your phone with messages—he’ll just send one text:

"Stay safe. will Come back to you."

When he misses you, you’ll feel it in the way he holds you after you return—his grip a little tighter, his voice softer, the way he just rests his forehead against yours in silence.

Light NSFW: When he’s been away too long? Expect his hands to be greedy, his lips demanding on yours, his voice low and rough in your ear.

"You have no idea how much I fucking missed you."

Z – Zeal

Keegan might seem quiet, but when he loves someone, he loves them with everything he has, And he is questioning himself how this happened or passed him.

He’s devoted, intense, and unwavering—his passion doesn’t burn bright and fleeting, it smolders like an ember, lasting forever.

"You were never a choice to me...I don't get on loveing that easy"

His zeal for you isn’t just in words, but in actions—how he watches your back, how he protects you, how he chooses you over and over again.

Light NSFW: When he’s focused on you, he’s all in. His passion isn’t rushed—it’s deliberate, consuming, leaving you breathless under his touch.

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶

Relationship Alphabet series with Cod ghosts!

Hesh walker

✧ Pairing: Romantic. ✧ Genre: Fluff.

Hesh is a natural leader—strong, confident, and brave. But beneath that, he has a good heart and a gentle soul. He loves deeply, respects his partner, and would go to the ends of the earth to protect them. He’s the kind of man who makes you feel safe, loved, and cherished.

✧ Warnings: Light NSFW, and mention of NSFW content MDNI.

A – Affection

He’s the type to always have a hand on you—never possessive, just present, just there. A grounding touch at the small of your back, his fingers grazing yours as if to remind you he’s close, his arm draped around you in easy familiarity. It’s second nature to him, an unspoken language of affection woven into every gesture.

But Hesh also understands the weight of space, the need for solitude. He’ll step back when you need it, let his love exist in the quiet between moments. And when you reach for him again, he’s there—ready to pull you close, press another kiss to your temple, and remind you that you are deeply, endlessly loved.

“C’mere, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pulling you into a hug after a long day. “Missed you.”

Light NSFW: His affection bleeds into the bedroom. He’s all about praise, warmth, and devotion. He doesn’t just touch—he cherishes. His hands explore, but always with care, always making sure you know exactly how much he adores you.

“Damn, you’re beautiful,” he whispers against your skin. “I’ll never get tired of this.”

B – Boundaries

Hesh is a respectful man. He might tease, push a little, but he’ll never cross a line. He believes in mutual trust, and he expects the same from you.

If you need space? He’ll give it. If you say no? That’s final. If something makes you uncomfortable? He’ll never push.

“Hey, if you don’t wanna talk about it, that’s okay,” he says, his tone calm but firm. “Just know I’m here when you’re ready.”

Light NSFW: He’s attentive in intimacy. He won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with—he pays attention to your body, your reactions. If something feels off, he stops immediately.

“Hey, sweetheart, you okay?” he murmurs, voice gentle but firm. “We don’t gotta rush. I want you to feel good—only if you’re ready.”

C – Communication

Hesh believes that honest communication is everything. He’s straightforward, hates beating around the bush, and always wants to know where he stands.

If something’s wrong, he’ll ask. If you’re upset, he’ll want to talk it out. He doesn’t like leaving things unresolved.

He’s also not afraid to be vulnerable with you. He trusts you, and that means being honest about his own fears and worries.

“I don’t like being away from you for so long,” he admits one night, voice quiet but firm. “I know this life is tough, but damn… I hate leaving you behind.”

Light NSFW: Communication extends into the bedroom. He wants to hear you, wants you to tell him what you like, what you want. He loves feedback—if you moan his name, he’ll smirk, pushing a little further just to get another reaction.

“Oh, you like that?” he chuckles, voice husky. “Damn, sweetheart. Say it again.”

D – Devotion

Devotion defines Hesh, When he loves, he loves with his whole heart—unyielding, unwavering, all in. There are no half-measures, no hesitations. He doesn’t believe in temporary affections or fleeting romances; if he chooses you, it’s because he sees something real, something worth holding onto.

Hesh is a one-person man. No games, no second-guessing. The moment he realizes he loves you, he’s already picturing a future—imagining the life you could build together.

Light NSFW: His devotion extends to intimacy. He’s a giver—he’s here to please. He worships you, makes sure you feel every ounce of love he has for you. He takes his time, slow, deliberate.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “Tonight’s about you.”

E – Empathy

Hesh feels deeply—he can’t stand seeing you upset. Even if you don’t say anything, he knows when something’s wrong.

He’s not just a good listener—he genuinely wants to help. He’ll hold you, rub your back, murmur soft reassurances until you feel safe again.

“I got you, baby. You don’t have to go through this alone.” And if you ever doubt yourself? If you’re feeling insecure? He won’t have it.

“Hey. Look at me.” He tilts your chin up, eyes burning with intensity. “You’re the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me. Don’t you ever forget that.”

Light NSFW: His empathy translates into the way he takes care of you. After intimacy, he’s all about aftercare—pulling you close, Sharing lazy and slow kisses, murmuring sweet things.

F – Forgiveness

Hesh isn’t the type to hold grudges. If you argue, he’ll want to resolve it quickly—he doesn’t like letting things fester.

He believes in talking things out, making sure you both understand each other. If you’re wrong, he won’t hold it over your head. If he’s wrong? He’ll own up to it.

“I was an ass earlier. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry, babe.” when he only just said 'I think you are wrong babe.'

But there’s one thing he won’t forgive easily—betrayal. If you lie to him, break his trust, it hurts him deeply. It takes time to earn back his trust, but if he truly loves you, he’ll try.

Light NSFW: If there’s tension after a fight? He might channel that energy into passion. Heated kisses, needy touches—like he’s reminding himself that you’re still his.

“You drive me crazy, y’know that?” he murmurs against your lips. “But fuck, I love you.”

G – Growth

Hesh believes that a relationship is a journey, not a destination. He knows that people change, and he embraces that. He wants to grow with you, through the good and the bad.

He’s patient when it comes to differences or conflicts. If something isn’t working, he’ll work on it instead of giving up. He listens, learns, and always strives to be a better man for you.

Light NSFW:

With Hesh, intimacy is more than just closeness—it’s understanding, connection, and an unspoken promise to always listen.

He’s not the kind to assume, to take without learning. He watches, he feels, he asks. Every reaction, every breath, every subtle shift in your expression is something he takes in like second nature. He wants to know what makes you tick, what makes you melt, what turns a simple touch into something deeper, something unforgettable.

H – Honesty

Hesh doesn’t play games. He’s blunt but kind, always speaking his mind. If something is wrong, he wants to talk about it, not ignore it.

He expects the same from you. He’s not a fan of mind games or passive-aggressiveness. If you’re upset, he’d rather you say it outright than bottle it up.

Light NSFW: He’s honest about what he wants, but never pushy. If he’s in the mood, he’ll let you know—but he respects your pace and comfort level.

His lips brush against your ear. “You tell me when, sweetheart. I’ll be waiting.”

I – Intimacy

For Hesh, intimacy is more than just touch—it’s trust, vulnerability, the kind of connection that goes beyond the physical. He wants to know you, really know you—the things that make you smile, the memories that shaped you, the quiet thoughts you don’t share with just anyone.

He cherishes the little moments, the ones that most people overlook. Laying in bed together, tracing lazy patterns on your skin as you talk about life, your dreams, your fears. Running his fingers through your hair, feeling the way you relax under his touch. The kind of intimacy that doesn’t need grand gestures or stolen breaths—just being, together, without pretense.

Light NSFW:

When it comes to physical intimacy, Hesh is everything you could hope for—attentive, passionate, and deeply in tune with you. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t take anything for granted. Every touch, every kiss, every movement is a reflection of his care, his desire to make you feel truly seen and adored.

He’s not just focused on the act itself; he’s focused on you. On how you respond, on the way your body reacts to his, ensuring that you feel comfortable, cherished, and safe in every moment. He listens to your body, to your unspoken cues, and adapts, always trying to give you exactly what you need, what you crave.

“You feel so damn good, sweetheart,” he groans, holding you close. “Let me take take care of ya.”

J – Joy

Hesh finds happiness in the little things. A shared joke, a stolen kiss, you laughing at something dumb he did—those moments make his day.

He’s the type to tease you just to see you smile, but he also appreciates when you make him laugh. You’re his safe place, the person who makes even the worst days feel brighter.

K – Kindness

Hesh is strength wrapped in softness, a balance of power and tenderness that creates a safe space for anyone lucky enough to be in his life, When you need comfort, Hesh is there, a steady presence, never forcing but always ready to offer a shoulder, a gentle touch, a word of reassurance. He doesn’t just show up for the big moments; he’s there for the small ones too, the quiet, everyday acts of kindness that carry weight and these acts also come with him in the bed.

L – Love

Hesh’s love is deep, rooted, and unshakable. He’s not the type to rush into things, to fall for the surface level or the fleeting moments. But when he does fall? It’s with everything he has—wholehearted, all-consuming, with no part of him held back.

He’s not afraid to say it first, either. When Hesh knows, he knows, and there’s no hesitating, no second-guessing. He won’t waste time pretending to feel anything less than exactly what he does.

You never have to doubt his feelings. He shows his love in a million little ways—the way he looks at you, the way he touches you, the way he always puts you first.

Light NSFW: Hesh’s love doesn’t just stay within the realm of emotion; it bleeds into every aspect of your connection, especially in the bedroom. His passion is as intense as his affection, but it’s never selfish. He doesn’t just crave your body—he craves all of you.

In his arms, you’re not just desired—you’re wanted in every way that matters.

“Let me love you right,” he whispers, kissing down your neck. “Slow and deep, sweetheart.”

M – Memories

Hesh is the kind of guy who remembers everything. The little things—the first time you held hands, your favorite song, the way your eyes light up when you talk about something you love.

He loves reminiscing, especially when he’s away on missions. When he calls or texts, he’ll bring up little moments to remind you how much you mean to him.

He saves little things, too—a picture, a note, a piece of jewelry you left on his nightstand. When he’s away, he holds onto them like a lifeline.

“Kept this with me the whole time,” he says when he comes home, showing you a small trinket. “Kept me going.”

Light NSFW:

When you’ve been apart for a while, expect nothing short of a heated reunion. The moment you’re back in his arms, there’s no holding back. Hesh has missed you—deeply—and he’s not about to waste a single second.

There’s a hunger in his touch, a desperation to reconnect, to feel you close again. His hands will find you before words even have the chance to leave his lips, pulling you into him like he’s afraid you might slip away. His kiss will be fierce, almost frantic, as if he’s trying to memorize every part of you all over again.

N – Nurturing

Hesh has a natural instinct to take care of those he loves. He’s the kind of person who is always looking out for you, whether that means making sure you’re fed, hydrated, or simply comfortable. If you’re stressed or having a tough day, he’ll take care of you in every way he can.

Whether you’re sick or just need someone to lean on, Hesh will show up—he’ll bring you your favorite tea or sit beside you in silence, knowing sometimes presence is the most nurturing thing.

“I’ve got you, babe. Just rest, let me handle everything else.”

He’s nurturing in the bedroom, too—not just in terms of physical needs, but emotionally. He wants to ensure you’re comfortable and enjoying the moment just as much as he is. He’ll always ask if you’re okay, if you’re comfortable, and if you need anything more.

“Tell me if you need me to slow down,”

O – Openness

Hesh may be reserved, but when it comes to you, he’s more than willing to open up. He’s not the type to share his feelings lightly, but with you, he’s honest and vulnerable.

He’ll talk about his past, his fears, and his hopes for the future when he feels ready—and it’s a sign of just how much he trusts you. He’ll be patient with you if you need time to open up, but he wants you to always feel like you can speak your mind without fear of judgment.

Light NSFW: In intimacy, he’s open to exploring with you. He’s willing to experiment, to learn, to make sure the experience is mutual. If you have desires or things you’ve never tried before, he’ll listen and be patient, letting you guide the way.

“If there’s anything you want to try, just let me know.” He says giving you a wink.

P – Patience

Hesh is incredibly patient, especially when it comes to emotional matters. If you’re going through something, he’s not one to rush you. He understands that healing takes time, and he’s right there beside you, no matter how long it takes.

He’s also patient when it comes to personal space and giving you room to breathe. He knows sometimes you need space to think, and he doesn’t take it personally. He’ll wait for you, not because he has to, but because he knows you need it.

Light NSFW: In the bedroom, he has a slow, steady pace. He doesn’t rush; he takes his time to make sure you’re completely comfortable and enjoying every moment. He’ll never push you into anything you’re not ready for.

“I’m not going anywhere. Let’s take it slow.”

Q – Quality Time

Hesh doesn’t just appreciate time together; he values quality time. He’ll make sure you have those moments—even if it’s something simple like watching movies, cooking together, or having deep conversations on the porch at night.

To him, it’s not about how much time you spend together, but how you spend it. He wants to connect with you on a deeper level, sharing laughs, making memories, and learning from each other.

Light NSFW: Quality time for him in the bedroom is the same—he doesn’t just want a quick release; he wants a connection. He’ll take the time to really enjoy being with you, learning every curve of your body, finding joy in every touch and kiss.

“This is about you, sweetheart.”

R – Respect

Hesh holds respect at the core of his relationships. He knows that respect is a two-way street, and he’ll give it to you in abundance. Whether it’s respecting your boundaries, your thoughts, or your feelings, Hesh doesn’t believe in belittling or taking things for granted.

He treats you as an equal partner in the relationship, and he always makes sure you feel valued. He won’t dismiss your emotions or make you feel small for speaking your mind.

And if someone disrespect you? he will go with "I don't care what she has told, I care what she has been told!"

Light NSFW: In the bedroom, he respects your comfort and your consent. If something doesn’t feel right, he’ll stop immediately. He doesn’t push boundaries; he’s all about making sure both of you are comfortable and having a good time.

S – Support

Hesh is the type of man who will always have your back. Whether it’s a tough day at work, a personal challenge, or an issue in the relationship, he’ll stand by you no matter what. He’s dependable, and you’ll always have his full support.

He’s also supportive of your goals and dreams, encouraging you to go after what you want. If you’re feeling unsure or defeated, he’ll be the one to lift you up and remind you how strong you are.

Light NSFW: He’s supportive of your needs in the bedroom, always making sure you’re enjoying yourselves and comfortable. He’s the kind of man who will listen to you if you tell him what you like and doesn’t hesitate to cater to you.

T – Trust

Trust is everything to Hesh. He’s not the type to share his heart with just anyone, but when he does, he’s all in. He believes in mutual trust, the kind where both of you can be vulnerable, knowing that the other will always have your back.

He’s someone you can trust to keep his word, to always be there when you need him, and to never betray your confidence. He’ll do whatever it takes to prove that you can count on him.

Light NSFW: His trust extends to the bedroom, too. He’ll make sure you feel safe and secure in every moment, always respecting your boundaries and listening carefully to your needs. And his only trust here when he tells you what he likes and what he want you to do for him.

U – Understanding

Hesh is the epitome of understanding. Whether you’re feeling overwhelmed, stressed, or even when you’re just in a mood, he always knows how to navigate those moments with patience. He listens more than he speaks, offering insight only when necessary. He understands when to give you space and when to offer support.

He never rushes you to express yourself, knowing that sometimes, just having someone near is all you need. He wants to truly understand your thoughts and feelings, and he’ll work patiently to ensure you feel heard and validated.

Light NSFW: In the bedroom, he’s deeply attuned to your body language and subtle cues. He knows when you’re comfortable, when you need a little more, or when you’re not quite in the mood. He respects your pace, ensuring that both of you are emotionally and physically aligned.

“Does this feel good?" and he is expecting you to answer.

V – Vulnerability

Hesh doesn’t open up easily, but when he does, it’s because he trusts you completely. Vulnerability is something he’s learned to embrace with you, knowing that it creates a deeper bond. He may not show it all the time, but when he lets his guard down, he’s showing you how much you mean to him.

His vulnerable side is rare, but when it’s just the two of you, he’s not afraid to talk about his past, his fears, and the parts of him that aren’t always strong. It’s a sign of how deep his love for you is.

Light NSFW: In intimacy, he’s vulnerable too. He’s not about showing off, but about creating a real connection. He doesn’t mind being open about what he wants or needs, and he encourages you to do the same. It’s about trust and sharing those moments of raw honesty.

W – Warmth

Hesh’s warmth isn’t something you notice at first glance—it’s in the way he holds you when you’re cold, the gentle touch on your back when you’re upset, or the soft words of reassurance when you’re feeling anxious. He has a quiet warmth that radiates comfort and security.

His presence alone is enough to make you feel safe and not afraid of anything, and his love comes with a steady, warm energy that’s unshakeable. He may not always use words, but his actions speak volumes.

Light NSFW: In the bedroom, his warmth is evident as he takes his time, making sure you feel loved and cherished in every way. He’s never rough or overly aggressive; instead, he’s tender and patient, making sure you’re comfortable and cared for.

X – XO (Hugs & Kisses)

Hesh is a man who’s subtle with affection, but when it comes to you, he’s not afraid to show his love in small, meaningful gestures. He’s a fan of hugs and kisses—the kind that are both comforting and full of affection.

You’ll often find him kissing your forehead after a tough day, or pulling you into his arms for a tight hug when you need comfort. His kisses are never rushed; they’re soft and tender, a reminder of his deep feelings for you.

“Come here.” He says, pulling you in for a hug and pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

Light NSFW: In intimate moments, his kisses are slow and passionate, always deepening when you pull him closer. He’s the kind of lover who will take his time, his lips tracing every inch of your skin as he shows you just how much you mean to him.

Y – Yearning

Hesh doesn’t talk about yearning much, but you can see it in his eyes. There’s a longing in the way he looks at you, a quiet desire to be close and to share everything with you. His yearning isn’t loud—it’s in the way he holds your hand for just a little longer than usual or the way he watches you with admiration when you’re not looking.

He’s the type of man who will yearn for the little things, those small moments with you that make everything worth it.

“I don’t know what it is, but I can’t stop thinking about you. I’m always missing you when you’re not around.”

Light NSFW: In the bedroom, Hesh’s yearning is reflected in his more rough, more deliberate actions. He wants to savor every moment with you, to make you feel like you’re the only thing on his mind. It’s about passion, but also appreciation—he yearns to give you his best.

Z – Zeal

Hesh’s zeal comes from the fire he has inside for the people he loves. He’s passionate and dedicated, whether it’s in his work or in his relationship with you. He’s always the one who’s fully invested, giving his all in everything he does. His commitment to you never wavers.

There’s a fierce loyalty in his zeal. He’s ready to defend you, protect you, and love you with everything he has. That passion is always burning, whether it’s a quiet dedication to making you happy or a more intense devotion to making sure you’re never hurt.

“You’re everything to me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Light NSFW: In intimacy, his zeal is reflected in his drive to please you. He’s not about rushing things—he’s focused on making sure you feel wanted and loved in every possible way. His passion runs deep, and he’s committed to showing you just how much you mean to him.

“You’re mine, and I’ll make sure you feel that every fucking single time.”

UHM ZAMN I WANT HIM sorry for crashing out

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶

Relationship Alphabet series with Cod ghosts!

Logan walker

✧ Pairing: Romantic. ✧ Genre: Fluff.

✧ Warnings: Light NSFW, and mention of NSFW content MDNI

A – Affection

Logan isn’t the most outwardly affectionate person, but when he loves, he loves hard. His touches are subtle but deeply meaningful—hand on your lower back as you walk, fingers grazing yours before he holds your hand, a quick squeeze on your thigh when you sit next to him.

His favorite form of affection? Forehead touches. It’s his way of grounding himself, closing his eyes for a second, and just feeling you there. After a long mission, expect him to just press his forehead to yours and sigh, finally allowing himself to relax.

Light NSFW: Logan’s brand of affection can turn intense fast. It starts with lazy kisses, slow and teasing, before his hands move—gripping your waist, pulling you closer, letting you feel just how much he missed you. He loves dragging his lips down your jaw, murmuring "Mine." against your skin.

B – Boundaries

Logan has firm boundaries, but it’s mostly because of his lifestyle. He’s trained himself to keep emotions in check during missions, and he doesn’t always talk about the things he’s been through.

However, he respects boundaries just as much as he sets them. If you need space, he gives it without question. He might not always know the right words to comfort you, but he’s always there. Sitting beside you in silence, a steady presence.

Light NSFW: While Logan is pretty private, he does have one rule—when he’s in the moment, it’s just the two of you. He hates distractions, hates anything pulling his focus away from you. If you try to tease him with a playful comment while he’s all over you? His grip tightens. "Eyes on me, sweetheart."

C – Communication

Logan isn’t a talker, but he listens better than anyone. He picks up on your emotions before you even say a word, adjusting himself accordingly—if you’re stressed, he’s pulling you into his arms; if you’re mad, he’s giving you space before asking "Wanna talk about it?"

That being said, getting Logan to talk about his own feelings is like pulling teeth. He’d rather show you than say it. When he does open up, it’s usually at night, in the dark, when it’s just the two of you and there’s no pressure.

Light NSFW: Logan doesn’t talk much during intimate moments, but when he does? It’s deep, raspy, and straight to the point. He’s all about action, letting his hands and lips speak for him—but every once in a while, you’ll get a low, "You feel so damn good, baby." whispered against your skin.

D – Devotion

Logan is unshakably devoted. Once you have him, you have him. There’s no half-measures—he’s all in, fiercely protective, always looking out for you even when you don’t realize it.

If you ever doubt his feelings, just look at his actions. He’s the guy who remembers the little things—how you like your coffee, your favorite songs, the exact way you like to be held when you’re upset.

Light NSFW: His devotion carries over into the bedroom. Logan isn’t selfish—he’s focused on you, taking his time, memorizing every reaction. He takes pride in knowing exactly what makes you shudder under his touch, whispering, "Let me take care of you."

E – Empathy

Logan might be quiet, but he feels things deeply. He understands pain, loss, and the weight of things left unsaid. It’s why he’s so gentle with you, even if he’s rough with the rest of the world.

He can tell when you’re holding back emotions, and while he won’t push, he’ll make sure you know he’s there. If you’re upset, he won’t flood you with questions—he’ll just sit beside you, wrap an arm around you, and let you lean into him.

Light NSFW: Logan is in tune with your body. He’s perceptive, catching every little hitch in your breath, every tremble. He watches, listens, adjusts—making sure you’re enjoying every second. And if you’re feeling particularly vulnerable? He’ll slow down, pressing his forehead to yours and murmuring, "I got you, baby."

F – Forgiveness

Logan doesn’t hold grudges, but he doesn’t forget either. If you hurt him, he needs time. He won’t lash out, but he’ll go quiet, processing everything internally.

That being said, he doesn’t stay mad forever. He knows nobody’s perfect, and as long as you’re honest with him, he’ll always work things out. He’s not the type to bring up old arguments—once he forgives, it’s done.

Light NSFW: If you’ve had an argument but made up, Logan’s version of making up is intense. He doesn’t say much—he just pulls you in, kisses you like he’s making up for lost time, and reminds you exactly how much you mean to him without a single word.

G – Growth

Logan isn’t the same man he was before he met you. He’s spent so much of his life as a soldier—his purpose was always about the mission, never about himself. But with you? He’s learned how to live, not just survive.

It takes him a while to open up, to let himself be vulnerable, but he does it because of you. You push him in all the right ways, and he silently thanks you for it every day.

Light NSFW: Logan used to think intimacy was just about physical connection, but he’s learned there’s so much more to it. He grows with you—learning what you like, adjusting, making sure that every time feels better than the last. "Tell me what you need, baby." he murmurs, fingers tracing slow patterns on your skin.

H – Honesty

Logan is a terrible liar. He doesn’t sugarcoat things, doesn’t play games—if he says something, he means it. If he doesn’t like something, he won’t pretend otherwise.

But when it comes to emotions? That’s different. He struggles to express them, to admit when he’s feeling off. He’s still learning that it’s okay to talk about the things weighing on his mind—but with you, he’s trying.

Light NSFW: Logan is honest about what he wants. He’s not one for flowery words or elaborate speeches, but when he looks at you with half gazed eyes and says, "Need you right now." you know he means it.

I – Intimacy

For Logan, intimacy isn’t just about physical closeness—it’s about trust. He shows his love in quiet ways: resting his head in your lap after a long day, tracing slow circles on your skin as you lay beside him, whispering your name in the dead of night.

There’s something sacred about being close to you, something grounding. It’s the only time he can truly let his guard down.

Light NSFW: Logan doesn’t rush intimacy. He takes his time, savoring every reaction, every whispered breath. He watches you more than anything, memorizing the way your body moves under his touch. Intimacy with Logan isn’t just physical—it’s a promise.

J – Joy

Happiness sneaks up on Logan when he’s with you. It’s in the little things—the way you laugh at his deadpan jokes, the way you reach for his hand absentmindedly, the way your presence makes the world feel a little less heavy.

His joy is quiet but deep. It’s in the rare moments where he smiles, where he presses a kiss to your forehead and mutters, "Didn’t think I could have this."

Light NSFW: Logan’s joy in intimacy comes from you—watching your reactions, feeling your body relax under him, knowing that he’s the reason for your pleasure. He finds an almost smug satisfaction in pulling soft gasps from your lips, murmuring, "That’s it, baby. Let go."

K – Kindness

Logan isn’t overly affectionate, but his kindness speaks through his actions. He doesn’t always say "I love you," but you can see it in the way he makes sure you eat, the way he tucks a blanket around you when you fall asleep, the way he holds your hand just a little tighter when he feels like something’s wrong.

He’s gentle with you in a way he isn’t with anyone else. The world has hardened him, but with you? He softens—just a little.

Light NSFW: Even when he’s rough, there’s a tenderness in the way Logan touches you. He never takes more than you’re willing to give, never pushes too far. His kindness carries into every intimate moment—checking in, making sure you feel safe, whispering reassurance between kisses.

L – Love

Logan loves deeply, completely, permanently. He doesn’t fall easily, but when he does, it’s all or nothing.

His love is loyalty—standing by your side through everything. His love is trust—letting you see parts of him no one else gets to. His love is forever—even if he doesn’t always say the words, you know.

Light NSFW: Love with Logan is slow, deliberate, consuming. He doesn’t just want you—he wants every part of you, every sigh, every whispered moan, every ounce of trust. "Be mine, please..." he murmurs against your lips, not as a demand, but as a promise.

M – Memories

Logan holds onto memories like old photographs—silent, but deeply treasured. He’s not the type to talk much about the past, but he remembers everything.

The first time you made him laugh so hard he had to look away. The way your eyes lit up when he gave you something small but meaningful. The moment he realized he was in love with you, staring at you when you weren’t looking, thinking, God, I’m in trouble.

Light NSFW: Some of his favorite memories? The way you whispered his name in the dark, breathless and wanting. The look in your eyes when he had you pinned beneath him. The way you fell asleep tangled in him, completely trusting. Those memories replay in his mind more than he’d ever admit.

N – Nurturing

Logan might not be overly affectionate, but he takes care of you in ways you don’t always notice. He makes sure you eat, gets you water without you asking, pulls you against him when he feels you shiver.

If you’re sick or hurt, he’s silently hovering—doesn’t fuss, doesn’t baby you, but he’s right there. Holding your hand, rubbing slow circles into your back, making sure you feel safe.

Light NSFW: Nurturing carries over into intimacy—Logan takes his time, always attuned to what you need. If you’re stressed, he makes it slow and comforting. If you’re aching for him, he meets you where you are. He reads you like a book, and he’s always willing to give.

O – Openness

It takes Logan a long time to open up. Not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he’s spent his whole life keeping things locked away.

But the more he loves you, the more he tries. He won’t always have the words, but he’ll show you in the way he grips your hand just a little tighter, in the way he pulls you close at night, in the way he whispers a quiet "Don’t go anywhere, okay?" when he’s half-asleep.

Light NSFW: Openness is harder for him here—he's used to staying in control. But when he lets go, when he trusts you completely? It’s different. He tells you what he wants, tells you how good you make him feel. And if you ever whisper something soft and intimate in return, he’ll never forget it.

P – Patience

Logan is patient, but in a quiet way. He doesn’t rush things, doesn’t push—you take your time with him, and he lets you.

If you’re upset, he doesn’t demand answers. He waits. If you’re struggling, he doesn’t offer empty words—he shows you he’s there, steady and unwavering.

Light NSFW: His patience extends into intimacy—he takes his time, savoring every little reaction, every sound you make. He’s in no hurry. He’ll tease, pull back, make you beg if he wants to—because Logan knows that waiting makes everything that much better.

Q – Quality time

Logan isn’t big on grand gestures—his love is in the small moments. Sitting on the couch in silence, driving in comfortable quiet, watching you sleep just because he likes the way you breathe next to him.

He prefers one-on-one time over anything else. No distractions, just you and him. That’s when he feels most at peace.

Light NSFW: Logan likes to take his time. Quality time in intimacy means making every second count—pulling you onto his lap, tracing slow patterns on your back, watching you with darkened eyes. He’s not the type to rush—he wants to enjoy every single second of you.

R – Respect

Logan respects everything about you—your choices, your independence, your emotions. He might be protective, but he never tries to control you. If you say no to something, he listens.

If someone else disrespects you? That’s a different story. Logan doesn’t yell, doesn’t make a scene—but there’s something dangerous in the way his jaw tightens, in the way he stands just a little taller.

Light NSFW: Respect carries over into the bedroom. He doesn’t assume, doesn’t take—he asks, listens, watches. Your pleasure matters just as much as his, and he never crosses a line. "Tell me if you want me to stop." he murmurs, his lips ghosting over your skin.

S – Support

Logan isn’t great with words, but his support is unwavering. If you have a goal, he’s right there—helping, encouraging, believing in you more than you believe in yourself.

If you ever break down, he doesn’t panic—he just holds you. No forced words, no pressure—just quiet, solid support.

Light NSFW: Support, for him, is about giving. He’s focused on you, making sure you feel wanted, cherished, taken care of. He watches your every reaction, adjusting, always making sure you’re taken care of first.

T – Trust

Logan doesn’t trust easily—but when he does, it’s forever. He doesn’t just let anyone in, doesn’t just rely on people, but with you? He does. He trusts you with his fears, his love, his life. He might not say it out loud, but he proves it every single day. Light NSFW: Trust in intimacy means complete surrender. Letting you see every inch of him, letting you touch him in ways no one else has. And if he ever whispers, "I trust you." in the middle of everything—you know just how much it means.

U – Understanding

Logan might be quiet, but he’s deeply observant. He picks up on the little things—your moods, your small habits, the things you don’t say out loud.

He understands when you need space, when you need comfort, when you just need to sit in silence together. If you’re struggling, he won’t push—but he’ll be there.

If you ever argue, he doesn’t get defensive or angry—he listens. He might not be the best with words, but he’ll try to see things from your side. "I get it," he’ll say, voice low but sincere. "I’ll do better." And he means it.

Light NSFW: Logan understands your needs without you having to say much. He watches, he listens, he feels. He knows when to take things slow, when to be rough, when to hold back. If something doesn’t feel right, he stops immediately—because at the end of the day, your comfort matters most.

V – Vulnerability

Logan doesn’t let people in easily. He’s spent too long keeping things bottled up, carrying burdens on his own.

But with you? It’s different.

You see the parts of him no one else does—the quiet fears, the sleepless nights, the weight he carries. He won’t cry in front of most people, but with you, he might. And if he does, he trusts you enough to let it happen.

"I don’t… talk about this stuff," he mutters one night, staring at the ceiling, your fingers tracing slow circles on his chest. "But I want you to know."

Light NSFW: Vulnerability in intimacy means trusting you completely. Letting his guard down, letting you see him undone. He’s used to being in control, but when he trusts you enough to surrender—to let you take the lead, to let himself be soft—that’s when you know how deep his love runs.

W – Warmth

Logan isn’t openly affectionate in public, but when it’s just the two of you? God, he’s warm.

He’s a silent protector—pulling you against him without a word, tucking you beneath his chin, resting a hand on your back whenever he walks past. He’s not one for grand romantic gestures, but the way he holds you, the way he breathes a little easier when you’re close—that’s love.

If you ever shiver, he’s already pulling you into his jacket. If you’re sad, he presses a slow kiss to the top of your head, lingering, silent, but solid.

Light NSFW: His warmth in intimacy is overwhelming. He’s all-consuming, pressing into you, heat radiating from his skin. Even after everything, he doesn’t let you go right away—he stays close, fingers lazily tracing your back, murmuring soft, unspoken affections against your skin.

X – XO (hugs & kisses)

Logan’s kisses are slow, deep, meaningful. He doesn’t rush them, doesn’t take them for granted. If he kisses you, he means it.

He loves forehead kisses—a silent I’m here. He kisses your knuckles without thinking, absentminded and affectionate. He pulls you close by your waist, pressing his lips against your temple after a long day.

Hugs? He holds you like he’ll never let go. Strong arms wrapped around you, solid and steady. He buries his face in your neck sometimes, just breathing you in. And if he’s been away for too long? He’ll pull you into him, grip tight, heartbeat steadying against yours.

Light NSFW: His kisses become desperate when he’s craving you. Rough, deep, needy. He kisses like he’s starving for you, like he can’t get close enough. And when he finally pulls away, lips slightly swollen, eyes dark? God help you.

Y – Yearning

Logan isn’t dramatic about his feelings, but God, does he miss you when you’re not around.

He won’t say it outright, but it’s in the way he keeps checking his phone, the way his fingers twitch when you’re not there to hold them. The way he breathes just a little deeper when he finally sees you again.

He doesn’t send long texts, but he’ll send things like: "You okay?" "Miss you." "Be home soon."

And when he finally is home? The first thing he does is find you.

Light NSFW: The longer he’s away, the more desperate he is when he returns. He doesn’t even bother with words—he just grabs you, pulls you in, takes what he’s been missing. There’s a hunger in him, a need that only you can satisfy.

Z – Zeal

Logan’s love isn’t loud or flashy—but it’s fierce.

He loves fully, deeply, endlessly. When he’s with you, there’s no hesitation—he’s all in. He shows his love in every little action, in every glance, in every quiet, steady presence.

If someone ever tries to hurt you? God help them. Logan doesn’t lose his temper often, but when it comes to you? He doesn’t hold back.

And when he tells you he loves you? It’s forever.

Light NSFW: His passion in intimacy is undeniable. He wants you, adores you, worships you. He doesn’t just go through the motions—he’s dedicated to you, body and soul. Every touch, every kiss, every breath—it’s all for you.

Because Logan Walker? He doesn’t love halfway.

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶

NSFW, I'm finna say some things because I haven't written in a while and I need a creativity exercise. Didn't do Price or Gaz because... I lazy. Excuse formatting. Again, Lazy.

Simon would probably feel genuinely terrible about it. He'd fuck you nice and slow instead, but not for a while after the visit. First he'd have to eat you all sloppy and soft—let you ride his tongue for hours in apology. Big man with furrowed brows, tongue buried between your thighs as if he lapped at you gently enough, you'd get the picture. That you'd forgive him. And he didn't think he deserved it, either. How could he do that to his little bird? He knew he was a big guy but he didn't think he was genuinely doing any harm... an ugly, sticky part of him is proud, honestly. He doesn't quite know how to feel about that. Bruises in the shape of him where no one could see.... how wonderful.

Johnny's a bit smug. Yes, he'd fucked you rough and deep and quick. That's exactly how you liked—exactly what you'd asked him for. And hearing your gyno say that your cervix was bruised made him proud because.. well, that meant he'd done a good job following your directions. He was a mutt. A good mutt. Your good mutt. And he was happy that he could provide the back arching pleasure that would result in this. But, listen—! It's not like he didn't care. When you complained about the soreness he'd draw you a bath and settle you in, the water warm and smelling of lavender epson salt. He was sorry that the bruises hurt, of course, but as his fingers slip into your cunt while you bathe—just to delicately feel you from inside—you can't help but think he wasn't all that sorry for the bruises existing.

Hey I wanna know right

Since everyone always writes the boys fucking reader character so hard (mostly Johnny and Simon) what do you guys think would happen if they went to the doctor worried she had some sort of UTI and the doctor said they had ahem bruising in their, ahem, insides

What then

Mostly a question for @mina-org and @goatgoesmbe let's be honest

Can you pls write period sex with Ghost 😭🥰🥰

heheheh period sex is a fave to me!!!! I hope u enjoy anon <333

CW: Period sex, blood

Simon was desperate to put you out of your glum misery, the pout of your lip and the flair of your brows as you kneeled over in pain only urged him on more as he furiously tapped into his phone ways to help with period cramps.

He had tried everything; a hot water bottle, a nice bath, tea, massages. It all just left you feeling too hot or overwhelmed and never seemed to subside the internal torment of your belly.

Brown eyes widened slightly as he took in the word “sex” blurted as 1) on some shitty magazine website. Pupils flickered between each line taking in how ‘making love’ was a great way to ease period cramps.

It was a tender subject while you were menstruating, Simon’s body timid as he approached your skulking figure.

“Baby, I’ve been doing research on how to help with your period cramps and I’m willing to try it if you want too?”

“Mmmm… Si, no more home remedies… what is it?”

“Fucking.”

Your eyes looked at his, face tense as you checked for a joking smirk but your boyfriend only just stared at you, holding his phone up to show he was being truthful.

“You want to… fuck? Me? While I’m on my period?”

Simon nodded, almost hesitantly as he heard the unsureness in your tone. You blinked.

“What if it grosses you out? Or smells? Or looks weird? Or you get chunks on your dick?”

Simon shook his head, a chuckle leaving his throat as he leaned forward, placing a gentle kiss on your hairline.

“I’ve seen every bit of you. Nothing would gross me out. It’s completely natural, love. Besides, I see blood too often, feels like second nature to me now.”

Your body was rigid as you laid awkwardly on a towel, your thighs widened as Simon took in the sight of you. He licked his chapped lips, taking in the puff of your swollen pussy and the gentle throb of your clit. You had quickly washed yourself before this, incredibly self conscious, even though your boyfriend urged that it wasn’t necessary.

Slick pooled at your entrance, the light filter of red hinting through as Simon locked his hips against yours, rubbing the mushroom tip over your wet folds, a moan escaping your mouth as you clutched onto his biceps.

He lined himself against your aching hole, pushing in slightly as you whined before edging himself in inch by inch. It wasn’t long until he bottomed out, thick cock filling you to the brim as he began to rock back and forth, kissing your gummy walls with each thrust as you writhed underneath him.

“That’s it baby, does that feel good?”

You nodded, biting your lip in the process as a hand rubbed down on your belly, pushing slightly as he picked up his pace, thrusting into your wet heat as you mewled.

His shaft was coated in your slick and a light dribble of blood, the metallic taste in the air sending something carnal through him as he fucked himself into you at a rough pace, his eyes watching the way your breasts jiggled and your face scrunched up in pleasure.

“Fuck- Si - so, so good.”

“I know baby, just needed me to fuck you silly to feel better.”

You felt aligned with him as he ached his member into you before spilling his delectable seed into your fertile cunt.

Spoiler alert, you didn’t get a period for 9 months after this. Seemed to help your cramping problem.