On A Cold Winter’s Night (Oikawa X Reader)

On a Cold Winter’s Night (Oikawa x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: Trapped in the university library due to a raging blizzard outside, you are forced to endure the cold night with the man you hate the most: the player who lives in the dorm across from you, Tooru Oikawa. But with tensions and anxieties at an all-time high, you begin to realize your feelings for Oikawa aren’t quite what you thought they were, especially when all he wants to do is keep you warm.

A/N: I took like six hours to write this??? Bruh callin’ amateur hour in this bitch 😑😑 eh, whatever, enjoy!

Word count: 5345

Snow, layers upon layers, piled up outside of the library. The glass doors of the library had long frosted over, and inside the lights began to flicker. Outside every window was a blanket of white, everything in the distance far too foggy to see through the flurry of flakes.

The lone television suspended above the library’s main desk played the same succession of videos–static with white noise, a scrolling of text warning people to stay inside, three loud buzzes, then more static with white noise. It far overpowered the sound of the library’s heater kicking on, its automatic settings desperately trying to battle the cold that succeeded in invading the closed and locked library.

You sighed, sparing another glance at the exit and the wall of snow that kept rising against it. Minutes ago you’d tried pushing open the doors, only succeeding in chilling the tips of your fingers against the frozen metal. Ever since then, your fingers never truly seemed to recover.

Just your luck; first a small windstorm had delayed your flight back home for Christmas Break, and now, just when you’d given up and decided to work on a few research projects while being stuck at the university, you were trapped inside the library.

But you weren’t alone. No, of course not. As if fate had it out for you, you were stuck inside the building with the one guy you despised with your whole being.

“Gum?”

Oikawa held out a piece, a small smirk dancing on the edge of his lips. When all he received in response was a blank stare, he shrugged and unwrapped it, tossing it in his mouth before toying with the wrapper.

The both of you sat behind the librarian’s desk in tall, wooden stools. It was the only place with service, and it was where you had both scurried to the second the storm warning chimed through the announcement speakers.

While you had attempted to push through the doors, Oikawa had called the school’s main office, warning them of your predicament. Of course, he’d cut himself off halfway through with a cackle at the sight of the door slamming back in your face, but nonetheless he’d gotten a simple, if completely undesirable response.

“The both of you need to stay in there and not leave. It’s far too dangerous to go out into the blizzard right now. Tomorrow morning it should be calmed down, and then we’ll send people over to get you. For now, try to stay warm.”

When he relayed this message to you, you had him put them on speaker so you could hear it with your own two ears.

Pop.

Alas, it was the truth. You were stuck.

Pop.

With your worst enemy. Alone.

Pop.

During a blizzard.

“Will you stop doing that?” you hissed, heaving a glare at him.

Oikawa froze in his seat, a gum-bubble the size of a golf ball slowly deflating with a wheeze. He raised his hands in surrender. “Excuse me for trying to find some source of joy in this miserable place. Maybe you should try having fun once in a while, YN.”

Your cheeks burned in shame at that. “I have fun!”

A single brown brow rose. “Do you?”

“Yes,” you folded your arms across your chest, “I do. But unlike you, I don’t do it at the expense of other people’s sanity.”

Long ago, amidst your third week of your first year at the university, you learned that you and Oikawa were two vastly different people. In co-ed dorms, he lived just across from you, and it seemed he reminded you of that every other night.

While loud music boomed across the hall and eventually spread throughout the building, you sat inside your dorms, hands over the headphones over your ears. You were usually leant over a textbook, pencil and notes abandoned long ago as you tried to comprehend the words despite not being able to hear your own thoughts.

Your roommate would slip out to join the fun, meeting and laughing with someone who had knocked on your door. Then that someone had tapped a single finger on your shoulder, squatting down beside your desk and leaning his head to one side.

As usual, a teasing smile danced on his lips. “You gonna join us, or sit here studying like a Debbie Downer?”

You’d be the first–and most certainly not the last–to admit that he was attractive. Brown hair exploding in tufts and swept across his forehead. Bronze eyes twinkling in the light of your lamp. Thin, pink lips pulled into a goading grin.

“Come on, I promise the water’s warm.”

It was at that moment that you started to hate him.

“Get out of my room.”

The smugness blanketing his face had dropped for a split second, and you genuinely wondered if you were the first to ever resist his charms. But how could you not, when in every second of your interaction with him, it felt like he was laughing at you?

Hesitantly, it seemed, he rose to his feet, stumbling a bit. You shouldn’t have been surprised that he was already drunk, but you hadn’t smelled it earlier when he was inches from your face.

“All right,” he chuckled, rising to his full height with his hands on his knees. Swiftly, he turned and made his way to your door, not bothering to look back at you again. “I know when I’m not wanted. Enjoy your studying, YN.”

How he’d learned your name, you never really. You’d figured he caught it on the first day of the one class you shared with him, English, amidst mandatory introductions. Since then, every time your name fell on his lips, he more sang it than said it, always in that sly tone of his.

You hated it. You hated him.

And now, as you spent the third day of Christmas Break locked inside alone with him in a freezing library, you found yourself despising him even more.

Pop.

“Well, YN, you should know better than anyone that I have a knack for driving people insane,” Oikawa hummed, long fingers folding the edges of his gum wrapper against the desk surface. Your eyes drawn to the action, you absentmindedly scoffed.

“Yes, I certainly do.”

His eyes darted to yours, an emotion flitting across them before dropping back down to his miniature origami. A chill ran up your spine.

“I’m going to go look for some blankets,” you sputtered out of the blue. You found yourself reflecting his shocked look, a little surprised at yourself at the outburst.

“Okay,” he grinned after a pause. “Hurry back soon.”

Ignoring the wink he offered you, you slipped out of your chair and left him alone behind the desk counter, effectively beginning your search for stray, abandoned coverings.

Instantly, you realized the rest of the library was significantly chillier than the desk up front. Though the heater was still pumping and hissing through the air vents above you, it was now rattling much more forcefully than before.

Must be the snow piling on top of the electrical system or something.

The fluorescent lights buzzed above you, still cutting off and flickering every few seconds as you passed bookshelf after labeled bookshelf. Signs labeled with genres and areas of study swung from the ceiling over rows of different-colored bindings. So distracted, you let out a yelp of pain after stubbing your toe against an abandoned book cart, plenty of go-backs filed one after the other in no discernible order.

“YN?” Far off, Oikawa’s voice called after you. Despite the distance you’d created between the two of you, he still must have heard your pained shout. A small part of you was surprised he bothered to acknowledge the noise at all.

Maybe he’s not a complete pain in the ass.

“Yeah, that was me, I’m fine! Just hit my foot on something!”

“Do you need help finding your way around? I’m sorry, I forgot my walking rope, so we’ll have to hold hands!”

Nevermind, still a dick.

“Fuck you!”

“That’s why I’m here!”

Rolling your eyes, you purse your lips to prevent giving in to his teasing further. With a few hissed curses under your breath, you continue venturing through the uninhabited building. Though you did find a few abandoned belongings, none of which were of much use. A few too small hoodies, one suspicious pair of sweatpants, and some stray sunglasses. One poor soul even forgot their backpack at one of the work tables, and despite your initial curiosity, you refrained from digging through it and instead left it where it was.

It was when you arrived at the individual work areas divided by wooden partitions that your search finally paid off. Because it was arranged against a line of floor-to-ceiling windows, it was significantly colder in this work area than any other place you’d come across. Luckily, that also meant there was a higher chance of you finding spare blankets–which you did.

One was still strewn across the back of a work chair, a black fur throw with no designs but a single tear at one corner, presumably where a tag had been. Another, this one cream-colored, knitted wool, sat in a crumpled pile on the very last desk of the entire area, arranged in the furthest corner of the library from the entrance. The bulb in the ceiling above this desk had been out ever since the first time you’d been in the library, so you weren’t surprised to figure that people crammed out naps between studying in this dark little corner.

While gathering the two–scratch that, there was another on the ground next to you–three blankets in your arms, you spared a look outside the windows. Frost and a glaze of ice covered each corner where metal met glass, and, because you were on the first floor, you could see how high the snow had piled by now. It reached as high as your hips, with more flakes joining or splatting against the pane every second.

The sun, you could see, was just barely setting, the gray of the sky growing darker. Soon enough, it was darker inside than it was outside.

The power. It had gone out.

“YN!”

Because the heater sputtered a few more clicks before kicking the bucket, you could barely hear Oikawa’s voice, far off and muffled, over the large distance you’d covered in the library. The lights above you no longer buzzed, and instead an unsettling silence took over the building.

“Oikawa! The lights!” You hugged the blankets to your chest with one straining arm, the other fumbling with your phone flashlight. You began the trek back to the front desk, squinting to try and make out shelves and stray books along the way. Despite the long-sleeved T-shirt you wore, a chill was beginning to nip at your skin, and you slowed to wrap a blanket around your shoulders.

“I know, the weight of the snow must have taken out the electrical box or something!” His voice was getting closer; he must have been making his way towards you in return.

Passing through the towering bookshelves, you made it out and turned a corner onto the main path they created. A shadow of a figure stood inches from your face.

“Shit!” You flinched back, kicking a leg out blindly in self-defense. The tip of your snow boot struck something hard, and a strangled groan escaped the person as they dropped to the floor. Now level with the light of your flashlight, the person was finally visible–Oikawa hugged his shin to his chest with clenched eyes and gritted teeth.

“Ow, ow, ow, owie!”

You winced, your guilt growing worse after realizing he had just been searching for you.

“Oh, sorry,” you cringed, dropping the blankets and hovering your hands over his coiled form. You wanted to help, you just weren’t sure how. “Do you… do you want some ice for that?”

The glare he threw you chilled you to the bone more than the weather outside.

“C’mon,” you hid a snigger behind your hand, straightening up and offering him the other, “it was just a joke. I really am sorry. Let’s get back to the front desk; I’ll help you.”

The huff he released ruffled the bangs on his forehead. “I should make you kiss it better,” he pouted, hand latching onto yours and pulling himself up. He almost yanked you down with him, but you’d stationed a hand on one of the shelves for support the second you felt his whole weight. You hadn’t expected it, but you supposed you should have guessed it–Oikawa’s body was packed with muscle from years of playing volleyball.

Even now, as the main setter of your school’s team, he had daily workouts that only made his body stronger. You’d passed him once during a warm autumn day; he was jogging around campus shirtless while you were on your way back to the dorms after just getting out of class. He was headed straight for you, and during that time, everything seemed to move in slow motion.

One, two, three… eight, you’d counted, eyes raking down his chest. The sweat glistened on his bare skin, bathing him in a glowing sheen due to the midday sun. A narrow waist trailed down, down to volleyball shorts hanging slanted on his hips. A smug snicker drew your gaze up, past a broad chest and shoulders and onto Oikawa’s simpering face.

“Like what you see?” his lips mouthed, but you couldn’t hear over the pounding in your ears, blood rushing to your face.

“You’re disgusting” were the only words you could think to say, though they were the exact opposite of how you felt. Maybe you were actually speaking to yourself, ashamed at the way your body reacted to a man you hated with your entire mind. Nonetheless, his face fell in shock, and you brushed past him, ignoring how he’d stopped dead in his tracks and continuing back to your dorm.

The view from that day was still imprinted in your mind, as though somehow your mind was afraid of forgetting it. Forgetting him.

But you would never forget how much you despised his attitude.

You released his hand as quickly as you’d grabbed it, reaching back down and gathering the blankets off the floor. A red flush took over your cheeks, and for the first time you were glad the electricity had gone out. Maybe the rest of your body was beginning to freeze, but your face was completely warm.

“I’m not kissing anything, perv.”

You tried to leave him stranded behind you, moving forward to return to the front desk through the darkness, but his longer strides easily caught up with you aside from a small limp.

“The night is still young, YN.”

Instead of a proper response, you settled for a scoff, avoiding the gaze you knew was locked on your face. An amused hum escaped the man beside you, but you blocked it out.

Finally back at the front desk, you spared another look outside. The sun had set completely now, a dark blue hue now in the sky as more and more snow collected against the glass. It seemed the warmth of the room had been sucked away completely, leaving behind a stale, frigid atmosphere that dried up the back of your throat.

“The blankets will certainly help,” Oikawa broke the silence behind you, “but we’ll need more than that. I snagged what I could from the backroom, some water bottles left in the fridge or so, but we need food.” When you shifted to face him, he nodded his head toward the vending machine next to the restrooms.

“You want to break into the vending machine?” you deadpanned.

“Unless you’ve got generous amounts of cash, of course,” he smiled sarcastically.

“Maybe we should wait until morning before we start committing crimes.”

Oikawa shrugged. “Desperate times, YN.”

“We’re not that desperate.”

“Not yet.” He eyed the cloud of air his words left, releasing a larger, experimental breath and watching the fog that hung in the air afterward.

The sight made your stomach clench a little. If the cold from the outside had seeped in that quickly, you had a feeling three measly blankets weren’t going to last the two of you through the night. A wave of goosebumps ran along your skin when you thought about the cold too much.

You swallowed. “I’m sure we’ll be fine. We just have to make it till morning.” The strain in your arms from holding onto the blankets too long finally drew your attention back to them, and you busied yourself with arranging the throws on the floor. You handed one to Oikawa, saving one for yourself before spreading the last on the floor behind the front desk.

The rough carpet floor was less unforgiving when covered with a blanket, but you knew that in a matter of minutes your backside would be numb either way. Oikawa snagged the water bottles off the counter and passed them down to you before settling on the floor himself, a distance far too close for your comfort, but the heat he was giving off silenced any of your complaints.

Then it was too quiet. You cracked open a water bottle and took a sip, then you opened it again and took another sip. All the while, you saw Oikawa watch you in your peripheral vision, and when his staring came to be too much, you scrambled for your phone.

“Shit.”

“What?”

You patted your hands down your legging pockets once more, then along the ground. You flapped around your blanket, hoping to hear a weight thump against the floor, but there was nothing.

“My phone’s missing.”

“When did you-”

“Dammit, I left it on the ground after kicking you!”

“Hey,” Oikawa screeched, offended. “You say that like it was my fault!”

“Well,” you rose to your feet, Oikawa following suit, “you were the one who scared the shit out of me!”

“Didn’t you know I was looking for you?” He followed you down the main walkway through the shelves, his presence inches from your back.

“Yeah, but I didn’t expect you to materialize right in front of my face!” In effort to escape his suffocating presence, you quickened your pace, eyes on the ground but not really seeing anything.

“Oh, I’m sorry, my bad. Next time you go missing during a snowstorm, I’ll be sure to wear a bell so you know exactly where I am at all times.”

“That’s not what-”

Crack.

The both of you froze in place, argument out of mind in an instant.

“Was that…?”

“Uh oh.”

You both directed your attention to underneath your foot, where an object lay cracked from your aggressive stomping.

Dropping your face into your hands, you let out a loud groan. “Could this day get any worse?”

Oikawa had squatted down to investigate, nudging your leg out of the way before picking up your cracked phone. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, it was useless anyway.” He tapped and poked at the screen, toying with the buttons. “Looks like it was out of battery.”

“Fuckkkkk.” You tore it from his hands, performing your own investigations of pats and brushes along the screen before calling it quits. “Isn’t yours out too?”

Solemnly, he nodded, taking his phone out and allowing you to tap around on it before throwing it back in his pocket.

“So we’re fucked?”

“Majorly.”

The pair of you slumped back to the main desk, flopping onto the ground and wrapping back up in your blankets. A shiver of cold mixed with frustration had taken over your body in a short span of time, causing your breaths to escape with slight chatters of your teeth.

You could feel it now, on the tips of your fingers and the end of your nose. A chill seeped through your leggings and slid up your shirt sleeves, sinking into every pore and leaving your hair standing on end. Your muscles began that all-too familiar buzz, a slow but steady trembling in effort to get your blood moving. Your toes curled in your boots.

“It’s cold,” you commented, the words slipping out like an afterthought.

You thought he’d agree, hum, or even nod his head. Instead, Oikawa scooted closer to you on the blanket, enough that his upper arm brushed the end of your shoulder. Then, slowly, as though approaching a wounded animal, his arm rose and wrapped around you, not only covering you with his heat but also with his blanket, still soaked in the warmth from his body.

Mind blank, you didn’t move a muscle for what seemed to be five minutes after he’d moved to embrace you.

“Is this okay?” he’d whispered into the silence, voice soft yet hesitant.

“W-why?”

“You said you were cold.” He shifted a little, but didn’t move away. And surprisingly enough, you didn’t want him to. “I–didn’t want you to be cold.”

A blanket of silence falls over the two of you, an atmosphere of peace you never thought you’d experience with the brunette man in your life. His warmth left you in a sort of lethargic trance; you didn’t want to move away, though your mind was urging you to, nor did you have the energy to. For the first time, you wanted Oikawa close to you, and you didn’t want him to leave for a while.

You were exhausted.

Formerly, the two of you were both leaning back against the wall. Now, tucked into Oikawa’s side, your right arm pressed into the side of his chest while your left was cushioned a distance from the wall by Oikawa’s arm, wrapped sturdily around your shoulders and urging you to lean toward him instead.

Man, you were tired.

“YN?”

“Hmm?” Your eyes cracked back open, and you shifted your gaze to him, waiting.

His head was leaned back against the wall, eyes still closed as a single brown tuft of hair fell across his forehead. In the light the moon reflected off the snow, you could see the length of his lashes brushing the apples of his cheeks, the sharp edge of his jawline that you yearned to run a finger along. He didn’t bother to look at you for a response when he muttered, “Why do you hate me?”

The question zapped you to attention like a taser, guilt flooding your chest for a reason you didn’t quite think you knew. There was a strong urge in you to pull away from him, but the hand on your arm tightened, halting any drastic movements.

“I… I don’t…”

“I know you do,” he sighed, tongue running out along his lips. “Please, just tell me.” There was a sort of surrender in his voice you never thought you’d hear. For a second, you missed his smug tone. You missed the teasing lilt of his voice. You missed the Oikawa you knew.

You wanted him back.

“You’re weirding me out, Oikawa.” In this position, you couldn’t poke him in the cheek, so you settled for his thigh. He barely flinched, peeking a single eye open. “Go back to acting like that smug little shit I know you are.” His lips quirked up.

“I promise I’m still me, YN. I’m just a bit curious is all.”

“Yeah, well, it’s freaking me out. I want the normal you back.”

Wrong words.

“You do?” He was wide awake at that, head straightened up and eyes wide and at attention. If he was a dog, his tail would be wagging.

“Nevermind.” You twisted in his grip to get your back facing him.

“No, no, noooo.” Both of his hands grabbed onto your shoulders, shaking you back and forth. “Say it again. Say you want me again.”

“God, you’re such a perv,” you stutter, voice wavering with his movements.

“You’re so mean, YN!” he whines, finally releasing your shoulders. You think he’s given up and let down your guard slightly, a little curious at his expression. But when you turn your head to face him, two arms wrap around your waist, yanking you back and in between Oikawa’s outstretched legs.

“What the-” While you struggle in his arms, Oikawa only holds you closer, leaning back and taking you with him so your back rests against his front. He hooks his head over your shoulder, and you tense when you feel a breath of warm air against your ear.

A shiver tears through your body, but you’re relieved he doesn’t comment on it.

“Say it again, YN.” And he definitely feels the shiver that time. A breathless snicker heats up the skin of your neck, but you’re too trapped in his arms to escape the overwhelming feeling it erupts in you.

“God, I hate you,” you sigh instinctively.

Oikawa grows still. The fun and games are over, it seems, as he pulls his head away from your neck. The arms encircling your waist have become rigid.

There’s a thump against the wall. Then a pause. “Why?”

You bite your lip, and though the words are on the tip of your tongue, you can’t seem to force them out. You’re ashamed, embarrassed, regretful. All of those ugly feelings he pulls out of you every other day, you draw out of yourself in this moment.

“Oikawa, I-”

“Tooru,” he corrects.

Flustered, you continue, “Tooru… whenever you… you always just… I never…” You groan at your lack of words, throwing frustrated hands over your face. The heat in your body, though small, rises. “I just feel stupid around you.”

“Stupid?”

“Like an idiot.”

“Idiot?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Stop it.”

“Sorry,” he pauses, “I just… you think you feel stupid? Around me?”

You don’t understand what he means, so you stay silent.

“So… you feel like an idiot around me… why, exactly?”

“Because,” you wave your hands around, not really sure what your gestures are doing considering he can’t see them, “you just… you tease me all the time! And when we’re in class and you look at me and I just feel like I’ve got shit all over my face! And when you throw those stupid-ass parties, I feel so lame because it’s not like I don’t want to socialize, but I hate the way people act at parties! And then you come along and tell me that I should join, but I know it’s gonna fucking suck and I know you’re gonna see that I stick out during parties like a sore thumb and that makes me feel even worse and I-”

“YN!” A hand slips from your waist, slapping over your mouth and effectively cutting off your rambling. A disbelieved breath sounds behind you. “Jesus Christ, YN.”

And you feel like even more of an idiot. You take some pleasure in the fact that he can’t see you as tears begin springing in the corners of your eyes.

But then there’s a hard pressure against the back of your head. And then something soft against the back of your neck. “YN, YN, YN,” and you realize his lips are on your neck, his face buried into your hair, “God, you just… you drive me fucking crazy, you know that?”

You didn’t know that.

“The fact that you can say all of that, and think all of that, and feel all of that, without realizing why I even do it at all drives me insane.” You feel his mouth move against you with every word, your skin growing hot under his breath. You try to speak against his hand, and thankfully he pulls it away when you do, returning it to your waist as though it doesn’t muddle your mind.

“What are you talking about?”

And he laughs like it’s the dumbest question in the world. And maybe it is, but you have to know.

His lips are on your neck one last time before he pulls away, leaning back against the wall once more and taking you with him. “YN,” his fingers twitch against your skin, the cold of them biting through the fabric of your shirt, “do you have feelings for me?”

And you feel like the biggest idiot of all, because you do.

You do have feelings for him, and you only just realized that now.

“Holy shit.”

Oikawa stiffens. “What?”

“I have feelings for you.” The words slip out before you can stop them, mostly because you’re still in disbelief. Did you really? After all this time of thinking you hated him, of hating how he teased you, you seriously had feelings for him and you didn’t even notice?

Stupid. So very stupid.

A loud scoff from Oikawa breaks you out of your stupor.

“Jesus Christ, you’re gonna drive me nuts.”

And you can’t even turn around and call him an asshole because he’s turning you in his grip and pressing his lips against yours. The hand on your chin, the other on your hip, all to pull you closer, spin you around and tug you onto his lap without separating from you.

Your hands are in his hair, and you’re tugging, and it’s that whine you always hear whenever you don’t respond to his teasing, that needy one you thought you always hated because it just shakes you to your core but now you get it, you finally understand it. And those long fingers, the ones he always slams onto your notes drunkenly whenever he’s having a party and you’re not there but you forgot to lock your door so now he’s in your room and he’s bothering you, begging you and toying with you to get your attention, those fingers that have stolen your notebook away and held over your head while he smiles and stubbles around, getting you to chase him–they’re on your hips and you know they’re leaving bruises and you like that they’re leaving bruises.

You like it all because it’s so cold tonight and he’s so warm and he’s always so warm and you want more, more, more.

And he hovers over you, and you gasp. You hate how he teases you because he loves it so much, and that makes you love it. You love it.

It is cold tonight. There’s a blizzard raging right outside the doors to the library, stacking up snow higher and higher. You’re both trapped, but you don’t want to leave. Because despite all of the cold, you’re both very, very warm.

~~~

The next morning, when people find the two of you, they blame it on that little notion that runs through everyone’s minds when people are stuck together during a cold blizzard, because surely that’s what it must be.

And surely that’s why your cheeks are flushed and full of embarrassment, because although everybody knows how weird it can be, during such a life-threatening situation, it’s a desperate attempt to stay warm.

So when they found you the next morning, thankfully safe and sound and wrapped around each other to try and preserve warmth, they were glad that you two innocent, poor little students, who must have been so scared to be trapped in a building without electricity and heat, were going to be okay, and that they could safely escort you out of the building and back to your dormitories with an official apology.

Until one of you asked if they could leave so you could finish what you’d started.

“Tooru, you fucking pervert!”

Tags

haikyuu x reader haikyu x reader hq x reader oikawa tooru x reader oikawa x reader oikawa toru x reader haikyuu fluff hq fluff oikawa fluff toru oikawa x reader tooru x reader tooru oikawa x reader toru x reader haikyuu x reader fluff oikawa x reader fluff

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.”

Tags

cod x reader gaz garrick call of duty x reader gaz x reader kyle gaz garrick gaz cod kyle garrick gaz kyle gaz garrick x reader kyle garrick x reader cod gaz

149 notes View Post

oreosmama

5 years ago

Just Playing Twister (Todoroki x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: You guys were just playing a game of Twister. Midoriya knew that. They’re always just playing a game of Twister… right?

A/N: Just looked up the dorm room layout and my whole story got shot to hell, but I don’t care. We’ll just say they changed rooms or something. Hope you like it!

Word count: 608

“I don’t bend that way!”

It was nine o’clock at night and all the little green broccoli wanted to do was study peacefully. Sadly, that plan was thrown out the window when you and your boyfriend Todoroki began to make a racket no different from two rhinos hopping on a Pogo stick next door. Midoriya had seen enough movies and TV shows to know it was just a game of Twister, but you two had been going at it for a while now, and you had grown a tad too loud for his liking. Your voices even sounded exhausted, so he was wondering why neither of you had thrown in the towel at this point. Alas, the game continued, and Midoriya now sat at his desk, rubbing his temples tiredly and listening to ear-raping music through his headphones.

It was never enough.

“My legs are shaking!” Then just forfeit!

“Don’t lose it now, baby, keep going.” Come on, Todoroki, whose side are you on?

Midoriya, groaning in frustration, rips away from his desk and the deafening music and collapses on his bed. Using the pillow behind his head, he covers his ears and prays it was the magical cure he’s been searching for.

“Ow, fuck Shouto, move your hand.” Dammit.

“I’m already there. Just one more round, YN.” You’ve won enough times, dude, just STOP.

But you never did. The game just kept going and going. Midoriya finally stood up, walked over to the wall, and just, you know, tap tap. The family-fun game is put on pause for a second and silence ensues. The All-Might disciple victoriously fist pumps the air before hopping back to his desk. No one had ever been so happy to return to homework before, until…

“That spot is mine. Only mine.” Well shit, Todoroki, there’s about six other circles the exact same color so why don’t you calm it? Midoriya cringed over how serious his dichromatic friend sounded. The dorm next door was treating Twister like all life on Earth depended on the game to survive. It wasn’t that thrilling, right?

“The floor is too hard for this.” I heard that happens after playing for AN HOUR. Have you considered, gee I don’t know, stopping?!

“We might need a new mat.” What the hell, how do you do that?

All right, enough was enough. This wholesome, age-appropriate game needed to end right now. Midoriya stood from his desk and exited his room with a determined face. He appreciates your guys’ good-natured competitiveness, but not when it lasts for two hours. Who has that kind of stamina?

Midoriya knocked on your door angrily before barging in.

“Okay, you two need to stop playing right n- OH MY GOD!”

###

Midoriya squeaked when he saw you enter the classroom with your hot and cold boyfriend attached to your hip. He ducked his head like nobody’s business and proceeded to observe his desk like the eighth wonder of the world. The poor hero-in-training couldn’t bear to look the two of you in the eyes. Ever. Again. The blooming mark on his nose from where you had thrown a pillow at him also stood as a stern reminder to never speak of what he had seen either.

It wasn’t a game of Twister.

Tags

mha bnha shoto todoroki my hero academia boku no hero academia shouto todoroki mha x reader mha shoto shoto x reader bnha x reader todoroki shouto todoroki shoto mha todoroki bnha scenarios my hero academia x reader todoroki x reader boku no hero x reader shoto todoroki x reader shouto todoroki x reader bnha imagines boku no hero scenario todoroki shouto x reader shouto x reader todoroki shoto x reader boku no hero academia x reader mha shouto bnha imagine bnha scenario todoroki imagine

468 notes View Post

oreosmama

3 years ago

Hi! When will you continue the reborn story. Its really good!!!

I’m glad you’re enjoying it! There are no permanent dates, but definitely think sometime around the beginning of summer. Just a few more weeks!☺️

Tags

oreosmama talks damn y’all really like reborn and I love to see it🥰 if only summertime came faster

3 notes View Post

oreosmama

4 years ago

*not a request* I JUST READ YOUR GAROU FLUFFS AND OH MY GOD THEY ARE SO GOOD!!!!! YOU'RE SO TALENTED!!! I LOVE YOUR WORK 💕💕💕💕💕💕💕

Akxbskncksnw thank you so much!! I’m so glad u like them🥺💜

Ngl I’m at that point of being a *writer* where all I can do is look back at my old work and c r i n g e🥴

Tags

LIKE.. im back back again oreosmama talks shady’s back tell... no one bc I’m just realizing this account is c u r s e d mah heart go boom boom when people send me stuff like this🥺

4 notes View Post

oreosmama

4 years ago

THE WAY YOU’RE FEEDING US WITH CONTENT IS VERY SEGGSY😩 AND EVEN WHEN YOU’RE JUST INTERACTING WITH US ITS VERY SEXCOF YOU❤️👄❤️ AND I LOVE YOU YOU ARE SO TALENTED WTF💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝 I would spam you with more hearts but my word limit is near👁💧👄💧👁

O MY GAH THANK YOU SO MUCH YOU ARE SO NICE AND AMAZING

I would try to max out my heart limit but I don’t think I got one so here’s a pic of literally me rn

THE WAY YOU’RE FEEDING US WITH CONTENT IS VERY SEGGSY😩 AND EVEN WHEN YOU’RE JUST INTERACTING WITH

your words make me very happi and I’m glad I got to see this message today🥺💜💜

Tags

but still oreosmama talks I’m gonna cri happy tears ofc I’ll spam u with these two hearts cuz I wanna find this message later💜 u luv me I’ll luv u back dont test me I’ll 💜💜 ur message if I have to don’t underestimate me😤

5 notes View Post

oreosmama

4 years ago

I love your writing, thank you for taking the time to make and share it with us 💖 I hope your schooling’s going well! Good luck and please make sure to take care of yourself too!

You’re such a sweetheart🥺🥺 thank you so much! Honestly, I just logged back onto here for the first time in weeks and I really forgot how much support you guys have given me💜💜 it makes me feel really special and I hope you’re all doing great too☺️

(Ps: school is going great! How about you?💕)

Tags

oreosmama talks legit forgot tags existed🤦‍♀️ it’s the really wanting to write but not having the time or energy for me😔

5 notes View Post

oreosmama

5 years ago

soulmate AU prompts

- the voice you hear your thoughts in is your soulmate’s but you don’t know who they are until you hear them speak for the first time

- your soulmate’s initials are imprinted in your skin of your hand at birth and the letters burn more intensely as the day you meet them grows closer

- you’ve only ever seen your soulmate in your dreams but you can never remember what they look like, the imaginary life you have with them picks up wherever it leaves off when you fall asleep again. but the dreams stop after you meet them, but you have no way of know who they are because you still can’t remember their face

- your soulmate’s hair color is the color of your eyes. the color of your eyes also changes to match the color of their hair if they dye it

- you think you have a sleepwalking problem but it’s really just the universe trying to bring you to your soulmate when your mind is disengaged

- you’ve been sketching your soulmate’s face since you were old enough to pick up a pencil, the drawings become more realistic through the years as the day you meet comes near

- you’re born with a band of your soulmate’s skin color tattooed in your skin

- all of your dreams are your soulmate’s most significant memories from that given day

15K notes View Post

oreosmama

3 years ago

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

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

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

Tags

oreosmama talks ahh man I recently read thru my atla works myself… anon u sure u wanna do that to urself bc I was ✨cringing✨ honestly tho if u got an idea I’d love to chat abt it🥰💜

0 notes View Post

End of content

No more pages to load