#Try not to laugh or grin. It's impossible to do.

[coolwyous]

┈─★ #1 𝘩𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘺 𝘥𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘺

  ⊹ ࣪ ˖ megan skiendiel loves three things in this world: her amazing brilliant wife, her incredible adorable kids, and the beautiful sport that is ice hockey.

   ˎˊ˗  ❄️  ⊹ ࣪ ˖  🔓୭˚.  ⠀ ᵎᵎ ⠀ 🗝️

   ➴ pairing: hockey daddy!megan skiendiel x f!reader

   ➴ genre + wc: 3.3k, domestic parenting au, all fluff no pain baby!

┈─★ a/n: wrote this in 2 hrs bc i missed our big puppy hockey!megan so bad and this put such a cute fucking vision in my head. can def be read as a standalone but if you're new here, i highly encourage reading the college hockey!au verse this is based in! <3

“babe! baby! jesus christ babe, get in here!”

your mind goes to the worst possible places. your son could be choking, he could be having an allergic reaction, he could be stuck in between a piece of furniture, and your perfect angel of a wife could be having a crisis as she tries to figure out what exactly to do in an emergency.

marriage with megan has been an absolute dream, and you always knew she’d make an incredible parent. protective, calm, kind— basics, sure, but megan does them so easily, you never questioned that a family together would be an absolute dream. however, megan is still megan, and you love her for each part of her, including the parts that panic when things do not go according to plan. that’s where you balance each other out: you keep megan in line when she starts to spiral, and she reminds you of the beauty in the day to day.

in this scenario, you’re in panic-mode, racing into the living room expecting the worst.

you let out a gasp to find not only is there no crisis, no furniture on fire, no natural disaster sweeping up your son and wife, but quite the opposite.

megan is reaching her arms out, crouched down, and your infant son is taking his first steps towards her, his chubby face squished up in the cutest smile you could have ever imagined.

“look at this guy! so sturdy,” megan beams, reaching out ready to catch him should he start to wobble.

you laugh and take a mental picture of the moment. you see a mischievous glint to megan’s eyes as she watches his wobbly little body take another step forward.

“megan, i swear if you even think about—”

“i wasn’t gonna say it!” she throws her hands up innocently.

“he just took his first steps,” you chastise her, knowing her well enough after all your years together. “don’t do this. i didn’t start rambling about universities or classic literature when he first said mama.”

“fine,” megan shakes her head in defeat, focusing back on waving to your son to get him to take a few more steps forward. “fine.”

you smile and turn to go hunt down your phone to document the moment. before you’re fully out of the room, you hear a quiet voice whispering to the baby.

“you’re a tank, dude. you’re gonna make a killer defender. get that core strong and we’ll be on the ice in no time.”

“megan skiendiel,” you warn firmly.

“shit. mommy heard us talking about the no-no word.” megan swoops up your son and uses him like a human shield, knowing you can’t stay mad at your two favorite people in the whole world. “okay, okay. i can wait. i get it.”

“i just want one milestone where you’re not trying to prep him for the nhl, i’m begging,” you laugh, reaching out to kiss her. she grins and kisses you back, scooping up your son to hold him between you two.

you can’t even pretend to be mad. you have the most perfect family in the world, what more could someone want?

-

“push left, then push right.”

megan makes skating look so easy, impossibly easy as she always has. when the first snowflake of the season fell, you already knew to get the kids’ winter coats ready, knowing megan would force you all into the car and haul you all to the lake ASAP.

“this is hard,” maxie breathes, his lower lip jutting out in frustration. 

“guess what?” megan tells him, her voice softening as she realizes the emotions taking over your toddler. “it may be hard, but you can do hard things. and you’ll have me holding your hand all the way through.”

your daughter starts to squirm out of your grasp and eagerly reaches for her other mom. you press a kiss into the beautiful baby’s head and hold onto her, knowing your wife needs all her focus in one place right now.

“push left, push right. don’t be afraid to fall,” she nods confidently as you watch from the snow. “you’ve got this, dude. if i didn’t think you could do it, i wouldn’t be pushing you.”

your heart swells as you see your son’s eyes burn with determination at megan’s encouragement. max does exactly that, and he’s shaky, but making slow paces forward. 

megan skates over to you, giving your son some space to figure it out without her over his shoulder. you grin and reach out to kiss her reddened nose, cold to the touch from the chilly falltime air.

“forgot how good of a captain you were,” you compliment, your chest warm and fuzzy seeing how gently but firmly megan builds your son’s confidence. “might want another one just to keep seeing you be that good.”

“another team for me to captain?” megan grins.

you laugh. “no— another kid, loser.”

“oh.” her eyes widen, but that stupid dopey grin only multiplies on her face. “right right right.”

your daughter wiggles once more in your grip and reaches out again. you smile, handing her to megan, who nestles her onto her hip while skating backwards to keep her eyes fixed on your son. 

“look, look!” max calls out loudly, beaming with his precious toothless grin as he glides slowly along the ice.

you look up, ready to cheer him on, but your wife has already got you beat, her face lighting up instantly in pure, sincere, beaming pride.

“that’s my boy! that’s my boy!” she cheers.

megan throws your daughter up into the air and swings her legs around her neck to have the toddler sitting on her shoulders, causing the girl to giggle uncontrollably. max, still wobbly, manages to skid along the ice, his confidence increasing with each pace forward he makes without tipping. you smile at your little family. 

-

“baby,” you call out, peeking at the three on the ice from over the pages of your book. “your daughter is about to do a backflip off of the snowbank.”

“josie, sweetie, sit down please,” megan calls out to her, standing with max as the two practice passing a puck back and forth.

“no thank you,” the girl responds simply.

“okay, no, wait,” megan pauses, wrinkling her nose. “no, princess, it doesn’t work like that. daddy’s words are not an option.”

max pauses, watching the whole thing unfold in front of him. he shrugs and drops his stick, putting his hands on his hips as he innocently observes his sister. “auntie dani says sometimes you just gotta send it.”

“okay, no more time at auntie dani’s,” megan grits. you burst out laughing. 

“i told you she’d be a terrible influence.”

“i didn’t think she’d try to influence a five year old,” megan groans, grabbing josie to snatch her off the snowbank. the girl pouts and wiggles out of your wife’s grip, taking easily to the ice in her skates.

“babe, you know how daniela is,” you laugh. “you’re the only one to blame if you trusted her to be a good influence. i told you lara is more than happy to watch them.”

“lara has enough on her hands with the twins,” megan shakes her head, giving max a push to help him slide across the ice, sending the boy screaming laughing. “josie is a tornado.”

“so you stick her with the most insane person you know and expect it to go well?” you laugh.

“okay, okay, this is not bag on daddy time,” megan scrunches her nose at you, grabbing josie by her hood as the rambunctious child tries once more to climb the snow and jump. “i thought maybe dani could help me understand how to lay the law down more. you never have any problems with them.”

“the kids listen to me ‘cause i mean what i say,” you laugh, watching as megan increasingly fails to wrangle the two children as they go in opposite directions. “unfortunately, big bad strong hockey daddy folds every time your five-year-old gives you the puppy eyes.”

josie’s little voice cuts in, somehow at the top of the snowbank.

again.

“can you send a picture of me up here to auntie dani? i want her to see me send it!”

megan’s eyes nearly bug out of her head at the sight.

“my perfect sweet wife, will you grab your daughter, please?” she pleads, nervously holding her arms out in case the girl is too quick and jumps anyways.

you shake your head, pointing behind her as max is aimlessly hitting pucks off in random directions on the ice, pucks you know will never be found again.

“actually, my perfect sweet wife who doesn’t listen or learn, i wanted to do a library date. you’re the one who insisted on taking them to the lake. when you know i still can’t skate,” you remind her.

“oh my god,” megan groans, reaching up to snatch josie by the ankle, causing the little girl to giggle uncontrollably as she gets swung through the air and placed gently back down onto the ice. megan picks up her stick and quickly blocks max from hitting his last few pucks, instead redirecting them all easily back into the small bucket they came in. you watch, impressed. megan has been retired for a year now, shortly after josie turned 4, but she’s still good as ever.

“my thoughts exactly,” you laugh.

“remind me of this exact moment next time i suggest doing this again,” megan blinks.

“babe, this happens every time.” you remind her, flipping through another page in your book. “literally every weekend.”

megan, still impossibly strong, grabs both your kids by the back of their jackets, flipping them both around to face the same direction on the ice. the sound of their rumbling giggles makes your heart flip.

“laps, both of you.” she demands, her voice stern (or about as stern as your goofy, ridiculous megan can get.) “now, minions.”

“no,” josie pushes back challengingly. 

“oh yeah?” megan bends down, pointing a finger menacingly at your daughter. “why? scared you’ll get left in my dust?”

you laugh, watching as your wife takes off on the ice, your two bumbling children skating along after her in an attempt to catch her. your heart melts at the sight. 

-

even at lara and dani’s encouragement, megan had never seen herself as exactly coaching material. several colleges had tried soliciting her to coach for them after her time in the wnhl, and she had turned down each of them in favor of staying home with the kids while you continued to work. you didn’t mind— between what she had made playing professionally, your current job, and the current time she can dedicate to her family now that she’s done traveling, the trade off is well worth it.

but the perfect way to fill her time was coaching your son’s 7 & under junior hockey league. 

“way to take that shot, champ!” your wife cheers as max misses yet another practice shot. “love the confidence, buddy!”

you laugh and hand her the coffee you just picked up for her in the lobby. “you’re being surprisingly patient.”

“no, he’s honestly so, so bad at this, poor guy,” megan lets out a quiet breath, and the both of you laugh. one of the assistant coaches takes over the drills as you two watch the kids from the side. “he’s trying like hell, though.”

“alright, relax coach,” you wrinkle your nose at her playfully. 

you both hear a thud against the plexiglass and realize josie, who is supposed to be taking figure skating lessons on the other side of the rink while max’s team practices, is shoulder checking her poor coach into the wall again, much to the woman’s displeasure. you give her a sharp look to cut it out and she instantly straightens up, nodding at you in understanding.

megan gives you a quick look before bursting out into laughter. you know your daughter’s menace-like behavior is nothing to laugh at, but it’s such a sharp contrast to gentle and compliant max, you’re grateful to have such characters for children that keep you and megan on your toes.

“josie’s sick of figure skating, meg” you tell your wife gently, knowing you’re approaching a sensitive topic for her. “she’s been stealing his sticks and messing with his goal in the backyard. i know you’ve seen her.”

megan lets out a nervous sigh. “i was afraid that’d happen.”

when max happened, you saw it be so easy for megan, like being a boy dad was the most thing in the world. she had all the answers, no fears, no concerns. but as much as she loves both your children equally, you know for a fact that josie was different. megan was so, so much more nervous with raising a girl, and while you didn’t feel the same pressure, you knew it kept megan up at night wanting to make sure she did everything just right for your guys’ little princess.

“she wants to be just like you, meg,” you tell her gently as you both watch the girl roll her eyes at the coach and do another twirl. “she pays attention, talks about your teams, wants to watch your old games. she’s so eager to be part of that world, and you keep brushing her off.”

megan shakes her head, clearly wanting to pivot away from the topic. “mrs. baker called again today. she’s worried about her reading.”

you sigh. mrs. baker, josie’s kindergarten teacher. 

“i remember how the first meeting went, megan. i was there, remember?” you laugh, rubbing her arm soothingly. “josie’s still got time to figure it out before they go on diagnosing anything. she’s barely 5. give her time. you sound more worried than her teacher did.”

megan’s knits her brows, avoiding your gaze as she watches both kids on the ice. 

“i don’t want her to distract herself with hockey if she’s already at risk of falling behind in school.”

“meg,” you soften your voice, leaning you weight against hers. “it’ll be okay. let her try, we can support her. she won’t fall behind.”

“i don’t want her to beat herself up.” her voice drops into a rasp as you see her swallow down nervously. “i don’t want her to feel stupid.”

your heart aches thinking about baby megan, all those years beating herself up over struggles that were never her fault. you see how anxiously she projects forward, wanting so desperately to spare your guys’ daughter from the same fate, the same self-consciousness, the same lack of confidence.

“she won’t. give her a chance. she might thrive,” you reassure her. “having something she’s that passionate about might make her motivated to work harder.”

megan nods, pressing a kiss into your head. you feel her body relax against yours as you two lean together, watching the practices go on. “you’re right. i’m overthinking it.”

“she might be the next you,” you smile.

before you can say anything else, megan is motioning for the figure skating coach to pause, waving for your daughter to come over to where you guys are standing. 

“max, come here,” she calls out, leaning down on the wall to be eye-to-eye with your kids as they both skate over, their eyes wide in confusion. “josie, go borrow your brother’s gear.”

“are you benching me?” maxie asks anxiously. 

“would you rather go get a new book and hot cocoa with your mom?” megan asks, her voice soft, her eyes scanning over your son’s face as she chooses her words carefully. “would you rather not come back to practice?”

“i like hockey,” max says quickly, almost too quickly. your heart aches. you see megan in him too— nervous, kind-hearted, eager to be good, not wanting to hurt anyone.

“but do you love it?” megan pries gently, taking one of his hands in hers to comfort him.

“i would rather be reading, yeah,” max admits, his gaze dropping to the floor. 

megan is quick to take his chin gently in her fingers and lift his gaze back up to hers. “hey, hey, that’s okay. were you afraid to hurt my feelings by telling me that?”

“yes,” he admits sheepishly. 

“thank you for being kind, but thank you even more for being brave and telling me the truth,” she pulls his helmet off of his head and presses a kiss into the top of his sweaty hair. “go with your mom. i love you so, so much. you’re the coolest kid.”

the boy complies, coming off the ice and taking off his gear, handing each piece to his younger sister. “i was scared you’d be mad at me.”

you see megan’s face wrinkle in concern. she shakes her head, reaching down to give the little boy a tight, comforting hug.

“never ever. i love you with my whole heart. i can’t wait to buy you all the books in the world, dude,” she reassures him, nodding. “go give your sister your gear. your mom is waiting.”

you smile and reach out to your son, handing him his hoodie. he swipes it up eagerly and takes your hand, beaming excitedly.

“i heard you’ve been practicing on your own,” megan says as she kneels down, focusing now on helping josie put on all the gear. it’s a size too big, but it’ll do. “you ready to show me what you can do?”

“really?” josie’s eyes light up.

“these boys are bigger than you are,” megan warns, but she doesn’t sound worried. she sounds eager, proud. “think you can keep up?”

“yes,” the girl nods eagerly. 

“go show off,” she encourages, giving josie a push on the ice to send her towards the practice. “but no backflips! you’ll give me a heart attack.”

“boring,” she gripes, skating off. 

you can’t help but laugh. 

“she’s going to kill me,” megan groans, pinching the bridge of her nose.

you poke her in the cheek, letting max rest on the bench for a moment. 

“she’s karma for every single time you lashed out at one of your teammates. remember senior year?”

“yeah. alright, alright,” megan waves you off, rolling her eyes, but she pulls you in to give you a quick peck. you both watch as she boldly joins the drill as if she’s been doing it for years, quickly handling the stick and the puck with a confidence unmatched by most of the boys on the team.

“she’s a natural,” you beam proudly.

megan lets out a low whistle. “better than i was my first time on the ice.”

“i’ve always said she’s just a less anxious version of you,” you smile. “right down to the puppy dog eyes.”

megan grins back, wrapping an arm around your waist. “you love these puppy dog eyes.”

you look into those puppy dog eyes, the things that drew you in when you first met her, and the things you’re pretty sure were the first part of megan that you fell in love with, before the rest of her fell right into place inside your heart.

“being just like you won’t be the worst thing in the world, meg,” you tell her gently, you both watching as josie blasts past the other boys on the ice, handling the puck with unimaginable expertise. 

“at least college is paid for,” megan wrinkles her nose, letting out a sigh. “who knows. maybe some sucker will get roped into giving her their english class notes.”

“and then they fall in love with each other and become college sweethearts. and survive long distance, and get married. and have a super cute family with two kids and a crusty white dog,” you add on, wrapping your arms around her waist to pull her into a hug. 

“i got super lucky,” megan breathes, finally turning to look down at you.

“yes you did,” you grin back up at her. 

“i love you,” she tells you, kissing your forehead tenderly.

you admire her perfect face, looking back at your perfect daughter and your perfect son. your perfect little family, something you could have never pictured when you first met megan in your british literature class all those years ago.

you smile, reaching up for one more kiss.

“ditto.”

[applepiiex]

your fics are amazing, I’m happy to have found a fluffy m!reader writer.

I am requesting some sort of fluffy fic with toji fushiguro! Something with college student reader, and older bf toji and baby megumi. Like. Im js thinking of toji pulling up to reader’s campus with megumi in his arms and nobody would suspect that reader is dating the big strong dilf waiting at the front gates ><

🐯anon<3

CAMPUS CRUSH ! ! !

Toji Fushiguro x Male!Reader

College is hard enough without your terrifyingly hot secret boyfriend showing up on campus with a baby strapped to his chest like the world's scariest diaper ad. Especially when that boyfriend is Toji Fushiguro, ex-hitman vibes, muscle daddy body, and a very clear “do not approach” aura. You’re trying to stay under the radar. He’s walking around in broad daylight like a walking scandal. And now half your bio lab thinks he’s your brother. You're never going to live this down.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆⁺₊⋆ ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

You really shouldn’t be surprised anymore. But you still nearly drop your iced coffee when you spot him standing like a brick wall among the flow of students trickling through the university gates.

Toji Fushiguro is impossible to miss. He’s taller than half your professors, broader than any linebacker on the school team, and meaner-looking than the security guards who stalk the parking lots at night. There’s something about him that says don’t even try me — the scar over his lip, maybe, or the way he’s never quite relaxed unless he’s got you underneath him or Megumi snoring against his chest.

You don’t mean to stare, but how could you not? He’s a force of nature against a backdrop of backpacks and chatter. Some students glance up, startled, most keep walking, but you hear it in their whispers.

“Is he a cop?” “No way. Look at his arms. He’s gotta be like, ex-military or something.” “Wait, is that a baby?”

It’s kind of hilarious. Toji’s eyes flick around lazily, ignoring the double-takes. He looks more like a bodyguard than someone’s dad — except for the tiny boy curled against his chest, socked feet peeking out from the sling Toji grudgingly lets you use when you scold him for carrying Megumi like a grocery bag.

You spot the security guard hovering by the front desk inside the gatehouse, half-hiding behind the glass door and pretending not to stare. He must be wondering if he needs to call campus police.

You pause at the top of the steps leading down to the main quad, blinking at the sight of your big, terrifying boyfriend standing under the shade of an old oak, cradling his tiny son like the world’s softest threat. Megumi is knocked out cold, cheeks pink, a small hand bunched in the front of Toji’s black tee.

A girl next to you sighs dreamily. “Oh my god, he’s so hot. Is that his baby? That’s so cute…”

You bite back a laugh and press your straw to your lips to hide the grin creeping up your cheeks. Yeah. He is hot. And that is his baby. And, god help you, that big man is yours, too. The same one who kisses you stupid in your shoebox apartment, who sometimes stays awake just to watch you study until 2AM, who tries and fails to keep Megumi’s sticky fingers out of your notebooks.

He catches you staring before you can school your face. His eyes flick up, sharp at first, then softening so fast it knocks the air out of your lungs.

You hurry down the steps, ignoring the way a few heads turn. It’s broad daylight and you’re not supposed to do this here, but he’s here, and you haven’t seen him since you left his bed this morning, late for class.

“Toji,” you hiss, but it comes out embarrassingly happy. He raises an eyebrow, smirk curling the corner of his mouth.

You almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

When you reach him, Toji clocks your flushed cheeks immediately. “What’s with the face? You sick or somethin’?”

You jab him in the ribs carefully, so you don’t jostle Megumi. “People are staring, Toji. You couldn’t text me first?”

He tilts his head, feigning innocence. “I texted. You didn’t answer.”

“Because I was in class—!”

You cut off when a pair of girls you recognize from your bio lab walk past. They both slow down, eyes widening as they take in the entire picture: you, college boy in a hoodie with your backpack half-zipped; Toji, six foot something and built like a nightmare; and the small lump of a baby snoozing obliviously in a carrier against all that muscle.

One of the girls nudges the other. “Hey, Y/N! Who’s this?”

You clear your throat. “Uh, this is...um…”

Before you can finish, Toji’s mouth twitches into a grin that never means anything good. “Older brother,” he drawls, leaning closer to you on purpose. His breath ghosts your ear: Play along.

“Oh! Wow, I didn’t know you had family visiting!” The second girl giggles, covering her mouth. “Your nephew is so cute!” Toji’s eyes glitter with mischief. He bounces Megumi slightly, just to make him sigh in his sleep, and the girls all but melt on the spot.

“Cute, huh?” Toji murmurs, eyes never leaving yours. “You think I’m cute too, sweetheart?”

Your ears burn so bad you’re certain they’re red. “Haha, okay, we’re gonna go! Bye!” you say, grabbing Toji’s arm and dragging him toward the parking lot.

The girls giggle behind you, whispering too loud for comfort, “He’s so hot, oh my god, your friend’s brother is so hot—”

When you round the corner away from sight, you shove his arm, careful not to wake Megumi. “Brother? Seriously?”

Toji’s shoulders shake with silent laughter. He dips his head so his forehead bumps yours for just a second. “Shoulda said daddy, huh?”

You slap a hand over his mouth, horrified, and hiss, “We are on campus.”

He grins behind your palm, all teeth and that same dangerous warmth you love too much. He lets you cover his mouth until your hand slides away, then catches your fingers and kisses your knuckles instead. Rough lips, gentle promise. “You gonna say hi to your favorite boy, or just stand there droolin’ over me?”

You don’t bother answering. You slip close, brushing your hand over Megumi’s soft hair first, he makes a sleepy noise but doesn’t wake, and then you let your knuckles linger on Toji’s forearm. He feels warm under your fingers, solid and real and safe in a way you wish you could wear openly.

“He wouldn’t nap at home,” Toji says, pretending he’s annoyed, but the way his arm shifts so Megumi’s head stays tucked under his chin betrays him. “Thought you’d do the trick.”

“Oh, I see how it is. I’m the emergency pacifier.” “You said it, not me.”

You flick his side lightly, but he catches your wrist before you can retreat. He holds it for a second longer than he should, just enough to feel your pulse flutter. Then he lets go with a grunt, as if you’re the one making this harder than it has to be.

You can feel eyes on you, a couple students are definitely whispering. No one here knows. You like it that way. Better for your grades, better for his peace of mind, better for Megumi’s future. But there’s a small, traitorous part of you that aches to drop your bag, press your mouth to Toji’s throat, and say yes, he’s mine. He tilts his head at the parking lot. “C’mon. He’ll wake up if you keep standin’ around lookin’ pretty and getting attention.“

Your heart does a flip at pretty especially in that rough voice, but you roll your eyes and let him steer you toward his battered old car.

In the car, Megumi stays asleep through the soft click of his car seat straps. Toji watches you adjust the buckles, pretending he doesn’t melt a little every time you brush the kid’s hair out of his eyes.

You settle into the passenger seat, backpack stuffed between your knees. The cab smells like him: faint cologne, clean sweat, the lingering scent of the gas station coffee he lives on. He leans over to tug your seatbelt across your chest, an excuse, really, to bury his nose in your neck for half a second.

“Toji—” “Shut up. Missed you.”

It’s so quiet, so casual, and yet it punches you right in the ribs. He pulls back before you can respond, palm sliding up your throat just once before he grips the wheel instead.

He drives with one hand, other arm resting out the open window. You watch him more than the passing traffic. You’re pretty sure he knows.

“You gonna tell me why you really came?” you ask when he pulls into a quieter street, lined with trees and old houses.

Toji snorts. “Kid wouldn’t sleep. And I figured you’d be hungry by now.”

You groan, you are hungry. He always knows.

“Could’ve just called.” “Yeah. But then I wouldn’t get to see that dumb look on your face when you see me, huh?”

You glare, but he’s right. He’s always right. You swallow the warmth blooming in your chest and reach over the console to squeeze his thigh in retaliation.

“Jerk,” you mumble. “Mmhm. Yours though, ain’t I?”

He parks outside your tiny apartment. You juggle your bag and Toji’s huge palm resting on the small of your back, guiding you up the stairs like he’s done a hundred times.

Inside, he kicks the door shut with his boot and sighs when you pull him down for a kiss. Megumi snuffling softly between you both, oblivious. Your textbooks are scattered across the couch, but Toji ignores them. He sinks into your cushions with Megumi nestled in his lap, eyes drifting shut the moment he feels your fingers comb through his hair.

“Nap with us,” he murmurs against your palm.

You do. Books forgotten, coffee gone watery on the table. There’s only warm skin, the soft baby breaths of Megumi curled against his father’s chest, and Toji’s big hand curved possessively around the back of your neck like he’s daring the world to take this away.

No one would ever guess. But you know. And you’re never giving it up.

By the time you reach the parking lot, you swear every student who saw is going to spend the next week trying to guess exactly who the scary hot guy with the baby is. You kinda like that no one will ever guess the truth. That later tonight, you’ll be asleep on that same big chest, baby Megumi snoring softly at your side, exactly where you belong.

[sh4nksslvt]

Hi, can you do a Benn Beckman-X-Reader piece, please?

Something about Beckman not expecting to fall in love and keeps trying to deny it and the reader isn't even trying but it happens anyway?

Beckman at his current (50), reader can be any adult age.

& if possible, Shanks being an ass about it & teasing Beckman relentlessly or something.

not much but hope u like it~ (●'◡'●)

Late Bloom

Benn Beckman didn’t expect to fall in love again—least of all with you, the new recruit who wasn't even trying. And of course, Shanks noticed.

Benn Beckman X gn!reader | ONE SHOT tags: fluff, sfw, ooc, age gap, unexpected love a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe word count: 1.2k

masterlist | ko-fi

The Red Force swayed gently on the New World, the sun painting golden stripes over its deck. It was one of those rare, lazy days between island raids and drink-fueled tavern chaos.

Benn Beckman leaned against the railing, a cigarette loosely hanging from his lips, eyes half-lidded as he watched the sea. Peaceful. Too peaceful.

Until your laugh broke the air.

He didn’t mean to glance over. Really. But his head turned of its own accord, a stubborn old reflex his body had yet to unlearn since you joined the crew. And there you were: seated cross-legged on a barrel, half-drenched from a water bucket prank Lucky Roux had just pulled, laughing like the world was made for joy. You looked up, wiping seawater from your face, and smiled at Benn in passing.

He immediately looked away.

Goddammit.

“Problem, old man?” Shanks leaned beside him, tipping a bottle of rum against Benn’s bicep.

“Don’t call me that,” Benn muttered, exhaling smoke.

Shanks followed his line of sight, spotted you still giggling with the crew, then whistled low and smug. “You know, for someone who’s always lecturing me about ‘discipline’ and ‘not mixing business with pleasure,’ you stare like a lovesick schoolboy.”

“’m not staring.”

“Yer sulking then. Even worse.”

“I’m not—” Benn shut up, scowling.

Shanks grinned wider. “Face it. You’re smitten. With the new recruit no less. Twenty-five, energetic, dangerously charming—reminds me of me at that age.”

Benn rolled his eyes. “You were an idiot at that age.”

“And yet here we are, me being right.”

You had no idea.

Well, not really.

You just liked Benn. He was cool. Quiet. Mysterious. The type that didn’t speak unless necessary but always listened. The type who offered you a towel before you even realized you needed one, who pulled you behind cover during a skirmish like it was second nature. Who corrected your aim once by gently guiding your elbow from behind, and left your heart thundering for an hour.

But you never tried anything. He was twice your age and carried himself like a war-hardened mountain. If he wanted you, you figured, he’d say something.

Spoiler alert: he didn’t.

It started with little things.

Benn would pass by you in the corridor and mutter, “Eat something,” like it wasn’t the third time he’d noticed you skipping meals.

You’d grumble, “Yes, Dad,” but then find a plate of food mysteriously placed near your hammock.

He’d always end up walking beside you during port landings, even if you’d started out ten feet apart.

He’d grunt when you fell asleep on deck after a night of drinking, but throw his coat over you anyway.

You were starting to think he wasn’t as indifferent as he acted.

Benn Beckman was annoyed.

With himself, mostly.

This was not supposed to happen. He’d had his youth. He’d had flings, lovers, flares of passion burned out by time and life and war. He’d made peace with that. He had the sea. He had his crew. He had Shanks.

And now, suddenly, he had you—bright, loud, impossible you—occupying more mental real estate than any enemy plan or tactical maneuver.

And of course, Shanks had noticed.

“You’re scowling again,” Shanks said one night, stretching out beside him on the deck, drunk and smug.

“I always scowl.”

“No, this is the ‘why do I have this feelings’ scowl. Big difference.”

“Shanks—”

“She’s not even trying, you know. That’s the best part.”

Benn gritted his teeth.

“You ever consider,” Shanks continued, “just…telling them? Instead of glowering from corners like a wounded bear?”

“It’s not like that,” Benn said, voice tight.

“Sure it’s not.” Shanks slapped his shoulder, laughing. “You’re in so deep, it’s hilarious DAHAHAHA.”

One night, it happened.

You were sitting on the mast beam, swinging your legs, watching the stars. Benn approached quietly, hands in his pockets. You smiled when he climbed up beside you—surprisingly agile for someone his age, not that you were counting.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked.

“Not really,” you murmured. “Too many thoughts.”

“About?”

You shrugged. “Life. My place here. Wondering if I’m doing well enough. If I belong.”

Benn was silent a moment.

“You do,” he said firmly.

You blinked.

“You belong,” he repeated, not looking at you. “You’re sharp, reliable. You keep your head in fights. And…you make the crew better. Happier.”

Your chest warmed. “Coming from you, that means a lot.”

Benn finally looked at you then. The moonlight touched half his face, making his silver hair gleam. There was something unreadable in his eyes, something you’d never seen before—vulnerable, almost soft.

“I didn’t expect…” he started, then trailed off.

“Didn’t expect?”

He exhaled. “To feel this. Again. Not at my age. Not like this.”

You blinked.

“Oh,” you said dumbly.

He gave a half-laugh. “Yeah. ‘Oh.’ I know. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” you said quickly. “Just…surprising. But not bad. Never bad.”

Benn raised an eyebrow. “You’re okay with it? With me?”

“I’ve liked you since the third island,” you admitted. “But you were all ‘grr’ and serious and unreadable. I thought maybe you just hated me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“I got that part now, thanks.”

You smiled shyly. Benn’s hand brushed yours, tentative, like he didn’t quite believe this was real. When you laced your fingers with his, he squeezed gently.

From somewhere below deck, Shanks let out a loud, drawn-out wolf whistle.

You groaned. “Ugh...He was eavesdropping, wasn’t he?”

“Probably since the third island,” Benn muttered.

The next morning, Shanks strutted around like a peacock on sake.

“Well, well, well,” he sang, arm draped around both of you at breakfast. “My first mate’s finally a man again!”

Benn grunted into his coffee.

You snorted. “I don’t think he ever stopped being a man.”

Shanks gaped. “Oh my god, they’re already defending him. You’re doomed, Benn.”

Benn didn’t reply. He just tugged you a little closer, deadpan as always, and muttered:

“Shut up, Shanks.”

A week later…

“You’re glowing,” Lucky Roux teased you while polishing a dagger.

“I’m not glowing.”

“You are,” Yasopp agreed. “It’s like your aura changed. You’re smug.”

“I am not smug!”

“You’re sleeping in Benn’s room.”

You dropped your spoon.

“We heard you snoring. And him not snoring. Suspicious.”

You buried your face in your hands. “I hate all of you.”

“You love us,” Roux said. “Just not like you love Beckman.”

You moaned dramatically.

Behind them, Benn leaned against the doorframe with a small smile, watching you suffer with the patience of a saint and the pride of a man whose crew was clearly rooting for him.

When you saw him, you blushed. “Help me.”

“Nope,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “You’re on your own.”

“You traitor.”

He chuckled, took a drag, and added, “But I’ll walk you to bed.”

The crew exploded into teasing hoots.

Shanks sat beside Benn again on the deck, watching stars and counting empty bottles.

“You’re smiling again,” Shanks said, nudging him.

“I always smile.”

“Liar.”

They were quiet a while.

“You happy, old man?”

Benn exhaled slowly. “Yeah.”

“Didn’t expect it, huh?”

“No. But…maybe that’s the point.”

Shanks smiled at that. “A late bloom’s still a bloom, eh?”

Benn looked down toward the sleeping quarters, where your laugh had just echoed faintly. He felt warmth in his chest—unfamiliar, dangerous, and beautiful.

“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

[charliedawn]

hi I got to go swimming today and I was thinking about swimming with our Vampire darlings!

Finding a lake and swimming under the stars with them!! Splashing around and having some fun. complimenting their swimwear and getting compliments from these southern hotties. And the Irish one. Just!!! Having fun!! Swimming under the stars with the loves of their deaths!!!

Remmick

Remmick appeared first, shirtless, with dark swim shorts and his golden chain catching the moonlight on his chest. He walked into the lake like it was nothing—then smirked when he caught you staring.

“Yer starin’, mo chroí. Can’t blame ye.”

You told him he looked good and he laughed, low and pleased. Later, he pulled you close in the water, your bodies weightless and slow, and whispered against your ear:

“This lake, these stars, this night—I’ll remember it all even if the world forgets us.”

Bo Chow

He wades in slow, shirt open, swim trunks dark and low on his hips. He raises a brow at your cannonball and smirks.

“Damn, sugar. That splash just baptized half the South.”

You stick your tongue out at him. He chuckles and glides forward in the water, impossibly graceful.

“Look at you. Moonlight on your skin, drippin’ like a dream. Reckon you might kill me all over again lookin’ like that.”

He splashes you right back, eyes crinkling with rare joy.

Cornbread

He’s already in the water before you are, yelling like he’s ten again.

“Get in here, guys! It’s like a hot tub made by God himself!”

When you compliment his swim shorts (loud, floral, ridiculous), he gives you a wink.

“Y’like ‘em? Got ‘em at a gas station. Half price. Deal of the century in this economy.”

He lets you climb on his shoulders, laughing as he topples backward into the water just to hear you scream-laugh.

Mary

She’s got a vintage-style red swimsuit with a sweetheart neckline, hair in a bun, and a straw hat she refuses to take off. She dips a toe in and sighs.

“Lord have mercy, y’all are loud.”

But then you splash her. And her eye twitches.

“…Oh, honey. You’re dead.”

Suddenly, she’s underwater—and then behind you, laughing as she dumps a whole wave of lake water over your head. She snorts when you compliment her swimming suit.

“Well thank ya kindly. Yours ain’t bad either, sugarplum. Real easy on the eyes.”

Annie

She stays at the edge of the lake, arms crossed, watching shyly. You swim up and coax her in with soft words and a warm smile.

“You don’t have to, but I’d love to have you in the water with me…”

Eventually, she steps in, in a pale blue one-piece, holding your hand the entire way.

“It’s nice,” she whispers, smiling faintly. “Better with you.”

You float on your backs together, fingers brushing, stars above and smiling together.

Stack

Stack strips off his shirt like it owes him money and sprints into the water with a roar, flinging himself in like a cannonball champion.

“Bet I can catch a fish with my bare hands before you do!”

He totally can’t. But you let him try anyway. Later, when he sees you smiling at him, he grins back.

“You’re beautiful, you know that? I mean it. Like—my heart’s doing little flips and shit.”

Bert

Bert shows up in swim trunks, cowboy hat still on, boots slung over one shoulder, and that familiar crooked smirk on his face.

“Whatcha think? Too hot to handle?”

You pretend to squint. “You’re gonna get arrested for indecency.”

He chuckles. “Worth it.”

He cannonballs into the lake and soaks everyone. You shriek. Mary screams. Bo curses under his breath. Bert pops up grinning like a golden retriever.

“Lake day! Under the stars? And ya invited me? Baby, I don’t think I told ya enough times how much I love ya.”

He tosses his hat to the shore and splashes you. When you squeal, he grins and grabs you around the waist.

“You’re lookin’ fine enough to raise the dead right now. Moonlight suits ya. Or maybe I just like seein’ ya wet.”

You bop him playfully on the nose, but he just pulls you closer, pressing a quick kiss to your jaw. He then tries to start chicken fights. He tries to wrestle Stack. He tries to convince Remmick to race him to the other side of the lake. It’s chaos. Beautiful, messy, shirtless chaos.

Joan

Joan is serene and silent when she slips into the water, her long dark hair fanning out behind her like seaweed. She’s in an elegant black swimsuit with delicate lace details that look like something from another century. She glides through the water effortlessly. You swim beside her, slow and quiet. She doesn’t speak at first. Then, finally, she brushes her fingers along your arm, voice soft:

“You’re particularly beautiful tonight.”

You offer her a compliment in return—on her grace, her strength, her beauty. She pauses and actually smiles. A rare, small smile that feels like treasure.

“I used to fear water. Now I think I love it—because you’re in it.”

Later, you find yourselves floating close, hand in hand, saying nothing at all. Just feeling the night breathe around you.

[sharieb]

hello! just wanted to say I LOVEEE the way you do non-mc content. that being said could i request a headcanon on: lets say non-mc and the LI’s broke up because the dudes were still hung up on MC (they end up regretting it lol). then later on see non-mc in public who has moved on to someone else who is doing everything they guys failed to do.

The One Who Never Got It Right

Pairing: LADs x Non-Mc reader Genre: Angst (Breakup regrets) Writer's notes: Thought I could be getting more fluffs to do, but instead I got slapped in the face with this one, welp, no rest for the wicked, I guess 😅

He sees you across the bustling Skyhaven terminal—laughing, radiant, clinging to the arm of someone who isn’t him.

The man by your side is kind-eyed, attentive. He holds your bag, listens intently, and actually smiles when you talk. He doesn’t look distracted or distant—he’s there. Present.

Caleb halts mid-stride, fingers curling around the edge of his datapad. For a moment, it’s like the mission debrief in his hand doesn’t even exist.

He remembers every time he cut conversations short, gave you half his presence, let you walk beside him in silence because his mind was always elsewhere—on MC.

He thought you didn’t notice. That you’d wait. That maybe you’d always be around until he figured himself out.

Now you’re smiling in ways he never earned.

The worst part? You glance his way. See him. Then look away just as easily, returning to your conversation without missing a beat.

He used to be the safe place. Now, he's just a distant name in your past.

Later that night, he types a message to you. Deletes it. Writes it again.

In the end, he just stares at your contact photo for hours, then shuts off the holoscreen. And for the first time in a long time, Caleb can’t strategise his way out of the ache in his chest.

Mission Log 6.14.3A — Deleted Draft I saw her today. Not MC. Her. The one who asked me to be present. To try. To stop living like the past was all I had left. I thought letting her go would make me noble. Thought I was sparing her the weight of being second to a ghost. But maybe she wasn’t second. Maybe I just never gave her the space to be first. And someone else did. I hope he keeps holding her the way I never learned how to. I hope he never makes her feel like a placeholder. …I hope she never looks back.

He saw you at a gallery opening.

You're dressed in something elegant, arm-in-arm with a gentle-faced man who looks at you like you're art incarnate.

The moment hits him like a palette knife to the ribs.

You’re glowing—not in a spotlight way, but in a quiet, contented kind of joy he never could give.

He flashes his usual grin to the crowd, but his fingers twitch at his side.

Because of that new guy? He’s whispering something in your ear. And you’re laughing. That laugh used to belong to Rafayel, once.

But he made jokes about still missing MC. Let you hear silence when you needed security. Let you fade beside someone else’s memory.

Now?

Someone else painting you with attention. Frames you with love.

He downs his champagne and pretends to care about the next exhibit, but he draws you three times from memory that night.

None of them capture your smile the way he just did.

He doesn’t stop drawing until dawn. Each page is more desperate than the last.

 Sketchbook Entry — Page Torn Out She asked me once what I thought love looked like. I told her it was impossible to capture - always shifting, always out of reach. But she caught it. She was it. And I? I framed her in glass and called it finished. She wanted a mess. Partnership. Splattered hands and stained shirts. I gave her monologues and empty wine glasses. I thought she was a phase. A warm red before I returned to ash. But she was permanent. I saw her smile today. It wasn’t for me. And for once, I couldn’t paint a damn thing.

He was leaning on the railing of a shadowed walkway, scanning the crowd below on a recon run, when he spotted you.

You're tucked into the side of someone unfamiliar—someone laughing with you, their hand laced with yours, feeding you a bite of something sweet.

The softness on your face is devastating. It used to be his. It was once the only softness he’d let himself keep.

He stays hidden, watching.

That guy kisses your knuckles. And you smile like you trust him completely.

His chest tightens, fingers twitching. He almost drops the comms unit in his hand.

You’d begged him once to try, to stop comparing you to MC. To see you. He hadn’t known how to let go back then. Now?

He’s thinking about how that man just wiped whipped cream from your lip without flinching—and how he never even learned your coffee order.

“Idiot,” he mutters to himself, pushing off the railing.

But he doesn’t go down there. He’s already done enough damage.

And this time… someone else didn’t waste the chance. He hates it. He admires it.

Mostly, he regrets that it wasn’t him who made you stay.

Encrypted Voice Log – Never Sent SYLUS.ENTRY_097.BURNOUT Timestamp: Corrupted “She looks better without me. You’d think that’d piss me off, wouldn’t you?” “It doesn’t.” “Not really.” “He holds her like he’s not afraid she’ll disappear. Like he’s not too busy sharpening knives to hold her with both hands.” “I didn’t know how to do that. Couldn’t stop chasing shadows.” “I told myself she was a game. A way to forget.” “But she was never small. Never temporary. She waited for me to look up. I never did.” “He did.” [long pause] “She’s not coming back. Good. Let her stay gone. Let her stay whole.”

It’s late in the museum observatory, and Xavier’s here to recalibrate a projection model—until he looks down from the upper dome and sees you.

You're walking hand-in-hand with someone else through the starlit halls. Laughing. Calm.

The person beside you spins you under their arm, and you twirl without hesitation, radiant under the artificial cosmos.

He stands frozen in the upper dome, unseen.

You once asked Xavier to dance. He hesitated, too quiet and too caught up in thoughts of MC to say yes.

But that stranger below? He didn’t hesitate at all.

And you look so light in his arms. So free.

Xavier leans his forehead against the glass, breathing deeply.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, even though you can’t hear him.

His star map reboots beside him, scattering constellations. But for the first time, he doesn’t reach out to correct them.

Because he knows now, you weren’t meant to orbit him forever.

And you didn’t. You became your own universe. One that he was never brave enough to explore.

Private Memoir Entry – Unpublished I was always afraid I’d look at her and see someone else. So I never truly looked. Not the way she deserved. She asked me once if I was choosing to heal with her or without her. I said, “Without.” She nodded. Didn’t cry. Just left. And now I’ve healed. Or so I pretend. But sometimes I think healing isn’t a choice. Sometimes it’s a cost. I gave up the one person who saw me in the shadows and stayed. And someone else saw her light and danced into it.

You’re seated in a corner café with a man Zayne doesn’t recognise—easy smiles, shared laughter, his coat wrapped around your shoulders.

Zayne was on his way to deliver lab files to the main district med unit but now… he can’t move.

His gaze locks on the way the man leans in to tuck your hair behind your ear. How your eyes crinkle with joy.

It’s the kind of comfort Zayne never offered you—not because he didn’t care, but because he was too distracted chasing clarity with MC.

You once told him you felt like his second choice. He never answered that. And now, someone else treats you like you're the only choice.

He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t approach.

But that image burns in his mind for weeks. It replays in the sterile quiet of his clinic, on late nights when no one needs stitching up.

And when he returns home, he finds one of your old letters still tucked inside his medical textbook.

He rereads it, fingers trembling, and realises too late—he could’ve loved you right, if only he’d let himself try.

His next patient finds him staring into nothing, stethoscope in hand, utterly elsewhere.

Medical Log – Never Filed Patient: N/A Status: Unreachable Treatment note: Emotional detachment leads to unintentional abandonment. Prognosis: Permanent loss. Notes: She used to come into my clinic with little things. Fake injuries. Paper cuts. Just to be near me. I knew. And I let her pretend. I let myself believe I had time. That once I stopped thinking about MC, I could finally give this girl the pieces I hadn’t sealed away. But healing is slow. And people… they don’t always wait for your hands to stop trembling. She’s warm now. She’s whole. And I still wear gloves to hold my regrets.

[lila-lou]

✨Twenty-One - 1/4✨

Summary: You thought this trip was just a chance to unwind — until the door opened and Jensen Ackles was standing there, larger than life and way too real. Now you're spending your birthday week in his house, trying not to lose your mind over your childhood crush who, somehow, keeps looking at you like you’re not just some kid anymore.

-requested-

Pairing: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: Language, kinda immoral

Word Count: 6636

DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes. I love them all.

AJ grinned as she rang the doorbell, clearly excited about your reaction to this trip. You, on the other hand, felt your stomach twist into knots. It wasn’t every day you were about to meet Jensen Ackles—a man you had grown up admiring, crushing on, and now, somehow, about to spend time with in the flesh.

The door swung open faster than you expected, and there he was.

Jensen Ackles stood in the doorway, casual yet effortlessly attractive in a plain t-shirt and jeans, his green eyes warm but curious as they landed on you. His light brown hair was slightly messy, like he’d just run his hand through it.

“Hey, kiddo”, he greeted AJ with a grin, pulling her into a quick hug before turning his attention to you. “And you must be Y/N. Heard a lot about you”.

Your brain short-circuited for a second. He heard about you? You barely managed to return his smile without looking like a total idiot.

“Uh—yeah. That’s me. Y/N”, you said awkwardly, cursing yourself immediately for sounding like a socially inept robot.

AJ laughed and nudged your side. “She’s just nervous. Big fan and all”.

Your eyes widened as you turned to glare at her, mentally screaming. She wasn’t supposed to say that! That was the last thing you wanted him to know.

Jensen chuckled, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Oh yeah?”, he teased, clearly amused. “Supernatural fan?”.

You swallowed hard. “Uhm—yeah. I mean—kinda”.

His smirk deepened, and you knew he knew. “Well, that’s good. At least you won’t be completely freaked out staying here for the week”.

You blinked. Wait, what?

AJ turned to you with a wide grin. “Yeah, forgot to mention that part. We´re staying here. Dad’s got plenty of space, and this way, we don’t have to waste money on a hotel”.

Your mouth went dry. A whole week… in Jensen Ackles’ house?

Jensen patted your shoulder lightly, the simple touch making your skin tingle. “Make yourself at home, Y/N”, he said, his voice smooth and warm. “It’s gonna be fun”.

And just like that, your already dangerous crush on him? It just got a hundred times worse.

As AJ disappeared into the kitchen, already rummaging through the fridge like she owned the place—which, to be fair, she kind of did—you found yourself alone with Jensen.

He smiled down at you, his green eyes studying you with an easy warmth. “So, you and AJ met at the shelter, huh?”, he asked, leading you through the house at a relaxed pace.

You nodded, still feeling slightly on edge just being here. “Yeah, about a year ago. I worked there while studying, and AJ came in for her internship”.

Jensen chuckled, shaking his head fondly. “That sounds like her. Always wanting to do a little bit of everything”. His voice was deep and smooth, the kind of voice that could make reading a grocery list sound interesting.

“Yeah”, you agreed softly. “She’s… definitely a lot more outgoing than me”.

He glanced at you, his expression turning thoughtful. “Not a bad thing”, he said, stopping at the base of the staircase. “Sometimes, the quiet ones have the most to say. Just takes the right person to listen”.

Your stomach flipped at his words. Did he just say something that deep… about you? Before you could even think of a response, he motioned toward the stairs. “Let me show you where you’ll be staying”.

You followed him up, trying your best not to let your eyes wander, except that was nearly impossible. The man was built like a damn Greek god. Broad shoulders, muscular back, those strong arms… it should’ve been illegal for someone to look that good in just a t-shirt.

“This is you”, Jensen said, pushing open a door at the end of the hall. The room was spacious but cozy, with a queen-sized bed, a soft gray comforter, and a window that overlooked the backyard.

“Wow”, you breathed, stepping inside. “This is… really nice”.

Jensen leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. “Good. I want you to feel comfortable here. And if AJ gets too annoying, you can always escape in here”.

You smiled at that, your nerves easing slightly. “Thanks. That’s… really nice of you”.

He tilted his head, watching you. “It’s your birthday tomorrow, right?”.

Your eyes widened slightly. “Uh—yeah. How’d you know?”.

Jensen smirked. “AJ’s been talking about it for weeks”. He pushed off the doorframe, his presence effortlessly commanding even in such a relaxed stance. “We’ll have to do something special”.

Your heart skipped a beat. Jensen Ackles wanted to do something for your birthday?

Before you could embarrass yourself by overthinking, AJ’s voice called from downstairs. “Dad! You seriously have nothing good to eat! What kind of house is this?”.

Jensen sighed, shaking his head as he turned. “Guess I need to feed the gremlin before she starves”.

You let out a soft laugh, watching as he walked away. As soon as he was gone, you flopped onto the bed, face-first, groaning into the pillow.

A whole week here. With him. You were so screwed.

You had barely kicked off your shoes and sat up when Jensen’s deep voice echoed from downstairs. “Y/N! What do you want to eat?”.

Your brain short-circuited for a second. He was asking you? Like, personally? Not just assuming you’d go along with whatever AJ wanted?

You scrambled to the doorway, hesitating before calling back, “Uh—whatever’s fine! I’m not picky!”.

There was a pause, then his voice came again, closer this time. “That’s not an answer, kid”.

Your stomach flipped at the nickname. Not that it was unusual, he probably called people around AJ´s age “kid” all the time, but coming from him? It did something to you.

You took a deep breath, stepping out of your room and heading toward the stairs. “Um… pizza?”.

Jensen appeared at the bottom of the staircase, looking up at you with an amused smirk. “There. Was that so hard?”.

Your face burned as you shrugged. “I just—didn’t want to be a bother”.

He scoffed. “You’re staying in my house, Y/N. You better tell me what you want to eat. I don’t need you passing out on me”.

AJ suddenly popped out from behind him, a bag of chips in hand. “Yeah, trust me, Dad. Y/N gets all quiet when she’s hungry. It’s creepy”.

You rolled your eyes. “I do not”.

“She totally does”, AJ confirmed, shoving a chip in her mouth. “She’s like a little sad puppy until she eats”.

Jensen chuckled, shaking his head as he pulled his phone out. “Alright, pizza it is. Any topping requests?”.

You hesitated for half a second, but AJ was already answering for you. “She loves pepperoni and extra cheese”.

Jensen raised an eyebrow, glancing at you. “That true?”.

You nodded, feeling oddly exposed by how well AJ knew you. “Yeah”.

Jensen grinned, nodding as he scrolled on his phone. “Good choice. You and I are gonna get along just fine, Y/N”.

You swallowed hard at that, ignoring the way your heart did a weird little flip. Get it together. He was just being nice. Like a dad.

AJ, of course, wasn’t about to let you off the hook. “She’s also a total freak about garlic bread”.

Jensen looked up, amused. “Oh yeah?”.

AJ nodded, grinning like she had just exposed your deepest secret. “Like, I swear she’d marry a loaf of it if she could”.

You groaned, covering your face. “AJ, shut up”.

Jensen just chuckled, already adding it to the order. “Alright, garlic bread for the birthday girl”.

Your stomach twisted. Oh. Right. He knew.

It wasn’t that you hated birthdays, but growing up, they were never big for you. No extravagant parties, no expensive gifts, just a simple cake, maybe a dinner if money allowed. So hearing Jensen Ackles, the man you had crushed on for years, say it so casually? It felt… weird.

Nice. But weird.

“AJ mentioned you’re turning 21”, Jensen said, locking his phone and glancing at you. “Big milestone. We should do something fun”.

AJ perked up. “Oh! Can we take her out?”.

You froze. “Wait, what?”.

AJ turned to you, practically vibrating with excitement. “Dude, it’s your 21st birthday. We have to do something! A bar, a club, something!”.

Jensen smirked, crossing his arms. “You’re still eighteen, AJ. You’re not going anywhere”.

AJ groaned dramatically. “Ugh, technicalities”.

You, on the other hand, were too focused on the part where Jensen was apparently planning your birthday now. “I—I don’t know”, you stammered, suddenly nervous. “I hadn’t really planned anything. It’s not a big deal”.

Jensen scoffed. “Yeah, not happening. You only turn 21 once”.

AJ gasped, her eyes lighting up. “Ooooh, Dad, you should take her out!”.

Your entire body went stiff. “What?!”.

Jensen just raised an eyebrow at his daughter’s enthusiasm. “Uh…”.

AJ clapped her hands together, already hyping herself up. “Yes! Think about it. You know all the cool places, she’s never been to LA before, and she needs to live a little! It’s perfect”.

You opened your mouth to protest, because what the hell was she even suggesting?!, but Jensen only chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well… guess I don’t mind playing chaperone for the night”.

AJ grinned at you. “See? Perfect”.

You stared at her, absolutely betrayed. “AJ, what are you doing?”, you whispered, mentally panicking.

She just smirked. “Giving you the best birthday ever, duh”.

Jensen stretched, cracking his neck. “Alright, pizza should be here soon. You two go set the table or something”.

You barely registered his words. Your brain was too busy spiraling. Because tomorrow night? You were going out. With Jensen Ackles.

You grabbed a couple of napkins, setting them next to the paper plates while AJ plopped down on the couch, watching you with a mischievous grin. “We need to doll you up”, she declared, tossing a napkin onto the table.

You groaned, already knowing where this was going. “AJ—”

“I’m serious!”, she cut in, sitting up and pointing at you. “You’re so pretty, but you always dress so… lamely”.

Your face heated up. “I do not”.

AJ gave you a look. “Y/N, I love you, but your entire wardrobe is, like, neutral colors and jeans. Do you even own a dress?”.

You hesitated. “…Maybe”.

AJ gasped dramatically. “Oh my God, maybe?!”.

You rolled your eyes, trying not to smile. “Not all of us have unlimited shopping sprees, AJ”.

She waved a hand dismissively. “Money has nothing to do with it! You just need to, like… embrace your hotness”.

You nearly choked. “Excuse me?”.

AJ grinned. “Dude, you’re gorgeous. But you hide behind all these boring clothes and oversized hoodies”. She wiggled her eyebrows. “And since you’re spending your birthday night out with my dad, we need to upgrade your look”.

You froze. “AJ, it’s not like that—”.

“Oh, please”, She smirked. “Dad’s gonna be in full ‘protective mode’, but that doesn’t mean you can’t look hot”.

Your face felt like it was on fire. “AJ, I am not dressing up just to—”.

“Too late”, she sang, already pulling out her phone. “We’re raiding my closet after dinner. I have so many things that’ll look amazing on you”.

You sighed, knowing there was no way out of this. “You’re really set on this, huh?”.

AJ grinned. “Absolutely”.

Before you could protest again, the doorbell rang.

“Pizza’s here!”, Jensen’s voice came from the hallway.

AJ clapped her hands, jumping up. “Saved by the pizza. But don’t think I’m letting this go”.

You groaned, running a hand down your face as she skipped off to the door. Tomorrow night was going to be a disaster.

Dinner had been surprisingly easygoing. A lot of small talk, mostly AJ dominating the conversation while you and Jensen occasionally chimed in. He was easy to talk to—casual, funny, even a little sarcastic—but still, every time he looked at you, you felt hyperaware of yourself. Like he could see right through your nervous energy.

But then, once the pizza was mostly gone, Jensen leaned back in his chair, stretching a little before fixing you with a serious look. “Alright, birthday girl”, he started, “if we’re going out tomorrow, we gotta set some ground rules”.

You straightened slightly, feeling weirdly like a teenager getting lectured by a parent. “Rules?”.

Jensen nodded. “Yeah. First off, no posting about it online. I’m not super hounded by paparazzi, but I also don’t need some rando snapping pics of me in a club with a 21-year-old and spinning it into some weird-ass headline”.

That… made sense. You hadn’t even thought about that. You nodded. “Yeah, of course”.

“Second”, he continued, taking a sip of his beer, “I’m picking the club. I know a few spots that are discreet. Last thing you need is to deal with a bunch of drunk superfans losing their minds because they recognize me”.

You swallowed. Right. Because he was Jensen freaking Ackles. Just because he was so casual about it didn’t change the fact that millions of people worshipped him.

“And third…”. He hesitated for a second, then smirked slightly. “Look, I know you’re young, but just—don’t do anything stupid. Don’t disappear, don’t take drinks from strangers, and for the love of God, don’t hook up with some dude in the club bathroom”.

You nearly choked on your drink. “Jensen!”.

AJ screamed from across the couch, doubling over in laughter. “OH MY GOSH. AS IF”, She was gasping between giggles. “Dad, she’s—she’s the biggest virgin ever”.

Your eyes widened in horror. “AJ, what the hell?!”.

Jensen, to his credit, just raised an eyebrow, looking highly amused. “That so?”, he mused, taking another sip of beer.

You covered your face with both hands. This was not happening.

AJ was still cackling. “I swear! She’s like, scared of flirting. It’s adorable”.

You groaned, wanting to sink into the floor. “Oh my God, can we not talk about this?”.

Jensen smirked. “Alright, alright. No judgment, kid”.

The way he said it, so damn casually, made your stomach do something stupid. Like he wasn’t laughing at you, just… observing.

AJ wiped tears from her eyes, still giggling. “I love this. This is the best day ever”.

You glared at her. “You’re the worst”.

She just grinned. “And yet, you love me”.

Jensen shook his head, still looking entertained. “Alright, enough embarrassing Y/N for one night”. He pushed up from his chair, stretching. “I’m heading to bed. You two don’t stay up all night”.

AJ saluted dramatically. “Yes, Dad”.

You were still burning with embarrassment as Jensen walked past, clapping your shoulder lightly. “Don’t let her bully you too much, kid”. And with that, he was gone, leaving you a mess on the couch while AJ kept laughing.

The next day passed in a blur. You had tried to distract yourself, watching movies with AJ, helping clean up the kitchen, and avoiding thinking too hard about the fact that tonight, you’d be going out with Jensen.

But, of course, AJ had other plans. “Alright, birthday girl”, she announced, throwing open her closet doors dramatically. “Time for your transformation”.

You sighed, standing near the doorway. “I don’t need a transformation, AJ”.

She turned to you, hands on her hips, like a mom about to scold her child. “Yes, you do. You’re turning twenty-one. You’re going out for the first time. You are not—I repeat, NOT—going in your usual boring outfit”.

You huffed. “It’s not boring. It’s just comfortable”.

AJ gave you a look. “We are not prioritizing comfort tonight. We are prioritizing hotness”.

You groaned. “AJ…”.

She ignored you, already digging through hangers, tossing options onto her bed. “We need something sexy but not too much. Hot, but classy. Like… ‘Oops, I didn’t mean to be this attractive, but here we are’”.

You rolled your eyes. “That’s… weirdly specific”.

AJ gasped suddenly, pulling out a sleek, form-fitting black dress. “This. This is it”.

Your eyes widened. “AJ, that’s… tiny”.

She scoffed. “It’s not tiny, it’s perfect. Try it on”.

You hesitated, but one look at AJ’s dead serious expression told you there was no way out of this. Fine. You grabbed the dress and disappeared into the bathroom. When you slipped it on, you barely recognized yourself. It hugged your body in all the right ways, the hem stopping mid-thigh, the neckline just low enough to be dangerous. You stared at your reflection, heart pounding. Was this really you?

“Are you done yet?!”, AJ’s voice called impatiently.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped out.

AJ’s jaw dropped. “FUCKING. SHIT”.

Your face burned. “It’s too much, isn’t it?”.

AJ shook her head so fast you thought she might get whiplash. “Too much?! No, this is—this is perfect. Like, I almost want to cry. My little Y/N is finally embracing her hotness”.

You groaned. “Please stop talking”.

She ignored you, circling around like she was inspecting her masterpiece. “You’ve been hiding this under your oversized hoodies all this time?”. She gasped.

Before you could argue, a knock sounded on the bedroom door. Jensen’s voice came through. “You two ready yet?”.

Your stomach twisted into a knot at the sound of Jensen’s voice. Ready? That was debatable. AJ, of course, had no hesitation. She threw open the door, revealing Jensen standing in the hallway, dressed in a fitted black button-up with the sleeves rolled up just enough to ruin your life.

His gaze landed on you—and froze.

For the briefest second, you swore you saw his breath hitch. His eyes flickered down, taking in the dress, the way it hugged your figure, and then just as quickly, he cleared his throat, looking away.

“Well, damn”, he muttered, scratching the back of his neck. “You clean up nice”.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to act normal. “Uh… thanks”.

AJ, meanwhile, was beaming like she had just won the lottery. “Told you she looked hot”.

Jensen shot her a look. “Alright, that’s enough”.

AJ just laughed, linking her arm with yours and dragging you down the hallway. “Come on, let’s eat. You can’t party on an empty stomach”.

Dinner was surprisingly… nice.

Jensen took you both to a quiet restaurant, low lighting, a cozy atmosphere, nothing too fancy, but still nice. AJ did most of the talking (as always), but you couldn’t help but notice the way Jensen would glance at you every now and then.

Little things—making sure you liked your food, refilling your drink before you even realized it was low. It wasn’t anything obvious, but it made your stomach flutter all the same.

When dinner wrapped up, Jensen tossed his credit card on the table before you or AJ could even pretend to argue.

AJ stretched dramatically. “Alright, time to go. Birthday girl has a club to get to”. You paused. Right. The plan. Jensen was dropping AJ off at home first, then… then it was just you and him. Alone. In a club.

By the time you pulled up to AJ’s house, she was already half-asleep in the backseat.

Jensen shifted the car into park and looked back at her. “Alright, kiddo, inside you go”.

AJ blinked groggily. “Ugh. Fine”. Then she turned to you, smirking just enough to let you know she was still AJ. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do”.

You rolled your eyes. “Which is…?”.

She grinned. “Nothing. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do”.

Jensen groaned. “Out. Now”.

AJ laughed, hopping out of the car. “Love you both! Don’t be lame!”.

And just like that, it was just you and Jensen. The car was suddenly too quiet.

Jensen exhaled, gripping the wheel for a second before looking over at you. “You ready for this?”.

You nodded, though your heart was pounding. “Yeah. You?”.

He smirked, shifting the car into drive. “Let’s find out”.

The drive to the club was quiet, but not exactly uncomfortable. Just… charged.

Jensen had one hand on the wheel, his other resting casually on the gear shift, his fingers tapping lightly as he drove. The streetlights cast quick flashes of gold across his face, highlighting his sharp jawline, the slight crease in his brow.

You, on the other hand, were trying not to lose your mind.

It wasn’t like this was a date, not even close, but the fact that you were alone with Jensen Ackles, dressed like this, going out for your birthday… it felt like something you shouldn’t even allow yourself to overthink.

But, of course, you were overthinking it anyway. After a moment, Jensen glanced over at you. “You good?”.

You nodded quickly. “Yeah. Just… haven’t really done this before”.

He smirked, eyes flicking back to the road. “First time clubbing?”.

You exhaled. “Yeah. Not exactly my scene”.

Jensen let out a soft chuckle. “Yeah, figured as much”.

You frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”.

He shrugged, lips twitching. “You just seem… more like the ‘cozy night in’ type. Movie marathons, takeout, that kind of thing”.

Your heart skipped. He had known you for barely two days and somehow already had you pegged. “…Not wrong”, you muttered, crossing your arms.

Jensen smirked. “Don’t worry, kid. I’ll make sure you survive”.

You swallowed. Kid. That damn nickname. You weren’t sure why it bothered you tonight. Maybe because you didn’t feel like a kid. Not in this dress, not sitting next to him like this, not with the way his voice sounded so smooth and effortless.

You needed a distraction. “So, why are you even doing this?”, you asked, shifting in your seat. “Taking me out, I mean”.

Jensen hummed, considering for a moment. “Well, AJ was very insistent”.

You huffed. “Yeah, that sounds like her”.

He glanced at you again. “And… you only turn twenty-one once. Figured you deserved a proper night out”.

Something about the way he said it—calm, certain—sent a shiver down your spine.

You bit the inside of your cheek. “You do this often?”.

Jensen chuckled. “What, take barely legal girls to clubs?”.

Your face burned. “Oh my God—that’s not what I meant”.

He just laughed, shaking his head. “Relax, kid. I know”. Then, after a beat, he added, “And no. Haven’t really gone out much lately. Not my scene either, honestly”.

That surprised you. “Then why—?”.

He smirked. “Told you. Birthday rule. Plus, if I don’t do it, AJ will never let me hear the end of it”.

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “She really does have you wrapped around her finger”.

Jensen sighed dramatically. “Tell me about it”.

The car slowed as he pulled onto a side street, the bright neon lights of the club flickering in the distance. He put the car in park, then turned to you, his expression suddenly more serious.

“Alright, some more ground rules”.

You straightened, nodding. “Okay”.

Jensen held up a finger. “One—stay where I can see you. I’m not dealing with you disappearing on me”.

You swallowed. “Got it”.

“Two—if any guy gives you trouble, you come find me”.

Your breath caught slightly. “Uh… okay”.

“And three—”. He leaned back, giving you a smirk. “Try to have some fun”.

You exhaled a laugh. “I’ll… do my best”.

Jensen grinned, then unbuckled his seatbelt. “Let’s go, birthday girl”.

Your stomach twisted as you stepped out of the car, the music from inside the club already thumping through the pavement. You weren’t sure if it was the nerves or the excitement making your heart race. But either way… there was no turning back now.

The bass from the club pulsed through the pavement as you followed Jensen toward the entrance. The neon lights cast an electric glow over everything, and for a moment, you wondered what the hell you were doing.

This wasn’t your scene. Not even close. But somehow, being here with him made it feel a little less terrifying.

Jensen walked up to the bouncer like he’d done this a hundred times before. The guy at the door barely glanced at him before unhooking the velvet rope. “Good to see you again, man”, the bouncer said, nodding.

Jensen smirked. “Appreciate it”.

You blinked. Wait.

“You know the bouncer?”, you asked as you followed him inside.

Jensen shrugged. “Told you, I picked a place that’s… familiar”.

You stared at him. “What does that even mean?”.

But Jensen just grinned. “Come on, let’s get a drink”.

The club was packed. Music blasted from the speakers, the air thick with heat and the scent of alcohol. Colorful strobe lights cut through the haze, illuminating the crowd of bodies moving in sync with the beat. Jensen led you through the mass of people, his hand hovering near the small of your back—not touching, but just close enough that you felt completely hyper-aware of his presence.

When you reached the bar, he turned to you. “What’s your poison?”.

You hesitated. “Uh… I don’t really know”.

Jensen chuckled, shaking his head. “Right. First time and all”. He turned to the bartender. “Two whiskey sours”.

Your brows lifted. “Oh, we’re starting with whiskey?”.

Jensen smirked. “Trust me”.

The drinks arrived quickly. You took a cautious sip, the mix of citrus and smooth burn of whiskey hitting your tongue. “Okay”, you admitted. “Not bad”.

Jensen raised his glass. “Happy birthday, kid”.

You huffed. “Still with the ‘kid’ thing?”.

He smirked, taking a sip. “Force of habit”.

You rolled your eyes but clinked your glass against his anyway. As you drank, you let yourself take it all in. The music, the lights, the fact that you were here, in a club, drinking with Jensen Ackles. The absurdity of it all made you laugh under your breath.

Jensen arched a brow. “What?”.

You shook your head, smiling. “Just… this isn’t how I thought I’d spend my twenty-first birthday”.

Jensen leaned against the bar, smirking. “Better or worse?”.

Your stomach flipped. You licked your lips, setting your drink down. “Still deciding”.

He chuckled. “Well, we’ve got the whole night. Let’s see if I can change your mind”.

Before you could respond, the music shifted—something fast, infectious.

Jensen tilted his head toward the dance floor. “You gonna dance?”.

Your eyes widened. “Oh, uh… I don’t really—”.

“Bullshit”. He smirked. “Come on. Let’s see what you got”.

Your pulse skyrocketed. “Wait—you mean… with you?”.

Jensen just grinned and held out a hand. You stared at it, heart hammering. This was so not a good idea. And yet… You took his hand.

Jensen’s hand was warm, his grip firm but easy, like this wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t dragging you onto the dance floor in the middle of a crowded club. Your brain screamed at you to protest, to tell him you weren’t much of a dancer, that this was dangerous territory.

But you didn’t. Because the second he pulled you into the crowd, the music swallowed you whole. The bass thrummed through your chest, the lights flashing in shades of blue and red, bodies moving all around you in time with the rhythm. You barely had time to catch your breath before Jensen turned to face you, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Relax”, he said over the music. “It’s just dancing”.

Just dancing. You exhaled sharply, trying to convince yourself of that. But then Jensen moved. He didn’t go all-in right away. Just a casual sway, easy and effortless, his body rolling with the beat like it was second nature. His hands stayed at his sides, giving you space, but his eyes? They were right on you. He was watching. Waiting.

Your pulse skyrocketed. Okay. Fine. You could do this. You started slow, mirroring his movements, testing the rhythm. It wasn’t that you couldn’t dance, it was just that you never had, at least not like this. Not with him.

Jensen grinned when he saw you loosen up. “There you go”.

The music picked up, and without thinking, you let your body move. The alcohol in your system helped, making you just a little bolder, a little less aware of your own awkwardness.

And then, Jensen stepped closer. Not too close. Not inappropriate. But close enough. Close enough that when the beat dropped, and you turned slightly, his hand found your waist, just for a second, just barely there. Your breath hitched.

He leaned in, his voice low, just above your ear. “See? Not so bad”.

You swallowed. “Not bad”, you managed, but it didn’t sound nearly as casual as you wanted it to.

Jensen smirked, his fingers brushing your waist again, so light, so subtle, you almost could have imagined it. But you didn’t. Because when your eyes met his, there was something different there. Something that made your whole body hum with awareness.

The song shifted again, something slower, heavier. Jensen didn’t move away. Neither did you. And just like that, the air between you changed. It was no longer just dancing. It was something else. Something neither of you had expected.

Your pulse was out of control. You barely thought as you grabbed your drink, tipping it back in one go, the alcohol burning its way down your throat.

Jensen watched, his smirk deepening. “Damn, kid”.

You ignored the way that nickname made your stomach flip, setting the empty glass onto the nearest table. When you turned back, Jensen was still right there, his green eyes glinting under the flashing club lights.

Then, before you could process what was happening, he reached for your hand. And spun you. A quick, fluid motion—his fingers barely grazing yours—until suddenly, your back was against his chest.

He wasn’t touching you—not fully—but he was close. Close enough that you felt the heat of him, the warmth of his breath as it fanned across your shoulder.

And now? Now, you were really dancing.

The beat pulsed through your veins, your body moving with the rhythm. The hesitation you’d had before? Gone. The alcohol, the music, the way Jensen’s presence wrapped around you like a second skin, it was all too much, and at the same time, not enough.

You let your hands lift slightly, swaying to the beat, and that’s when it happened. Jensen’s fingers, just barely, brushed against your hip. It wasn’t much. The lightest touch. But it sent a sharp jolt through your spine.

You swallowed hard, hyper-aware of him now. The way his body moved so easily behind you. The way he still wasn’t touching you fully, like he was waiting. Testing. Like he was seeing how far this could go.

And you? You weren’t stopping him.

Another beat, another sway. His fingers pressed—firmer, deliberate—just at the curve of your hip. Your stomach tightened.

“Still with me?”. His voice was low, rough, right against your ear.

Your breath stuttered. “Yeah”.

Jensen hummed, a sound that rumbled through your back. “Good”.

You didn’t know how long you danced. Didn’t care. Because for the first time in your life, you weren’t overthinking. You were just feeling. And damn, did it feel good.

Hours had passed in a blur of music, lights, and the heat of Jensen’s presence. You had danced longer than you ever thought possible, had another drink (or two, who was counting?), and somewhere along the way, you had lost every ounce of hesitation.

Now, however, reality was hitting you all at once.

You weren’t wasted, but you were definitely buzzed—that loose, giggly kind of drunk that made the world tilt just slightly when you walked.

And Jensen? He was handling you. Not in an overbearing way. Not in a “let’s go, you’re done” way.

No. He was calm. Collected. Like this wasn’t the first time he had to lead a tipsy twenty-one-year-old out of a club.

His hand rested firmly at your lower back as he guided you through the crowd, his grip steady whenever you swayed too much. “You’re lucky you’re a fun drunk”, he murmured as he pulled open the club’s side door, letting in the crisp night air.

You giggled, feeling way too warm. “What’s a not fun drunk?”.

Jensen smirked, keeping his pace slow as you walked toward the parking lot. “The crying ones. The aggressive ones. The ones who throw up in my car”.

You gasped dramatically. “I would never”.

Jensen huffed a laugh, unlocking the car. “Yeah, well, let’s keep it that way”.

You felt light. Giddy. Like this whole night was floating around you in some hazy, surreal dream. When you reached the passenger door, you turned, swaying slightly. “You know…”, you started, tilting your head. “You’re really good at this”.

Jensen raised an eyebrow, amused. “At what?”.

You blinked slowly, trying to find your words. “Taking care of people”.

His smirk softened just a little. “Comes with the territory”.

You hummed. “Yeah… you’re like… a responsible, sexy bodyguard”.

Jensen froze. Your own brain stalled. Did you—did you just say that out loud? A beat of silence.

Then, Jensen smirked. “Sexy, huh?”.

Oh. My. God. You slapped a hand over your mouth, eyes wide. “Forget that. That wasn’t—that was nothing—”.

Jensen laughed. Like, full-on laughed. “Alright, lightweight, let’s get you in the car before you start confessing more things”, he teased, opening the passenger door.

You groaned, hiding your face. “I hate myself”.

Jensen nudged you toward the seat, still smirking. “Don’t worry, kid. I’ll let that one slide”.

You huffed as you slid into the car, your face on fire. Jensen shut the door, walking around to the driver’s side. You exhaled deeply. You needed sleep. Water. A new identity, maybe. Because fucking shit. You just called him sexy.

The second Jensen started driving, you knew you were in trouble. Your head was still spinning, your body warm from the alcohol, the dancing, and—let’s be honest—him.

You couldn’t just sit here in awkward silence after what you’d said. You had to fix it. “I just meant”, you started, turning toward him in the dim glow of the dashboard lights, “you’re, like, objectively attractive”.

Jensen’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel. Oh no.

“Like—like, obviously. People would agree”, you continued, rambling. “You’ve got, you know, the whole… thing going on”.

He raised an eyebrow. “The thing?”.

You gestured vaguely. “Yeah. The voice, the muscles, the face. You know”.

Jensen exhaled sharply through his nose. “Shit, (Y/N)”.

You panicked. “But not, like, in a weird way! I just mean you’re, like… manly. Like, rugged. You’ve got that whole strong, protective, could-break-someone-in-half vibe”.

Jensen’s jaw flexed. His grip on the wheel went white-knuckle tight. You were making this worse. You gulped. “Like—not that I’d want to be broken in half, obviously—”.

Jensen let out a rough breath, shifting slightly in his seat. You had no idea that your innocent, drunk little rant was currently making his dick twitch. But it was. Because all he could think about now was you—dressed like that, pressed against him on the dance floor, moving without hesitation. And now, sitting in his car, talking like this. About him.

His jaw was tight. “Y/N”.

You perked up. “Yeah?”.

Jensen huffed. “Stop talking”.

Your mouth snapped shut. For a second, you swore the air in the car felt different. Heavy. Charged. You glanced at him, blinking. “Did I—did I say something wrong?”.

Jensen exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “No. You just… need to stop before you dig yourself in deeper”.

The rest of the drive was tense, but not because of any argument or discomfort. No, the tension was something else. Something thicker, heavier. Something Jensen should not have been feeling.

You sat there, legs crossed, fiddling with the hem of your dress, clearly buzzed and completely oblivious to what you had just done to him. To be fair, you didn’t know any better. You were young. Inexperienced. Completely innocent in ways you didn’t even realize.

And Jensen was not. That was the problem. That was why his grip was too tight on the steering wheel. That was why his jaw clenched every time your soft little voice rambled about how manly and strong he was.

Because you didn’t even realize what you were saying. Didn’t realize that any other man your age would’ve jumped at the chance to take advantage of the fact that you were sitting here, flushed and tipsy, calling him sexy without a second thought.

Didn’t realize that the words could break someone in half had sent a sharp, unwelcome pulse straight through him. Because he could. And that was the worst part—because you? You were so damn soft. So untouched. So sweet and nervous and trying so hard to make things right.

And here he was, a man nearly twice your age, trying not to think about how warm you’d felt against him hours ago. How easily you had melted into him when he’d spun you on the dance floor. How your breath had hitched when he touched your waist.

And now, you were sitting there, cheeks pink, babbling in that innocent little voice, so damn unaware of the effect you were having on him.

Jensen swallowed hard. This was not good. Not at all.

Then, your voice cut through the silence. “Are you mad at me?”.

He glanced over, blinking. “What?”.

You bit your lip. “I just… I didn’t mean to make things weird”.

Fuck. That lip.

He forced himself to focus. Shook his head. “You didn’t”.

You still looked guilty, your fingers twisting in your lap. “I just—sometimes I don’t know when to shut up”.

Jensen huffed a laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah. I noticed”.

You made a little sound of protest, smacking his arm lightly. “Hey!”.

He smirked, glancing at you again, this time, really looking. You were so young. Too young to be in his car like this, looking at him like that, trusting him completely. And he needed to get his shit together. Fast.

Jensen exhaled. “Relax, kid. I’m not mad”.

You softened. “Promise?”.

His fingers flexed against the wheel. Fuck, you had no idea. But still, he nodded. “Promise”.

And when you smiled, looking relieved, Jensen knew. He had no business feeling the way he did. Because no matter how much your words had messed him up tonight… You were off-limits.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

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[yuwritesstuff]

🏎️ Sukuna x fem reader — F1 Driver Modern AU Headcanons 🏁

He’s the most aggressive driver on the grid. Sukuna doesn’t play safe — he drives like he owns the track, like rules are merely suggestions. Fans either worship him or call him reckless. But he's terrifyingly good. You know he calculates every risky move to perfection, even if your heart stops every time he overtakes on a blind curve.

You met during the off-season at a pretentious afterparty. Your friend brought you there, though you didn't really want to come. Sukuna was cocky, confident, and surrounded by admirers — but his eyes locked onto you like a target. You didn’t care who he was, and that only made him more intrigued. You called him an “asshole in a jumpsuit.” He laughed and brought you a drink.

He doesn’t do “soft” with anyone — except you. Sukuna is sharp-tongued and brutal in interviews, but when you’re alone, he pulls you into his lap, traces lazy patterns on your skin, and grumbles about how you’re the only one who ever calms him down. He is comfortable in your company, even forgetting to tease you sometimes. You appreciate such moments of peace and quiet.

You travel to every race. Sukuna pretends not to care, but the way his eyes search the crowd for you says otherwise. He drives harder when you’re watching. You wear a discreet charm bracelet he gave you for good luck — his initials engraved in red. This is a small but significant ritual of support, and your very presence energizes him.

He’s scarily possessive. Paparazzi caught a photo of another driver getting too friendly with you. Sukuna didn’t say anything. He just beat that guy’s qualifying time by nearly a full second the next day and shot him a look that said “Try me again.” For him, everything in life is a competition and a challenge, and he's not going to lose you. No one is going to take his girl away from him.

He lets you touch his car. No one else is allowed near it unless they're engineers. But you? He’ll smirk and say, “Want to sit in it, princess?” while lifting you into the cockpit, allowing you to feel the smell and energy of the salon in which he fights for the most impossible victories. He's crazy about his car. And he's crazy about his girlfriend. This combination makes his heart beat faster, even though he keeps a smug smile on his face.

He watches your reactions from the cockpit cameras. His team caught him once grinning during a race while watching a clip of you cheering in the paddock. He denied it, obviously. “I don’t smile. That was wind distortion.” It's a tiny weakness that he allows himself, staying focused on the track the rest of the time.

You worry constantly. No matter how confident he is, you hold your breath during every lap. After one especially bad crash, you ran to the pit lane in tears. Sukuna stumbled out of the wreckage, grinning, blood on his face, and said, “Relax. I’ve had worse hangovers.” After that, he fainted and then spent a few more days in the hospital, and you thought you would kill him with your own hands as soon as he woke up. But when he did, you just kept wiping the endless tears from your cheeks and kissed his face while he grunted back, pretending to be annoyed.

He teases you for being soft. “You get all nervous, and for what? I’m invincible, babe.” You know he's the craziest man you've ever met. Brave, strong, unstoppable. But still a man. A human being. You’ve heard the quiet way he exhales when you tuck his hair back and kiss his temple. He needs your softness more than he admits.

You anchor him. He’s chaos and ego and speed, but you’re the one who reminds him to breathe. You’re the only person who can say, “Please come back to me safe,” and make him pause before a race. He remembers that he has something else to hold on to besides the steering wheel, and although “safety” is not the word that goes with his career, he smiles at you a little softer than usual and says, “I will.”

He loves it when you wear his team colors. Once you wore a branded hoodie with his number on it, and he couldn’t stop staring. Later that night, he whispered, “That’s hot. Keep it on,” as he pushed you against the hotel wall, lifting you up with his strong arms. You were sure that the neighboring rooms complained about the noise that night. In the morning, you were so hoarse and exhausted that he made fun of you and even bought you some medicine for your sore throat. “And how are you gonna cheer me on at the race now?” he teased. “It's all your fault,” you pouted, dying inside from both embarrassment and happiness.

He’s actually proud of you. He brags to the team about your career, your achievements, and how “his girl is smarter than any PR manager here.” It gets to the point where they are completely annoyed by his stories, but they can't say anything, knowing his hot-tempered nature. He loves not only your body, but also your amazing brain. You blushed when you found out he once punched a guy in Monaco for saying “she’s just a pretty face.”

He’s got your initials tattooed somewhere only you can see. It's reckless and permanent and very Sukuna. He doesn’t tell anyone. This is for you only. You know his body, you know how to give him goosebumps and a passion as powerful as the roar of a sports car engine. He likes it when you touch this tattoo while fucking, and then lets you trace it when he’s falling asleep next to you after a long day.

He plans to win the championship for you. He says it’s for himself, for legacy, for glory. And so it is, of course, because he is made of these things. He belongs in a world of paparazzi cameras and front pages, a world of speed and money and risk. But when he crosses that finish line and raises his helmet to blow you a kiss, the world can see who he’s really doing it for.

[flyingbanananas]

Not Like That (Izou x Reader)

The crew’s always making comments.

You’re not surprised anymore, just half-annoyed, half-used to it. Marco smirks when he passes by you and Izou sitting shoulder to shoulder on the deck. Thatch makes little heart gestures behind your back. Even Ace, not the most observant when it comes to love, raises a brow now and then.

You laugh it all off. So does Izou.

“Not like that,” you always say, even though lately, it doesn’t come out as easily.

_____

~ 5.000 words

The sun’s sinking on the horizon, painting everything in warm colors, when you find Izou in your usual spot, the quiet corner of the upper deck tucked behind a row of crates. He must have been waiting for you for quite some time, legs folded beneath him, with a book in one hand.

He doesn’t look up when he speaks.

“You’re late,” he says, voice smooth as ever. “I nearly finished the chapter without you.”

You roll your eyes and drop down beside him, your shoulder knocking lightly into his. “You could’ve waited.”

“I could have,” he agrees, flipping to the next page. “But you’re always ten minutes late when you say you’ll be here shortly.”

You don’t bother denying it. You just lean sideways, peering over his arm. “What page are we on?”

He taps the line with one finger, and you nod. The spine of the book creaks as he shifts to make more room for you, and without a word, you settle in, thigh pressed lightly to his. The two of you read like this often, cramped in the same space, sharing a single copy, breathing in sync without realizing it.

You’ve been doing it for so long it barely feels unusual.

You read for another half hour like that, heads bent close together, voices brushing against the dusk. He lets you rest your head on his shoulder. At some point, he starts reading every line aloud, and you don’t stop him.

Then someone shouts across the deck.

“Oi, you two! Still pretending you’re just friends?”

You sit up. Groan. “God, Thatch, we’re reading.”

“So that’s what they’re calling it now,” he calls back, winking.

Izou sighs, not even lifting his head. “You know it’s not like that.”

“Oh, sure,” Thatch says, dramatically dragging out the words. “Completely innocent shoulder resting. Just textbook literature appreciation under the stars.”

You roll your eyes, and Izou mutters, “You’re impossible.”

Thatch just laughs and waves it all off. “Yeah, yeah. Come on, lovebirds. Drinks are flowing and we’re losing daylight. Get over here!”

Izou closes the book slowly, marking the page with a sliver of ribbon. “Sounds like chaos is about to start any moment.”

Thatch just grins. “Nah, sounds like a great way to spend the night. You two are always hiding in corners like some dramatic lovers from a romance novel.”

You throw a pebble at him, which you find right next to you. He ducks it easily.

“Come on,” he says again, stepping back. “Ace already started trying to outdrink himself, so we could use the adult supervision.”

Izou rises first, dusting off the back of his kimono. He offers you a hand—familiar, casual. He’s done it a hundred times before, and you’ve always taken it without thinking.

But this time your fingers tingle when they curl around his. His grip lingers a beat too long.

He lets go when you’re steady, and neither of you says a word about it.

_____________

The corner of the deck where the others have gathered is warm with lantern light and low laughter. Someone’s even lit a fire in a metal barrel, and of course, there’s sake and rum passed around in mismatched mugs.

Thatch has already claimed the best seat, a crate turned sideways, and is pouring drinks with clearly too much alcohol in them. One of those concoctions might be enough to make you blackout drunk.

Marco leans against a post, half-lidded gaze flicking to the two of you as you arrive, and Ace sits cross-legged on the deck, already pink-cheeked, grinning for no reason.

“Look who finally decided to grace us with their presence,” Marco says lazily.

Izou drops down beside you, elbow brushing yours as he tucks his legs under himself. “You act like we missed something.”

“You did,” Ace says. “Thatch tried to convince Marco to dance. It almost happened.”

“It absolutely did not,” Marco mutters, and Thatch winks.

“He was tempted.”

You snort as you accept a drink from Thatch, fingers brushing Izou’s briefly when you pass him his. You barely notice it, but they do.

Marco arches a brow at the exchange and Ace nudges Thatch and stage-whispers, “They do this all the time.”

“Do what?” you ask truly not knowing what they mean, but already guessing that it’ll be another comment on your and Izou’s friendship.

“The little touches. The looks. The looonging,” Ace says, drawing it out like it’s something scandalous.

“We’re friends,” Izou says smoothly, taking a sip of his drink.

“Yeah,” Thatch adds, grinning. “And I’m a virgin.”

You nearly choke on your drink. Even Izou coughs beside you and then smiles into his cup like he’s trying not to laugh.

“I don’t know what you’re all imagining,” you say after a beat. “We just read together.”

Marco hums. “It’s the just that’s doing a lot of work in that sentence.”

Ace leans back, tilting his head dramatically. “Honestly, if they don’t kiss by the end of the week, I’m filing an official complaint.”

“Do it,” Thatch says. “Make it formal.”

Izou raises a hand. “Do I get to review this complaint?”

“Denied in advance,” Marco mutters, then takes another sip.

You look over at Izou. He looks back, that same unreadable softness in his expression again—calm on the surface, like always, but there’s something else flickering behind his eyes. Something you can’t quite name.

Your legs are touching. Your hands brush again when you both reach for the same snack. Neither of you moves away and that’s okay. Friends are supposed to be comfortable around each other.

So, you try not to think about it too much, enjoying the evening drinking and laughing with your brothers instead.

And eventually, the night deepens as more and more stars are beginning to peek through and the buzz of Thatch’s drinks settles in your bones. You’re on your second cup of whatever Thatch poured, your skin already flush and your head pleasantly light.

Izou notices before you can say anything. He always does.

He shifts just slightly, his shoulder brushing yours more firmly, the motion steadying. His fingers graze your wrist, just once, and then again more deliberately.

“You alright?” he murmurs, low enough that the others won’t catch it.

You smile, just for him. “M’fine.”

He watches you a second longer, then pushes the small bowl of roasted chestnuts toward you. “Eat a little.”

“I already did.”

“You picked out the peanuts and left the rest.”

You laugh and nudge him with your knee. “And you know this how?”

He lifts a brow. “Because I know you.”

You go quiet for a second, not because you don’t have something to say, but because of how easy that sounded. Like a truth. Like something he didn’t mean to say out loud.

So, you take one of the chestnuts just to appease him, unaware of the fact that Ace’s watching you both from across the fire with his chin in his palm, grin pulling wide. “You know, I’m starting to get why you fell in love with Izou.”

“It’s the little things,” Thatch adds, grinning just as wide as Ace.

Marco sips his drink, and without looking up says, “I think they’re actually worse than any couple I’ve ever seen.”

“We’re not—” you start, but Izou calmly cuts in at the same time:

“—together,” he finishes, smooth as ever. But his eyes flick toward you with a softness that makes your stomach flip.

You open your mouth, maybe to echo it, maybe to say something else, but then Izou gently tugs your cup away from you.

“You’ve had enough,” he says, not unkindly, already pouring you a bit of water from a clay jug.

You wrinkle your nose. “I’m fine.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “But I’m still taking care of you.”

Ace makes an exaggerated gagging noise. “Can you not be sweet for one damn second?”

“Let them,” Marco mutters, hiding his smile behind the rim of his cup. “I think they’ll eventually admit it to each other.”

You snort, cheeks warm. Whether from the alcohol or Izou or both, you’re not sure anymore. Izou hands you the water without another word, the pads of his fingers brushing yours like always. Thoughtful, careful. Second nature.

And just like that, the night grows louder as the drinks keep flowing. Laughter comes easier, shoulders loosen, and Thatch breaks out into awful attempts at a sea shanty that has Ace howling with laughter and Marco visibly debating whether to walk overboard into the sea.

But you just lean against Izou’s side now without really thinking about it. He hasn’t moved away, hasn’t commented on it, just adjusted slightly to make it more comfortable, like he always does.

You don’t even notice that Ace’s attention has moved back toward you two until he speaks again, louder this time. “Seriously, how long are you two going to pretend?”

You blink. “Pretend what?”

“That you’re not in love.”

You laugh, too fast, too loud. “We’re not.”

“Right,” Thatch chimes in, pointing between you and Izou. “So if we dared you to kiss right now, it wouldn’t mean anything, huh?”

You sit up straighter. “It’d mean nothing.”

Izou doesn’t flinch. He just exhales a quiet breath, smooth as silk. “We kiss if it’ll shut you all up.”

Suddenly, everybody around you quiets. Then Marco snorts. “Don’t do it because we told you to yoi.”

“No. Actually, let’s do it,” you nod agreeing to the whole plan. “This might finally end the conversation.”

So, next Izou turns toward you slightly. His expression is unreadable again—gentle, careful. His hand rises, not to pull you close, but to steady your chin with a featherlight touch.

“They’re like children sometimes,” he murmurs, so low only you hear it.

“Absolutely,” you nod, chuckling, happy that he somehow managed to ease the tension with just one comment.

So, suddenly feeling more at ease, you lean in. Easy. Like breathing. And Izou meets you halfway, calm and certain.

The kiss is soft... softer than you expected. His lips press to yours, sharing its warmth in a slow and deliberate manner, not rushing anything or demanding more than you’re already giving.

It’s rather tender.

His lips move gently against yours like he’s memorizing the feel of your mouth in that one brief touch. And then it ends, just as simply as it began.

You both pull back slowly. Barely. Your noses are still close, breath mingling and neither of you speaks for a long time.

Until Ace breaks the silence with a whistle. “Holy shit!”

“That was not a ‘we’re just friends’ kiss,” Thatch points out, delighted.

You blink, still feeling dazed. “It was just to prove a point.”

Izou, voice barely audible and eyes not moving from yours, adds. “We told you that before we kissed…”

Then, finally, you sit back, suddenly very aware of the way your body is still leaning into his. You try to steady your hands and your thoughts. Everything inside you feels like it’s glowing.

Marco’s watching with narrowed eyes like he sees something neither of you are ready to admit.

“You two are exhausting yoi,” he says, tipping his drink toward you.

And finally, no one says anything else. They let it go – for now, even though Izou leans in slightly again, just enough that his shoulder touches yours again, grounding and familiar.

You don’t move away. You never do, so why should you now?

You’re still just friends.

And eventually, one by one, the crew retires to their beds until you and Izou are the only ones left. He hasn’t moved much since the kiss. And neither have you because the warmth between you feels comfortable still.

But somehow heavy in a way it wasn’t before.

Izou breaks the silence first, voice low. “They’ll be talking about that for weeks.”

You let out a soft huff. “They never needed a reason before.”

He hums, almost a laugh. “True.”

Another pause. But you don’t fill it with anything this time. Neither does he.

You glance at him. He’s watching the fire, jaw relaxed, eyes soft. But there’s tension in his hands, subtle, but you know him well enough to see it. He’s thinking too much. So are you.

You shift, just a little, brushing your shoulder against his again. Not enough to make a statement. Just enough to remind him you’re still there.

His voice is quieter this time when he says, “You didn’t have to go through with it.”

“I know.”

“You could’ve said no.”

“I know,” you say again, softer now.

Izou finally looks at you. There’s something hesitant in his expression like he’s waiting for you to take it back. Waiting for you to laugh it off. Waiting for you to tell him it meant nothing.

“It was just to prove a point,” you say.

His mouth lifts at one corner. “Right.”

“Just to shut them up.”

“Of course.”

Another long stretch of quiet passes. You should move. Stand up. Head below deck. But you don’t want to and neither does he. So, you two continue to sit by the fire, the taste of the kiss still lingering on your lips.

______________

The next morning you find yourself in the galley, claiming that the sunlight’s far too bright as you walk in, seeing that breakfast’s already laid out on the wooden tables. In front of everybody are bowls of rice, grilled fish, and something Thatch insists is soup but smells suspiciously like hangover remedy.

You shuffle past a few tables, hair a mess, eyelids heavy. Izou’s already there, seated at the end of your table. His cup of tea steams quietly in front of him. He doesn’t look tired. Of course, he doesn’t.

He glances up as you enter and offers you a small smile. Warm. Familiar. Safe.

Your stomach does something it has no business doing, so you push it down as you slide into the spot beside him like always.

And that’s when Thatch pounces. “Well, well, well. Look who decided to wake up late after her scandalous little kiss.”

You groan and drop your head to the table.

Marco, across from you, doesn’t even look up from his breakfast. “I was wondering how long it would take yoi.”

Ace grins around a mouthful of rice. “I give it three days before one of you breaks and confesses.”

You lift your head just enough to glare. “There’s nothing to confess.”

“That’s what makes it sadder,” Thatch says, mock-wounded. “You're already acting like a couple but too emotionally constipated to admit it.”

Izou calmly sips his tea. “She and I are friends.”

“Right,” Marco says, flicking his eyes between the two of you. “Friends who kiss.”

“Once,” you mutter. “To make you all shut up.”

“Didn’t work,” Ace points out cheerfully.

You grab a rice ball from the center plate and chuck it at him. He catches it with his mouth and nearly chokes from laughing.

Thatch leans forward on his elbows, his voice dropping like he’s about to start narrating a romance novel. “They were just two friends… sipping tea… sitting shoulder to shoulder in the quiet glow of firelight…”

“Thatch.”

He ignores the warning in Izou’s tone.

“…their lips met in a passionate attempt to end all speculation…”

“Thatch.” That one’s from you.

He’s grinning like a cat at you. “… but little did they know, that single kiss would awaken something forbidden. Something deep. Something—”

You whip a spoon at him. It clatters off his shoulder. “Finish that sentence and I’ll dump soup over your head.”

“Feisty,” Ace chuckles, while Marco’s chuckling into his coffee.

And just as the teasing has finally started to die down and you think you might finish the rest of your breakfast in peace (mostly because you’ve stopped reacting and Izou’s gone quiet in that way that makes people nervous), does Ace speak up again.

His voice is perfectly innocent. Too innocent. And his expression doesn’t match, because there’s a glint in his eyes, a smug little twist to his mouth that sets off alarm bells before he even finishes his thought.

“Well, I was thinking…” he begins, drawing the words out slowly like he’s savoring them. “If kissing friends is just something we do now…”

You pause, fork halfway to your mouth. “Don’t.”

“… and Izou and I have known each other longer than you two have…”

Izou doesn’t look up from his plate. “I’m warning you.”

“… then shouldn’t I get a turn too?”

The table goes silent for a second. Then Thatch immediately chokes on a mouthful of food, coughing into his fist, while Marco leans back with a faintly amused smirk like he’s settling in for the show.

“Don’t encourage him,” you mutter, though you can already feel a laugh building in your throat.

Ace, of course, only grins wider and starts sliding around the table, slow and exaggerated, like a cartoon villain with both hands raised in mock innocence. “C’mon, Izou. Just a little kiss between bros. For science.”

Izou doesn’t even flinch. He just sets his utensils down. “I will shoot you.”

There’s a beat.

Ace falters mid-step. “Wouldn’t be the first time a gun was involved in one of my dates,” he quips, though he’s definitely reconsidering his choices.

“You’re not helping yourself,” Izou says flatly, pushing his chair back with sudden purpose.

“Okay, okay, just a peck—!” Ace doesn’t get the chance to finish.

With a smooth, practiced motion, Izou draws his flintlock from his belt and levels it right at Ace’s head. The click of the hammer being pulled back is sharp and deadly in the morning air.

“Fuck!” Ace yelps and quickly dives behind Marco like a coward, knocking into the bench in the process.

Thatch loses it completely, doubling over, face red, laughing so hard he’s crying. “Oh my god! He was deadass serious!”

Even you can’t hold it in anymore. A laugh bubbles up and escapes, and you have to cover your mouth with one hand to stop yourself from completely losing composure.

Marco doesn’t even flinch as Ace huddles behind him. “You brought that one on yourself,” he says simply, sipping his coffee like this is all a routine part of breakfast.

From beneath the table, Ace’s voice pipes up again, wounded but still amused. “Hey! At least now we know Izou wouldn’t kiss any of his friends!”

Izou, ever the picture of calm, lowers his gun and sets it neatly back on the table. His face is unreadable, but the faintest pink stains the tips of his ears.

“Try it again,” he says, tone icy, “and I will make it count next time.”

Naturally, the laughter around the table doesn’t die down right away. Thatch is still wiping tears from his eyes, and Ace stays crouched behind Marco like a man in hiding, though even he’s grinning now. Moreover, someone makes a joke about how easily Izou’s gun comes out these days, and someone else starts taking bets on who’ll be the next target.

But then the noise finally begins to fade, the teasing shifting to other things.

And when you glance over at Izou, he’s sitting next to you again, cradling a fresh cup of tea that someone – probably Marco – slid in front of him while the commotion was still going. However, he hasn’t taken a sip yet.

You catch the tight line of his shoulders. The set of his mouth. The way he stares into the steam curling from his cup like it’s something he has to brace himself for.

Then you reach out quietly, slipping your hand over Izou’s, your fingers brushing against the side of his palm. He startles, just slightly, but doesn’t pull away. So, you lean in, your voice low. “I’ve got watch duty in ten. If you’re done threatening your brothers, you can come with me.”

His eyes finally meet yours.

You give his hand a gentle tug and add, “I’d like the company.”

Izou doesn’t answer, but he rises immediately, silent, composed, tea cup abandoned.

The moment you step away from the table, however…

“Oh no!” Thatch wails, dramatically clutching his chest. “They’re walking away together. What does it mean?”

“Ten-to-one they make out behind the cannon stacks,” Ace calls, peeking out from Marco’s side like a raccoon.

Marco barely glances up. “Put me down for five. They’ll just stare at the ocean and suffer in silence.”

You keep walking, tugging Izou along by the hand, pretending not to hear the rising laughter behind you.

But you do hear Izou mutter under his breath, “Next time I’m not hesitating. I’ll shoot them all.”

You glance sideways as you walk, your fingers still laced lightly with his. His grip isn’t tight, but it’s steady. Measured. Like everything with Izou. But there’s tension running up his arm, shoulders drawn a little too straight, jaw set just a little too firmly.

“They really do act like children,” you say, voice calm and dry. “Honestly, it’s impressive they haven’t all been court-martialed for emotional damage.”

That earns a faint huff beside you, almost a laugh. Almost.

You bump your shoulder gently into his. “You know they only tease because they’re jealous, right?”

“Jealous?” he echoes, glancing at you with a raised brow.

You nod, trying to keep a straight face. “Absolutely. You have it all: The looks, the aim, and the best friend on the ship, which is me, of course.”

Izou snorts under his breath, a sound you rarely get to hear, and the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile.

“You forgot humility,” he murmurs.

“Oh, I left that out on purpose. We can’t both be perfect.”

“Right,” he says, and now the smile breaks through, faint but real. “That would be unfair to the others.”

You grin. “Exactly. We’re doing them a favor by keeping our brilliance to just the two of us.”

Finally, his steps feel lighter and his shoulders have eased out of their rigid set. Moreover, the air between you softens again, returning to the familiar, comfortable rhythm that always seems to settle in when you’re alone together.

And maybe it’s your imagination—but his thumb brushes once, slow and deliberate, across your knuckles. Just once. Like a thank-you he doesn’t say out loud.

You don’t mention it. Just squeeze his hand in return and keep walking.

On deck, you settle into your usual spot by the railing, where the sea stretches endlessly in every direction. Izou stands beside you, arms folded neatly across his chest, one hip leaning against the balustrade.

You glance up at him. “Thanks for coming.”

His gaze stays on the horizon for a beat longer before he replies, voice quiet. “Didn’t need much convincing.”

That makes you smile, though you try to hide it by looking back out at the sea. The wind shifts, brushing a loose strand of hair across your cheek, and before you can move, Izou’s hand lifts gently, and tucks it behind your ear.

You turn to him slowly, your breath catching just a little.

He doesn’t pull his hand away immediately. His fingers linger at your temple, warm and steady, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

“I really thought the kiss might shut them up, you know,” you eventually sigh, feeling the sudden need to fill the silence.

“Looks like it did more damage,” Izou adds, voice dry but softer now.

“They act like it meant something even though we tell them it didn’t,” you groan, putting your face in your hands. “We could kiss thousands of times and they wouldn’t stop teasing.”

There’s a pause, just long enough to notice it.

Then Izou says, low and careful, “Maybe we could try?”

You freeze. Your hands lower slowly from your face, and when you look at him, he’s watching the sea again, but there’s a tension in his jaw, in the line of his shoulders, like he’s bracing for something. Like he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Or maybe he did and just wasn’t sure what you’d do with it.

“Try,” you echo, quietly. “You mean…”

“To kiss again,” he says, still not facing you. “No audience. No reason. Just to see.”

Just to see.

The wind picks up again, cool and salt-sweet, tugging at your sleeves, your hair, the fragile quiet stretched between you. And you realize you could make a joke. Shrug it off. Pretend the butterflies in your stomach are from the sea breeze and not from him.

But you don’t want to… Not this time.

So, you shift, turning to face him fully and nudge his arm with your own. “Okay.”

Izou finally looks at you. There’s surprise there, but it softens quickly—gives way to something steadier. Like relief. Like hope.

You don’t speak again. You just lean in, slow and certain, similar to how you did it last night. But like Izou already pointed out, there’s no audience. No pressure. No need to pretend anymore.

Izou meets you halfway, just as calm, just as deliberate. The kiss begins soft, barely there. A quiet question. A breath shared between mouths. His lips are warm against yours, steady and patient like he’s afraid to rush something that might shatter if handled too roughly.

But when you don’t pull away after some while… when you lean into it instead, fingers brushing lightly against the edge of his coat something shifts.

You feel it in the way his hand rises, finds your jaw, his thumb resting at the corner of your mouth. On the way, he draws in a slow breath through his nose like he’s trying to stay grounded like he didn’t expect this to happen, and now he’s afraid it might end too soon.

And so the kiss deepens. Bit by bit, like a tide coming in.

Your lips move together with growing confidence, not rushed, but more certain. There’s no hesitation in the way he tilts his head slightly, pulling you in just a little closer like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the sound of your breath, the warmth of your body against his.

Like he’s pouring every unsaid feeling into this one moment, quiet longing, quiet wanting, all the things he hasn't dared to name.

And when the kiss finally breaks, it does so slowly… reluctantly. A few short parting touches. A final brush like he doesn’t quite want to let go. So, you stay close, foreheads nearly touching, hearts knocking a little too fast beneath the surface.

“Izou…” you whisper, not really sure what you mean to say.

He opens his eyes, gaze sweeping over your face like he’s trying to commit every inch of it to memory. His thumb strokes just once along your cheekbone, the faintest, reverent touch.

“You’re okay?” He whispers.

“Yeah,” you admit, unable to not smile softly at him. “I wouldn’t mind kissing you again.”

His breath catches, just faintly, but you feel it. Moreover, for a moment, Izou doesn’t speak. He just watches you, something softer and unguarded growing behind his eyes. And then, slowly, his lips curl into the barest smile.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I was thinking the same thing.”

His hand slides from your cheek to cradle the back of your neck, fingers slipping into your hair like he’s done it a hundred times in dreams he’d never admit to having. And when he kisses you again, it’s deeper from the start. No lingering uncertainty.

Just want.

Just the kind of aching sweetness that makes the world fall away.

You tilt into him, your hands finding his chest, his shoulder—anything to keep you close. His other arm slips around your waist, steadying you, grounding you, but not pulling you too close. He still handles you like something precious.

“Well, well, well,” Marco drawls, looking far too satisfied. “Looked like a pretty meaningful watch shift from up here.”

You jolt, just barely, and Izou sighs deep and from the soul, his forehead dropping to rest against yours for one last second before he straightens.

Up on the upper deck, Marco leans lazily over the railing, arms folded, a slow grin spreading across his face like he’s been waiting all morning for this exact moment.

“I swear to god,” Izou mutters under his breath.

But it’s too late. Because now Thatch pops up behind Marco, practically vibrating with excitement. “Did they kiss again?! Did I miss it?! Marco, you said you’d signal me!”

“I did signal you,” Marco replies blandly. “You just didn’t react yoi.”

“I thought the hand wave meant someone fell overboard!” Thatch wails. “You need a better system!”

“You two are disasters,” you hiss, face burning hot as you try to duck behind Izou’s shoulder… not that it helps.

“Oh, c’mon,” Thatch grins, leaning over the rail so far it looks unsafe. “We knew there was tension. We just didn’t know it was gonna burst into flames!”

Then comes Ace, swinging in from a rope like he’s auditioning for a different genre entirely. “Congrats! I give it three days before they start sneaking into each other’s rooms!”

“I’m literally going to kill all three of you,” Izou growls, voice low and dark.

“Oh no, he’s doing the voice,” Ace stage-whispers, already crab-walking backward toward the nearest rope. “He’s gonna get the gun. He’s gonna get the gun!”

“Izou…” you warn, but he exhales like a man preparing for battle.

Then he lets go of your hand slowly, carefully, almost reverently, and pulls his flintlock from his belt in one smooth motion, like he’s rehearsed it.

Instantly, Ace bolts up the rigging with alarming speed, practically leaping two steps at a time. Even Thatch lets out a shriek and dives behind Marco similar to how Ace did it today morning.

“Thatch, you said he wouldn't actually pull it!” Ace yells from halfway up the mast.

“I thought he’d hesitate!” Thatch howls from the floor. “He usually hesitates!”

“He didn’t hesitate this morning!”

You’re laughing now, absolutely breathless, wheezing as you grab Izou’s arm with both hands. “Don’t shoot them!”

“I’m just scaring them,” Izou replies calmly, flintlock raised with unnerving precision.

You eye the gun and the glitter of the hammer cocked back. “You cocked it.”

He sighs like you’re asking the impossible. “Fine. Scaring them a lot.”

[undyingdecay]

Mae! Can you please write about John Walker fucking you while you read a smutty book out loud and everytime you stop or fuck up he either stops or spanks you? My brains is going wild with the idea

(anon you’re so sick for this and i love you for it. pls gimme book recs.)

a heavy hand at the small of your back as he shoves the book into your hands with a grin that says he already knows you’re gonna crack before the third page. he picks it too — some absolutely filthy paper back you’d left hidden in your nightstand, the kind with a half-naked man on the cover and all the dirtiest scenes underlined in pen. and the second you so much as hesittate, stumble over a sentence, he’s got his hand on your ass, landing a sharp smack that makes you yelp.

“what’d i tell you?” he mutters against your ear, teeth flashing. “you stop, i stop.”

you try so hard. at first. proped up on your elbows, book trembling in your hands, voice all breathy as you read out the lewd lines while he’s behind you, thick cock dragging slow and deep. it’s impossible to focus. every thrust knocks the words out of order in your brain. you trip over ‘throbbing length’ and his hand is in your hair, tugging just hard enough to make your stomach flip.

“come on, sweetheart,” he coaxes, mock-gentle, hips rolling up into you. “this part’s gettin’ good.”

and when you stutter on the next word — can’t help it, the book says ‘cream-slicked folds’ and he laughs, because yeah, that’s you right now, isn’t it? — he pulls out entirely. leaves you clenching around nothing, slick dripping down your thighs as you whine.

“read it,” he growls, another slap to your ass, “or we’re done.”

and you do, voice wrecked and shaking now, because you’re so desperate to have him back inside you. each filthy line gets filthier as he fucks into you rougher, keeping pace with the book, groaning when you read about the heroine being filled up until it’s leaking out around him. and that’s what does it.

he lasts just long enough to get to that part, cock twitching inside you, before he pulls out and jerks himself off right over your back, hot ropes splattering across the open pages. you gasp, shocked and wrecked and so fucking wet you’re about to cry, and he’s grinning down at his mess on your book like he’s just won a trophy.

“guess you’ll have to skip ahead next time,” he pants, smacking your ass once more for good measure before leaning down to press a kiss to your shoulder.

[shuavez]

litany 𓄧 k.mg

vi. someone to come home to.

summary 𓄧 every oath has a cost. every touch has a consequence. sent deep undercover into one of the city’s most illicit vampire clubs, two detectives must navigate the delicate balance between duty and desire — and survive the consequences when pretending stops feeling like pretending.

and some hungers, once fed, are impossible to starve.

tags 𓄧 detective!au, vampire!mingyu x human!reader. slow-ish burn. fake dating. friends/coworkers to lovers. various svt members/idols.

warnings 𓄧 mingyu is annoying. wc. 8.8k.

previous chapter ↜ v. the rite.

8:31 a.m.

For the first time in weeks your alarm isn’t the villain; you’re already awake, blinking at the slow-moving ceiling fan while the digits on your phone change from 8:31 to 8:32. Your body feels… doughy is the word that lands—soft and over-proved, like someone poked you in the night and left fingerprints behind. You slept through, though. A glorious, uninterrupted seven hours that should taste like victory, except there’s a syrupy weight behind your eyes and a slow pulse thrumming in the muscle of your left thigh where Mingyu’s fangs had broken skin last night.

Stop thinking about it.

You stretch anyway, toes pointing beneath the covers, and the stretch sparks memory—his hand braced high on your hip, the cool press of his mouth, the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes when you didn’t flinch. Heat crawls up your neck. It shouldn’t. It’s biology, procedure, the Sanctum’s gilded pageantry. Still, the phantom of that pull lingers: a light static in your blood, a hitch in your breath that turns your pulse into a metronome set half a beat too slow.

You drag a palm down your face, trying to smear away the fog. Wonwoo’s briefing is in an hour-and-thirty; Mingyu will be there, crisp and professional, maybe even polite, but… retreating. Not cruel—just folding himself smaller, the way you do with origami evidence bags when the corners don’t line up. You don’t know which version of him you’ll meet in Central Crimes today: the one who kissed you like it was equal parts apology and promise, or the one who’ll file himself behind a ballistic-glass smile.

Either way, you remind yourself, coffee exists, adrenaline is free, and your badge still pushes open every door that matters. You swing your legs out of bed and press bare feet to the floor—

—and the pulse in your thigh answers, a soft echo of last night’s bite.

You breathe through it, cataloguing the sensation the way you would any other piece of evidence: one residual ache, non-threatening; mild cognitive haze, likely to clear with caffeine; emotional variable, to be locked in the drawer until further notice.

Uniform. Holster. Keys. Coffee. Work. Everything else—especially the memory of Mingyu’s mouth on your skin—goes in the unsolved bin for another day.

By nine-fifty you’re striding into the bullpen—heels this time, not knitted socks—radiating just-caffeinated-enough efficiency. The conference-room door is ajar; voices drift out. Soojin, Wonwoo, Jeonghan. You push in.

Jeonghan’s eyes lift first. No teasing grin today, just a swift, genuine: “Hey. How’re you feeling?”

“I slept—very literally—like a log,” you say, dropping your tote beside a chair. “Pretty sure I didn’t move an inch. It was fantastic.”

Soojin pops a double thumbs-up, ponytail bobbing. The gesture sparks a real laugh out of you—loose, bright. You slip into the seat beside Jeonghan, only then noticing the empty chair across the table.

“Where’s our beloved Senior Special Agent?”

Wonwoo snorts—an honest-to-God snort that startles even him. “Slept through his alarms. He won’t be long.”

Your frown pinches deep enough to blur the edge of your vision. Mingyu—late? The man’s half nocturnal, doesn’t need REM cycles to function. You tamp down the disquiet as Wonwoo clicks a remote, projection lighting the wall. While they wait, they circle back to you: candle placement, exits, number of guards, any iconography you remember. You answer cleanly, clipboard-calm, even as a rogue memory of Mingyu’s mouth on your thigh flickers like a faulty bulb.

Ten minutes in, the door opens with a hush of hinges. Mingyu slips inside, all six-foot-three of muted disarray: collar slightly askew, tie folded into his jacket pocket instead of around his neck, the front of his usually sleek hair creased by what must have been a very stubborn pillow. Only those who know him would catch it, but it’s there—the infinitesimal tell that something’s off.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, offering a quick nod to the room. “Alarm malfunction.”

He settles opposite you, eyes skating past yours in a tidy arc before landing on the files. The faint scent of sandalwood shampoo drifts across the table—fresh shower, rushed. He flips open his notebook, pen poised, shoulders squared like a soldier falling into rank, and the briefing rolls on.

But the space between your chairs feels climate-controlled: a few degrees colder than the rest of the room, threaded with last night’s unanswered questions. You straighten a page in your folder, meeting Wonwoo’s next prompt, and decide the chill can wait. For the next hour, at least, you will be every inch the lieutenant who does not notice when her partner forgets his tie.

Wonwoo dims the lights with one knuckle tap on the wall panel, and the projector coughs grainy gray across the screen.

“North-corridor camera,” he says—matter-of-fact, like it’s any routine stakeout feed. Except the image that sputters to life feels nothing like routine.

The stairwell swims in glitchy pulses: bulbs strobing, pixels ghosting. On screen there’s a faint tide of light at the top of the steps, and then you appear—red satin slipping into view, heels whispering on stone. You’d forgotten how deliberately you moved, cat-quiet, half-predator and half-prey. One beat behind, Mingyu emerges, a tall shadow in borrowed tuxedo black.

Jeonghan’s chair creaks as he leans forward. No one speaks.

The camera catches the moment you stop on the landing. You pivot just enough that your eyes flick up—straight into the lens, a flash of calculation before your expression shutters. Mingyu’s head tilts toward yours, mouth shifting. Wonwoo slows the feed and bumps audio; the microphone offers only a tinny hiss, but you remember exactly what he said.

You trust me?

A breath. Your nod.

On screen Mingyu lifts a hand—forefinger grazing the curve of your hip like a reassurance no one else was meant to see—and the two of you slip past the velvet curtain. Pixels smear as the fabric settles, then the frame is empty except for dust motes jittering in LED static.

Wonwoo lets the empty corridor run for three long seconds before skipping ahead a few minutes. A new timestamp blinks. Haewon glides into view now, pearl hair bright even in grayscale. Taeyong follows, his silhouette cutting a sharper line—hunger in the set of his shoulders even with the audio scratchy. They descend without a pause, no hesitation at the landing, and vanish through the same curtain. Unremarkable movements, as Wonwoo promised, but your stomach knots anyway; you remember the weight of their attention like cold hands on the back of your neck.

The footage ticks on in real-time silence until Wonwoo fast forwards through forty-seven long minutes of an empty stairwell, the velvet curtain hardly stirring. Then shadows bloom—pairs of silhouettes filing upward, laughing in muted grayscale. You and Mingyu are among them, indistinguishable from any other couple if not for the brief moment his hand hovers at your elbow.

Nothing else moves.

Wonwoo keeps the clip rolling until the timestamp reads 1:04:58. Twenty seconds later the feed cuts—not a glitch or static smear, just pure blackout. Midnight black. 

The blackout hovers on-screen like a held breath. The timestamp crawls from 01:05:46 … 01:06:59 … 01:08:41, nothing but a rectangle of absolute black. You feel the whole room lean closer, as if collective squinting might coax an image back.

At 01:09:00 the picture snaps alive.

The stairwell curtain is shut tight. The sliver of light you remember bleeding onto the steps is gone—snuffed like a candle—and the sodium wash of the main floor looks suddenly colder.

Jeonghan breaks the hush first. “Camera malfunction?”

Wonwoo shakes his head without looking up. “Only feed in the entire network that flat-lines. No errors, no glitch markers. Somebody killed it on purpose.” A sly twist to his mouth. “And whoever did so is a moron.”

“How so?”

Keys chatter. A new window blooms across the projector—main-floor coverage from a ceiling corner, the stairwell mouth framed just out of the shot. Timestamp rolls 01:05:00.

Fifty-six seconds pass.

At 01:05:56 light slices across the floor, and a man staggers out.

He doesn’t stride so much as spill into view, like he’s been poured from a too-small vessel. Left leg drags; the heel scrapes-skips-catches on tile. His right hand slaps the wall, fingers splaying wide, then slides down, leaving a greasy smear you feel in your teeth. Every step is an argument with gravity—body pitching forward, yanking itself upright again in the same breath.

Your pulse snaps awake. That is not how Eden’s patrons walk; that is how survivors crawl.

Jeonghan mutters, “What the fuck,” the words thin and airless.

Mingyu sits taller, the metal legs of his chair squealing against his weight. For the first time since the briefing started, he meets your eyes—wide, alert, the unspoken did you see that ricocheting between you.

“There was no one left down there,” he says, voice low.

“Not anyone we knew was there to begin with,” you answer, but your gaze is already flicking to Wonwoo. “You got another angle?”

“Is water wet?” He’s halfway through the keystroke.

The second view flares up—camera mounted diagonally, catching a full frontal as the man lurches beneath a light fixture. Wonwoo freezes the frame.

Blood blotches his collar, some fresh, some rust-brown. Dark streaks mar the chest of a once-white dress shirt. Up close the man’s face is a catalogue of disorientation: lips parted, eyes blown wide and unfocused, skin blanched beneath the smudge of something darker on his cheekbone. He looks hollowed out, as though someone scooped the certainty from behind his eyes and left the shell walking.

An electric hum seems to fill the room as Wonwoo clips the still, drags it into facial-rec software. Thirty seconds tick by—each one a hammer on your sternum—before the computer pings, bright and final.

MATCH: KIM JINHO

STATUS: MISSING PERSON

DATE FILED: 14 JUNE

CASE STATUS: COLD

Soojin’s pen clatters from her hand. Jeonghan exhales a single stunned laugh that isn’t laughter at all. Mingyu’s grip whitens around his pen, knuckles like marble.

You sit back, heart thudding in your ears, and let the enormity settle: a dead case just climbed the wrong staircase—alone, bleeding, and very much alive.

The still frame of his face—bruised, dazed, mouth slightly open in mid-breath—sits in sharp contrast beside a pristine photo pulled from a license file. In it, Kim Jinho is smiling. Warm, a little tired, like someone who hasn’t slept enough but still remembers joy. That version of him is gone.

The room is still. Silent in the kind of way that buzzes in your ears. The image of Jinho—bleeding, slack-jawed, all wrong—lingers on the projector like it might move again if you blink.

Wonwoo breaks it, voice low but clear. “His boss reported him missing when he didn’t show up for work the next day. He was never seen or heard from again. Bank, phone records—everything went dark. Metro suspected foul play, but they had nothing to go off. No known enemies, no debt, no trace. So the case was closed. He just vanished.”

He clicks through files on his laptop, screen flashing documents too fast to read. “I’ve scoured every record we’ve pulled from Eden. Membership logs, drink orders, sign-ins. Not a single trace of him. Not even a guest pass.”

The silence after that is heavier. The kind that settles in the joints. You glance across the table and catch the look on Mingyu’s face—calm, but carved in tension. He leans forward, arms braced on his knees, jaw so tight it pulses at the hinge.

“So, what,” he says, voice even but too controlled, “they’re keeping him down there?”

It lands like a gut punch. Not a theory. A possibility. A practice.

You hear it in him—the edge. The quiet horror. He’s not scared for himself. He’s scared of what it means. What it confirms.

Jeonghan speaks next, but the usual humor is gone. His voice is flat, low. “Him… and who else?”

You feel it then—your pulse skittering. Your mind running in a dozen directions at once, 1,305 thoughts refusing to thread into coherence. You think about the look in Jinho’s eyes. The blood on his collar. How no one followed him up the stairs. How many stairwells you haven’t had access to. How many faces you haven’t seen.

Then Soojin cuts in, sharp as a scalpel.

“We’re missing something inside,” she says. Calm. Intent. “Think about it. Knowing what we know now—Eden is curated. You only see what they want you to see. We’ve been watching from the inside, but maybe we need to be watching from the outside, too.”

You narrow your eyes. Something catches. The thread pulls.

“All those doors,” you murmur. “Corridors. Half of them don’t match the floorplans we’ve seen.”

“Exactly.” She nods once, pulling her hair into a tie with an elastic from her wrist. There’s something hard in her eyes now. “They have to lead somewhere. We just haven’t seen where yet.”

Jeonghan leans in slightly. “What are you thinking?”

“We did a TARU op across from Eden last year,” she says. “Abandoned office building, mostly vacant. We set up in the south wing, but the north wing has a direct visual on Eden’s entrance. Front and side. Clear line of sight.”

Wonwoo’s already pulling up overlays, city grid flickering across the projector. “High floors. Reinforced glass. It’s perfect.” He zooms in. “We’d get coverage of every entry point. Even that sketchy delivery bay on the west.”

“So we stake it out,” Soojin says simply, her voice like a hammer driving in a nail. “Two nights. Minimum.”

You nod slowly, spine catching up with your adrenaline. “Okay.” You push back from the table. The chair wheels creak sharply in the silence. “We have a living victim on tape. That resets the clock.”

You start issuing orders like breathing.

“I want TARU scrubbing every feed for ten minutes after his last sighting. Soo, cross-reference every hospital intake after one-thirty a.m.—anyone matching his description. Injuries, shock, no ID, the works. Mingyu, draft a supplemental to Metro’s cold-case file, attach this footage and time-stamp all anomalies. Jeonghan, delegate the re-interviews to second rank. Friends, family, neighbors. If he had any prior contact with Eden, we need to know about it. I’ll talk to Cheol about arranging the stakeout for tonight and tomorrow.”

You pause just long enough to inhale.

Then Wonwoo, voice quiet but unmistakably firm, adds: “I think you and Mingyu should take the stakeout.”

Your head lifts slowly. “Why?”

“You know the faces best. The rhythms. The building. If something looks out of place, you’ll pick it.”

Your eyes flick from Wonwoo to Mingyu. Mingyu is already looking at you, expression unreadable—but neutral. Controlled. You can’t tell if he agrees or if he’s just resigned to the suggestion. Your stomach twists.

You think of the elevator. The space between you. The word lieutenant, dry and unfamiliar in his mouth. You think of being locked in a surveillance room with him overnight. Of what might be said. Or not said.

But you’re a professional.

You swallow the knot in your throat and nod.

“Seems fair.”

It’s quiet again for a beat. Everyone lets it settle—lets the weight of the mission tip forward. Mingyu doesn’t look away. You don’t give him the satisfaction of flinching.

For the rest of the morning, he’s present. Polite. Efficient. But every second of it feels like you’re being held at arm’s length.

He doesn’t meet your eye unless he has to. He doesn’t speak unless it’s about the case. And even then, it’s clipped. Cordial. He holds folders out instead of passing them directly into your hand. When you cross paths by the precinct’s industrial printer, he nods like you’re HR.

It grates. Not immediately. Not enough for you to call it out in the middle of the war room while surveillance is being catalogued and Jeonghan is elbow-deep in post-it notes. But it builds.

By 11:30, you can’t hear anything over it.

By 12:15, your jaw is aching from the way you’re clenching it.

By 1:00, you’re not even pretending to make conversation anymore.

At 1:47, Seungcheol checks his watch and says, “You two are off the clock until ten. Get some rest. You’ll need it.”

You nod. Say thank you. Avoid glancing at Mingyu because you know he’s already on his feet, gathering his jacket and the files he never seems to leave without.

And then you feel it. That last crack in your patience.

You watch him move ahead of you toward the lifts, all long strides and measured calm, like he hasn’t been driving you half-insane all goddamn day.

No apology. No acknowledgment. No hey, sorry for being weird after drinking your blood in front of a cult. Nothing.

It’s not cruelty. That would at least make it easier. It’s the way he keeps retreating into his professional self—his tactical self—that eats at you. Like he’s trying to re-draw a line that never really existed to begin with. Like pretending you’re just partners will make everything else fall back into place.

You press the heel of your palm to your brow as the elevator doors close behind him. The war room hums around you. The case board buzzes faintly under fluorescent lights. Someone’s pouring stale coffee two rooms down.

You sit with it.

The burn. The silence. The widening space.

And you decide, plainly:

You are not spending six hours in an abandoned surveillance room tonight with a man who won’t talk to you unless it’s through case notes and technical jargon.

So you grab your things. You head for the exit.

The parking-lot lights buzz overhead, casting pale cones across concrete pocked with oil stains. You hit your stride hard, sock-boot heels echoing like gunshots. Mingyu’s already at his car, keys half-raised, when the noise makes him glance back.

He sees it’s you—sees the set of your shoulders—and turns fully, posture squared.

“Are you planning on still being an ass by the time we pull up to that office,” you call, breath white in the late-autumn air, “or do I need to take Jeonghan instead? Because I am not spending six hours alone with you if you’re gonna keep being weird.”

“I’m not being weird.”

You bark a laugh. “Could’ve fooled me, Kim. You’ve never called me Lieutenant in full seriousness—ever. Yesterday you drained my femoral artery, and today? No iron sachet, no ‘how are you feeling,’ no work-husband routine. Nothing.”

He opens his mouth, shuts it, scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “The Rite… threw me off,” he says at last. “Standing waist-deep in something that ugly—feeding in front of them—felt like every stereotype I’ve spent a decade outrunning. That I’m savage. Mindless. Like I can’t be trusted. Not by them. Not by you.” His voice drops. “And watching you become part of it—” He shakes his head. “It hurt. I hated it.”

You fold your arms, anger cooling into something heavier. “Look, I can’t—won’t—work with a partner who shuts me out. We’ve been friends too long for that. When you ice me, I start wondering what I did wrong.”

His shoulders sag; the fight’s gone. “You didn’t do anything. It’s a defense mechanism. I’m… working on it.” He meets your eyes, earnest and raw. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way.”

Soft now, you step closer, close enough to catch the warm spice of his cologne. “Don’t do it again. Talk to me next time. I always have time for you—you know that.”

He nods, vow etched into the line of his jaw. “Next time I talk. No shutdowns.” Then, a small hopeful tilt to his mouth: “Ramen apology? My treat—extra noodles.”

You roll your eyes because it’s impossible not to, but your lips betray you with a smile. “Fine. But I’m ordering the expensive gyoza, too.”

His grin breaks wide—relief, affection, something that might stick—and the tension leaks off your spine as he unlocks the car. Six hours in a dark surveillance room suddenly feels survivable again.

The office is dead quiet, the kind of quiet that feels sacred. Blanketed in the low, humming hush of night, save for the distant buzz of a halogen streetlamp and the occasional shuffle of cars rolling down the avenue two stories below. You’ve both gone mostly silent, heads bent to your tasks. Surveillance feeds flicker across the laptop in front of you—grayscale, grainy, but sharp enough for ID. One angle on the front entrance. One on the side alley. One grainy thermal on the roof. Wonwoo really pulled strings to set these up, and you’d bet your badge he hasn’t told anyone.

Mingyu’s crouched by the window again, camera braced steady between his hands. Every few minutes, he lifts it to his eye, lens glinting as he lines up another shot through the slit in the blackout film covering the glass. Click. Click. Click. You know the sound now. Not the high-pitched plasticky shutter of cheap tech, but the heavy, satisfying snap of a camera made for precision. He works like he’s built for it—controlled, quiet, absurdly focused.

You watch him from the corner of your eye and think, unfairly, God, you’re kind of hot when you concentrate.

It’s not the first time tonight the thought’s snuck up on you, but it catches differently now. More specific. Sharper around the edges.

You remember, years ago, during some downtime in evidence processing, you’d been talking about vacation plans you’d never take. He’d said he liked film photography. Old school. Thirty-five millimeter. Something about how the act of slowing down made him feel more present. More human.

You’d never seen him do it before—not like this—but watching him now, it’s easy to imagine him somewhere quiet. Not in a suit. Not in this world. Just a camera in his hands and nothing else on his mind.

He hasn’t said a word in fifteen minutes. Neither have you.

And you’re okay with that.

There’s something deeply grounding about this version of him—the one that exists when you strip everything back. No club lights. No performance. No feeding, or cover, or danger looming thick in the air. Just him, with his shoulder braced against the window frame, sleeves pushed up, brow creased in that soft way it always is when he’s trying to blend in with the silence. It’s the kind of quiet that tethers you to the room. To him.

Eventually, when the sidewalk thins and the doormen lean a little heavier into their posts, the rush dies down. Somewhere between midnight and one.

Mingyu settles back with a sigh, camera still slung around his neck, fingers laced loosely over his stomach as he sinks into the old rolling office chair behind him. The seat groans in protest, wheels creaking against the cracked tiles. He scrolls idly through the playback on the camera’s tiny screen after a while, pausing on a few faces from the Rite that he recognizes. Another thread for the board. Another name for the web.

Then, without looking up, he speaks.

“If someone saw you the way I see you, what do you think they’d notice first?”

You blink.

The question is so unexpected it catches on the air between you like a fishhook. Suspended. A little too sharp, but soft around the edges.

You glance over, lips twitching into a smile. “Jesus Gyu, what brought that on?”

He finally lifts his eyes, mouth curling at the corner. “I like asking loaded questions. Cuts the small talk out.”

You raise a brow. “Deep thoughts from the surveillance chair?”

Mingyu shrugs. “Picking people’s brains is my favorite pastime. Didn’t have many hobbies, but that one stuck.”

He says it like a joke, but there’s a strange sincerity to it. A glint in his eye. He’s not looking at the monitor anymore.

You look back at your screen. Stall, just for a second. Let the question root itself.

And then, you answer honestly.

“Probably that I’m always calculating,” you murmur. “Even when I’m trying not to be. Like my whole body’s waiting for the next thing to go wrong.”

The silence doesn’t stretch. He doesn’t leave you to sit in it.

Instead, he leans forward, forearms on his thighs, chin tilted just enough to catch your eyes again.

“That’s not a bad thing,” he says. “Means you see everything.”

You shrug one shoulder. “Maybe. Or maybe it just means I don’t know how to relax.”

He smiles. Quiet. Familiar. “You seem relaxed now.”

And that? Well, that sticks.

You look back at your screen. The alley’s empty. The rooftop cam is still.

“Okay,” you say, clicking into the next feed. “My turn.”

He grins, just a little. Proud, like he’s won something. “Hit me.”

“What’s something you only ever let yourself want in theory?”

The question hangs there between you. Light. Casual. But it’s not. It’s not.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just presses his lips together, like he’s rolling the words around behind his teeth, trying to figure out which ones are safe to release.

You glance up at him. He’s watching you. Face open. Eyes a little tired. A little fond. You hold his gaze, just long enough to feel it land. Then you look back at your screen—slow, careful—life tucking something precious into a drawer you’ll open later.

In that moment, he looks full. Of thoughts. Of almosts.

You wonder if he knows. If he suspects that the question wasn’t so neutral. That it was, maybe, a reach. Maybe a whisper of something truer than you’re ready to say aloud.

He huffs a quiet breath.

“Someone to come home to,” he says finally, voice softer than the dark.

And then, to your complete surprise, he laughs. Sheepish. A little shy.

“I mean, not that I even—shit, that sounded way more emo than I meant.”

You don’t laugh. You just look at him.

Because maybe, just maybe, you know exactly what he means.

You go back to the screen.

But your next note is crooked.

And Mingyu keeps glancing over, like he’s not entirely sure if he meant to say it, or if he’s just been thinking about it for so long that it slipped out.

After that, you both fall quiet again—not out of discomfort, not even out of shyness. It’s just late, and the weight of the day settles into your bones like sediment, thick and heavy. Everything moves slower now, softer, like the building itself is starting to exhale after holding its breath too long.

You click through the surveillance feeds with slow, steady fingers. The alley’s empty. The rooftop cam catches a few drifting shadows. Nothing urgent. Nothing strange.

So you ask something that is.

“Do you ever miss it?”

Mingyu glances at you, head tilted slightly. “Miss what?”

“Being human.”

That catches him. You see it in the brief falter of his expression—just a flicker, there and gone. He exhales through his nose, leaning back again in the chair, the old leather creaking beneath him.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “But not in the way most people think.”

You watch him. He doesn’t look at you when he says it, just studies the camera in his lap like it holds better answers.

“I miss being treated like one,” he says quietly. “People either romanticise it or villainise it. Think I’m gonna Edward Cullen them into a tragic love story or I’m Nosferatu. The Bill Skarsgård-rip-your-spine-out one, not the classic.”

You huff softly, lips curving. “Lost you a few dates?”

“More than a few,” he mutters, almost smiling.

You glance at him. “I would’ve thought the brooding aura and superhuman stamina would appeal to most girls.”

That earns you a look. Something playful but unreadable beneath it.

“Why?” he says, voice a little lower now. “Does it appeal to you?”

You roll your eyes—half huff, half grin—but the gesture’s a flimsy shield. Of course it appeals. The idea of all that impossible strength and sin-dark devotion trained on you alone sparks low and hot, a secret thrum you refuse to let him see.

You don’t answer. Not right away. Just let your gaze drift back to the monitor.

And in the silence that follows, something unspoken pulses between you. Unacknowledged. But alive.

Then, quietly—

“That’s why I like working with you.”

You glance at him again. He’s not smiling, not teasing. Just watching the screen, fingers idly rotating the camera lens between his palms.

“You never treated me like some tragic immortal. Or a freak. Just… some guy. Some pain-in-the-ass detective.”

He shifts a little in his chair, voice softer now.

“You see the human part. Not the gentle monster. Just… gentle.”

That sits in your chest for a long time after. Warmer than it should be. A little dangerous.

Because the truth is, you do see him. Not as a tragedy. Not as a symbol. Just as someone who deserves to be seen. And there’s space in your heart for that. For him. Maybe more than you want to admit.

But you brush it off, like you always do.

“I don’t know about pain in the ass,” you mutter, flipping to a new page in your notebook. “Pain in my ass, yes. Your legs take up so much space under my desk.”

Mingyu lets out a startled laugh. “Our desk.”

You sigh. There’s no real venom in it. “Case in point.”

And just like that, the moment softens. The tension doesn’t vanish, but it settles. You go back to work. And so does he.

At some point after two, Mingyu sinks further into the chair beside you, legs stretched out long, arms folded across his chest. You can hear the subtle shift of his breathing as it slows, evens out, then dies completely. He’s asleep before you realize he’s not responding to the subtle remarks you make under your breath. It’s not sudden—just a slow surrender, like his body finally decided it was done for the night.

You glance over, and your heart tugs a little at the sight.

He looks so… young like this. Younger than he ever lets himself be around anyone else. There’s no sharpness in his jaw, no tension behind his brow. Just sleep-softened features and the faintest furrow at the bridge of his nose, like even unconscious, some small part of him is still bracing for something. The camera strap is still looped around his neck, and his boots are planted unevenly on the floor, but he looks at peace. Untouched by the darkness you’ve both been steeping in for weeks now. The version of him you’re used to is polished, commanding—undercover but never unarmed. This one? He’s all soft edges and silent trust.

You let him sleep. You don’t even think about waking him.

Instead, you go back to your screen. Keep an eye on the feeds. Glance between the live camera and the notes you’ve been scratching down in the margins of your legal pad. You sip your now-cold coffee, shiver a little under the thinning layer of your jacket. Nothing’s happened for a while, and part of you—traitorous, exhausted—is beginning to think nothing will.

But then, at 3:41 AM, something shifts.

A flicker on the side entrance cam.

You straighten in your chair, suddenly alert. The fatigue that had started to settle over your brain evaporates in one sharp blink.

A van pulls up. Unmarked. Gray. Clean. But it’s not the vehicle that makes your stomach pull tight—it’s the way it approaches. Slowly. Deliberately. No headlights. Just gliding to a stop in the shadows, like it’s done this before. Like it knows this place.

You lean closer, adjusting the camera angle on the feed.

Someone steps out. A man. Not dressed like the usual Eden clientele—no silk, no sequins, no velvet-collared drama. He’s plain. Nondescript. Jeans. Jacket. Black boots. He moves quickly, carrying a briefcase clutched tight in one hand, and without so much as a glance around, he heads straight for the side door.

And disappears inside.

You wait. Watch. Three minutes. Then five. Ten.

Forty minutes later, he re-emerges the same way he entered. Gets in the passenger seat, drives away without fanfare.

Your heart ticks faster, the unease in your gut deepening by the second. You make a quiet note of the van’s plates—partial, smudged with grime—and check the side alley cam again. Still clear. Still quiet.

The only proof that anything happened at all is the lingering hollow in your chest. You know better than to ignore that feeling.

When Mingyu stirs, you glance over instinctively—not out of concern, just reflex. The way you would if a door creaked. If a sensor blinked. But it’s only him, blinking against the dark like he’s surprised he ever let it win.

“Shit,” he murmurs. “Did I fall asleep?”

You nod, not looking away from the monitor. “Only for about two hours.”

He winces, straightening. “You should’ve woken me.”

You shrug. “You needed it.”

He glances at you. You can feel his gaze linger, heavy and warm, before he turns his attention to the screen. “Anything?”

You hesitate. Then nod once. “Van pulled up around 3:40. Side entrance. Guy with a briefcase went in. Came back out 5 minutes ago.”

His brows furrow. He leans forward to study the screen, then lets out a low breath. “You get a plate?”

“Partial.”

“Still something.”

The first trickle of patrons begins to emerge from the club around 4:35. They come in waves—couples clinging to each other, women holding their heels in their hands, a few dazed-looking regulars who always linger too long. The velvet ropes are pulled down, the bouncers retreating inside. Mingyu stands once to snap a few final photos, nothing that sets alarm bells off, just more faces for the board.

By 5:30, the street is almost still again. A light wind has picked up. It carries the smell of damp concrete and night-soured perfume.

Wonwoo’s SUV is idling quietly at the curb when you and Mingyu emerge from the office building. The sky is still the deep, bruised blue of pre-dawn, the streetlamps casting long, syrupy streaks across the asphalt. Mingyu moves slowly, bones stiff from hours spent crouched or perched. You, somehow, feel looser—wired, maybe, but weirdly lighter now that you’ve stepped out of surveillance mode. It’s easier to breathe here, outside of Velvet Eden’s line of sight.

The passenger door creaks open. You climb in and collapse back against the seat with a sigh that deflates your whole chest. The interior smells like stale fries and black coffee—familiar, oddly comforting—and Wonwoo’s got some low, sleepy jazz playing through the speakers, like it’s a soft habit he never unlearned.

“You both look like corpses,” he says after a beat, glancing at you through the rearview mirror. “Wait—” A pause. “Is that offensive?”

Beside you, Mingyu lets out a low chuckle and shakes his head. “Only if you say it in a Romanian accent.”

Wonwoo hums. “Noted.”

Mingyu gets dropped off first. He gives you a small nod as he gets out—a silent I’ll see you soon—and then turns away, shoulders rolled back against the chill. You watch him for a second longer than necessary, long enough to see him pause under the streetlight, camera bag slung over one shoulder, the faint trace of a smile tugging at his mouth as he disappears around the corner.

Then it’s just you and Wonwoo. 

The car hums low beneath you, warmth pooled in the vents and the faint sound of tires hissing along wet asphalt. The sky is starting to shift—still navy, but lighter at the edges, like someone’s prying open the lid of the world inch by inch. Wonwoo hasn’t said much since Mingyu got out. Neither have you. But there’s something turning over in your chest, slow and insistent, and you figure if you don’t say it now, it’ll keep you up long after you’ve collapsed into bed.

So you speak.

“Noo,” you murmur, your voice scratchy, lips dry.

“Yeah?” he replies, easy. Still alert. Always is when he drives.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Always,” he says, like it costs him nothing. Like it’s that simple.

You hesitate. Thumb presses into the seam of your coat. Then, “Gyu asked me a weird question earlier, and I’m not really sure what he meant by it.”

You catch a flicker of curiosity in the rearview. He doesn’t say anything, just gives you a look. Go on.

You clear your throat. “He asked me… if someone saw me the way he sees me, what would they notice first?”

Wonwoo huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. “He’s so strange, dude. So philosophical for someone only turned when the iPhone 6 came out.”

You smile despite yourself, but it slips quickly. “I said that I’m always calculating. Like, chronically thinking.”

“I mean, yeah. Checks out,” he says lightly. “It’s why you get stuck with weirdos who don’t think, like him and Jeonghan.” A pause. “I say that lovingly.”

There’s no bite to it, just a soft affirmation—one that only someone like Wonwoo can pull off. Grounded. Familiar.

He glances at you again, eyes flicking toward the mirror. “Are you asking me to debunk it as a cop, or as your friend?”

You hesitate. “Whichever you think is more helpful.”

He hums again. Then, after a beat, “I think you two could benefit from talking about yourselves more than the case.” A gentle nudge, disguised as casual. “I mean… you’re interested in him, right?”

“Of course I am,” you answer automatically. “He’s one of my closest friends.”

That earns you a full look this time—eyebrows raised, head tilting slightly as he keeps one hand on the wheel. “Don’t be dense,” he says dryly. “I saw the photo that came with the Rite invite. If I were you, and vampiric Ken Doll had my back arching like that, I’d want him too.”

You blink. “Okay. That is… a lot.”

Wonwoo snorts. “Is it wrong?”

You tip your head to the window; cold glass kisses your temple and you let it steal some of the heat still spinning in your cheeks. “I don’t know,” you sigh. “Maybe I have a crush. Maybe I’m just exhausted and too deep in the weeds with him right now.”

“Sounds like both,” Wonwoo answers, voice mild as the click-click of the indicator.

You huff. “There’s nothing to admit, Wonwoo. Mingyu and I— we just work well together.”

He glances at you in the rear-view—one of those quick, super-analyst looks that catalogues and files everything. “You two have run the work-husband-and-wife bit into the ground,” he says. “Fond isn’t a mortal sin, last I checked. It doesn’t revoke your competence.”

“It could,” you mutter. “Feelings make people sloppy.”

“Feelings make people people,” he counters, deadpan. Then, softer: “You’re allowed to be human, Lieutenant.”

You fall quiet, following the streetlights sliding over the headrest like slow comets. “I might be a square, but I’m not blind,” you murmur, “Most girls would find it hard not to let their mind wander if their outrageously conventionally attractive coworker drank blood from their thigh, no?”

Wonwoo shifts one hand on the wheel. The silence stretches long enough that you wonder if he’ll answer at all. Finally, “Agreed. Though, you two have always run a little deeper than radio protocol, don’t you think?”

Your pulse trips. “Meaning?”

He only shrugs, eyes forward. “Meaning I’ve seen worse bets pay off.” A beat. “And I’ve never seen him let you fall.”

The seed lands—small, inconspicuous, impossible to ignore. You stare at his silhouette, at the easy certainty in his posture, and the city keeps sliding past while the thought roots itself, quiet and stubborn, in the space behind your ribs.

You bite your lip, the rest of the memory surfacing now, tinged with something bittersweet. “I asked him something too. After.”

Wonwoo doesn’t speak, just angles his chin slightly, listening.

“I asked… what’s something you only ever let yourself want in theory?”

“And?” he asks.

You pause.

“He said ‘someone to come home to.’”

That finally knocks the wind out of even Wonwoo, just a little. His fingers tighten on the wheel for half a second.

“…Damn, that’s soft. Even for him.” He mutters, soft.

You blink again, too tired to be startled. Your body’s heavy, but your thoughts won’t slow down, still chewing on every word, every lingering glance from earlier.

He pulls up to your building and throws the car in park.

“You’re good at reading people,” he says, cutting the engine. “But you’re even better at overthinking them.”

You open the door, but he twists to face you, one arm over the steering wheel.

“Be kinder to yourself tonight,” he adds. “Sleep. Let your brain rest for once.”

You glance back at him. “Night, Wonwoo.”

He nods. “Night. Tell Barbie I said hi.”

You snort and step out, letting the door shut behind you.

And as you climb the steps to your apartment, your heart is still tangled in the sound of his voice from earlier. That quiet confession. That barely-restrained hope.

Someone to come home to.

And for the first time in a long time, the idea of being that for someone—of someone being that for you—doesn’t feel so impossible. Just… tender. Close.

Maybe even real.

The apartment is quiet when you wake.

Not silent—never truly silent, not with the hum of the fridge, the tick of the kitchen clock, the distant groan of a tram moving down the line two streets over. But quiet in a way that feels reverent. Muted. Like the world knows better than to demand too much of you right now.

It’s already past 6. Pale gold light spills through the slats of your blinds, striping the floor and the side of your bed in long, lazy shadows. The air is warm and still. Your sheets are kicked halfway down your legs, your T-shirt clinging damply to your spine. Everything aches. Shoulders. Lower back. Your knees, from curling too long in a chair not built for overnight surveillance.

For a long while, you don’t move. Your body feels sunken, as though it’s been swallowed by the mattress. Your limbs are heavy, tethered. But it’s your mind that drags hardest, thoughts slow and sticky, caught in the residue of too many hours spent watching the world through glass.

You roll onto your side. Groan softly. Let your hand fumble for your phone on the nightstand. The screen lights up to a text timestamped 8:13AM:

[mingyu]: hope you got some sleep. thanks for keeping me alive through the graveyard shift.

You blink at it. Then again.

A second message follows, sent just a few minutes ago:

[mingyu]: i was thinking of bringing real food over before round two? maybe around 8? lmk if you want anything in particular.

You stare at the screen for a moment longer than necessary. Then, slowly, your lips curve.

Real food. He’s right—yesterday was gas station ramen, peanut M&M’s, and a questionable bag of jerky that might have been older than the sting op itself. You should eat something. You should shower. You should probably return one of the four emails from your landlord.

But instead, you thumb out a reply.

[you]: i’ll take anything with real nutrients in it. ur a legend thank u. lmk when you’re otw i’ll probably fall asleep again

The reply is instant.

[mingyu]: good. you looked like you were about to pass out in the car. get some rest. i got you.

You let the phone fall to the mattress beside you. Close your eyes again. But sleep doesn’t come easy. Not really.

There’s something itching at the edges of your brain. A conversation. A question.

If someone saw you the way I see you, what do you think they’d notice first?

It keeps looping. Not just the words, but the way he said them. The tone. The almost-too-casual shrug. Like it wasn’t a confession in disguise. Like it didn’t leave your chest aching for reasons you haven’t found the nerve to name yet.

You think of the way he looked when he asked. Backlit by that flickering office light, camera strap draped around his neck, mouth curved into something just a little shy. A little wondering.

You hadn’t lied. You are always calculating. But in that moment, with him, it had felt less like a survival reflex and more like a reflexive scan for proof that you weren’t alone in how much things had changed.

He’d told you something, too. Something soft. Someone to come home to.

It hadn’t sounded hypothetical.

And it hadn’t left you.

Your stomach growls softly. You groan again and drag yourself upright. Shuffle toward the bathroom with a weight in your bones that makes you feel ten years older than you are. The shower is too hot, but it scrubs some of the heaviness from your skin. Not all. Just enough.

By the time you’re drying yourself, the sun has dipped far enough that your kitchen is steeped in a dusky amber. You pull on clean clothes. Pad barefoot into the hallway. Pour yourself a glass of water and sip it slowly, standing at the window.

You can just barely see the skyline from here. Just the edge of it. The world beyond the case.

You don’t let yourself stay there long.

The case is all that matters. That’s the line. That’s always been the line.

But it’s starting to feel blurred at the edges.

You think of Mingyu. Of how he looked when he fell asleep in the chair beside you, just past two in the morning. You’d watched him for a while. Not creepily. Not intentionally. Just… observed. The way the lines of his face eased. The way the tension fell from his shoulders. He’d looked young. Peaceful. Human.

It struck you then—how much trust it takes to sleep beside someone. Especially when you’re not required to. When you’re not faking it.

He trusts you. That much is clear.

The question is—what are you going to do about it?

Your phone buzzes again, right on time.

[mingyu]: nutrients secured. be there soon

You smile.

And this time, it feels real.

The knock comes exactly at eight—two soft raps, a pause, then one more, the pattern you’ve come to recognize as Mingyu’s way of announcing himself without waking half the building. You wipe your palms on your jeans and open the door, already catching the faintest whiff of sesame oil and charred scallion wafting up from the handles of a brown paper carrier bag he’s balancing on one palm.

He smiles, easy, unguarded. “Hope you’re hungry. I may have gone overboard.”

“You? Overboard?” You step aside to let him in, voice teasing even as your stomach growls on cue. “Unheard of.”

He nudges the door shut with his hip, steers the bag toward the coffee table, and you trail after him, noting absently how he fits in your living room now—like the space reshapes itself around his height, his broad shoulders, the clean scent of his cologne. There’s an unfamiliar warmth in your chest as he shrugs off his jacket, revealing a soft charcoal hoodie and jeans, nothing tactical, nothing undercover. Just Mingyu.

“Got japchae, spicy pork, fried dumplings,” he says, unpacking cartons with practiced care. “And tofu kimchi stew. Figured we need real protein if we’re going to stay awake tonight.”

You laugh, dropping cross‑legged onto the rug opposite him. “Were you always the mom friend in the group?”

“One of us has to feed you before you turn into a gargoyle,” he counters, and the banter slots into place with infuriating ease—familiar, comfortable, like the stretch of an old sweater. It almost annoys you how quickly you fall back into it after the way your thoughts have spun since dawn, but you’re too hungry to dwell.

You open chopsticks, passing him a pair. He scoops japchae into a bowl for you, but barely fills his own, taking only a few strands of noodles and half a dumpling. You notice, but you don’t mention it—vampire appetite works on a different clock. The silence between bites is companionable; the clink of bamboo on ceramic becomes its own background rhythm.

“What’d you do after I left?” he asks, voice low, more curious than casual.

“Showered. Slept.” You shrug. “I still feel doughy, though.”

He looks like he wants to chide you but thinks better of it. Instead, he nudges over a carton of pickled radish. “Eat. Then maybe you’ll manage a nap before we go back out.”

You’re aware, keenly, of the ease with which he cares—how he remembers you take your stew with extra scallions, how he turns the thermostat up a notch without asking. Something in you tightens, the echo of Wonwoo’s words. You push the thought aside and focus on the food.

Conversation drifts: a quick rundown of Wonwoo’s meta‑data pull, the latest TARU rumor about micro‑drones, a shared groan about Seungcheol scheduling a briefing at dawn tomorrow. It should feel exactly like every other debrief you’ve had together over cheap takeout. But somewhere beneath the normalcy, there’s a low hum—an awareness that the line between friend and something else is thinning, thread by thread.

At one point, you glance up to find him already watching you, elbows propped on his knees. The expression on his face is soft, thoughtful. It flusters you in a way no hungry vampire stare ever has. You clear your throat and reach for a dumpling, knocking over your chopsticks in the process. He catches them mid‑air with a chuckle, hands steady, eyes crinkling.

“I see coordination is still not your strong suit,” he teases.

“Sleep deprivation,” you fire back, but your voice is gentler than usual. The annoyance has faded, replaced by something quieter—something close to contentment, and it scares you more than exhaustion ever could.

You finish half the stew before the fatigue begins to drag at your eyelids in earnest. The room is warm, the food heavier than you realized. Mingyu’s voice has gone soft, the bass of it settling through your bones. You lean back against the couch, bowl resting on the table, and before you can argue with your body, your eyes slip shut.

You feel him shift beside you, hear the rustle of paper cartons being closed, the gentle clink of dishes stacked. The next thing you know, a folded blanket settles over your legs—his doing, no question—and a pillow you forgot you owned is slipped behind your head.

Somewhere in the haze, you mumble, “I can set an alarm.”

“Got it covered,” he whispers. Fingertips brush your shoulder—light, reassuring. “Rest.”

You should protest. You need to be sharp. But the couch is soft, the room dim, and the last thing you register is the even cadence of his breathing as he lowers himself onto the opposite end, head tipped back, long legs stretched out. A gentle stillness wraps around both of you.

You drift.

Dreams tug at you: two sets of keys clinking together in the bowl by the door. Two wine glasses drying on the rack. His reading glasses (does he even need them?) folded on the nightstand where your phone usually charges. They’re domestic images, mundane and terrifying in their sweetness, and they settle over you like linen.

A light touch on your ankle jolts you awake. Mingyu’s face hovers close, backlit by the hallway glow. “It’s nine,” he murmurs. “Didn’t want to scare you.”

You blink, heart thudding, the dream dissolving. The room smells faintly of soy and garlic; the table is cleared. He must have tidied while you slept. You sit up too fast, blanket pooling at your waist. “Shit. I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—”

He shakes his head, smiling softly. “You needed it.” He straightens, offers a hand to help you up. “We’ve got thirty minutes to gear up.”

Your fingers slip into his, warm and steady, and something in your chest clicks into place with a quiet inevitability. You rise, brushing stray hair from your face. He doesn’t let go right away.

For a heartbeat, the apartment is silent except for the faint tick of the wall clock. His thumb strokes the back of your hand once—an absent‑minded gesture that feels anything but casual.

Then he releases you, stepping back. “I’ll load the car. Meet you downstairs?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, voice steadier than you feel. “Five minutes.”

He nods, grabs his jacket, and steps into the hall. The door clicks shut, and you exhale, pressing a hand to your chest like you can calm the thunder in your ribs.

Something has changed—so subtly you almost missed it. Except now you can’t un‑feel the certainty humming through you.

You hurry to splash water on your face, lace up your boots, and lock the door behind you.

Someone to come home to.

You’re not ready to name it. But tonight, as you descend the stairs and see him waiting by the car, duffel slung over his shoulder, head tilted like he’s already clocked your every breath—you think maybe you’re ready to want it.

next chapter ↝ vii. fracture. (coming soon)

click here for tag list submission / removal.

tag list!

@bangtanbolo @ateez-atiny380 @hipsdofangirl @rem-mp3 @minghaofied @gyu-woo @dreamingofpcy @jonginjinyoungjaehyun @gabbwaa @wonu13 @tokitosun @lalataitai @callmehoweveruwatblog @celestialbs @coupsma @bebecauseh

a/n: before anyone jumps me i do just want to state this was dislcosed as a slow burn from day dot 😭 thank ya!

[kuncitizen]

"Satoru."

"Yeah, baby?" Gojo replies instantly, gaze flicking up with hopeful anticipation.

He’s still got that innocent glimmer in his eyes, as if he isn't the one currently cupping your breasts with both hands like they’re humanity’s last hope.

"Get your hands off my boobs."

He groans, flopping back dramatically against the pillows like a kicked puppy.

“Why are you being so distant lately?" he whines, bottom lip jutting out in the most insufferable pout as he gives your chest a pitiful little squeeze.

"You didn’t even laugh when I did the sexy voice in the shower, and frankly, I feel unloved."

"Go to sleep." you mutter, flipping a page of your book with surgical calm, still not gracing him with even an ounce of attention.

There’s a beat of silence. You know that kind of quiet—he’s either about to start weeping or set something on fire.

"Are you seeing someone else?"

Gojo props himself up on one elbow, the other hand still firmly on your chest. Still palming you like you’re a comfort object he refuses to part with.

You blink. "...What?"

"It is him!" he gasps, eyes widening in horror. "The guy with the beige sweater and receding hairline. I know a schemer when I see one."

You sigh through your nose. "That’s Megumi’s homeroom teacher. He’s a sweet man.”

"Oh so you think he's sweet now?" He snaps, sitting up straighter, finger jabbing the air in accusation. "That fossil has no business standing within five miles of you. I don't care how many degrees he has."

You finally lower your book just enough to stare at him. "It was a parent-teacher meeting, Satoru."

"Yeah, well, he was talking to you all slow and respectful and.... educational. What’s the bastard trying to prove?"

You go back to your book with a slow blink and no further comment.

"You are so—"

Before you can finish, he grabs the book clean out of your hands and flings it somewhere across the room.

"Hey—!"

You reach out for it instinctively, but he moves faster, already shifting his weight and rolling over you in one smooth motion. He straddles your hips, knees pressed to the outside of your thighs, his chest hovering just above yours.

One hand plants beside your head, the other trails down, gliding over your ribs, your waist— before settling low on your thigh, just beneath the hem of your shorts. His fingers splay there, staking his claim.

He’s looking down at you now, hair falling in his face, grin slow and easy like he has all night to make his point.

"You’re impossible," you mumble, glaring up at Gojo.

"Maybe this is why I piss you off so often," he says, lips brushing your jaw. "Just wanna see my pretty girl all worked up."

You try your best not to succumb to the temptation. You really do.

But his mouth finds the curve of your jaw, kisses warm and trailing as they move lazily toward your neck, each one a little more self-satisfied than the last. He hums against your skin, practically vibrating with contentment, thinking he's finally worn you down.

His fingers flex against your thigh, grip tightening just slightly as his lips trail lower—

"Gojo-sensei!"

You both freeze. Gojo's body goes still, lips hovering at your neck, hand frozen just beneath the hem of your shorts.

"I spilled juice on my shirt." Megumi's small voice echoes from the next room, painfully unimpressed and extremely inconvenient.

Gojo lets out the longest, loudest, most dramatic groan known to man, forehead falling onto your shoulder like he’s in mourning.

"...I swear that child has a sixth sense for cockblocking."

You laugh—wheeze, really—because he says it so seriously, like this is a national tragedy.

"I’ll be back," he grumbles, reluctantly hauling himself off you, the pettiness in his voice barely disguised. "But I’m taking the book hostage until further notice."

[inseobts]

Unintentional couple behaviour

you two acts like a loving couple all the time, so what happens when someone points it out?

gn!reader

characters: zoro, sanji, law, ace and sabo

(luffy, kidd, katakuri, shanks and mihawk)

words count: around 0.8k - 1.3k each

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

── .✦ Roronoa Zoro:

You do a lot of things for Zoro without thinking.

You wake him up when it’s time to eat. You stop him from training too much. You make sure he doesn’t get lost whenever the crew visits a new island.

It’s normal for you. Someone has to do it.

But one day, the others start teasing you about it.

It happens at lunch. You are eating with the crew when Usopp laughs and nudges your arm.

“Hey, aren’t you gonna get your boyfriend?”

You blink. “What?”

Sanji, cleaning his hands with a towel, nods toward the deck “That moss-brained idiot. You always bring him to meals. It’s like a little routine between you two now. Like a couple…”

“We’re not—” You nearly choke on your drink “We’re not a couple!”

Usopp grins “Then why do you always take so much care of him?”

“Because he’s stupid and forgets to eat!” you say, standing up “I’ll go get him, but not because of whatever weird ideas you guys have.”

You walk away while they laugh behind you.

You find Zoro exactly where you expect, napping against the ship’s railing, his swords next to him.

You roll your eyes and shake his shoulder “Oi, wake up. Lunch is ready.”

Nothing.

You shake him harder “Zoro. If you don’t get up, I’ll eat your food.”

He grumbles and waves his hand, like he’s trying to swat away a fly.

Sighing, you do what you always do. You grab his wrist and pull him up with both hands. He lets you. He always does, like it’s natural.

Zoro blinks at you, still half-asleep “Huh. You again.”

“Yeah, me again,” you say “Come eat before Sanji ‘forgets’ to save you anything.”

You’re still holding his wrist, making sure he doesn’t fall back asleep. That’s when you notice Nami and Robin watching from across the deck, smiling.

“What?” you ask, feeling awkward.

Nami smirks “You two are cute.”

Your face heats up “We’re not—he’s not—we’re not together!”

Robin chuckles “You do take care of him a lot.”

Zoro frowns, confused “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” you mutterl “Come eat.”

You let go of his wrist too fast and walk away, ignoring the warm feeling in your chest.

You think it’s over, but now you notice things.

Zoro always sits next to you at meals, even when there are other seats. You always save food for him without realizing. And during fights, he always protects you first, like it’s a habit.

And, worst of all, people keep pointing it out.

“y/n,” Chopper asks one day, tilting his head “Are you and Zoro dating?”

You almost trip “What?! No!”

“Oh...” He looks confused “But you act like it”

You groan “Not you too”

After that, you can’t stop thinking about it.

The next time you wake Zoro up, your fingers stay on his wrist a second too long. The next time he pulls you behind him in a fight, your heart beats faster.

And then one evening, when you catch him watching you with a thoughtful look, you realize you might be in trouble.

That night, Zoro speaks first.

“Oi”

You look up from your seat on the deck “What?”

He leans against the railing, arms crossed “Does it bother you?”

You frown “Does what bother me?”

“What people are saying” His eyes stay on you “About us.”

You swallow “Why? Does it bother you?”

He doesn’t answer right away “No” his voice is quieter than usual.

Your stomach flips and you look at the ocean “I mean… it’s just dumb teasing, right?”

Zoro doesn’t reply. Instead, he watches you for a long time. Then, finally, he smirks.

“Doesn’t really matter what they say” he says, voice calm but sure “I’d still stick with you either way.”

Your breath catches and suddenly, your heart won’t let you ignore this anymore.

For the next days you try to brush off what the crew said.

You really do, but it’s impossible to ignore when Zoro keeps acting the same way.

Like when you’re on lookout duty together, and he hands you his jacket without a word.

Or when you spar with him, and he pulls his hits just enough so you don’t get hurt.

Or when you fall asleep on the Sunny’s deck, and you wake up covered with a blanket, one you know you didn’t grab.

And every time it happens, you catch the crew watching. Smirking.

It’s driving you insane.

One afternoon, you finally decide to do something about it.

You find Zoro by the training room, lifting weights. His shirt is half undone, sweat glistening on his skin, but you shove that thought aside.

You cross your arms “Hey, Zoro.”

He grunts in acknowledgment, not stopping his reps.

You hesitate “…Why do you treat me differently?”

He finally sets the weight down, wiping his face with a towel “What?”

“You heard me...” You shift uncomfortably “You do things for me that you don’t do for anyone else.”

Zoro leans back against the wall, looking at you like you just asked a stupid question “So?”

“So?” You huff “That means something, doesn’t it?”

He shrugs “I guess.”

You blink “That’s it? You guess?”

Zoro sighs, scratching his head “Look, I don’t really think about it. I just—” He pauses, then shrugs again “I want to.”

Your heart skips a beat “…What?”

“I want to do those things for you,” he says simply “it’s not a big deal”

You stare at him “Not a... Zoro, are you serious?”

He frowns “What, you don’t like it?”

“That’s not the point!” Your face feels hot “You don’t do this for Nami or Robin or anyone else!”

Zoro looks at you, unimpressed “Yeah. Because it’s you.”

You freeze.

The way he says it, so blunt, so obvious, it makes your stomach flip.

He isn’t flustered. He isn’t overthinking it. He’s just stating a fact.

“…Oh.”

Zoro crosses his arms, watching you carefully “Is that a problem?”

You swallow “No. It’s just…”

It’s everything. It’s him always being there, always looking out for you, always treating you like someone important.

It’s a realization you should have had ages ago.

You let out a breathless laugh “I’m an idiot.”

Zoro raises an eyebrow “Well, yeah.”

You smack his arm. He smirks.

But when your hand lingers just a little too long, he doesn’t pull away.

And suddenly, you both understand... this isn’t just a habit.

It never was.

Ever since that conversation in the training room, things between you and Zoro have… shifted, but not in a bad way.

He still trains for hours. Still naps in random spots. Still bickers with Sanji.

But now, when you sit beside him, his arm naturally rests along the back of your chair.

Now, when you fight, he doesn’t just watch your back, he makes sure you’re never out of reach.

Now, when you look at him for a second too long, he looks right back.

Like he’s waiting.

Like he’s giving you the choice.

One evening, you find him on the Sunny’s deck, looking out at the ocean.

“…Can’t sleep?” he asks.

You shake your head, stepping closer “Thinking too much.”

Zoro smirks “Dangerous habit...”

You huff a laugh but don’t argue.

Instead, you stand beside him, silent for a moment before you finally ask...

“Do you regret telling me?”

Zoro frowns “Telling you what?”

“That you… actually treat me differently. That you want to.”

His jaw tightens slightly “No.”

Your heart does something strange “Good.”

You don’t give yourself time to hesitate.

Before doubt can creep in, you grab him and pull him down.

Zoro freezes.

For half a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe.

Then a quiet growl rumbles from his chest, and his hand cups the back of your neck as he kisses you back.

It’s firm. Solid. Like he’s been holding back for too long and refuses to anymore.

When you finally break apart, Zoro leans his forehead against yours, exhaling through his nose.

“…Finally” he mutters.

You grin “You were waiting for me?”

“Wasn’t gonna rush you” His fingers brush your jaw “You get there when you get there.”

You hum, leaning into him “And now?”

Zoro smirks “Now, you’re stuck with me.”

You kiss him again, just to make sure he knows you wouldn’t want it any other way.

── .✦ Vinsmoke Sanji:

Sanji has always been a flirt. That’s just how he is.

He calls Nami and Robin “my love” and “my dear”. He spins around the kitchen whenever they compliment him. He offers to carry their bags when the crew goes shopping.

But when it comes to you, it’s different.

It starts when the crew is eating dinner together.

“Sanji, can you pass the salt?” you ask.

Instead of handing you the salt shaker, Sanji grabs it, twists off the lid, and sprinkles just the right amount onto your plate.

You blink “Uh. Thanks?”

“Of course, my dear” he says smoothly. Then, as if nothing happened, he turns back to his own plate.

You think nothing of it... until you notice the way the others are watching.

Usopp raises an eyebrow “Did he just season your food for you?”

“Yeah?” You shrug “What's new about it? He's a chef and he’s just being nice.”

Luffy grins “He doesn’t do that for anyone else.”

“That’s not true,” you argue “Sanji treats everyone like this.”

Nami hums “Not exactly like this. If we wanted more salt he would start a lecture about how it would ruin his masterpiece.”

Before you can ask what she means, Sanji stands up to grab dessert. He places a plate in front of you first. It’s your favorite.

The crew stares.

You stare too “Sanji…”

He smiles “What? I made extra for you.”

Usopp coughs “Yeah. Okay. Totally normal.”

Robin chuckles behind her hand.

You shake your head and go back to eating. It’s nothing. Sanji is just being Sanji.

…Right?

But then, you start noticing other things.

When you’re cold, Sanji drapes his jacket over your shoulders without you asking.

When you need something from a high shelf, Sanji wordlessly reaches up and hands it to you.

When you’re about to trip, his hand is always there to steady you.

And every time, every single time, he does it so naturally that you don’t even think about it.

Until one day, Franky whistles and says, “You two sure act like a couple.”

You nearly drop the drink in your hands “What?!”

Sanji, who was stirring a pot at the stove, pauses.

Franky leans against the counter, grinning “You two do all that coupley stuff. He gives you the best food, takes care of you, treats you differently from everyone else—”

“That’s not true,” you say quickly “Sanji’s like this with everyone.”

Franky snorts “Nah. He does flirt with everyone. But this?” He gestures between you and Sanji “This is different.”

You glance at Sanji. He’s staring into the pot, silent.

Your face feels hot now “You guys are reading too much into things.”

“Sure we are...” Franky says, smirking. Then he leaves.

The kitchen is quiet now. You swallow and turn to Sanji.

“…Is it true?”

He looks at you. His usual confident smile is gone. Instead, there’s something softer in his eyes.

“I don’t know” he says “is it?”

Your heartbeat quickens.

Suddenly, every touch, every sweet gesture, it all feels different.

Maybe it wasn’t just a habit.

Maybe it was something else all along.

After all this the teasing has only gotten worse.

Ever since Nami and Usopp pointed out how Sanji treats you, they will not let it go.

“Here comes Sanji’s beloveeeed~” Usopp sings when you walk into the kitchen.

“I should start charging you for all the extra food Sanji makes only for you” Nami smirks.

Even Luffy, who usually doesn’t care about these things, grins at Sanji one afternoon and says “Oi, cook, when are you gonna marry y/n?”

Sanji chokes on his cigarette so hard he has to brace himself on the counter.

You groan and drag a hand down your face.

But what really drives you insane?

Sanji never denies it.

He stutters, blushes, waves his hands, but he never says “That’s not true.”

Because it is true.

And it’s starting to drive you crazy.

You try to ignore it. But then you start noticing things, even the smallest ones.

Sanji never lets you carry anything heavy.

He always pours you tea first, even before Nami and Robin.

He adjusts your chair at dinner like it’s second nature.

And the worst part? He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

But you do.

And now, every time he gives you that look—the one that’s soft, full of admiration, like you hung the damn sun in the sky—your heart stumbles over itself.

This has to stop.

Or something has to change.

It happens one evening after dinner.

You’re in the kitchen, helping Sanji clean up. He hums as he washes the dishes, sleeves rolled up, golden hair falling over his forehead.

You watch him for a second, then take a deep breath.

“Sanji.”

He glances at you, smiling “Yes, my love?”

You grip the counter “Why do you act like we’re together?”

Sanji freezes.

The faucet keeps running. The kitchen is warm with the smell of spices. But Sanji is frozen.

Slowly, he turns his head toward you “…P-Pardon?”

You cross your arms “You treat me differently. Even the crew notices. You never do this stuff for anyone else.”

Sanji swallows hard “I—”

“You never deny it,” you press “and honestly? I’m tired of waiting for you to finally say something.”

Sanji stares at you like you’ve just flipped his entire world upside down.

His hands shake. His lips part like he wants to speak, but nothing comes out.

“…Sanji.” Your voice softens “Do you want this to be real?”

A shuddering breath leaves him. He looks at you, eyes wide, vulnerable.

“More than anything...” he whispers.

Your heartbeat stutters.

That’s it. That’s all you need to hear.

You step forward, grab the front of his shirt, and kiss him.

Sanji malfunctions.

His entire body locks up, like his brain has completely short-circuited.

For a solid two seconds, he does not move.

Then a noise escapes him, something between a whimper and a desperate sigh, and his hands come up to cup your face, pulling you closer.

The kiss is warm, overwhelming, but soft, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he holds on too tight.

When you finally pull away, he’s redder than his own suit.

“…M-Mon amour,” he breathes, voice shaking “You...you actually...”

You smirk “Took us long enough, cook.”

Sanji makes a strangled sound and immediately buries his face in your shoulder, arms wrapped tight around you.

Outside, the crew is losing their minds.

“TOLD YOU!” Usopp shouts.

“I WON THE BET!” Nami cheers.

“Oi, Sanji, you alive in there?” Zoro snickers.

Sanji doesn’t answer. He’s too busy melting against you, whispering sweet nothings into your skin.

And honestly?

You think you’ll let him.

── .✦ Trafalgar D. Law:

Law is not the kind of person who likes physical contact. He doesn’t let most people touch him. He keeps his distance, always standing at the edge of conversations with his arms crossed. If someone bumps into him, they get a glare.

But for some reason, you are different.

It starts when Bepo hands you a coat one evening.

“Here,” he says, tail flicking “you left this in the lounge.”

You blink at it. It’s black, long, and definitely not yours.

“This isn’t mine” you say, confused.

Bepo tilts his head “Oh. But you always wear the captain’s coat, so I thought it was yours now...”

You freeze.

“Wait. What?”

Shachi walks by and hears the conversation. He grins “Yeah, you totally do. Every time you’re cold, you steal his coat.”

Penguin nods “And Law never complains.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Try to remember.

…Okay, maybe you have borrowed Law’s coat a few times. But that’s just because it’s warm! And because it’s there! And because...

Oh no.

Your stomach twists “I... I do not...”

“Sure you don’t...” Shachi teases “What’s next? Calling him ‘dear’?”

You groan and shove the coat at Bepo before walking away.

But now, you can’t stop thinking about it.

After this, you start noticing other things. Like how Law always lets you into his personal space.

How you can tug his hat down over his eyes without him pushing you away.

How he casually rests his hand on your shoulder when he stands next to you.

One day, you trip over a loose crate. Before you even hit the ground, a familiar blue glow surrounds you... Law’s Room.

In an instant, you’re back on your feet, completely unharmed.

The Heart Pirates snicker.

“Captain didn’t even think” Penguin whispers.

“He never uses Room for anyone else’s clumsiness” Shachi adds.

You glare at them “I heard that.”

They just smirk.

Law doesn’t say anything. He just sighs and keeps walking, like saving you without thinking is the most natural thing in the world.

Your heart does something weird. You ignore it.

Later, you sit on a crate, arms crossed. Law stands next to you, reading a medical book.

You glance at him “Your crew keeps calling me ‘Captain’s partner.’”

He doesn’t look up “So?”

“So, why?”

He flips a page “Probably because you act like one.”

Your brain short-circuits.

You stare “Excuse me?”

Law finally looks at you, raising an eyebrow “You’re always in my quarters, you steal my coat, and you act like you belong next to me. They’re not wrong.”

Your face burns “I... You let me do all that!”

He smirks “I know.”

You open your mouth, but no words come out.

Because suddenly, you realize... he has let you. And he still is.

Ever since Bepo and the others pointed out how Law treats you differently, it’s been impossible to ignore.

The extra care during missions. The way he always stands just a little closer than necessary. The way he lets you touch him, his arm, his shoulder, even his hand, when no one else would dare.

But what really gives him away?

The way his ears burn red every time you get too close.

And yet he never says anything.

If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was running an experiment to see how long he could keep this up before you lost your mind.

So tonight you’re calling him out.

You find him in his quarters, buried in medical books.

“Hey, Law.” You lean against the desk, arms crossed “Can I ask you something?”

His eyes flick up “What?”

You tilt your head “Do you like me?”

Law chokes.

Not just a little cough... he full-on chokes on air, slamming his book shut as if that’ll somehow save him.

“What—?!” He coughs into his fist “Where the hell did that come from?”

You raise an eyebrow “You tell me.”

Law scowls, shifting uncomfortably “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Oh? Am I?” You step closer.

He stiffens “What are you...?”

You place your hands on the arms of his chair and lean in, caging him in.

His breath hitches.

Oh. Oh.

He is not prepared for this.

“Law,” you murmur, watching his face closely “you never let anyone touch you, but you let me.”

His jaw clenches “That doesn’t—”

“You always make sure I rest. You check my injuries before anyone else’s.”

“Because you’re reckless—”

“And...” you lean even closer “your ears are red right now.”

Law swallows.

You smirk “So, wanna try again?”

For a long moment, he just stares at you, lips parted, golden eyes darting between yours.

Then, in a last-ditch effort, he growls... “You’re annoying.”

You hum “Maybe.”

And then you kiss him.

Law goes still.

For the first time since you’ve known him, he is completely speechless.

But then a quiet sound escapes him, and his hand suddenly grips your wrist, holding you there.

You almost pull back, unsure, until his other hand slides around the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, and he kisses you back.

It’s hesitant at first, but when you don’t pull away, something shifts.

The kiss deepens, his grip tightens, and the heat radiating off of him is enough to make you dizzy.

When you finally part, Law exhales sharply, pressing his forehead against yours.

“…You’re gonna be a problem” he mutters, voice rough.

You grin “Yeah?”

His fingers tighten in your hair “Yeah.”

And then, despite everything, he kisses you again.

Because for once in his life he’s done running.

── .✦ Portgas D. Ace:

Ace is naturally affectionate.

He throws an arm around people’s shoulders, laughs loudly, and grins like the world is a joke he’s in on. He’s warm but also because he makes people feel welcome.

So it’s not weird that he touches you a lot.

Right?

It starts when Marco sits down next to you, smirking.

“You and Ace finally together, yoi?”

You look at him confused “what do you mean?”

“A couple… are you two a couple?”

You almost drop your drink “What? No!”

Marco raises an eyebrow “You sure? He always saves you a seat at meals. Always gives you his food if you ask. Always keeps an eye on you during fights.”

You roll your eyes “That doesn’t mean anything. He’s just like that.”

“Not with everyone” Marco takes a sip of his drink “Just you.”

You open your mouth to argue, but then you don’t know what to say, because now, you’re thinking about it.

The next time Ace sits beside you at dinner, you notice how he slides his plate a little closer to yours, letting you steal his food.

The next time the crew docks at an island, you notice how he instinctively waits for you before walking off together.

The next time you’re about to trip, you don’t even get the chance to fall, Ace grabs your wrist and steadies you like it’s second nature.

And maybe it is second nature.

“Careful, Ace,” one of the division commanders teases “If you keep acting like that, y/n might actually think you’re in love.”

Ace laughs, scratching the back of his head “Yeah, yeah.”

You laugh too. Because it’s just a joke… Right?

One night, you sit together on the deck, watching the ocean.

You fidget for a second before saying “The crew keeps calling us a couple”

Ace hums “Yeah?”

You glance at him “Why do you think that is?”

He leans back, arms behind his head, and grins “Probably because we act like one.”

You choke on your own breath “Excuse me?!”

Ace tilts his head “I mean, we do everything together. You always take my food, and I always let you. You always pull me out of trouble, and I always let you. Feels natural, doesn’t it?”

Your brain short-circuits.

Because now that you think about it... yeah, it does feel natural.

“…Ace,” you say slowly “Are we...?”

He looks at you, amusement flickering in his eyes “What do you think?”

Your stomach flips.

Because suddenly, you’re not sure where the habit ends and the feelings begin.

After this, Ace keeps flirting with you all the time.

It’s just who he is.

Winks across the deck. Throwing an arm around your shoulders. Calling you hot stuff like it’s your actual name.

You’re used to it.

But after the teasing from Marco and Thatch, after realizing that Ace treats you differently, you start to wonder.

Is he just playing around? Or is there something real underneath?

There’s only one way to find out.

The perfect opportunity comes one afternoon, when Ace flops down next to you on the Moby Dick’s deck, grinning.

“Hey,” he drawls, resting an arm behind his head “Miss me?”

You smirk “I saw you literally two hours ago.”

“That’s two hours too long.” He winks “Bet you were thinking about me the whole time.”

You hum, tilting your head “You really think that, huh?”

Ace chuckles “C’mon, you love me.”

You raise an eyebrow “Prove it.”

He blinks “Huh?”

You shift, leaning closer with a sly smile “You say all this stuff, Ace. You flirt, you tease... but are you actually serious?”

For the first time, he hesitates.

Just for a second, but it’s enough.

“…Of course I am,” he says, but his usual confidence isn’t all there.

You smirk “Then show me.”

Before he can react, you grab his hat, his precious hat, and plop it onto your own head.

Ace short-circuits.

“Oi! That’s...!” He reaches for it instinctively but stops mid-motion, staring at you.

You tilt the brim with a smirk “What? You said you liked me, right?”

Ace swallows “Y-Yeah?”

“Then just take it back.”

You expect him to snatch it back playfully.

What you don’t expect is for Ace to grin, eyes flickering with mischief, and suddenly tackle you onto the deck.

You yelp as he hovers over you, forearms braced on either side of your head.

The crew whoops in the background, but neither of you pay them any attention.

Ace smirks down at you “You think you’re funny, huh?”

You grin “A little.”

Ace shakes his head, chuckling, but then his expression softens.

He reaches up, tilts the hat back just enough to see your face properly.

And then without thinking he leans down and kisses you.

It’s grinning into the kiss kind of playful. It’s warm and teasing but full of something deeper.

And when he pulls back, face way too close, he murmurs “Now you gotta prove it.”

Your heart races.

You don’t back down. Instead, you tug him down by his necklace and kiss him again.

This time, Ace melts.

When you finally break apart, Ace huffs out a breathless laugh.

“Well,” he grins “Guess you do love me.”

You roll your eyes “Shut up.”

But you don’t stop him when he kisses you one more time.

Because, honestly?

He’s right.

── .✦ Sabo:

Sabo is easy to be around.

He’s kind, smart, and always ready to listen. He laughs at your jokes, never forgets your favorite things, and somehow always knows when you need him.

So it’s no surprise that you spend a lot of time together.

But apparently, the way you act around him is a little… suspicious.

It starts when you’re walking through the Revolutionary Army base with Koala.

“So,” she says casually “when are you and Sabo going to make it official?”

You nearly trip over your own feet “What?!”

Koala grins “Come on, don’t play dumb. You two already act like a couple.”

You scoff “No, we don’t.”

She raises an eyebrow “Oh really? Who’s the first person Sabo looks for when he gets back from a mission?”

“…Me.”

“Who’s the only person he lets borrow his gloves?”

“…Me.”

“And who’s the only one he lets fall asleep on his shoulder without complaining?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Because—oh.

Oh.

Koala smirks “See what I mean?”

You shake your head “That doesn’t mean anything. We’re just close.”

She shrugs “If you say so.”

But now, you can’t stop thinking about it. You start noticing things, like how Sabo always finds a reason to sit next to you during meals, or how he reaches out to fix your collar or tuck your hair behind your ear like it’s normal, or how he always makes sure you have a blanket when you fall asleep at your desk, even though no one else gets that treatment.

And the worst part?

Now that you’re paying attention, everyone else is too.

“I swear, it’s like they’re married” one soldier mutters.

“They finish each other’s sentences” another whispers.

“Bet they don’t even realize” someone else chuckles.

You groan and drop your head onto the table.

Sabo, sitting beside you, blinks “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing” you mumble.

He frowns, then wordlessly slides his drink toward you.

You stare at it “…Did you just give me your drink?”

He shrugs “You like it more than I do.”

You glance around. Several soldiers are watching now, smirking.

Slowly, you push the drink back to him.

Sabo looks confused “You don’t want it?”

Your face burns “Nope. I’m fine.”

He tilts his head, then shrugs and takes a sip.

The others snicker.

You sigh.

Later that night, you sit beside him on the rooftop, watching the stars.

“Sabo,” you say carefully “do we… act like a couple?”

He hums “Why?”

“People keep saying we do.”

Sabo leans back on his hands, thinking. Then he smiles “I guess I can see why.”

Your heart skips a beat “You can?”

“Well, we’re always together,” he says easily “I trust you more than anyone. You take care of me, I take care of you. Feels normal.”

You stare at him “That’s… kind of a couple thing, don’t you think?”

Sabo looks at you for a long moment. Then he smirks.

“Well,” he says, voice teasing but gentle “do you want it to be?”

Your breath catches.

And suddenly, the answer seems obvious.

Sabo has always been easy to be around.

You never have to force a conversation. Never have to second-guess his presence.

He’s just there, a steady warmth beside you, the hand that always steadies your back when you walk through the Revolutionary camp, the person you find yourself naturally leaning against when you’re tired.

And the thing is?

He never pulls away.

Even now, sitting beside you near the fire after a long day, his arm rests lightly along the back of your seat. Close enough to feel, but not demanding.

It’s natural.

But tonight, something’s different.

There’s a quiet between you, not uncomfortable, but charged with something unsaid.

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly your head is resting against his shoulder, and instead of shifting away, Sabo just exhales softly, tilting his head against yours.

You close your eyes, feeling the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

“…I like this” you murmur, barely thinking.

Sabo hums “Me too” A pause. Then... “I always have.”

Your heart stutters.

Slowly, you lift your head, turning just enough to meet his gaze.

His expression is calm, too calm, like he’s waiting for you to understand something he’s known for a long time.

And you do.

Because of course it was always him.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

Instead, you reach up, gently tracing your fingers along his jaw.

Sabo closes his eyes briefly at the touch before opening them again, watching you with something unreadable, something deep.

Then, without hesitation, he leans in.

The kiss is slow, certain.

It’s not rushed, not desperate because this was never a question.

It was always going to be this.

When you part, Sabo lingers, his forehead resting against yours.

His hand finds yours, fingers lacing together easily.

“…Feels like we should’ve done that a long time ago” he murmurs, lips brushing against yours.

You smile “Maybe. But I think we got here at the right time.”

Sabo chuckles softly, squeezing your hand “Yeah. I think so too.”

And when he kisses you again, it feels like something that was simply meant to be.

[sugucide]

one thing about satoru gojo is that he's a freak.

he'll try anything once, and then three more times for good measure. anything! as long as it ends with him emptying his balls, prefer on or inside of you, he's a very happy man to entertain your weird requests.

this, though, is too weird!

"you want to have vanilla sex?" he gawks at you.

you're laying back on his bed, bare and smiling up at him as he climbs over you. he's hard, sure, but he's not flooded with the excitement of your usual ideas.

"why don't i put the collar back on?" he suggests tapping the tip of your nose. "oh! or we could play with those candles again... or you could make me squirt... no? roleplay? anal? some music, at least?"

you shake your head, and if you weren't so damn cute satoru might be more upset than he is. "you know," you start, "plenty of couples have plain sex regularly. i just want to feel you."

"we aren't like most couples," he grimaces. "im the strongest. and you're the sexiest. i don't think she's physically capable of having boring sex with you, baby."

"stop calling your dick a she," you stare up at him. "please? you said you'd try anything."

satoru kisses your lips gently, as boringly as he can do without getting too worked up. you are naked underneath him, after all. "i said that hoping you'd propose pegging me. or letting me put that dildo of yours down your throat while i—"

"just fuck me," you whisper.

and because satoru is secret a lover before he is a freak, he complies. with a gentle nod and a few seconds to line himself up with you, he pushes inside and lets you lock your legs around his waist before he starts a gentle pace with you.

it feels good, of course, it's you. but there's something sweet to the way he fucks you— no, makes love to you, that isn't there when gags and blindfolds and candle wax are in the way. it's just you and him, eyes locked as he becomes whole with you in the most intimate way possible.

he realises, when your eyes flutter shut and you pull him impossibly closer to whisper sweet nothings in his ear, that he might just like boring sex.

"i love you so much," he coos. "like having you like this. just us. god i love you, baby. i think i needed this."

the two of you cum in sync with eachother. you shake and tighten around his cock and he spills into you with sweet moans that sound a little more raw and vulnerable than they usually do. he kisses you silly, peppers his lips all over your face until you're laughing underneath him.

and he pulls back to look at your face, and nods to himself. you smile, and push his white hair out of his face with a gentle tilt of your head.

"what's that look for?" you ask.

and that's when you notice the tears welling in his eyes. the tremble of his lip as he recognises a million different feelings at once. and with a sniffle, and a shaky breath, he grins.

"let's get married."

[angelltheninth]

I have yet to see Kpop demon hunters today but I am craving for Jinu smut, But also I don’t like noncon/dubcon in the slightest but if this feels like it so be it lol, So may I request Jinu x huntrix member fem reader? When reader decides to investigate the saja boys by herself, The rest of the girls are obviously worried about her safety but she tells them that she’ll be okay, Cut to a couple hours later with Jinu absolutely pounding reader from behind and making her cum nonstop just as he wanted to ever since he layed eyes on her.

I can do dub-con. I don't think people realize it's a very common kink.

Pairing: Jinu x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, dub-con, rough sex, creampie, body betrayal, enemies who fuck, possessive sex, biting, hate sex

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: This movie now lives rent free in my head.

You should have listened to your friends, you should have never went after Jinu all by yourself, you should have brought backup. Now you're bent over his bed, getting your pussy pounded raw and hard from behind. "Either you and yours are getting sloppy or you're really stupid for thinking you could defeat us on your own. Or even just defeat me. Or, hah, maybe, you came here hoping this would happen."

As soon as you heard him suggest such a thing you turned your head to glare at him. Jinu grinned, his smile as demonic as it always was, no longer hidden behind that pretty facade. With your arms pinned and held behind your back you could barely move, and whenever you did you just took his cock, over and over. It was driving you insane.

"Go fuck yourself, you goddamn bastard." You gritted through your teeth, biting back your moans as his thrusts kept getting faster and faster, deeper, almost like he was trying to punish you for acting foolish. "I would never stoop so low... to want someone like you." A high pitched moan escaped from your lips when you felt the sting of his hand on your ass.

"You say that, demon hunter, but your cunt is drooling for me, so tight and wet. Hear that, how sloppy and slutty you pussy gets with demon cock in it?" He slammed his cock into you, in and out, making your legs tremble and your vision blurry. "Be honest, it'll feel so much better."

You shook your head as you felt yourself blushing. You hated it, how good Jinu's cock felt inside of you, how good this felt and yet it was so wrong. You hated him, you should hate this too so why was your body working against you in this moment? Why couldn't you tell him to go to hell like you so many times before?

"Better, that's a good girl. No more fighting me. Don't worry, this can be our little secret, no one has to know how you whore yourself out for me." His body pressed fully against your, his demonic fangs nipping at the sensitive skin of your neck and shoulder. "I won't tell if you won't, demon hunter. You got my word." The glare you gave him was challenging, you hoped threatening but that was impossible with the filthy sounds of skin slapping against skin and your pussy taking his hard cock while you moaned.

"Your word... means nothing to me." You hissed, putting as much venom and hatred in your voice as you could have. He didn't seem pleased with that, he bared his long teeth at you and you hated how your pussy clenched around him when you saw them.

"Really? Fine, makes no difference to me. But see how your team feels when you come back to them, with your cunt freshly fucked and filled with demon cum." You watched him transform from his human form into his demon form, and god, his cock felt even better like this. "I don't care if you believe me or not but I'm gonna make sure you never forget this moment. The moment when you came from being fucked by me, because of my cock, because I made you feel so good!"

With one final thrust he pushed both your bodies over the edge, and you stopped yourself just in time to not scream his name. You didn't want to feed his ego any more than you already have. Jinu laughed maniacally as he fucked his seed deep into your pussy, the wet, messy noises only adding to his feral, wild nature.

"Fuck, yes, oh, wanted this... ever since I first saw you. Wanted to carve the shape of my cock into your cunt. Make you mine." He ended with a long kiss on your shoulder, still holding you while your body trembled and your vision swam. "Mine, only mine from now on." You expected him to be rough as he pulled out but he wasn't, he was slow, stopping as he heard you hiss and whimper. "Now that's a pretty little sight."

You heard a flash of a camera and turned to see Jinu smirking with his phone in his hand, his cock still out, dripping with the combination of your release. "You...! Gross! You have no shame!"

Jinu stuck his tongue out at you, "A little keepsake for me. To tide me over until our next time."

An unpleasant, or maybe pleasant, shiver went through you at the suggestion of a next time with him. "That won't happen. I'm going to bring you to your knees before then!"

"Oh? If you wanted me on my knees all you had to do was ask. I'm very good with my tongue. I can show you next time." His words and lewd gestures made your stomach tie into knots, and an uncomfortable heat form. "I could do it now. Seems like you might need some cleaning up."

Furious you stood up on your wobbly legs and slapped him. It was pathetic, that this was the best you could muster in this moment, but it also felt good to catch him off guard. "You're dead next time I see you."

Despite the slap he grinned at you, licking his lips, "Looking forward to it, my demon hunter." He winked at before he snapped his fingers next to your ear. For a moment you didn't understand what he did, then your vision started blurring. You tried to hit him again but ended up collapsing against him. "Let's get you somewhere where the others will find you." Barely coherent you thought you felt his lips press against your forehead before you fully passed out.

[wxxpingangxls]

mr munch!

he slammed the door, huffing. "what the fuck is your problem?" you asked, watching as he throws his gym bag on the floor.

"no one believes i have game!" he whined. armin scrunched his face as soon as he heard you snort, not taking your eyes off the tv, once. "something funny?" he asked, clearly unhappy with your response. he pathetically plumped himself on the sofa next to you.

armin was a nerd. your typical tv nerd. one who knew wayyy too much about things that were less than ideal, academically gifted and zero game when it came to getting women. i mean it wasn't his fault that he was sooo eager to please his teachers. sure, he was cute with his glasses that seemed more like a magnifying glass glued to his face, and not to mention that fuck ass bob of his. but you know what, he wore it well. and you had to give him that much.

"ok so, how do you pick up a pretty girl then?" you asked, now directly facing him. he fiddled with his bony fingers before swallowing harshly. "well?"

"well i'm charming?"

"according to who?" you bellowed out in laughter as he pouted. "you're a nerd, and there's nothing wrong with that," your hand rubbed on his knee as you gave him a pitiful smile.

"are you...giving me pity right now?"

"no? i'm comforting a friend," you said curtly.

"can i ask you something?"

you smiled expectantly, knowing that he was probably going to splutter out some fuckary. however, nothing could ever prepare you for what came out of his big mouth.

"what's a munch?"

your eyes widened in shock.

"is it a bad thing? everyone was asking if i was a munch, so i just said yes,"

"why the fuck would you say yes to something you don't know the meaning of?"

"well to be honest, it seemed like a good thing..." he put his head down as his face grew hot.

you weren't any better because now your palms were sweaty. "armin, aren't you like, a know-it-all?"

"oh please, i'm not that smart..."

"clearly," you couldn't help but pity the poor baby. and he didn't like that. he didn't like it when others looked down on him especially with pity.

"so, are you gonna tell me?"

"a munch is a man who loves to eat pussy, okay?"

"but i've never...done that before,"

"i can tell," you huffed out while he visibly blushed. "well now the whole school knows that you loves to eat pussy," you giggled loudly. you half expected armin to whine like he always does, but he stays silent. "oh come on, i'm just kidding, laugh a little,"

"so, being a munch sounds fun, i wanna try it out," he turns to face you.

"sorry? armin, are you fucking okay? you don't even know how to eat it,"

"how am i supposed to learn?"

and that's how you ended up with your legs held all the way up to your ears, with armin and his bob between your legs. his tongue piercing swirled on your clit. "you're...you're a fucking liar!" you squealed, as his mouth suckled on your clit. he moaned, completely ignoring you. unbeknownst to you, he was smirking as your syrupy slick dribbled down your ass crack. but that didn't stop him.

his tongue trailed all the way down to the winking hole, as his thumb rubbed your bud with ease. you were unbelievably wet as he tongue moved up towards your hole, squeezing it into your tight pussy. you pulled on his hair, bringing him impossibly closer to it, smothering him completely. each time, his tongue subtly stretching you out. he grunted and groaned, sending vibrations straight to your heart. that lying bastard. he's not fucking new to this shit.

you mewled, watching him remove himself from your cunt for a hot minute. "what's wrong? i'm just showing you what a munch is," he slyly grinned, his chin covered in nothing but slick and saliva. fuck, was he nasty, fingers never leaving your clit. your toes started throwing gang signs as tears formed in your eyes. before you could tell him to move his ass and finish his meal, he's already attaching his mouth in a suction motion onto your clit. you played with your nipple as your hips literally bucked up into his face, greedily trying hard to get more. more of that attention he was giving to the entirety of your sweet pussy.

honestly, you were mad you hadn't just sat on his face to shut him up sometimes. and trust me, you'd thought about it. the ball of his tongue piercing rolled continuously on your clit with speed, as you damn near closed your legs in overwhelming pleasure. this nerd was flicking your clit raw, but you loved every moment of it. "just like that," you whined, yanking his hair a little too harsh. if you had pulled it the right way, he might've just cum in his pants for the second time that night.

"mfphm, fuck armin!" you squealed a little too loud, that wretched piece of metal and his tongue making you cry tears of and pleasure. it seemed almost sadistic with the way he kept repeating the same motion that made your legs shake and quiver. "okay, armin, m'cummin!" and all those words did, was spur him on. watching as he attempted to push his face into your sticky cunt, your leg locked up, with your back arching steeply.

you came hard, but that didn't stop armin from flicking his tongue on your clit, over and over again. and the worst part? you couldn't get him to move away. "okay, i get it!" you moaned out, damn near screaming. he was lucky that your legs felt weak, or else he would've been crushed by your thighs, not that he would mind. "armin, i'm done!" you sobbed out, and the obscene sounds of him slurping and sucking on your pussy never stopped. your hand moved to place itself on his head and attempt to push him away.

a feeling arose in your tummy, something unfamiliar, and at the point you were crying hot tears. you even couldn't let out one coherent sentence before you came again. even harder than the first. you genuinely felt ethereal, ringing in your ears and seeing nothing but white. your heartbeat was in your ears as he finally removed himself after riding your orgasm out.

two slim fingers slowly slipped into your cunt. "you bastard,"

"hey, that's not anyway to talk to the guy that just gave you the orgasm of your life," he pouted, fingers curving upwards towards your g-spot as you moaned out loud. he swiftly pulled them out before slapping your cunt.

you sat up immediately, and gave him one harsh slap across his face. "you said you've never eaten pussy, what the hell was that?" you huffed out.

"thanks!"

"it wasn't a compliment,"

that sneaky bastard. of he knows how to eat it. but now you had to find out if he could lay it down. well, you actually didn't have to worry about that, cuz baby, despite cumming in his pants twice, he still had more in him.

that fucking nerd.

[slut4megantheestallion]

୨୧Sukuna being weirdly infatuated by his human girlfriend (sfw)

cw: fluff, possessive behavior, sukuna being a menace, light darkish yandere undertones, mild language.

It started off with the weird weight of his stare.

You've gotten used to it by now-almost. The way his gaze settles on your sleeping face like a hand, heavy and hot and impossibly still. He watches you like he's dissecting something, like he's trying to unravel you with his eyes. Sometimes, you wake up with a jolt, and he's already leaning over you, arms folded, face unreadable.

"You're twitchy," Sukuna mutters, voice low and scratchy like something old. "Guilty conscience?"

You don't bother answering. You're used to his comments, the way they hover between teasing and threat.

Tonight, though, he's extra... weird. Not in a violent way - those days are specific, intentional, but in that offbeat way he gets when he forgets what being human is like.

He's sitting at the edge of the futon, one hand resting on your thigh. His fingers tap- annoying, steady. When you peek one eye open, you find him already looking down at you. Eyes glowing faintly in the dim room.

"You're not that interesting, y'know," he says.

"Then stop caring," you grumble, voice rough with sleep.

He grins. That slow, unhurried curve of sharp teeth and something more sinister than amusement.

"I could. But then I might miss how stupid your face looks when you sleep." His hands lifts, and suddenly, he's poking your cheek. Hard.

You flinch. "Sukuna-!"

He presses again. Now both fingers, tugging your cheek like you're some stress ball. "You're soft. It's weird. I don't like it," he says flatly, even as he keeps doing it.

You swat at his hand, but he catches your wrist easily, pins it to the bed beside you. His grip is warm - too warm. Heat coils off of him like a furnace, a reminder that he's not like anything that should exist in this world.

"You have so many expressions," he mutters, gaze dragging over your face. "It's exhausting."

"Then leave."

"No." His reply is instant. Lazy but final. "You're mine."

You stare at him, and he just shrugs like it's the most casual statement in the world. Possession, obsession - it's not romantic with him. It's primal. He looks at you like a dragon cluled around treasure it doesn't understand. He doesn't love you the way a man should.

But still... he stays.

His hand slides to your chin, thumb brushing over your bottom lip. He leans closer, like he's trying to memorize the tiny details of your face, skin, the way your lashes flicker with each blink. You feel the slow curl of his breath when he exhales near your mouth.

"I could crush you," he says softly, almost thoughtfully. "Break every part of you and put you back together wrong. You'd still look at me like that."

You don't respond. You're not sure how to respond to something like that.

He tilts his head, studying you. Then, with zero warning, he pinches your nose.

"What the fu-Sukuna!"

"Just checking," he says, snickering. "Wanted to make sure you weren't a corpse. You're so still sometimes."

You roll over, trying to shove your face into the pillow. He let's you, but you can still feel his eyes on the back of your neck. Like the heat of a fire that won't die out

"Go to sleep, freak," you mumble.

"You're calling me a freak?" He laugh, voice echoing in the low-lit silence. "You're the one who sleeps like a baby next to the King of Curses. You've got issues, woman."

His fingers brush a stray strand of hair from your temple. Gentle, too gentle. It doesn't match the way he talks or looks or breathes.

"I could watch you forever," he mutters, barely above a whisper now. "And maybe I will. So don't die on me."

You blink slowly, eyes closing again. There's no real comfort in his words - only a strange, twisted kind of promise.

You drift off, eventually, despite the awareness of his presence. The weight of his stare doesn't fade, but his touch becomes still. He watches.

He always watches.

And even when you sleep, sukuna is still there. Like a curse that chose you.