#it's not supposed to unless someone gets close enough to touch

[cherry-chaos-cola]

can things STOP HAPPENING TODAY

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤHER ANGELㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Genderbend au – Cassian Cain x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : How Would He Be When He's Obsessed?

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

It starts with stillness.

You didn’t notice him at first—because he didn’t want to be noticed. Cassian doesn’t speak, doesn’t make a sound. But he watches.

You were kind. Not loud. Not a threat. That’s what first made him pause. People are noise to him, always broadcasting their intent with every heartbeat and twitch. But you? You didn’t broadcast danger. You didn’t make yourself bigger. You were quiet in a way that didn’t mean violence.

So, he lingered.

He’s not supposed to get attached.

Batman said so. Oracle said so. They all said so. Cassian nods when they speak, but he doesn’t follow unless it feels right in his bones.

And you feel right.

He starts following you when he’s off patrol. Silently. No footsteps. He memorizes your routine like it’s a mission. When you laugh, he flinches. When you cry, his hands clench. He doesn’t understand either, but he feels it. He doesn’t know if it’s protectiveness or something else. But it burns.

He watches more than he should.

Through windows. Across rooftops. In your shadow like he belongs there. You never feel unsafe—because he never lets you. Any time danger comes close, it’s gone before you even notice. A man following you home? He disappears. A mugger across the street? Out cold in the alley.

You start to joke with your friends. “It’s like I’ve got a guardian angel.”

Cassian hears that. He feels that. His heart does something strange and awful and warm.

He starts leaving things for you. A lost scarf. A fixed bike chain. A cup of tea from your favorite shop on a cold morning. He watches your eyes light up. You smile. You whisper, “Thank you.”

He mouths it back, even though you can’t see him.

“...Welcome.”

He doesn’t know what to call it.

He doesn’t understand what this is. But every move you make is written on your body, and he reads it like scripture. You’re beautiful, but not in the way people usually mean. You’re good. You’re real. You walk like someone who carries her own pain and doesn’t let it harden her.

Cassian is soft around you in a way he’s never been. He wants to be near. Wants to be allowed to be near. He doesn’t know how to ask.

So he stares.

You catch him one day. Rooftop. Rain. His black suit blending into the night like he’s part of it. But he doesn’t leave. He lets you see him. For the first time. You stare at each other for a long time. You don’t run. You don’t scream. You step forward.

And Cassian... he doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. You speak—soft, confused, kind.

“Are you the one watching me?”

He nods. Once. Like a silent prayer.

You should be scared. But you aren’t.

After that, he’s around more.

Not close. Not yet. But close enough that you could talk if you wanted. And you do. You start talking to him, even when he doesn’t answer. You tell him about your day. About your cat. Your classes. Your fears. Your hopes. He listens like it’s sacred.

And slowly... very slowly... he starts to answer. With signs. With the barest movements. A tilt of the head. A hand lifted in answer. One night, he writes something in the dust on your windowsill.

“SAFE?”

You nod.

He taps his chest. Then yours. Then nods.

“Safe.”

Cassian doesn’t sleep. Not really.

But when he does, he dreams of you. Not in a twisted way. Not violent. Just with you. Holding your hand. Sitting beside you. He dreams about what it might be like to speak—to tell you what you mean.

He wants to be close, but he doesn’t understand how. You smell sweet. Like flowers. But he’s scared he’ll ruin that. That the same hands that kill could never touch you without staining you.

He loves you. But he doesn’t know that’s what it is. It feels like need. Like obsession. But tender. Careful.

He’s learning.

Eventually, he touches your hand.

It takes months. Maybe a year. But one day, after you patch up a cut on his arm in silence, he just... touches your hand. Light. Hesitant. And you don’t pull away.

You say, “I missed you.”

He doesn’t say anything. But his eyes are glassy. His lip trembles.

He doesn’t talk. But if he could, he’d scream I miss you even when I’m right here. I want to be near you forever. I want to be your shadow. I want to be enough for you to love me back.

Instead, he leans his forehead against your shoulder.

And you hold him.

Cassian is obsessed.

Not in a way that hurts you. In a way that worships. In a way that learns. He doesn’t know what a boyfriend is. What a partner is. What love is. But he learns for you. Slowly. Clumsily. Lovingly.

Because even though he’s been trained to kill, to move in silence, to never ask for anything—he wants you.

And when you kiss his forehead for the first time?

He cries.

Silent. Still.

But he cries.

It begins, as always, in silence.

He is on your balcony again—half in shadow, half soaked in moonlight. The wind plays with the hem of his black cloak, but his body is still. That same tilt of the head when he watches you like you’re the only thing in the world that makes sense.

You never flinch anymore.

You don’t look surprised.

You open the window like it’s the most normal thing in the world and smile.

“Hey, angel,” you whisper.

And God—if he had a heart that worked like anyone else’s, it might stop.

He doesn’t understand why you call him that.

He doesn’t look like an angel. He’s bloodied most nights. His knuckles are bruised, dried cuts line his jaw. His hands, no matter how much he washes them, remember violence. Remember pain.

But when you say it—“angel”—your eyes go soft. Your smile goes tender.

“Mine,” you sometimes say, brushing back a strand of his hair. “My shadow. My angel.”

And he leans into your touch like it’s air, like it’s light, like it’s grace.

He still doesn’t talk. You’ve stopped expecting him to. You’ve learned his silence has weight, has texture. It’s how he tells you things.

Sometimes, he brings gifts. Not flowers or chocolates—he wouldn’t even know where to buy them. No, he brings you buttons. Trinkets. A ribbon from someone who bothered you. A feather from a rare bird. A kitten once, curled in his coat, half-dead. You cried when you held it. He just stared at you the whole time.

The kitten sleeps in your bed now. You named her Moon.

You whispered, “She’s like you. Quiet. Soft when she wants to be. But deadly.”

Cassian tilted his head. Then nodded.

He doesn’t know what school is.

You were talking once—rambling about your day while cleaning his cuts, your voice low and casual.

“Class was boring today,” you said, wiping at the gash on his shoulder. “Professor wouldn't stop talking about stupid wars—like, who cares how Napoleon died?”

You expected the usual blank silence.

Instead, he looked at you. Blinked.

Then lifted one hand. Tilted it side to side. Question.

“What?” you asked, laughing. “You don’t know who Napoleon is?”

He tilted his head again. Shrugged.

“Wait… Do you know what school is?”

Nothing. No reaction.

You stopped everything. Looked him in the eyes. “…do you know how to read?”

He looked down. Then slowly, pulled something from his belt. A folded, dirty slip of paper. It had a single word written in his jagged, childlike handwriting.

SAFE.

Your chest ached. You looked at him and saw not a vigilante, not a ghost in the night, not even a weapon.

You saw a boy.

Someone who’d never been given a childhood.

Someone who knew how to kill but not how to write his name.

You touched his hand, gentle. Like always.

“Do you want me to teach you?”

He blinked. Then nodded. Not once. Not sharp.

Slow. Like the word mattered. Like you mattered.

You start with his palm.

You don’t use pens or paper at first. No pressure. No rules. Just touch.

You trace letters into his skin with your fingertip. His hand twitches every time. He’s not used to gentleness lasting this long.

“This is A,” you whisper, dragging your finger down, then across. “Now B…”

He watches your lips when you speak. Like they hold truth.

Like he can taste knowledge just by watching you.

You guide his hand next. Hold his finger. Drag it across your open palm to form shaky letters.

He frowns when he messes up. You kiss his brow and say, “It’s okay. Try again.”

You’ve never seen him so focused. Not even in a fight.

You make flashcards next.

Simple words. Safe. Home. Name. Yours. Mine.

He stares at “Mine” for a long time.

He taps it. Then points at himself. Then at you. Then signs you with the softest hand against his heart.

Your breath catches.

He mouths something. It’s silent. You can’t hear it. But you know.

Mine.

You don’t correct him.

Your balcony becomes a classroom.

Every night, you sit with your legs crossed, flashcards in hand, and he crouches next to you like a child soaking up your light. You tell him stories—your childhood, your friends, what your teachers are like, how you used to be scared of the dark until now.

“Not anymore,” you murmur, glancing at him. “Because now I have you.”

He doesn’t smile. But he closes his eyes like your words are warmth.

One night, you wake up and find something under your pillow. A folded paper. On it, in shaky writing:

“You = Safe”

“Me = Angel”

“Mine”

You keep it in your diary.

You still haven’t kissed him. You don’t touch him unless he touches you first. You don’t ask him to stay, but you never ask him to leave. He’s not your boyfriend. He wouldn’t understand the word. But you’ve never felt more seen.

He’s learning. And every time he writes something new, he brings it to you like a child bringing a drawing to their favorite person in the world. And every time, you say the same thing:

“Perfect.”

Because to you, he is.

Cassian doesn’t understand the world.

But he understands you.

And that’s all he’s ever needed.

To watch you, to learn you, to protect you like something sacred.

He may never say it aloud.

But every step he takes, every breath he draws near you, every clumsy letter he writes in your palm—

Whispers it.

I am yours.

It happens slowly. Like dusk bleeding into night.

No lightning moment. No dramatic turning point.

Just quiet devotion blooming into something deeper.

Cassian is still silent. Still follows you in the shadows like your personal moon. Still crouches on your balcony, waiting for a look, a touch, a word from you to exist again.

But something’s shifted. You feel it.

Maybe it’s in the way he lingers longer now. Or how he watches your lips not just to learn—but to memorize. Maybe it’s in the way he holds onto every scrap of paper you write on, like holy relics, like prayers.

He started sleeping curled up by your window once. You found him there at 3AM, arm wrapped around the kitten. Shirt torn. Blood dried on his cheek.

You ran to him. He didn’t flinch.

He opened his eyes—and smiled.

Just barely. Just for you.

He starts practicing. Alone.

You don’t know this. He never tells you. But when you sleep, he stays near your fire escape. He stares at the flashcards you gave him, mouthing the letters, the words, again and again. His lips shape your name in the dark—like a secret prayer, like the answer to every question he’s never asked.

You = Safe.

You = Light.

You = Home.

One day, you catch him trying to write a sentence.

You don’t laugh. You don’t mock the messy letters or the misspelled words. You sit down next to him, and smile softly, like you always do.

You help him fix it. Guide his hand, one slow letter at a time.

By the end, it says:

“You are my safe.”

He stares at the page like it’s magic. Like he made something beautiful and didn’t know he could.

Your hands cradle his face. Your thumbs brush his cheeks.

“You’re learning so fast,” you whisper. “I’m so proud of you.”

His breath catches.

He wants to say something.

It rises in his throat like a scream he’s buried for years.

But nothing comes.

Not yet.

It happens on a rainy evening.

You were pacing, talking fast about something that upset you. School stress, maybe. A rude stranger. The weight of being alive that day.

Cassian stood by your window, watching. Silent. Still. But tense.

He didn’t know how to help. He only knew how to fight.

You noticed. You stopped.

“I’m okay,” you said softly, walking up to him. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you have to fix it. Just you being here… It helps.”

You reached up, brushing back his hair with your fingers.

“My angel.”

That word again. Yours, not his.

But he wanted it.

He wanted it to be his word, too.

You turned away. He didn’t move.

Then—quietly—barely a whisper:

“…Y/N.”

You froze.

The word was broken. Heavy. Like glass under bare feet.

But it was real.

You turned.

He looked terrified. Like he’d done something wrong.

You smiled. Your eyes filled with tears.

You walked back to him slowly, hands trembling as you reached up and cupped his cheeks.

“Say it again,” you breathed.

His lips parted.

He hesitated.

Then—

“…Y/N.”

And this time, it wasn’t about the word.

It was about you.

You kissed him.

Soft. Gentle. Like a secret between only you and the night.

His hands hovered in the air before settling on your waist. He didn’t press. Didn’t move.

He just held you.

Like that was the miracle.

That night, you taught him a new word.

"Love."

He traced it in your palm again and again.

And when you fell asleep curled in his arms, he whispered it once. Into your hair. Into the quiet.

“…Love.”

He may not understand the world.

But he understands you.

And now—

He’s learning how to say it.

You still don’t know his name.

You never ask.

Not because you’re not curious—

But because you know he doesn’t know how to give it.

He doesn’t know what names are supposed to mean. He wasn’t given one with love. His name was forged in fists, shaped in silence, beaten into bone. It's not a name he wears—it’s a weight.

And yet—

He says your name like it’s sacred.

Like it’s the only sound in the universe he wants in his mouth.

Sometimes whispered into your pillow when you’re not looking.

Sometimes scrawled onto paper over and over again in shaky letters.

You find them.

Little scraps folded in your books, tucked in your drawers:

Just your name.

Written with devotion.

Childlike. Obsessive. Sweet.

You call him angel, still.

Sometimes shadow. Sometimes pretty boy in a half-teasing tone that always makes his ears pink.

One day, you ask him softly, brushing your lips across his cheek:

“…What do I call you?”

He tilts his head. Blinks slowly. Thinks hard. Like the question is in another language.

You try again.

“Do you have a name?”

His brows furrow. He shrinks a little—just a little.

You cup his cheek and whisper, “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me.”

But then, one night, wrapped in your sheets, skin pressed to yours, after you taught him how to touch—

He gives it to you.

Not because you asked.

Because he wanted to.

Because for the first time in his life, it felt safe.

“…Cassian.”

Your breath catches.

“Cassian,” you repeat, voice warm. “That’s beautiful.”

He looks away.

“Just like everything else about you.”

And he doesn’t say anything—but his fingers curl around your wrist and his lips press to your neck, and you know he’s trying to say thank you without words.

He doesn’t know how to kiss properly.

The first time he tried to kiss you, he just pressed his forehead to yours, trembling, lost. You smiled, took his face in your hands, and showed him. Patient. Gentle. Lips brushing lips like butterfly wings. Again. And again.

He’s a fast learner.

And he’s hungry.

Not lustful—devoted. Starving to worship. To memorize every sound you make. He touches like you're a secret language he was born to learn.

Teaching him gets intimate.

You write words on his chest with your finger.

Safe. Love. You.

He trembles when your nails drag down his ribs.

You take his hand and guide it along your thigh, your collarbone, whispering body parts like vocabulary.

He mouths them in return—quietly, obediently.

“Shoulder.”

“Neck.”

“Hip.”

“…Y/N.”

“No, Cassian,” you giggle softly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “That’s me, not a body part.”

He just stares, wide-eyed. Then kisses your shoulder in apology.

He worships you.

It’s in how he kneels between your thighs like you’re holy.

How he tugs your shirt up just to rest his cheek on your stomach.

How he breathes you in. Touches you like you’ll disappear.

He never wants to go further unless you guide him.

You do.

Slowly.

You teach him how to make love like you taught him how to speak—

With your hands. Your eyes. Your patience.

He follows every breath. Every arch. Every sound.

He writes love on your back in kisses.

One night, after, he lays there in silence, watching your fingers trace letters onto his palm again.

He mouths them carefully:

“B-e-l-o-n-g.”

And then, looking straight into your eyes—

He spells the last word:

“T-o Y-o-u.”

And you smile, pulling him close, your lips brushing his ear as you whisper:

“Yes, Angel. Always.”

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[chuxmy]

Can you do advice 3? I really liked the 1 and 2 and i cant get enough

Advice.. III

Pairings: Geum Seongje x Fem!Reader

Summary: The guys want to find out who got you smiling like that, but they were way too close to find out.

Warnings: physical violence, unwanted touching, harrasment, strong language

A/N: I’m reallyyyy happy that you like it 💕 Enjoooy

☜︎ Prev Next ☞︎

You were barely hearing anything around you.

The guys were talking, joking, throwing half-hearted punches, nudging each other like usual. You were sitting with Sieun, Juntae, Baku and Gotak outside a small convenience store near school. An empty ramen cup steamed at your side. Someone handed you a drink. You nodded, murmured thanks.

But your mind was elsewhere.

Still back in that quiet corner of the hallway where Geum Seongje had kissed you for the first time.

The memory clung to your skin like static

His hand curled behind your neck, the warm pressure of his lips brushing yours, hesitant for only a second before deepening, as if he’d been holding back for too long.

The way he said , “You make it hard to ignore you.”

You were still feeling it. The flush in your chest, the phantom pressure on your lips. You couldn’t stop biting them, brushing your fingers over your mouth like the kiss had left something visible.

“Yo.”

You blinked.

Gotak was looking at you from across the bench. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you said too quickly. “I’m fine.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’ve been zoning out the whole time. You look like you’re hiding something.”

“I’m not.”

“You smiled at your water bottle just now.”

You froze.

Sieun looked up briefly from his phone. “Is it a guy?”

You nearly choked. “W-What?”

Baku snorted. “It is a guy! Look at her face!”

You covered your mouth with your hand. “It’s not—! No. You’re all seeing things.”

Gotak leaned back with a teasing grin. “Let’s guess who it is. Someone from school?”

“No,” you said quickly. Too quickly.

“Someone we know?”

You stiffened.

Juntae watched you carefully. “Wait… wait a second. Is it… someone you shouldn’t be with?”

You stared straight at the ground, heart pounding.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

You pulled it out without thinking.

[Unknown Contact]

Rooftop. 7 PM. Don’t be late.

No name. Just the message. But you knew who it was. Knew that texting you at all was risky for him. Knew that your fingers were already curling tighter around the phone as your stomach twisted with nervous excitement.

You looked up and realized Juntae had seen the screen.

His brow furrowed. “Who’s texting you without a name?”

You locked the phone and slipped it back in your pocket. “Nobody.”

“It’s not nobody if you’re about to pass out blushing.”

You stood abruptly. “I’ve gotta go.”

“All of a sudden?”

“Yeah. Homework.”

“No, you don’t,” Baku said.

But you were already walking away, ignoring their voices behind you, hoping they wouldn’t follow. Hoping they wouldn’t put the pieces together.

Because how could you explain to them that you kissed the last guy in the world you were supposed to?

That Seongje of all people had kissed you like he meant it. Like he’d never done it before.

That your heart still hadn’t slowed down since.

The sky had turned amber, streaked with gold and charcoal as the sun began to set. The air was warm, humming with the lazy energy of a spring evening. You sat beside Geum Seongje on the rooftop of an empty school building, legs dangling over the edge. You’d been there for an hour, just talking. Or more like… he listened to you talk.

Seongje never talked much unless he had something smart to say. But when you were alone with him, he didn’t always need words. Sometimes he just looked at you, his expression softer than the one he wore around others less armor, more curiosity.

You turned your head, catching him watching you again.

“What?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He looked away, lips twitching. “You’ve got something on your face.”

You wiped your cheek instinctively. “Where?”

“There,” he pointed vaguely, then leaned in without warning. He kissed the spot instead light, deliberate his lips brushing just beneath your cheekbone. “Got it.”

You glared at him, blushing. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“I know,” he said smugly, but his voice dropped as he added, “but you still like me.”

You bumped his shoulder. “Barely.”

He chuckled under his breath. But then he leaned back on his elbows, gazing at the sky, his face unreadable again.

You lay back beside him, looking up too. For a moment, you just breathed together. Quiet. Peaceful. Like he didn’t have ties to something dangerous.

Eventually, you sighed and sat up. “I should go. The guys are probably wondering where I went.”

He didn’t move for a beat. Then he stood, brushing off his jeans. “Want me to walk you?”

You smiled. “No. Someone might see.”

He nodded slowly, and you knew what he wasn’t saying It’s not safe. But I won’t risk getting you involved.

So you left alone, the ghost of his kiss still lingering on your skin.

You took a shortcut home, familiar alleyways between apartment blocks, the concrete lit by weak orange streetlamps. You didn’t think twice. Not until you turned the corner and realized you weren’t alone.

A group of older boys stood there. About six of them, leaned casually against crates and stairs, smoking, laughing, whispering too low for you to hear. They didn’t look like strangers. Their uniforms were unbuttoned, slouched. And when one of them turned and made eye contact with you, your stomach dropped.

Oh oh.

You tried to back away, quietly. But your shoe scuffed the pavement.

They all looked up.

One of them stepped forward, dark eyes narrowing. “Yo,” he said. “You lost, little thing?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You felt your throat close.

Another leaned into the circle, amused. “She’s cute. You followin’ someone? You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I didn’t know,” you said quickly. “I was just walking home, wrong turn, I’ll go back.”

“Not so fast,” the first one said, stepping in front of you. “You heard anything? Saw anything?”

“I don’t even know who you are—”

Wrong answer.

The boy grabbed your wrist roughly. “Liar. You don’t end up here by accident.”

“I swear—!”

Another boy joined, arms crossed. “Who are you? Say your name.”

You shook your head. “It doesn’t matter please, just let me go—”

He raised a hand. Not to wave.

To strike.

And it landed.

The slap cracked across your face, hot and loud. Your head snapped sideways, cheek stinging. You stumbled, nearly falling.

The world tilted. Your eyes watered not from the pain, but the fear.

And then—

“What the fuck are you doing?”

That voice. His voice.

It came like a growl, low and furious.

All heads turned.

And Geum Seongje was there.

He stepped into the circle like he didn’t care there were six of them. Like it didn’t matter if they were Union or not. His eyes were locked on you, and when he saw the red mark blooming across your face, his entire body tensed like a loaded weapon.

The boy who slapped you looked confused for half a second.

“Seongje? She didn’t say who she was we were just—”

Seongje punched him so hard he dropped.

No hesitation. No words.

Just a fist straight to the jaw, the sound of bone on bone, and then the boy was on the ground groaning. Blood smeared his lip.

The rest of the group moved instantly but Seongje turned, face cold as ice.

“Anyone else want to explain why you laid a hand on her?” he said, voice low and deadly.

They froze.

One of them tried to speak. “We didn’t know she was yours—”

“She’s not property,” he snapped. “She’s off-limits. That should’ve been obvious the second you saw her face.”

You stood frozen, still holding your cheek, your breath shallow and quick. Seongje walked straight to you. You saw the change happen in him again the fury draining into something sharp and quiet as he looked you over. His hand came up slowly, carefully, fingers brushing your chin to tilt your face toward the light.

When he saw the red print, he swore under his breath.

“You okay?” he asked, low.

You nodded shakily. “I didn’t mean to come here— I didn’t know—”

“Shhh,” he murmured, stepping in closer. “It’s not your fault.”

Then he turned back to the boy still groaning on the ground.

But you grabbed his sleeve. “Don’t. Please. You’ve already done enough.”

He stilled.

For a second, it looked like he might fight you on it. His hands flexed, still twitching with anger.

Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and snapped a photo of the guy’s bloody face.

“You tell the others,” he said to the group. “Anyone touches her, they deal with me. Got it?”

They all nodded, dead silent.

Seongje looked at you again. “Come on.”

He led you out of the alley without another word. You didn’t speak until the lights of the main street hit your face, soft and safe.

He finally stopped, pulling you gently to face him.

His eyes scanned you again checking every inch, like he was trying to make sure you were still whole.

“I told you not to walk alone,” he muttered.

“I didn’t know they’d be there.”

“You shouldn’t have had to worry about that.”

Silence stretched between you.

You whispered, “You were really going to kill him, weren’t you?”

“I still might,” he said darkly. Then softer “No one touches you. Ever.”

You looked up at him. “Why do you care so much?”

He stared at you for a second then pulled you into him suddenly, fiercely. His arms locked around you, his chin resting in your hair. You felt him breathe in slow, steady, like he needed to remind himself you were real.

“I don’t know how to do this right,” he whispered. “But I know I can’t lose you.”

You held him tighter.

And for the first time in all the chaos, you felt safe.

[flwrstqr]

⌇ THE BOY 𝓲S MiNE : AGENT ENHYPEN ──𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒'𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗌𝗉𝗒 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗇𝖾𝗋

( ✶ 𝓢) ⦂ 엔하이픈 + f ! r . 1OOOwc. ──kissing, skinship, petnames && agent au ⠀ ｡｡ ⠀fluff, slightly suggestive 𖥔 ARCHiVE⠀ ૮ ♡◞ ◟ ა

danielle msgs： agent enhypen is my life (> <)

𝗟𝗘𝗘 𝗛𝗘𝗘𝗦𝗘𝗨𝗡𝗚 he leans against the wall, his dark suit slightly wrinkled from the mission, a cocky smirk playing on his lips as he watches you patch up a scratch on your arm. "careful, princess, wouldn’t want to ruin that pretty face of yours," he teases. you glare at him, your fingers fumbling with the bandage as his presence looms closer. “you could help instead of just standing there,” you snap, and he chuckles, stepping into your space, his hands brushing yours as he takes over. “relax, doll, i got you,” he murmurs, his touch lingering a little too long. your breath hitches as his fingers trace your wrist, and he tilts his head. “you okay? you’re staring,” he smirks, and you scoff, pushing him away, your pulse racing. “shut up, heeseung.”

𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗞 𝗝𝗢𝗡𝗚𝗦𝗘𝗢𝗡𝗚 he leans against the sleek black car, his tie loosened and hair slightly disheveled from the mission. "you gonna keep me waiting, sweetheart?" he drawls, a teasing tone in his voice as you walk up, rolling your eyes. "not everyone can look like they just stepped out of a magazine after getting shot at," you quip, but your words falter as he steps closer, brushing an imaginary speck off your shoulder. "relax, i’m just making sure my partner’s looking sharp," he murmurs, his fingers lingering as they smooth down your sleeve. the proximity sends a flush creeping up your neck, and he notices, smirking. "you’re cute when you’re flustered," he says, low and soft, his hand brushing your waist as he leans in, a little too close. "jay," you warn. he pulls back with a chuckle, holding up his hands. "easy, angel, i’m just messing with you."

𝗦𝗜𝗠 𝗝𝗔𝗘𝗬𝗨𝗡 your eyes narrow as jake leans casually against the bar, his signature smile in full effect as he charms yet another woman at the gala. you’re supposed to be blending in as a couple, but instead, he’s working his way through every pretty face in the room. “you know,” he murmurs, sliding up beside you moments later, his cologne lingering as he leans down, “you could at least pretend you’re jealous. makes us more believable.” his voice is low, teasing, as his hand brushes your waist like it belongs there. you roll your eyes. “jake,” you hiss, gripping his arm and pulling him closer, “shut up and let’s go back to the mission.” his grin doesn’t falter. “anything for you, sweetheart.” his laugh is soft as he lets you tug him away, clearly enjoying himself.

𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗞 𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗚𝗛𝗢𝗢𝗡 you barely have time to react before sunghoon grabs your wrist and yanks you into a dark corner, his hand firm around your waist as he presses you against the wall. "what the hell, sunghoon—" you start, but he quickly clamps a hand over your mouth, leaning in close. "shh," he whispers, his breath brushing your cheek, "unless you want us both caught." your glare could burn a hole through him, and he smirks, removing his hand but keeping you pinned. "you could’ve just warned me," you hiss, your voice barely above a whisper. "where’s the fun in that?" he teases, his eyes dropping to your lips. "you’re impossible-" you mutter, about to push him away, but before you can, his lips crash onto yours, silencing you. it’s quick, enough to leave you stunned, and when he pulls back, he smirks. "worked, didn’t it?"

𝗞𝗜𝗠 𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗢𝗢 sunoo’s hand rests lightly on your waist as he leans closer, his soft lips brushing your ear like a whisper. “darling, they’re watching,” he murmurs. your heart skips as he cups your cheek, his thumb grazing your jawline. “relax, love, you look too tense for someone so used to this game.” his voice is honeyed, his gaze holding a teasing glint that makes it hard to focus on the crowd scanning the "power couple." when his lips graze your temple, you shiver. “sunoo,” you warn, barely above a breath, but he only chuckles. “what? just making sure they believe us,” he whispers, his grin widening. it’s impossible to tell if the blush creeping up your neck is part of his plan—or his charm.

𝗬𝗔𝗡𝗚 𝗝𝗨𝗡𝗚𝗪𝗢𝗡 "you could’ve told me your shoes were killing you, sweetheart," jungwon murmurs, crouched at your feet as the orchestra’s music swirls around the grand ballroom. you feel the heat rush to your cheeks when his fingers brush your ankle, undoing the straps of your stiletto. “i was trying to blend in,” you mumble, biting back a wince as he pulls off the heel. jungwon chuckles, standing to his full height and offering you his hand, his dark suit perfectly tailored and somehow making him even more annoyingly attractive. “blend in? with the way everyone’s been staring at you? not a chance.” before you can retort, he sweeps you off your feet, cradling you against his chest. “won—!” you squeak, but his grin is downright smug. “relax, princess. i’ve got you.” and as the two of you glide past stunned onlookers, he whispers, “forget the mission anyways."

𝗡𝗜𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗠𝗨𝗥𝗔 𝗥𝗜𝗞𝗜 "you're unbelievable," you mutter, fingers flying over the keyboard as you hack into the system, riki lounging behind you like he’s got all the time in the world. “move faster, sweetheart,” he drawls, the nickname dripping with teasing. you whirl around to glare at him, miscalculating your movement, and suddenly you’re tumbling—right onto his chest. his arms wrap around you instinctively, holding you steady as his grin widens. “if you wanted to be on top of me, angel, you could’ve just said so,” he quips, voice low. “shut up, nishimura,” you snap, but your cheeks are flaming as his hands linger at your waist. “admit it, you love being this close to me,” he whispers, and despite your best glare, the way your heart races gives you away.

[missmadella]

"Enemies in Public, Secret Lovers" //Tokyo Revengers

Charakters: Mikey, Sanzu, Ran, Rindou, Hanma, Kokonoi, Izana, Kazutora

Synopsis: They act like they hate you in the streets—cold stares, sharp words, tense glares across gang meetings. But behind closed doors? It’s a different story. They kiss you like they’ll die without it. They touch you like they own you. They love you like they shouldn't. You're the only softness they allow themselves.

And they'd burn everything down to keep it secret.

CW: emotional tension, possessive relationships, and darker romantic themes

Mikey (Manjiro Sano):

The air in the room is thick with smoke, tension, and barely concealed hostility.

You’re sitting at one end of the long table, arms crossed, legs angled toward the door—ready to bolt the second this shitshow ends. On the other side, Mikey sits with that goddamn calm expression of his, one hand dangling lazily off the chair, the other tapping a steady rhythm against the wood.

The rival gang is talking—something about turf, about boundaries, about respect.

You aren’t listening. Because he’s watching you.

Manjiro Sano. Mikey. The boy you’re supposed to hate.

And in public—you do. You throw insults like knives, argue in front of everyone, pretend like you wouldn’t care if he dropped dead.

But behind closed doors?

You know how his heartbeat sounds when he sleeps beside you. You know how he tastes when his lips crash into yours in secret. You know the man beneath the title.

So when his gaze lingers too long, you force yourself to look away.

“Got something to say, Mikey?” you say, loud enough to interrupt the conversation.

Everyone stops.

Mikey blinks slowly. “Only that someone’s overstepping. Again.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Try me.”

The room bristles with tension.

“Enough,” the other gang leader mutters. “Handle your infighting on your own time.”

You roll your eyes and lean back in your chair, pretending to be bored.

The meeting ends. The tension doesn’t.

Mikey is the last to leave the room, and so are you. No one thinks twice—everyone’s used to you two arguing.

The moment the door clicks shut, he’s on you.

Your back hits the wall.

“Mouthy today, huh?” His voice is low, the mask of the Toman leader dropping in an instant. “You keep talking to me like that in public, someone’s gonna figure it out.”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy memorizing the way his eyes look under the dim light—dark, dangerous, and a little desperate.

Then your hands are in his hair, and your lips are on his, and suddenly you don’t care if anyone finds out.

“I only talk like that,” you whisper between kisses, “so I don’t say your name out loud.”

He freezes—just for a second.

Then his mouth returns to your neck, and he breathes, “Say it now.”

You lean into him, chest pressed to his, and whisper, “Manjiro.”

He groans, quietly, and pulls you tighter. “You’re gonna kill me one of these days.”

“Maybe,” you smile. “But not before I get what I want.”

He kisses you again—slow, deep, like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

Just you. Just him. Just secrets no one can ever know.

___________________________________________________________________________

Sanzu Haruchiyo:

The room is all steel and tension.

Bonten's top executives stand around a high-gloss table, discussing a smuggling deal that went sideways. You stand across from Sanzu, arms folded, glaring daggers at the man like you hadn’t let him wreck you two nights ago.

“I told you not to trust the Koreans,” you snap, voice sharp. “Now look where we are—half a shipment missing and the docks crawling with heat.”

Haruchiyo Sanzu smiles slowly—mocking, dangerous.

“And I told you to shut the fuck up unless you have something useful to say.”

There’s a brief silence.

Kakucho shifts. Ran smirks. Rindou pretends not to notice.

This is normal.

You and Sanzu always argue. Always at each other’s throats. Always ready to start a war in the middle of a Bonten meeting. No one questions it anymore—they just brace for impact.

What they don’t know is that last night, Sanzu had you pinned to his mattress, your hands tangled in his pink hair while he whispered your name like it was a prayer and a curse in the same breath.

You clench your fists.

“I’m not the one whose plan got us fucked,” you hiss.

Sanzu steps closer—slowly, deliberately, like he’s stalking prey. His voice drops.

“You always this mouthy, or just when you’re not on your knees?”

The room explodes into a chorus of groans and chuckles. You laugh, sharp and bitter.

“Funny. I don’t remember you complaining when I was biting your shoulder to shut myself up.”

Silence.

Sanzu’s jaw twitches. You see the briefest flicker of something real in his eyes—then it’s gone, buried under madness and pride.

“Meeting’s over,” Mikey says, flatly. “Get out.”

You’re halfway down the hall when you hear footsteps behind you. You don’t need to look to know who it is.

Sanzu grabs your wrist and shoves you into an empty room.

The second the door slams shut, he’s on you.

“You little brat,” he growls, mouth crashing onto yours.

You kiss back just as hard, fingers fisting the front of his jacket.

“I warned you not to test me like that,” he mutters, teeth grazing your lower lip. “Saying shit like that in front of them—”

“Or what, Haruchiyo?” you whisper, deliberately using his name—the one you only say when it’s just you two. The one that makes him stop breathing for a second.

His eyes darken.

“You like it, don’t you?” you whisper, fingers sliding under his shirt. “When I fight you. When I act like I hate you.”

He lifts you effortlessly, pressing you against the cold wall. His voice is breathless now, tight with restraint.

“I do,” he admits. “I like it too much.”

You kiss him again—deep, slow, like you’re staking your claim. He groans into your mouth, biting your bottom lip hard enough to sting.

“Say it again,” he breathes. “My name.”

“Haruchiyo.”

His hands tighten around your hips. “Again.”

You smirk against his lips.

“You’re such a fucking psycho.”

“And you’re still here,” he whispers. “You always come back.”

So do you kiss him harder—or walk away?

You still haven’t decided.

___________________________________________________________________________

Ran Haitani:

The Bonten compound is quiet at this hour.

Too quiet.

You shouldn’t be here.

Not after what happened this morning—after you called Ran Haitani a “useless, ornamental bastard” in front of half the lieutenants.

He only smirked, of course. He always does. That lazy, smug smirk that makes you want to claw it off his face—and kiss it at the same time.

And now here you are, slipping down the private wing like you don’t know exactly how this will end.

You open his door without knocking.

He's already waiting.

Laid back on the couch in a silk shirt half-unbuttoned, ankles crossed, drink in hand. Golden hair loose around his shoulders, violet eyes half-lidded—but sharp. So sharp.

“Took you long enough,” he drawls.

“You’re lucky I came at all.”

He sets the glass down and stretches, slow like a cat. “Still mad at me, huh?”

“You’re a cocky prick, Ran.”

“You love that about me.”

He stands—towering over you in an instant. One hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you close until your lips almost brush.

“In public, you look at me like you want to put a bullet between my eyes,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your jaw. “But in here?”

His mouth touches your throat—soft, deliberate.

“You’re quiet. Submissive.” He smirks. “Sweet.”

You push him back a step, refusing to melt just yet.

“Don’t get it twisted. I’m still thinking about killing you.”

Ran laughs—a low, dangerous sound. “Yeah? Is that why you came back again?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you step forward and undo the next button on his shirt—slowly, deliberately.

He leans in, lips at your ear now. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“My name. You only call me that when you mean it.”

You meet his gaze, hand slipping inside his shirt to feel the warmth of his chest.

“Ran,” you whisper. “You’re lucky I don’t hate you more than I do.”

He grabs your wrist, presses you back against the wall—not roughly, just enough to remind you who’s in control here. His hand slips to your throat, light pressure. Testing. Possessive.

“Good,” he says, mouth brushing yours. “Because I like it better when you hate me.”

Then he kisses you—slow and deep and completely in control.

And when you moan against his lips, he grins.

“See?” he whispers. “No one has to know how much you love this.”

___________________________________________________________________________

Rindou Haitani:

You hadn’t planned on running into him.

You only came to the rooftop for a cigarette and a moment away from the hellhole that is the Bonten compound at midnight.

But there he is—Rindou Haitani.

Leaning against the railing, hoodie up, smoke curling lazily from his lips. Purple streaks glint under the moonlight, and his eyes slide to you like razors.

“Tch. You,” he mutters.

You glare. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

It’s always like this in public. Cold remarks. Petty fights. You made sure everyone believes you can’t stand him—and he plays along perfectly.

He flicks ash over the edge, not looking at you. “Why are you always up here?”

“Same reason you are,” you say, lighting your own cigarette. “To get away from people I hate.”

His mouth twitches. “Then why are you standing next to me?”

A long silence passes.

The night is still, electric.

Finally, he speaks—quieter this time.

“You’re really good at pretending you don’t give a fuck.”

You look over at him, surprised by the crack in his armor. His brows are furrowed, not quite glaring anymore.

“Yeah?” you say softly. “So are you.”

His jaw ticks.

Then, before either of you can pretend any longer, he’s crossing the space between you. Gripping the back of your neck. Pulling you in.

The kiss is rough at first—angry, teeth and heat—but it softens quickly. His hand trembles a little when it slides under your shirt. Yours cups the side of his face, fingers brushing his cheekbone.

You break the kiss just long enough to whisper, “Rindou…”

He exhales like you’ve stabbed him.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs. “I can’t take it when you say my name like that.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to care.”

You kiss him again before he can say anything else—because if he keeps talking like that, you might start caring too.

And neither of you can afford that.

___________________________________________________________________________

Hanma Shuji:

You hadn’t meant to let it happen.

It was just harmless flirting. A smuggler from Osaka, silver-tongued and drunk on expensive whiskey, leaning too close. Laughing too loud. His hand brushed your arm a little too long.

And you knew exactly who was watching from across the room.

Hanma Shuji.

You’d locked eyes with him the second the guy leaned in.

He smiled.

That lazy, teeth-baring grin that meant run.

But he didn’t say a thing. Didn’t storm over. Didn’t throw a punch. Didn’t interrupt. Just sipped his drink and kept watching.

Like a lion waiting for his prey to step out of the herd.

Now you're in his apartment.

Alone.

The second the door shuts behind you, you feel it—the shift. The air thickens. Hanma’s smile is gone.

“What?” you say, trying to play it off. “You jealous or something?”

He cocks his head. His pupils dilate just enough to show you the answer.

“Nah,” he drawls. “Jealousy's too normal for what I’m feeling.”

You take a step back.

Big mistake.

He’s on you in an instant—grabbing your chin, backing you against the wall, that chaos blazing in his eyes.

“You let him touch you.”

“It was nothing.”

“Didn’t look like nothing,” he says, voice dangerously low. “Looked like you wanted someone else’s hands on you.”

You glare at him. “You didn’t say anything.”

“I wanted to see how far you’d go before you remembered who you fucking belong to.”

His grip tightens—just a little. Enough to make your breath hitch.

“You done now?” you mutter. “Or do you wanna mark me up like a damn dog to prove your point?”

That grin comes back—slow and sharp.

“Not a dog, babe.”

His hand drops to your thigh, gripping hard.

“More like a wolf.”

You feel your body respond even as your pride flares.

“Shuji—”

He growls—actually growls—against your neck when you say his name. The low, guttural sound of someone unraveling.

“Say it again,” he whispers. “Say my name like you did when I had you gasping in that stairwell last week.”

You shiver.

“Shuji.”

His mouth crashes into yours.

It’s messy. Hungry. Punishing.

By the time he pulls back, your lips are swollen and your thoughts scattered.

“No one else touches you,” he breathes, voice shaking. “You got that?”

You nod, dizzy.

He presses his forehead to yours, eyes wild.

“I’ll kill them next time.”

__________________________________________________________________________

Kokonoi Hajime:

The bar is dimly lit, expensive, and full of criminals dressed like businessmen.

You stand at the corner, sipping your drink, watching Bonten make quiet threats through polite conversation. You’re used to it.

What you’re not used to?

The smug bastard from the Aichi syndicate who keeps eyeing you like you’re a luxury car he plans to test drive.

“You always come to these things?” he asks, leaning closer. “Bonten lets you off the leash often?”

You smirk. “I don’t wear a leash.”

He chuckles low, eyes flicking down your body. “Pity.”

You feel Kokonoi before you see him.

A calm, cold presence. A cologne that clings like silk and smoke. He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t even look at you. Just steps between you and the guy, smiling like a polite executioner.

“Boss wants a word,” he says, not even bothering to ask if the man minds.

He doesn’t wait for a response. He just walks off. You follow him seconds later.

The office door clicks shut behind you.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. You just watch him pour a drink—slow, silent. Then: “You let him talk to you like that?”

You scoff. “You didn’t seem bothered.” Kokonoi turns to face you now—eyes sharp behind his glasses, voice too calm to be safe.

“If he knew,” he says, setting the glass down, “who you belonged to, he wouldn’t have looked at you.”

You cross your arms, defiant. “So tell them.”

“You know I can’t.”

“Then don’t act like I’m yours.”

You didn’t expect him to move so fast. He grabs your wrist—not hard, just firm. A reminder.

“I don’t need to act,” he murmurs. “You are mine.”

You stare at him, heartbeat racing.

“Prove it.”

His hand slides up your arm, slow and reverent, until it cradles your jaw.

“I don’t make scenes, sweetheart,” he whispers. “I make promises.”

Then he kisses you.

Hot, slow, consuming. The kind of kiss that says I don’t need the world to know, as long as you do.

You gasp against his mouth, whispering, “Hajime—”

That name. God, the way it sounds from your lips.

He exhales shakily. “Say it again.”

You do.

And that’s when he backs you up against his desk, fingers gripping your waist like he’s never letting go.

“I’ll keep quiet in public,” he breathes, mouth on your throat. “But if anyone touches you again?”

He kisses you harder—hungry, desperate.

“I’ll bury them in designer suits.”

__________________________________________________________________________

Izana Kurokawa:

The night was almost too quiet.

Izana had been tracking your every move for weeks now. He’d noticed the little things—the way you’d smile at someone a little too long, the way your hand would linger on a glass, as if contemplating what you really wanted.

Tonight, though, was different.

The way that man had looked at you? The one in the corner of the bar, leaning a little too close, smirking at you with those predatory eyes?

Izana knew exactly what he was doing. He'd seen that look before.

A look that said you were a prize to be claimed.

You weren’t his. Not yet. But you were something he couldn’t let go of. And tonight, you would learn that.

You had been sitting with your friends, talking and laughing as the music pulsed around you. It was easy to forget that Izana was watching you from across the room—silent, like a predator waiting for his moment.

But then that moment came. The man you’d been chatting with, the one who thought he could charm his way into your attention, leaned a little too close.

A soft chuckle escaped him, and his fingers brushed against your arm in a way that made Izana’s teeth grind.

You didn’t notice it. You were caught up in the conversation, the laughter, the harmless flirtation. But Izana had seen enough.

The moment you stood to excuse yourself, Izana was already there—like he had been waiting for the exact second.

“Leaving so soon?” he asked, his voice low but filled with something darker than amusement.

You turned, eyes widening slightly as you saw him standing there—close. Too close. His presence suffocating, overwhelming.

“Not yet,” you said with a smile, but the tension was palpable. “Just getting some air.”

“You don’t need to get air,” he said, his hand resting lightly on your lower back, the warmth of it sending a strange shiver through your body. “You need to leave with me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Leave with you? Is that an order, Izana?”

He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to.

“You don’t need to be here anymore,” he said, his voice colder now, more authoritative. “The people who want to touch what’s mine—” He didn’t finish his sentence, but the implication was clear.

You’d never seen him like this before. Calm. Collected. But there was an edge, something dangerous swirling beneath his mask.

“Mine?” you asked, testing the waters. “Who says you own me?”

His eyes darken, and before you can take another step, his hand is on your wrist, pulling you just a little too close. “Don’t make me remind you,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. “I’ve always had my eye on you. And I won’t let anyone else take what’s mine.”

His words hang heavy between you, thick with meaning. He’s not just talking about possession in a physical sense. There’s something deeper there, something primal.

The air around you thickens, your heart beating harder in your chest. But despite the fear, there’s an undeniable spark. An intense pull that draws you toward him.

“You know, Izana,” you say softly, voice low with a hint of a challenge. “You act like you can control me.”

“I don’t need to control you,” he replies, his thumb brushing against your wrist as he tightens his grip just enough to remind you he’s in charge. “I just need you to understand that you belong with me.”

You open your mouth to respond, but before you can speak, he closes the gap between you—his lips crashing into yours with a fierce hunger.

It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet.

It’s possessive.

It’s demanding.

When he pulls away, his fingers trace the edge of your jaw, his gaze steady, searching. “You belong to me, and I won’t share you with anyone.”

__________________________________________________________________________

Kazutora Hanemiya:

The night is heavy with silence as you sit in the dimly lit room, watching Kazutora as he paces. His eyes are distant, his hands trembling slightly as he clenches and unclenches his fists.

The familiar weight of his presence is suffocating, but you don’t move. You wait. Because you know. You know how hard it is for him to let anyone in, especially someone like you.

“You should go,” he mutters, his voice hoarse, almost broken.

You frown, standing from the couch. “Kazutora…”

He doesn’t look at you. He never does when the guilt hits him like this.

“Why do you stay?” he asks suddenly, his voice shaking just enough to betray the hardness he tries to maintain. “After everything I’ve done… Why do you stay?”

You don’t hesitate. You step closer, reaching out to touch his arm. “Because I see you, Kazutora. I see the real you.”

He flinches at your touch, as though your hand burns him, but doesn’t pull away.

“I’m a monster,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “I’ve done things I can’t take back. I don’t deserve someone like you.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, your heart aching for him. He never lets anyone in this much, and yet here he is—vulnerable, open, and raw with you.

“You don’t get it,” he continues, turning his head just enough to glance at you. “I need you. I don’t know how to live without you. But I’m scared. What if I ruin this too?”

You step forward, closing the gap between you, and pull him into a hug. Kazutora stiffens at first, as if unsure of how to react, but then he exhales a shaky breath and wraps his arms around you. His grip tightens as if you’re the only thing holding him together.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say softly, your fingers tracing along the back of his shirt, feeling the tension in his body. “I’m here for you. All of you.”

His head falls against your shoulder, and you can feel the weight of the years he’s carried—guilt, pain, and loneliness. He doesn’t say anything at first, just breathes in the comfort of your touch, the only real solace he’s known in a long time.

“I hate myself,” he admits quietly, his voice muffled by your shoulder. “I hate that I’m like this… but I can’t stop myself from needing you.”

You pull back slightly, just enough to look into his eyes, and you can see the conflict there—his fear of pushing you away, his fear of losing you.

“I’m not leaving,” you whisper, your thumb brushing his cheek. “You’re not alone, Kazutora. I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.”

His eyes search yours for a moment, as if trying to gauge if you’re telling the truth. And then, finally, his shoulders relax. His gaze softens, just a little, and his lips curl into a small, shaky smile.

“Don’t leave me,” he breathes, his voice thick with emotion.

“I won’t,” you promise again.

His lips crash into yours before you can say anything more, desperate and rough, as though he’s trying to pour all his emotions into the kiss. The need to be loved. The need to feel real. The fear of being abandoned.

It’s not gentle. It’s not soft. But it’s real. And for Kazutora, that’s all he’s ever really wanted.

As he pulls away, his forehead resting against yours, his breath ragged, he whispers, “I don’t know how to live without you…”

You cup his face gently, looking him in the eyes.

“You don’t have to,” you say, your voice steady, grounding him. “I’m not going anywhere, Kazutora.”

And for the first time in what feels like forever, he believes you.

[moonstruckme]

in theory i really want to see bodyguard!james and reader where she gets hurt and he takes care of her… but i literally cannot imagine him letting her get hurt at any point. unless like they both barely escape with their lives, or maybe someone else was on her detail for the day — cutting myself off with an idea: james is set on another task for an event for whatever reason and when danger erupts somehow, he completely abandons it to come protect her even though shes supposed to have another detail, desperate to protect her

Hi! I sort of did a mix of these if that's alright, thanks for requesting!

cw: mention of blood, small head injury, past break-in/attack

bodyguard!James x fem!reader ♡ 1k words

Your heart lurches when the bathroom door handle jiggles, someone using a key, but then James steps inside. 

You choke on a sob you didn’t realize had been building. He rushes to meet you as you stand from the closed toilet, arms coming tight around your waist. It’s a good thing, because your legs don’t seem ready to support you. Your knees are wobbly and insubstantial, your ribs feel sore, and you can only see out of one eye. But James is here, so that’s all alright. 

“Hi, sweetheart.” He sounds teary. You know James to be an emotional creature, but he doesn’t often let them show when he’s working. Though you don’t suppose he is working, since he’d gone home from his shift not long ago. “Fuck, I’m so glad you’re in one piece.” 

“What’re you doing here?” 

“I heard what happened.” He squeezes you tight, then releases you, taking your face in his hands. “Are you okay? What happened here?” He touches near your forehead. 

You take a breath, but despite your best intentions your voice wobbles. “I’m okay.” 

James’ expression melts with understanding. Blood still flows hot over your eye, the sharp pain on your head bleeding but evidently not enough to worry the men on your detail who’d hustled you in here after the guy who’d broken in and tried to attack you was subdued. Enough to make your lungs feel tight and panicky, though. 

James strokes his thumb over your cheek. “You’re okay,” he agrees. 

“I just—I can’t see, James.” 

“I know, let’s see. Let me have a look.” He sits you back down on the toilet, grabbing a few things from the cabinet underneath your sink before squatting in front of you. You swear, he knows where you keep your things better than you do. James pushes your hair away from your face, gentle fingers landing at your hairline. “Oh, it’s only small.” 

“Why is it bleeding so much?” 

“Because head wounds bleed a lot, honey,” he says lightly. You recognize this tone; it’s the one he always uses when he can tell you’re spiraling, extra untroubled to counter you. It used to work better before you knew him so well. “You’ll be alright, I’m just going to clean it for you. Does it hurt much?”

“Not a lot,” you say, wincing as he passes a sterile wipe over the cut. 

James frowns. “They didn’t send someone to look at you?” 

“You look at me all the time. Not sure they need someone else to do it.” 

He snorts. “I mean like a doctor, babe.” 

You knew what he meant. “No.” You try to keep the pique out of your tone, but you suspect he hears it anyway. “They just ran me in here and told me to stay put.” 

“That is protocol,” James allows. “Maybe they’ve just not had time to send someone yet. They’ve brought the assailant into the other wing for questioning.” 

You furrow your brows, and he says quietly “hey,” thumbing at your forehead so you relax it again. 

“Assailant?” 

James hesitates. “I suppose he may not qualify as an assailant. That’s just the term we always use to describe anyone who tries to get to you.” 

Your bottom lip finds its way between your teeth. You gnaw on it pensively. “But you think he was really here to kill me?” 

“We’re your security team,” James says gently. “We have to work off the assumption that anyone attempting to get to you is trying to kill you.” He places a bandage over your cut, looking you in the eye. “But that’s not for you to worry about, okay? That’s our job.” 

You’re silent while he gets a few more sterile wipes, ripping one open. You’re not sure exactly how much blood is on you, but that he starts cleaning underneath your jaw doesn’t feel like a great sign. 

“You’re not on shift,” you say after a minute. “How did you know to come?” 

James thinks for a second. “You know our team uses a private radio channel to communicate, right?” You nod. “Well, the signal doesn’t stretch far, but I sometimes listen to it on my way home until it goes out.” He gives you a half sheepish look. “We’re not supposed to, but it makes me feel better to check up on things.” 

You laugh softly. “Can’t ever stop working, can you?” 

“Hey, just because you’re alright when I leave you doesn’t mean you will be five minutes later.” You can tell it’s meant to be a joke, but James’ tone sobers near the end of his sentence. You’re sure he’s thinking about what happened today, same as you. He says quietly, “I just like to keep up to date on you for as long as I can.” 

He starts cleaning the blood off your eye, and you shut your other one while he does. James’ hands are characteristically gentle, something that had surprised you after first meeting him. Here’s this bodyguard, all broad frame and big, intimidating muscles, and he touches you with all the loving softness of a teddy bear. 

He does one last swipe over your eye, says “there,” and kisses near your eyebrow. 

“Thanks, Jamie.” You fold forward, looping your arms around his neck. He knows what you need, big palm moving up your spine. You press your face into the meat of his shoulder. “I know I’m supposed to say that I like it when you go home and rest,” you mumble, “but I sort of wish you could stay here all of the time.” 

“Maybe we can work out a solution,” he humors you. “I could set up a cot by the end of your bed.” 

“Don't be silly.” You hug him tighter. “I’d at least blow up an air mattress for you. And you could have a whole bathroom drawer to yourself.” 

“That is a very generous offer.” You can hear the smile in James voice. Can feel the affection he’s squeezing into your sore ribs. “I’ll check with the boss and get back to you, okay?”

[sturniphone]

𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 . . . 𝐒𝐇𝐔𝐓 𝐔𝐏 𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐃

in which . . . mean!chris fingers you in the library stacks, licking you stupid until you cum all over his hand, dazed and trembling

Chris is popular. Loud. The kind of boy who walks through the halls like he owns them, always flanked by his friends, laughing too loud, chewing gum with zero respect for the rules. He’s tall, tan, always in trouble, and never takes anything seriously. You’d never think someone like him would even look twice at someone like you. But he did. Or maybe he was just desperate to pass algebra.

He asked for tutoring with that cocky little smirk, voice slick with fake innocence. You had said yes because you were polite, because your teacher encouraged it, because even though he was mean, he was also stupidly beautiful, and it made your stomach flutter when he looked at you like that. You’d suggested the library. Quiet, safe. He’d just grinned. But he hasn’t touched his textbook once.

Now, you’re tucked between the shelves, hidden in the far back, where the older reference books gather dust and no one really wanders. It’s secluded. Still, it’s risky. And your heart thunders with every creak of the floorboards. but now The library is quiet, sun leaking through the tall windows in buttery streaks, dust dancing in the light. But you’re not in one of the open study areas—you’re tucked between the shelves, hidden in the far back, where the older reference books gather dust and no one really wanders. It’s secluded. Still, it’s risky. And your heart thunders with every creak of the floorboards.

You’re pressed back against a shelf, spines digging into your back, the hard edge of the metal uncomfortable against your shoulder blades. But you barely notice. Your glasses are slipping down your nose, breath shallow and fast. Chris is crouched between your legs, big hands pinning your thighs wide apart, and he’s got that awful, smug look on his face—the one that makes your stomach flip and your knees weak. ❝Stop squirming, nerd,❞ he mutters, mouth already glistening, eyes dark and hungry. ❝You’re the one who wore this little skirt.❞

You try to speak—some small protest, a whisper maybe—but it comes out as a pathetic little gasp when he hooks your panties to the side and dives back in like he owns you. His tongue licks a long, slow stripe up your cunt, and your knees threaten to buckle. ❝Don’t make a sound,❞ he warns lowly, pausing just long enough to drag his fingers through your slick and push two into you, slow and deep. ❝Unless you want someone to come see what the school nerd gets up to during study hall.❞

You shake your head frantically, biting your sleeve to muffle the pitiful whimper that escapes when his thumb circles your clit. You’re so wet already, soaking through the thin cotton of your panties, and it’s humiliating how easily you take his long fingers, how loud the wet sounds are in this quiet, sacred space. He chuckles against you, lips brushing your inner thigh. ❝Thought you were supposed to be shy, baby. Didn’t think you’d let me finger you in the damn library.❞

You look down at him through thick lashes, face burning, completely unable to form words. You’ve never done anything like this—never even thought you’d let someone see you like this. But Chris is relentless. Mean, cocky, gorgeous. His dark hair falls into his eyes as he works, mouth open and panting softly against your heat, licking messily like he knows how ruined it makes you. He flattens his tongue, dragging it over your clit again and again until your head thumps back against the bookshelf behind you. ❝Fuck,❞ he mutters, voice muffled, ❝tastes even better than I thought. Are you going to cum already?❞

Your thighs shake, and you try to close them, but he just grips tighter, spreading you even more. He slips another finger in, groaning at how tight your hole clenches around him, soaking and fluttering, sucking his fingers back in every time he pulls them out. ❝None of that, sweetheart,❞ he growls, curling his fingers inside you with practiced precision. ❝Take it. Be a good little slut and let me make you cum.❞

You cry out, barely holding it in, face buried in the crook of your elbow as you tremble. His fingers fuck into you fast now, slick and filthy, knuckles deep as he chases the way your pussy flutters and clenches. He tongues your clit at the same time—nasty and focused, licking you stupid, tongue soft and quick while his fingers thrust into your weeping cunt. Your free hand finds his hair, gripping and tugging, hips grinding shamelessly against his face.

❝Chris—❞ you sob out, ❝gonna—❞ ❝Yeah? Cum on my fingers, nerd. Let that pretty little pussy show me how grateful she is.❞ The coil in your belly tightens, then snaps all at once, your body jerking as you cum hard around his fingers, your tight little hole spasming, clenching and pulsing with desperate, wet sounds. Your thighs tremble, glasses slipping crooked on your nose, eyes wide and glassy.

He keeps going through it, mean and slow, licking between your folds like he wants every drop, tongue circling your clit again as your overstimulated hole sucks his fingers back in, milking them. Then finally, finally, he pulls back, fingers slipping from your pussy with a filthy squelch, licking them clean like he’s still hungry.

❝You should be thanking me, nerd,❞ he says, standing and dragging his thumb over your bottom lip. ❝Best tutoring session you’ve ever had.❞ And you just nod, dazed and flushed, clutching your notebook to your chest like it’ll keep you steady, brain still too foggy to remember your own name, let alone the equations you were supposed to be studying.

𝐋𝐎𝐋𝐀 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐒 . . .  based on this ask, sorry if this is bad

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐒 . . .  @chrepsi @ph3ebssturniolo @sturnsxbbyeilish @j21l91 @pip4444chris

⌗ © sturniphone

[piroulinewafers]

hello!!!! your caleb works are amazing!! i was wondering if you would be interested in the prompt of caleb comforting the reader when she feels like “too much” and tries to avoid him? i’ve been in fandom spaces for such a long time of my life like you and often even friends have made me feel kinda shit about being authentically myself. whether you want to do smut or fluff is completely up to you!! thank you, have a great rest of your day :)

𝐚/𝐧: i completely understand how you feel anon. i find it very difficult to express my interests and act "authentically" in fandom spaces because there's usually such a preconceived notion about how people are "supposed to act" or respond to things. i do think the only way to truly find comfort in these spaces is to find like-minded people and to curate your own spaces. if someone is a jerk to you for being yourself, and for expressing your interests, then they don't deserve to have you in their life. your happiness and comfort should always come first.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: caleb x fem! reader 𝐜𝐰: none. 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬: open.

the soft buzz of the refrigerator was the only sound that filled the apartment.

it was the kind of quiet caleb hated— not peaceful nor still— just hollow. the light in the living room cast long shadows across the floor, golden and soft from a single lamp she’d probably turned on out of habit. the kind of thing she always did. always so thoughtful, so careful… even now. 

she was on the couch, curled into herself like she was trying to disappear, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and her knees pulled to her chest. she looked small, or at least, like she was trying to make herself go unnoticed. just staring. just… somewhere else entirely.

caleb had known her long enough to know that something was weighing greatly on her mind.

he lingered in the doorway for a second longer than necessary, his jaw clenched. the day had been long. brutal, even. a headache throbbed behind his eyes.

he finally stepped into the room still wearing his pilot suit— the tan jacket slung open just enough to show the white undershirt beneath, sleeves pushed up like he’d been elbow-deep in something just moments ago. there was grease smudged near the hem of his sleeve, and the harness across his chest tugged lightly against his shoulders with each element. he looked like he’d walked straight out of the hangar, and admittedly, the day had been so rough from the training module he’d had, caleb hadn’t even bothered to change his clothes.

but none of the mattered. not when she looked like that.

he crossed the room with quiet steps, settling onto the far end of the couch. not touching her. not yet, at least. just sitting close enough that she’d know he was there. 

she didn’t react. his voice, when he finally spoke, was low. careful. 

“why are you avoiding me?”

she tensed immediately. not a flinch, not a gasp— just a subtle stillness that told him she’d been waiting for that question.

“i’m not,” she said quickly, too quickly. she hadn’t even bothered to look at him.

he exhaled through his nose. “don’t lie.”

she didn’t say anything.

caleb leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “you barely talk to me unless i bring it up first. you leave the room when i come in. you pretend to be asleep when i get home late. you think i don’t notice that?”

she turned her face away, just a little. her voice was barely above a whisper. “i didn’t want to bother you.” 

the ache in his chest deepened at that.

“bother me?” he echoed, almost disbelieving. “you think… you could ever bother me?”

she gave a weak, almost breathless laugh. not out of amusement. more like she was trying to play it off, to keep her voice steady while everything inside of her cracked.

“it’s just—“ her shoulders rose, like she was trying to almost physically shrink away. “you’re so busy. you’ve got so much going on. the daa, your other friends, everyone looking up to you, all those job opportunities…” she paused, swallowing thickly. “and i’m just… here. i get overwhelmed. i cry about dumb things. i’m cling and loud and— and i know you say its okay, but…”

caleb turned to her fully now, eyes locked onto hers. she was finally looking at him— and god, she looked wrecked. her cheeks were pink, like she’d been crying earlier and tried to make a poor attempt at hiding it. her clothes disheveled, and she smelt of sleep.

“but what?” he asked gently.

she swallowed hard, voice cracking. “but i feel like i’m dragging you down. like… you’re carrying all this weight and you come home to me, and i’m just— one more thing. you don’t need me getting in your way when you’ve got the whole world on your back, caleb.”

his heart shattered clean in two.

for a second, he said nothing. then he reached out, not abruptly, but with quiet certainty— cupping her cheek and guiding her to look at him properly. 

“don’t say that,” he said, quietly but firmly. “don’t ever say that again.” he forced out, perhaps a little too harshly. 

“you are not one more thing, where did you even get that?” he questioned, every word heavy with conviction. “you’re the only part of my day that makes me feel like myself.”

she blinked, wide-eyed and still hesitant, and he could see just how much she wanted to believe him.

“i’d give it all up,” he blurted out, brushing a thumb under her eye where a tear threatened to fall. “the rank, the career, the image— all of it. none of it matters if i don’t have you. i’d walk away in a heartbeat if you asked me to.”

she blinked at his words, unsure how to respond, tucking her chin lower.

he paused, staring at her intensely as he reached down and took her hand, squeezing it gently. 

“tell me, do you want me to drop it all? ‘cause i will. just give me your word and i’d do it. i’d do anything for you.”

that was the last thing she wanted. she didn’t want caleb to throw everything he’d worked hard for just for her own sake. 

“i don’t want you to give anything up,” she whispered, voice small. “i just… didn’t want to be a burden. i know i can be too much.”

he leaned in, resting his forehead against hers, voice barely about a breath.

“you’re not a burden, ‘nd you surely aren’t ‘too much’.” he said. “you’re my home. you’re the reason i survive those days when i want to give up. i don’t need you to be perfect or always okay. i just need you. however you are, whatever you’re feeling. i just need you by my side.”

her lip trembled. “but i fall apart sometimes. and i overwhelm you.” 

“then i’ll be the one to help pick you back up. that’s what love is, isn’t it? you don’t have to hold it all in just to make space for me. you seep saying you’re too much, but you’re the one thing i just can’t get enough of.”

by now, she was crying, the slow unraveling of pressure she’d held onto alone for far too long. 

caleb kissed the side of her head, pulling her closer into his side. she let them fall as she leaned into his chest, arms curling tightly around his waist like she was afraid he’d vanish if she didn’t hold on.

he held her, just as tightly, burying his face in her hair and breathing her in like she was the only oxygen that mattered.

“i’m sorry i avoided you,” she whispered, muffled into his shirt. “i just didn’t know how to say it. i didn’t want to ruin everything.” 

“you didn’t ruin anything,” caleb responded, voice thick. “you never could.”

they stayed like that, in the soft hum of the lamp-lit quiet, wrapped in each other as the rain outside passed. 

and when she finally pulled back to look at him again, cheeks damp and eyes red, he smiled.

the whole world could fall away and crumble for all he cared, so long as she was in his arms. 

[brainddeadd]

Guilty

Jack Abbott doesn't feel like he deserves you. He feels broken and damaged and like he's just going to taint all the goodness and pureness he sees in you. He feels guilty just for thinking about you.

He watches you from across the nurse’s station, coffee forgotten in his hand, fingers curled too tight around the paper cup. You’re laughing at something one of the residents said, eyes crinkling, light catching on your cheek. You don’t even notice he’s looking—but he always is.

Jack Abbott doesn’t think he deserves you. He tells himself that every day. Sometimes out loud, when it gets too loud in his head and he needs the words to feel real. He’s too bruised, too bitter. Too used to pain to believe he could offer anything else.

You’re sunshine. You hum under your breath when you chart. You bring in homemade muffins on Fridays and ask the patients about their kids, their hobbies, their dreams. You call him “Doc” with a teasing smile and don’t flinch when he’s short or sharp or tired beyond reason.

And he thinks—God, he thinks about you. Not in the way a professional man should. Not in the way a damaged man deserves. He thinks about your laugh in the quiet of his apartment at night. About your hand brushing his as you pass him a file. About what it would feel like to rest his head on your lap and just... exist. Just breathe.

But that’s the problem.

You’re good. And Jack? Jack’s haunted. By past mistakes, by old wounds that haven’t healed, by the fear that he’ll ruin you just by standing too close.

He feels guilty for every thought, every flicker of want.

Because how could someone like you ever want someone like him?

Unless…

Maybe you already do.

It starts in the on-call room.

You’re not supposed to be there—he knows that the second he sees you step in, closing the door softly behind you. Jack’s sitting on the edge of the cot, scrubs rumpled, sleeves pushed to his elbows, hands clenching and unclenching like he’s trying to hold himself together with just willpower.

You look worried. Not panicked, not scared. Just worried. And somehow, that’s worse.

“Jack,” you say gently, stepping closer, “are you okay?”

He swallows hard. Looks at the floor. The wall. Anywhere but you.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

That gets him. His jaw tightens, his fingers curl. “You shouldn’t be here.”

You ignore that. Of course you do. You always do when it’s about him. “I heard what happened with the Harper kid. That wasn’t your fault.”

He finally looks up at you. His eyes are tired. Red-rimmed. “They always say that. Until it is. Until something breaks. Until someone dies.” He stands, like movement will make the weight on his chest feel less heavy. “I can’t keep doing this.”

“You can,” you say. “You are.”

He laughs, but it’s a sharp, bitter sound. “You don’t get it. I’m not like you. I’m not made of light and hope and all the good things in this place. I’m a broken man in a white coat pretending I still believe in saving people.”

You step closer. Close enough that he could reach for you if he let himself. Close enough to hurt.

“I don’t need you to be perfect,” you say, voice quiet but steady. “I just need you to stop punishing yourself for wanting something good.”

His breath catches.

“I see the way you look at me,” you continue. “Like I’m a fire you’re afraid to touch. But I’m not going to burn you, Jack. I want you to touch me. I want you to stop thinking you’ll taint me just by loving me.”

He flinches. Just slightly.

“I never said I—”

“You didn’t have to.” Your hand brushes his, just a whisper of contact. “I know. I’ve known.”

He stares at you like he’s seeing you for the first time. Like he wants to believe you—but doesn’t know how.

“I’m not scared of your scars,” you whisper. “Don’t be scared of my love.”

Jack’s silent for a long time. Then, very quietly: “I think about you all the time. And every time I do, I feel like I’m doing something wrong.”

“You’re not.”

“I don’t know how to be good enough for you.”

“You don’t have to be,” you say. “Just be you. And let me love you anyway.”

His hand finally wraps around yours.

And for the first time in a long time, Jack Abbott lets himself hope.

[cameronsbabydoll]

TEXT BOOK — ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

WARNINGS: toxic relationship, daddy issues, themes of parental neglect

The first time you saw Rafe, you weren’t thinking about love.

You were thinking about your father.

It was stupid, really. The way your heart stuttered when you caught sight of him, the way something in your gut twisted like recognition. But it wasn’t recognition, not really. You didn’t know Rafe Cameron, not then. You only knew the way he stood—feet planted firm like he owned the ground beneath him, shoulders squared, eyes cool and unreadable.

Your father used to be like that.

And maybe that’s why you listened when Rafe spoke, why you nodded when he told you what to do, why you followed him without question when he held out his hand.

Because deep down, you wanted someone to lead you.

Someone to tell you where to go, what to say, what to be.

You wanted someone to make you feel small in the way that made you feel safe.

And Rafe made you feel that way.

Maybe that’s why, all these months later, you’re still here—wrapped in the passenger seat of his car, legs curled beneath you as the city lights blur past the window.

“You’ve got a Thunderbird, my daddy had one too.”

The words slip out before you can stop them, quiet and pensive.

Rafe glances at you, then back at the road, exhaling a slow breath through his nose. “That supposed to mean something?”

You shrug, watching the way his hands tighten on the wheel. “Just reminds me of him.”

He hums, unreadable. “Didn’t know you had daddy issues.”

You huff a soft laugh, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

Did you?

You think about it—about all the times you wanted him to look at you, to see you, to love you the way a father is supposed to. You think about the nights you spent waiting for him to come home, the way your mother’s face fell when he never did. You think about the times you asked him something, anything, just to hear him say your name.

And maybe that’s why you’re here now, chasing something you lost a long time ago.

“I was looking for the father I wanted back.”

You don’t say it out loud, but the words live in your head like a quiet confession.

Rafe never asks about your father again.

—

He doesn’t love you the way you want him to.

You know that now.

It’s in the way he orders for you at restaurants without asking what you want. The way he doesn’t look up from his phone when you speak, doesn’t touch you unless it’s casual, absent-minded.

It’s in the way he disappears for days, maybe weeks, and never explains where he’s been.

But then he comes back, and his voice is smooth like whiskey, like the scrape of money against silk, and you think—maybe he does love me.

Maybe this is just how love looks on him. Maybe it’s not soft, not sweet, not kind. Maybe love isn’t supposed to be like that at all.

“It wasn’t like the movies, it wasn’t like the songs.”

But you never wanted a movie kind of love. You only ever wanted to be seen.

And Rafe sees you.

Doesn’t he?

—

It takes months before you realize what you’ve done.

That you didn’t find a replacement. That you didn’t find the love you were missing.

You found something worse.

Because at least with your father, there was hope.

Hope that he could change, hope that he could love you like a father is supposed to.

With Rafe, there is no hope.

There’s only the way he tells you what to wear, what to say, what not to say. The way he doesn’t ask what you want—just assumes, just takes.

There’s only the way he disappears when he gets bored, then comes back like nothing ever happened. And you let him, because what else do you know?

Because Rafe keeps you close, but never with him.

Because Rafe feeds you just enough love to keep you starving.

And maybe, deep down, you knew it all along.

—

One night, you ask him the question.

“Do you think if I go blonde, we could get our old love back?”

You ask it softly, hesitantly, like a prayer.

Rafe shifts beside you in bed, his fingers ghosting over your arm before they still. He doesn’t answer right away. Just sighs, long and slow, before murmuring, “What old love?”

And that’s when you know.

There was never any love to begin with.

Not from your father. Not from Rafe.

Not from anyone.

You lie awake long after he falls asleep, staring at the ceiling, remembering what it felt like to be a child, sitting by the window, waiting for headlights that never came.

You turn your head, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of Rafe’s chest, the peaceful way he sleeps beside you.

He won’t leave you.

Not like your father did.

No—he’ll keep you.

And somehow, that’s worse.

[hanasnx]

" THINK I NEED SOMEONE OLDER " — garrus vakarian.

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ WARNINGS: fem reader | sexual content | age gap | making out | grinding | size difference | overpowering.

DILF!GARRUS VAKARIAN who thought the basis of human attraction depended on youth. Imagine his surprise when you not only couldn't stop staring at his aging body like he was a fully equipped armory before a mission, but you showed genuine interest at the prospect of his superior amount of experience.

Here you are, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, fresh from hopping ship to ship serving with your parents until you were brave enough to go at it on your own. Now you follow him around like a lost puppy, constantly questioning his motives just to hear him talk, asking him to explain a calculation over and over again. He notices how you squirm when he talks down to you, so to speak. He's positive you're not incapable, but he's not going to refuse a request from so eager a learner. Even if you're not going to learn how to do advanced calculus, he tells himself it's still valuable to hear it. Even if you demonstrate how little you're listening when you chew on the end of your pen at him, and bat your long lashes. Nod slowly through hooded eyes, letting them generously trail down his figure in his suit.

It's enough to make him trail off, clear his throat, adjust his neckline as he glances away to break the tension he's inadvertently fanning. "Run along now." he sometimes tells you so you'll get away from him, so he'll have some room to breathe, so he's not constantly reminded of what a low-life he is when he's around you. Instead, that phrase sends you crazy, biting your lip at him over your shoulder as you sway out of the room.

"Bye-bye, Vakarian~" you purr, and scamper off.

Garrus feels shame when he lets you win. He's supposed to be older, know better, protect someone like you. But when you're clinging onto him, inclining him down to your soft lips, he can't imagine being anywhere else. Tucked away in some dark corner of the Normandy, you guide his hands to touch your young body through your clothes, riding up the material so his touch sets what little it grazes ablaze. After months of dancing around each other, finally you're granted a little relief. And his face burns hot from the contact however brief.

"I'm... I'm not... usually like this.." Garrus confesses, breathless, heart racing. The possibility of you two being caught together, tangled in embrace in a precarious location... there'd be no way to talk his way out of it. Everyone would think of him as some Turian predator, can't get a date unless it's with a girl half his age. And he's not beating the allegations as his claws dig into pliant flesh, drawing you closer to press your hips into his. As if gravitating towards your sex, heavenly bodies bump clumsily as you reconnect with his mouth. Apparently, you're not interested in hearing his protests, claiming he's not "usually" like anything, because right now he's showing you how much he very much is like this. His grip on you is not one of a Turian with doubts.

You've never kissed his species before, and at first his mandibles were hard to get used to—and it felt like he wasn't used to it either—but once you realized he's much more relaxed with his tongue, everything else fell into place. His lack of lips is an obstacle to kissing, but irrelevant when making out. Meeting in the middle, that tongue is long in reach and eager in attitude, coiling around yours in a way a human's would never be capable of. Reptilian in nature, his sulcus is defined, allowing his muscle to fold in on itself, elongating to the thinner apex.

Your palm that cups his face, draws down so your fingertips dance along the grooves of his scarring, coming to trace the line of his mandible. As long as you've known him, you've never gotten this close, and when he massages your tongue with his deft one, an embarrassing whimper emits from your parted lips. Instinctively, you rear your head to break the kiss—if you can even call it that. But Garrus is unyielding. A strong arm around your waist arches you into him, as if possessive over this act you've introducing him to. Confirming your suspicions with an annoyed growl and his tongue venturing further into your mouth, a wave of pleasant tingles washing up from core in response to such behavior. Your knees are weak, held up by his overpowering strength as he takes what he wants.

Playfully, you scold him by banging your fist against his chest piece. He retracts an inch, and you're allowed a second to breathe even if you're crushed against him. Panting through your grin, you nuzzle him with the tip of your nose, and he speaks against your lips. "You were trying to run away from me." he muses, curling his frame around you so it's truly inescapable. "I like that little sound you made." his mouth grazes yours as he talks into you, recycling air, "Make it again."

[angelltheninth]

Snowed In Together With Oliver Aiku

Pairing: Oliver Aiku x Fem!Reader

Tags: fluff, enemies to lovers, snowed in, only one bed, cuddling, teasing, warming up, neck kissing, sexual tension

Prompt: They hate each other. Of course they do. But now they’re snowed in at the same remote cabin. One bed. No signal. Nowhere to run from each other or their feelings. - List

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: Saw these cute romance prompts and I wanted to write one for Oliver! Enjoy, comment, reblog, all that good stuff!

"Damn, it's still storming out there, doesn't look like it's stopping any time soon either." You looked out the window of the small, yet cozy cabin you found yourself stuck in. Actually this wouldn't be so bad if you weren't stuck with the most annoying man alive, Oliver Aiku. He wasn't annoying most of the time but today, in this situation? Yes, he was annoying. "Can't you call one of your teammates and at least let them know we're here?"

Oliver was completely calm, as opposed to you, he took many things as they came, he learned to. "I would but the blizzard is getting in the way of my signal. Either way someone will come looking for us by tomorrow. And the snow storm should settle." He smirked as he discarded his fluffy jacket onto the chair.

He wasn't panicking about this at all. How? You were supposed to meet up with everyone else further up the mountain, at the resort. Instead you got caught in an untimely snow storm and were forced to park the car and take shelter together. Good thing the power was still one, and if not there was enough wood to keep you warm for the night.

That wasn't your biggest problem. The biggest problem was that there was only one bed in the cabin. Barely big enough for two, and only one blanket. No sleeping bag or extra clothes.

"Do you really hate being stuck with me that badly? You're not my favorite person either you know, Miss Manager." Oliver poked you in your lower back, causing you to flinch at his touch. "Weren't you supposed to watch for the forecast today?" You blushed from the embarrassment of his words, it was true. 'So this is actually your fault. Unless this was all part of your plan to me alone with you?"

Before you could deny that absurd claim Oliver was already getting into bed. When did he take his shirt off?!

"What? You think I'm gonna stay up all night waiting, hoping for this to pass? I'm on vacation, I'm gonna sleep through all of this. Feel free to join me or don't?" He lifted the covers and waited for a few moments. When you didn't approach, just glared at him he rolled his eyes and turned to his side. "Okay, fine."

You went over your options, of which there weren't many. You could stay up all night and leave as soon as morning breaks, you could take the somewhat comfy armchair close to the fireplace, or you could get into bed with Oliver.

The last one was something you swore you would never do.

You were his team manager, it would look bad, for both of you. But... it was bound to get colder in here. Just for tonight you could take a hit to your pride.

After taking off most of your clothes, leaving only your underwear on, being in the same state of undress as Oliver, you lifted the covers and got under them quickly.

"Changed your mind, Miss Manager?" You could hear the confidence in his voice, dripping like sweet honey. "God, you have some soft boobs."

You were blushing again but for an entirely different reason that wasn't anger. "Is that all you can think about?"

"Well no but kind of hard not to when they're pressed right against my back." That back flexed just for you. You couldn't sleep like this, so you turned your back to him, hogging some of the blanket as you did. "Fine, I'll be the big spoon."

His arm draped itself over your middle and pulled you against his body, your legs tangling together. "Your feet are cold."

"Mhm, I'll get warmed up in no time." You glanced behind briefly, his mismatched green and black eyes slightly hooded, accompanied by a lazy smirk. "If you're so worried you could give me a hand."

"Keep talking and I'll kick you out of this cabin." The perv, the nerve of him to even suggest...!

"I don't think you will." That confidence was back full force as you felt his stubble scratching the back of your neck. "You know Miss Manager... if I'm stuck here for the night I'm glad it was with you. You're good good company like this."

"Good company?" You asked, not quite sure what he meant by that.

"Yup. Nice to cuddle with an all that. I prefer a pretty woman in my bed than one of my teammates. You're much better company." A shiver bolted through your body when Oliver's lips pressed against the back of your neck, then at the side of it, then your shoulder, then the strap of your bra.

You gulped, tensing at the sensation his kisses sent through your body. "You're such a womanizer, Oliver."

"You don't seem to hate it right now. But I won't overstep, just keep you warm, deal?" He asked as he backed away slightly, his warm breath tickling the now wet patches of your skin.

"Y-Yeah." You didn't want to turn around and let him see how much you were blushing. He might be annoying sometimes but in this moment he cared about you, so you let him.

Even though you fell asleep with your back turned to him you still woke up snuggled up against him, your face close to his neck. "Well, morning." Oliver beamed, his face framed with the morning Sun shining through the window, no sign of a snow storm. "Care to give me a hand now?"

It took you a few moments to understand, or rather feel what he meant by that. "Pervert! Get your grabby hands off!" You pushed yourself away from him and fell off the bed, head down, legs dangling over the edge. Slightly spread. "Ow."

"That's quite the open invitation, very forward of you, Miss Manager." Oliver reached out and traced his finger across your thigh.

"Oh, shut up." You gathered yourself, your clothes and what was left of your dignity and stormed outside. "If you're not outside in 5 minutes I'm leaving without you!"

Oliver sighed but kept on smiling, "Gotta make this one quick then."

[ixloom819]

Chu Chu (P8)

I finally got this done... Disclaimer: I've never played the pocky game, so this may be inaccurate. This is my first Yan!Sylus request not related to its main story and I'd love to do more! Hopefully I did the request justice...

It was an adjustment being sent to a new world that was meant to mirror yours. Some things were the same, and some were different.

As far as you knew, Love and Deepspace was meant to be an alternate Earth set in the future. Some, if not most, things were the same, like the general structure of society and food.

Others were different such as media. You wished you could show Sylus or the twins some of your favorite shows or music, but they didn’t seem to exist here to your disappointment.

Where it got interesting is where those two mixed and what did and didn’t exist. Which brought you to asking the twins an innocent question.

“Pocky challenge?” Luke tilted his head. “I don’t think I’ve heard of it.”

“Then again, we have a limited social circle,” Kieran pointed out.

“That’s true,” you mused. “I’ll have to look it up later.”

“What is it?” Luke asked eagerly. He was always interested in things about your past life. (Kieran was too, but he wasn’t as vocal).

You pause. You would probably never hear the end of it from them if you told them. But then they’d probably pester you until you told them.

“It’s basically a game where two people share a pocky stick and bite their end until they get to the middle,” you explained. “It’s just an excuse for ‘accidental’ kissing, unless someone chickens out-” 

You pause for a second. Straightening adjustment of posture, sporadic chest spasms… “-and there’s an interested third party behind me, isn’t there?”

A pair of strong arms wrapped around your torso as a throaty chuckle rumbled through your body. “Oh, they’re very interested.”

You let out a soft sigh and turned around to face him. “And you were here for how long?”

Sylus smirked at you. “Just at the end.” He pulled you closer. “And what made you bring up this topic?”

You leaned your head against him, enjoying his warmth. “I was curious if it exists in this world.”

“Well, I can’t say I’ve heard of it.” Sylus brought his mouth to your ear. “Would you like to introduce it?”

One of the twins, Luke most likely, made a playful gagging noise. “Get a room, boss,” he teased.

Sylus suddenly scooped you up, likely with little effort on his part, causing you to yelp in surprise. “Well if you insist,” he drawled, carrying you away as you laughed and insisted he put you down.

So you weren’t terribly surprised when you came into the office a few hours later to see Sylus holding a box of pockys with a smirk on his face.

“You really like the idea, huh?” you teased, sitting in your chair.

“Of course,” he said smoothly, wheeling his own chair over to you and sitting close enough so your knees touched. “I’ll take any excuse to kiss my love.”

You tried to ignore the way his nickname affected you. “Don’t we have work to do?”

“I’m the boss,” Sylus countered cheekily. “And I approve of a little break.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you laughed.

Sylus drew a pocky stick out of the box and pointed it towards you. “We’re supposed to get to the middle, right?”

“Taking a bite from each side until we get there,” you confirmed.

Sylus twirled the pocky stick in the air. “Normally I enjoy winning games…” He let the pocky slow to a still. “But this is one I wouldn’t mind coming to a draw.”

“I’m sure,” you said, rolling your eyes. “Are you ready?”

To answer, Sylus put the bare end of the pocky stick in his mouth. You leaned forward and wrapped your lips around the other end, the sweet chocolate lingering on your lips.

You heard a crunch from Sylus’ end and you responded by biting your end, pulling the pocky back into your mouth before securing it again with your lips. You both continued this slow, steady motion.

As you drew nearer, you found yourself getting a bit nervous. It was ridiculous, you knew. It was just a kiss.

And yet it had taken you a full year of knowing and loving Sylus before you finally kissed him. And this creeping speed was setting your nerves ablaze.

It’s barely going to be a kiss, you reminded yourself as you drew nearer. Your lips will touch and that’ll be it.

And so it was. When you both finally met in the middle, you felt his lips press against yours, but the pocky didn’t leave room for much else. You bit down on it and pulled back. “Looks like it’s a tie.”

Sylus didn’t look as pleased, putting on a pout. “Darling, that was hardly a kiss,” he complained. “You pulled away far too quickly.”

You smirked, then glanced down at the box of pockys in his hand. “Alright, I’ll do better next time.” Taking the hint, Sylus matched your smirk, then placed another pocky in his mouth and waited for you to copy him.

Once the initial kiss was done, the close proximity didn’t bother you as much. This time, you let your lips linger on his for a few seconds before pulling back.

Sylus’ pout was bordering on a scowl. “This isn’t fun,” he said reproachfully. “You can hardly get a good kiss like this.”

You laughed. “Well, this is more of a game for friends or people who are not that far into a relationship. It’s not quite as fun for people like us who aren’t shy about kissing each other.”

Sylus huffed. “Well, I feel like I deserve a proper kiss for having my expectations unmet.”

An idea started to form and you grinned at him. “What, just because it’s not what you expected, you don’t want to play anymore? C’mon, one more round.”

Sylus sighed, but brought out another stick, holding it in the air for a moment. “Only if you promise to give me a real kiss to quell my disappointment,” he said with his air of amusement.

“Deal,” you answered. Sylus smiled and shook his head, like it was such a bother for him to put up with your antics, but placed the pocky stick in his mouth.

You wasted no time. Once the pocky was securely in your mouth, you pulled the pocky quickly into your mouth, surprising Sylus into letting it go. You kept biting and pulling it into your mouth until the whole thing was chewed and swallowed. Then you gave Sylus a victorious smile and smugly declared, “I win.”

There weren't many times that you could see Sylus off guard. He stared at you now, eyes wide with surprise and his mouth open a bit from where he had held the pocky. You silently hoped Mephisto was watching and could capture the image.

Then Sylus laughed. It wasn’t his rich-boy chuckle of amusement, but a full on laugh. His eyes were shut and crinkled at the end, his mouth had a broad smile on it, and he seemed to be putting his full body into the laugh, his chair rolling backwards a bit. The sight was so unusual and jovial that his laughter became contagious and the room rang with your shared laughter.

“I have to say… I didn’t expect that,” Sylus said once he calmed down enough. “You know how to keep me on my toes, dear.”

You giggled, still coming down from your laughing high. “You’re hard to surprise. I’ll take any opportunity I can get.”

“So you did.” Sylus pulled out another pocky stick.

“I thought you wanted a kiss after this,” you said, partly teasing and genuinely confused.

Sylus’ gaze darkened as his lips curled into a smirk. “Oh darling,” he purred, “you should know that I’m not a man who likes to lose.”

You felt a shiver run down your spine, electricity crackling in the room. You couldn’t tell if you were excited or scared of whatever was going to happen as you slowly moved to wrap your lips around the pocky.

He moved like lightning, the pocky disappearing into his mouth before they met yours. It wasn’t the chaste peck on the lips as you had done before, but the kind of kiss that made your head spin and your body melt.

You vaguely worried for Sylus’ safety. Surely he should be choking on the pocky stick he nearly inhaled… But as your hands automatically cupped Sylus’ face, you felt irregular bumpiness beneath his cheeks. Ah, so that’s where it went…

You gently broke the kiss and the two of you sat there, your breaths intermingling and hitting each other’s face, like a silent prompt to continue.

“You had me worried for a moment,” you said once you had regained your wits. “I wouldn’t want you to choke on a pocky just to win.”

Sylus let out a slight scoff. “I’ve survived worse.”

“I don’t know how well your Evol could protect you from a choking hazard,” you said teasingly, though you couldn’t deny the limits of Sylus’ Evol was something of great interest to you.

“Then there would be no better way I’d like to go out than with your lips on mine,” Sylus murmured as he pulled you into another kiss.

[paperultra]

mise en rose.

Pairing: OPLA!Roronoa Zoro x Reader Word Count: 3,806 words Warnings: Swearing, alcohol use

The tune that your father used to whistle now leaves your lips the same way it left his.

Notes skip offkey across the water as your boat rocks gently, waves lapping up against the wooden sides. The moon shines brightly overhead. You shift in place and wait for a tug on your fishing line, the basket at your feet waiting patiently for its first meal.

Archy will be happy if you actually catch something for once. There’s not a lot of fish around here, and you’re not exactly sure why; something about the aquatic plants in the area, or if you were to believe the old man in the village square, a curse that swallows anything with fins that swims too close. The last time you caught something was months ago, and it was tiny and more bone than flesh.

You don’t really care. It’s enough to just sit out here and feel the waves.

Cheeks puffing up with air for another round of music, you let your gaze drift out towards the ocean and abruptly freeze.

There’s something floating in the distance.

A piece of debris. Wood from a hull, a scrap of sail perhaps?

The thought that it may be the remnant of a ship destroyed at sea is enough for you to reel in your line and start rowing towards it, anticipation bubbling up and drowning out any thoughts of a midnight snack.

You get close enough and your anticipation gives way to shock.

“Oh, shit.”

The guy clinging to the chunk of wood stirs and lifts his head, and you almost hit him upside the head with your oar.

“Oh, shit. You’re alive.”

—

“You say you’re going out fishing and you come back with a half-dead man with three swords?” Archy looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm, but this time, you don’t blame him. This is certainly uncharted territory and your older brother is hopeless without a map. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“What was I supposed to do, leave him to die?”

“I dunno! Yeah!” he gestures to the waterlogged man lying halfway on the living room couch, one arm and leg hanging off the side. “Look at him. He’s probably a pirate!”

“Damn, you think?” Crouching down, you drag your eyes across Swordsman’s ragged clothing and grin. You might’ve just rescued someone with a bounty on his head. “That’d be so cool.”

“That would not be cool.”

You shrug. “Well, I brought him in already, so you might as well help me unless you want a dead body in our living room.”

“You little –” Taking a deep breath, Archy pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a long, loud groan, and you know that you’ve won once more. “Fine. But as soon as he’s even a little bit better, we’re calling the Marines.”

“Okay,” you agree amicably. “So, what do we do first?”

���We have to undress him and warm him up.”

“Got it.” Your eager fingers go straight for the swords.

The man comes to life without warning. Seizing your wrist, he cracks one eye open and speaks in a low and rasping voice.

“Don’t. Touch. My swords.”

“Uh,” you say.

“We got to get everything off, mate,” Archy grumbles, and your guest turns his glare onto your brother. “I know how to clean swords and scabbards. I’ll dry them off and put them under the couch afterward.”

“I’ll do it myself.”

With a grunt, Swordsman pushes you away and attempts to sit up. He struggles for a full minute, jaw clenched and muscles trembling; his arms, strong and sturdy as they are, look like they’ll buckle at any moment.

Your eyebrows shoot up to the ceiling when he actually manages to prop himself up.

“Well, that’s impressive,” you mutter, making eye contact with Archy. He rolls his eyes. “Can you remove your clothes and wrap yourself up too?”

It takes a few moments before Swordsman has enough breath to respond. “I’m fine,” he says once he can.

“You’re really not,” Archy replies.

“You’re probably really dehydrated,” you say. “How long were you out there?”

The man stares at you, opens his mouth, pauses.

“Three days. Maybe.”

You gape. “You spent three days floating in the East Blue and you’re not dead?” You look at his neck for gills. “Are you a fishman or something?”

“No.”

“Really? I mean, I never met any fishmen before, so …”

His eye twitches. “I’m not a fishman.”

“Well, okay, if you say so.”

What a weird guy. Then again, you’ve heard that all sorts of characters traverse the Blue Sea. Devil fruit users, talking animals, clowns. A person who can survive the ocean for a couple days on a piece of wood is hardly out of the question.

“You’re dehydrated, in any case,” you conclude. “I’ll get you some water.”

—

After gruffly accepting a glass of water and putting on some dry clothes, Swordsman proceeds to “sleep it off” for the next twenty-four hours. When he finally wakes up, it’s in the middle of the night and you’ve just started rereading your favorite book.

“Oh, he’s awake,” you say when he stirs, swinging your feet off the coffee table and leaning forward in your chair to observe.

He grimaces under the dim light of your lamp, lifting an arm to press it over his eyes. “How long was I out,” he grouses.

“’Bout a day.”

“Shit.” He wriggles around in the fuzzy blanket you’ve wrapped around him. Once he’s loosened its hold enough, he sits up slowly and looks around, expression equal parts drowsy and wary. “Where –”

“Archy took your swords and cleaned them. They’re under the couch.”

“I told you not to touch them.”

“I didn’t. My brother did.”

Casting you the most unamused glare, Swordsman bends over to look underneath the couch. He pulls his swords out and places them in his lap, inspecting the white one first with a care that makes you rest your chin in your hand, curious and charmed. His brow furrows and you know that he finds your brother’s work to be satisfactory when he moves on to inspect the other two.

“Our uncle was a bladesmith in Loguetown. He taught Archy a thing or two before he passed.”

“You’re bladesmiths?”

“Coopers. Uncle was the rebel, I guess.” You close your book and stand up. “There’s leftover soup in the fridge. I’ll heat up the broth for you.”

This time, the man does not refuse your help and only nods. As you head to the kitchen and start to reheat the soup, you glance over and catch him sipping from the glass of water you’d topped off while he was asleep. Somehow, even that small action intrigues you. You smile.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Ladling the steaming broth into a small bowl, you stick a spoon in and walk back to where Swordsman is, sitting beside him. “Here you go. Don’t drink it too fast, and all that.”

He takes the soup, blows on a spoonful, tastes it. His eyes close, and something funny happens in your stomach when he opens them again to look at you.

“’S good.”

“Really?” He nods and puts the bowl to his lips to drink directly from it. “Thanks.”

You let him finish the miso broth in silence. It gives you time to stare at him some more; even with the horrible sunburn and petroleum jelly smeared everywhere, he’s a very handsome man, that much you can tell, with broad shoulders and a pretty face and hair as green as forest moss. The three earrings on his left ear gleam gold and sway with every movement he makes.

“Are you gonna keep staring at me, or are you gonna ask me questions?”

“Hm? Oh!” Shaking your head in slight bewilderment, you smile. “Yeah, I guess it would be good to ask some questions … so, what’s your name, anyway?”

“Roronoa Zoro.”

You tilt your head with a frown. “Roronoa Zoro.” You taste the name in your mouth. “That sounds really familiar. Are you a pirate?”

“No. I hunt them.”

“You hunt them?”

“That’s what I said.”

You look at his swords again. His earrings. Three and three.

Shooting up from the couch, you dash to Archy’s room and slam the door open.

“Archimead! Wake up!” You grab your brother’s shoulders and rattle him.

“Shit – what?!” he gargles, pushing your face away with one meaty hand and sitting up. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“It’s Roronoa Zoro!”

“What?”

“The guy in our living room,” you shriek at him, practically shaking, “is the Pirate Hunter Roronoa Zoro. I fished Roronoa Zoro out of the fucking ocean.”

Archy stops rubbing his eye. “What.”

Soon enough, Zoro faces both you and your brother in the living room once more.

“You’re Roronoa Zoro? For real?” Archy asks him.

Zoro blinks up him. “Yeah.”

“Can you prove it?”

“‘Can you prove it’ – Archy, look at him. He’s got three earrings in his left ear and three fucking swords.”

“He could be some sort of copycat. We have no idea what Roronoa Zoro actually looks like.”

“You’re such a pessimist. Nobody would lug around three swords if they couldn’t use all of them at once.” You turn your attention back onto Zoro. “How the hell did you get stranded out there?”

He looks between the two of you, waiting for a moment before crossing his arms. “I was headed to Mirror Ball Island, but the boat I was on got caught in a whirlpool,” he says, displeased. “Then I got separated from the rest of the crew. Don’t know if they survived or not.”

“Mirror Ball Island?” you repeat. “That’s a three-day journey from here, at least.”

“Where’s here?”

“Dokusha Village.” You open one of the books on the table and point to a tiny strip of coast you’d labeled on the edge of the East Blue map. “Right there. You could buy a boat and sail west, straight to Mirror Ball Island.”

“I don’t have any beri on me right now,” Zoro says.

“Oh, yeah. Of course you don’t.” Archy puts his hands on his hips. “Well, the merchant ship is coming by in two weeks. If you’re all good by then, you can hitch a ride.”

“I’ll be fine by tomorrow night.”

You snort, closing the book and reclining back. “The rate you’re going, I don’t doubt it. Does that mean you want to leave earlier? You’ll still need a boat and supplies. Food, water, towels, sleeping gear. That all costs money. I mean, we could lend you some, but still.”

“I’ll work for it,” Zoro replies. “I don’t take and give nothing in return.”

Both you and Archy give a hum of approval.

—

True to his word, Roronoa Zoro is up and off the couch by the fourth day.

He doesn’t have a clue as to how to make barrels or buckets, which is expected, so he ends up helping with the grunt work of carrying staves into the workshop and stacking finished barrels. Other than that, there’s not much for him to do.

“Sorry if it’s boring,” you apologize during lunch, speaking through a mouthful of sandwich. “You’re kind of just hired muscle.”

Zoro shrugs, chewing on his own sandwich. Two girls walking by – Phoebe and Iris, the blacksmith’s daughters – spot him on the bench and giggle, hurrying past with glances over their shoulders. He appears not to care. “It’s fine.”

“I think you’re even stronger than my brother. Is it because of your training as a swordsman?”

“Probably,” he says.

“When did you start?”

“When I was eight.”

You nod sagely. “Not surprised. I’ve been helping around the workshop since I was a kid, and I only just finished my apprenticeship a few weeks ago. It’s good to start young.”

It seems that Zoro agrees by the way he grunts, stuffing the last piece of crust into his mouth.

When he’s done, you muster the courage to ask, “What’s it like, being a bounty hunter?”

Zoro raises an eyebrow at you. Then he gazes back out at the street. “It’s fine,” he responds. “Makes good money.”

You sigh exasperatedly. “Yeah, but, like, is it fun? Do you spend a lot of time at sea? See a lot of different places? Stuff like that.”

“I don’t do it for fun. My only goal is to become the world’s greatest swordsman.” He leans back and puts his hands behind his head. “It’s a shitton of traveling, both on ships and on land. I’ve been all over the East Blue.”

“Wow.” The word comes out as a sigh. You crunch longingly on a carrot stick. “That sounds amazing. It’s my dream to travel all over the world on a ship.”

“How come you’re here, then?”

You wince, hushing him hastily. Glancing behind you, you clear your throat and lean in to speak softly. “Archy hates the ocean. He worked on a merchant ship for a few months when he was eighteen and got super sick.” Upon reading Zoro’s blank expression, you clarify, “I can’t just leave him. I’m the only family he’s got now, and his younger sibling to boot. So Dokusha Village it is.”

“You’re staying because of your brother.”

“Yeah. I love him, so it’s fine.” There’s a familiar ache in your chest, but you push it down and elbow Zoro’s ribs in jest. (He doesn’t even move a muscle. Geez.) “Makes okay money. I got a bunch of adventure books to live through, anyway.”

It’s a little hard to meet your lunch companion’s eyes after that. You eat the rest of your carrots in silence, pretending to be occupied with finishing them. Zoro doesn’t utter another word.

But as the two of you get back to work, he seems a little warmer, a little less stiff. You make a silly joke and Zoro huffs out something that almost sounds like a laugh while Archy threatens to stick you in a rum barrel and roll you down a hill.

Perhaps you’ve made another friend.

—

“What are you making?”

You blow off the wood dust, closing one eye to cut a fin just right. “Shark. See?”

The bonfire you’d made crackles just a few feet away as you place the half-finished carving into Zoro’s palm. He picks it up with his other hand and twists it around, touching with intention, and you almost feel self-conscious with the way he’s examining it.

“Nice,” he finally says, and the praise makes you giddy. He hands the shark back to you.

“Thanks. I had a lot of practice.”

Zoro rests his elbows on the rock behind him and takes another swig of sake. You resume carving the shark’s fins, bare feet buried in the cool sand.

Archy’s on a date for once, so he left the two of you to your own devices for the night with a distracted wave goodbye and a warning that he’ll be back late. You took that as a chance to break into the alcohol after supper and drag Zoro down to the beach. The swordsman was willing to come along, though you suspect it was mostly for the sake.

“Ain’t that your third bottle?”

“I can hold my liquor.”

You stick your tongue out at him. “No need to brag.”

He wipes his mouth, dark brown eyes black in the firelight. They glint like steel when he looks over at you, but he doesn’t say anything – not that you’re surprised; sometimes Zoro just looks at whatever he wants without any reason. He’s not particularly complicated in that sense.

(You like that. Too many things in life are complicated.)

“Hey, Zoro.”

“Hm.”

Your lips purse. “Do you think my brother will get married one day?”

“How am I supposed to know?” His tone is flat.

“Well, I dunno! It’s just a question.” You frown, slowing in your work. “It’s just that after our parents died, he’s been too busy looking after me and the shop to court someone. He’s turning thirty next year and most people his age have settled down already. I feel kind of bad.”

“It’s not your fault,” Zoro says. “Wouldn’t he have more time now, anyway, since you can take care of yourself?”

“I think he’s been out for so long he doesn’t know how to date anymore.”

Zoro downs the rest of his sake. You know that there’s no advice he can give you regarding Archy’s marriage prospects, which doesn’t surprise you either. You suppose you just need someone to listen. It’s not like you can talk to Archy about it.

“Hell,” you remember, “I’m expected to be married by now, too. I’ve never even been on a date.”

“Really?”

“Nope. Why, are you surprised?”

Stretching his legs out in front of him, Zoro yawns and closes his eyes. “You just seem like the type.”

“What do you mean?”

“You talk a lot,” he says.

You burst out laughing. “Yeah, I do. Would that make me a good date?”

“How am I supposed to know?”

“I’m guessing you’ve never been on one, either?”

Zoro shrugs. He doesn’t look too torn up about it. “Waste of time,” he mutters.

Your grin widens. “Figured you’d say that,” you drawl, digging your blade into the shark’s mouth. “Dating doesn’t really help you become the world’s greatest swordsman, does it?”

“Nope.”

“I still think it might be fun, though. If you’re with the right person.” With that, you brush away the last curl of wood from your carving. After admiring it for a few seconds, you offer the shark to Zoro, bumping the nose softly against his cheek. He opens his eyes and turns his head to squint at it. “Here you go. All yours.”

His brow furrows as he takes it.

“It’s a going away gift. Since you’re leaving tomorrow,” you say. Folding your knife and putting it down beside you, you grab your bottle of sake and gulp down half of what remains. “Don’t forget it.”

One of the logs in the bonfire crumbles, falling into the coals. Orange sparks fly up into the smoke and disappear just as quickly. You poke at the fire with a stick, trying not to think about how sad you’re going to be tomorrow morning.

“I won’t forget,” Zoro says.

“I know.”

—

It’s almost dawn, and the family boat is packed up and ready to set sail.

“Got everything?” Archy asks, lowering into a squat to scan over all the supplies.

“Yeah.” The swordsman drags a hand through his hair. “Thanks again for the boat.”

“It’s nothing.” Your brother elbows your arm, and you sway. “Oi. He said thank you.”

“I know,” you mumble. For the first time this morning, you spare Zoro a glance and smile at him, but it’s shaky and fake and you really hate how your voice wobbles when you say, “You don’t have to thank us. Just have a safe – have a safe –” Your voice cracks, and you look down at your feet, eyes burning. “Have a safe trip,” you finish quietly.

You can feel two pairs of eyes on you as your vision goes blurry. Shit. This is so embarrassing.

The fact of the matter is that Roronoa Zoro has been in Dokusha Village for only a week, and you’re already missing him like he’s been in your life for years. You’re going to watch him get into your family’s fishing boat and sail away, the wind at his back, the East Blue before him, and you will remain on the dock with your big brother beside you and your dream in your head.

You’re being selfish, but it’s not … it’s not fair.

Archy puts his hand on your shoulder and says your name.

You wipe your nose. “What?”

“… I’ve been thinking.” He sounds hesitant, taking in a deep breath and letting it go slowly, carefully. “You’ve always wanted to travel the world on a ship.”

It’s like the world tilts on its axis.

Rigidly, you look up at your brother, eyes wide.

“I’m not dumb, you know. You’ve only stayed here because of me,” Archy says. “I’m the one who’s supposed to look after you and protect you. But you’ve been able to do that for yourself for a while, now. Right?”

“Archy.” You swallow. “What are you …?”

“I talked with Zoro last night. He’s willing to take you to Mirror Ball Island, if you want.” His smile is crooked, but it trembles at the corners as he continues. “You know how to sail, how to navigate. We’ll just have to add some extra stuff to the boat.”

You can barely breathe.

“There’s plenty of merchant ships there,” Zoro adds, leaning on his sword. “Your skills are valuable. Just be willing to pull your own weight, and they’ll take you on board. If not, I’ll tell them to.”

“You don’t have to –” Now you’re full-on bawling. You throw your arms around Archy, who wraps you in a bear hug, and then around Zoro, who stiffens. “Thank you so much. Thank you thank you thank you.”

“No problem,” Zoro mumbles, patting you on the back. When you let go to beam at him, he averts his eyes and rubs the back of his neck. “Just hurry up.”

Nodding, you dash back up to your house, Archy following close behind. You grab your bag, throw what you need into it, snatch your hat from your bedpost. Less than twenty minutes pass before you’re all ready to go.

“Got everything?” Archy asks once more at the dock. You nod and look at Zoro, who nods as well. “All right.”

You hug Archy for the last time. Tears spill over and down your cheeks. “Thank you for everything, big bro. I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too, kid.” His voice is rough and trembly, muffled against your head. “Come back to visit sometime, okay?”

“Okay.”

Getting into the boat with Zoro, you help him check the rigging and hoist the sail. Archy unties the vessel and pushes the two of you off. As you float away, he waves, and you wave back, staring as he gets smaller and smaller.

“I’m not turning back,” Zoro tells you as you eventually settle in your seat. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

Is it?

You cast one last glance back at Dokusha Village, at the small point of your brother. Then you look out at the broad expanse of the ocean. And you feel many things – joy, sadness, apprehension – but above all that, you feel –

Free.

“Yes,” you say firmly. You push your hat down and smile at Zoro, and this time, it’s genuine. “It is.”

Zoro smiles back. And as the sun begins to warm your face, you whistle your father’s song and think about the journey to come.

[izanacore]

“casual” | manjiro sano x reader

chapter twenty-two 𓂃⋆.˚

synopsis: a no-strings-attached arrangement between a party girl and a frat boy turns messy when mikey falls first. but when (y/n) runs from love, she loses him for good—until fate brings them back together, years too late.

characters: manjiro “mikey” sano, fem!reader, emma sano, izana kurokawa, ken “draken” ryuguji, haruna imaushi (original character)

warnings: angst, heartbreak, fwb dynamics, explicit content, crack, fluff, jealousy, insecurities, themes of regret, alcohol use, violence, bullying, depression

notes: i am so sorry for the slow updates. i’ll make it up to y’all. i promise! anyway, happy arc is starting yay. enjoy it while it lasts.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

chapter twenty-two

the night had stretched into morning, hours blurring in the haze of tangled sheets and whispered moans. y/n didn’t get much sleep—not that she minded. her body still tingled with the memory of him, of manjiro. the way he moved. the way he touched her. just thinking about his hands ghosting over her skin made her cheeks flush, even in the soft light of early dawn.

surprisingly, she woke up first.

turning onto her side, she found him still asleep, his hair messy, lashes brushing his cheeks like he wasn’t the same man who had just devoured her hours ago. her heart ached in the most unfamiliar, tender way. she reached out and gently cupped his cheek, running her thumb across his skin in slow, soothing strokes.

he stirred.

his eyes fluttered open, meeting hers.

“oh—sorry, manjiro…” she whispered, pulling her hand back quickly.

but he caught it before she could go too far. brought it to his lips. kissed her fingers. then, without a word, pulled her close until her face was against his bare chest. the steady rhythm of his heartbeat was the only sound in the room.

y/n looked up, and he met her gaze with half-lidded eyes. he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, then closed his eyes again, letting sleep take him once more.

she held him like that, her arms looping around his waist, skin to skin, warmth to warmth.

they didn’t speak. didn’t need to.

she melted into him.

maybe it wasn’t so scary, she thought. letting someone in. being seen. being held.

just this once… just for him… she’d let manjiro sano in.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

it was finally the night of mikey’s birthday party.

and yet… y/n was still sitting in front of her vanity mirror, dangerously close to crying—but of course, she couldn’t. not unless she wanted to ruin the makeup she spent hours perfecting.

her fingers lightly brushed over the trail of bruises blooming along her skin—starting from the curve of her neck, trailing down her shoulders, and dipping right above her chest. god. how was she supposed to wear that strapless dress now?

“if he’s so jealous of izana, he could’ve just said so,” she muttered loud enough for someone to hear, glancing at her reflection with a pout. “no need to go this far…”

“i heard that,” came a lazy voice behind her.

“i made sure you did,” she said without turning, rolling her eyes as she went back to fussing over her skin and her crisis.

mikey chuckled, as he wore his polo shirt, his voice full of amused smugness. he came up behind her, dipped his head, and kissed the very same mark she’d just tried to hide.

“want me to add more?” he murmured, meeting her eyes through the mirror with that wicked grin of his.

“get off me,” y/n groaned, pushing him away with a light shove, though the heat crawling up her neck betrayed her.

mikey just laughed.

she was trying—desperately—to conceal the worst of the damage when he spoke again, tone smooth and infuriating.

“what’s the point of me putting them there if you’re just gonna hide it?”

“please shut up,” she muttered, swiping concealer over the red and purple mess. she managed to hide most of them. most. there were a few that refused to cooperate, stubborn just like him.

when she was finally done, she looked over and saw mikey standing there, fumbling with his tie. she walked over and took it from him, hands moving swiftly as she fixed it.

“all done,” she said softly, the tiniest smile tugging at her lips.

“y/n,” he called, voice suddenly lower.

“hm?” she looked up.

his hand slid around her back, pulling her close, lips just inches away from hers. “would you get mad if i ruin your makeup right now?”

“yes,” she answered instantly. “i spent hours on it.”

he stepped back, hands up. “okay. i don’t wanna risk being nagged on my own birthday.”

she laughed—and he looked at her like she hung the moon.

after changing into her dress, she stood by the mirror again. mikey turned to look at her—and just stared.

“fuck… can we just ditch the party?” he groaned, walking over and sliding his arms around her waist. “i wanna cuddle you all night. maybe a little naked?”

his lips hovered, so close.

“idiot,” she giggled, pressing her palms against his chest and holding him back. “emma planned this whole thing. she’ll kill us.”

mikey let out a long, tortured sigh and stepped away, grumbling under his breath. as much as he wanted to bend her over the vanity again and take his time with her, it really was emma’s hard work they’d be throwing away.

he reached out his hand to her.

“let’s go?”

she took it without hesitation, fingers slipping into his with a smile.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

the club draken booked was actually… really nice. classy enough for mikey. the lighting was perfect, the music was just loud enough to drown out drama, and the drinks were already flowing. basically, it was a success.

not that toman deserved all the credit—emma did most of the heavy lifting. correction: emma bullied everyone into pulling this off. if they were scared of mikey or draken, they should also be scared of the emma sano.

when mikey and y/n arrived—hands casually laced together—no one said a word. not even a raised eyebrow. not even from baji, who would normally live for that kind of drama.

“happy birthday, mikeyyy!” emma all but launched herself into her brother’s arms.

mikey chuckled, hugging her back. “thanks, emma… for all of whatever this is.”

“it’s amazing, right?” emma pulled away proudly, already scanning the club like a general checking her battlefield.

draken stepped in with a fist bump. “happy birthday, man.”

and before mikey could even hold y/n again, emma immediately went to y/n, already reaching for her arm. “can i borrow y/n for a sec?”

mikey frowned. “tsk. we just got here—”

“thank you!” emma said sweetly, ignoring him entirely as she yanked y/n away.

mikey sighed, left behind with draken.

mikey’s party wasn’t huge—just the rest of toman, a few people from uni, some close friends, shinichiro, and of course… wherever there’s shinichiro, there’s wakasa… and wherever there’s wakasa…

“happy birthday, mikey…” came a soft voice.

mikey blinked. “oh. haruna. uh… thank you.”

he eyed the crowd. “why are you alone?”

haruna smiled shyly, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “i don’t really know anyone here… except you, y/n, and emma. but i don’t think your sister likes me. and y/n’s with her…”

“and wakasa’s at the bar already,” she added with a laugh. “your brother dragged him there the second we got in.”

mikey winced. “oh. yeah. sorry about that…”

they both chuckled. okay. that sounded like shinichiro.

“well…” mikey shrugged, glancing around, “i guess you’re stuck with me. that okay with you?”

haruna nodded sweetly.

across the room, emma paused mid-sip.

“i don’t like this.”

y/n followed her gaze, brows lifting when she saw haruna and mikey talking. laughing. smiling. leaning a little too close.

she tilted her head. something in her twitched. what the hell was that?

c’mon, she told herself. can’t mikey have friends who are girls?

emma, already a few drinks in and as unhinged as ever, slammed her glass down and started to stand.

y/n grabbed her wrist instantly. “sit down, emma.”

“girl, that bitch is practically throwing herself at your boyfriend.”

y/n gave her a look. “emma.”

“what?”

“not my boyfriend.”

emma rolled her eyes so hard it looked like she might pass out.

“you’re just seeing things,” y/n said.

“am i?” emma turned her head, motioning for y/n to look again.

haruna was now leaning into mikey, saying something low near his ear, her hand brushing his sleeve as she laughed at whatever it was she whispered.

mikey? he looked… comfortable.

y/n didn’t realize how tight her grip had gotten on her drink until her fingers ached, nails digging into the chilled glass.

huh.

interesting.

emma had just downed another drink—she was absolutely feeling it—when the club doors opened and a familiar figure stepped inside.

her eyes widened instantly. “izanaaaa!!”

she lit up like it was christmas morning.

emma had always been closest to izana. sure, shinichiro was the golden eldest and had the “dad” energy. mikey? he was the annoying brother who stole her snacks and teased her every chance he got. but izana? izana was the one who spoiled her rotten. her favorite partner-in-crime.

izana barely had time to react before emma flung herself into his arms. he caught her with a surprised laugh, wrapping his arms around her. “i told you,” emma pouted against his chest, “you should’ve just come with me and draken!”

“and i told you,” he said, ruffling her hair, “i had somewhere to be.”

“come on!!” she took his hand without warning and dragged him—not to y/n—but straight to where mikey stood.

“excuse me,” emma said, with the most passive-aggressive little tone, brushing past haruna like she wasn’t even there.

haruna blinked, stepping aside quickly as emma positioned herself directly between her and mikey.

“izana, say happy birthday to mikey,” she demanded, practically swaying from the wine. oh no. she already had too much to drink for this.

izana blinked. “emma…”

“c’mon, izanaaaa. say it,” she tugged on his arm like a toddler demanding a candy bar.

the silence was instant. uncomfortable. like the air itself held its breath.

“uh, em…” draken tried gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. “how ‘bout we go back to y/n?”

“no.” emma folded her arms. “not until my brothers talk to each other.”

both mikey and izana froze. they knew better than to challenge emma when she had that look in her eye. she meant business. even drunk.

izana sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “h-happy birthday, mikey.”

mikey didn’t look up. just kept swirling his drink in the glass.

and then, izana added quietly, “and… i’m sorry…”

the apology wasn’t just for the rocky past between them. it was for everything. for the misunderstandings. for the mistakes. for y/n.

mikey didn’t speak. didn’t blink. he just reached over to the table, grabbed a second drink, and silently handed it to izana.

not a word.

but in mikey’s language? that was everything.

izana’s eyes softened. he took the drink. and he smiled.

emma threw her arms around both her brothers, smashing them into a sibling sandwich.

“ugh, emma—get off—” mikey groaned.

but before either of them could escape her clinginess, a new pair of arms joined in.

“finally,” shinichiro sighed, pulling them all into one big group hug. “took you guys long enough.”

it was a mess of arms, laughter, and one very drunk emma screaming, “i love you guys!! so much!!”

and in the background, y/n watched from across the room, a soft smile tugging at her lips.

this—this right here—was the kind of healing mikey needed.

and she was grateful. even if just one weight was lifted off his shoulders tonight… it was already a perfect birthday.

the party raged on around them—music pulsing, laughter spilling from every corner of the club—but in the far side booth where emma, y/n, and izana sat, it felt like the air had thinned.

emma was talking, or trying to anyway. she’d already had her drinks confiscated by draken, who had given her the classic “that’s enough” look and taken her glass without room for argument. she was sobering up now, a little pouty, but mostly just chatting about whatever came to mind.

but something felt… off.

emma paused mid-sentence, eyes flicking between the two people seated with her. y/n was nursing her drink like it held all the answers in the world, and izana? he was pretending to scroll through his phone, but he wasn’t really looking at it.

neither of them had spoken to each other. not once.

weird.

way too weird.

“okay,” emma suddenly said, slamming her hand down on the table, startling both of them. “what the hell is going on?”

izana looked up lazily, one brow raised. “what now, emma?”

y/n didn’t even flinch. just kept her eyes down on her drink, lips pressing tighter against the rim.

“don’t ‘what now’ me.” emma’s eyes narrowed. “you two are acting like strangers. what, did you fight or something yesterday? spill. i’m not dumb.”

“you’re just overthinking things, em,” y/n replied quickly. too quickly. the kind of voice you use when you’re dodging.

izana didn’t even bother to speak up. he just leaned back in the booth, expression unreadable.

emma’s gaze grew sharper. she wasn’t buying it. “seriously. whatever this is,” she gestured between them, “you two better fix it. i don’t want this trio ruined just because of your issues to each other.”

“since when are we a trio?” izana muttered with a low scoff.

“since i said so.” emma shot back, crossing her arms. “and you should be thankful i added you to my very exclusive friend group.”

izana huffed a laugh, lifting his fingers to air-quote. “friend group. it’s just you and y/n.”

emma lightly smacked izana’s arm in mock offense.

he winced playfully, raising both hands in surrender. “alright, alright. i guess we’re a trio now.”

his gaze flicked back to y/n. he smiled at her.

and finally, y/n looked up and smiled back.

but even as their eyes met and lips curved, emma could tell. something still hung between them.

something they weren’t saying.

but before emma could dwell on it further, a voice called out—“izana! come join us over here!” draken waved him over from across the club.

izana excused himself from emma and y/n before getting up and heading over. the moment he reached the group, he was greeted with claps on the back, a fist bump from draken, and a round of welcomes from the rest of toman. for the first time in forever, izana didn’t feel like the outsider. no tension. no weird glances. just laughter and warmth. he finally felt like he belonged.

back at the table, emma and y/n were left alone.

“babes, i’ll go get you a drink,” emma suddenly said, standing up way too quickly.

y/n raised her eyebrow, looking at her suspiciously. “…my drink’s literally still half full.”

“and? i’ll go get you another one already, okay?” emma said, standing up and heading toward the bar. y/n knew she was just trying to sneak one for herself—draken had already banned her from getting more. but she let her go this time.

a few minutes later, emma returned with two drinks in hand, looking proud of her little heist. except—y/n was gone.

“…y/n?” she looked around, confused.

and then—

a voice behind her cleared their throat. “why do you have two drinks?”

emma jumped and slowly turned to see draken looking down at her with that dad mode activated expression.

“they’re both for y/n,” she said with zero confidence.

draken raised a brow. definitely not buying it.

he reached out, snatched the drinks from her hands, and handed them off to the nearest waiter.

“hey!” emma whined. “that was for y/n!”

“sure.”

emma just sighed. she wasn’t winning this one with her boyfriend, so instead, she just started scanning the crowd, hands on her hips. no y/n in sight. “ken, have you seen y/n?”

“mikey shoved her into that room earlier,” draken said, casually pointing toward one of the private lounges.

right on cue, a loud, breathy moan escaped from behind the door.

emma froze.

then slowly, she put her hands together in prayer. “please protect my best friend from the monster that is manjiro sano.”

draken burst out laughing and threw an arm around her, steering her away from the scene.

the party went on—music blaring, lights flashing, laughter echoing.

for mikey, it was the perfect night. his family was whole. his friends were here. and y/n… y/n was under him, soft and breathless, skin pressed against his, lips whispering his name like a secret only he could hear.

best. birthday. ever.

chapter twenty-one point five | chapter twenty-two

[purinbunnii]

@baobei-bu

Yet another piece of fine shyt art!! 😫

“Birthday Bite”

Sylus x Reader | NSFW (18+) | Modern AU | Tension, slow burn, filthy dialogue

⸻

The air smelled like asphalt and engine smoke, hot from where Sylus had parked his motorcycle just minutes ago. He was still straddling the seat, legs spread, forearms resting on his knees as he looked at you like you were dessert.

You were supposed to be going out to celebrate his birthday.

But one look at you had him rethinking the plans.

“Come here,” he said simply, his voice low—rough in a way that sent heat straight between your thighs.

You crossed your arms, mouth quirking. “What happened to the restaurant?”

He cocked his head. “Did you really think I’d let you wear that little jacket, that short skirt, and not bend you over the seat first?”

Your lips parted, heart thudding. “Sylus, it’s your birthday…”

“Exactly.” He stood in one slow movement, towering in front of you now. “And I’d like my birthday meal first.”

You backed up a step as he closed the distance, his hands sliding up your sides—confident, hungry. The corner of his mouth lifted, gaze dropping down your body like he was already unwrapping you in his mind.

“Sylus—”

“Shh.” His thumb traced your bottom lip, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Let me taste what you’ve been hiding under that attitude all week.”

You didn’t even have a chance to speak before he was kissing you—hot, deep, tongue sweeping into your mouth like he owned it. He groaned against you, hands gripping your hips and guiding you backwards until the back of your thighs hit the motorcycle seat.

“Hop up,” he murmured.

You hesitated. “Someone could see—”

“Then be quiet for me,” he smirked, helping you onto the leather. “Unless you want them to hear how wet you already are.”

You gasped as his hand slipped under your skirt, calloused fingers brushing your inner thigh before teasing just along the edge of your panties.

“Fuck…” he exhaled, breath hitching when he felt the heat there. “You wore these for me, didn’t you? Lace and nothing else.”

Your voice was barely a whisper. “Yes.”

He looked up at you, eyes dark. “Then be a good girl and let me eat.”

And just like that, he sank to his knees, dragging your panties down with his teeth.

The night air kissed your bare skin as Sylus pushed your skirt higher, bunching it at your waist like he had no plans of letting you get decent again tonight. His hands gripped your thighs—strong, steady—thumbs rubbing slow circles into your skin as he spread you for him, eyes locked between your legs like he’d just found something sacred.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, dragging his knuckles along your inner thigh. “This is what I get for being good all year?”

You swallowed hard, watching him. His smirk turned wicked.

“Can’t believe you came out here dripping like this,” he said, his voice lower now, raspier, the words like hot velvet. “You know I haven’t touched you in weeks. Thought you were trying to be sweet. Turns out, you were just teasing me.”

“I wasn’t—” You let out a shaky breath as he kissed your inner thigh, open-mouthed and slow, then bit down just hard enough to make you flinch.

He pulled back, eyes meeting yours. “Then prove it.”

He didn’t wait for permission—Sylus never really did. He leaned in, dragging his tongue along your slit through your panties, slow and filthy. The wet fabric clung to you, your hips jerking as he groaned low in his throat.

“Fuck, you taste good even through this.”

“Sylus,” you whimpered, fisting your hands into his jacket.

He chuckled, breath hot against your core. “So polite all of a sudden. Where’s that attitude now, sweetheart?”

Then he hooked a finger under the band of your panties and dragged them aside. And the second he got a clear view of you—slick, swollen, ready—he lost whatever little control he had left.

“Hold on,” he growled, gripping your hips as he dove in.

His tongue flattened against your clit, slow at first, like he was savoring the first bite of something decadent. He worked you open with his mouth—circling, flicking, then sucking softly—just enough to make you tremble. His hands gripped your thighs tighter each time you gasped, grounding you, keeping you there like he was terrified you’d disappear.

You could barely breathe.

The pressure was constant. Focused. His tongue didn’t let up, working you faster now, with practiced, greedy precision. Every flick sent sparks racing up your spine.

“Sylus, I—I’m gonna—”

“Yeah?” he murmured against you, the vibrations almost cruel. “Then come for me, birthday girl. I want it all. On my fucking tongue.”

Your back arched. The pleasure came fast, white-hot, crashing over you so hard your vision blurred. You cried out, hands tangling in his hair as you came, thighs trembling around his head.

He didn’t stop.

Not even when you whimpered. Not even when you gasped and tried to pull away. He just groaned, licking you through every twitch and shiver, like he hadn’t gotten his fill yet.

When he finally pulled back, his mouth glistened and his smirk was pure sin.

“Best appetizer I’ve ever had,” he said, voice wrecked.

You blinked down at him, breathless. “Wha—what about dinner?”

He stood, towering over you again, hands going to his belt.

“Oh, baby,” he whispered, leaning down until his lips brushed your ear. “We’re just getting to the main course.”