#i have the impression it might owe something to

[mrozzoosstuff]

𖥻 𝗢𝟭 ┆𝙂𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙩𝙨 𝙙𝙤𝙣𝙩 𝙙𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚 ★ ₊ ˚⟡

𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐋 ➠ ᴄᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴜᴛʏ

/̵͇̿̿/'̿'̿ ̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ༄

HEREFORD, UK

Task Force 141 Base - "Fort Viper"

12:26

The common room wasn't busy - just lived-in.

Soap lounged on the worn-out couch with a half-eaten protein bar in one hand and setting down a mug full of coffee with the other. Gaz stood near the small counter, poking at the old kettle like it owed him something, trying to make some tea. Ghost leaned against the counter with a file in his hand, quiet as ever, reading through the information from some old mission.

One of the slow mornings where they didn't have to stress about missions, enemies, or training. Just a chill morning.

The door opened with a creak, and Price stepped in - coat damp from the heavy rain, folder in hand.

"You're all here. Good."

Soap glanced up. "We in trouble, or are you just feeling sentimental?"

Price ignored the jab and dropped the folder onto the table with a soft thud. "We've got a possible addition."

Gaz raised a brow, leaving the kitchenette and taking a step toward the table. "Another one? Thought we weren't taking rookies."

"She's no rookie." Price opened the folder, revealing a set of personal files- half of them were erased with black ink.

In the upper left corner of the file was a photo. A Woman. About mid-twenties to thirty years old. Pale with sharp features. Snow-white hair pulled back in a tight and low bun, and dark -dead- eyes stared into the camera.

"Nikova Darya Dragunova. Callsign: Lynx"

"That's a mouthful," Soap commented quietly, setting the protein bar down. Then, his head snapped up. "Wait-"

Silence.

Gaz moved first. He walked over slowly, looking down at the photo like it might bite. "No way. I thought she was a myth."

"Worse," Ghost said, putting away the file in his hand and taking a step closer to the table

Price looked at them all, calm and even."She's real. Former Spetsnaz. Left Russia under... not so diplomatic circumstances."

Soap leaned forward, his interest piqued."I heard a story that she knifed some warlord in the throat with his own spoon or something."

"That was a fork," Gaz mumbled. "And I think it was in Libya."

"Classy." Soap said with a nod, impressed.

Price sighed before continuing. "She ran a black ops unit deep in Russia operations. Never showed up in mission logs. No official rank. No clearance trail. No public record. Just... results."

"They say her name was scrubbed from every file but one," Gaz added. "Even GRU was afraid of her."

"Laswell's meeting her now. Budapest."

Ghost finally spoke, stepping closer to the photo. "What's she been doing?"

"Merc hits. Freelance contracts. High-level sabotage. Some humanitarian shadows, too, strangely enough. She's lethal. But not mindless." The captain crossed his arms, looking down at the open file.

Soap scratched the back of his neck. "So, she's got her own code."

Price didn't deny it. "She doesn't trust anyone. Doesn't want to belong to anyone either. But Laswell thinks she might listen. And if she does..."

"If she does," Ghost repeated, "we better hope she's on our side."

Soap snorted. "Or we're all fucked."

"She's a wildcard." Ghost declared, crossing his arms, boring his eyes into the side of Price's head.

"She's a professional." Price corrected.

Gaz looked back at the photo, jaw tight. "She looks like someone who doesn't care which side wins - just who survives."

Price lit a cigar. The flame briefly lit his face in the low light. "That's why we need her."

"Fine." Soap shrugged, leaning back against the couch. "What's another emotionally repressed loner with a kill count and a dark past."

Ghost turned to him, giving his a long, blank stare. Scott only replied with a cheeky grin.

"And for the record, if she starts gutting people, I'm sleeping in an armory."

BUDAPEST, HOLLAND

'Nap és kávé'- Coffee shop

09:48

It always smelled like burnt sugar and diesel here.

Nikova sat at a café just off the Danube, the kind that blended into the rest of the city - dim, nameless, quiet. The kind where no one asked questions.

Her coat was too thin for the wind, but she liked the cold. It kept her awake.

She stirred her coffee, though she hadn't taken a sip. Her eyes, dark and unreadable, tracked the movement of strangers like a habit she couldn't kill.

Two men talking too loudly at the corner. A woman with a red scarf, the same one from earlier. Back again. Looping. Watching?

No. Just another local caught in routine. Still - she logged it.

She didn't look up until the chair across from her shifted. A woman in a blazer and wind-chapped face sat down like she owned the place.

"Laswell," Nikova said flatly, lips barely moving. "You're late."

"You're hard to find."

"Or you're just shitty at your job." The Russian mumbled, reaching into her pocket for a pack of cigarettes.

Laswell smiled faintly. "You left quite the trail anyway." She said, ignoring the comment.

Nikova lit a cigarette slowly and practiced. "If you came to arrest me, say so."

"No. I came to offer you a job."

That got a raised eyebrow.

Laswell slid a thin folder across the table. No names on the front, just the ghost of an embossed seal. Nikova didn't open it.

"Task Force 141," Laswell said. "They want to meet you."

Nikova leaned back, smoke curling from her lips. "And if I don't want to meet them?"

"Then finish your coffee. And go back to pretending you don't miss this kind of life."

Nikova didn't answer immediately. Her fingers tapped against the folder in an absent rhythm, her gaze flicking to the street again.

"You want something dangerous done. Quietly." She said it like it was fact, moving her eyes from the file to Laswell. "And you don't trust anyone loud enough to get blood on their boots."

Laswell didn't deny it.

"You know what I've done," Nikova continued, voice lower now, darker. "People like me don't get offers. They get put down."

"You're not just 'people like you,' Nikova. You're better. And you know it."

Nikova's jaw ticked. Compliments were always traps. Especially from intelligent officers.

Laswell leaned forward slightly, speaking quietly. "This isn't Russia. And it isn't Spetsnaz. This is a chance to do something different. Something that might matter."

"I stopped caring about what 'matters' years ago," Nikova mumbled, letting the smoke escape from her parted lips.

"But you still listen," Laswell pointed out. "You still watch. That tells me you haven't stopped wanting to care."

Nikova looked at her for a second and then down to the closed file on the small table, staring at it like it was going to explode any second.

"Do they know who I am?" She mumbled finally.

"They know enough," The CIA agent replied. "They'll know more if you let them."

"I don't play well with others."

"Neither do they."

Nikova exhaled slowly. Her cigarette burned close to the filter, and she stubbed it out against the ashtray like she was stamping out a thought.

She finally pulled the folder closer and cracked it open.

Inside: A few pictures of some old, abandoned training ground. Personnel files of the possible new teammates. A photo of Captain John Price with a red-marked objective site scrawled in pen beside it. And below that, another image - one she didn't expect.

Nikolai Belinski.

Nikova's eyes narrowed.

Laswell watched her carefully. "You'll need to work with contacts in the field. Some are... familiar."

"That wasn't in the sales pitch." Nikova closed the folder and leaned back in her seat, practically glaring at the blond agent.

"It's not a sales pitch. It's reality."

Nikova closed the folder slowly. Her voice came out low, clipped. "I want three things if I say yes."

Laswell nodded. "Name them."

"A clean exit if it goes to shit. My gear and my old weapons - untouched. And I don't share a room."

"Done. But you'll have to share air."

Nikova huffed - something between a breath and a laugh. She rose from the chair, slipping the folder under her coat.

"I'll think about it." The Russian mumbled, setting down a few bills for the untouched coffee on the table.

"You've already thought about it," Laswell called as she walked away.

Nikova didn't turn around.

But her answer echoed in the smoke she left behind.

When she made sure she was out of Laswell's eye and ear reach, she pulled out an old keyboard phone. It barely worked, yes, but it didn't have GPS.

No GPS = No unwanted stalkers.

Clicking at the only saved contact she pulled the phone to her ear.

After a few seconds, the person on the other side of the call picked up.

"Vera?" Nikova mumbled to the phone. "Пришлите мне отчет о британской оперативной группе 141. Все, что у вас есть.." (Send me a report on British Task Force 141. Everything you got.)

[quintessenceofdust88]

Hi! 💔💔💔💔💔💔+⏳⏳+🍼🍼🍼🍼 :D

Hii Ire darling! ♥ Thank you for this ask, you gave me the kickstarter for Trail of Lies ch. 2 hehe ♥ So let's start with that! 20-ish (okay, almost 30 hehe) sentences of Trail of Lies for you: - 💔

When Buck first meets Kim, he does like her. She's nice to him, friendly to Eddie, and more than willing to be their surrogate. It takes him eighteen months to find out who she really is.

He's always been the type to believe the best in people, maybe that's why it takes him so long.

It’s a warm July morning when he first meets her, about a week after that dinner where they finally decided to actually start planning for their baby. Eddie has been singing Kim’s praises for Buck since then, and Buck is very curious to meet her. They are sitting down at a café not too far from their house, a cozy little place with brick walls and chipped blue tables. 

They’re sitting on an outdoor one, Eddie with a cup of coffee and Buck drinking an orange juice, because he’s already hyper enough without the help of caffeine. His leg is bouncing under the table and he’s biting his lips. Eddie chuckles at him. 

“Relax, Buck, it’s not like she’s coming with the baby already”, he quips, and Buck answers with a nervous laugh. “You’re just meeting her today, that’s all”

And Buck knows that’s true, but it’s the first step into his most important dream. Still, Eddie is right; he shouldn’t act so excited yet, it might scare Kim off or make her uncomfortable, or make Eddie embarrassed, and that’s definitely not the first impression he wants to cause. 

He’s taking a sip of his juice, trying to will his heartbeat to slow down, when Eddie smiles at something behind him. Buck turns around to see a woman smiling back. Kim’s wearing a summer dress and her blonde hair is pinned back. As she approaches them, Buck can appreciate that she’s a beautiful woman, and there is something familiar about her that he can’t quite place. 

Both he and Eddie get up when Kim gets to their table, and her smile widens as she takes in the two of them. 

“Hey, Kim”, Eddie greets, giving her a small kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for coming. This is my boyfriend, Buck”

They’ve been together for three years, but Buck’s stomach still flips pleasantly every time Eddie calls him ��boyfriend’, especially because it’s not an often thing. Eddie usually goes for ‘partner’, but Buck much prefers ‘boyfriend’, and is always happy when Eddie honors that preference. 

“Nice to meet you, Buck” Kim says, her smile now completely focused on Buck as she offers a hand for him to shake. “I’ve heard so much about you”

“All good things, I hope?” He teases, and she chuckles. Her laugh is airy and bright. 

“Oh, absolutely. And you’re even more adorable than what Eddie made you sound like.” She adds, and Buck’s cheeks flush a bit as she and Eddie exchange a look. 

“Take a seat”, Eddie offers, and Kim does, sitting herself on the chair that’s between Buck and Eddie. (TBU and Blobs under the cut!)

- ⏳ (cont. from here - your own ask as it turns out hehe ♥)

“I… can’t believe you’d do that” Buck admits, and Bobby gives him a sad smile before looking down in embarrassment. 

“Yeah, well, you have too much faith in me, kid. Always have. And although I appreciate it, I don’t want it to blind you to the fact I make mistakes.” He states, and Buck finds himself nodding. 

“So… are you saying I owe Tommy an apology?” Buck asks, and Bobby shrugs. 

“I’m saying that Tommy’s good people, and he’s good for you. And I don’t know if you can get past the whole Mateo of it all, Buck, only you can answer that. But don’t let your loyalty to me be the reason why you stay away from him, because I don’t deserve it.” - 🍼(cont. from here)

Buck’s outraged that he was excluded from his own children’s nursery assembly. Sure, he knows it’s not good for the babies if he’s around fresh paint, and he’s not quite able to kneel for crib assembling without needing someone to give him a hands up, and he did get final say in wall colors and crib designs before being unceremoniously kicked out, but still. He thinks maybe his clipboard skills were too much and intimidated both teams, and that’s what he chooses to tell himself. 

Besides, even if he won’t admit it to anyone, Buck’s pretty sure he’s the one having the most fun right now. The kids are all around him, frosting the red velvet batch of cupcakes that is not entirely cooled down yet, which means the frosting is melting before it gets the swirly shape that they’re trying to go for. Chris and Danny, however, seem more worried about eating raw frosting than decoration goals, and Mara and Jee-Yun are saving the day by adding an unholy amount of sprinkles to each cupcake.

“Uncle Buck, do the blobs still wanna cupcakes with Jello?”, Jee asks curiously, and the other three look at Buck as if he’s grown a second head. 

“Cupcakes and Jello? Like, together? Buck, that’s weird. Weirder than you decided to have watermelon with bacon slices the other day” Chris observes. Buck however, is unbothered and keeps mixing the brownie batter in his hands, barely raising his eyes.

“I wish I could tell you those were my weirdest cravings, but no, I put Tommy through it. But now they’re pretty much gone. I think the blobs are too busy growing up and kicking my ribs every three minutes to want weird food” He says with a chuckle, placing a loving hand over his bump so his babies will know he’s mostly teasing.

--- There you go, my darling, I hope you enjoy all of those! Love you ♥

[cantsayidont]

KAOS (2024): Oddball black comedy revisionist fantasy, tonally reminiscent of the AMC PREACHER adaptation (albeit minus the gore), about the Greek gods ruling over an alternate modern-day version of the Greek isles. It's narrated by Prometheus (Stephen Dillane), still chained to a rock with an eagle picking at his liver, as the flaky, mercurial Zeus (Jeff Goldblum) becomes increasingly paranoid about a mysterious prophecy that seems to foretell the downfall of the gods, and mortal Eurydice (Aurora Perrineau), who's the unhappy wife of clingy rock star Orpheus (Killian Scott) and somehow tied to that same prophecy, becomes part of a strange situation in the Underworld after being hit by a car.

Goldblum is a hoot, Janet McTeer is amusing as Hera, Perrineau and Nabhaan Rizwan (as Dionysus) are cute, and the show is certainly interesting and strange enough to hold your attention. However, it's weirdly derivative (the depiction of the Underworld borrows unapologetically from Powell and Pressberger's A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH and from LOGAN'S RUN, of all things); it lacks any real emotional throughline; its actual plot is both trite and shrill; it keeps finding new ways to be off-putting (if you watch the first episode, be warned that something bad happens to that kitten!); and by the end, I was just not having fun anymore. I don't find ancient Greek myth terribly interesting, so I'm a hard sell for this kind of smug Tumblr fandom-style revisionism, and creator Charlie Covell approaches it with the attitude of a teenage classics student who considers John Lennon's "Imagine" the height of philosophical insight. Blecch.

CONTAINS LESBIANS? It has some gay guys, the shade of a straight trans man betrayed and murdered by his Amazon community (did I mention this show is frequently off-putting?), and Hera taking Zeus's form to entrap one of his mortal lovers, but no wlw to speak of. VERDICT: You won't be bored, but you probably won't be satisfied either. Also, something bad happens to the kitten, which I find hard to forgive.

[hayatheauthor]

20 Flirty Remarks to Build Romantic Tension Without Being Overbearing

Feeling stuck trying to give your characters a good flirty one-liner that doesn't sound cringe/overdone? Here are 20 ideas/dialogue prompts for you (that I may or may not have stolen from my own books): 

“I must warn you: you have a dangerous effect on my heart rate.” / "You have no idea what you're doing to my heart right now."

"If I said I wasn’t thinking about you, I’d be lying. And I’m a terrible liar."

"You know, I could get lost in those eyes, but I'd probably trip over my words trying to find my way back." (could also double as description/inner monologue).

“I can’t tell if you’re really charming or if I’m just easily charmed.”

“You have a knack for making me forget what I was going to say. It’s kind of impressive/infuriating.”

“I think you owe me a drink. When I saw you, I dropped mine.”

“I’ve been trying to find the perfect excuse to hang out, but I keep forgetting everything when I’m around you.”

“I bet you get away with a lot of trouble with that smile.”

“You must be a magician because every time you walk in, everyone else disappears.” (The right character could pull it off I swear)

"I’ve been trying to think of something clever to say, but all my brain can come up with is how much I want to (kiss) you."

"I saw that little glance—you’re not as sneaky as you think."

"How do you manage to make even the most mundane things sound exciting?"

"You do this cute thing with your hands when you’re nervous, you know?"

“One more word, and I might just have to kiss you.”

"Finally, there's that pretty smile of yours. I've been waiting for it all day."

"You keep staring—should I be flattered?" / "Keep looking at me like that and I might start thinking you have a crush on me."

"Do you have any idea how fun it is to watch you try to keep a straight face?"

"I’m pretty sure you could charm the socks off anyone, but I’d like to keep mine on for now."

"If laughter is the best medicine, then I’m pretty sure you’re my favorite doctor."

"Is it bad that I kind of like the way you’re trying to mess with me?"

Looking For More Writing Tips And Tricks? 

Check out the rest of Quillology with Haya; a blog dedicated to writing and publishing tips for authors! Instagram Tiktok

[drdemonprince]

any advice for coping with being on the receiving end of a public callout ?

Oh yes:

Do not acknowledge the callout publicly. It will only further its spread, lend it legitimacy, cause you to be interpreted as guilty, and convey to anyone who bears you ill will that you are rattled and feeling socially threatened.

Do not act out of urgency. One of the ways that cancelled people get themselves in far worse trouble is by spiraling due to anxiety and rushing to issue a statement about what has happened, or to attempt to socially manage public impressions about what has happened. Do not do this. Anything that you say will be picked apart and used against you. The situation is truly not as urgent as it might feel. A lot of times, doing nothing and being quiet is the best way to proceed, and the dust will settle better if you do.

Do not issue a public apology. If you truly feel that you have wronged someone, that conflict should be worked out in private with the people you have directly affected. You do not owe the anonymous public audience a damn thing. Do not apologize for something you don't honestly believe that you have done wrong. Take time and really think about what happened, and seek the counsel of people whom you trust in PRIVATE.

Do not attempt to disprove the callout unless you have crystal clear, smoking gun evidence that the person who accused you is actually victimizing you. And even then, probably don't do it. I have only seen a disproof of a callout work ONCE, and that was when Juniper Abernathy revealed the person cancelling her had been abusing her. Even if the facts are on your side, acknowledging the accusations will only make more people aware of them, give your detractors ground to criticize your every word, and will muddy the waters and make people find the situation confusing and troubling rather than clear.

GET THE FUCK OFFLINE. Delete your social media apps for the time being. Turn off notifications. Turn off DMs requests. Change your settings so that you only ever hear from people you already follow (I do this, on the advice of Philosophy Tube). Get away from the computer.

Connect with IRL friends. When you're wrapped up in a cancellation, the negative opinions of a handful of foaming at the mouth freaks loom way larger than they actually are. And social media dramatically skews our sense of social priorities such that the approval rating of complete strangers starts to seem more important than people we actually know, and trust, and who actually know us. Go get a meal with a buddy. Watch a dumb movie. Talk to your grandma about her plans for her garden. Surround yourself with real people you care about and focus on their life and problems, to help put things in perspective.

Find distracting, active, rewarding activities that bring you out of the digital space and into physical reality. Not everyone is talking about you, not everybody hates you, most people have no fucking clue what has been said about you, and most people do not give a fuck about you (that's good). There are so many areas of life that are completely fucking untouched by what a bunch of social media power users have to say online. Go volunteer to clean up a park, run some errands, take an exercise class, foster a dog, regrout your bathroom, knit a hat. Even if the worst case scenario happens and a cancellation sticks, it's really only among a certain very vocal group of miserable fucking people. There is a whole world around you that will not ever care, and you will have a life outside of this.

Good luck!!

[shadyfestivalperfection]

Fifth Time’s The Charm~Oneshot

Summery: Every date gets interrupted before they can steal the deal. By the fifth one, they’re both so wounded up, it turns explosive-in the best way

Characters: Bucky Barnes x F!reader

Vibes/warning: Sexual tension, mutual pining, flirty banter, interrupted make out sessions, smut, tension building.

Note: All characters except y/n are not mine.

||Master List||

🌙 Date One: Rooftop Romance & a Falcon Crash

Bucky’s hand is warm as it slides over yours, his vibranium arm resting on the rooftop table like it belongs there.

The rooftop restaurant is quiet. Just a few candle-lit tables surrounded by fairy lights, with soft jazz playing through overhead speakers. The skyline behind him glows like a dream. And Bucky?

He’s in a button-up. Sleeves rolled to his forearms. Hair tied back. Eyes locked on you like he still can’t believe you said yes to dinner.

“So,” you murmur, swirling the wine in your glass, “this is… kind of perfect.”

Bucky smiles. “I figured if I’m going to ruin someone’s night, might as well do it with a view.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re not ruining anything, Barnes. Though I’m still not convinced this isn’t some weird pity date.”

He leans forward, eyes twinkling. “Sweetheart, if this were a pity date, I wouldn’t have rehearsed what to say in front of my mirror five times before picking you up.”

Your heart flips.

It’s funny—everyone sees Bucky Barnes as the brooding soldier, the stone-faced assassin, the Winter Soldier. But here, tonight, he’s just Bucky. Soft-spoken. Charming. A little shy. And very into you.

“So… what’d you rehearse?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

He groans, covering his face with his hand. “Nope. That was supposed to stay buried.”

You grin. “Come on. You owe me at least one line.”

He groans again. “Fine. I was gonna say…” He sits up straighter, exaggerating the delivery. “‘You look beautiful tonight, doll.’ And then maybe something cheesy like… ‘Nothing in this city shines as bright as you.’”

You blink. “That’s… actually good.”

“Right?” he says, pleased. “Sam told me it was too much. Said I sounded like I was

quoting a romance novel.”

You’re about to respond—something flirty and appreciative—when your phone buzzes on the table. You glance down, but Bucky shakes his head.

“Don’t check it. I’m trying to live in the moment.”

You nod. “Me too.”

You don’t even notice how close you’ve gotten until his knee brushes yours beneath the table. His eyes drop to your lips for just a second. And your breath catches.

He leans in.

You lean closer.

He’s inches away. One hand rising to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His voice drops—

“I’ve been wanting to do this since the first time you handed me a cup of coffee in the break room—”

CRASH.

A loud thump echoes above you. Then—

“Shit! Sorry!”

You both jump as something heavy hits the rooftop ledge and rolls, a few pebbles scattering across the floor.

Bucky’s eyes go wide. “No. No no no—”

“BUCKY!”

You turn to see Sam Wilson—in full Falcon gear—tangled in his own wings, skidding to a stop right in front of your table.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Bucky hisses, standing up.

Sam grins sheepishly. “Hey, man. Didn’t know you were up here. Testing some tech. Kinda… overshot the landing.”

You just blink. “That’s… impressive. Actually.”

Bucky runs a hand down his face. “Sam. I swear to God.”

Sam glances between the two of you. “Oh. OHHHH. Shit—were you two—”

“Yes, Sam,” Bucky snaps. “We were on a date.”

Sam’s mouth opens. Then closes. Then he shrugs.

“Well… my bad. I’ll just… backflip off the side and leave you to it.”

“You do that.”

With a whoosh of his wings, Sam vaults back off the building—leaving behind only a couple of knocked-over chairs, one blown-out candle, and the unmistakable sound of Bucky’s teeth grinding together.

You burst out laughing.

Bucky glares at you—but it’s mostly mock offense. “Glad you’re enjoying the death of our first date.”

You reach across the table and take his hand again. “Okay, it was interrupted, not dead. Honestly? I like that he crashed it. Now you owe me a second date.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Mhm.” You squeeze his hand. “Next time… somewhere Falcon-proof.”

His grin is soft. Wicked. “Anywhere you want, sweetheart.”

You smirk. “As long as I get that kiss you were about to give me.”

His eyes darken. “Oh, you’ll get it. Trust me.”

🎬 Date Two: Movie Night & Third-Wheel Steve

The sound of a movie plays quietly in the background, but neither of you’s really paying attention.

You’re curled up on Bucky’s couch, under a fleece blanket, one of his old sweatshirts hanging off your shoulder. He sits behind you, legs spread, body warm and solid, and you’re tucked between them like you belong there.

Spoiler: You do.

“I swear,” you mumble, reaching for more popcorn without taking your eyes off the screen, “if this ends with another crash landing, I’m suing Sam for emotional damages.”

Bucky laughs into your shoulder, breath hot against your skin. “This one’s Falcon-free, I promise.”

“You said that last time.”

He groans, playful. “C’mon, don’t hold that against me. It was one crash.”

“It was our almost first kiss, Barnes. That’s a felony in some states.”

He leans closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You want me to make it up to you?”

Your breath catches. “Yeah. I do.”

You twist in his arms, shifting so you’re straddling his lap, knees on either side of his hips. The movement is smooth. Bold. A little reckless.

But he doesn’t mind. In fact, he looks thrilled.

“Well damn,” he says, hands gripping your thighs through the thin fabric of your pajama shorts. “Is this part of the movie, or…?”

You smile, teasing. “Bonus content.”

His eyes flick to your lips, then back to your eyes. “You’re killin’ me, doll.”

And then his hands slide up your thighs, fingers curling around your waist. You can feel him underneath you—hard, hungry, ready—and you’re barely even kissing yet.

His voice drops, rough with restraint. “Tell me to stop now if you want to.”

“I don’t want to,” you whisper, breathless.

That’s all he needs.

His lips crash into yours—hot, intense, a kiss you’ve both been aching for since the rooftop. His tongue teases your bottom lip, and you open for him, moaning into his mouth as his hands tighten on your hips. You rock forward instinctively, and he groans, hips bucking beneath you.

“Fuck,” he whispers, “you’re gonna make me—”

BANG. BANG. BANG.

A heavy knock slams against the front door, startling you both.

You freeze.

“No,” Bucky mutters against your neck, lips still brushing your skin. “No. Not again.”

“Ignore it,” you whisper, grinding against him a little just to tease.

He groans. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re gonna kill me.”

BANG. BANG. BANG.

“Bucky!” a familiar voice calls from the hallway. “I brought pizza!”

You pull back, blinking. “Is that—?”

“STEVE,” Bucky growls.

You scramble off his lap, cheeks blazing as Bucky nearly explodes off the couch.

The front door swings open—of course he still gives Steve a key—and there stands Captain America himself, smiling, holding two pizza boxes and a six-pack of root beer.

“Hey,” Steve says, totally oblivious, “movie night?”

Bucky’s expression is somewhere between a murder charge and emotional devastation. “STEVE.”

Steve blinks. “What?”

Bucky gestures wildly. “What does it look like?!”

Steve finally notices your flushed cheeks, the messed-up blanket, the very awkward distance you’re both now keeping.

“Oh,” he says.

There’s a pause.

Then: “Should I… leave?”

Bucky looks like he wants to throw him through a wall. You try not to laugh.

“Probably,” you say, standing and adjusting the oversized sweatshirt. “Unless you wanna be very scarred tonight.”

Steve holds up the pizza hopefully. “I brought pepperoni?”

You groan. “Okay, fine. But I’m picking the movie and you’re sitting at the other end of the couch.”

Bucky mutters something under his breath about “damn super soldiers and their terrible timing,” but you give his hand a squeeze as you walk by.

When your eyes meet, he mouths:

“Next time. You’re mine.”

And something about the heat in his stare tells you next time’s gonna be very worth the wait.

🖼️ Date Three: Art, Anticipation & An Unwelcome Mission

The Met is unusually quiet for a Saturday evening. Dimmed lights. Velvet ropes. Elegant, whispered conversations.

But Bucky’s not paying attention to the Monet in front of him.

No—he’s watching you.

Your dress hugs your curves too perfectly. Your eyes shine every time you pause in front of a new piece. And when you tilt your head, smiling at some abstract sculpture like it just told you a dirty joke, he damn near loses his mind.

“You’ve been staring at me for the last ten minutes,” you murmur, not even turning around.

“You make it hard not to,” he replies, stepping closer, voice low. “You know that dress should be illegal, right?”

You smirk, still pretending to focus on the painting. “So arrest me, Sergeant Barnes.”

His fingers brush your lower back. Soft. Teasing. “You sayin’ you want me to cuff you, sweetheart?”

You shoot him a warning look, cheeks heating. “This is a museum.”

“This is foreplay,” he corrects, voice deep and delicious in your ear.

You nearly choke on a laugh. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet…” His metal hand slides down your waist, resting right at the curve of your hip, “…you still came out with me.”

You turn to face him, caught in that pull he always seems to have over you.

“I came because I like the way you look when you pretend to care about art,” you tease.

He raises an eyebrow. “I do care. Especially about the nudes.”

“Bucky!”

But you’re laughing, and he’s leaning in—smirking, dangerous, beautiful. The tension between you crackles like electricity in the air.

“I need to kiss you,” he whispers. “Right now.”

“Not in the middle of the sculpture room.”

His smirk grows. “Then come with me.”

Before you can protest, he takes your hand and tugs you down a quiet side hallway labeled “Staff Only.”

“Bucky,” you hiss, half laughing, “we’re gonna get kicked out—”

“I’ll make it worth it,” he says, pulling you into the shadows.

The hallway is dark. Silent. Cold stone walls and empty echo. And Bucky?

He’s all heat and hands and hunger.

His mouth finds yours like it’s been waiting too long. You melt into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck as his hands grip your hips and press you against the wall. His tongue slips into your mouth, and you whimper—soft, needy—hips rocking forward just slightly.

The sound he makes? Absolutely feral.

“God, doll,” he groans, grinding into you. “You keep makin’ those noises and I’m not gonna make it to date five.”

You gasp against his lips. “Then make this one count.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. His lips travel down your jaw, nipping along your throat. One hand slides under your dress, brushing the inside of your thigh—and you know if anyone catches you right now, you’d be banned for life.

And honestly? Worth it.

Just as his fingers start to trail higher—

Bzzt. Bzzt.

His phone vibrates hard against his chest.

Bucky groans like he’s in actual pain. “Ignore it.”

But it buzzes again. And again.

And then your phone starts to vibrate in your bag.

You both freeze.

He curses softly, reaching into his coat. The moment he checks the screen, everything changes.

His entire posture shifts. Military. Tense. Ready.

“What?” you ask, straightening, heart dropping.

“It’s Sam,” he mutters, already walking back down the hallway. “HYDRA hit a black site in Berlin. Nat’s down. Cap’s calling us in.”

You’re suddenly cold all over.

He turns back to you, jaw clenched, eyes apologetic. “I have to go.”

“I know,” you say quietly, following him.

“This isn’t how I wanted tonight to end,” he admits, pulling you into a brief, fierce kiss that tastes like regret.

“I know,” you whisper again. “Just… come back in one piece, Barnes.”

He cups your face, thumb stroking your cheek. “You too.”

And then he’s gone.

You’re left standing in that dim, forgotten hallway—heart pounding, skin still tingling from his touch—wondering what the hell it’ll take to finally finish one damn date with him.

🌧️ Date Four: Rain, Restraint & a Damn Phone Call

It starts as a simple walk after dinner.

You and Bucky wander through downtown Brooklyn, hands tangled together like you’ve been doing it for years. The streets are damp, slick from a light drizzle that started an hour ago, but neither of you care.

You’re laughing. Warm. Buzzed off good food and wine and him.

He keeps sneaking glances at you like you’re the most stunning thing in the entire city. And truth be told, the way the rain makes your dress cling to your curves? He

might be right.

“You cold, doll?” he asks, pulling you a little closer under his umbrella.

“Not with you like this,” you reply, and rest your hand on his chest. It’s firm, warm even through his jacket, and you feel the way he subtly leans into your touch.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “You say things like that, I’m gonna have to press you against this brick wall and make out with you like we’re in a damn movie.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

His smirk could melt steel. “Why don’t we find out?”

And that’s all it takes.

You stop walking.

Grab the front of his coat.

And pull him into the nearest alley.

“Holy shit,” he laughs, stunned, as you shove him gently against the damp brick. “You’re serious.”

“I’ve waited long enough, Barnes,” you say, pressing your body to his, looking up through soaked lashes. “Every single date, someone or something gets in the way. Not this time. I want you. Right now.”

He growls low in his throat, both hands grabbing your waist with barely restrained hunger. “You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me, sweetheart.”

Then he kisses you—hard.

Tongue, teeth, rain-slick lips. It’s messy and desperate and hot. One hand slides down to your ass, gripping it like it belongs to him, while the other slides up under your dress, metal fingertips dragging fire across your thigh.

You whimper against his mouth, grinding into him. He’s already hard, pressed right against your core, and the friction makes your knees damn near give out.

“You feel that?” he rasps against your throat, dragging his mouth down to your collarbone. “That’s what you do to me. Every time.”

You moan, tugging at his belt. “Then do something about it, James.”

The way he groans at that—your real name for him, full of need—it’s feral. You feel him fumbling to push your panties aside, fingers sliding through your slick folds, and—

RING. RING.

You both freeze.

The loud, shrill ring echoes in the alley.

“No,” you gasp, panting. “No. Don’t you dare—”

He pulls back just enough to glance at his phone, face wild with frustration.

“Ignore it,” you plead, nails scraping down his chest.

“I want to, believe me,” he groans. “But it’s Sam.”

You nearly scream.

He kisses you again—fast, deep, like a fucking apology—then answers the call with a snarl in his voice.

“What?” he snaps.

You can hear Sam on the other end: “Uh… hate to ruin your date again, but we’ve got a situation.”

Bucky closes his eyes and lets his head thunk back against the brick wall.

You adjust your dress and sigh, already knowing the answer.

⸻

Fifteen minutes later, you’re back at his place, soaked and pissed off, watching Bucky gear up like he’s going into war. (He is. Kinda.)

“I’m starting to think the universe hates our sex life,” you say flatly, arms crossed.

He gives you a tight smile as he straps on his thigh holster. “I’m gonna kill something just for interrupting us.”

You walk up to him, grab him by the collar, and pull him in for a slow, intense kiss. Your lips barely part, breath warm and heavy between you.

“When you come back,” you whisper, “you’re not getting another first date.”

He nods. “When I come back, you’re getting every inch of me.”

Your cheeks heat. “Bold talk for someone who’s gotta run.”

He presses his forehead to yours, voice ragged. “I’ll be back soon. And when I am… we’re not stopping.”

You don’t say goodbye.

You just let the promise hang between you—thick with tension, soaked in heat, and aching to be fulfilled.

💥 Date Five: No More Waiting

He doesn’t knock when he comes back.

He storms through the front door, drenched in rain and adrenaline, chest heaving like a man who’s run straight through hell just to get to you.

And when he sees you—curled up in one of his shirts, waiting on the couch with wide eyes and bare thighs—he stops.

You rise slowly, heart thudding, drinking him in. His hair’s wet and messy, jaw tight, dog tags clinking as he drops his gear to the floor.

“Bucky—”

“No more interruptions,” he growls, striding toward you. “No more missions. No more waiting.”

You don’t speak. Just back toward the bedroom.

He follows.

You barely make it through the door before he has you pressed against the wall, kissing you like it’s the last oxygen on Earth. Tongue, teeth, need. You moan into it, fingers already tugging at his shirt.

“Off,” you breathe. “Want to feel you.”

He rips the shirt over his head in one fluid motion, muscles rippling as he tosses it aside. You press your palms to his chest—scarred and strong—and slide down, mouth open as your lips trail kisses across his pecs, down his abs.

But he stops you with a growl, metal hand in your hair.

“Not tonight, doll,” he says, voice rough with control. “Tonight’s about you.”

He lifts you easily—like you weigh nothing—lays you gently on the bed, and kneels between your legs.

“Bucky—”

“You’ve been so damn patient,” he murmurs, dragging your borrowed shirt up your torso, kissing every new inch of skin he exposes. “Four. Fucking. Dates. And every single one? Ruined.”

His mouth ghosts over your navel. “I haven’t touched you the way I want to.”

“Then touch me now,” you whisper.

He looks up at you—eyes dark, starved, desperate.

“Oh, sweetheart… I’m gonna do more than that.”

And then he slides your panties down your legs and devours you.

His mouth is sinful—hot tongue swirling, slow licks that make your hips jerk, breath catch. He doesn’t rush it. He feasts. Like you’re dessert and he’s been starving.

“Oh fuck,” you moan, back arching as his tongue circles your clit.

He groans into you, loving the sounds you make, the way your thighs shake around his head.

“Let go, baby,” he murmurs against your heat. “Come on my tongue.”

You do.Hard.

Your climax crashes over you like a goddamn wave, and Bucky doesn’t stop. He guides you through it, tongue relentless, even as you squirm and gasp from overstimulation.

“Too much—” you whisper.

But he pulls back, just enough to kiss your trembling inner thigh. “Too much? Or not enough?”

You blink, dazed. “Bucky—”

“I need you,” he growls, standing, shedding his pants, revealing just how ready he’s been. “Been dreaming about this. About you. Every fuckin’ night.”

He climbs over you, forearms braced beside your head, his tip sliding along your still-wet folds.

“You want me?” he asks, voice thick.

“Yes. Please—”

He sinks into you in one smooth, slow thrust, and everything else disappears.

Your moan is filthy, and his? It’s practically a growl.

“You’re so fuckin’ tight,” he hisses, forehead resting against yours. “God, you feel perfect.”

He starts to move—slow at first, deep and steady—rocking into you like he’s savoring every inch.

“You take me so good, baby,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Like you were made for me.”

Your nails dig into his back. You wrap your legs around his waist. “Harder.”

He obeys instantly.

His thrusts pick up speed, power—his metal hand gripping your thigh, keeping you spread wide as he pounds into you with deep, possessive strokes.

The headboard hits the wall. The bed creaks. The room fills with the sound of skin, breath, moans.

“Fuck—Bucky—yes, just like that—”

He leans down, nipping your jaw, your throat. “You’re mine,” he groans. “This pussy? Fuckin’ mine.”

“Yours,” you gasp. “All yours.”

He kisses you then—hungry, messy, like he’s claiming you—and slips a hand between you to rub your clit, fast and perfect.

You shatter around him a second time, crying out his name, your entire body trembling. He follows moments later, burying himself deep, moaning low in your ear as he comes.

He doesn’t move for a moment.

Just holds you, breathless, bodies tangled, hearts racing.

Eventually, he rolls onto his back and pulls you with him, cradling you on his chest.

“Worth the wait?” he murmurs, brushing your hair from your sweaty face.

You hum, nuzzling into him. “Absolutely.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Next time,” he whispers, “we skip the date and go straight to dessert.”

You laugh softly, eyes fluttering closed.

And for the first time in weeks, nothing interrupts the night.

-The end

(Yes, I know that I said I don’t write smut. I am not good at it. But… I gave it a shot to see how it goes.)

[sh4nksslvt]

CLINGY MUCH? | ONE SHOT

Shanks x GN!Reader

Zoro x GN!Reader

Mihawk x GN!Reader

a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only so expect this ff cringe and oc

tags: sfw, fluff, soft, ooc(?)

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

SHANKS

You were many things aboard the Red Force—calm, sharp-tongued, and painfully unbothered by Shanks’ endless antics.

You were also completely unaware of the fact that the most feared (and flirted-with) captain in the New World couldn’t seem to stop touching you.

Not in a creepy way. Not even in a romantic way… at least, not that you noticed.

He’d toss an arm around your shoulders like it was a habit. Rest his hand on your waist when laughing. Tug you into his side when something “dangerous” happened, like a slightly aggressive breeze or a seagull flying too low.

You just chalked it up to him being Shanks.

Until, one bright morning, the crew decided enough was enough.

It started with Benn Beckman sighing dramatically as he walked onto the deck.

“Do you two need a room or something?”

You blinked from where you stood, arms crossed. “We’re not even doing anything.”

Benn pointed. “His hand has been on your lower back for ten minutes.”

Shanks blinked down at his own hand like it betrayed him. “Huh. Didn’t even notice.”

You raised a brow. “Are you okay? Do you have tactile issues?”

Lucky Roux snorted as he passed by with a turkey leg. “Yeah, it’s called ‘falling for someone and not knowing what to do with your hands.’”

Shanks turned red. You remained… utterly unaffected.

“Touch-starved pirate disease,” Lime Juice muttered, jotting fake notes like a doctor. “Tragic. Symptoms include: prolonged physical contact, excessive grinning, and spontaneous cuddling in public.”

Hongo popped his head out of the crow’s nest. “I saw him brush your hair behind your ear during the storm last week.”

“That was because it got in their face,” Shanks defended.

You nodded. “He didn’t want me to get stabbed by my own bangs. Very heroic.”

“You’re wearing a braid,” Yasopp called from the helm.

A long pause.

“…Okay, I’m not good with excuses,” Shanks muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. His hand bumped yours in the process.

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing. “Captain.”

“Yes?”

“You’re touching me again.”

“...I genuinely didn’t notice DAHAHAHA.”

The crew erupted into laughter.

You blinked slowly and glanced down at your joined hands, then back up at him. “You’ve been holding my hand for a minute now. You good?”

“Maybe.”

You stared.

He stared.

“…You’re kinda warm,” he added, grinning.

“I’m wearing gloves.”

“Exactly. Impressive.”

You didn’t smile, but your voice was flat with dry humor. “You wanna marry me, too? Get it over with?”

Shanks choked. “Whoa—what?”

“You’re already touching me like I’m your lover. Might as well commit.”

The crew howled.

“I’m starting to like them more than you, Cap,” Benn said, lighting a cigar.

“They’ve got more bite,” Lime Juice grinned.

Lucky Roux offered you a celebratory turkey leg like a sword. “You just proposed better than he ever could.”

You calmly took it, giving a single nod. “Thanks. I accept my own proposal.”

Shanks was still frozen. “Wait, are we actually engaged now?”

You took a slow bite of the turkey leg, deadpan. “Keep touching me like that, and you’ll owe me alimony.”

ZORO

You were minding your own business—arms crossed, eyes half-lidded, back leaned slightly against the Sunny’s railing—when a familiar weight thunked into your side.

Again.

You didn’t flinch, didn’t glance, didn’t even blink. Just spoke.

“Zoro.”

“What.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what.”

“Treating me like a living chair.”

He grunted. “You’re stable. And not annoying.”

“That’s a compliment?” you asked, still deadpan.

“Take it or leave it.”

The crew had noticed. Of course they had. This was the sixth day in a row Zoro had casually latched onto you like a sleepy barnacle.

“Oi, mosshead!” Sanji snapped, appearing from the galley with smoke swirling and a righteous fury in his eyes. “Get off them, you clingy cucumber!”

Zoro cracked open an eye. “Make me.”

“Oh, I will!” Sanji stomped over dramatically. “Y/N-chwaann shouldn’t have to carry your freeloading swordsman body weight! If anyone deserves to be close to them, it’s me!”

You raised an eyebrow. “You literally tripped into my lap yesterday trying to ‘tie your shoe.’ You were barefoot.”

“It was a metaphor!” Sanji cried. “For falling head over heels!”

Zoro scoffed. “That was the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Says the mossy limpet glued to their side like a touchy fungus!”

Zoro didn’t move. “Jealousy’s not a good look, curly.”

“You—!!”

“Guys,” Nami sighed, “can’t we go one day without turning affection into a shouting match?”

Brook leaned on his cane, chuckling. “Yohohoho! Young love… or something!”

Usopp squinted. “Wait. Has Zoro always been this clingy with Y/N?”

Robin smiled mysteriously. “Since thriller bark, at least.”

Franky nodded solemnly. “Saw him fall asleep on their shoulder mid-battle once. SUPER unconscious.”

“I thought he was dead,” Chopper added, horrified. “Turns out he was just really comfy.”

Zoro’s grip on your shoulder tightened very slightly, and you finally glanced sideways at him.

“Do you know you’re this touchy?” you asked.

He looked like he wanted to evaporate into the deck. “I… just don’t mind you being close.”

You blinked slowly. “Is that samurai code for ‘I like you’?”

Sanji audibly gagged. “Oi! Don’t flirt in front of me!”

“We’re not flirting,” you said.

Zoro mumbled, “Might be.”

Sanji died inside.

“Y/N-chwann” he said gravely, dropping to one knee. “I beg of you—pick me instead! I would never lean on you like a sweaty tree log!”

Zoro growled. “Because you’d faint from being close.”

“AT LEAST I’D DIE HANDSOME!”

You looked between the two of them and sighed.

“I just want to drink my tea without being fought over,” you muttered, walking off—Zoro immediately following, like a shadow with swords.

“You’re still touching me,” you noted.

“Didn’t say I’d stop,” he replied casually.

You stopped walking, turned, and looked him square in the eye.

“You’re aware this is very couple-coded, right?”

He blinked, then grunted. “Guess we should make it official then.”

You blinked right back. “That was fast.”

“Why waste time.”

You smirked just a little. “Romantic.”

He shrugged. “You’re warm. And you don’t talk too much.”

“That’s your idea of a proposal?”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

From behind you, Sanji dramatically screamed into the ocean.

MIHAWK

Kuraigana Island was a wasteland of stone, wind, and uncomfortable silences. You didn’t mind. You were the type to thrive in eerie places — quiet, observant, and allergic to nonsense.

Which is probably why Mihawk didn’t bother with small talk.

Or... so you thought.

Lately, the world’s greatest swordsman had developed a habit of materializing wherever you were. You’d be cleaning a blade — and there he was, pouring tea. You’d sit on the crumbling stone wall for some air — and there he’d be, suddenly trimming the overgrown vines right next to you.

At first, you thought it was coincidence.

Until today.

“...You know you don’t have to sharpen every one of my knives,” you said flatly, watching him work silently at the bench beside you.

“I didn’t,” Mihawk replied, still honing the blade. “Only the dull ones.”

You blinked. “That was my butter knife.”

“Then it was very dull.”

From the far side of the ruins, Zoro grunted as he finished a set of squats. “He refilled their canteen twice this morning.”

“Once,” Mihawk corrected, still not looking up.

“Twice,” Zoro insisted. “Once after breakfast. Then again after they just looked at the sink.”

Perona floated down with a snort. “He also folded their coat. While they were still wearing it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Wait. Is that why my sleeves were shorter for a second?”

“You had a wrinkle.”

“I always have a wrinkle.”

Mihawk looked up with that unreadable expression. “And now you don’t.”

Zoro huffed. “What even is this? He acts like a butler. But like, a scary one.”

Mihawk narrowed his eyes at him. “I’m not a butler.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Perona muttered, arms crossed. “You fixed the strap on their satchel too.”

Mihawk didn’t respond to that.

Perona raised a brow. “You gonna deny it?”

“No,” Mihawk said coolly, “because it was crooked.”

Zoro leaned against a stone pillar, towel around his neck. “He also moved your seat at the dining table.”

“That was my seat,” you said.

Mihawk finally gave you a long, side glance. “You’ve sat on the left for the past four mornings. I simply ensured it remained consistent.”

You deadpanned. “You rearranged the furniture.”

“Briefly.”

Zoro stared. “And when they tripped over that vine—”

“I cut the vine before they fell,” Mihawk snapped with a tone just shy of defensive.

“Bro. You lunged across the courtyard.”

Mihawk sipped his wine calmly. “It was in the way.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And when you pulled me by the hood into the shade the other day?”

“You were overheating.”

“I wasn’t sweating.”

“You were blinking slowly.”

You stared. “That’s just how I blink.”

There was a long pause.

Then Perona gasped. “Wait, wait — you also fixed the strap on their scabbard!”

“I adjusted it. The weight distribution was uneven.”

Zoro clapped once, grinning. “So you are clingy.”

Mihawk’s eyes narrowed, the glint in them sharp and dangerous. “I am not.”

You leaned your chin on your hand, amused. “Then what would you call this?”

He paused. “Awareness.”

Perona lost it. “You mean hyper-awareness. Of one (1) person.”

Mihawk ignored her. “It’s strategic. I simply ensure you're at your most efficient.”

“That’s not efficiency,” Zoro said, wiping his forehead. “That’s doting.”

Mihawk arched a brow. “You think a swordsman cannot be observant?”

“You folded their laundry in order of fabric weight.”

“They prefer it that way.”

You blinked. “I never said that.”

He side-eyed you, expression cool. “You didn’t need to.”

You blinked again.

Zoro grunted. “You see? He’s acting like we’re all weird for noticing.”

Perona jabbed a finger toward him. “He's totally doing the ‘if I act calm, no one will notice I'm obsessed’ thing.”

Mihawk finally gave a soft, tired sigh — the kind that said you people are exhausting.

Then, turning to you, he asked, “Would you like tea?”

“I haven’t said I was thirsty.”

He didn’t blink. “You will be.”

You stared. “Are you psychic?”

“No,” he said simply. “You’re predictable.”

You squinted. “...That sounds like flirting.”

Mihawk blinked slowly. “I don’t flirt.”

Perona groaned. “OH MY GOD—”

Mihawk stood up, cloak sweeping behind him, expression unreadable as always. He held out the canteen like he’d already won this conversation.

You took it with narrowed eyes, muttering, “Thanks... I guess.”

He nodded, calm as ever. “You’re welcome.”

Zoro crossed his arms. “Still denying it?”

Mihawk looked at all of them — then at you — and with perfect poise said,

“I’m just efficient.”

And with that, he turned and walked away.

You stared after him, took a sip from the canteen, and sighed.

“…Efficiently annoying.”

[yanderenightmare]

part one

TW: nsfw, dubcon, blackmail

fem reader

As promised, you receive the pictures in the mail while the payment is forwarded almost emmidiatly. You don’t know which makes you gawk more, the photos of you or the numbers.

You also get an email—an invitation. The photographer is asking you to dinner. Or, asking is putting it nicely—which he most certainly didn’t. It’s phrased like a notice from your boss—matter-of-factly, he’s picking you up at eight, wear something nice.

You think about declining, but then you think about your friend again and how you don’t want to cause her any trouble. A free dinner isn’t really all that bad, is it?

It’s worse, actually.

“You should have told me you didn’t have anything to wear. I would have lent you something,” is the first thing he says when you get in his car. He hadn’t opened the door for you or anything, just sat in the driver’s seat waiting.

And though your cheeks burn with embarrassment, you think you’re foolish for it. You hadn't really dressed to impress him, after all—something you might as well tell him, “Maybe I just didn’t feel like dressing up. You didn’t exactly leave a good impression last time we met, so I don’t believe I owe you anything.”

He scoffs with a grin—face turned towards the road as he starts driving. “You have a lot more bite without your friend.”

“She has too much respect for you.” You cross your arms and look out the window. 

“That’s for sure.” You hear him chuckle, but he doesn’t offer any more of a response. You’re glad to spend the rest of the drive in silence.

You feel underdressed at the restaurant. You hadn’t thought he’d take you somewhere so nice. Most of the other couples there are dressed as if for a gala, while you’re dressed as if you’re going to an office party.

He hasn’t tried too hard himself. But still, he fits in—fat watch on his wrist, kempt hair, neat shoes, dress trousers, and a silk shirt with one too many buttons undone—a nauseating skinny chain beneath the collar as well as the hint of a chest tattoo. You bet it’s one of those dumb tribal inks, probably with some mundane Japanese characters he doesn’t know the meaning of.

“Is this where you undermine all the models desperate for your recognition?” you sigh as you sit down.

“We haven't even gotten our menus, and you’re already causing a scene?” 

He’s the one who was rude the moment you got in the car. In fact, he was rude the minute you met him. “Might as well speed this along.”

He chuckles—his smile genuinely amused instead of angered the way you’d imagined—the way you’d remembered from last time when he sent girls crying. “You know, for a face like that, you have one hell of a tongue.”

He orders wine by the name with ease and swiftness before returning to what he was saying.

“I like that. Most models are dull, but not you.”

“I don’t agree. And I’m a model,” you snip, showing no interest in his flirting.

 “No? Didn’t you see the pictures?” Your attitude doesn’t seem to deter him—rather, it only seems to egg him further on. “I have them all mounted on my walls at home—you should come see.”

This makes you falter. Looking at him from across the table with rounded eyes. “On your walls?”

“Framed.” He smiles, finally having broken through—he only intends to take it further. Not that what he was saying wasn’t true. “I just couldn’t help myself. I consider it my best work.” 

The look on your face is something between disgusted and uncertain—speechless in a sense.

It makes him laugh again. “Does anything flatter you?”

The wine comes. He’s poured a glass for testing.

“Not when spoken by men like you.”

His grin grows as he swirls the liquid around, smelling it like a phony.

“That’s a shame,” he says before taking a sip. He nods to the waiter, and you’re poured a similar glass. Meanwhile, he looks at you. “I’d like to flatter you—I’d like to spoil you even. You seem like you deserve it.”

You sip your glass. “No need.”

“I’m not so sure about that. You currently work at a diner, right?”

You gaze at him from atop your glass, brows furrowing. “How do you—”

“I didn’t.” It’s a lie, of course, he’d searched you up and gone over every little detail he could find. “It’s clear from the looks of you—”

“Fuck you,” you snap, putting your glass down a bit too harshly, enough to make a little wine slip and spill.

He doesn’t mind it. “Oh, I want you to,” he says instead. “After I pay for dinner and drive you back. We can fuck right under my favorite portrait of you.”

You’re stunted by his crude words, but only for a second. “How about we skip dinner, and you go fuck yourself.” 

His smile doesn’t drop, even as you get up to leave. “Settle down, sweetheart.”

“Make me, jackass.” 

You’re on your way to go, but his next words have you halting. 

“Either you humor me, or I make sure your friend never models in the country again.”

You turn around to look at him. You don’t really know why you’re so surprised. The card he just pulled is the very reason you agreed to the dinner in the first place. But an incentive is very different from outright blackmail, and suppose you just hadn’t really believed he’d take it that far.

“It’s my impression you don’t want that,” he continues.

You sit back down. He tops your glass off.

“I could make her big, you know?” he offers while pouring for himself as well. “Really speed her career along—set her up for life. I’ll do the same for you, too, of course.” 

He swirls his wine, lifting it as if to make a toast.

“And all you gotta do is come back home with me.”

You don’t have the words.

“You won’t be disappointed,” he promises. “I’m good at it.” As if that’s your concern. “You’ll never want to fuck anyone else again.”

You hate how right he is. 

You’ve never cum sooner or harder before in your life, not with anyone else or on your own. It’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced—so good, you’re screaming—moaning out in echoes throughout his giant penthouse, bouncing off the marble floors into all unlocked rooms, creating a cacophony of your undeniable pleasure.

He’s on his knees beneath you as you lean with your back against the window overlooking the city, barely able to stand as he buries his face between your soft thighs, canting his chin up while lapping hard at your slit and clit. His hard stare set on your face and the way you throw your head back while cumming in his mouth—your hand tussled in his hair, yanking on it hard enough to make him growl.

Your legs and feet give you little support. It's his hands that keep you up as you slide further and further down the floor-to-ceiling window until you’re almost about ready to drop your weight completely.

But he’s made you come undone three times by then, and just can’t wait any longer. 

He’s spun you around before you know it, making you face the pretty lights of the city skyline—his mouth hot on the shell of your ear, “I told you so, didn’t I?”

Your breath fogs the glass with your panting—knees wobbly, only standing thanks to the thick arms he’s got supporting you, each with a tit in their hand, giving them rough squeezes as he starts pounding away at your womb—hard enough to make the city lights blend in with the stars. 

“You won’t wanna fuck anyone else again.”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Shigaraki, Dabi, Aizawa, Shinso, Overhaul ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Naoya, Toji ♡ HQ – Oikawa ♡ BLLK – Reo, Rin ♡ AOT – Levi ♡ DS – Akaza, Sanemi

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[dcxdpdabbles]

Please update Child Support, it’s hilarious!!!😂

John sighs, slumping on the table. Surrounding him were various bottles of dubious liquids. He found that human alcohol rarely gave him that special kick when he was trying to drink his stress away and would often hop over to a dimension with real fun ones.

He's been under a lot of stress lately.

Danny's potential sutiors were driving him crazy, not to mention the consent fear that he would mess up in a way Clockwork won't take kindly to. His son was slowly finding his footing in this world thanks to the SuperSons. His new school, some posh academy in Gotham, had far stricter policies in regards to bullying, so at least no one had given his boy any grief.

John highly doubted that meant he wasn't facing any verbal abuse. But it was better than the previous five schools he had attempted to send his child to. Danny had even come home one day, waving a permission form to join the astrology club at him, so John figured he owed Batman an enormous thanks. Something like a simple candlelight dinner.

If he could get the stick in the mud to say yes, that was.

"Is everything alright?" Barry asks, patting John on his shoulder. The British man groans into the table top, trying to hide away from the overly cheerful fellow.

He can't handle the Flash right now, not when John has finally gotten a moment of peace.

Sadly, the other didn't seem to get the memo. Barry pats his shoulder again, more insistant than before. John closes his eyes, trying to get the swirling votrex of dancing unicons to vanish from his sight - He did drink far too much Sparkle Shine Ale- as he mutters. "Danny wants to go on a date."

"Ah," Barry's voice takes on a teasing tone. "It's always hard realizing they're growing up."

"You don't understand." John utters in misery. "Dating is different in the Infinete Realms"

"How so?"

"It involves getting parent's permission before hand."

Barry makes a sound that might have been the start of a sentence, but his words are drowned out by a loud and powerful portal ripping the air above them. The rest of the Justice League - for John felt it was safer to get drunk away from his boy and choose to use the company lounge - spring to their feet.

Besides the location of the Watchtower, various security functions had gone into the blueprints of keeping the Justice League safe. Bruce and had installed defenses from paranormal entities. Every inch of the tower had some carvings that were said to be protective wards.

Bruce placed every ward, charm, and protective coating he could find from various cultures of Earth.

John was impressed with the fact Bruce had somehow been able to sniff out the frauds, back when he didn't even know magic was real.

If only they were powerful enough to keep this toerag away from him. John slowly raises his head far enough that his intoxicated eyes can glare at the being, who leaps out of the portal to land on his table with a thump.

"I beg of you, please allow me to date your son!" Klarion, Lord of Choas, drops to one knee and presents a bouquet of the Infinite Realm's most expensive roses. The roses shine and shimmer in various colors and never stay the same for too long. "Our marriage would be a tale for the ages!"

John can't even answer that ridiculous request before another portal rips open, and this time, Asmodeus, a king of demons in a few different realms, falls to his knees beside John's chair. He's in his more humanoid form, having heard the rumor that Danny preference said forms.

He obviously made sure that people would not forget his title of "Demon of lust"with the gorgeous human features he picked out, even if a pair of horns still stuck to his head.

He is presenting John precious jewels that many have lost their lives in an attempt to steal. Mosth had been slain by the lust demon before they even got to glanced at them. "My young lord, I humbly request your approval for your heir's right of dating. I-"

"Get lost! I was here first!" Klarion hisses, flinging magic at the lust demon, "I shall be the one to earn a date!"

"You worthless little worm!" Asmodeus growls, body shifting into a gaint beast that snares at the lord of choas. His once shining jewels now had black spots across them. "Your magic stained my jewels!"

John reaches for his other bottles as yet another voice joins the two arguing higher beings. He doesn't even want to check to see what the rest of the league thinks about all this.

"I, Trox king of the Goblins, have come to humbly request a date with Clockwork's heir -"

"NO! I was here first!"

"I'll shall prove that you worms are not worthy of Lord Danny's hand!"

John wonders, in the far conrers of his mind, if he should attempt to contact Clockwork about this. The emboloment of time was dangerous in a way that would usually mean he would avoid at all costs, but really, he doesn't think he can handle this anymore.

Every day, for the past three months, demons, ghosts, magic users, and whatever else in between would pop up, begging John to approve a date with Danny.

His son unawarely brought this about when he told John one morning before school that he was thinking about joining a dating app some of his classmates were talking about.

His innoccent words had been taken as a request for a mate by every non-human being across the mutiverse and now John was getting bombarded by beings foaming at the mouth, wanting to be the ones that had Clockwork as a in-law.

John was only human, magic powers aside, he couldn't handle this anymore.

Somewhere, he thinks he can hear his ex-lover laughing his ass off.

[kxsagi]

HI GIRLL I WANTED TO MAKE A REQUEST IF THATS ALRIGHT 😍🙏

So could you do a Rin Itoshi x Reader where Rin is basically at a dinner to introduce himself to reader's family as the bf. But the twist is that reader is isagi's sister 😋

Cue Rin and Isagi trying not to have the biggest crashout of the century and Reader awkwardly hoping it goes well.

THANK YOU IF YOU READ THIS LOVE ❤❤

“𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐲”

a/n: LOVE THIS IDEA! cue slursagi and emo boy rin

(dk art credits, might be a rinsagi fanart... but we ball)

it’s almost impressive how quiet the table is. 

the smell of hamburger steak and steamed vegetables wafts gently in the air. forks clink against plates. a chair creaks. your mom offers rin more rice. and no one has died yet. that’s good. 

but you can practically hear the tension crackling between your brother and your boyfriend like electricity waiting to explode. 

"so, rin," isagi starts, voice a little too calm, a little too casual. “how’s football?” 

rin doesn’t look up from his plate. “fine.” 

you smile nervously. “he’s being modest. he just scored twice last week. that match against paris –” 

“yeah, i watched,” isagi cuts in. “saw him miss an open goal too.” 

you kick him under the table. 

“ow –” 

“yoichi,” you say sweetly. “stop.” 

he smiles at you like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. you know better. this man invented the passive-aggressive sibling glare. he's practically vibrating with the urge to deck rin in the bowl of rice. 

"i'm just making conversation," he says innocently, stabbing a carrot like it personally insulted him. 

rin finally lifts his eyes. cool, expressionless. his default setting. "not everyone’s obsessed with egoist football,” he mutters. 

you grip your fork a little tighter. here we go. 

your mom laughs awkwardly. “you boys must really push each other, huh? rivals on the field, but friends off it?” 

rin and isagi speak at the same time. 

“not friends.” 

“definitely not friends.” 

you cough. your dad blinks like he just realized there’s a war happening across the dinner table. he leans over, pointing at rin and whispering, “that’s the scary one from PXG, right?” 

rin hears it. his eye twitches. you give his thigh a little squeeze under the table and shoot him a look: please don’t murder my entire bloodline. 

he exhales through his nose like a bull about to charge. 

“he’s not scary,” you say quickly. “he’s actually very sweet. he makes me ochazuke when i don’t feel well.” 

your mom softens. “awww.” 

isagi scoffs. “so scary and bland. what a combo.” 

“yoichi!” 

rin’s eyes narrow. “at least i don’t make bets every time i miss a goal.” 

“oh, you know about that?” 

“you do it on blue lock TV. how could i not.” 

“okay, first of all –” 

“guys,” you hiss, grabbing both their wrists before someone hurls a fork. “we are not doing this at a dinner my mother cooked.” 

they freeze. both look at you. and then look away from each other like you’ve just caught them about to throw down on a playground. 

a tense silence follows. rin mutters something under his breath that sounds like “he started it.” isagi looks like he’s about to flip the table just to prove a point. 

your dad, bless him, clears his throat. “so… how did you two meet?” 

“through football,” you say quickly. 

“at a charity match,” rin adds. 

“you mean the one i invited her to?” isagi says dryly. “the one i was playing in?” 

“and yet you were the least interesting person there,” rin replies, tone flat as ever. 

you close your eyes. 

you can already imagine the headlines: 

“itoshi rin hospitalized after chopstick-to-neck incident at isagi family dinner.” 

“local woman flees country after boyfriend and brother ruin japanese thanksgiving.” 

but then your mom starts laughing. like, genuinely laughing. 

“oh, you two are hilarious,” she says, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “you really do act like brothers already!” 

isagi looks mildly horrified. rin looks like he’s having an out-of-body experience. 

you force a laugh, like ha ha, yeah, siblings, what a delightfully cursed image, and take a huge sip of water to drown your scream. 

rin leans toward you, voice low. “i can’t do this.” 

you lean in too. “you can do this. please. i swear if you survive this, i’ll let you pick the movie for a month.” 

he eyes you. “even the depressing ones?” 

you sigh. “yes. even the ones where everyone dies and the soundtrack is just wind noises.” “… fine.” 

you turn back just in time to see isagi watching the two of you like he’s trying to solve a murder mystery, fork mid-air. 

"you two whisper a lot," he says slowly. "anything you wanna share with the class?" 

“just relationship things,” rin replies, bland as ever. “not that you could relate.”  

you choke. 

isagi glares. “i swear to –” 

“yoichi,” your mom says again, this time with the full mom voice. “be nice.” 

“he dunked on me in front of the vegetables!” 

you sigh, finally collapsing back into your chair. your plate’s gone cold. your water is empty. your soul has left your body. 

but somehow, when the dishes are cleared and the dessert’s been eaten (only slightly poisoned by sarcasm), you find yourself walking rin out to the door as your family settles back into the living room. 

he exhales. “that was…” 

“a war crime,” you offer. 

“i was gonna say ‘tense,’ but sure.” 

you give him a look. “you two are going to kill each other someday.” 

rin shrugs. “worth it.” 

“worth it???” 

he reaches down and laces his fingers with yours. his hand is warm despite the cold look he wore the entire evening. 

“i’d fight him a hundred times if it means i get to keep you.” 

you blink. heart skipping. “… that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said.” 

“don’t get used to it.” 

you smile, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “thanks for surviving my family.” 

rin grunts. “barely.” 

behind you, the front door opens a crack. isagi peeks out. “hey, rin?” 

rin turns his head, cool and calm like always. 

“next time you come over, i’m arm-wrestling you for her.” 

rin raises an eyebrow. “… next time, i’m bringing a ring.” 

you nearly trip on your own doorstep. 

isagi stares, blinking. “a what?” 

“goodnight,” rin says, not even looking back as he walks away. 

you’re frozen on the steps, ears burning. 

inside, isagi screams, “MOM HE’S PROPOSING –” 

door slammed. silence. 

you turn to rin with wide eyes. “a ring?!” 

he shrugs. “wasn’t planning on losing, anyway.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[bitchy-craft]

PICK A CARD: Uplifting messages from your spirit guides

Hello and welcome to this pick a card! In here I will give you some uplifting messages from your spirit guides. I hope you guys enjoy and find this interesting!

masterpost > paid readings > patreon masterlist

The extended version of this reading is found on my Patreon, the link of which is here.

Pile 1:

There is no one in the world who is as funny and intelligent as you.

People who complain about your personality simply have none of their own.

It is okay to be upset and to be influenced by others’ their words, even if they’re nonsense.

You are going to make it very far in life, we can see it all.

You need to give yourself more credit because you’ve grown so much over the years, god knows why you don’t see it yet.

Slow progress is still progress; no one shoots up and continues to do so for the rest of their lives.

You’ve survived so many bad days so far, it is proof that you are strong and resilient.

It is okay to rest and not be productive every single day. You are no machine.

You are allowed to be proud of yourself for things others might consider normal or unimpressive; they’re impressive for you.

You’ve got a softness the world needs, but at the same time a softness that is too good for this world.

extended reading > paid readings

Pile 2:

You do not owe anyone an explanation about your (mental) health.

Crying and feeling emotions don’t make you weak, it makes you real.

Your progress doesn’t need to look like anyone else’s, you are unique so you have unique progress.

Just because you are struggling doesn’t mean you are failing.

You’re allowed to start over as much as you want; eventually you’ll get it.

You make a difference in people’s lives; you help people enjoy life.

You are too much of a perfectionist, be kind to yourself.

It’s okay if you aren’t who you were before, everyone grows and changes. You get shaped by experiences, and the older you get the more you have.

There is still light and hope inside of you; you’re not gone yet, you’re still fighting in there. Keep going.

You don’t have to be productive in order to be of value.

extended reading > paid readings

Pile 3:

You don’t owe anyone a version of you that makes them comfortable if it isn’t authentically you.

It’s not all in your head; you’re onto something.

You’re more powerful than you think, stop doubting yourself.

Being soft in a hard world is brave.

You don’t need permission to take care of yourself and listen to your body; do what you need to do.

It is okay to want more. One can be grateful but still wish for more than the bare minimum.

You weren’t made to please everyone around you.

Not all energies are meant to align; sometimes you just don’t get along with others for no reason, and that is alright.

It’s okay to change your mind; it is normal and natural.

You’re not annoying for reassurance, it is human. Voice your needs.

extended reading > paid readings

[magnagaruzenmon]

The Trader

I had Dio help me write this first person story inspired by @lustspren’s flashing light stories

It always surprised me where my business would take me. One day, I was sipping champagne on a yacht in international waters, watching kings and criminals swap secrets. Today, it was somewhere quieter—but no less dangerous.

I pulled into the parking lot of a glitzy, low-lit establishment, the kind that smelled like money, sex, and expensive regret. Stepping out of my car, I barely had time to straighten my jacket before a mountain of a man blocked my path. Tattoos snaked up his arms, and his expression could have made a brick wall flinch.

“You better have good reason for being here,” he said, his English clipped but clear.

I raised my hands, keeping my tone light.

“I do.” I flipped through my notes, just for show. “I’m here to meet Daisuke and Takuya.”

He squinted, suspicious.

“You an American?”

I nodded, smiling easy.

“Born and raised. I specialize in moving rare, exotic, and priceless goods between parties—without involving U.S. dollars. Discreetly.”

He stepped closer, the air thickening between us—until a smooth, commanding voice slid in.

“Leave him alone, Takashi.”

The man stiffened, turning, and I took the opportunity to step around him. That’s when I saw her.

A young woman with striking silver hair and a figure that could make priests reconsider their vows strolled toward me. Her hips swayed lazily, her eyes full of trouble—and the kind of heat you don’t walk away from unscathed.

“You’re not from around here,” she teased, stopping close enough that I caught a hint of vanilla and danger on her skin.

I nodded, my gaze shameless.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” I said, not even trying to filter myself.

She smiled, slow and pleased, before turning to Takashi.

“I’ll watch him. Go stand guard for the bosses’ boyfriend,” she said, her tone dripping with amusement. Takashi grumbled under his breath but obeyed, casting one last warning look my way.

Without missing a beat, the woman grabbed my wrist—her touch light but deliberate—and pulled me toward the door.

“Name’s Sana,” she said, glancing at me from under thick lashes. “And you, stranger, owe me one.”

Still dazed from the way her hand fit against mine, I managed,

“Danzaborou… but call me Danzo.”

She laughed, a soft, wicked sound that curled around me like smoke.

“Danzo, huh? Cute.” She smiles as she guides me but my eyes are glued to her vile waist and ass. Sana purrs saying,” Take a picture—it’ll last longer,” she teased, catching me staring.

Feeling bolder, I let my gaze sweep her figure again—slow, deliberate.

“What if I want more than a picture?” I said, my voice low. “What’s your price?”

Sana stopped abruptly, forcing me to stop too. She turned, dragging her fingers lightly down my chest, the touch leaving a trail of fire.

“You couldn’t afford me,” she said, voice dropping to a whisper that brushed against my lips.

I leaned in just a little closer, smirking.

“I deal in rare treasures,” I murmured. “I pay well.”

She chuckled darkly, her fingers still lingering on me.

“Oh? In what currency?” she teased, tilting her head. “Dollars? Diamonds? Or maybe something a little more… intimate?”

I arched a brow, loving how she played the game.

“I’m fluent in several forms of payment,” I said, letting my voice dip low. “You just have to name your price.”

Sana laughed, a sound so rich it sent shivers down my spine. She leaned in, her lips a breath away from mine.

“Maybe I’ll let you make me an offer later,” she whispered. “If you impress me.”

She pulled back, her fingers sliding away from my chest way too slowly, before adding with a smirk,

“Finish your business first, Danzo… then meet me upstairs. Second floor. I’ll be waiting.”

She gave me one last, lingering look—like she was already imagining how I might pay up—then turned and disappeared into the dark velvet interior of the club, leaving my pulse hammering in my ears.

Yeah. Business could wait. Sana had just made sure of that.

I nodded as Sana glided away, unable to stop my eyes from following the hypnotic sway of her hips as she ascended the stairs. Her body moved with the kind of effortless confidence that could start wars. Halfway up, she glanced back over her shoulder, locking eyes with me. A slow, knowing smile curved her lips, and with a playful flick of her fingers, she gave a little shooing motion.

It snapped me out of my trance, reluctantly reminding me I still had business to handle.

The Weeknd’s “Cry for Me” pulsed through the speakers, the heavy beat thudding in time with my racing pulse as I made my way deeper into the club. The atmosphere inside was thick—dim lights, velvet booths, the faint haze of expensive cigars. Even as I moved toward my goal, I couldn’t help but glance up to the second floor every few steps, where Sana had disappeared like a forbidden promise.

Focus, Danzo. Business first.

I found Takuya and Daisuke posted up at the bar, laughing and sloppily clinking glasses. They looked a few drinks past sober, deep in the kind of rich-boy debauchery only people with too much money and too little responsibility could pull off.

Behind the bar, I spotted someone I hadn’t seen in years—Aeri Uchinaga, though everyone here seemed to know her better as Giselle. She hadn’t changed much: same mischievous eyes, same quick smile. Her gaze landed on me, widening in surprise.

“Danzo?” she gasped, blinking like she wasn’t sure she was seeing right. She leaned over the bar slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “What the hell are you doing here?”

I jerked a thumb toward the two businessmen, grinning.

“Work,” I said simply.

Takuya and Daisuke finally noticed me standing there. They spun around on their stools, half-sloshing their drinks.

“Ah, Danzo-san!” Takuya slurred happily, clapping me hard on the back. “Did you bring the item?”

I nodded and reached into my jacket, pulling out a sleek, heavily padded case. I cracked it open just enough for them to see inside.

“Ancient Trojan wine,” I said, my voice low and smooth. “Cultivated and sealed hundreds of years ago. Still fresh. Still potent.”

The two men let out twin shouts of celebration, practically falling over each other in excitement. Their eyes gleamed with the greedy thrill of the rare and forbidden.

Without much ceremony, Daisuke handed me a slim, black leather case in return. I accepted it carefully, my fingers itching with anticipation.

I popped the clasps and opened it just a fraction—enough to see the gleam of the blade inside.

“The Dragon Scale Dagger,” I murmured, awe creeping into my tone. The craftsmanship was exquisite—myth made real.

I tucked the case securely under my arm and gave the men a respectful nod.

“Pleasure doing business.”

Takuya and Daisuke barely acknowledged me, already turning their attention back to Giselle and her co-bartender, hurling slurred pickup lines in broken English and even worse Japanese. Giselle shot me a helpless look over their heads, half-laughing, half-pleading for rescue.

I chuckled under my breath. Some things never changed.

Sliding away from the chaos, I spared one last glance at the dagger case—and then my gaze drifted back up to the second floor.

Sana was waiting.

The thought alone tightened something low in my gut as I crossed the floor toward the stairs. I barely made it halfway before I felt hands—small, sure, and electric—wrap around my waist from behind. Her scent hit me next: warm, sweet, and faintly dangerous. Vanilla and something sharper, like adrenaline.

“Not so fast,” Sana whispered against my ear, her breath a tantalizing brush against my skin. “Let’s take this to the dance floor first.”

Before I could respond, she slid her hand down to my wrist, fingers looping around it with a featherlight grip that somehow felt like a leash. With a playful tug, she pulled me off course, weaving us through the crowd.

The music shifted into something darker, heavier. The bassline thrummed through the floor and straight into my bloodstream.

Sana didn’t give me a chance to find my footing. She spun into me, her back pressing flush against my chest. Without missing a beat, she guided my hands to her hips, her touch lingering on mine, her body molding against me like we’d done this a hundred times before.

Her hips started to move, slow and hypnotic, rolling in time with the music. I felt every curve, every subtle shift of her body, and it took everything I had not to lose myself right then and there. She leaned her head back against my shoulder, her hair brushing my jawline, her fingers trailing up my arms with agonizing slowness.

“You’re tense,” she murmured, voice a velvet tease.

I chuckled low in my throat, tightening my grip on her hips just a little.

“Can you blame me?” I said, my lips dangerously close to the shell of her ear.

She laughed, the sound sending a jolt of heat straight through me. Slowly, she turned in my arms to face me, her body never breaking rhythm. Her hands slid up my chest, fingers tracing the edges of my jacket, before slipping behind my neck and pulling me even closer.

Our bodies moved together, perfectly synced—her curves pressing into every line of me, her mouth hovering just a breath away from mine. It was a dance, but it felt like a negotiation. A dare.

Her eyes, dark and glittering, locked onto mine as she dragged her fingertips lightly along my jaw, a teasing ghost of a touch that made my skin burn.

“You’re good at following instructions,” she said, smirking.

I smirked back, my hands roaming up from her hips to the small of her back, pressing her even closer.

“I’m better at giving them,” I murmured.

For a moment, the air between us crackled—pure, raw tension. I was sure she could feel the heat rolling off me, just like I could feel her heart pounding against my chest.

Then Sana smiled, slow and wicked. She pushed up onto her toes, her lips brushing the corner of my mouth in a kiss that wasn’t really a kiss—just a taste. A threat. A promise.

“Come find me when you’re ready to stop playing,” she whispered.

With that, she slipped away from my grasp, vanishing into the crowd like smoke, leaving me standing there, heart hammering, body burning for more.

And I knew one thing for certain.

I wasn’t leaving this place without her.

⸻

I followed the scent of vanilla and danger, weaving through the pulse of the club. The crowd shifted around me like smoke, neon lights slicing the air in hypnotic flashes.

As I moved, the Kehlani remix by Joran Adentunji spilled from the speakers, setting a thick, sensual tone. My focus narrowed, instincts pulling me forward, until I spotted her again.

When I finally closed the distance, Future’s Brazzier was booming through the speakers, vibrating through the floor. Sana was perched on a plush booth seat, flanked by two other women—both jaw-dropping in their own right. If beauty was currency, they were billionaires.

I couldn’t help but chuckle as I approached, hands slipping casually into my pockets.

“Is it something in the water that makes you all gorgeous?” I teased.

Sana and the longer-haired girl exchanged a look, grinning mischievously. Then they said something in rapid-fire Japanese, probably assuming I wouldn’t understand. But I caught it easily.

“See, boss? He’s a charmer.”

The third woman, shorter hair framing her sharp, playful smile, leaned in with a glint in her eye.

“Let’s see if he can cash the check his mouth is writing.”

I smirked, playing along.

“That depends on the price… and what I get in return.”

All three women looked momentarily surprised, except for the short-haired one who just smiled wider, clearly intrigued.

“You’re interesting,” she said, tilting her head as if evaluating a prize.

I shrugged, nonchalant.

“So… what’s the price?”

The short-haired woman straightened her posture, her tone slipping into something more formal.

“I’m Momo,” she said smoothly. “Sana here pulls in roughly 2.5 million a year. If you can give us 5.7 million, she’s yours.”

The number might have staggered a lesser man. And while I had been a little drunk off Sana’s attention, business always had a way of clearing my head like a slap of cold water.

I raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“I’m not in the market to buy her,” I said, voice cool, measured. “I don’t traffic people. I just want access to her time—and maybe some help on jobs. Besides…” I added, giving Sana a look that made her cheeks tint slightly, “you’re definitely lowballing her value. But I digress.”

I slipped a small notepad out of my jacket and scribbled something on it with a flourish. Then I tore the page clean and laid it on the table in front of Momo.

“If you’re serious about doing business,” I said, tapping the address and time I’d written, “meet me there. A week from today. We’ll talk like professionals.”

Momo leaned back, studying me. Then she smiled, slow and shark-like.

“Wait,” she said. “As a token of goodwill… take Sana with you tonight.”

I narrowed my eyes, immediately suspicious.

“What’s the catch?”

The longer-haired girl, her beauty a little more ethereal, leaned forward and rested her chin in her palm. Her smile was pure mischief.

“There’s no catch,” she purred. “Think of Sana as collateral. If we show up at the meeting, negotiations start. If we don’t… she’s yours. Permanently.”

My instincts screamed at me to look deeper, to find the trap hidden under all those sweet smiles. But all I saw were those same knowing, predatory grins.

Still… it wasn’t every day the devil handed you an angel on a silver platter.

I gave a slow, cautious nod.

“Okay.”

Absolutely! Here’s the continuation, with that extra layer of tension you wanted:

⸻

Before I could rethink it, Sana sprang to her feet, her face lighting up like a kid promised candy. She skipped over to me, a little too happy for someone supposedly being handed off like a poker chip.

She looped her arm through mine, her body heat seeping into me, and looked up with a sly smile.

“Looks like you’re stuck with me, Danzo.”

I smirked, steadying my heartbeat as she tugged me toward the exit.

As we turned to leave, I caught a flash of movement from the corner of my eye. Momo leaned over to the longer-haired woman—Mina, if my memory served right—and whispered something, just low enough they probably thought I couldn’t hear.

“Let’s see if he passes his test, Mina.”

“Well,” Mina murmured back, amusement lacing her voice, “he’s the first one that Sana brought to us not to kick out… so we’ll see.”

Their laughter was soft, but razor-sharp. They weren’t just handing Sana off to me—they were watching.

The back of my neck prickled. This was a setup. A test, a trap, a game… maybe all three. And the prize? Sana, who was now humming under her breath and pressing her body closer as we pushed through the thick crowd.

Outside, the air was cool and heavy with the scent of rain. The flashing lights of the club faded into a murmur behind us. For a second, it was just the two of us, under the buzzing glow of a streetlamp.

Sana tugged me to a stop and looked up at me, eyes glinting wickedly.

“So… where are you taking me, Mr. Exotic Goods?” she teased, voice low and inviting.

I smiled, slow and dangerous, feeling the weight of invisible eyes still lingering on my back.

“Somewhere we can talk without an audience,” I said, thumbing the keys to my car.

Sana bit her lip, clearly enjoying the game, as she followed me. As we walked, her fingers brushed against my hand—soft, deliberate touches that sparked fire up my arm.

I could tell she was still testing me too.

The real question wasn’t if I passed.

It was how hard they were going to make me fight to win.

I drove us to the villa I was staying at, tucked away in the hills—a quiet place far from the noise of the city. As I parked, Sana stayed close, her presence a constant hum in my senses. Even when I couldn’t see her, the scent of vanilla and danger clung to the air around me like smoke.

“Is this place yours?” she asked, her voice curious but still edged with that ever-present flirtation.

I nodded, unlocking the door. She stepped inside and twirled slowly, taking in the rustic, warm interior—soft leather furniture, wood accents, and a fire quietly crackling in the hearth.

“Huh. Cozy. Warm.” She grinned. “Not what I usually expect from someone who does… whatever it is you do. Business tycoons usually go for cold, sterile, and soulless.”

I turned to her, amused.

“I’m not a business tycoon.”

That’s when I registered her outfit—and damn near forgot what I was saying.

At some point, she had changed. Now she wore a fiery red crop top that hugged her like a second skin and black pants that clung lovingly to every curve. She caught me staring and smiled, slow and wicked.

“Oh, I know you’re not a business tycoon.” She sauntered closer, hips swaying in a lazy, devastating rhythm. “You’re way more interesting. So, tell me, Mr. Mystery—what’s your story?”

Without waiting for an invitation, she straddled my lap, settling in like she belonged there. Her body was a delicious heat against mine, and her gaze pinned me down harder than any weight could.

I cleared my throat, forcing my brain to function.

“I was a stock trader once. Made a killing, lost a fortune when the market crashed. Got disillusioned. Switched to museum curation for a while… which led to my first few ‘trades.’” I smiled at the memory. “A T. rex skull here for a priceless painting there. Found out I was good at moving rare things. Better than sitting behind a desk, anyway. So I quit, and here we are.”

Sana’s fingers found mine, her hands small but strong as she laced them together.

“So you’re simple after all,” she said with a soft, approving smile. “I like simple.”

Her thumb brushed over my knuckles—barely a touch, but it shot straight to my gut.

“Tell me,” she purred, voice turning to silk, “what’s the craziest trade you’ve ever made?”

I laughed, feeling the tension between us thicken.

“Traded a Bad Dragon toy for an A-5 bull and cow.”

Sana’s eyes widened, then a deep, smoky laugh slipped from her throat.

“Well… that’s certainly a trade.” Her voice dropped an octave, thick with seduction now, every syllable wrapping around me like velvet.

Her gaze flicked up to meet mine, smoldering, daring me.

“So out of the whole club… why me?”

She leaned in, so close I could feel her breath ghosting across my lips. Her eyes burned with a heat that could’ve melted steel beams.

I didn’t hesitate.

“I like pretty things. And you, darling…” I trailed my fingers up her arm slowly, savoring the way her skin shivered under my touch. “You’re a very, very pretty thing.”

For a moment, her expression cracked—something sweet flickered in her smile. She slipped off my lap with a graceful twirl, laughing, the sound light and melodic, teasing but not cruel.

“You’re sweet,” she said, licking her bottom lip playfully. “I wonder if you taste just as sweet.”

Before I could react, she began to dance. No music yet—just the sound of the fire and the steady thud of my heart. She moved with practiced grace, every sway of her hips and tilt of her head a deliberate temptation.

“Put on your sexiest playlist,” she called over her shoulder, tossing me a mischievous glance.

I shrugged, playing along, and cued it up.

The first few notes of Bandit by Don Toliver drifted through the villa’s sound system. The beat was slow, hypnotic, predatory.

Sana swayed to the rhythm like it lived in her bloodstream, her movements a dangerous cocktail of raw sensuality and teasing playfulness. Her fingers trailed along the hem of her crop top, flashing slivers of skin. Her eyes stayed locked on mine, daring me to move, to break, to do anything but sit and watch.

And God, did I want to do more than watch.

She was the most intoxicating thing I had ever seen—and the most dangerous.

She smiled as she neared me. “I’m yours for the next few days what do you want to do with me?”

I groan as she straddles me and I say, “I want to kiss you, I want to fuck you. Damn it I want all of you,”

Sana smiled as she finally said, “then take me. I groan with unbearable arousal as she kisses me. She tastes sweet as she grinds her hips into my surging cock. It strains against my pants as Sana slides up and down my length whispering sweet nothings into my ear.

“I can’t fuck you yet but I can still give you some relief. Sana says as she moves down. She opens my pants slowly tortuously so she smiles as she lifts her top over her head and shoulders. She smiles seductively as her bare breasts bounce freely. She leans in close before giving my cock several slow arousing and tortuous kisses. I groan as she kisses all over my length. Her breath hot and so sexy. As she takes a break from kissing she smiles as she looks up at me,

“Did you fall in love with me yet,” she asks innocently as she her seductive side takes a back seat to her bubbly side. It’s then I notice her big brown eyes staring at me with the an innocent look of intrigue like she wasn’t gonna make me blow any second, without a word she starts stroking me while looking up at me expectantly,

“Are you gonna answer,” she asks and before can think my cock explodes all over her face. She giggles happily as my balls expel themselves all over her face and chest. The vixen returns as she says, “guess I got my answer.” Before leaving to go shower.

Despite the small respite I’m still hard for her. I now know I need her more than ever. So I make some calls.

After Sana’s shower The villa was quiet, save for the occasional crackle from the fireplace. Outside, the world had gone still, the ocean waves a distant hum against the night air. Inside, the atmosphere was soft, warm—almost too perfect for two people who were supposed to be on opposite sides of a deal.

Sana sat curled up on the couch, her legs tucked underneath her, nursing a mug of hot cocoa I had thrown together from whatever the villa’s kitchen had. She wore one of my old shirts, slightly too big on her—it was grey with a familiar, bold print across the chest. A silver wolf’s head gleamed against the fabric.

I smirked as I settled into the armchair across from her.

“You know that’s a Gaosilver shirt, right?” I teased.

She looked down at herself, then back at me with a sheepish little grin.

“Yeah,” she said casually, but I could see the slight blush creeping into her cheeks. “I kinda…borrowed it. It’s comfy.”

I chuckled and shook my head.

“Figures you’d steal that one.”

Sana sipped her cocoa, then tucked the mug against her chest, clearly debating something. After a long moment, she gave a little shrug and said, almost too quickly,

“I used to love Super Sentai as a kid.”

I blinked, surprised—and then grinned wide.

“Oh, now you have to elaborate,” I said, leaning forward, absolutely delighted.

She pouted dramatically, hiding her face behind the mug.

“Nooo, you’ll make fun of me.”

“Too late for that,” I said, laughing. “Come on, spill it.”

She sighed in defeat, her cheeks turning pinker.

“Fine. When I was little, I used to do all the poses. Like… religiously. I even made my own team. I was always the silver ranger. Obviously.”

I couldn’t help it—I burst out laughing, the image of a tiny, fierce Sana striking Super Sentai poses way too much for me.

“You’re killing me,” I said between laughs. “You? Little Sana doing ‘heroic poses’ in the mirror?”

She grinned, unabashed now.

“Yeah. Full commitment, too. Like, shouting the names and everything. ‘Silver Breaker Attack!’” she said, striking a very dramatic pose from the couch.

I clutched my sides.

“That’s amazing. God, I thought I was the only one still into that stuff.”

She perked up instantly, her bubbly side shining through even more.

“Wait, you still like Super Sentai?”

“Of course I do,” I said, grinning. “GaoSilver was the coolest. Stoic loner with a wolf spirit? Peak character design.”

Sana laughed brightly, wiggling her fingers at the logo on her shirt.

“Guess fate decided I was destined to wear this then.”

The moment felt easy, natural. Like two old friends swapping memories instead of two strangers who met only a night ago.

Eventually, Sana stretched her arms above her head, the shirt riding up slightly, revealing just a hint of skin before she let out a long, satisfied sigh.

“This has been…nice,” she said softly.

“Yeah,” I agreed, voice low. “It really has.”

She looked over at me with a lazy, warm smile, the firelight making her eyes shimmer. Then, without a word, she scooted closer and curled up against the armrest of the couch, hugging one of the throw pillows to her chest.

I got up and fetched a blanket, tossing it over her gently. She murmured a sleepy thanks, already half-dozing, her hair fanning out like a halo against the pillow.

I paused, watching her for a moment. It was strange seeing her like this—unguarded, relaxed, vulnerable.

Bubbly, bright, real.

I quietly turned off the last of the lights, leaving only the soft flicker of the fire, and headed to my own room. As I closed the door behind me, I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face.

Later, lying in bed, I stared up at the ceiling, the room dim and quiet except for the faint crackle of the fire still going in the living room.

I tried to close my eyes, tried to think about my upcoming trip, the negotiations, the deal I’d set up with Momo and Mina—but instead, all I could see was Sana on the couch, grinning like a kid, striking that ridiculously adorable “Silver Breaker Attack” pose.

I huffed out a quiet laugh, running a hand over my face.

God, she’s dangerous in more ways than one.

It wasn’t just her looks or her charm—it was this side of her too. The real side. The side she probably didn’t show often, if ever.

I turned onto my side, burying my face in the pillow. The scent of vanilla and something a little wilder lingered faintly in the air, wrapping around me like a memory.

Silver Breaker Attack, I thought again, and smiled before finally letting sleep pull me under.

Somehow, I had a feeling the morning was going to be just as interesting.

The smell of sizzling eggs and toasted bread filled the kitchen. Morning sunlight spilled lazily through the villa’s windows, casting long, golden beams across the counter where I worked. Sana sat at the island, her hair tousled from sleep, wearing one of my shirts that hung loose on her small frame.

She watched me with half-lidded eyes, legs swinging lazily as she leaned her chin in her hands, the very picture of casual, adorable mischief.

“You’re full of surprises, Danzo,” she said, smiling as she absently traced circles on the marble countertop. “Didn’t peg you for the domestic type.”

I smirked over my shoulder.

“Everyone’s gotta eat.”

I slid two plates onto the counter—eggs, bacon, and buttered toast. Simple, hearty. Sana immediately perked up, scooting closer with a small, eager hum that made her sound less like a dangerous siren and more like a happy kitten.

She wasted no time digging in, taking a bite of toast and letting out a small, satisfied moan.

“Oh my god, this is so good,” she said between bites, her eyes lighting up. “Where have you been hiding these skills, Danzo?”

I just shrugged, grabbing my own plate and leaning against the counter.

As she picked at her eggs, Sana looked up at me with a mischievous glint.

“So… how much would it cost to make you my house husband?”

I almost dropped my fork. I shot her a smirk and fired back without missing a beat,

“You couldn’t afford me.”

Sana burst out laughing, a bright, melodic sound that filled the entire room and made the morning feel even lighter. She covered her mouth, still giggling, her eyes crinkling with genuine joy.

“Cocky and a good cook,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re dangerous, Danzo.”

“You’re one to talk,” I said, grinning.

After a few more bites, Sana leaned back, clearly enjoying the moment. The way she looked at me now—comfortable, warm—was different than last night’s teasing seductress. She looked like a real person, someone who felt at ease, someone who trusted me, even if just a little.

Then, as if remembering something, she set her fork down and asked casually,

“So… why’d you really want the Dragon Scale Dagger?”

I wiped my mouth with a napkin, then leaned back against the counter.

“It’s not for me. A martial arts teacher named Mikoto wants it. He made it the price of admission, so to speak.”

Sana tilted her head, curious.

“Admission?”

I nodded.

“He created a martial art called Abare—it’s an offshoot of Muay Thai that is almost all offensive. No blocks, no evasion. All momentum, all instinct. He said if I brought him the Dragon Scale Dagger, he’d train me. No dagger, no lessons.”

Sana’s fork paused halfway to her mouth as the pieces clicked into place.

“Ohhh,” she said slowly, a sly little grin creeping across her face. “And you’re flying back to Japan in a few days…”

She tapped her chin thoughtfully, then grinned even wider.

“Which means… you’ll do my trade the day before you go meet your scary martial arts sensei.”

I chuckled, setting my plate down.

“That’s the plan.”

Satisfied, Sana leaned back in her chair again, the soft, bubbly side of her coming out even more. She kicked her legs lightly, humming a little tune as she finished off her eggs, clearly savoring both the food and the easy, peaceful morning.

Curious, I leaned in and asked,

“So how does someone like you end up dancing for Mina’s club anyway?”

Sana blinked, then grinned, setting her fork down with a little clink.

“That obvious, huh?”

I raised an eyebrow.

“You’re too… dangerous to be a regular employee.”

She laughed softly, the sound bright and genuine.

“Well, Mina found me first. I used to dance just for fun—street shows, little performances. I loved the way it made me feel. Free, powerful, seen. Mina saw one of my shows, liked my style, and offered me a job. Said I could make real money doing what I already loved.”

She shrugged, a soft, almost wistful look passing over her face.

“At first, I said no. I thought clubs were just… sketchy. But Mina’s different. She and Momo run the place tight. Safe, classy, exclusive. No creeps. No chaos. They needed someone who could dance and handle herself if things ever got ugly. So they trained me.”

I nodded slowly, watching her. It made sense now. The way she moved—like a weapon disguised as a work of art.

Sana tilted her head at me, playful again.

“And now? I get to dance, be free, and sometimes… test people like you.”

I smirked.

“Lucky me.”

She giggled again, and this time it was even softer, sweeter. She leaned her cheek into her palm, watching me with a sleepy, content smile.

“Very lucky,” she murmured. “And you make a mean breakfast too. Guess I’m keeping you.”

“Again—” I pointed at her with my fork—“you can’t afford me.”

Another peal of laughter escaped her, and for a second the whole villa felt lighter, more alive.

We spent the rest of the day curled up together, switching between different anime: Spy x Family, Oresuki, and a little bit of Bleach. It was easy. Peaceful in a way I hadn’t realized I needed.

It also made me painfully aware of how lonely I’d been.

Sana, when she wasn’t lust and temptation personified, was sweet. Genuinely sweet—with a wicked, playful sense of humor that could leave me laughing until my stomach hurt.

I found myself shocked at how naturally time slipped by with her. So naturally that somewhere between Anya’s antics and Sakurako’s schemes, I caught myself daydreaming: Me, her, a little house, a couple of kids. Me cooking breakfast in an apron while she worked as a model or something equally glamorous.

It was a dangerous thought. But it also felt… oddly comforting.

Eventually, somewhere deep into the Bleach rewatch, Sana flopped onto her side with a dramatic groan.

“Okay, I’m bored of Ichigo and his never-ending yelling,” she said. “Do you have any Sentai stuff?”

I raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Nope. All my weeb hoard is at my Japan house. But we could watch Red Ranger Is an Adventurer in Another World if you want.”

Sana lit up immediately. “Wait, you have a house in Japan? How’d you swing that?”

I chuckled and stretched my arms behind my head. “An older ‘retired’ Yakuza boss wanted a rare, ridiculously expensive doll for his daughter. I got it for him. In return, he found me a fixer-upper house for my troubles. After i got the keys I found a few talented contractors who needed the experience, and since then I’ve sent them enough referrals to pay them back fifteen times over.”

Sana blinked at me, a slow smile forming. “All that interaction… and yet you seem like such an introvert.”

She leaned in, brushing her fingers against my cheek.

It wasn’t a seductive touch—it was yearning, almost reverent—and it made my chest tighten painfully.

I swallowed. “I am an introvert,” I said, voice a little rough. “But I’ve made connections by liking pretty things… and getting pretty things for others.”

Our faces were close now. Too close. Our foreheads brushed, and I found myself drowning in her warm, dark eyes.

For once, she wasn’t teasing or trying to seduce me. She was just Sana—young, vulnerable, and heartbreakingly sincere.

“I think I like you,” she whispered, her breath ghosting over my lips.

I chuckled lowly, heart thundering. “I think I like you more.”

Sana’s blush deepened, but she smiled—a soft, real smile that made my stomach flip.

Then, with a mischievous twinkle, she pulled back just slightly and said, “Okay, you passed my test. Now I’m gonna give you the cheat sheet for Momo’s and Mina’s.”

The tender moment shifted into something lighter, safer—but the feeling lingered, sinking hooks deeper into my ribs.

And somehow, I didn’t mind at all.

I slipped my phone back into my pocket and walked back into the living room, where Sana was waiting on the couch. She had her arms crossed, a playful little smile tugging at her lips.

“You’re lucky you’re cute, you know that?” she teased as I sat back down beside her.

I raised an eyebrow. “You overheard?”

Sana nodded, looking way too proud of herself. “Maybe a little. Silver kitsune, huh?”

I smiled, not even bothering to deny it. “Maybe.”

Sana’s cheeks flushed the lightest pink, her eyes shining as she scooted closer to me, tucking her legs under herself like a content cat. She leaned her head against my shoulder, comfortable and warm.

“You’re gonna pass the test, you know,” she said softly, her voice almost giddy. “Momo and Mina are gonna be so annoyed that they actually like you.”

I chuckled, wrapping an arm loosely around her. “Good. I like being liked.”

We sat there for a moment, just enjoying the quiet. Then, almost shyly, Sana said, “You know… we’re probably only even considering your offer because things have been changing lately.”

I looked down at her, curious. “What do you mean?”

Sana sighed and picked at the hem of the silver Gaosilver shirt she was still wearing—my shirt—before answering.

“A lot of the old clientele—the ones who used to fall head over heels for me, Momo, and Mina—they’re moving on. Getting older, finding wives, starting families… And the new crowd wants younger girls. Fresh faces. It’s just business but…” She trailed off and gave a small shrug. “It’s the only reason Momo and Mina are even willing to talk about deals like yours.”

I snorted and shook my head. “IDanzots.”

Sana blinked, caught off guard. “Huh?”

I leaned in, tapping her lightly on the nose. “They’re undervaluing you. Badly.”

She blinked again, looking genuinely surprised, like no one had ever said that to her before.

“You’re not just pretty,” I said. “You’re smart, you’re funny, you’re sharper than half the people in any room you walk into. You have a smile that could stop a war, a brain that could run a kingdom, and a heart big enough to scare most people. You’re priceless, Sana. And if they can’t see that, that’s their loss.”

For a moment she just stared at me, her mouth slightly open in shock. Then slowly, ever so slowly, the brightest, most radiant smile spread across her face. She lit up like a sunrise, cheeks going pink and eyes sparkling.

Without warning, she practically launched herself at me, wrapping her arms around my neck and burying her face in my chest.

“You’re mean,” she mumbled into my shirt, voice muffled but giddy.

I laughed and hugged her back, feeling her shake with barely suppressed giggles.

“Mean?” I teased. “I just told you the truth.”

“You’re not allowed to make me this happy this fast!” she said, pulling back just enough to glare at me, her eyes still laughing. “It’s cheating!”

I grinned, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “Get used to it.”

Sana’s lips curled into a wickedly sweet smile. “Fine. But if you’re gonna spoil me, I’m gonna be very demanding.”

“Looking forward to it,” I said, meaning every word.

She beamed and snuggled back against me, more comfortable and herself than I’d ever seen her.

It was dangerously easy to imagine doing this every day—and honestly, I wouldn’t mind at all.

Later that night, after Sana had finally drifted off during another episode of Red Ranger Is an Adventurer in Another World, I gently carried her to the guest room. I tucked her in, making sure she was comfortable before heading to my own room.

I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, feeling the kind of contentment I hadn’t known in years. Sleep came slowly, but when it did, it was deep and dreamless… until a soft knock tapped against my door.

I blinked awake, groggy.

“Danzo?” came Sana’s voice, barely louder than a whisper.

I sat up, concerned. “Come in.”

The door creaked open and Sana stood there in one of my oversized T-shirts, looking small and vulnerable in the low light. Her silver hair was a little messy, and she was hugging a pillow to her chest like a shield.

“Can I sleep with you?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly. “I… had a nightmare.”

Without hesitating, I pulled back the covers and motioned for her to come in. She padded over quickly and climbed into the bed, curling up beside me like she belonged there. I draped an arm around her shoulders, and she let out a breath, some of the tension leaving her body as she tucked herself against me.

We lay there for a while in comfortable silence, the quiet hum of the night wrapping around us. Just as I was about to drift off again, Sana’s voice, soft and serious, broke through the dark.

“Danzo… would you be willing to spend the rest of your life with me?” she whispered, almost as if she was scared of the answer.

I didn’t answer immediately. Instead, I shifted so I could see her better, even in the dim light. Her eyes were wide and vulnerable, searching mine for something—hope, maybe.

I smiled faintly and answered her question with one of my own, my voice low and steady.

“Would you be willing to spend the rest of your life with me?”

Sana’s eyes glistened, and she gave a small, almost shy nod. A genuine, beautiful smile blossomed across her face, and she whispered back, “Yeah… I think I would.”

I leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, feeling her melt against me.

“Then it’s a deal,” I murmured.

She gave a sleepy giggle and snuggled even closer, her breathing evening out as she finally began to relax. I held her close, the warmth of her presence lulling me into the kind of peaceful sleep I hadn’t known in a very, very long time. I didn’t dream of anything else but her.

The morning sun streamed through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. I stirred awake to the feeling of something warm and soft pressed against me. Opening my eyes, I found Sana tangled up with me, her leg thrown over my waist, her head tucked beneath my chin.

For a moment, I just lay there, feeling her breathing slowly against my chest. It was almost too perfect. I shifted slightly, and Sana let out a sleepy noise, tightening her hold on me like a stubborn cat.

I chuckled softly, brushing a few strands of hair out of her face.

“Morning,” I murmured.

“Five more minutes,” Sana mumbled, refusing to let go.

I smiled, indulging her, and we stayed like that a little longer before finally untangling ourselves and getting up. The morning was lazy and sweet, filled with easy smiles and stolen touches. It felt natural, like we had done it a thousand times before.

A few hours later, we boarded a sleek private jet that gleamed under the morning sun. As we ascended into the clouds, Sana marveled at the luxury around her.

“This is… really nice,” she said, settling into a plush leather seat.

I nodded and smiled. “Courtesy of Sal.”

Sana blinked. “Who’s Sal?”

“One of my old contacts,” I explained. “He used to run logistics before things got bad in his country. I helped smuggle his family out when the fighting started. In return, he told me that anytime I needed travel, he’d take care of it. He keeps his word.”

Sana turned toward me fully, curiosity lighting up her face. “Okay, I have to ask… how old are you?”

I smirked slightly, stretching my legs out. “I’m a year and two months younger than you.”

Sana stared at me like I had grown a second head. “How the hell have you lived this crazy life already?!”

I laughed, leaning back in my seat. “Let’s just say life gave me a fast track. I got tossed into a lot of dangerous places early… but I learned how to survive and make it work. Made a few friends, a few enemies… and somehow, I’m still standing.”

Sana shook her head in disbelief but smiled warmly. “You’re something else, Danzo.”

The hum of the plane was soothing, and after a while, the adrenaline of the past few days finally caught up with me. My eyelids grew heavy, and before I knew it, I had slumped sideways onto Sana.

She let out a soft surprised sound but quickly adjusted, letting my head rest in her lap. She brushed her fingers gently through my hair, careful not to wake me as I drifted off.

As I fell deeper into sleep, barely conscious, I heard her whisper,

“Rest well, Danzo.”

There was a tenderness in her voice that wrapped around me like a warm blanket, pulling me into dreams filled not with chaos or deals gone wrong—but with silver-haired girls laughing in the sunlight.

⸻

I woke up groggy, feeling the plane wheels bump against the tarmac. We had landed in Japan. It was a crisp spring morning, but there was still a lingering winter chill in the air. As we stepped off the jet, I noticed Sana shivering in her hoodie and sweats. Without a word, I shrugged off my Gosei 13 jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders.

She blinked up at me, surprised but smiling warmly as she pulled the oversized jacket tighter around herself.

“Thanks, Danzo,” she said softly, her voice muffled against the collar.

We headed toward the taxi queue, the cold biting through even my clothes. As we approached the cab, I turned to Sana and asked casually, “Hey, mind covering the fare? I’ll pay you back once we get to my place.”

Sana shot me a look, raising a playful eyebrow. “How do you survive without carrying cash? You don’t even use it at all, do you?”

I chuckled. “I have my ways.”

Sana smirked but didn’t press further. She handed the driver the yen and slipped into the cab, punching in my address.

Settling into the backseat, she turned to me, grinning mischievously. “Okay then. Actually, I want a really nice dinner later.”

I glanced at her, surprised. “Is that a trade?”

Sana smiled sweetly. “I’ve been watching you. Bartering is really cool.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at that, and the ride to my house passed easily, full of teasing comments and soft touches.

When we finally arrived at my place—a renovated modern home tucked in a quiet neighborhood—we crashed again, both of us knocked out from the travel. A few hours later, as I stretched and sat up, I nudged her gently.

“Alright. We need to get my girl some proper clothes.”

Sana opened one eye, smirking. “Excuse me? ‘My girl?’” she teased.

I sighed, realizing what I had said. “Freudian slip. My apologies.”

Sana, still half-asleep, just laughed and linked her fingers with mine. “Too late. I am your girl now,” she said, a playful but serious note in her voice.

Grinning, I pulled her to her feet and grabbed the keys to my car—a sleek, customized Nissan Skyline. A trade deal from a Nissan executive and collector: I had gotten him a rare Lamborghini in exchange for this beauty. That Lamborghini? I got it by trading half of a meteorite I had found years ago. A story for another time.

We drove through the narrow streets of the city until we reached a stylish boutique tucked between a coffee shop and a bookstore. The sign read Izumi Atelier in crisp silver letters.

As we entered, a small bell jingled, and a sharp-looking woman in her early thirties looked up from her sketchpad. Izumi wore a tailored vest over a flowing blouse, her sharp bob haircut giving her a chic edge.

“Danzooo~,” she called out, standing up. “And this must be the girl you finally decided was worth introducing to me?”

Sana blushed a little as Izumi walked over, her professional gaze immediately scanning Sana up and down.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Izumi said brightly, taking Sana’s hand. “Let’s get you measured up properly.” She shot Danzo a wink over her shoulder. “It’s about time he brought someone into my shop. He must really like you.”

Sana giggled as she was led into the back, but they didn’t bother keeping their voices down. I leaned against a wall near the entrance, pretending not to listen… and failing.

“You know,” Izumi said to Sana as she pulled out a measuring tape, “Danzo’s the reason I’m even still here. Before he helped me, I was struggling to find clients. Thanks to him, my shop is thriving. I get steady work designing for Black Japanese and foreign clients who can’t find clothes that fit properly.”

“Seriously?” Sana asked, clearly impressed.

“Mmhmm,” Izumi confirmed. “He’s a troublemaker, but he’s also the most loyal guy you’ll ever meet. You found a good one, Sana-chan.”

I heard Sana laugh, a warm, musical sound that filled the shop.

After taking her measurements, Izumi emerged with an armful of outfits, all featuring silver in some way—subtle trims, statement accessories, and some full pieces that shimmered with understated elegance. Sana tried on a few, each one fitting her like a dream.

Finally, Izumi pulled out something special: a stunning silver jacket embroidered with a delicate kitsune motif along the back, the fox’s tails swirling in silver threads.

Sana gasped softly at the sight, reaching out to trace the embroidery with her fingers.

Izumi smiled mischievously, leaning in to whisper something to Sana that I couldn’t quite hear from where I stood. Sana nodded seriously, then looked back at me, her cheeks flushed with excitement and maybe a little shyness.

I raised an eyebrow at them, but Izumi just smirked and Sana quickly hid the jacket behind her back like a kid hiding a birthday present. Izumi sighed and responded

“It’s not finished yet Sana-Chan,” Sana blinked then giggled before handing Izumi the jacket back then getting changed into a silver sweater

After a few hours of shopping and exploring, Sana and I finally headed back home, bags of new clothes in tow. Izumi had insisted on bundling Sana up with more outfits than we planned, muttering something about “not letting a precious fox go unadorned.”

As I unlocked the front door, my phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen and saw Sakura calling. I answered immediately.

“Yo, Danzo-kun!” Sakura’s cheerful voice rang out. “You back in Japan?”

“Yeah, just got in,” I replied, setting the bags down.

“Perfect. I’m hosting a countryside dinner tonight. Very small, private. You and your girl should come. I want you to meet some of my new stars.”

I chuckled. “Hard to say no when you’re offering food.”

“Good. I’ll text you the address. See you tonight!” She hung up before I could respond.

I turned to Sana, who was pulling a new silver-accented hoodie from one of the bags. “Change of plans. Dinner invitation. One of my friends owns a club like Momo and Mina’s.”

Sana’s eyes lit up with curiosity. “Another club? Sounds fun.”

“Different vibe, though. Sakura’s place is more countryside lounge than city high-life.”

Later that evening, we drove out of the city, the high-rises giving way to rolling fields and traditional-style homes. The countryside was peaceful, the air crisp and clean compared to Tokyo’s heavy buzz.

We arrived at a large, modernized country house where Sakura’s dinner party was already underway. Inside, everything was warm wood, cozy lighting, and the hum of soft jazz. The smell of freshly cooked food filled the air.

Sakura, dressed in a flowy white dress with gold jewelry, greeted us at the door, pulling me into a quick hug before turning to Sana.

“So you’re the girl Danzo finally brought home,” Sakura teased, grinning. “You’re even cuter than he said.”

Sana blushed, ducking her head shyly.

“Come on in. There’s some people you need to meet.”

She led us into a sitting area where two young women sat laughing over glasses of wine.

“This is Tsuki,” Sakura said, nodding to a petite girl with sharp features, silvery-purple hair, and an infectious smile. “And Sullyoon,” she added, indicating the other girl, tall, graceful, with warm hazel eyes and long flowing hair.

Sana’s face lit up immediately when she heard Tsuki’s accent as the girl chirped, “It’s been forever since I’ve heard someone speak real Kansai-ben!”

“Osaka?” Sana asked, smiling.

Tsuki nodded, and just like that, the two girls clicked. Sana quickly pulled Sullyoon into the conversation too, naturally bridging any gaps between them.

Before long, the three of them were talking animatedly, and Sana had taken it upon herself to start teaching them tricks of the trade. I leaned back, sipping a drink as I watched her slip easily into a teacher’s role, laughing and teasing.

“You have to learn how to spot the salacious ones,” Sana said, grinning devilishly. “Young business guys? Easy money. You act impressed by the watch, compliment the suit, and make them feel invincible without actually committing to anything. Always just out of reach.”

Tsuki and Sullyoon leaned in, hanging onto her every word.

I couldn’t help but laugh and called over, “Is that how you saw me, Sana? Just another scrappy businessman to fleece?”

Sana turned, smirking. “You’re not a business tycoon, so no.”

The room laughed, but I caught the flicker of realization in her eyes. She glanced at me more carefully now, seeing not just the man she teased but something else. Her voice trailed off a bit as she looked back at Tsuki and Sullyoon.

That moment hung heavy for a beat before she returned her focus to the girls. But I saw it—the way her fingers fidgeted slightly, the way she avoided my gaze for just a second longer than normal.

Later, as the girls got up to grab dessert, Sana moved closer to me. Her voice was soft, almost incredulous.

“You were never here just to trade favors, were you?” she murmured, mostly to herself.

I said nothing, letting the silence fill the space between us.

“You were planning to facilitate the trade… the building of both clubs. That was going to be your payment for me, wasn’t it?”

I still said nothing, just watching her.

Her breath hitched slightly, not in fear but in awe. She laughed quietly, shaking her head.

“You’re not like the businessmen I’ve danced for, seduced, or conned,” she said, voice low. “You’re not loud or greedy or arrogant. You’re… subtle. Dangerous.”

I leaned in, my smile easy. “Takes one to know one.”

Sana shivered—not from fear, but from something far more thrilling—and slipped her hand into mine, squeezing it tightly.

She wasn’t scared. She was excited.

⸻

As the night carried on, more of Sakura’s friends and staff trickled into the gathering, making the cozy countryside house feel alive. Laughter and conversation flowed easily.

At some point, I felt a gentle tug on my jacket. It was Rei, an old contact of mine, who ran one of the most beautiful plant nurseries on the outskirts of Kyoto.

“Danzo,” Rei said warmly, her hands still dusted with soil. “You still looking for a bonsai? I finally got four rare ones in stock. They’re perfect specimens.”

My eyes lit up. “You’re kidding. I’ve been waiting for you to find the right ones for months.”

“I know, I know.” Rei smiled, brushing her hair back. “They’re worth the wait. Thought I’d offer them to you first before listing them for the public.”

Before I could respond, Sana, who had wandered over beside me, piped up. “Mina and Momo have actually been looking for bonsai trees for the club. They think it’ll class up the VIP sections.”

I gave her a sideways glance, impressed. Always thinking ahead.

I turned back to Rei. “Mind setting two aside for me?”

Rei grinned. “Anything for you, Danzo. I’ll mark them as reserved.” She gave Sana a little wink. “You’ve got a good one here, by the way. Rare species, like my bonsai.”

Sana blushed, hiding her smile behind her sleeve.

⸻

After dinner, while Tsuki and Sullyoon were still hanging off Sana’s every word, trying to absorb all the tricks and tips she was giving them about working the floor, I slipped away with Sakura to the back porch for a quick breather.

The night air was cool and smelled faintly of pine. Sakura handed me a drink and leaned against the railing, watching the scene inside through the window.

“You’re so smitten, it’s disgusting,” Sakura teased, nudging me with her elbow.

I snorted. “Says the woman who cried over her last bartender.”

“That was different. He was perfect.” She waved it off dramatically before turning back to me, grinning slyly. “But seriously… you’ve never brought a girl into my world before. Not to Rei, not to Izumi, not here.”

I shrugged, pretending to be casual. “She fits.”

Sakura’s grin widened. “She fits, huh? Man, you’re already done for.”

I didn’t argue. Inside, I watched as Sana—her face animated, her hands moving as she demonstrated some cheeky trick to Tsuki and Sullyoon—seamlessly blended into the room like she belonged there.

“She’s training half my staff already, you realize,” Sakura said, amused. “At this rate, she’s gonna be running the place next time you visit.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” I said easily.

Sakura shook her head, laughing under her breath. “Dangerous woman for a dangerous man. You better be ready, Danzo-kun.”

I just smiled, taking a slow sip of my drink as I watched Sana toss her head back in laughter, shining like silver under the warm lights.

Maybe I was done for. And maybe, for once, I didn’t mind at all.

Later that evening, after the dinner had settled into a quieter lull, I leaned back on the couch, watching Sana from across the room. She was laughing with Tsuki and Sullyoon, completely at ease, her face glowing with that infectious warmth she had.

It wasn’t long before Sullyoon, with her soft features and quiet demeanor, approached me with Tsuki, who was the more energetic of the two. They stood there, eyes flickering between each other before Tsuki spoke up.

“Danzo,” she said hesitantly, her voice a little shy. “We were wondering… What does Sana like? You know, for a gift.”

Sullyoon bounced on her heels, her expression eager. “Yeah! She’s been amazing with helping us out tonight, and we want to do something nice for her. Maybe we can get her something that she really wants?”

I raised an eyebrow, a smirk curling at the corner of my lips. “You two planning to surprise her?”

Tsuki nodded, her cheeks turning a light pink. “She’s so kind to us, and we thought it would be good to show our appreciation.”

I leaned forward, tapping my fingers against the armrest thoughtfully. “Well, she’s a woman of subtle tastes,” I said with a grin. “But she likes things with a little bit of flair. Jewelry, shiny things—she’s got this thing for silver, actually.”

Sullyoon’s eyes lit up, and she clapped her hands excitedly. “Ooh, silver! We can work with that!” She turned to Tsuki, who was already mentally running through a list of places.

“But there’s something else,” I added. “She appreciates meaningful gifts, things that feel personal. Something that reminds her of her roots… maybe something with a bit of story behind it.”

Tsuki’s eyes softened as she nodded. “That’s perfect. Thank you, Danzo.”

Sullyoon gave me a playful look. “You know, I think it’s really cute how protective you are of her.”

I shrugged, not about to show too much. “She’s… worth protecting.”

Sullyoon giggled, nudging Tsuki. “Aw, look at you. A little love-struck, huh?”

I shot them a look, and they both giggled, rushing back to their seats before they could get me to say anything else.

Sana was still in the middle of a conversation, but I caught her eye. She smiled at me, and I smiled back

After Dinner we headed back to my place where Sana changed my Gao silver shirt again,

“I’m not getting that back am I?” I asked hopeful. Sana smiled cutely and said

“Not a chance,”

“Oh surely you must have a price,” Sana chuckled and said,

“You can’t afford it,”

The next day, Momo and Mina arrived at Sakura’s club, and we all gathered around a sleek, polished table in the VIP section. Sana had stayed at my place since I couldn’t afford distractions, especially with the stakes as high as they were.

Momo and Mina settled into the plush chairs, their eyes flicking curiously toward me. The tension in the air was palpable, but I couldn’t hide the grin on my face. I was excited. This was my kind of business deal, and I had an ace up my sleeve.

“So, how was your time with Sana?” Mina asked, her voice casual, but there was an underlying edge to her words.

I couldn’t help it. I smiled like a kid in a candy store, a sense of genuine satisfaction radiating from me. “I loved it,” I said, leaning back comfortably in my chair. “We watched anime, had a lovely dinner, and she was fantastic company. But here’s the deal— I need her. I’m willing to offer you two full gold coins worth 6 million in total, or I can sweeten the deal with a proposal. Business done the way I do business.”

I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out two shiny, gleaming gold coins, letting them land with a satisfying clink on the table. The room fell silent, everyone eyeing the gold.

Momo was the first to speak, her voice sharp. “What’s the other offer?”

I leaned forward, my tone dropping into something more serious. “I’ve heard whispers from a little fox about something interesting. You two have been seeing a decline in sales recently, right? As hard as it is to believe, I get it. Attractive young women are a hot commodity, but they don’t stay young forever. Here’s my proposal: This place”—I gestured to Sakura’s club, with its sleek design and upscale clientele—“this place is very similar to your own club, but struggling for different reasons. In fact, Kura, why don’t you tell Momo and Mina about the challenges you’ve been facing?”

Kura, a tall and elegant woman with jet-black hair and sharp eyes, sighed, rubbing her temples. “Oh, where do I even start?” She laughed bitterly. “My two best performers, Tsuki and Sullyoon, are the only ones making enough to support this place. All my other performers are pretty, sure, but they just don’t know how to really work a crowd. They don’t have the experience to get the kind of money we need. Honestly, I have the capital, but I don’t have the knowledge.”

Mina and Momo exchanged a look, brows furrowing, before they turned back to Sakura.

“Can we see your girls?” Momo asked, her voice filled with both skepticism and curiosity.

Sakura smiled, snapping her fingers. In an instant, a group of fifteen beautiful women in their early twenties—mostly Japanese and a few Korean—entered the room. Their outfits were stunning, each one tailored to perfection, but they lacked the certain charisma that could really drive the room wild. Momo and Mina’s eyes widened as they scanned the women, but their expressions remained carefully neutral.

Momo looked back at me and said, “What’s stopping us from just taking Sakura’s contact info and the gold coins and walking out?”

Sakura’s voice rang out, clear and strong, stopping them in their tracks. “Let me make this clear,” she said firmly, her gaze locking onto Mina and Momo. “Danzaborou has been immensely helpful to me in making this club work. I’d never go behind his back. I’d rather buy you outright than do that. And giving him Sana, that way, would never cross my mind.”

Momo and Mina exchanged glances, now visibly unsure. Mina finally spoke, a hint of suspicion in her voice. “Is this a hostile takeover?”

I shook my head, the smile never leaving my face. “I’m not a hostile kind of guy. Think of this as a trade. You teach these girls to be exceptional hostesses—help them learn what you know, and you get a steady supply of fresh talent. The girls come back to Sakura’s club, where she can focus on her strengths—talent scouting and financial stability. Everyone wins.”

Mina and Momo exchanged thoughtful glances, as if weighing their options. The tension hung in the air for a beat, but I could see their minds working. Then, Mina’s eyes landed on one of the women—tall, lean, and graceful—her movements suggesting she might be a dancer.

Mina approached her with a smile, her voice gentle. “What’s your name?”

“Kazuha Nakamura,” the girl answered quietly, her voice soft yet confident.

Mina’s eyes lit up. “I like this one. She has the build of a ballerina.”

Sakura’s smile grew. “She was a ballerina, actually. Her ballet house closed down two years ago.”

Mina blinked, surprised. “Which house?”

Kazuha responded with the name of a prestigious ballet company—one that held historical significance in Japan, though the translation was a bit lost in English.

Mina’s eyes widened. “That house?”

Kazuha nodded. “Yes, I trained there until it closed.”

Mina turned to Momo, a smile tugging at her lips. “So, what’s the plan?”

Momo leaned back in her chair, and her gaze shifted to me, a playful gleam in her eye. “Danuki,” she said, causing the entire room—especially the Japanese women—to burst into laughter. I raised an eyebrow, confused.

“What?” I asked, completely unaware of the joke.

Sakura leaned in with a sly grin. “Ask Sana later, and you’ll understand.”

Momo followed up, her smile widening. “We’ll take your secondary offer.”

“Great,” I said, glad they’d come to an agreement. “I’ll leave you two to handle the logistics. And as the cherry on top…” I handed Mina and Momo Rei’s contact information. “You’ll want to get in touch with her about the two bonsais.”

Momo and Mina looked at the card, then back at me, nodding their approval.

“Thanks, Danuki-kun,” they said in unison, and the laughter erupted once more. I sighed then headed out.

⸻

I ended up back at my place not long after the meeting.

The familiar smell of jasmine and sandalwood hit me the moment I opened the door. Inside, Sana was curled up on the couch, still wearing my oversized GaoSilver shirt, the old Gaoranger series playing quietly in the background. She glanced up the second she heard me, her whole face lighting up like I’d just walked in with a winning lottery ticket.

“How did it go?” she asked eagerly, practically bouncing to her feet. Her big brown eyes locked onto mine, bright and hopeful, but underneath that excitement, I could sense a ripple of anxiety. She wanted to believe everything would be okay—but she’d learned better than to hope blindly.

For a moment, I thought about teasing her, playing it close to the chest like I usually did. Maybe make her squirm a little. But seeing her standing there, all vulnerable and radiant, I just didn’t have it in me.

“They took the deal,” I said simply.

Sana let out a small gasp of joy, like a kid on Christmas morning. She rushed across the room and threw her arms around me, squeezing tight. I caught her easily, breathing in the faint scent of her shampoo—sweet and clean, like peaches and soap.

“So what now?” she asked, her voice slightly muffled against my chest.

I hesitated, brushing a hand lightly down her back. “You’re a grown woman, Sana. You can make your own decisions. What do you want to do?”

And just like that, it was like a switch flipped inside her.

She pulled back from the hug slowly, tilting her head up to look at me through her lashes, her entire posture shifting. Gone was the excited girl; in her place stood the woman—confident, knowing, dangerously inviting. Her lips curved into a sultry smile.

“I think…” she said, voice low and honey-sweet, “it’s finally good to be alone with you.”

The way she said it made it clear she wasn’t talking about catching up on Gaoranger.

I felt the familiar tension coil low in my gut, but forced myself to stay steady, not giving her the satisfaction of seeing how easily she could rattle me.

Sana leaned in closer, her breath warm against my neck, her fingers lightly toying with the collar of my jacket as she added in a teasing whisper, “Danuki-kun.”

I stiffened slightly, frowning down at her. “Danuki again? What is with you people calling me that?”

Sana giggled, and her hands started moving—light and playful—poking at my chest, tugging at my sleeves, pawing at me like a mischievous cat.

“You really don’t know?” she asked, tilting her head, her fingers trailing up my arm slowly, almost absentmindedly. “In Japanese folklore, tanuki—or ‘danuki’ when people are teasing—are these sneaky little shapeshifters. They look cute, harmless even… but they’re masters of illusion. Tricksters. They make you see whatever they want you to see.”

Her fingers brushed against the side of my neck, soft and lingering.

“You’re like that,” she murmured. “You play innocent. You smile. You act all casual. But you’re always three steps ahead, moving pieces where nobody can see.”

I raised an eyebrow, smirking. “So, I’m some kind of magical raccoon-dog?”

Sana laughed, the sound bright and warm. She pressed closer, her palms flat against my chest, feeling the steady thrum of my heartbeat beneath her hands.

“Not some kind,” she said, voice dropping lower. “The best kind.”

I caught one of her wandering hands and leaned down until our faces were just a breath apart. “If I’m a danuki,” I murmured, “then what does that make you?”

She blinked up at me, feigning innocence.

“A kitsune,” I answered for her, tapping her lightly on the nose. “A fox. Beautiful, sly, dangerous… and way too good at getting what she wants.”

Sana gave a mock gasp and pawed at my chest again. “Are you accusing me of being a trickster, Danzaborou?”

“Accusing?” I chuckled low in my throat. “I’m confirming.”

She grinned wickedly and leaned in, brushing her lips across my jawline in a teasing, featherlight kiss.

“Well then,” she whispered, her voice a purr, “I guess it’s only fair… a kitsune and a danuki. A perfect pair of troublemakers.”

I laughed and wrapped my arms around her, pulling her fully into my lap. “Trouble’s my middle name, sweetheart.”

Sana nuzzled her nose against mine, smiling like she’d just stolen something precious and gotten away with it.

“Good,” she said, eyes sparkling, “because you’re stuck with me now, Danuki-kun.”

I kissed her forehead, holding her there as the Gaoranger theme song played softly in the background, the two of us cocooned in the quiet warmth of a trickster’s den.

“Bedroom now,” she said dragging me to my bedroom. As she did she fished out my dick and began palming it slowly,

“I want everyone to know you’re mine. I want to take you to sakura’s club and fuck in front of them. Hell I just might. Just so Tsuki doesn’t get any ideas,”

Confused i asked what she meant,

“Tsuki told me she had a crush on you yesterday. Said you give off “daddy” vibes, but I know you’re not it’s just the beard and height, Sana says as she uses her hand to fuck me.its overwhelming as her hand goes faster my mind blanks from the pleasure. I watch as Sana smiles watching me cum undone and I explode in her hands. She smiles and says,

“Is that it?” As if stirred by magic my cock rises again for her. Sana smiles as I impale her with my shaft. She moans in pleasure.

Her walls are velvety smooth as I fuck into her. Her eyes roll to the back of her head as she says,

“Fuck! Fuck! fuck! I’m gonna cum!” She says as she explodes. I smile as she unravels around me elated. But as she unravels she begs me to stop due to how sensitive she is. I do and we lay in bed before falling asleep

The morning light was soft and cool, filtering through the windows in long slats. Sana and I lay tangled together under the covers, the world outside still quiet and slow.

She was curled up against me, her head resting on my chest, one of her legs thrown possessively over mine. I ran my fingers absentmindedly through her hair, feeling the steady rhythm of her breathing.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

Then Sana tilted her head up to look at me, her brown eyes serious in a way that caught me a little off guard.

“So…” she started, her voice quiet but certain, “what happens now?”

I raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue.

“I mean… you and me.” Her fingers traced light patterns across my chest, like she was thinking through each word carefully. “We’re both tricksters. Both stubborn. Both… dangerous in our own way. How are we gonna make this work, Danuki?”

I smiled lazily at the nickname but didn’t answer right away. I could feel the tension under her casual touch—Sana wasn’t used to wanting something she couldn’t control. Neither was I.

“I guess we just do it the way we do everything else,” I said finally. “We watch. We learn. We adapt.”

She made a small noise, not quite a laugh. “No tricks?”

I smirked. “Only good ones.”

She lifted her head fully now, propping herself up on one elbow to look at me properly. “Promise?”

I caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her fingertips. “Promise.”

Sana’s lips curved into a mischievous smile. “You know what they say about promises from a trickster, right?”

“They’re only binding if you want them to be,” I murmured back.

She laughed then, the sound soft and real, and lowered herself back down, tucking her head under my chin again.

“We’ll make it work,” she whispered. “I’ll make it work. Because you’re mine now, Danuki.”

“And you’re mine, Kitsune,” I said, closing my eyes, letting the moment settle deep in my bones.

For a while, we just lay there, breathing each other in, the world outside completely forgotten.

A little later, I moved quietly around the room, getting dressed. Sana was sprawled lazily across the bed, tangled in the sheets…

Later that morning, after the heat of the night had cooled into something softer and sleepier, I moved quietly around the room, getting dressed.

Sana was sprawled lazily across the bed, tangled in the sheets, her hair a wild, golden halo against the pillows. She watched me with half-lidded eyes, a lazy little smile tugging at her lips.

I was almost fully dressed—shirt buttoned, jacket slung over my shoulder, boots pulled on—when she stretched with feline grace, arching her back in a way that made the sheet slip dangerously low on her body. The morning sun kissed every curve, every line of her bare skin.

She was trying to kill me, that much was obvious.

“Back to work, Danuki?” she purred, her voice still thick with sleep and something sweeter.

Her hand drifted along her waist, drawing attention—very deliberately—to every perfect curve she had on display, as if daring me to ditch responsibility and crawl back into bed with her.

For a second, I almost gave in. Almost.

But I caught myself, smirking as I rolled my shoulders and slung my jacket fully on.

“Tempting,” I said, my voice low and rough from sleep, “but I’ve got a trade to finish with Mikoto.”

Sana let out a long, exaggerated sigh and flopped dramatically back against the pillows, pouting like a spoiled fox who didn’t get her way.

“You’re no fun,” she mumbled, the sheet slipping even lower.

I laughed under my breath, stepping closer for just a second to brush a strand of hair out of her face. “I’ll be back before you know it,” I promised, letting my fingers trail lightly along her jawline. “Then you can do your worst, kitsune-chan.”

She caught my hand briefly, pressing a kiss to my palm before releasing me with a sly grin. “You better hurry back, Danuki-kun. I get very lonely when I’m left all alone…”

I gave her a wink, opened the door, and stepped out—feeling her gaze like a brand on my back the entire way.

Duty called.

But so did she.

And soon enough, I’d be answering both.

[inseobts]

Bet

sabo x gn!reader

you meet your childhood rival and crush again after thinking you've lost him forever.

words count: 1.2k

tags: spoilers about sabo(?), rivalry, childhood crush, romance, humour, angst, gender neutral

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The wind rustles through the trees of Dawn Island, carrying the scent of salt and adventure. You stand at the edge of the forest, hands on your hips, glaring at Sabo. He glares right back, that infuriating smirk on his face.

“You’re gonna lose” he taunts, tossing an apple in the air and catching it effortlessly.

“Tch, in your dreams, rich boy” you snap, crouching into position. The goal is simple: first one to reach the river and back wins. But to you and Sabo, this is war.

Ace and Luffy sit on the sidelines, watching the two of you like a live-action play.

“Why do they always do this?” Luffy mumbles, stuffing his face with meat.

Ace snickers “Because they’re stupid kids. And because Sabo’s trying to impress y/n.”

Luffy tilts his head “I thought he hated them?”

Ace shakes his head “Nope. The other day he told me he’s gonna marry y/n one day.”

Luffy almost chokes “What?! But they’re always fighting! And where was I??”

Ace grins “You were sleeping like the baby you are. Anyway y/n has no idea, so it's a secret”

You, of course, don’t hear this conversation. All you hear is the count.

“Three… two… one—GO!”

You and Sabo take off, kicking up dirt. You’re fast, but he’s faster. He always is. It infuriates you. But you push yourself harder, determination burning in your chest. For a split second, you think you might actually win...

Then Sabo’s hand grips your wrist, yanking you back just enough for him to sprint ahead.

“YOU CHEATER!” you shriek.

“Work smarter, not harder!” he calls back, laughing.

He reaches the finish line first, arms raised in victory. You arrive seconds later, seething.

“You’re the worst” you growl.

Sabo winks “And yet, you keep challenging me.”

You huff, turning away. You’ll beat him next time.

Sabo is dead...

The words shatter something inside you. First, he went missing. Then he was gone. Just like that.

You sit on the shore, watching the waves crash against the rocks. You don’t cry, not in front of Ace and Luffy. But at night, when no one can hear, you let the tears fall.

He was supposed to be here. He was supposed to grow up with you, to keep annoying you, to keep winning. You were supposed to beat him at least once.

But now you never will.

So you make a decision. You can't lose another one of your friends, so you’ll fight for Luffy. You’ll help him reach his dream. And maybe, just maybe, that will be enough to at least try fill the hole in your heart.

The world shifts beneath your feet.

You stare, mouth slightly open, heart hammering against your ribs.

Sabo.

Alive.

He grins at Luffy, ruffling his hair, and your chest tightens. This isn’t real. It can’t be. But then his eyes find yours, and the grin falters.

“y/n…”

Your breath catches. He looks older, stronger, but those blue eyes are the same. And they’re looking at you like he’s seeing a ghost.

You don’t think. You act.

With a sharp inhale, you march up to him and punch him square in the face.

Luffy cackles. Koala gasps. Sabo stumbles, rubbing his jaw “Ow. Okay. I deserved that.”

“You’re damn right you did!” you snap, fists clenched “You let us believe you were dead, you absolute asshole!”

He has the audacity to chuckle “Well, technically, I didn’t know I was alive, either.”

You glare “That’s not funny.”

His expression softens “No. It’s not.” He hesitates, then steps closer. “I… I missed you, y/n.”

You swallow hard “Yeah, well. You have a shitty way of showing it.”

Luffy slings an arm around both of you “This is great! Now we can all hang out again!”

Your eyes narrow “I don’t think I want to hang out with him.”

Sabo smirks “Holding a grudge? Come on, I thought you’d grow up by now.”

You scoff “Oh, please. I can still kick your ass.”

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow “Wanna bet?”

And just like that, it begins again.

It starts small.

An arm-wrestling match at the bar.

“You’ve got noodle arms, Sabo.”

He grins “And yet, I still win.”

A stupid dare.

“I dare you to flirt with the next person who walks in.”

You do. Sabo sulks the rest of the night.

And then the others get involved.

Koala, amused by the whole ordeal, makes a bet with Luffy “I say one of them confesses first.”

Luffy tilts his head “Confess what?”

Franky laughs “About their feelings”

Luffy’s eyes widen “Oh! Sabo’s gonna lose, then.”

Everyone stares.

“Wait” Nami leans in, hoping he knows something that can make her win that bet “why are you so sure?”

“Yeah,” Luffy shrugs “He’s been saying he’d marry y/n since we were kids.”

Silence.

Then, chaos.

You and Sabo, oblivious, continue your stupid challenges. But now, the crew is watching closely, waiting for one of you to slip.

And maybe, just maybe, one of you will.

Sabo leans against the railing of the Sunny, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips “Admit it, y/n. You can’t win anything against me.”

You scoff, tightening your grip on the barrel of sake in front of you “You wish, rich boy” you glare at him, cheeks already warm from the last round “Next bet.”

The crew has gathered around, eagerly watching as you and Sabo go head-to-head once again. This time, it’s a drinking contest, and things are getting interesting.

Luffy, sitting cross-legged beside Franky, grins “Sabo’s totally gonna lose.”

Nami chuckles, taking a sip of her own drink “You think so?”

“He might win the challanges buy he always loses when it comes to y/n, I don't think that changed” Luffy says casually.

Robin smirks “You mean when it comes to his feelings?”

Luffy tilts his head. The crew groans.

Meanwhile, you slam your cup down, staring Sabo dead in the eye. “Still standing.”

He raises an eyebrow “Barely.”

You roll your eyes and gesture toward him “Your turn, hotshot.”

Sabo picks up his drink, but instead of drinking it right away, he grins “Let’s raise the stakes.”

You narrow your eyes “I’m listening.”

“If I win, you do whatever I say for a day.”

You scoff “Please. And if I win?”

His smirk falters for a split second before he recovers “Same deal. I’m yours for a day.”

The crew collectively gasps.

Zoro chokes on his drink. Sanji drops his cigarette. Nami leans forward in delight.

You blink, caught off guard. But then your competitive nature kicks in, and you smirk “Fine. You’re on.”

You both down your drinks at the same time, and for a while, the match is even. But then you see it, Sabo’s fingers tighten around the glass. His eyelids droop for a second too long.

He’s reaching his limit.

You grin triumphantly “You can't win this one, I've trained with Zoro for years... And looks like you’re about to pass out, rich boy.”

Zoro, now at your side smirks.

Sabo felt a feeling of jealousy but he tries his best to stay composed and chuckles, setting his cup down “Nah. Just taking my time.”

But Koala, standing off to the side, shakes her head “He’s done.”

Sabo groans “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

The crew erupts into cheers as you throw your arms in the air “Ha! Suck it, Sabo!”

Sabo sighs, rubbing his temples “Alright, alright. A bet’s a bet. What’s your request, oh mighty victor?”

You pretend to think, tapping your chin. Then, with a mischievous grin, you say, “You have to compliment me every time you speak to me tomorrow.”

The crew howls with laughter.

Sabo groans “You’re evil.”

“You love it” you tease.

His eyes flicker with something unreadable, and for a split second, you swear his smirk softens.

“Maybe” he murmurs, too quiet for you to catch.

The next morning, you wake up to the best sound in the world... Sabo suffering.

“Good morning, Sabo!” you chirp, stretching.

He groans from where he’s sitting, nursing a cup of coffee “Good morning, y/n… my shining spirit of the seas.”

Luffy bursts out laughing “You sound so weird.”

Sabo sighs “I hate this already.”

“Oh, come on,” you say, grinning “That’s not very enthusiastic.”

Sabo pinches the bridge of his nose “You’re breathtakingly annoying.”

Nami snickers “That counts.”

All day, Sabo follows through with his punishment.

“Wow, y/n, your swordsmanship is as graceful as a swan in flight.”

“You’re incredibly skilled at eating three plates of food in record time.”

“I have never met someone as stubbornly determined to make my life miserable as you, and it’s truly awe-inspiring.”

By the time the sun begins to set, he’s exhausted. You, on the other hand, are having the time of your life.

“Admit it” you tease, nudging his shoulder “You’re enjoying this.”

Sabo rolls his eyes, but his smirk is back “You’re impossible.”

“But?”

He hesitates.

But before he can respond, Sanji appears with drinks, and the moment passes.

The crew finally make the bet official: who will confess first?

Koala places her money on Sabo “He’s been head over heels since they were kids.”

Zoro shrugs “y/n’s just as bad.”

Luffy, grinning, throws in his input “But I told you that Sabo already kinda confessed years ago! When we were little, he told Ace who told me that one day, he’ll give y/n their favourite candy ring and make them his spouse!”

Meanwhile, you and Sabo continue your rivalry, completely unaware of how obvious your feelings have become.

But one of you is bound to crack first.

And when that happens?

Well.

The real fun begins.

The next few days on the Sunny are torture.

Things between you have shifted. It’s subtle, but it’s there, the way his gaze lingers on you a little too long, the way your heartbeat picks up whenever he’s near. And, of course, the infuriating way your crewmates won’t stop watching, waiting for one of you to slip.

Sabo, to his credit, acts like everything is normal. You? Not so much.

“Oi, y/n, you okay?” Zoro asks one afternoon, watching you repeatedly stab a piece of meat with your fork.

You blink “Huh? Yeah. Why?”

“You’re massacring your food,” he deadpans.

Sanji, setting down a fresh plate, grins “they’re just distracted. I wonder why~”

You shoot him a glare “Shut up.”

The cook winks “Don’t worry, my beauty, I support you.”

You groan, dropping your fork. Across the deck, Sabo is laughing at something Koala said, and you swear she catches your eye on purpose before smirking.

This is a nightmare.

“Alright, it’s time.”

Nami’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts. She and Robin sit around a small pile of gold, each with amused smirks.

“Time for what?” you ask warily.

Koala arrives and grins putting some gold as the others, “Final bets.”

Luffy perks up “Oh! We’re picking who confesses first!”

You freeze “Excuse me?”

Robin chuckles “Come now, y/n. Surely you’ve noticed.”

You open your mouth, ready to deny it, but then Zoro speaks.

“You like him.”

Sanji nods “And he likes you.”

Franky grins “It’s so obvious!”

You sputter “I—what?! No, he doesn’t!”

Nami raises an eyebrow “Luffy literally told us Sabo planned to marry you.”

Your face burns “Luffy told me after we thought Sabo died, but that was years ago! We were kids!”

Brook chuckles “Love has a funny way of surviving, even through death.”

The words hit you harder than you expect.

Even through death.

For a moment, you say nothing. The memory of seeing his boat burn, of grief so deep it drowned you, flashes through your mind. The nights spent staring at the sea, whispering his name into the void. The years spent forcing yourself to move forward, never allowing yourself to dwell on what could have been.

But now, he’s here. Alive. And the feelings you buried long ago are clawing their way back to the surface.

“…I need some air.”

Without another word, you turn and leave.

You don’t realize Sabo follows you until you hear his voice.

“Running away from a challenge? That’s not like you.”

You sigh, not turning around “Not now, Sabo.”

But he doesn’t leave. Instead, he steps closer, leaning against the railing beside you “Alright. Then let’s not talk about their bet.”

Silence stretches between you. The ocean glows under the moonlight, waves lapping softly against the Sunny’s hull.

Finally, you break the silence.

“I thought you were dead.”

Sabo stiffens. You don’t look at him, keeping your eyes on the horizon.

“For years,” you continue, voice steady but heavy, “I had to live with the idea that you were gone. That I would never see you again. And it hurt.”

He doesn’t say anything, so you keep going.

“Do you know what that kind of pain feels like?” you whisper “To lose someone without a body to bury? To stay up at night, wondering if maybe, just maybe, for some miracle, they survived, but knowing you're just to yourself about it?”

Sabo’s hands tighten into fists “…I do.”

That makes you finally look at him. His face is shadowed, but his expression is raw “I didn’t remember my past before the Revolutionaries,” he admits “Not until I saw what happened to Ace. And when the memories came back…” He swallows “I realised many things. I realised I couldn’t save Ace, that I couldn’t help you and Luffy… that I had left you behind.”

Your breath catches.

“I don’t have an excuse,” he says “But I know this... When I got my memories back I realised that I missed you like crazy, y/n. More than I can ever put into words.”

His voice shakes, and suddenly, the air between you feels different. He isn’t teasing, isn’t smirking... he’s serious.

You take a slow step forward “Then why didn’t you say anything? From the start, you acted like nothing happened.”

Sabo meets your gaze “Because I didn’t think I deserved to.”

Your heart clenches “That’s stupid.”

He laughs, but it’s soft, almost sad “Maybe.”

You exhale sharply “You should have told me.”

“I know.”

“I hated you”

“I don’t blame you.”

You take another step “But I also...” You hesitate, then shake your head “Dammit, Sabo.”

He smiles faintly “That’s my name.”

And suddenly, you’re done. Done with the games, the teasing, the bets.

You grab his collar and yank him down, pressing your lips against his.

Sabo freezes.

For a moment, everything is still. Then, his arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, and he’s kissing you back, desperate, relieved, alive.

When you finally break apart, you rest your forehead against his. “You’re mine now, rich boy” you murmur.

He grins “And you’re mine. I've dreamed about this since we were kids”

"Oh I know... I want that candy ring one day"

"OMG WHO TOLD YOU?!"

"Ace told Luffy and Luffy told me... but to his defense he just wanted to make me feel better"

A loud whoop makes you both jump.

You whip around to find the entire crew watching from the deck.

Luffy, grinning like an idiot, throws his fists in the air “I WIN THE BET?”

Sabo groans “Of course they were watching.”

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

Koala winks “No, you don’t.”

Luffy bounces excitedly “Hey! Does this mean Sabo’s finally gonna marry you?”

“LUFFY YOU TOLD THEM! YOU CAN'T KEEP A SECRET”

The crew erupts into laughter, and as embarrassing as it is, you can’t help but smile.

Because for the first time in years, your heart doesn’t ache.

Sabo is here.

And this time, he’s not leaving.

[heavenbarnes]

Thinking of being Ghost's fiance and making invite the 141 over for dinner to finally meet them and he begrudgingly accepts because anything to make u happy and they're still trying to wrap their heads around the fact that he's engaged

mmm omg your mind 🫶🏼

finally getting older bf!simon to have the 141 around your dinner was the equivalent of pulling teeth.

come to think, pulling teeth would’ve been easier.

“well fuck me for wanting to meet the people the man i’m marrying spends 90% of his time with”

“sweet’art y’know i don’t like bringing work ‘ome”

then you’d gone and put your hands on your hips with just one (1) eyebrow raised-

and the lads were knocking at his fucking door.

“gidday- don’t fuckin’ start w’me”

“some bloody way to greet y’guests, big man”

as he corralled all their snide little remarks about “didnae know ye’ owned a nice shirt” everyone managed to find their best behaviour upon your appearance.

it might’ve had something to do with the stunned silence.

when he’d begrudgingly invited them, they’d all been in a little bit of shock- first of all, ghost had a fiancé? second of all, ghost is letting us into his home?

then it all round off with, third of all-

ghost’s fiancé was a fucking looker, that’s for sure.

sweet, nice, bloody easy on the eyes- how the hell had he managed that?

you were just happy to meet the closest things to friends that simon had.

price took lead by drawing you into a hug, thanking you for your hospitality. followed closely by a sweet talking gaz who was already making your cheeks warm with his manners.

naturally, johnny had to chime in with some stupid little-

“nae wonder L.t disnae want us knowing about ye’, i’d keep ye’ all t’maself too”

he’s too slow to avoid simon’s flat palm coming up the side of his head, but it doesn’t dissuade him much.

he’s peachy fucking keen to meet you.

simon eats his tea with a tense jaw, rolling his eyes every time someone makes you laugh a little too long, tells another ‘embarrassing’ story about him.

he also keeps his palm firmly on your knee, nervous twitch of a thumb running circles over your skin.

when you pop out to the kitchen to fix dessert, they’re on him like starved dogs.

“all this time and not so much as a bloody photo?”

“kinda’ photos i’m gettin’ aren’t f’you lots eyes”

johnny nearly falls out of his seat.

you can hear them whispering all the way from the kitchen, for a bunch of SAS guys- they’re not very subtle.

simon’s got one ear on the shit chatter coming from his team and the other on the kitchen, waiting for the slightest sign that he might be able to join you.

it comes- in the form of a gasp from you followed by “ow fuck”

simon’s out of his seat like a bullet.

“what’s wrong- what ‘ave y’done?”

you know the 141 are watching, doesn’t take a genius to see the way they’re all craning their necks around the kitchen doorframe.

“i’m fine, si- just a little burn from the pan”

“lemme’ see, gimme’ y’hand”

so the 141 see their ghost, unshakeable mountain of a man- a face they never see-

and they see his face, and they see genuine fear on it.

they see simon.

your simon.

“i’m telling you it’s fine, si”

“i’ll make that call, alright”

and they’re all looking at each other across the table, trying to decide whether to be impressed or even a little jealous- they’re leaning towards jealous.

so instead they settle on taking the absolute piss out of him.

not that he minds-

before you could even reach your chair he was pulling you into his lap- having you eat dessert perched on his thigh.

as you settle back into his chest, you could swear you feel him laugh.

that hand settles back on your knee again but there aren’t nervous circles anymore.

more like gentle squeezes.

your simon.

right at home.

[hivemuthur]

Hey! I was the one who wanted to request an arrange marriage (regency era) au with viktor and reader. I would like the reader to be bubbly and artistic (for painter/drawer), if that’s okay?

If you’ve watched bridgerton, perhaps reader would be apart of that family? But if you haven’t, that’s fine, just ignore this part lol

Hi Anon! So... this is happening. People this is my take on Bridgerton-inspired regency AU :v more under picture!

A Deer and a Man - Ch.1.

viktorxfemale!reader mature (overall explicit) - tho this chapter is a little pornographic, there is some naked wrists, running around in nightgowns and men with loosened cravats, so proceed with caution :v

Ch.2. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.5. | Ch.6.

word count: 7,7K (it will be this long, sorry!)

tag: #d&m

summary: You are the eldest daughter of a noble family, soon to be married to one of the most eligible bachelors in the region—Viktor, the adopted son of House Talis. The arrangement is simple: a marriage that secures your family's wealth in exchange for access to Hextech. What could possibly go wrong?

author's note: Anon, forgive me, but I wasn't able to write it precisely into the Bridgerton universe, I don't know it nearly enough. Also, I got brain damaged while writing it and included the artist part as a pianist, as this is the subject I know best. Super special thanks to @mithrava who helped me with details (I almost squeezed our poor girl into a corset, but she fucking hates bras anyways) and to @rennethen who beta reads and brainstorms the ideas with me!

also the artist behind art is here!

Cross-posted on AO3

—

The first look into the mirror in the morning is always suspended between a thing in bloom and a thing fading away. What blossoms is the vision of yourself, wrapped up in a short stay, your form sculpted to society’s liking, cheeks brushed with a becoming rose tint, hair pinned into a careful bun, soft tendrils escaping to frame your face. The self that fades is the girl who may draw a full breath, whose flushed cheeks owe nothing to powder but to joy, whose wild curls defy taming. You greet her each evening and bid her farewell each morning, so that the lady—your family’s prized jewel—might step into the light. Mostly.

That is, when you were not hunched over the piano, playing Appassionata with a furious fervour instead of what your mother deemed proper, like some dull Hummel or Clementi. How utterly boring and soulless they seemed, that you could almost hear your night self scolding you each time your fingers reluctantly touched the keys to play one of those Sonatinas.

Running was also a thing you had to avoid, for the most part. Eating a whole apple was strictly vulgar. As for a whole egg—well, that was something to be done in the strict privacy of the kitchens, once you’d managed to filch one without the cooks noticing. Yanking your skirts up while sitting on the grass and scribbling was also one of those moments when, if your mother had caught you, she would have been most displeased, to say the least. All in all, you had precious little time to let your night self emerge during the waking hours. She was continually suppressed by the version of you that took small, delicate bites, drank tea from a tiny cup, and sat upright while playing agreeable tunes.

Today, of all days, it is imperative that your night self remain firmly in check, while your day self does her utmost to impress the very man you have already deemed beyond salvation—without so much as laying eyes on him. A rare occasion indeed, where both versions of you are in agreement.

He has but one benefit of the doubt, and that is Jayce Talis. A brilliant inventor you once encountered when you slipped away from your mother and sisters while running errands in town. Back then, he had been mocked and overlooked as he tried to preach his discoveries from a modest tent set up on the way to the pharmacy. Someone particularly unkind had flung a fistful of mud in his direction, which Jayce avoided with such grace that your eyes had lit up.

You had been so young then, perched atop a crate of peaches, listening from afar, watching him wave his hands about, utterly bewitching.

"Is this truth you are speaking? Absolutely fascinating," you had said, once you had mustered the courage to approach him and give voice to the questions grinding in your hungry mind.

"It’s all possible, Miss," he had replied with a brilliant smile. "Take a pamphlet. I am here every Thursday."

But before you could so much as tell him your name, your mother had seized you by the ear and dragged you—nearly by force—into the nearest perfumery. Huffing and sighing in disapproval, she had straightened your dress, grumbled about the mud on your shoes, and scolded you for indulging the poor man’s delusions.

Little did she know.

Five years later, Jayce Talis is one of the most sought-after and highly regarded inventors and scientists in the entire region. Yet it is not he whom your family desires—not exactly. His research and the opportunity to invest in it—now that is what truly entices them.

And standing beside Jayce is his partner, Viktor. A stray, adopted by House Talis as though he were its own son. Apparently just as brilliant, undoubtedly just as sought-after.

"A good match," your mother says with a firm tone.

"A bright future for you and your sisters," your father says, his voice tinged with sadness and apology.

Of all men, you had thought him the one who would never betray you. And you tell yourself it is only one part of you that he has betrayed. Yet it wounds you so deeply because it is the part he always claimed to love most of all.

The real part of you.

You push her aside as you tuck a loose lock back into your bun. Fill your lungs with as much air as your short stay allows—nearly not enough. Then you answer your mother’s call with a rehearsed, “I will be right there, Maman!”

One last glance in the mirror—oh, no. You forgot a smile.

So you plaster it back onto your face, let the stale air escape your chest, and run—no, walk—downstairs. And the noise is already there as they all exchange their exaggerated good afternoons—your sweet father, your benevolent mother, your silly younger sisters, Jayce and Viktor. You hear their voices, your mother chuckling politely at Jayce’s remarks about bumpy roads, Viktor’s reserved greeting with a lilt of an accent that makes your ears perk up. Pretty.

Your eyes land on Jayce first—his frame broader than you remember—and something swells within you. Not sultry, just pleased to see this once-boy now a full-grown man, taking up the space he was always meant to claim.

And next to him—oh.

Emerging from your father’s embrace is Viktor, visibly startled by the stark contrast between your official mother and your matey father, who claps him on the back, smiling with flushed cheeks. Happy, relieved, because the boy who will marry his daughter is a slender, gentle man with kind hands and bright eyes. Your father breathes deeply, granting himself absolution for sending his eldest away into the arms of a stranger.

And the man at the bottom of the staircase looks nothing like the monster you painted in your mind. His frame is lithe yet full of quiet strength, supported by a cane. His face, all sharp angles, is touched by shifting light and shadow with every expression he tries to suppress. Lips small and tender, nose a work of the most skilled sculptor, eyes the colour of your father’s favourite bourbon—and your favourite honey, the one from summer flowers. His leg is hugged by a strange contraption of a brace, and you feel a weird sense of camaraderie—both of you constricted in some way.

"Hello," you say in your rehearsed voice, though it wavers slightly at the touch of his hand on yours. Your heart stumbles between beats when his lips press to your glove, his thumb steady on your knuckles.

"I am so glad to finally have met you, Miss. I have heard so much about you," says Viktor, holding your gaze. His composure settles back into place, his eyes drilling into you. And beneath his voice, a hint—suggesting he has heard more than just that you are a sweet young lady.

"Only good things, I hope?" you ask. And truly, the hope lingers in your tone, even though you know Jayce has told him what a wild thing you are when nobody is watching.

Briefly, you wonder—what would it be like to be asked by this man to marry him, had your families not decided your fate for you? Would you say yes, tears in your eyes? Or would you smile gently and tell him a polite maybe? Would you challenge him or take him in without compromise, had you met and known him before everything was resolved for you?

"Only good things," Viktor says with a false, polite smile as he releases your hand. And the falseness of it stirs something within you—a worry, a flicker of fear.

What is this man like when no one is watching?

You have heard almost nothing—only mentions of his brilliance and good behaviour. But if they are as much half-truths as the mentions of your brilliance and good behaviour, then this arrangement could be either a blessing or a curse.

Not that it matters. If you ever wanted to be married, which you still do not. You merely accept your fate for the sake of…

For the sake of your family. Of course.

The exchange of pleasantries has barely settled when the butler steps forward, his voice measured and precise. "My lord, my lady, refreshments are prepared in the drawing room."

"Ah, excellent!" Father claps Jayce’s shoulder in a display of easy camaraderie. "We have much to discuss, Mister Talis. Shall we?"

Mother inclines her head gracefully, extending a gloved hand toward the open doorway. "Come, gentlemen. We shall not let business keep us from our tea."

The procession to the drawing room is orderly, Father leading Jayce in enthusiastic conversation about the boundless opportunities ahead. "A partnership of this nature is unprecedented, of course. An investment in the future—our shared future."

Jayce responds with the confidence of a man accustomed to admiration. "Precisely, my lord. With the right support, we could revolutionise industry as we know it."

You follow with measured steps, Viktor at your side. He has not spoken since the introduction, his expression composed, though his eyes—deep, contemplative—move with interest over the fine furnishings of the room.

As everyone settles, tea is poured, the gentle clink of porcelain filling the brief lull in conversation. You accept your cup, watching as Viktor does the same, his fingers long and careful around the delicate handle. A man of precision, no doubt.

You lower yourself onto one of the chairs as a maid pours the tea, your hands folding neatly in your lap as you watch your father and Jayce fall into an easy rhythm of discussion. They speak of investments, of Hextech’s promise, of the ways in which your family’s patronage will shape the future. You hear none of it.

“You must find this arrangement rather inconvenient,” you say to Viktor, keeping your voice light as you turn toward him.

His eyes sharpen, though his smile remains polite. “How so?” His hand playing with the cane stills, long fingers extend idly toward its wooden pole.

You tilt your head. “To be bound to a wife you do not know. And for science, no less.”

Viktor exhales a quiet chuckle, setting his tea down. “Science is a noble cause, Miss. Perhaps even nobler than marriage.”

A test. You recognise it as easily as you recognise your own reflection.

"Then I suppose you have the better end of the bargain," you say, knowing it’s in fact, the exact opposite.

What Viktor doesn’t know, is that your mother has ensured the bargain benefits your family far more than it does the inventors. And looking at both of them—Jayce, hardly containing the beam on his face, and Viktor, observing everything reverently—you feel a pang of guilt, followed by a flicker of anger at the injustice.

A plan formulates in your wicked brain faster than you can blink.

Viktor’s lips press together, but amusement flickers in his gaze. “Perhaps we both do.”

Whatever he means by that, you don’t get the chance to find out. Your mother’s voice cuts through the conversation, her smile as polished as the silverware. “My dear, do spare Mister Viktor the interrogation.”

You return her smile, though yours is sharper. “I was only ensuring he is as clever as they say.”

Your mother’s eyes narrow slightly before she turns back to Viktor, seamlessly redirecting the conversation to something safer. "Dearest, I do believe Mister Talis was about to ask your thoughts on Clementi’s compositions. Such refined taste in music is most becoming."

A deliberate redirection. A warning.

You inhale, curbing the temptation to press further. "Indeed, my lady Mother." Turning to Jayce, you summon a practiced smile. "I do believe his sonatinas have their merits. Though, some find them rather—predictable."

Viktor’s gaze lingers a moment longer, unreadable. You have tested him, and he has not recoiled. A curiosity, then. A mystery yet to unfold.

You spend the rest of the afternoon refreshments chatting to Jayce about mediocre music, wondering if he is as bored as you are. He is ever the gentleman, offering the occasional enthusiastic nod or agreeable remark, though you catch the way his gaze strays toward the conversation between your Father and Viktor. You, on the other hand, attempt to suppress yawns, stuffing your face with biscuits only to receive a sharp, silent scolding from your mother—her ever-composed expression unchanging, yet her message perfectly clear in the slight arch of her brow and the subtle narrowing of her eyes.

Jayce, for his part, is far less burdened by such silent reprimands, complimenting the food with an easy charm that has even the servants standing a little straighter. "Absolutely delightful," he declares after a bite of pastry. "Your cooks must be geniuses, my lady."

Mother responds with a gracious nod, her practiced smile unwavering. "We do strive for excellence."

Meanwhile, across the room, Viktor exchanges politeness with your father, and—intriguingly—seems to warm to the conversation. While his initial responses are careful, measured, there is a spark of genuine enthusiasm as the subject shifts to research. Your father, less constipated than your mother in matters of etiquette, easily shakes off formality, allowing his hand to linger on Viktor’s shoulder longer than necessary—a gesture of camaraderie and gratitude.

As the discussion unfolds, Viktor’s composure loosens. He leans in slightly, his hands moving as he speaks, his eyes lighting up with the excitement of a man entirely lost in his own world of ideas. His voice, once restrained, now carries a lilt of passion as he explains the intricacies of Hextech and its boundless potential. You watch, fascinated, as the façade slips away—just a little—revealing something softer beneath. And how lovely he looks when he forgets himself.

Dinner proceeds without any great disturbances, save, again, for your mother’s silent rebukes whenever you take too large a bite or drink too greedily. Conversation flows between the three men, animated and full of promise—the future, progress, the shape of the world yet to come. All three desire it in their own way, though you suspect Viktor’s hunger for it is of a different nature than the others’.

And then, of course, comes your turn to be put on display. After dinner, Mother’s hand lands lightly on your wrist, her voice smooth as silk yet firm beneath the surface. "Dearest, why don’t you show our guests the depths of your talents? A sonatina, perhaps? Something refined."

Refined, meaning dull. Predictable. A test, as everything always is.

You rise, crossing the room with measured steps, already feeling Viktor’s gaze on you. He has seen something of you in conversation—but now, he will listen.

And so—you play the godforsaken Sonatina, your skin pulled tight over your face, eyes hooded, fingers moving with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner serving a sentence. Your back aches from keeping your spine stiffly straight, and despite your best efforts, your brows begin to furrow in ironic frustration. You only realise it when your mother clears her throat—pointedly, just a touch too loud.

You correct yourself immediately, smoothing your expression, though you swear you hear the ghost of a chuckle slip past Viktor’s lips. How dare he.

"How lovely," Jayce says, his smile wide and honest. You return it with one of your own—entirely dishonest—as you offer an insincere, "Thank you, Mister Talis," and bow politely. Viktor nods and swallows, and for some reason, you catch the way his throat bobs.

"Gentlemen, I believe it is time to discuss business. Let us move to the smoking room," Father announces, beaming. You can't suppress the sigh that escapes you. Soon—very soon—your night self will be free. She has been clawing at the edges of your skin for hours.

"Goodnight, my dearest girls," Father says warmly, pressing a kiss to both your forehead and your mother’s—a gesture so private, so natural, it earns him a scoff from his wife and a kiss on the cheek from his daughter.

Pleasantries are exchanged, and as soon as the men are out of sight, you bolt toward your bedroom. Your mind is already racing, gears grinding. Your feet slip from your heels, and you clasp them in your hands as you take the stairs two at a time. Every step sheds another layer of constriction—the short stay, the chemise, the pins biting into your scalp, the suffocating weight of your skirts. Off, off, off. The blush, the powder, the pretence. Her watch has ended for today.

You shake your hair loose from its updo before you even reach your door, already calling for your maid the moment you step inside, clawing at the laces of your gown in desperation.

“Miss, why the dramatics?” she teases, catching up with you in the corridor.

“Peggy don’t test me. I can’t breathe,” you whine, slumping onto your vanity chair, hands pressing against your ribs to emphasize the urgency. “I am convinced that in hell, everyone wears a short stay.”

Peggy chuckles but says nothing more as her fingers work deftly at the laces, loosening them with a care that speaks of years spent tending to you. You feel the tension ease, your ribs finally expanding without resistance.

“Well?” she prompts, her voice light but expectant. “How was the evening?”

You hesitate. The words sit heavy on your tongue, as though speaking them aloud would solidify them, make them real. And you are not quite ready for that. Instead, you exhale slowly, composing yourself before replying, “He is… nice.” That is all you can manage.

Peggy hums knowingly. “From what I managed to spy, he’s also rather handsome.”

You scoff, turning your head away. “Is that all that matters?”

“It certainly doesn’t hurt,” she says with a grin, but she does not press further.

At last, the constriction gives way, and you take an exaggerated breath, filling your lungs like a drowning woman reaching the surface. Then, without ceremony, you slide off the chair and sprawl flat on the floor, half-dressed, limbs flung out like a marionette with its strings cut.

Peggy, unfazed, picks up your nightgown and drapes it over you as though covering a corpse. “God, grant rest upon my poor mistress’s soul and let her eternity be free of the constriction of breast support,” she intones in mock solemnity.

Laughter bubbles up from your chest, unrestrained and real. You lift an arm weakly and wave it in her general direction. “Saint Peggy, patron of weary ladies, I thank you.”

She curtsies dramatically. “As ever, at your service. Call on me if you need anything.”

“I expect I shall sleep like a log.”

“Good. You’ve earned it, I think.” With that, she takes her leave, pulling the door shut behind her.

Silence settles over the room, thick and absolute. You are alone.

For the first time since the day began, the weight of it all presses down on you. The evening, the introductions, the expectations—your mother’s sharp gaze, your father’s quiet resignation, the way Viktor’s eyes had searched yours with something unreadable. It is real now. You are betrothed.

You swallow. A part of you wants to dwell on it, to trace every moment back and find meaning in the way Viktor’s lips had pressed to your glove, or how he had looked when he spoke of his work, his façade slipping just enough to let something genuine through. But you stop yourself before you go too far.

No. There is still one more thing to do tonight.

You push yourself up from the floor, shaking away the thoughts. The night is not over yet.

Barefoot and silent, you slip from your chambers, the corridor dimly lit by the soft glow of sconces. The house is quiet, the faint crackle of a dying hearth the only sound accompanying your careful steps. You know this path well—the precise places to avoid so the floorboards won’t betray you, the door handle that needs an extra nudge before it turns smoothly.

Inside, your father’s study smells of ink, aged paper, and a lingering trace of cigar smoke. The large mahogany desk dominates the space, neat and orderly, save for the glass of brandy he left half-finished. You move swiftly, rifling through the stack of documents until you find it—your contract, tucked within a leather folder. The paper is thick beneath your fingers, the ink crisp and unwavering in its certainty.

You sit at his desk, candle alit, quill and ink poised above parchment. The contract lies before you, its neat, formal script a reminder of how little say you had in its creation. Pushed through by your father but shaped by your mother’s precise demands, it is, at its core, a transaction. A business arrangement designed to favour your family above all else.

Your eyes skim over the terms, and irritation prickles beneath your skin. The imbalance is glaring. The investment into Hextech is substantial, but in return, the Talises and your future husband receive only what your mother deems “reasonable compensation.” No direct ownership, no authority over the funds. Your family retains the power, and Viktor and Jayce are little more than beneficiaries at your parents’ discretion. A gilded leash.

You press your lips together. No. This will not do.

Dipping your quill into the ink, you begin to amend.

First, the finances—your father’s control over the investment is reduced. Instead of an allowance doled out at his leisure, the funds will be released in agreed-upon increments, ensuring neither Jayce nor Viktor are forced to beg for what is already promised to them. They will have the freedom to allocate resources as needed, without interference from your family.

Next, ownership. The contract had positioned your father as a silent but permanent stakeholder, yet he has no knowledge of Hextech, no hand in its creation. You strike that out, altering it so that once their research yields results, patents and profits remain in the hands of their rightful creators. Your family will receive a generous return, but not at the expense of their autonomy.

Then, Viktor himself. The terms outlining your marriage are, predictably, cold. Your mother’s hand is evident in every word. You are to be an asset to your husband, a guiding influence, ensuring that he remains focused and socially presentable. It is not about companionship—it is about control.

You set your quill down, flexing your fingers before taking it up again. You cannot undo the engagement, but you can redefine it. The clauses regarding expectations of your role are softened, turned into vague suggestions rather than obligations. Where once it stated that your husband must be “encouraged” to attend events and maintain appearances, you adjust it to read that he may do so at his discretion. No doubt your mother will notice this change, but you will cross that bridge when you must.

By the time you finish, the candle has burned low. You lean back, studying your work. The contract remains an arrangement, a tether you cannot sever, but at least now, it is fairer. A step closer to something tolerable.

You blot the ink, letting the parchment dry. The night stretches on, silent save for the scratching of your quill as you forge your own small rebellion in ink.

Once you deem it ready, you sneak back out, guiding your footsteps toward the guest bedrooms. An unthinkable mésalliance, your mother would say, but you feel that both Jayce and Viktor should be made aware—if your plan is to work. You step carefully, your bare feet growing dirty from crossing the house without slippers.

Muffled conversation filters through the door your mother assigned to Jayce. His voice is slightly raised, Viktor’s quieter, edged with irony. They are discussing the evening.

One proper breath, and then a knock on the door.

The hum of conversation ceases instantly as heavy footsteps approach. The door cracks open, and Jayce’s eyes widen—because there you stand, in nothing but your nightdress and a loose cape that does little to conceal your state of undress.

His mouth falls open, and only a small, startled sound escapes his lips.

“Let me in!” you whisper sharply, glancing down the corridor with nervous urgency.

“Oh, Miss, forgive me, but this… is very inappropriate,” Jayce says weakly, though he makes no move to stop you as you push past him and step into the room.

The air is thick with the remnants of their earlier conversation, the scent of brandy lingering. Viktor sits slouched in an armchair, one elbow propped on the armrest, fingers pressed against his temple as if warding off a headache. He watches you, silent, unreadable.

Jayce, on the other hand, is all frantic gestures and hushed protests. “You must go back to your room. If anyone—God, if your mother—” He exhales sharply, rubbing his jaw. “This is madness.”

You cross your arms, standing your ground. “Fuck the polite society, Jayce. Do you want to be a slave to my mother, or will you read what I brought you?”

At that, Viktor’s lips quirk—barely. “Quite a mouth you have there, Miss.” His voice is smooth, carrying none of Jayce’s flustered panic. He rises from his chair, extending a hand.

It’s only then that you truly take him in. His shirt is undone at the neck, the cravat abandoned somewhere, his hair tousled prettily as if he’s raked his fingers through it too many times. A flush warms his cheeks—alcohol, no doubt, courtesy of your father.

You hesitate for a fraction of a second before placing the document in his outstretched hand. Your fingers brush, and you retreat too quickly, as if the touch burned.

Silence. Viktor’s eyes flick across the page, reading with quiet intensity. Jayce, peeking over his shoulder, mutters under his breath, “Oh, my.”

Viktor lets out a quiet scoff, the amusement avoiding his eyes. “And to what do we owe this mercy of yours, pray tell?” His gaze lingers on the last lines of your text, his tone devoid of the warmth he carried earlier. Now, it is sharp, cold, measured—kindness stripped away as if it had only ever been a mask to wear in polite company. He swallows and lifts his eyes to you, utterly unamused, borderline bored. “I loathe charity.”

Heat rises to your cheeks before you can stop it, a tangled mess of emotions forming beneath your ribs, but anger is among them. You exhale sharply, crossing your arms over your chest, suddenly very aware of how exposed you are. “And I loathe injustice and trickery. This—” you gesture vaguely at the parchment. “Is fair. If I am to be sold to a man I do not know, let it be on terms that are humanely acceptable.”

“How kind,” he says, smiling—mocking. “And how do you expect us to accept this? Who do you think is stupid, me and Mister Talis or your own father?” He steps closer, ignoring the way Jayce’s hand presses against his shoulder as if to restrain him. His weight wavers without a cane, and for a moment, you think he might have to steady himself on you.

“My father is not an unkind man. He simply loves my mother too much for his own good. My mother…” You tilt your head, letting the words settle between you. “Well, she’s a woman.”

The corner of Viktor’s mouth twitches, the ghost of a smile. “Charming.”

“But my father will not read this upon signing, of that I am certain. We will be long bound before anyone notices.”

Viktor exhales, a sound of something between disbelief and amusement. “And who are you doing this for, my merciful Lady?” His voice shifts, the sharpness still there, but beneath it—a spark of something else. The same fervour he held when speaking of his machines, now laced with something darker.

“Myself, my Lord.” You meet his gaze without hesitation. “You just happen to be a casualty of my mercy.”

And something stirs in your chest—a swelling, an exhilaration. The night version of you, the real you, speaking bluntly to the man who is to be your husband. And he does not recoil. He accepts the challenge. Infuriatingly so, but beneath your irritation, something sparks under your skin that you cannot chase away. Excitement.

Viktor blinks, slowly. Then, he turns to Jayce, whose face has gone chalk white during your exchange. “What do you think of this?”

Jayce swallows hard. “What if he notices? Your father, that is,” he asks wearily, clearly tempted by your terms yet frightened of what it might cost your families' alliance.

“He won’t. And if, by some unholy joke, he does—I will take the blame. Tonight never happened,” you state firmly, bravely. You do not let your voice betray the truth: that you have no idea what you would do if your mother ever found out. She would probably cut your hair and throw you in a convent.

They both nod, and you allow yourself a breath. Then, Viktor extends his hand for a handshake.

You stare at it briefly before accepting—his palm is calloused, warm. Bigger than yours, his fingers so long they nearly brush your wrist. His grip is firm, unwavering.

For the briefest moment, his gaze flickers downward—to your chest. It’s so quick you might have missed it. But you didn’t. And neither did he miss the way heat rushes to your cheeks.

His eyes meet yours again, glinting with an unreadable taunt. “I think it’s best you return to your chambers, my Lady,” he says at last. To that, you can only nod.

You slip back into your father’s office under the cover of darkness, placing the altered contract precisely where it needs to be—where it will be signed without a second glance. Then, just as carefully, you retreat to your chambers, slipping past every creaking floorboard with the expertise of someone who has done this many times before.

Once inside, you bolt the door, shrugging off your cape before sinking onto the mattress. The night version of you refuses to rest. She tosses and turns, replaying every moment of the evening—the music, the dinner, the conversation, the challenge in Viktor’s eyes, the brush of his fingers against yours.

And yet, despite all of it, he is still a stranger.

Morning invades you with harsh light pouring through the abruptly opened curtains and Peggy’s voice urging you to get up.

“Miss? You’ve overslept! Up! Up!” she whisper shouts, pulling the covers down from the bed.

You groan and press your palms to your eyes, curling up into a bean. “Peggy, have mercy, I beg of you.”

“Sorry, Miss, no mercy today. Our guests are leaving soon, and you can’t miss breakfast, not today,” Peggy says with a kind smile that disarms you. You roll out of your bed, feet dragging across the floor before you slump down in front of the vanity. You watch as Peggy chases away the night self, pins your hair up, wipes the night drool of your face to make you at least vaguely presentable. She’s merciful with the short stay though­—picks a looser one, from the time before you lost your baby fat.

Your heels clack on the staircase and you can already hear voices coming from downstairs. As you approach the drawing room, a glimpse of the scene within stops you in your tracks. Lurking in the doorframe, you watch as Jayce and Viktor hunch over a parchment, feigning deep concentration as they pretend to read it thoroughly before signing. They do so, exchanging pats on the shoulder—conspirators sealing a silent agreement.

Then, it is your father’s turn. He catches sight of you lingering in the doorway and flashes you a warm smile. “Good morning, love.”

His eyes drop back to the document. He gives it one last cursory sweep, his quill hovering just above the space left to sign.

You hold your breath.

And he... hesitates. A small hmm escapes him. His brows knit together in fleeting consideration, and then—oh.

He looks straight at you.

Heat flares in your cheeks, but you do not waver. You hold his gaze, steady, unflinching. And for whatever reason—be it the bond of blood or simply the fact that he has known you all your life—his expression softens. A knowing smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

And oh.

He signs.

You exhale, breathless, weightless. Laughter erupts between them—hugs, handshakes, pats on the back. Jayce beams, his happiness unguarded. Viktor wears a smile that, for once, looks almost honest. Your father looks content.

It is signed. Done. Sealed.

Your father steps forward and pulls you into a firm embrace. “You’ve done well. I’m proud of you,” he murmurs against your hair. Then, in a quieter, amused tone, he adds, “Now, let us pray your mother doesn’t notice until the wedding.” He chuckles softly.

Oh. Right. You are getting married.

***

A few days have passed since the contract was signed, and to your relief, your mother has not noticed the adjustments you made. She remains blissfully consumed by wedding preparations, entirely unaware that the original terms—so starkly in favour of your family—have been tempered to grant House Talis a fairer standing.

However, your father called you to his study, his expression unreadable as he regarded you across his desk. His words were firm, yet not unkind. He did not scold, nor did he praise, only ensured you understood the weight of your actions.

"You have done them a service," he admitted at last, after a measured silence. "One I hope they will not forget." And though he said nothing further, though his approval was never voiced, something in his tone—something almost like respect—settled in your chest, easing the uncertainty that had lingered since you first put pen to paper.

Now, with a storm in your mind, your fingers fly over the keys, the sharp, cascading notes of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata (Presto Agitato) filling the room with thunderous urgency. It drowns out everything—the ticking of the clock, the creak of the floorboards, even the faint rustle of the curtains shifting in the afternoon breeze.

You have not thought about it until now. Not truly. Not beyond the abstraction of ink on parchment and the murmured discussions over tea and candlelight. But now, with only days left before you are no longer just yourself but someone’s wife, it hits you. A shift. A point of no return.

How strange, to know that the house you grew up in, the one you have played in, dreamt in, stormed through in childhood fits of temper, will no longer be yours. That soon, your place at this very piano, in this very room, will be an absence rather than a presence. The thought unsettles you.

So you play harder. Louder. Until the force of it rings in your chest, keeping you from thinking too much. You curl forward, biting your lip absentmindedly, your face twisted with emotion, your torso nearly hovering over the keys like a hunchback.

You do not hear the front door open, nor the sound of measured footsteps in the hall. You do not see the maid, Peggy, curtsy as she leads your visitor inside. You do not even notice when she hesitates, turning to announce him—because before she can, a voice stops her.

"It’s alright, Peggy. Please, allow me."

It is a quiet request, yet it holds the weight of something decisive. Viktor stands in the doorway, smiles for Peggy, but his eyes are fixed on you, considering. The way your body moves with the music, the tension in your shoulders, the way you lose yourself in the notes.

Peggy looks up at him, blinking in momentary surprise, before a small, approving smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. He is not appalled. Not by the passion, the volume, the unladylike ferocity with which you play. And that, she thinks, is a good sign.

So she gives him a knowing look, inclines her head, and quietly slips away—leaving him alone to watch you. And you, still unaware of his presence, continue to play.

He spies your reflection in the window—your face shifting from one expression to another with each rise and fall of the music. Your brows knit in concentration, your eyes clamp shut with feeling, your mouth parts slightly, forming an unconscious little o. Strands of hair have slipped free from their updo, framing your cheeks in wild disarray.

Viktor inches closer, careful to avoid the floorboards that might creak beneath his step. He drinks in the scene—the unguarded display, the sheer abandon with which you play. A thought takes root. Perhaps this arrangement will not be the terrible imprisonment he once feared. Surely, you—with your tempestuous fingers and flagrant disregard for propriety—will agree that freedom is the highest privilege, worth protecting above all else.

He tells himself the feeling in his chest is not admiration but hope. Hope that the two of you might reach an understanding, one that will allow you both to remain unshackled even within the binds of matrimony. He tells himself that your parted mouth is merely amusing, nothing more.

The piece crashes to an end, and with a frustrated groan, you collapse forward, resting your forehead and elbows on the keyboard. A discordant wail echoes through the room. Viktor chuckles and finally breaks the silence.

"Are you not happy with your play, Miss?"

You jolt upright with a sharp gasp, spinning around so quickly that you nearly stumble in your haste to stand.

"Dear God, my Lord!"

You attempt a curtsy, but the motion is so hurried and clumsy that you almost topple over. Viktor steps forward instinctively, his hands finding your forearms to steady you, cane clattering to the floor. His grip is light, his touch like a feather, amusement flickering in his gaze.

"Forgive me, I did not mean to startle," he murmurs, breath quickening despite himself at the warmth and tension in your arms. He holds you wondering whether his fingertips would meet had he closed them around you. The thought gets chased away as soon as it enters his mind.

You swallow hard, your heart still racing from the shock. The room suddenly feels much smaller, the space between you too charged. You are keenly aware of your appearance—loosened hair, flushed cheeks, a dress slightly rumpled from sitting too long at the piano. You feel exposed. He does not seem to mind, still holding your elbows.

"I do not know as much about music as Jayce," Viktor continues, tilting his head slightly, "but this sounded rather… challenging, no?"

"I’m so sorry—you weren’t meant to hear this," you blurt out, lowering your gaze.

"I enjoyed it thoroughly," he replies without hesitation. "It’s rather different to what I heard last time."

Your fingers twitch on his arms. Different was one way to put it.

"Oh, it’s quite different," you admit. Then, lowering your voice, "Also, quite forbidden. Please don’t tell my mother—she will burn my sheet music and make me play that measly Clementi until my fingers bleed."

Viktor smirks, his fingers wrapping just a notch tighter around your arms. "I shall keep your secret, Miss. What’s another one shared between betrothed? I imagine there will be more."

For the briefest moment, you wonder if he is flirting. Your pulse quickens at the notion, but you quickly clear your throat and step back, disentangling yourself from his grasp. You smooth your skirts, willing the heat in your cheeks to fade.

"What brings you here, if you don’t mind my asking?"

He leans to pick up the cane and you wonder momentarily if you should help, before he says, "Oh, I was announced to call upon you today. Have you forgotten?"

You press your lips together, mortified. "Forgive me. It completely slipped my mind—I got lost in thought."

Viktor hums, nodding in understanding. "That’s quite alright. I think I am familiar with the feeling." Then, arching a brow, "Also, why are we whispering?"

Your shoulders stiffen. "Because if my benevolent mother finds us here without a chaperone, hell will open its mouth and swallow me whole."

Viktor huffs a quiet laugh, unbothered. "I was told your mother went to town with your sisters, Miss. No need to fret. Or whisper, as much as I like the sound of it."

His voice is steady, indifferent to the scandalous implication of being alone together. You, however, remain acutely aware of it, your hands smoothing over your skirts once more as if to will yourself into some semblance of propriety. So odd to meet another who cares not about the binding of the rules made up by God knows who. Absolutely peculiar to be the one who leans toward the constriction on instinct, being presented with someone who doesn’t obey. The night self has cackled within you ludicrously.

“What is the reason for your calling, then?” you ask, forcing your voice to remain steady.

“I was told by Jayce’s sweet mother that such is a custom between courting couples,” Viktor replies, his tone unreadable.

Courting. Couple. Be still, your stupid heart. You press your lips together before speaking. “I thought I was considered to be courted by now.”

Viktor tilts his head slightly, watching you as though deciphering a puzzle. “If you do not wish me to visit, do tell. I don’t mean to impose upon you, Miss.”

“Oh no, my Lord, forgive my bluntness,” you say quickly, feeling a warmth creep up your neck. “I am merely not sure if I am able to entertain you in the way you desire.”

Something shifts in Viktor’s expression—his gaze darkens slightly, and his fingers twitch at his cane before he hesitates, swallowing as if choosing his words carefully. “I meant to invite you for a stroll later this week,” he says at last, voice softer, but still carrying that enigmatic lilt. “Apparently, it is good were we to be seen in public together. I thought we could kill two birds with one stone and have an unsupervised conversation while being regarded.”

There’s something about the way he says it—an almost playful contradiction in the idea of a private moment under the scrutiny of others—that makes you pause. He is studying you again, and though you should feel wary, you find yourself intrigued instead.

“Well, I would lie if I said you didn’t grasp my attention. I shall indulge you, my Lord,” you say after taking a long inhale, steadying yourself. The moment of unguarded reaction is gone—you slip back into the polished version of yourself, the one who knows how to navigate these waters. Calm, composed, hands resting gently on your abdomen, back straight, chin held high.

Viktor only smiles, his eyes flickering with something unreadable before he inclines his head. “I am no Lord, just a man. Please, call me Viktor.”

Your fingers twitch where they rest. He is dismantling barriers you had placed with such ease it’s infuriating. “I will be there, Viktor.” The name feels unfamiliar yet strangely natural on your tongue.

In response, he whispers your name softly, like a secret meant only for him to know. A shiver curls up your spine, and before you can stop yourself, your arms move—grasping at your elbows in a defensive clutch. The instinct to shield yourself is immediate, but you smother it, replacing it with a placid smile. If Viktor notices, he does not call attention to it, though something in his gaze flickers. He looks as though he is about to say something, but then he hesitates. Withdraws.

For a moment, you simply stare at each other, the air thick with something unspoken. It feels strange—utterly so. As if you are being assessed, studied with a precision that leaves you feeling exposed. And the duel is not fair. He has some sort of weapon, some unseen advantage, while you stand bare, vulnerable. Like a deer in the forest, ears pricked, waiting for the shot to ring out.

“I shan’t disturb you further,” he finally says, turning toward the door. “I will send a note as to when and where we will meet.”

On cue, the door creaks, and Peggy peeks through the crack.

“Miss, the Lady will be back soon. Shall I make some tea for you and your caller?”

You exhale sharply, regaining your bearings. “Mister Viktor is leaving, but thank you. We should, probably—” You catch yourself before you say too much, before you admit that you need to look as though you have been dutifully engaged in proper, ladylike pastimes rather than playing scandalous music behind closed doors. You glance at Peggy, willing her to understand.

She does. “Of course, Miss! I will be with you in a few moments.”

The door clicks shut behind Viktor.

You release a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding, pressing a hand against your ribs as though it could steady the frantic beat of your heart.

Save for your father, this was the first time you had been alone in a room with a man. The realisation settles over you like a weight, and the two halves of yourself clash within your chest.

The day you—the dutiful daughter—cannot help but acknowledge the impropriety of it all. She knows what is expected, what lines should not be crossed. And yet… she hesitates. Because the unease doesn’t stem solely from being alone with a man. It stems from being alone with Viktor, a man whose manners slip free of societal constraints the moment he is given the chance.

The night you, however, does not hesitate. She roars in satisfaction. This was thrilling. The push and pull of conversation, the glances, the knowing looks. And to do so while basking in daylight, without shadows to obscure the truth of it?

Intoxicating.

[tthoroughfare]

crush (part 2) // abby anderson

*･゜ﾟ･* summary: i owe you a black eye and two kisses. tell me when you wanna come and get 'em. abby finally confronts her feelings in the spur of the moment, then gets scared and runs away. it all works out in the end, though.

*･゜ﾟ･* pairing: canon!abby x reader

*･゜ﾟ･* content: nsfw. nothing too crazy just some yearny sesbian lex using hands. light injury description and abby being a horrible communicator

*･゜ﾟ･* length: 2.9k

this is part two of this series! find part one here

i hope you enjoy the second part! i'm so down to write more of this so lmk if anyone wants it

abby keeps it all to herself. she enjoys having you as a friend, and reasons that it’s better not to mess it all up. just because you like her whole entire gender doesn’t mean you like her. plus, she’s not even sure about what she’s feeling. figures that if she actually wasn’t straight, she’d surely have already known by now. but then again, she didn’t know you back then. didn’t feel what she feels around you.

then, one night, you’ve been around at hers, drinking and watching a movie with manny. she’d accidentally overindulged, possibly (definitely) out of nerves. you’d had to drag the chair and beanbag over in front of the TV, you and abby both piling onto the beanbag, chair not big enough to hold the two of you.

there was still barely enough room, and you were pressed up against her. at first, you were awkwardly perched, body rigid; but then, as the film went on and you had a little more to drink, you found yourself sinking into the seat, further into her.

by the end of it, your head is comfortably on her shoulder, laughing and chatting freely — she can smell your hair, feel the heat of your body against her, and she truly thinks she might combust.

once it’s gotten late, you say you’d better be heading back to your own place. abby tipsily insists on walking you back, even though it’s really not necessary. like, at all.

you jovially chat and giggle on the way back through the stadium, and all you can remember thinking is how glad you are that you met her. how rare it is for you to know someone who you feel so connected to, who everything feels so easy with almost instantaneously.

when you get to your door, she lingers around, keeping the conversation going even after you say goodnight — like she wants something from you, wants to say something but can’t. there’s a moment where it drops quiet, and she’s just looking at you. studying your face, maintaining eye contact for probably longer than she ever has. that’s when you realize she’s automatically drifted closer.

and then, liquid courage coursing through her veins and affirmed by you leaning on her earlier, she kisses you.

it’s quick, and you don’t return it. not because you don’t want to, but out of pure shock — never in a million years would you have seen it coming. you’d fully shelved your crush on her, under the impression it was never going to happen.

before you have a real chance to react, she pulls back, cheeks tinged red.

you speak at the same time: her blurting out, "sorry, fuck"; you simply shaking your head a little, stuttering, “a-abby, i…”

a beat passes, you slightly open-mouthed, abby’s hands anxiously fiddling with themselves at her sides. immediately, she’s sober. “fuck, i-i’m sorry. that was stupid.”

“no, abby, it’s just—“ before you can finish your sentence, she mutters something inaudible and turns, beginning to stride off down the hall, feeling like a fucking idiot. of course you didn’t like her, and she’d just drunkenly ruined it all for nothing.

your call of her name, followed by a, ‘wait!’ falls on deaf ears, and she turns the corner, gone. you’re left stunned, frozen outside your door, trying to process what just happened.

you want to go after her, have her allow you to explain yourself, but decide against it. you don’t know if she really meant it, you don’t know what her reasons were for running off; you don’t know what the fuck to do. so, despite every ounce of yourself begging you not to, you simply go inside and try your best to sleep. you can’t, though, mind whirring for hours on end until you finally pass out.

the next morning, you pray you run into her. usually, you always saw her at some point, but it was like she was avoiding everywhere you might be.

you see manny in the canteen later in the day, catching up to him and asking him where she is; he just shrugs, saying that she’d picked up an extra assignment and headed out that morning. might not be back for a day or two.

you can’t help but let out an exasperated sigh, crossing your arms. you knew it was on purpose. all over a kiss. “are you fucking kidding me?”

he gives you a funny look. “you two have a fight or something? she was… quiet when she came back.”

rolling your eyes, you shake your head after a moment. basically the opposite. “no… no, we didn’t.”

“right.” he quirks an eyebrow slightly, taking a breath. “you want me to talk to her when i see her?”

you shake your head vehemently, furrowing your brow. “nah, nah, don’t. just… let me know when she gets back, please?”

he nods once, tapping the side of your arm. “you got it.”

you utter out a thanks, and with that you’re off.

you don’t want to be mad at her, but you are. you don’t know why she’s running away from you, quite literally putting her life on the line just so she doesn’t have to face you. what makes it so much worse is she didn’t even give you a chance. if she’d have just heard you out instead of storming off, there wouldn’t even be an issue in the first place.

the next morning arrives, and abby’s still not back. the whole day, you fight the urge to walk over to her apartment and knock on the door every five minutes. you know manny said a day or two, but you can’t help but anxiously await her return the moment it’s plausible.

you try to keep yourself busy with work, but all your mind does is wander back to her. thinking about what she’s doing, if she’s okay, what you’re going to say to her when she gets back. you replay the kiss over and over in your head, scrutinizing every millisecond of it. what if the reason she freaked out was that she only did it because she was drunk, immediately realized she regretted it, and that’s why she’s avoiding you?

her absence just gives you too much time to worry, conjure up every worst case scenario. by the end of it, you’re essentially convinced she doesn’t like you, that it was a mistake, and now your friendship will never be the same.

finally, around noon the day after, manny collars you in the hallway and lets you know abby’s back. you let out a half relieved, half nervous sigh, nodding and thanking him. you can’t go talk to her right away — you’re too swamped with work, on your way back from the shortest lunch break known to man, but you know the second you’ve called it a day, you’re finding her.

it’s not until almost eight that you finally get to a place where you can break off, leaning back in your chair and running your hands over your face. you pack a few items away hurriedly, heart beating in your chest as you make your way over to abby’s.

it’s not her who answers the door, though — it’s manny. you blow air out of your nose at the fact you’re seeing more of him than her at this point.

“where is she?” you question gently, as if he doesn’t already know what you want.

the corners of his mouth quirk. “guess.”

“library?”

he clicks his tongue in affirmation, and you roll your eyes fondly before telling him you’ll see him later, turning to make your way down there.

standing outside the door, you realize how nervous you are. you’ve wanted nothing more than to see abby since it happened, but now the moment’s here you can’t help but feel hesitant about all the ways the conversation could go.

after a beat of psyching yourself up, you gingerly crack the door open, spotting her on the ottoman before gently wrapping your knuckles as you peer in. “knock, knock.”

she looks up, an unreadable expression on her face.

“can i come in?”

she pauses, sitting up properly and placing her book to the side. “uh… sure.”

you smile gratefully, picking your way in and softly closing the door behind you. you make your way over, taking a seat next to her with your hands folded in your lap, avoiding eye contact. “so…”

you can see her fiddling with the sleeve of her shirt in your peripheral vision. “so…?”

looking up at her, you go to say your rehearsed spiel, then the words get caught in your throat when you notice the injuries littering her face. a couple of gashes are set into her forehead and chin, purple blossoming over her cheekbone.

“what the hell have you done to your face?” it comes out a little more frustrated than the caring tone you intend, but you are frustrated. if she’d have stayed and listened, she wouldn’t have been avoiding you, and in turn wouldn’t have gone off and gotten herself hurt. you pivot your body to face her side, knee bending to rest your left leg sideways.

“it’s not anything.”

you tut, unable to help yourself from reaching out and running your thumb tenderly over the bruising. she pulls away from your touch slightly, to which you shoot her a look. “worse than i ever get.”

“you’re sheltered.”

she says it matter-of-fact, and you know it’s true. you’ve always had it better than her, better than most, never really being required to go into the field. both your parents are still alive, a rarity nowadays, both academics. the last time you were in real danger was simply when you were being moved into the base, going from safe point A to safe point B. 

still, it stings a little.

“yeowch,” you respond as you allow your hand to drop from her skin, only half joking. “there’s no need to be mean, abby.”

she rolls her eyes, still keeping her sight trained firmly ahead. “i’m not being…” she trails off, shaking her head a little and looking down at her hands. she moves to lean forward, forearms resting on her knees.

a pause passes that feels like an eternity, until you finally will yourself to speak. your voice is soft, low. “why did you run off on me the other night?”

she gnaws at her lip, not saying anything for a moment. “can we just forget about that? it was…”

“a mistake, i know. you were… you’d had a few drinks. i know you didn’t mean anything by it.” you finish her sentence for her, and she sighs and shakes her head in annoyance at how wrong you have it.

she swallows thickly in defeat, urging the words to come. she might as well tell you; she’s already basically fucked everything up. what does she have to lose?

“that’s… not it.” her words come out quiet, and she looks at you for the first time since you walked in, hands wringing in her lap.

you automatically shuffle a tiny bit closer, her leg warm against yours. “then what is it?”

“i didn’t… it wasn’t… because i was drunk. it was because i wanted to.” she takes a deep breath, shoulders sinking. “and then… you reacted all… i don’t know. anyway… you don’t see me like that. can we just move on?”

you look at her, mouth opening and closing a little. your brow furrows. “oh my god. are you serious?”

“what?” she replies, a little defensively.

“i reacted like that because i was fucking shocked. as far as i was aware, you didn’t even like girls, never mind me, and then you just kissed me out of nowhere. i didn’t know how to react. and then, you didn’t even give me chance to say anything and just walked off, and then i don’t see you for two days,” you blurt out, floodgates opened.

it’s her turn to be speechless again, looking up at you like a deer in headlights. “so… w-what are you saying?”

you don’t even bother to answer, knowing you can show her tenfold better than you can tell. you pull her up to you, hand resting on her jaw, pressing your lips to hers with a gentle urgency. she freezes for a split second before kissing back, one hand leaning on the ottoman behind you, the other coming up to cup your cheek.

you shift further in subconsciously, right leg going over one of hers and your free arm wrapping around her neck.

“jesus christ, abby,” you mumble against her lips between adoring smooches, “i can’t believe you.”

she breathes out a chuckle. “sorry.”

you have sex for the first time that night. you invite her to stay over, not even having those expectations. you just want to be with her, want to feel close to her, wake up side by side.

but then it drops late, and your lights are on low, having spent the evening conversing on your bed with the tv droning in the background. you’re both on your sides facing each other, propped up by an elbow. and you look so pretty in the dim yellow light, she can’t help herself from leaning in and kissing you, dripping with want.

you end up on top of her, fingertips stroking over either side of her face, hers pressing into your hips. all you can hear is your own pulse banging in your head, the labored, rapid breaths the two of you let out into each other’s mouths.

you don’t think you’ve ever wanted anything this much. you can feel yourself soaking your underwear, and nothing’s even happened.

abby swallows thickly, pulling back for a moment, knowing where this is all going. “you know i’ve never…” she trails off, implicating the last few words, voice husked with arousal.

you pause to look at her, lidded eyes dragging over her face, a slightly amused smirk tugging at the corners of your lips.

“i know,” you respond, leaning back in to mouth at the corner of hers, before kissing down to her jaw. you continue to speak against her skin, voice low. “you’ll figure it out.”

and she sure does.

you make love to each other. it’s all slow, and testing, but wanting and desperate. a lot of abby asking every two minutes if what she’s doing feels good, you guiding her and showing her how you like it. when you first flip her on top of you, tenderly taking her hair out from its braid and running your fingers through it, leading her hand under your waistband and showing her how wet you’ve gotten for her, she truly doesn’t know how the fuck she was ever, ever uncertain about her feelings.

you take your shirt off, baring yourself to her, then hers, needing to feel your skin flush against one another. her hands automatically move to make quick work of the lower half of your clothing, gaining confidence. and then you’re naked, spread out underneath her, all flushed and open mouthed, hips shifting into hers desperately — and it’s just like something takes over her.

she kisses over your chest languidly, exploring, needing to taste your skin. you gently take her wrist, moving her hand back between your legs, and your head falls back when she runs a finger through your folds. it’s a little clumsy, a little anxious, but abby’s a quick learner. she finds a rhythm, circling your clit as her mouth attaches to your nipple.

“abby, fuck…” you moan shakily, one hand tightening around her wrist, keeping her where it feels good, the other gripping lightly at her hair.

“is that okay?” she asks. she’s looking up at you reverently, desperate to impress, and the sight sends even more heat pooling in your lower belly.

you nod hungrily and your hand moves from her wrist to her waistband, voice coming out a lot more needy than you intend. “take these off.”

she obeys you without a word, and your free hand immediately goes to touch her, spreading her apart and toying with her clit, reveling in the noises it draws.

you make each other cum like that, touching each other at the same time, all needy and yearning. you’re first, abby’s nerves getting the best of her, you unable to help yourself. it all builds and builds until it hits you hard, breathy, high pitched moans and whines of her name tumbling out against her shoulder. hearing you, seeing you like that sends her absolutely reeling, and it’s not long until she’s there too. you pull her face level to yours with your free hand, threading your fingers through her hair, needing to look at her as she cums.

she looks so pretty, eyes screwed shut and brows drawn, parted lips rosy as she pants her way through her orgasm, unable to help the string of mmphs and low, strangled moans that escape her.

you work her through it, slowing your movements gradually, stroking at her face as she comes down. it’s quiet for a moment, just the sounds of the forgotten movie across the room and both of you attempting to regain your breathing.

“okay?” you ask, voice barely a whisper.

she nods, eyes still closed, tongue darting out to wet her lips. then, her mouth twitches, corners forming a small smile. “yeah. fuck.”

you mirror her, a tiny smile of your own tugging at your lips. “good.”

kissing her nose lightly, you shift your hand away from her pussy and pop your messy fingers in your mouth, cleaning her off you, relishing in her taste.

she watches through hazy eyes, committing the sight to memory.

yeah. she’s never looking back.