#like guys I don’t want to be mean but some of you are kind of dense or your just trying to find reasons to hate ford

[julietsf1]

Crushes and Cortados - Franco Colapinto x Reader

summary: as a barista you see a lot of weird customers in a day, and this one Argentinian boy who keeps coming in every day is definitely one of them.

content: meet cute, fluff, Barista!Reader

AN: As a Francaise, I am beyond happy Franco is with Alpine this season! Finally some reason to root for my own country lmao

_________________________________

Madrid in the fall was pure magic. The late afternoon sunlight painted the streets gold, filtering through rustling plane trees as locals bustled past in their scarves and coats. Inside the café, the air was warm and rich with the scent of espresso, the quiet hum of Spanish conversation mingling with the soft strumming of a flamenco guitar on the radio.

You stood behind the counter, wiping down the espresso machine, relishing the peaceful moment before the next customer walked in.

And then, he appeared.

The door swung open with a soft chime, and you glanced up to see a boy who looked like he belonged in a Polaroid picture—slightly tousled dark curls, ridiculously green eyes, and the kind of smile that could probably get him out of trouble more often than not. He wasn’t overdressed like a tourist, but he didn’t look like a typical local, either. Too comfortable, too at ease—like he had already decided he liked this place.

And then, he spotted you.

His smile turned into something more mischievous, and before you could even process it, he was walking straight to the counter with way too much confidence for someone who had never been here before.

“Hola,” he greeted, voice smooth and unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world.

You blinked at him. “Hola.”

He stared at the menu for exactly two seconds, tilting his head as if contemplating some deep, existential question. Then, his eyes flicked back to you.

“What do you recommend?”

There was something off about the way he asked—something too casual, too charming. You had worked in this café long enough to know when a guy was genuinely lost and when he was just trying to start a conversation.

You leaned against the counter, unimpressed. “You mean… coffee-wise? Or in general?”

His smile widened. “Both.”

You exhaled a laugh, tilting your head. “For coffee? A cortado. Classic, strong, doesn’t waste your time.”

“And in general?” he pressed, as if this was an actual conversation we were having and not him blatantly flirting.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Find better ways to flirt than pretending you don’t know what to order.”

That caught him off guard. He blinked, then let out a genuine, delighted laugh, like you had just won a game he hadn’t even realized he was playing.

“Damn,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Okay, that was good.”

You smirked, already moving to make his drink.

When you slid the cortado across the counter, he reached for it—but not before his fingers brushed yours.

You didn’t react. Not outwardly, at least.

But when you glanced up, he was already watching you, eyes flickering with something teasing yet soft.

“Gracias,” he murmured.

And then, as if he hadn’t just weirdly flirted with you for no reason, he took his cortado, walked to a table by the window, and sat down like he had been coming here for years.

You exhaled, shaking your head.

Weird.

…

After that day, he came back.

And then he came back again.

And again.

It became a thing.

Same time. Same cortado. Same grin that made you want to throw a dish towel at his stupidly cute face.

And he was always talking to you.

He asked about your classes, your favorite part of Madrid, whether you preferred cats or dogs. He teased you when you were grumpy, made you laugh when you were exhausted, remembered little things you told him without you realizing.

And the flirting?

Oh, it never stopped.

One day, he leaned across the counter, chin resting in his hand as he watched you make his drink.

“You know,” he mused, “I read somewhere that people who drink cortados are very mysterious.”

You snorted. “You just made that up.”

“No, really,” he insisted, trying to sound serious but failing because his eyes were sparkling with amusement. “It means they’re deep thinkers, passionate, probably a little misunderstood—”

“Have you heard yourself yap, darling? You are far from mysterious.”

“Wow.” He placed a hand on his chest in mock offense. “And here I thought we were friends.”

You smirked. “We’re not friends. You’re just a strange guy who orders the same coffee every day and refuses to sit anywhere except that exact same table.”

“Ah,” he clicked his tongue. “Or maybe I just like the view.”

Your hands froze mid-wipe.

He was too pleased with himself, watching your reaction like it was his favorite part of the day.

You rolled your eyes hard enough to injure yourself and turned away, pretending to organize the espresso cups.

Behind you, you heard his quiet chuckle, followed by the familiar sound of him picking up his cup and heading to his usual seat.

Damn him.

…

At first, it was nothing. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

Franco was just a customer. A customer who happened to flirt a lot. A customer who smiled at you like he knew something you didn’t. A customer who remembered little details you barely recalled telling him.

A customer you found yourself thinking about—just a little too often.

It started with small things.

One afternoon, you were making someone’s latte when the café door chimed, and—without even thinking about it—you glanced up.

Franco.

Hair slightly messier than usual, backpack slung over one shoulder, already grinning before he even reached the counter.

Your stomach did this annoying little flip, and it took you a second to realize why.

You had been waiting for him.

And that wasn’t even the worst part.

The worst part was that, when you realized it, you smiled.

It only got worse from there.

One day, after your shift, you were walking home, tired, your mind fogged up with school assignments, deadlines, and the general exhaustion of life.

And then, out of nowhere, you found yourself laughing.

It was one of his dumb jokes. One so profoundly stupid, you’d barely managed a blink when he’d said it. Something about how drinking cortados every day was “building his immunity” in case he was ever kidnapped. He’d even added, “It’s all about preparation, you know. Survival of the fittest. And right now? I’m basically the Usain Bolt of caffeine endurance.”At the time, you had rolled your eyes.

But now? Now, you were walking through Madrid laughing to yourself like an absolute idiot.

That’s when it hit you.

You liked him.

Not just in a he’s-funny-and-charming kind of way.

Not even in a he’s-cute-and-flirty kind of way.

No.

You liked him in a this boy has somehow become the best part of my day, and I didn’t even notice it happening kind of way.

And that realization?

Absolutely terrifying.

…

The next afternoon, you tried to act normal. Tried being the key word.

When Franco walked in, you were ready—arms crossed, expression unreadable, the picture of total indifference.

He approached the counter, completely unaware of the internal crisis you were currently battling.

Then, as always, he leaned against the counter, tilting his head in that ridiculously smug way.

“Buenas,” he said, flashing his signature grin.

And that’s when you knew.

You weren’t going to fight it anymore.

You weren’t just warming up to him—you were already lost, and the only thing left to do was even the playing field.

So, for the first time, you mirrored him.

Leaning against the counter, resting your chin in your hand, mimicking the way he always did it.

His eyebrows lifted—curious, amused, interested.

“Let me guess,” you said before he could speak. “Cortado?”

His grin widened immediately, like he had been waiting for this moment.

“You really know me.”

You tilted your head, tapping your fingers against the countertop. “More like you’re predictable.”

“Ah,” he clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Or maybe I just know what I want.”

Your stomach flipped before you could stop it.

But instead of panicking, instead of letting him win, you tilted your head further, just slightly, and raised an eyebrow.

“Right,” you mused, voice light, teasing. “And what else do you want, Franco?”

For the first time, he blinked.

Just for a fraction of a second, as if he hadn’t expected you to actually challenge him.

And then—he laughed.

Head tilting back, genuine amusement spilling into his smile, a hand rubbing the back of his neck as if he had just been caught off guard.

“Oh,” he murmured, shaking his head. “You’re trouble.”

You shrugged, smirking. “I learn from the best.”

His eyes crinkled at the edges, full of something warm, teasing, dangerously fond.

And that was it.

That was the moment.

Because from then on, everything between you changed.

…

It was a slow afternoon, the kind where the café hummed with a lazy warmth, the scent of espresso lingering in the air, blending with the sweetness of pastries cooling on the counter. Outside, the sun dipped lower, stretching golden light through the wide glass windows, making everything glow.

Franco had been here for nearly an hour, which was longer than usual. He sat in his usual spot by the window, tapping his fingers idly against his empty cortado cup, gaze flickering between the street outside and—you.

You could feel it.

The weight of his attention, the way he kept watching you as if he had something to say, but every time you caught his gaze, he looked away, chewing on his lip, pretending to check his phone.

Which was weird.

Because Franco never hesitated.

His presence in the café had always been effortless, his flirty remarks sliding into conversation like second nature, his teasing confidence something you had grown accustomed to. It was his thing—leaning against the counter with that knowing smirk, making some ridiculous comment just to see you roll your eyes. It was a routine, a pattern, one you had started to enjoy way too much.

But today, something was different.

You glanced at him again.

He was still staring at his cup.

Still not walking up to the counter.

It took another few minutes before he finally stood up, slipping his phone into his pocket, stretching his arms over his head like he was shaking off whatever thoughts had been keeping him rooted to that seat. He made his way toward the counter a little slower than usual, his steps lacking their usual lightness, as if he was deliberately dragging them out.

When he reached the counter, he didn’t lean against it like he usually did. Didn’t rest his chin in his hand, didn’t flash that effortless grin.

Instead, he hesitated.

You raised an eyebrow, already reaching for a cup. “Another cortado for you?”

Franco exhaled a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh… no. Actually.”

You blinked. That was new.

He hesitated again, shifting his weight slightly, his fingers drumming against the counter before he finally looked at you properly.

“Actually… I was thinking maybe I could see you sometime.” He paused. “Some place that’s not here.”

The words hung between you, heavy and sudden, but not entirely unexpected.

Because deep down, you had been waiting for this moment.

You had felt it coming.

Felt it in the way he lingered a little longer each time he came in, in the way his teasing had softened into something fonder, in the way his eyes flickered to your lips sometimes when you laughed.

And yet—hearing it aloud still sent a jolt of something sharp through your chest.

Your first instinct was to deflect, to act like this wasn’t a big deal. Because if you let yourself think about it too much, you might just start realizing that your stomach was doing things and your heart was beating faster and—

You smirked, crossing your arms. “There’s this really cute café on the other side of town—”

And then—he laughed.

Like, really laughed.

Not his usual amused chuckle, not one of those half-smirks he usually gave when you tried to banter back. This was a proper, head-tilted-back, actual laughter, the kind that made his shoulders shake slightly, the kind that caught you completely off guard.

You frowned, confused. “What?”

Franco wiped at his eye, still grinning. “I need to be honest with you. I don’t actually like coffee.”

Silence.

You blinked at him. Once. Twice.

Then, finally, you leaned forward, elbows against the counter, staring him down like he had just spoken in another language.

“You’re joking.”

He held up his hands in surrender, grinning like a guilty criminal caught in the act. “Nope.”

“You—” You gestured at him wildly. “You have been drinking cortados every single day for weeks?”

Franco shrugged, completely unbothered. “What can I say?” He flashed that infuriating, ridiculously boyish smile, the one that had always made you a little weak in the knees. “You make terrible coffee taste good.”

You stared at him, processing.

Then—you burst out laughing.

“For what?” Your hands flailing as if you could somehow pluck the answer from the air. “For this? For me?”

“Well, yeah.” He shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You blinked at him, utterly dumbfounded. “You drank all that… espresso and milk, knowing full well you didn’t like it?”

“Every last drop,” he confirmed, looking far too proud of himself.

“You’re insane.”

“Maybe.” He leaned on the counter, resting his chin in his hand as his grin turned softer, more teasing. “But it worked, didn’t it? You’re talking to me now.”

You threw your hands up. “Oh my God. That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard! You could’ve just… I don’t know, asked for tea! Or water! Or literally anything else!”

“And miss out on the best cortado this side of Madrid?” Franco shook his head in mock disappointment. “No, no. That would’ve been a tragedy.”

You couldn’t help it—you snorted, covering your mouth with your hand to muffle the laugh that slipped out.

“See?” He pointed at you, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re laughing. So I must be doing something right.”

“You are—” You shook your head, still laughing, pressing a hand to your forehead. “You are really weird.”

Franco only grinned wider, looking pleased with himself.

“And yet, you like it.”

“I don’t,” you shot back, even though the warmth creeping into your cheeks said otherwise.

Franco raised an eyebrow, his grin growing impossibly smug. “You sure about that?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, crossing your arms over your chest. “You know, there’s a fine line between charming and annoying.”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But I’d still like to take you out.”

Your laughter slowly faded, but the warmth in your chest stayed.

You pretended to think about it, tapping your chin, letting the moment stretch out just a little longer, just to make him wait.

Then—you smiled.

After a moment, you rolled your eyes, though your smile was now completely unguarded. “Fine. But if this date is awful, I’m making you drink two cortados next time.”

“Deal.” He grinned, his green eyes sparkling with so much boyish delight that you couldn’t help but laugh again.

You sighed, shaking your head, but the smile stayed on your face long after Franco walked out of the café that day.

[revelboo]

revel, i am bowing down before your feet, asking so very nicely for scavengers content...

Sure!

A Lifeless Ordinary Pt 19

Scavengers x Reader

• “Spin treat you right?” Misfire asks as Spinister shifts against you, sitting up. And you’re painfully aware that Spin had chucked your clothes over the edge of the berth as you squirm upright, twisting so your back is to Misfire. Watching the Seeker over your shoulder when he goes over to the Medbay sink, back to you and wings up as the water runs. Spin leans to brush his jaw against the top of your head before he’s mass shifting and going after the energon. Watching him drink, you almost shriek when Misfire hook a servo against your thigh and turns you.

• Head lifting on an uncertain growl when Misfire slides a damp cloth between your thighs and you smack his hand, Spin reaches to pin his friend’s hand flat to the Medbay berth, rotor blades flicking. “Don’t.” Letting go of the cloth and holding up his hands in surrender, Spin turns his attention back to you, taking over cleaning up his mess as you just groan and lay your head against his hands.

• “Hey, didn’t mean to overstep, big guy,” Misfire says and he’s grinning when you turn your head to scowl at him. Head tipped to watch Spin drape the cloth over a servo and stroke it against you despite your efforts to shove him away because Misfire is still watching. “I’m just trying to help care for our little human.” You don’t buy that for a minute. “I mean, you heard Swindle. Humans have needs. What if you’re off the ship and Tiny goes into heat, hurting for a spike and you’re not there? I’d hate them to suffer.” Is he serious? ‘Humans don’t go into-’ you begin and Misfire presses a servo against your mouth as Spin hesitates.

• “You know, us Scavengers, we’re brothers really. Right?” Misfire grins as you shove at his servo, his head tipping when Spin removes the cloth. And you immediately try to cover yourself with your hands. “We share everything. Weapons. Engex. It’s only natural we’d share caring for Tiny here.” Hears your little exasperated huff, but Spin is listening. Or at least, doing a lot of serious frowning. Sometimes it’s hard to tell what’s going on in that damaged processor. “You want Tiny fully under all of our protection, right?”

• Misfire is using the voice. Knows that voice. It’s the one that talks him into things that usually upset Krok. But he does want you safe. You’re the most important thing to him right now. A bit of calm in the confusion of his processor. “Right,” he mutters as Misfire removes his servo and you smack him again. Because it sounds reasonable when Misfire says it. Like it’s foregone that they’d share you. You’re one of them.

• Nose scrunching to tell Misfire off, his optics dip and you tuck your thighs together, twisting so you’re not just on display. And hating that you like the way he looks at you. Fulcrum had been curious and embarrassed, but Misfire is just interested. It’s not like anything can come of anything between you and them except some harmless pleasure. Something you desperately need amid all the chaos you’ve been drowning in since ending up on that dead world. And it’s not like there are any repercussions if you did get to spend time with all of them. So you keep your mouth shut kind of hating your greedy little self.

Previous

I figure out the story as I go with these, so they act like my drafts. Not every story will go that way, but I don’t really know which ones will until I get there if that makes sense.

[seattlesuicide]

**Title:** *Grunge Miracle: Kurt’s Pregnant Adventure***Genre:** Surreal Comedy/Drama**Plot Summary:****Act 1:****Introduction:***Scene: Early 1990s Seattle, Nirvana is performing in a packed club. The energy is raw and electric.***Inciting Incident:***Kurt stumbles upon a strange artifact backstage after the concert.***Kurt:** (holding up the artifact) "Hey guys, check this out! Think it’s a new kind of guitar pick?"**Dave:** (laughing) "Looks like something out of a sci-fi movie. Be careful, you might summon aliens."**Krist:** "Or maybe it’s some weird fan gift. Just don’t break it."*Kurt shrugs, putting the artifact in his pocket.***Reaction:***A few days later, Kurt starts experiencing symptoms. He’s at a band rehearsal, looking uneasy.***Kurt:** (grimacing) "Man, I feel weird. Like, really weird. My stomach’s been doing flips all day."**Dave:** "Maybe you’ve been hitting the Taco Bell too hard."**Krist:** "Or you’re just pregnant, dude." (laughs)**Courtney:** (overhearing, teasingly) "Well, weirder things have happened."**Act 2:****Acceptance:***Kurt visits a doctor who confirms the unbelievable news. He’s now sitting with Dave and Krist, trying to process it.***Kurt:** "So, I’m... pregnant. Like, actually pregnant."**Dave:** (jaw dropped) "No way. This is insane."**Krist:** "Does this mean we need to start a nursery in the tour bus?"**Media Frenzy:***News leaks, and Kurt is swarmed by reporters. He holds an impromptu press conference.***Reporter 1:** "Kurt, how does it feel to be the first pregnant man?"**Kurt:** (smirking) "Weird. But then again, what about my life isn’t?"**Reporter 2:** "Is this a publicity stunt?"**Kurt:** "I wish. But no, this is real. Guess I’m just full of surprises."**Emotional Journey:***Kurt’s at home, talking to Courtney.***Kurt:** "This whole thing... it’s making me think about what I want to leave behind. Not just music, but something real, you know?"**Courtney:** (smiling) "You’re gonna be an amazing dad, Kurt. Weird, but amazing."**Act 3:****Climax:***Kurt goes into labor during a major concert. The band tries to keep playing as chaos ensues.***Kurt:** (between contractions) "Guess this is the ultimate stage dive, huh?"**Dave:** (panicking) "Someone get a doctor! And a camera, this is rock history!"**Resolution:***Kurt holds his newborn baby, exhausted but happy. The band and Courtney surround him, sharing the moment.***Kurt:** (softly singing a lullaby) "Hush little baby, don’t say a word..."*The movie ends with Kurt on stage, holding his baby, the crowd cheering, blending the rawness of grunge with the tenderness of new life.

heye every one.

[wosospacegirl]

I’m not being mean - Head Coach Leah x Arsenal! r (+18)

Summary: Coach! Leah punishes the reader during a forbidden make-out session.

Warnings: +18!!!!!! dominant!L x lots of kissing x fingering x reader being needy and L being mean x little bit of aftercare.

Word count: 1.2k.

Masterlist here

I'm kinda new to the Woso world, so I don't know if you guys like fics like this... but I'm a slut for dominant woman so yeah :D.

..

Leah’s tongue was wet and warm against Y/n’s mouth, her icy hand gripping the youngest girl’s hip, pulling her closer as Leah deepened the kiss.

 Y/n moaned, tilting her head to give Leah room to explore her neck. The blonde woman found her lips at Y/n’s jugular, sucking it lightly.

“Don’t,” Y/n whined, pushing Leah away slightly. “You can’t leave marks, or the other will see them.”

“Use a turtleneck,” Leah mumbled unrepentantly, pulling Y/n closer, her mouth back on her neck.

“I can’t use a turtleneck for training,” Y/n said, her words and moans blending together. “That’s so good, Leah, more.” She whispered, opening her legs and grinding against Leah’s knee.

Leah smirked. Y/n was just like that, always worried about everything and everyone, but as soon as Leah touched her, she went limp.

Leah had agreed to become Arsenal’s manager after a career-ending injury had shattered her world. It took her some time to accept her new life, but Leah couldn’t say she was unhappy. The ex-lioness had been very successful in her new role. She led Arsenal to many victories, cups, and titles.

Unfortunately, being a manager also meant that Leah couldn’t kiss Y/n, the new Arsenal signing for the season.

Leah and Y/n didn’t get along at first. Leah was too grumpy and Y/n too enthusiastic. Y/n had said they were like a black cat and a golden retriever. Leah disagreed; she didn’t like cats.

The truth was: Leah and Y/n didn’t get on. Leah was rude when Y/n was kind. Leah was confident when Y/n was not. If they spent too much time talking, they would argue, so that’s when the make out sessions came in.

When the two women were making out, nothing else mattered. It was as if their bodies had known each other for centuries. Leah knew where to touch Y/n and the young girl was quick to do whatever Leah wanted of her.

Leah stopped their kiss to pull at Y/n shirt. It was dirty with grass and dirty from the pitch, but she didn’t care. “Fuck, you’re so hot,” Leah whispered, looking at Y/n’s chest. The girl was wearing a smaller training bra, her erected nipples drawing Leah's attention.

The blonde quickly stripped Y/n’s down to her shorts, her mouth sucking on Y/n’s breast as Y/n rubbed herself even harder against Leah’s leg.

“Can I leave a mark here, love?” Leah asked teasingly, grinding in her teeth on Y/n’s nipple before taking it with her teeth.

Love.

Leah only called Y/n love when they were like... this. Y/n didn’t mind, or at least she told herself she didn’t mind that the only time Leah was affectionate towards her was when they were having sex.

Y/n was ripped from her thoughts as she felt Leah’s firm grip on her jaw. “Look at me,” Leah said. “If I ask you a question, you answer it immediately, understand?”

Y/n nodded, moaning as Leah gave her a sharp slap on her ass. It would have hurt even more if she hadn’t been wearing her Arsenal shorts.  

“Good girl,” Leah smiled, kissing Y/n again, more intensely.

Leah was clearly more dominant than Y/n. She liked to boss people around and hated it when they didn’t do what she wanted. Leah fucking loved it having the upper hand.

Y/n liked being told what to do, she enjoyed when Leah treated her like she was just a stupid horny girl.

Leah knew the effect she had on the girl’s body, knew how wet Y/n’s pussy got when she was a bit mean to her.

“I want you, please.” Y/n murmured against Leah’s ear. The throbbing in her pussy was getting too much, it hurt.

“I don’t think you deserve it,” Leah bit Y/n’s earlobe. “You forget your boots again, didn’t you? That’s why you were a bit clumsy on the field today.

Y/n had a bad habit of forgetting things, being late… all the things Leah hated.

“I—I’m sorry, it won’t happen again,” Y/n promised, whimpering as Leah’s finger finally found its way into to clit. “There, please.” The girl moved herself against Leah’s hand, trying to find more friction.

“You say that every time, love, you never learn, do you?”

Leah noticed that Y/n’s legs were shaking, so she held Y/n tighter against her, teasing Y/n’s wet hole. She put a finger, and then another, Moving them slowly.

“I do learn,” Y/n tried to protest.

“No, you don’t, you need me to remind you of everything, just a little puppy you are.” Leah whispered in Y/n’s ears, her warm walls welcoming Leah’s third finger.

“Please, Leah, let me? Please?” Y/n begged, feeling an orgasm approaching. It was as if her chest was tightening, as if there wasn’t enough air for her to breathe.

“Are you close, love?” Leah asked, cupping Y/n’s face and kissing her mouth softly.

Y/n nodded, moving her hips, feeling Leah’s fingers deep inside her.

Just a little more and she would come, just a little more.

“Too bad, not today, darling,” Leah said, removing her finger from Y/n’s pussy as she held the girls hip firmly, scared that Y/n would fall.

“What?!” Y/n cried. “No, more!” Y/n begged as she closed her hands around Leah’s and cupped them on her pussy. “Don’t be mean, please, more.”

Leah quickly grabbed Y/n’s wrists with one hand while holding her jaw with the other. “I’m not being mean, you were the one who left your things at home, this is your punishment.”

Y/n looked at Leah desperately. She was almost there; her tights were already shaking with need.

“I’ve already said I’m sorry,” Y/n grumbled looking down, her cheeks wet.

Leah wiped away her tears, kissed her forehead and pulled the girl into a hug.

“You know I don’t like you crying like that,” Leah said as she sat in her chair, Y/n on her lap. Leah put a comforting hand on Y/n’s back and let the girl cry for a while.

“Come on, let’s get you dressed, shall we?” Leah kissed Y/n’s cheek as she helped the girl back into her training clothes.

Y/n didn’t say a word, she just let Leah do as she pleased.

The blonde women took some tissues to wipe Y/n’s face. “I’m sorry I cried, I know you don’t like it,” Y/n mumbled, placing her head on Leah’s shoulder.

“It’s okay,” Leah told her. “Are you all right now?”

Y/n nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. I should probably get going.” Y/n lifted herself form Leah’s lap, but the older women held her down.

“You don’t have to go now, you can stay here a little longer, just so I can make sure you’re really ok.”

Leah might be grumpy and distant, but she gave good aftercare.

“I know you have things to do,” Y/n gave Leah a sad smile. “I have to go home anyway.”

“All right then,” Leah agreed, taking her hands off Y/n.

Y/n was still a bit shaky, but she didn’t want Leah to see it. It was hard to let yourself be vulnerable with someone, and even harder when your feelings weren’t reciprocated.

Leah got up and opened the door to her office, taking a quick look outside to see if anyone was around. No one could know about Leah and Y/n, or well, now about their sex arrangement.

“No one is here, you can go,” Leah said, no more softness in her voice. She was back to being the team’s Manager. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

Y/n walked out the door. “Yeah, bye,” she mumbled.

“Don’t forget your boots again.” That was the last thing Leah said before closing the door, leaving Y/n alone in the corridor.

[heaven-s-black-box]

Notes- Blabber Mouth; Anemo Men

x gn!Reader

Return to File

Recovery date: February 9th, 2025

Description: Anemo version of Blabber Mouth

Notes: CW a few suprise pregnancies I put Wanderer in here, but I personally subscribe to trans-man Wanderer because why would Raiden give him a male body? Also, this series is slowly separating from the original prompt and I feel like I'm just making these kids psychic but shhh, babies

Hydro Dendro Cryo Pyro Anemo Electro Geo

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Aether

Kids , he likes them but never really thought they were in his future

I mean, he’s always traveling with his sister, it’s not until Teyvat that he kind of settles down

Abyss!Aether or Traveler!Aether, they meet you and staying here doesn’t sound too bad

Your first is an accident, they make the decision for him

Not that he wanted to leave you anyways

Your second is planned, but your first born beats you to tell him

Aether comes back from wherever he was, helping Khaenri’ah, a commission, ruling the Abyssal Khaeri’ans, and your kid tackles him in a hug

Then, without you saying anything, they talk about reading a story to the baby

And you play mock offense thinking they were reading to you and Aether is trying to figure out what baby

You send your kid off to clean up their toys so you can talk

Aether drops to his knees and hugs your waist

Xiao

It’s not that he doesn’t want kids, he just doesn’t think about it because he doesn’t want another thing he can’t have

He can’t be around people normally, being around an infant? Bad idea

So, you’d have to be anything but a mortal, someone who can be around him despite his debt

Then, he gives it some thought and he’s still really not sure

It takes many conversations for him to see your side of things

Cries the first time he holds your baby

As your first grows up, he tries to figure out how to broach the subject of having another

You laugh when he finally gets it out, face red, and quickly apologize before saying another sounds nice

Your kid is very defensive, and they try defending you from one of the dogs around Wangshuu inn one day

When you ask what’s wrong, because normally the dogs aren't a problem, your kid says they saw the dog scare a baby the other day

Takes you both a second to figure out how that correlates and then it’s a trip to Baizhu

He cries, the first time it wasn’t real to him until he held the baby but this time it’s real from the start

Venti

You guys start talking about having kids, and he’s not even sure he can have them

Like, he’s a windspirit and sure he’s in human form but how far does that extend

So your first born is a bit of a surprise

But he’s so happy, sings to them all the time while your pregnant

He drinks less too, can’t be drinking at Angel’s share when he’s trying to wrangle the little whirlwind into bed

It’s one such night when your little one runs out of their room and into yours

They curl up with you in your bed, and Venti’s trying to convince them to sleep in their bed

They declare they want to sleep with their sibling

You stop reading/pretending to sleep, confused, and Venti just gives in

They make a good point, how could he pull such a protective big sibling away from their little sibling

Venti’s been around enough to know that children can just tell these things

So he just wraps you all up in his wings and you go to Barbara in the morning

If either of your kids are boys, he’s naming him after the nameless bard

Kazuha

Kids… he wants them, he doesn’t want his family line to end with him

But, it’s not really an option when he’s on the run

Once he returns to Inazuma though, he gives it more serious thought

Spending time in the forge, he sees kids run by a lot and watches their awe as they watch him

He brings it up to you, and you have your first born

We don’t know what his friend’s name is, but your first born is getting named after him

Even if he has to alter it a little bit

He likes to write poetry with your kid, it helps their vocabulary, creativity, and fine motor skills

You two also use it to encourage their self expression

So they express their excitement about the friend in your belly

That poem is getting framed, it makes you both laugh

Heizou

Likes playing with the kids in the city and around Ritou

Hasn’t really considered kids of his own

It’s not until he sees you with the kids that he starts thinking about it

I think your first is an accident, but his excitement even surprises him a bit

Not that he thought he wouldn’t be happy/excited

And your kid takes after their father’s investigative curiosity

So you start acting off and they’re running their own investigation

This one is less of a “little kid sixth sense” and more like “mini detective”

They even get Heizou to join in the investigation

But there’s definitely a bit of weird sibling psychic-ness, your first born predicts baby's gender later on

Everyone’s excited, you first born is already planning investigations to do with them

Extra note, but Heizou definitely takes your infants on easy investigations strapped to his chest in a baby harness

Wanderer

I… don’t think he can have kids, I personally think he was not modeled with the required hardware (fully believe his original model was at least a ken doll and and at most fem)

But, between handling the electro gnosis and being around Dottore, I could see him getting the hardware and systems

I do not think he knows he has these systems, mostly because he’s never tried

So your kid is an accident

And Wanderer has a lot of thoughts but, I think he holds the baby and decides that he can do this

First baby’s name is Niwa

This kid has him wrapped around their finger, and he’s happy with one

And now that you two know he can get you pregnant you two are more careful

Your kid asks for a sibling and he’s not one to deny them if you’re okay with it

They’re also the one to tell you, one day they just press a kiss to your tummy before Wanderer puts them to bed for the night

Tighnari’s in the city, so you check in with him before he leaves

I think Wanderer surprises himself with the love he feels for his kids

[cookierunoutofideas]

Just Make More Dragons (Longan Dragon Cookie/Fem! Reader) [SMUT]

“I mean, if you want the age of dragons to return, shouldn’t you just... I dunno, make more dragons or something?”

“Are you volunteering?”

Warnings: no beta we die like elder faerie, smut, PWP, probably out of character, probably not all that well written, neutral pronouns for Longan Dragon Cookie, oviposition, breeding, mating, double dicks, Longan Dragon has some sort of aphrodisiac pheromones that I honestly don't care to explain I just wanted to use the fact that longan fruit apparently smells sweet and is used for relaxation–

Read at your own risk!

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“I mean, if you want the age of dragons to return, shouldn’t you just... I dunno, make more dragons or something?”

“Are you volunteering?”

Maybe you didn’t think it through before opening your mouth, but, then again, it’s hard to think when Longan Dragon Cookie is looming over you, eyes piercing yours for daring to direct your pathetic cookie voice their direction.

Honestly, not a single part of your current situation makes thinking an easy task. Out of all cookies and out of all places, it shouldn’t be you standing in the lair of the Ivory Dragon. Even if it was originally your idea to do something to distract the guy so the others could regroup and plan the next step to prevent the extinction of all cookie kind, you didn’t mean it had to be leaving you behind! It’s all Pitaya’s fault for throwing you at the pissed white dragon and leaving to lick their wounds somewhere, when you get your hands on that damn lizard-

“You haven’t answered, weak one.”

“I... I mean...” you stammer, taking a shaky step back, but they follow without much effort because, again, Longan Dragon is so damn tall.

You repeat that clumsy dance a few more times, quickly, eyes anywhere but the dragon. While you’re thankful they haven’t killed you yet, you’d rather not test your luck by sticking too close. Though it seems they don’t get the memo, meeting every step with one of their own, an oppressive waltz that ends with you against a hard wall.

“I wouldn’t dare suggest that! I’m just a lowly cookie!” you frantically wave your hands, fear running through your dough. Maybe if you act humble enough, they won’t crumble you for another few hours.

Damn it, Ginger Brave and gang, come faster!

Longan Dragon shortens the distance between you two, forcing you to lean your head back as much as you can to avoid touching their chest with your forehead.

Oh, they smell oddly sweet.

What a rich scent.

And their hands are so big, sharing their warmth—so far, all dragons you’ve met are pretty warm, must be a dragon thing—with your cheeks as they lift your face.

The sweet smell of fruit envelops you, relaxing your muscles without your permission. Not that you’re trying to fight the sudden wave of calm that hits you, no, you’re greedily breathing in all sensations, even the sensation of a much larger body pressing you against the wall, the difference in temperatures on your front and back making your breath hitch. It’s been so long since you’ve felt anything but tension pressing down your back that the small respite brings too much relief to your body and soul.

Then a thumb presses on your lower lip and you remember just where you are. And with who.

You open your eyes with a loud gasp, trying to free your body—and fuzzy mind—from the Ivory Dragon’s claws, but they don’t budge. No, they seem pleased.

“What...” you swallow saliva you hadn’t even noticed filling your mouth. “... are you doing?”

“A mate presents so willingly to be bred,” the dragon purrs—literally, you can feel the vibrations, “and responds to me so eagerly, what is this one to do other than claim them?”

Whatever happens between that low growl and your back meeting soft silken sheets simply doesn’t register in your memory. After all, the sweet scent filling your nose and the maddening kiss stealing your breath make remembering anything else difficult.

Longan Dragon Cookie’s body is hot and heavy on yours, their tongue insistent and their hands adventurous. Gone is the quiet intensity that made the Ivory Dragon a suffocating yet majestic presence, in its place is fervour you simply can’t comprehend, urgency and hunger and desire and want and need—oh, you can’t help but tug at their ivory strands, making them as messy as the kisses you two share. They growl, animalistic, finally acting like one would expect a dragon, instinct guiding them into manhandling you until your clothes are ripped off, exposed—offered to them.

You don’t bother to muffle your voice as sharp teeth finds the soft dough around your nipples. The dragon seems to like that, too, making sure to bite and suck and lick whatever place gives them the louder, needier noises. They move down your body, giving special attention to your navel, to where your womb rests, marking you with claws and fangs. Your vagina pulsates when they look up at you, locking eyes as they lick, long and slow, up the valley of your breasts. It’s so hypnotizing that you barely notice the sharp claws rubbing against your clit and folds, the danger making your toes tingle.

“This-” you gasp, pulling at their long hair—beautiful, like all of the dragon. “Keep... keep them outta me...”

“Do you think me foolish to risk hurt the one who’ll carry my eggs?”

“Eggs?!”

And the bastard only chuckles! A deep, rich sound that comes from the depths of their lungs, a sound no one ever thought the Ivory Dragon capable of. Feeling annoyed, you quickly hoist yourself up and do the unthinkable: you sink your teeth on the Ivory Dragon’s neck, completely forgetting that a dragon’s dough is much more resistant than a normal cookie’s. You can barely move your jaw, your tongue touching the smooth scales curiously.

Longan Dragon Cookie pulls you away from their neck with one harsh tug to the back of your neck, and for a second you fear that you’ve finally crossed the line and won’t see the next sunrise... but then they purr—or growl? Hard to tell—and oh.

They smile, predatory and pleased.

“A weak little cookie won’t be able to mark my scales, little mate,” they rumble, shuffling a bit until their robes fall off their shoulders. “But go ahead and try still.”

They bring you to another kiss with the hand on your neck, thrusting their hips on your unclothed pussy, allowing you to feel what awaits.

There’s two of them, your brain figures, there’s no way that bulge is only one dick.

There absolutely is two of them.

You watch as the rest of their robes fall off their body. It is like watching the most wondrous sculpture be revealed, like the ultimate piece of art finally leaves its artist’s studio to grace the world with its existence. Here is a being no one could ever dare deny their beauty, doing so would be to boldly lie to an omniscient god’s face.

And there are two dicks standing proudly, already leaking at the anticipation of  tearing you apart.

Because that’s what going to happen, you’re sure. The one on the top is thicker while the one bellow is thinner, but they’re both far too much for a little normal cookie such as you. Longan Dragon Cookie, however, seems to care not—in fact, they seem to simply believe you can take it, take all they give you... which may or may not include eggs. Eggs.

“Wait!” you yelp, pulling at their hair, undoing whatever held it up and out of their way. To your surprise, Longan Dragon does listen, halting their clawed attack at your hips. “You- this- won’t fit!”

“They shall,” they simply answer, pressing another kiss to your navel before finally giving your wet folds—when did you get so wet?—their attention. “I shall make them.”

One long lick to your folds stops whatever protests you still have, instead freeing a long moan. Oh, their tongue is forked. Of course it is, they are a dragon, dragons have forked tongues, why wouldn’t the Ivory Dragon have a forked tongue—and why wouldn’t the Ivory Dragon be so good at using it?

Keeping their words, the claws stay away from you sensitive genitalia, instead drawing scratch lines one your thighs, some even painted blood red. The pain stings just enough to add to the pleasure the tongue stretching and exploring you gives. Giving up any sort of hesitance, you give in to your odd situation, enjoying with abandon the dragon’s ministrations until the knot built inside your tummy snaps and you cum the hardest you’ve ever done, pulling at ivory hair and squeezing a beautiful face between your legs.

Though despite that incredible orgasm, you still don’t feel satiated.

No, part of you still feels empty, craving more of the sweetness coming from your... your lover? No, what was it the dragon called you earlier—mate. Your mate.

As if feeling your desire, Longan Dragon Cookie crawls over your body, still licking their lips and chin to savour every drop of your juices, resting on top of you like a giant, warm cover. Strong arms hold you against a hard chest, prompting you to brace your arms around their neck and sink your nails on their back—thankfully, the scales don’t cover their cookie form completely, so you actually have a chance of scratching them, marking them.

If you could purr at that thought, you would.

Instead, you gasp as a fat cockhead pokes your entrance. Longan Dragon Cookie isn’t exactly gentle—the many bleeding marks all over your body show that pretty well—but they’re considerate enough to stop and wait every time you show signs of pain. Once the thicker cock is inside, they start moving in slow, deliberate circles, still holding you to their chest, giving you no chance to escape the addicting scent of their dough.

Not that you want to.

No, you want to drown in it. You want to be covered in that scent, suffocated in it, buried within it.

The stretch of the second penis entering you makes you whimper, but you can’t tell if it is from pain or pleasure—nor do you care, really. Not when your mate rocks the both of you steadily, thrusts slow but hard, resolute, hitting every spot that makes your toes curl and eyes roll back, kissing the entrance of your womb. It’s so hot, it’s too hot and you want more more more more!

“As you wish, little mate” the dragon growls in your ear, the breathlessness of their voice causing shivers to run down your back. “I will breed you round.”

Let no one ever say the Ivory Dragon doesn’t keep their word.

You whine your agreement, pleading for whatever they will give you. Something inside you had snapped into place earlier; suddenly, you are exactly where you should be, exactly with who you should be. Nothing else comes to mind but the one making you feel so good, taking you as theirs, giving you themselves. You turn your head in hopes to get a kiss and, much to your pleasure, you get exactly what you wanted. Longan Dragon Cookie is such a good mate, providing everything their mate wants without delay or confusion.

A good mate who’ll take care of your hatchlings—

Hatchligns.

Eggs!

Holy shit, Longan Dragon Cookie, the Ivory Dragon, is going to fuck eggs into you!

“Please...!” you beg, not sure what for.

Now, would carrying the eggs of your mate be so bad?

No, you figure as another orgasm washes over you, it wouldn’t.

An ever louder growl-purr answers your begging, claws mimicking the scratches left on a ivory back. Your mate starts thrusting faster, harder, deeper, as if trying to force your uterus to open to their cocks—no, not “as if”, that is what they will do. For the sake of your first clutch.

Your first clutch.

The thought alone triggers another orgasm and you repeat the earlier bite to Longan’s neck, not caring that your cookie teeth won’t pierce a mighty dragon’s scales. No, you must mark your mate however you can, no matter how difficult.

That is the limit for the dragon as they roar, shoving their cockhead into your womb with one last hard thrust.

You feel so damn full.

It is amazing.

There is nothing left in the world but you, your mate and where you two connect to become two. You scream to match their roaring, wild harmony ending in a passionate kiss.

Then you feel it. Something round travelling down their thicker cock, stretching you even more. A weak moan slips past your lips only to be greedily devoured by the dragon. The round thing must be about the side of your closed fist, maybe a bit smaller. The journey is slow, a sweet torture you endure in between the arms of your mate. When you dare open your eyes to look at them, your breath gets stolen by the sight of their pupils blown wide, eating away everything else. A forked tongue licks away your tears and sweat, the purring intensifying when you give their face your own, much shyer, licks.

Finally, the eggs pops inside your womb, getting comfortable in the empty space. The second cock gushes out a warm liquid; to fertilize the eggs, no doubt. Then another egg starts the journey. And another. And another. The first one arriving safely seems to have opened the gates as the others now rush to join their sibling. Another world shattering orgasm hits you when a particularly big egg presses your inner walls.

Ten eggs. You now carry ten eggs from the Ivory Dragon. Your belly looks round like a normal pregnancy. The cum inside you keeps you warm. So does the arms wrapped around you and the chest you nuzzle. You fall asleep, content and full, not a care in the world. Nothing can bother this serene moment with your mate.

A loud noise wakes you up hours later, and you recognize the voices of GingerBrave and the other cookies.

Ah.

[waynes-multiverse]

Gah, I love this so much!!! And Colter definitely gives fuckboi vibes lol. But his characters kind of always do 😂🤷‍♀️

You slipped out an airplane shot you had snuck into your jacket pocket that you swiped from the drink cart as it passed by during your aisle seat fun

I’m absolutely in love with this reader! I don’t know how Russell couldn’t be. They’re a total match 🥰

“No, really. We ran into a situation and we tried to free him when these cops saw us and—”

God, I’d kill to know the full donkey story. It gave “Jason” from Good Place vibes 😂

I loved the banter between all three of them! The Shaws felt so perfectly in character with their answers and mannerisms. And holy, what a lucky girl getting the honor to see both those ridiculously hot men naked. I mean, hello?! 🫠

And why did it have to be this guy who was watching you like the Big Bad Wolf, looking like he would gobble you up the second you’d let him?

Dead 🤣🤣

Also, the “hotter things in my mouth” line killed me 😂 Have I mentioned I love her? Because I do lol

On your way, you spied a young family nearby. The mother was feeding a baby, smiling as she watched her husband spin his kindergarten-age daughter in circles by the arms, making her giggle. You felt an all-too familiar lump forming in your throat but you forced it back down

So curious what that is about! And that little engagement bomb drop… Truly wondering what happened there 👀

“Alright, you already gave me the sit rep on you and the lawyer. Now I need one for you and her.” He gestured in the direction you had disappeared in with his thumb. “And don’t hold back because she is…” He gave his brother the perfection sign.

I can’t with him 😂😂 Also, how much time do you have, Russ? Colter has a lot of female contacts in his phone lol

And sweet of Colter wanting to protect her, but she seems like a smart woman who can make her own choices 😉

You decided to nip this shit right in the bud. “Okay, Shaw, you listen to me and you listen good. It doesn’t matter if it’s hitting too close as you put it, or not. I do my job and nothing gets in the way of that. Just because your asshat of a brother has apparently decided that I’m some fragile flower of a woman that needs protecting from my own feelings doesn’t mean shit. I’m damn good at what I do and I’m a fucking professional. You hear me?”

This exactly!!! Loved this entire paragraph 😅🫶

When he had answered you with “Yes, ma’am” a part of him had definitely been saluting you, no doubt about it.

I kind of had a feeling about this. You and I share the same headcanon, girl 😂🩵

That ending was amazing!!! “No limits” broke me! That was genius! All the kudos to you for this one, friend! It was hilarious, intriguing, so hot 😍👏👏👏

Off Limits

Summary: When Reenie sends you to assist Colter with whatever he needs after getting arrested for breaking into a morgue in Virginia, you meet his older brother Russell for the first time. There's some flirting and definitely a mutual attraction there before you Colter sends you off. Little do you know at the time that Colter has warned Russell that you're off limits and that Russell has no intention of listening to said warning.

Pairing: Russell Shaw x Female!Reader; Russell Shaw x Female!PI!Reader

A/N: So I've had this idea in my head since I first saw the episode (and that whole food truck scene) and finally sat down to start writing it May 19th, the day we were all hoping Russell would return for 1x13 (no spoilers). I did change up the ending of 1x12 a little here. By the way, I love Colter and I'm only a few episodes into the season but he kind of gives a little fuckboi vibe to me (meant affectionately of course) so I decided to kind of play on that a little here. Not that Russell also doesn't seem to have that vibe here a little bit. (again, meant as affectionate) 😉 I may write a follow up to this to fill in/shade in more areas mentioned in here.

Anyways, this was a lot of fun to write and try to practice ratcheting up the UST a little between two characters. I'm not sure if I succeeded but it was still fun to try. 🥵

All unbeta'd.

Song while writing: Coming For You - Nuela Charles (you can probably guess what scene I was envisioning/writing with this one 🤷‍♀️)

Warnings: sexual tension; flirting; a little smut; language

Word Count: 9357

Taglist: @avada-kedavra-bitch-187; @rieleatiel

Jensen Taglist: @samanddeaninatrenchcoat; @deansbbyx

You can also read on AO3

You pulled up to the area where two food trucks sat and tables were scattered throughout the center of it all. You quickly recognized Colter sitting there, eating, talking to someone sitting across from him. You softly groaned at the incessant pounding in your head, tenderly rubbing your forehead. Why had Reenie charged you with this? True, you owed her a favor (or four) but still, getting on a plane with only thirty minutes notice, no time to pack an overnight bag, and her insistence that you go and assist Colter with whatever he needed was a bit much. Even for her. 

But here you were, dressed in yesterday’s clothes, your hair up in a messy ponytail after you quickly combed your fingers through it, and feeling scuzzy after a long night spent on planes. That’s right. Planes as in plural. Reenie hadn’t even sprung for a non-connecting flight, though she’d tried to chalk it up to none of those being available when she’d booked the trip for you ASAFP. You’d been stuck in coach the entire time, which was fine (you were more than used to it) but you’d had the middle seat and then the aisle seat — both seating arrangements were pure hell. Needless to say, you may have indulged at the airport bar in between flights and ordered drinks while on both, putting it on your business card that you immediately wrote off as travel expenses in your head. Especially when one of the guys you were sitting next to (who thought he was the next young Robert DeNiro apparently) was intent on making conversation, filling you in on his romantic and sexual history (relayed through a ton of bad implied jokes of course), as if he thought that would be a selling point for you to immediately want to induct him into the mile high club (there was no way he was a member despite his many stories hinting to the contrary). No thank you. Not ever.

Thankfully, you were able to pick up some essentials when you finally arrived at your destination and used the airport bathrooms for a little clean up before grabbing a rental car. You still felt gross and in need of a shower, but you’d manage until you did what you came here to do and then your time would be your own again. You were sure you’d get a shower and a change of clothes somewhere in between there. 

So while the alcohol helped to ease the tension your sudden trip created, you were badly hungover. Yep, sadly you were at that age where if you even looked at a drink, you’d get a headache the next day. So while you had maintained a nice buzz, you were now paying for it. You took a deep breath, slipped on your sunglasses, and got out of the car. 

Colter saw you coming, surprise fleeting across his expression, before turning his full attention on you when you sat down next to him. “Oof. Rough night?”

Your answer was to flip him the bird which made him chuckle. You then yanked out the folder of files Reenie had thrown into a travel case for you and slapped it all down next to him. “There. Directly from Reenie. With my compliments. Not that I don’t have my own cases to work,” you finished in a mumble. You snatched his coffee, ignoring his frown, and took a deep gulp. You made an immediate face. “Ugh. How do you still drink this shit?”

“It’s coffee,” he informed you as he began peeking at the files.

“I know. How do you not put anything in it? Do you like the taste of bitter ass first thing in the morning? Wait, don’t answer that.” You slipped out an airplane shot you had snuck into your jacket pocket that you swiped from the drink cart as it passed by during your aisle seat fun, beyond desperate to ignore the chatty Cathy next to you (her name had literally been Cathy as you’d found out against your will). You immediately lifted the lid and dumped in the contents, picking up a fry from Colter’s plate and using that to stir things around quickly before tossing it in the grass behind you. You ignored the “hey!” sounding not too far from where the fry had most likely landed and took a generous sip of the warm liquid, nearly heaving a sigh of satisfaction as it settled into your stomach. Not exactly the hair of the dog but it would do for now.

Colter was shaking his head, watching you, and you immaturely stuck your tongue out at him, about to tell him to blow you when you heard a chuckle across the table. You turned to see the guy Colter had been talking to grinning over at you, amusement clear as day on his face. You lowered your glasses slightly and took in his features, noting his obvious attractiveness, and you would be loathe to admit that you wouldn’t mind meeting him in an airplane bathroom had he been the one sitting next to you on that ghastly flight. Almost as if he knew what you were thinking, his smile grew and those green eyes lit up in a way that was all too familiar to you, and also had you wondering if there were any public bathrooms around here that you could slip away to for a bit. After the long night you’d had, an orgasm or two might just be what the doctor ordered. 

You pushed your glasses back into position and gave him a smile right back. “And who’s this?”

Before Colter could answer, the man stuck out a hand towards you. “Russell Shaw, Colter’s older brother.”

Your smile dropped as your hopes were immediately dashed. Fuck. Not only was he hot in a very rugged type of way (right up your alley actually not that you’d ever admit that out loud) but he seemed like he would’ve been game for what you were up for, too. Dammit. You forced yourself to shake his hand and not be rude, all the while trying your best not to think about what those hands could do or how that rough, warm skin would feel like against yours. “Y/N Y/L/N.”

The light in his eyes burned brighter. “Y/N. That is a beautiful name.” 

You couldn’t contain the eye roll at the obviously bad pickup line. Perhaps it was best that he was Colter’s brother. Not that you would’ve been doing much talking if he wasn’t, so his flirting skills wouldn’t have mattered. “So I’ve heard.” You cut that off at the knees. “Russell Shaw,” you drew out his name, remembering something Reenie had mentioned before you went through airport security. You yanked out another folder from your case, slapping it down in front of him. “Reenie insisted that I give you this and told me to tell you that you owe her quite a bit for taking care of those fines from Fish & Wildlife and something about a donkey in Tuscaloosa?” You glanced up at him in question. 

He chuckled, sounding nervous, and gave you a reassuring smile. “That’s not— The donkey thing was a misunderstanding.”

Right. “Oh, I’m sure.”

“No, really. We ran into a situation and we tried to free him when these cops saw us and—”

You held up a hand. “I really don’t need the details. It’s fine. But Reenie did say you should Venmo her.”

He pressed his lips together and dropped his gaze to the papers, nodding. “Sure. I’ll get right on that.” You studied him as he studied the paperwork and despite the suspicious donkey thing and your decision to already back off, you kind of wished he would get right on you. 

You heard a throat clearing next to you and turned to find Colter glancing between you, that frown on his face again. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes once more. Whatever, Colter had no business looking like that. He’d had his chance and he’d fucked it up, royally. Instead of giving that pretend jealousy shit the time of day, you snatched a few more fries off of his plate and glanced back and forth between the two men as you chewed. “You two look nothing alike, by the way.”

“He should be so lucky,” Russell teased his brother before turning that smile back on you. You almost wished you hadn’t indulged in an all night booze fest and had a fresh change of clothes. You must look like a wreck right now, more than what you’d seen in the rearview mirror earlier, and you probably smelled like one, too. Desperately trying to tamp down the images popping into your brain of this man underneath you and those hands of his gripping onto your hips, you stole more fries from the plate near you.

“Seriously, Y/N, why don’t you just go get your own food? The trucks are right there.” Colter hated it when you did this which is exactly why you did it. 

You arched a brow over at him as you chewed. “You buying?” When he didn’t answer fast enough, you snatched even more fries from him. “Didn’t think so.”

“I am,” Russell interjected, smirking over at you. “Just tell me what you’d like and I’d be more than happy to get it for you.”

His voice deepened on that last part and it made parts of you clench. You bet he would. Why the fuck did Colter have to have a brother? And why did it have to be this guy who was watching you like the Big Bad Wolf, looking like he would gobble you up the second you’d let him? Who had a roguish grin to match? Besides, based on what Reenie had said during your quick interlude at the airport, Colter’s brother had been hitting on her big time. She had warned you to tread carefully due to his connection to this case Colter was looking into. That his brother might try to charm his way into peeking at the files for his brother that you were carrying among other things, but this information was meant to go strictly into Colter’s hands. You were almost insulted at her implying that you weren’t a damn professional and that you were so easily led by your libido (it had been almost six months which was a damn drought for you). It was almost as if she knew you too well (she did).

Even though you didn’t plan on going there, at all, you couldn’t resist, lifting your sunglasses to your head, not caring how bloodshot or tired your eyes looked. “Anything I’d like?”

He leaned forward slightly. “Whatever you want,” he promised, the look in his gaze making the same vow but for something completely different.

You leaned forward, too. “Well, in that case…” When you noticed him moving an inch more towards you, hanging onto what you would say next, you grabbed his box of fries out from underneath him. You smirked triumphantly and plucked a fry in between your fingers, popping it into your mouth. 

Instead of getting annoyed like Colter had, he quietly laughed and seemed plenty entertained as he watched you pick up another fry that had red sauce partially covering it. “I should warn you. I’m a sriracha on fries kind of guy.”

You glanced at the fry and then back at him, shrugging. “Oh, I’ve had way hotter things in my mouth than this, trust me.” You never broke eye contact as you slipped the fry past your lips, not reacting in the slightest when the spicy taste came into contact with your tongue. Russell’s eyes darkened and you had the distinct feeling that if you weren’t in public right now and Colter wasn’t here, you’d be at serious risk of him testing that theory.

“Okay,” Colter interrupted. “Let’s focus on the case, please.” He almost sounded irritated which made you glance over to see him glaring in both yours and Russell’s direction. You laughed to yourself and continued eating your stolen fries and sipping your modified version of an Irish coffee. As much as Colter’s annoyance amused you, you were also grateful that he was reminding you why you were there. You needed to get your horny ass in check.

“So this is everything Reenie could find on them?” He asked.

You shrugged. Reenie hadn’t exactly given you all the particulars and you assumed that was purposeful on her part for whatever the reason. Not that it bothered you in the slightest; you had your own shit to worry about. Besides, she also implied Colter would fill you in on everything once you caught up with him.

He looked displeased and then shook his head at you. “Why did she even bother sending you?”

You got angry then. How dare he? It’s not like you wanted to be sent on this fun little errand at the whims of the lawyer who was hellbent on helping him at every turn. “Hey. I traveled on two annoying ass flights to get here, dealing with chatty old ladies and misogynistic perverts, to hand deliver you this shit and to assist wherever I can. Without any warning or time to even pack a toothbrush, I might add. All while I have my own caseload to work on, thank you very much. To help you out and fast. So how about a goddamn thank you instead of whatever this is?” You gestured towards him. He went to reply, but you cut him off. “And while you’re turning that ungrateful frown upside down, why don’t you tell me what exactly it is you’re working on?”

Russell spoke up then, prompting you to look over at him. “A buddy of mine went missing and we’re trying to track him down. His wife called me and asked me to look into it. Colter’s helping.”

That quelled your irritation slightly and you pressed your lips together. You could only imagine how sick with worry this guy’s wife must be; you knew that feeling all too well. “I’m sorry to hear it,” you offered, your tone as genuine and sympathetic as you could make it. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Colter watching you, his frown gone, now replaced by the same sympathy you were feeling. You hated it so you decided to ignore it. “How long ago did he go missing?”

“A few days back. He was returning home after a grocery store run but he disappeared from a gas station while filling up.”

Your brows furrowed. “Taken?”

Russell shook his head. “No. He ran off. It looked like someone may have been after him.” 

Colter slid over the file to you, nodding when you glanced at him questioningly. “Doug Thompson. Former military. Now working for these guys as a private contractor.” Well, now Reenie’s explicit instructions made more sense. 

You opened the file and skimmed the papers as quickly as you could. “Wow,” you murmured. “So these guys are no joke.”

“No, they’re not.” You glanced up to find Russell watching you, all traces of any flirtation and humor gone. “But I don’t think they have anything to do with it. I would’ve heard something if they did.”

Your brows arched in surprise, hearing what he wasn’t exactly saying. “You’re working with them, too?”

He gave you a nod. “I am. We do mostly private security, that kind of thing.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the disbelief in Colter’s expression. He wasn’t buying it either. “Which is code for black ops, am I right?”

Russell tensed. Bingo.

“Which means that whether or not they’re responsible, they’re most likely connected to what’s happening. If someone was really after your friend.”

His jaw tightened. “What makes you say that? It could be anyone.”

You shot him a look and shut the file. “Because I was engaged to someone who did this kind of thing and I know how these things work.”

You watched as his eyes widened slightly and he leaned forward, curious. “Was?”

Ignoring that question and no longer as curious about him, you tossed the file back over to Colter. “Bottom line is this firm is where you should be looking first. Carefully, though. We both know how they like to keep their secrets.” You gave him a thin-lipped smile and sipped your coffee, slipping your sunglasses back on and getting up to head over to the food truck behind him. On your way, you spied a young family nearby. The mother was feeding a baby, smiling as she watched her husband spin his kindergarten-age daughter in circles by the arms, making her giggle. You felt an all-too familiar lump forming in your throat but you forced it back down and continued your trek, coming to a stop at the back of a short line, intending on getting your own food. You weren’t really hungry but you needed a few minutes to regain your bearings before you could switch back into professional mode and be of any help to the brothers.

By the time you returned, Colter sent you a sympathetic glance which you promptly ignored and dug into the case as well as your meal. 

Colter sighed when your car pulled away. He had insisted you go check into a room and clean up while he and Russell made some calls, did some digging, and he would call you if something turned up. You had been only too happy to agree.

Russell turned back to him, after watching you drive off. “Oh, I like her.”

“Of course you do,” Colter muttered.

“Alright, you already gave me the sit rep on you and the lawyer. Now I need one for you and her.” He gestured in the direction you had disappeared in with his thumb. “And don’t hold back because she is…” He gave his brother the perfection sign.

Colter shook his head and wiped his hands with a napkin. “There really isn’t anything to report there, either. We had a…weekend about a year back when I was working a case in her town. Then I got a new case in the next state over and we went our separate ways. Nothing ever came of it.”

Russell continued chewing his fries that you had returned before you left, thinking it over. “There seems to be quite a bit of hostility between you two for just a casual weekend.”

Colter folded his arms on the table. “We didn’t end on the best terms.”

His brother chuckled, taking a sip of his coffee. “Bit of an understatement.” He then wiped his hands clean, too. “So, she’s fair game then, I take it?”

Colter shot him a glare. “No, she’s not. She’s off limits, too.”

“Come on, bro. You already said the lawyer was off limits.” He gave Colter a look. “Are you telling me you’ve got a thing for both of them? Because if you do, I wouldn’t blame you. They’re both—”

“It’s not like that,” Colter interrupted. “With Y/N, it’s… She’s been through a lot.”

Russell nodded and glanced back down at his food. “Yeah, I caught that.”

“The last thing she needs right now is a reminder of any of it.” Russell glanced up to catch Colter eyeing him sharply.

Russell got the message. He hadn’t addressed it at the time but he hadn’t missed it when you claimed to know how companies like Horizon worked or that you had been engaged to someone who worked for one of them. There was obviously a story there. And that combined with your change in demeanor when he mentioned Doug’s disappearance, you referring to your engagement in the past tense, and Colter’s protectiveness of you — Russell had a pretty good idea of what probably happened. It didn’t mean he didn’t like you, though. If he wasn’t mistaken, he had gotten the impression that you had liked him, too. But in the same vein, until he knew what he was working with, he didn’t want to do anything that might cause you to relive anything that you’d rather forget.

“You don’t plan to call her to help with any of this, do you?”

Colter shook his head.

Russell studied his brother, determining if that was the best option here. You were a PI and a damned good one if Reenie Green had sent you to help. It was obvious from his short interactions with the woman that she didn’t suffer fools and there wasn’t a single thing she missed. So he knew you had to be good at your job. Doug was still missing, Tracy was still worried, and they still weren’t any closer to finding any answers. It might be helpful to include you in this. Another pair of discerning eyes was always a good thing. In the end, though, Russell decided against saying anything. Instead, he asked, “So, you sure she’s off limits?” His brother gave him a glare and he couldn’t help but chuckle. “I’m just kidding. I got it. Off limits.” 

He also didn’t mention that he had discreetly entered your number into his phone when you inconspicuously slid your business card over to him. At the time, he had thought you were giving him a greenlight to contact you after this was over, but now he realized you probably had known what Colter was going to do all along.

Instead, Russell mentioned the autopsy report he had stolen from the morgue and handed a copy to Colter to peruse. While he studied the paper, Russell discreetly sent you a message so you also had his number and so he could shoot you a text when the time was right.

You were in a store, grabbing some clothes to have for the next few days, not knowing how long you were going to be needed here, when your phone began to ring. One quick glance at the screen had you smirking. Russell Shaw. You had slyly given him your number earlier when Colter wasn’t looking, telling yourself you were making sure you were included in the case so you could do what you were sent here to do. But another smaller part of you had hoped the man would contact you for a whole other reason. You may not have been thrilled to learn what he did for a living but that little fact didn’t have to ruin any possible fun you two could have, right? 

Sure, you felt a little guilty because he was Colter’s brother but you were also a realist. There wasn’t anything happening with Colter and whatever had was never going anywhere. Plus that had been well over a year ago. In your mind, you were free as a bird. So, you made a move; now it was up to Russell to make the next one. And you were hoping this was it.

You slid the green button on your screen and put the phone up to your ear. “Russell Shaw,” you greeted, making sure your voice sounded something akin to warm honey slowly drizzling over some fruit. “I had a feeling you’d be calling me.”

“Could it have something to do with me texting you earlier that I’d call as soon as I had an update?”

“Tomato, tohmato.” Hearing his smooth chuckle come down the line, you continued to sift through a rack of shirts. “So, what can I do for you?”

“A lot it sounds like, if I’m being honest.” His voice had dipped in register much the same way it had in your presence before but the effect it had being spoken directly into your ear like this…well, it was a good thing you had already grabbed a half dozen pairs of panties to have on hand. While it took you a second to recover, you couldn’t help but smile. You had been right earlier; he was definitely interested.

A woman walked right past you and you lowered your voice further. “Do you plan to find out?”

“You bet your ass I will. As soon as I’m free to.”

Fuck. If you weren’t in the middle of a store right now, you may have just asked him to start talking dirty to you right there. You had only been on the phone with him for less than a minute and already you were digging your teeth into your lip to keep a guttural moan from escaping you. This man had you so turned on you were surprised that you could still see straight or that you hadn’t run to the dressing room to temporarily alleviate the fire he had started in your belly that was blazing a trail down in between your legs. That voice and the way he was using it right now…it was pure liquid sex being poured into your ear. Your irritation with Reenie had abated some when you met him, now it was all but gone as were any warnings she gave you about the man as well as the thought of his younger brother. “Good. I’m going to hold you to that.”

“Oh, I hope you do.” That didn’t make you clench down on nothing, not at all. If this continued, you would be in that dressing room in the next thirty seconds, guaranteed. You were already starting to get seriously aroused at the images playing in your head. 

“Trust me, there will definitely be some type of holding going on,” you promised. 

“Don’t I know it,” he nearly growled into your ear. Holy… That was it. You were on your way to the dressing room. The sign said only three items were allowed at a time but you didn’t give a fuck at the bulkload of items in your arm; this was an emergency.

But what he said next after quietly clearing his throat had you stopping in your tracks. “As much as I’d love to continue this conversation, I only have a limited window of time. But I promise, we will pick this up later.”

You nearly let out a whine of disappointment. You very much wanted to continue this conversation right now but it slowly was coming back to you that yes, there was currently a missing persons case that was supposed to be your first priority. His missing friend in fact. Your brain knew that was more important though your body was screaming for something else. He had promised though that you would continue this later, something you could keep in your mind’s eye at the end of this very long and fucked up rainbow. As long as he dove into your pot of gold at the end, you could hold out a few more hours. “You better,” you grumbled.

Another warm chuckle floated down the line.

You turned to another rack of shirts, aggressively working your way through it. “So you said something about an update?”

“Yeah.” You had to admire how quickly he switched gears. While you were still struggling to get your libido under control and you were irritated, he sounded completely professional and nonplussed, as if he hadn’t been just talking to you with that tone of voice or implying what he wanted later on. “I reached out to one of my contacts and we think Doug might be hiding out in a location outside of town. We’re on our way there now to check it out.”

Shame immediately filled you at the mention of his friend. Here you were, horny as hell, about to go take care of yourself in the dressing room a minute ago and possibly ask him to tell you in explicit detail what he’d like to be doing to you if he were there, and Doug was still missing. You were more professional than that — hell, you knew better than that. You shook off the remnants of the last few minutes and went right into work mode. “Alright, you want me to come along for backup?”

“I’d love to have you back us up, but, uh…” 

You frowned at the uncertainty suddenly coating his tone. He wasn’t one of those guys, was he? That would be severely disappointing if he was and quite the mood killer, not to mention his third strike against him. You needed to get laid but not that badly. Though you hadn’t gotten the impression that he was one of those misogynistic assholes who thought a woman didn’t know her way around the big scary noisemakers known as guns earlier. “But what?” You snapped.

“Colter thinks you should sit this one out.”

Your jaw tightened and you quickly moved away from the mother and daughter that had just moved near you, lowering your voice. “That motherf— I don’t give a flying fuck what Colter thinks. I am not being sidelined.” You fucking knew it. The minute you had heard what the actual case was, seeing Colter’s gaze of sympathy directed at you — you fucking knew he would try to pull this shit.

“I think he’s just worried about you. You know? After what you’ve been through…”

That pulled you up short. “Exactly what did he tell you?”

“Uh, not much. He just thought this kind of situation might hit a little too close to home.”

You muttered a curse under your breath and made your way to the cashier. Fucking Colter. You knew you should have never told him about what happened with your fiance. He was the type of guy who would keep that in mind every time something like this came up. Hell, you were pretty sure that was partially the reason he had bounced out of your apartment so fast at the end of the long weekend you’d spent together. Sure, he had snagged another case, but you would never forget the look in his eyes as he quickly dressed — the same look you had seen at lunch earlier. At that time, you had liked Colter and you didn’t think your past would be something that could be held against you. Even though your time together had been strictly casual, he had talked to you about his father a little bit and he had seen a picture of Nate in your living room. What were you supposed to do when he asked you about it? Lie? After he had just shared something so personal with you? After he had slept with you four times thus far? You weren’t ashamed of your time with Nate and you had loved the man, been ready to spend the rest of your life with him before he lost his. That was just a tragic fact in your life. Never in a million years did you imagine that not only would it kick someone out your door so fast but now it would prevent you from being able to do your job.   

“Is it?”

You had completely forgotten you were still on the phone, silently fuming about this sudden development. “Is it what?” You dumped your clothes on the counter and gave a nod to the cashier in return when she greeted you.

“Is it hitting a little too close?”

You decided to nip this shit right in the bud. “Okay, Shaw, you listen to me and you listen good. It doesn’t matter if it’s hitting too close as you put it, or not. I do my job and nothing gets in the way of that. Just because your asshat of a brother has apparently decided that I’m some fragile flower of a woman that needs protecting from my own feelings doesn’t mean shit. I’m damn good at what I do and I’m a fucking professional. You hear me?” You handed the woman your credit card, noticing she was giving you an approving nod. You had forgotten that she was hearing every word of this side of the conversation. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

That was all you wanted to hear. “Good. Now, when are you going to send me that location so I can meet you?” You took the bag from the cashier, quietly thanking her, and made your way out of the store. 

“Tell you what. We’re only about thirty minutes out. From where you are, it’s about an hour and a half drive. Why don’t you let us check it out first and if it’s no dice, you can meet us on the way back into town? We’ll regroup and work it together from there on out.”

You tossed your bag in the backseat of your car. “Shaw,” you growled. “What did I just say?”

“This isn't that,” he assured you. “It’s a matter of us working against the clock. We’ve got to get to Doug before the guys looking for him do. That’s all this is.” 

You placed a hand on your hip and unclenched your jaw. He had a point and you also heard what he wasn’t saying: you racing up there to meet them would only slow them down and Doug couldn’t afford that. “Alright, is there anything I can do to help from here?”

“Not at the moment but keep your phone on. Depending on how this goes, we may need to lock down an address and quickly. And for that, we’re going to need you. I’m assuming you have an FBI contact somewhere?”

You pressed your lips together and got into your car. “I know someone,” you confirmed. “He owes me a favor or two.”

“I really want to say something right now at the idea of you and favors and me being the one to close out that guy’s tab but I can’t. My window of time is closing in about fifteen seconds.”

You smirked, shaking your head. “Pretty sure you just did.”

He cleared his throat one more time, affecting an even more professional tone than you’d heard from him thus far. “Got to go. Keep your phone on. I’ll text you as soon as I know what the situation is.” 

“Okay, will do.” You briefly closed your eyes, deciding the hell with it. “And, Russell?”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful,” you quietly urged, digging your teeth into your bottom lip. Despite what you said to him before, hearing speak in a way that was similar to Nate had your nerves sitting a little bit on edge, now knowing what he and his friend Doug did for a living and what he and Colter could possibly be walking into. 

“Copy that,” he responded, making you realize that his limited window of time he mentioned had expired and he was no longer alone. Sure enough, you could hear the sounds of a car door shutting in the background.

“Keep me updated.”

“Will do. Talk soon.” Before you could say anything else, the line disconnected. Even though you’d heard the confirmation of why he had to go so quickly, a part of you irrationally worried for a second that you had probably scared him off. That your warning him to be careful only cemented whatever Colter had said about you to him and why the former wanted to keep you sidelined. You had meant what you said earlier; you were a professional and your personal tragedies would never get in the way of your job. But that didn’t mean that an age-old worry you’d had every time Nate had gone to work didn’t immediately resurface the minute you were faced with a similar situation. And even though you were pissed at Colter, you also didn’t want him to get hurt.

The moment you figured you had screwed yourself with Russell, and not in the good way, an alert sounded on your phone. You glanced at your screen and saw a new text message from the very man you had just been thinking about. 

“We’ve got this. I’ll text you the minute we’re done checking it out.”

A small smile formed on your face and you texted back a genuine “Thank you”. You forced yourself to take a deep breath and get your head back in the game. You still had to find a motel to check into and you also had to be ready in case they did end up needing that address Russell had mentioned. You quickly looked up motels on your phone, weeding out the ones with the worse reviews, and settling on a place. You fired up Google Maps and started the car, intent on getting a room and firing up your laptop to check on a few cases to keep you busy while you were waiting. That had always been the worst part for you: the waiting. Waiting for a phone call or text to let you know Nate was okay after a job even though he couldn’t tell you the details of said job. So you were determined to place your focus elsewhere but also be ready in case you were needed. 

You truly hoped the brothers found Doug alive at this location they were headed to and that the danger, if any, was minimal. That it was truly nothing the two couldn’t handle together.

Russell quickly hung up with you the minute Colter hopped back into his truck. His brother had stopped to get some coffee at Russell’s insistence though Colter had kept repeating they shouldn’t be stopping. When the latter didn’t immediately get out to go get the beverages after they parked, Colter arched his brows expectantly. Russell had given him a wide smile. “Mind getting it quick?” He waved his phone at the man, indicating he needed to make a call.

Colter looked less than pleased but gave him a nod, most likely assuming it was a call to one of Russell’s contacts that should remain unknown as his older brother had intended, and left. Russell removed his sunglasses and immediately pressed the phone icon next to your name, calling you.

Now, he definitely knew three things: you had lost someone to this type of work, you were a little bit of a spitfire and he liked you even more now, and he was definitely going to pay you a visit after he closed up this whole thing with Doug and got the man back to his wife in one piece. 

Sure, when he’d first seen you, you had been somewhat hostile but entertaining and you’d been a hot mess. One hell of a hot mess in his opinion. Then you’d been flirty, checking him out, and you had even stolen his fries to use them for implications that definitely hadn’t been lost on him (or Colter for that matter, the glare his brother graced you with when you weren’t looking he hadn’t seen since they were kids). Though he’d clocked your change in demeanor when Doug’s situation was brought up and hadn’t missed your evading his question about your engagement status, he couldn’t resist eyeing you up as you walked over to the food truck behind him, nearly whistling at the perfection he was staring at. Not to mention, he liked your spunk and that only made him want you that much more. Then when you plopped back down with your food, completely in professional mode and talking over the case quickly before Colter sent you off, he was even more impressed and he just knew he had to take his shot with you. Under him, over him, to the side of him — whatever you wanted, he was game. No matter what Colter had to say on the matter. Unless his brother had feelings for you, he was going for it the first chance he got.

Colter handed him his coffee, nodding at Russell’s thanking him. “You get anything?”

“Nothing more than we already know.” He placed his sunglasses back on and sipped at his coffee, feeling slightly bad for lying to his brother. He knew Colter’s “off limits” was more about protecting you than it was anything else. But he also had just gotten his brother to start talking to him again, to work Doug’s disappearance with him, and he didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that. Nothing within reason, anyway. So a little white lie needed to be told; he’d done it before and way worse. Besides, he also didn’t think it was fair that Colter didn’t allow you the decision of whether you wanted to be involved in this or not. While he could appreciate his little brother looking out for you like the good man he’d turned out to be, everyone deserved to make their own well-informed choices. Considering your ex had been former military turned private contractor, you more than knew what you were dealing with. You had made a good point earlier: your history shouldn’t impact the job you had come here to do. And far be it from Russell to be the one to stand in your way and keep you from doing just that. Plus, they could really use your help if this safehouse Ann had given them didn’t pan out. 

Colter nodded and backed out of the parking spot. “Onward to the safe house. No more stops, right?”

“Right,” Russell confirmed. While Colter was distracted, he discreetly adjusted himself. There had been a moment in your conversation there that he had been tempted to tell you just how hard your sexy-as-hell voice and heavy flirtation had gotten him. But he knew once he did that, there would be no going back and either he’d have to jerk off in his brother’s truck (which would just be awkward especially if Colter returned quickly) or he’d have to somehow sneak into the coffee shop and make his way to the bathrooms so he could rub one out in there. Though that might also prove to be awkward if anyone else walked in to overhear the absolutely filthy things he would be murmuring into your ear from a stall, all of the promises he’d make about what he wanted to do to that sweet body of yours as soon as he had the chance, the sounds of him whacking it echoing loudly in the small space along with his deep groans. There had even been once or twice he’d gently rubbed the bulge in his jeans as you talked, only backing off when it got to be too much and he was about to break, close to ordering you to go somewhere private where you could touch yourself as well while also making sure you could be loud enough so he could hear every amazing sound he knew you would make. Hell, when you’d laid down the law to him, he’d nearly unzipped his jeans and stuck his hand inside to get some relief right there. Not that he didn’t hear what you were saying, not that he didn’t respect it or you, but damn if that little bit of fire you’d thrown his way didn’t turn him on even more. When he had answered you with “Yes, ma’am” a part of him had definitely been saluting you, no doubt about it.

Then he heard someone talking to you in the background, presumably a store clerk since it sounded like you had been told an amount for whatever you were buying. He had the quick thought, or hope, that maybe you were in a Victoria’s Secret or one of those places, buying a little something for him to unwrap you out of later on. Realizing just how much lust had fogged up his brain during this conversation, he dropped his head back against the seat, shut his eyes, and compulsively swallowed. He was immediately determined to keep his cool for the rest of your chat, especially when he opened his eyes to see Colter holding the coffee shop door open for an elderly couple walking inside, coffee cups stacked in his other hand. From there, he’d kept things professional and brief, though he hadn’t been able to resist getting that one last tease in before Colter opened the door. 

And then he’d heard your warning, detecting a note of worry in it, so he’d done what he could to reassure you with the text message he just discreetly sent you. He appreciated the fact that while this case might be stirring up some feelings from the past, you still had gone ahead and told him to be safe. He knew it was meant for both him and Colter, you obviously knowing how dangerous the job could be, but he was still getting used to him being included in that group. It was a little strange for him if he was honest. Other than Tracy saying it when he would pick Doug up for a job and the occasional conversation with Dory where he mentioned he was about to go to work, there was no one else who told him to be careful, to be safe. He found he kind of liked the idea and that only increased his appreciation of your situation, especially now having an even better idea of what you might be currently experiencing. He was no stranger to trauma, that was for sure, and so he could only imagine the thoughts racing through your mind right now, you being pissed off at Colter or not, you having just met him or not. He didn’t intend to give you cause for any more worry. No, he intended to give you something else when all was said and done. He couldn’t help but smirk at the thought.    

But now — now, it was go time. He needed to clear his head and focus on the job. He needed to get Doug back to his wife alive. Colter had made Tracy a promise that both brothers were intent on keeping. And Russell had made you a promise, one he was determined as hell to see through. 

You were just leaving the bathroom wrapped in a towel, your hair damp and sitting on one shoulder after you just squeezed the water out of it, when you heard a knock on your motel room door. 

You frowned, wondering who it could be, thinking maybe it was Colter. He always had a way of finding you when that was the last thing you wanted him to do. Truthfully, you had bitched him out earlier when he called you to inform you that he had just successfully delivered Doug back home to his wife, alive and unharmed. He and Russell had found the man at the safehouse and he told them who he had been running from. While Colter didn’t share that information, you gathered from what he did share that it had something to do with a job he and Russell had done for Horizon in the past. You kept your mouth shut but you shook your head. You knew it. Doing that kind of work was always dangerous and always carried risks like that. 

They made the long drive back and now the case was closed. Something you already knew thanks to the text message Russell had sent you already confirming this but you didn’t let on to Colter that you knew. Instead, you proceeded to tell him to stop treating you like a fragile porcelain doll and from there it quickly became heated between you two. The conversation ended soon after with neither of you willing to budge and you let out an aggravated sigh when you hit the end call button. You were grateful he and Russell were okay, but the former could drive you up a wall sometimes. If you could go back in time, you would definitely have told him to get lost when he showed up on your doorstep that one Friday night.

That immediately made you think of Russell and you realized you hadn’t texted him back yet. Colter had called right after you received the text message, with you assuming they had just gotten back into an area with service, and he had told you they had Doug and he’d call again when they got him safely home. You had sat on pins and needles, trying to focus on your most prevalent case, but the worry gnawed at you. Colter’s tone had not been his usual calm, devil-may-care one. It was coated with concern, not something you heard from him too often. So you had been distracted until Colter called you again and then the rest was history.

You slid over to Russell’s name on your screen and tried to call him but it went straight to voicemail. A different worry began to gnaw at you this time, the worry that you had indeed scared him off earlier. He had thought twice about it and decided you weren’t worth getting involved with, not even for the casual one night stand. The disappointment sat in your chest for a moment until you got angry. Between the argument with Colter and now Russell bailing on the plans he had implied to you that he wanted to keep, you were done. You hopped up and grabbed the bottle of whiskey you had purchased earlier, twisted off the cap, and took a swig. Well, it looked like it would be another dry night for you and your trip out here had been a complete waste. Colter hadn’t wanted your help and now you weren’t bumping pelvises with his hot older brother either so it was a lose-lose for you. As usual.

You swigged some more whiskey before deciding it was time for that shower you had been craving since this morning. Sure, you could take care of yourself in there and it might ease some of this angry tension in your body that Colter had helped to create, but you were too annoyed. You had angrily slammed your laptop shut and headed for the bathroom, intent on washing all of the bullshit from the last twenty four hours away.

And now, Colter had decided to show up. Of course he had. He might have a thing for Reenie that he refused to acknowledge (as did she), but he was angry (something not usual for him), worked up, and you were in town. Of course he’d show up wanting a repeat performance of the angry sex you’d had in the past. While you could really use the lay to get you out of this drought you found yourself in, you had no desire to go back there and you were definitely not in the mood.

That didn’t mean you wouldn’t give him a tease of what he couldn’t have, though. Not after that argument. Which is exactly why you decided to answer the door dressed (or underdressed) as you were. But when you angrily swung the door open, the person staring back at you in momentary shock was not Colter Shaw. You were shocked yourself; how the hell had he found you?   

Russell’s gaze darkened as he took all of you in. You noticed that he had changed his clothes and his hair looked slightly damp, as if he had recently taken a shower himself. “Hey,” he greeted, his voice dipping in register again. 

And just like that, as if a button had been pressed with that deep tone of his, you were back in the mood. You smirked and leaned against the door. “Hey,” you silkily replied. “Not the Shaw brother I was expecting.”

“But the one you were hoping for, right?” Russell’s wolfish grin was back, completely undeterred by your teasing.

You pretended to think it over for a moment. “Depends.” You grabbed at his jacket and yanked him in closer to you, making him chuckle as you swung the door shut behind him. “What does this brother plan to do?”

“Like I said,” He used that voice again, making goosebumps rise along your skin. “Whatever you want.”

“Exactly what I wanted to hear.” You lifted up and wrapped your arms around his neck, the movement forcing the towel to fall from your body, as you pushed your lips to his. You ran your fingers through his hair and greedily kissed him, nearly moaning into his mouth when his tongue delved into yours and his hands palmed at your ass. If he moved those fingers a little lower, he would find you already practically dripping for him. If you weren’t so busy trying to keep your balance as he proceeded to devour you, you might have marveled at the effect this man had on your body.  

A moment later, he gripped your ass tightly and picked you up, prompting you to wrap your legs around his waist. You could feel the covered bulge against you and you couldn’t help trying to grind a little against it, trying to get some friction.

When you both needed air, you moved to his neck, yanking his head backwards and making him chuckle as you went to town on him. You could also hear him letting out tiny groans above you as he tried to catch his breath. It was one of the hottest fucking things you’d ever heard and you intended on hearing more before the night’s end. “I should tell you before we go any further,” he panted.

“Mmmm, the only thing I need to know is if you’re clean. Because I really want that in my mouth.” You reached below to squeeze his erection, making his breath catch that was then let out in a quiet hiss.

“I-I’m clean,” he assured you.

“Good, me too,” you murmured, nibbling on his ear. “You just need to make sure to pull out and we’re golden.” 

“Okay. I, uh, I also came packing.”

You moved your hand over him and squeezed once more, earning another drawn out hiss of “shit”. “You certainly did.”

He moved you back so he could look at you, his eyes the darkest you’d seen them yet. He cupped your cheek, gliding his thumb along your bottom lip before gently placing it inside your mouth against your tongue. You sucked the digit in further, moaning around it. His gaze was so transfixed on your mouth that you couldn’t help but snicker and release his thumb with a pop. “Russell.”

His gaze slowly trailed upwards to meet yours.

“Was there something you wanted to tell me?” You teased as you rubbed earnestly at his erection. 

“Uh,” You noticed his eyes close briefly when you rubbed near where the tip was located. You could feel a little wet spot forming on the denim underneath your ministrations and it made you grin. “Uh, Colter said you were off limits.”

Your hand immediately stopped its motion. Oh no, that motherfucker had not. He had no claim to you and whatever moment you two had back in the day had long since passed, along with the several women he’d bedded after you including Reenie. There was no way in hell he got to play the dibs card or tell you and Russell, two consenting adults, what to do. You planned to tell him that the next time you spoke with him, if you ever did again. For now, though, you only wanted to focus on the man whose fingers were hungrily roaming over your bare ass and lower, groaning when he found your own wet spot.

You cupped his chin, making sure he was looking straight at you as you stated in the sexiest voice you could manage, “I think you mean no limits. Right, Russell?”

He groaned and held you to him as he hurriedly walked you over to the bed. “Fuck, I knew I liked you.” You let out a giggle as he tossed you gently onto the bed that was quickly cut off by a moan when his body immediately covered yours and his tongue plundered your mouth.

A sudden thought occurred to you and you nearly chuckled against his lips. You had seen the way he had been eyeing you up earlier today and you realized you had the man completely pegged right then. Because just like the Big Bad Wolf, he proceeded to consume you completely, before the tables turned and you did some devouring of your own.

dividers by @firefly-graphics

[cybrasigilism]

could u maybe do like mutual virginity loss with player 125? like both of them r so shy and awkward,, i think it would be adorable.,.

So Anxious (Park Min-su/Player 125 X F! Reader SMUT)

warning: smut, no way | not proofread | lowercase intended | sub x sub | virginity loss | riding | this is my interpretation of this character, please be respectful even if my opinions of the character differ from your own

character: park min-su (player 125)

A/N: decided to make this one an out of the games kinda post! i absolutely adore the idea of the reader being just as shy and nervous about the whole ordeal as min-su, thank you for the cute request! hope you enjoy :)

MDNI! 18+ content beneath the cut, reader’s discretion is advised

➤ since you were both serious about having you first be with someone special, you guys definitely tried to talk it out beforehand. but you both ended up becoming too flustered to really continue.

“how are we gonna be able to do it if we can’t even talk about it?”

“i don’t know…i still want to though..”

➤ when you guys eventually decided to get to it, you initiated the kiss but pulled away almost immediately, covering your face sheepishly.

“sorry! am i moving too fast?”

“n-not at all!” (he was definitely blushing himself, conflicted whether or not to hide the tent in his pants considering what you two were trying to do here)

➤ at first, you guys tried making out in the typical position— you being underneath him. but, you could tell min-su wasn’t exactly confident like this, so you guys switched up to where you would be straddling him. this drove him nuts of course

➤ once you guys got into the groove of things, your nerves began to calm. sure you were both shaking, but it had a bit more to do with the sheer anticipation now coursing through your bodies each time your lips met. it wasn’t made any better when min-su eventually snuck his hands up your shirt, caressing your bare back with his cold palms. the noise you made startled him, which you felt bad for

“oh, i’m sorry.. was that too much?”

“no! no, your hands are just c-cold.. that’s all..”

“ah, did you want me to stop or-“

you shake your head “feels nice, don’t stop on my account.”

➤ you’re unsure if you should at first, but you start to grind on him, drawing a unexpected moan from beneath the kiss you were currently sharing. you broke the kiss as you started to subconsciously grind harder, avoiding eye contact out of embarrassment at the expression that must have been painting your face just then. you could tell min-su was repressing his voice just as much as you were your own— you were both positively petrified to make any sound at all, in fact. but, some stifled moans made their way past as he shifted his grasp from your back to your hips.

➤ when you guys actually ended up having sex, it was a swift matter for both parties. i mean, let’s be real here. you were both completely inexperienced virgins, you couldn’t be surprised that you guys both wound up cumming fast. however swift it may have been, you enjoyed it nonetheless. he wasn’t too big, so it didn’t hurt too badly, but it was enough to make you feel better than your fingers ever could.

➤ oh yeah, and you guys could forget about masking those moans of yours any longer. the moment you sank down onto his dick, min-su was a goner. you had never heard him make such a sound in all your life, and you even asked him if he was alright initially. sure, you may not have been so vocal at first contact, but as soon as you started moving that completely turned on its head.

➤ after the fact, you both just kind of laid there next to one another. silent. come on, you had just changed the trajectory of your friendship forever, that was a lot to process. after a moment though, you both found that neither of you could wipe those stupid grins off your faces. you had just changed the entire path of your friendship, forever. and you were both okay with that

AAAA thank you so much for this adorable request! i absolutely loved writing some soft smut, however short it may have been :) thanks for reading again, and i’ll see you on the next one!

as always, any advice/constructive criticism on how to improve my writing is appreciated and requested! have a fantastic day/night lovelies 💋💋

tags: @gongyoosgf @strangelife122 @agorsnotworld @luvlyfandoms @putrescentpoet

[marlynnofmany]

Spice in Space

“Of course your food is a biohazard,” Zhee said while the security scanner approved our delivery.

“The label’s just a precaution,” I said. “Pretty sure this is mostly pepper.”

“Right, yes, the food flavoring that gives your meals the flavor of fire.” Zhee tilted his head, bug eyes looking at everything at once while managing to roll sarcastically. “Not a hazard at all.”

“I don’t mean the really spicy kind,” I said as the box slid out of the scanning machine. “Just the regular spices to sprinkle over eggs and whatnot.”

Zhee picked up the box in his pincher arms. “Right, because eating fire-flavored unhatched creatures is a perfectly normal thing to do.”

I laughed and followed him out into the spaceport. “It is where I’m from!”

“Absolute maniacs, all of you,” Zhee declared with a flick of his antennae. “Now where is that food stall? The briefing said it would be tiny.”

“Tiny and close,” I agreed, looking around. Once past the security checkpoint, this place was a riot of booths and pedestrians with an artsy wave pattern on the ceiling that seemed to dampen the sound. It wasn’t as loud as most spaceports I’d been in.

“I see a directory,” Zhee said. “Let’s just check that.”

“Wait, there it is!” I pointed to a little kiosk between full-sized restaurants. It only held enough room for tubs of ingredients, a gigantic hot plate, and the guy currently scraping food around on it with flair. The sign said “Earth Fry.”

“Of course,” Zhee said, moving toward it. “I should have just looked for the fire.”

As we maneuvered through the crowd of Strongarms, Mesmers, and miscellaneous others, the guy tossed the food with his spatula, caught it deftly in a takeout box, and handed it to the customer waiting at the side: another human. No surprise there. By the time we arrived, he was ready to greet us.

“Hello! Can I interest you in some Earth Fry?”

Zhee held up the sealed package. “We have Earth ingredients for you. Apparently they are hazardous.”

“Oh! Yes, thank you! That’ll be the hot sauce and other stuff.” He took the box and found a flat surface to put it on, then accepted the payment tablet I held out for him. “Thanks for being so fast. Somebody got a bit clumsy during the lunch rush and knocked over a few things. Paid for ‘em, but I can’t get all of these local.” He signed for the delivery while I tried to place his accent. Australian?

“Luckily we were just coming from a trade hub,” I said. “This stuff is straight from Earth.”

“Excellent. It’s been a while since I was home, and you can’t beat the real thing for spices.” He handed the tablet back.

“Very true,” I agreed. “Where are you from?”

“Melbourne,” he said while I congratulated myself on guessing right. “Still getting used to how little any of that matters out here. To the average offworlder, Earth is one place with one type of person.”

“And we’re all lunatics who eat poison, right?” I agreed with a sly glance at Zhee.

He spread his pinchers. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Hey now, the garlic is only poisonous to some creatures from Earth,” the guy said, pointing to an airtight tub. “And the onions. If you want the real toxins, the alcohol stores are that way.”

Zhee looked at the ceiling. “It’s like you all have a death wish. Or take pleasure in hurting yourselves.”

“Some of the pain tastes good?” I said with a wave toward the hot sauces.

At the same time, the guy said, “There’s a reason they call us space orcs.”

I laughed. “Do they still? I wouldn’t think enough people even know what an orc is.”

To my surprise, Zhee recited, “Mythological creature from your planet, famed for strength, durability, and lack of foresight. Rumors do go around.”

“I suppose that’s one way to put it,” I said.

“Nobody thinks that’s funnier than my family,” said the Australian. “I get no end of jokes about it. Especially from my mom’s side — she’s from the US, and thinks we all say ‘space’ funny.”

“Does she?” I asked. “Interesting word to focus on.”

“Right? She insists that it sounds like ‘spice,’ and I just don’t see what she’s on about. But!” He held up a finger and fiddled with his collar. “That did lead to my favorite shirt.” With a dramatic sweep of his overshirt, he bared a bright red T-shirt that said “Spice Orc.”

I burst out laughing. “That’s fantastic!”

“Mom was pretty proud of herself for this one,” he said. “Gave it to me for my last birthday.”

Zhee declared, “Appropriate. Entirely in character for your species.”

“And we even brought you spice!” I laughed.

“That you did!” he said, resettling his clothes. “Care to try some? The shredded beef dish is particularly tasty.”

I looked at Zhee, then turned back without waiting for a response. “We’ve got a couple minutes. I’d love some. With extra garlic, please!”

“Coming right up!” He spun his tongs like a gunfighter, and began tossing ingredients onto the hot plate where they sizzled madly.

Zhee just grumbled and looked put-upon, but didn’t object. I planned to make a big deal of enjoying the tasty fire-and-poison meal on our walk back to the ship.

~~~

These are the ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book.

Shared early on Patreon! There’s even a free tier to get them on the same day as the rest of the world.

The sequel novel is in progress (and will include characters from these stories. I hadn’t thought all of them up when I wrote the first book, but they’re too much fun to leave out of the second).

[bvrnesher]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐘 𝐎𝐍𝐄

cw: none.

ㅤ୨ৎㅤ🌙ㅤ˳ 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒄𝒚 𝒋𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒔𝒐𝒏 ! 𝒂𝒑𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒅𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒇𝒆𝒎. 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

﹙𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒂𝒈𝒆! ﹚ꪆ

𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗛𝗔𝗗 𝗡𝗢 𝗜𝗗𝗘𝗔 𝗪𝗛𝗔𝗧 the future had in store when you said yes to that son of Ares.

You were relatively lucky. Everyone liked charismatic people—you figured that out the moment you arrived at camp.

I mean, you were beautiful, kind, and… well, everything a daughter of Aphrodite was supposed to be.

Some people thought that made you shallow, but that was subjective. The thing was, good or bad, people were always watching you.

And you liked the attention, sure, but sometimes it was too much. Lately, your ex—an idiot son of Ares—decided it’d be a great idea to tell every camper at a bonfire party in the woods that you’d slept with him.

People said you were lucky. Lucky to be a daughter of Aphrodite, ridiculously gorgeous and popular, but… well, you felt more like you’d been used.

And you meant that. You found out that every single guy who had sworn to love you for a lifetime had a pretty short concept of what that meant—and not just because they were demigods.

Everything had a limit, including you. So it wasn’t a surprise when, a week later, you ended up crying on a forgotten dock, way out at the furthest edge of the camp’s beach.

The waves crashed against the rocks while the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a sunset that, under any other circumstance, you would’ve considered beautiful—if only your eyes weren’t drowning in tears just as salty as the ocean.

You cursed under your breath when you heard the wooden planks of the dock creak under unfamiliar footsteps. Pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes, you tried to force the tears to stop.

You didn’t turn around as you wiped your face. Not until you heard a voice you recognized anywhere.

A voice belonging to a very specific idiot.

"Hey, you okay?"

Percy’s voice came from behind you, sounding ridiculously concerned compared to his usual habit of messing with you over… well, everything.

Seriously. Why now?

"Yeah," you answered on instinct, steady but quieter than usual.

Percy wasn’t that much of an idiot.

"Do you need something, or can you leave already?" The words came out harsher than you meant, but you couldn’t help it.

He frowned at your tone but hesitated before responding.

"No." His voice lacked the usual teasing edge. No witty comeback, no sarcasm—just that. "I don’t want to."

You let out an exasperated sigh, keeping your gaze fixed on the ocean, not even daring to look at him.

"Jackson, seriously, I’m not in the mood for your—"

"I’m not an idiot," he cut in, though even he didn’t sound entirely convinced. "I asked if you were okay." His voice was softer this time, surprisingly gentle coming from him.

For a second, he considered just walking away, letting you be miserable in peace. He had enough problems of his own—he didn’t need to get involved in yours.

And yet, he found himself stepping closer, slow, hesitant.

"You look like a mess," he said, sitting next to you on the dock, his feet dangling off the edge, dipping into the salty water below.

"How sweet," you muttered, turning away from him, clearing your throat as you started playing with the hem of your dress.

Percy winced at his own words. He sucked at this. He wasn’t exactly good with comforting people.

"I mean… you… uh… You look beautiful, but I just—" He stopped, realizing his slip but not bothering to correct himself. "I mean, you don’t exactly look happy." He shifted uncomfortably.

“Oh, really? You think?” you didn’t meant sound like a jerk. He wasn’t being one. But old habits died hard.

Percy rolled his eyes.

“Look at me,” he said.

“No.” you refused, keeping your gaze locked on the waves.

Percy mumbled some curse in Ancient Greek. He could leave. He knew he should. But something kept him there. Impulse won over logic—again. Percy reached out, tilting your chin up between his fingers, forcing you to face him.

He frowned the second he saw your slightly red, tear-streaked eyes.

“This is ‘fine’ to you?”

You swallowed, caught off guard by the sudden touch, and felt heat rise to your face. You nodded and tried to pull away, but he held on just a little longer, keeping your eyes on his.

“We seriously need to work on your definition of ‘fine,’” he muttered.

His voice had softened.

Silence.

"You have a terrible definition of ‘okay.’"

He tilted his head, letting go of your chin only to wipe away a stray tear with his thumb.

And, as always, he didn’t think twice about it. And you? You almost died right there.

"Thanks," you murmured, your shoulders relaxing ever so slightly—something that never happened around him.

"Who did this to you?" he asked. His voice was relatively calm, but there was something else in his eyes, something you couldn’t quite place. Was it… protectiveness?

"No o—"

"Was it that idiot son of Ares?" he cut in before you could finish. "Figures. It’s always them. Just as dumb as their dad."

"Percy!" you gasped, but a laugh escaped before you could stop it.

"What? It’s not a lie," he said, meeting your gaze head-on.

His eyes. The kind you could drown in and wake up in Elysium. Not that you’d ever tell him that.

You smiled. He smiled back. And, of course, an idea popped into his head—just like always.

"Come on, get up." He stood, offering you his hand. "I can’t dance, but I’ve been told I’m hilarious when I try. Want to confirm that for me?"

The grin he gave you wasn’t one he usually directed at you. His eyes gleamed with that signature mischief of his.

You hesitated before taking his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. Looking up, you found him already watching you. For the past two years, he’d had a solid height advantage over you—not that you’d ever admit it bothered you.

"On a half-rotten dock, at the beach, with no music?" You raised a brow, almost amused. "And without knowing how to dance? I knew making a fool of yourself was your thing, but this is a new level."

He scoffed.

"I learned it from you."

"Yeah, right," you shot back. "You do it so naturally, I thought you were born with it."

Before you could react, his hand was at your waist, pulling you closer in one quick movement.

Your hands landed against his chest from the suddenness of it, but he barely reacted. Instead, he took one of your hands in his, intertwining your fingers.

"I’ve seen you dance," he murmured, his voice lower, softer. He leaned in, lips close to your ear. "Teach me." The warmth of his breath sent a shiver down your spine.

You swallowed hard.

"Put your hands like this," you murmured, adjusting the hand he had on your waist with your free one—bringing the two of you even closer.

You rested your head against his chest, and Percy felt his heart stumble. He exhaled, dropping his chin to the top of your head and closing his eyes, letting himself be guided by your steps.

You arched a brow at him. "You said you saw me dance before. When was that, Jackson?"

He shrugged, his movements awkward as he tried to follow your lead in what could barely be called a dance. "Once, in the Aphrodite cabin. One of your sisters was teaching you, I think. You weren’t terrible."

You scoffed, but the warmth creeping up your cheeks betrayed you. "So, you spy. How flattering."

"It’s not spying if it’s not intentional," he shot back, rolling his eyes, though the smirk never left his face.

His hands remained where they were—one on your waist, the other holding yours—as he led you in graceless, offbeat turns. You were pretty sure any child of Apollo watching would throw themselves into the sea from secondhand embarrassment. But Percy was right about one thing: he managed to make you laugh.

"Gods, you are awful at this," you wheezed between laughs, nearly tripping over his feet.

"I know," he said, all mock pride. "But at least you’re not crying anymore."

You froze. The laughter died on your lips, but the warmth in your chest did not. Percy stilled too, still holding your hand.

His eyes—those damn eyes—softened. And right then, with the salty breeze in the air and the waves crashing in the background, you knew you were screwed.

Percy Jackson had just made you forget your pain with nothing but a smile. Gods, what the hell was wrong with you? You didn’t even like Percy.

After a while, he started to catch the rhythm, the stumbles growing fewer.

"Like this?" he asked, voice quieter.

"Just like that," you answered.

A week later, the son of Ares woke up in the infirmary with no particular desire to go near water ever again.

ꪆৎ. Hope you guys liked it !

[kashverse]

some say let your hands and fingers do the talking. not like that, you perv! i mean by playing the guitar. what did you think? anyway, when your boyfriend pulls out a guitar, it’s a moment of pure suspense. it can either go very, very good—think angelic strumming, a voice so smooth it makes you question if he’s been hiding a secret record deal—or very, very bad, like an out-of-tune massacre that makes your eardrums file for divorce. there’s no in-between. he’s either serenading you into a nicholas sparks movie, or you’re suddenly trapped in a hostage situation where the ransom is pretending to enjoy his soulful (read: painful) rendition of wonderwall.

ah, gojo. the man, the myth, the self-proclaimed musician. he played the guitar once—once—in high school, butchered wonderwall in a way that made even noel gallagher cringe from a distance, and now he tells everyone he’s a ‘part-time guitarist.’ you don’t have the heart to tell him that whatever note he’s playing isn’t in the known musical scale of this universe. he strums with the confidence of a rock god but with the technique of a toddler discovering sound for the first time. the worst part? he believes in it. “music transcends rules,” he tells you with a wink, completely unaware that he’s transcended harmony, melody, and all known music theory altogether.

then there’s geto. now, he looks like a guy who plays the guitar—cool, effortless, the type to lean against a wall with a cigarette dangling from his lips while plucking out a song that makes everyone in a ten-mile radius fall in love. and technically, he does play. but does he play songs? absolutely not. geto is a man of riffs. he’ll pick up a guitar, pluck out a legendary lick that would make jimi hendrix’s spirit shed a tear, and then… stop. no full songs. no verses. just a 15-second snippet of greatness before he casually shrugs and says, “eh, i never learned the rest.” it’s infuriating. masterful, but infuriating.

choso, on the other hand, is eager. enthusiastic, even. and the shocking part? he’s patient with it, which you didn’t expect given his general aura of broody silence. but the man loves to learn—he already had a thing for keyboards, so naturally, guitar was the next step. and he’s good. so good, in fact, that you have to physically restrain him from playing in front of random people. because let’s be real: if choso sits down with a guitar, strums even a single melancholic tune, women (and men) will descend upon him like he’s the last attractive man on earth. you’re not dealing with that. not again.

does sukuna play the guitar? please. your big, beefy, borderline villainous boyfriend doesn’t do “basic” instruments. he plays the shamisen. yeah, that’s right. while everyone else is fumbling through 'hotel california,' sukuna is out here commanding an ancient instrument with the kind of raw, aggressive technique that could send every mainstream musician straight into retirement. the way he plays is nothing short of feral—sharp, powerful, sending sound waves through your soul like he’s calling forth a battlefield. you don’t know whether to be turned on or to fear for your life. possibly both.

toji, bless his heart, tries. he wants to play the guitar. he knows it looks cool. and, honestly, the intent is there. but here’s the thing—his hands are the size of dinner plates. the pick disappears between his fingers like a lost sock in the laundry. fretting a chord looks like he’s trying to delicately handle a teacup with boxing gloves on. it’s not a skill issue. it’s a size issue. the guitar wasn’t built for a man whose hands could palm a basketball and a toddler’s head at the same time. but he keeps at it, convinced that if he just tries hard enough, one day he’ll stop making the guitar sound like it’s being physically assaulted.

and then there’s nanami, the dark horse. the unexpected legend. you find out, completely by accident, that he plays guitar—not just plays, but plays it well. sings with it, too. every night, he softly strums lullabies for yuuji, an act of pure paternal love that no one would expect from the stoic salaryman. but when you ask him about it? he shuts that conversation down. you don’t get details. you don’t get demonstrations. and you definitely don’t get to see the video of 17-year-old nanami covering ‘pocketful of sunshine’ with embarrassing sincerity. it exists. he won’t admit it. but one day, one day, you will find it.

[scary-grace]

sips drink. I am going to need. [ ring ] for shigraki

Thank you for the prompt! As usual, I went a little berserk with it, and there is. so much smut in this. If you're not a fan/this is not the vibe, let me know and I'll write you a different one, or do a better job with your other prompts! 9k, AU with demons, succubus!reader, tons of smut. If you're a big fan of super dominant Tomura, this is not the fic for that. MDNI + thanks to @dogblessyoutascha for beta-reading on short notice and putting up with tons of yapping and fic about this guy.

wanted (if you want me)

a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

You're a down-on-your-luck succubus who just got rejected by the guy who summoned you, and you can't go back to Hell until you find somebody else's soul to steal. Shigaraki Tomura, reeling from a Valentine's Day rejection of his own, is the perfect victim. Or so you think. (cross-posted to Ao3)

“Sorry,” the guy who just summoned you says, sitting back from the pentagram he’s drawn on the floor with a frown. “You’re not my type.”

“I’m – what?” You feel stupid, which isn’t how you’re supposed to feel. You’re a demon, and a mortal’s just summoned you. You should feel powerful and lawless, not embarrassed. Not rejected. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re not my type,” the guy says again. He gestures awkwardly at you. “I was hoping for somebody – more.”

“Did you want a guy or something?” you ask. You cross your arms over your chest. Your clothes are barely worthy of the title, and you don’t want this guy seeing your nipples if he’s not even into them. “If you wanted a guy, you should have summoned an incubus. It’s not my fault you can’t read.”

“I like girls,” the guy snaps at you, rather than addressing the fact that you just called him a moron. “You were supposed to look like this.”

He picks up the grimoire he was reading the incantation out of and holds it up to you. It must be a new edition of the same old grimoire, because the last version of it you saw didn’t include illustrations. The illustration in question is a demon, identifiable as such by her horns and tail, but she looks about as much like you as you do like an angel straight from Heaven’s hideous art-deco gates. She’s got the kind of proportions that don’t work on Earth or in Hell – tiny waist, enormous breasts, ass that needs its own zip code, and her outfit is so tiny that you can see her nipples and her clit through it. And then there’s the face she’s making, straight out of some seedy erotic magazine, with blown-out pupils and open mouth and a delicate flush across her cheeks, all ready to be ruined.

Your outfit is skimpy, sure, but not that skimpy. You have the parts you need, but they aren’t that exaggerated, and if you tried that stupid expression, you’re pretty sure your face would melt off. If this is what this mortal expected, of course he’s disappointed to have gotten you.

His disappointment isn’t your problem, and now you’re in a mood. “Let me get this straight. You summoned a succubus – a sex demon from the depths of Hell – to fulfill your fantasies, and you’ve decided that now’s the time to get picky.”

“I’m not being picky,” he says. “Girls like you don’t do it for me. Can’t you send somebody else?”

“Sorry. All my sisters are seducing hotter mortals than you.” You feel a surge of pleasure at the way the man flinches. Guys like these – when they summon a succubus, they’re always thinking about the sex part, not the part where you’re a demon. “They took one look at you and decided I was all you deserved, and you know what? I don’t think you deserve me, either.”

“Well, I don’t want you, so –”

“In fact,” you continue, rising to your feet and internally cursing the fact that you decided to materialize in fuck-me heels, “I don’t think you deserve to get laid ever again.”

The mortal blanches. “What?” he demands, taking a step back as you step forward out of the pentagram. “You can’t leave the circle unless I say.”

“You really should look into those reading lessons. You’ll have a lot of time on your hands.” You were just going to lay the curse, but you decide that’s not enough. You nail him in the balls with a sharp kick, and as he doubles over, you speak, your voice crackling with the fires of Hell. “May your erections always wither, no matter how much porn you watch or how many drugs you take. May you disappoint every lover you take to your bed, and may that bed lie as cold and empty as the grave where they’ll bury your impotent corpse.”

It's a pretty good curse, if you say so yourself. “You bitch,” the mortal spits, but you snap your fingers and seal his fate. You know the moment the curse settles over him. You see the despair in his eyes. “Take it back!”

“No,” you say. You grasp his chin in one hand and lean in close, so close that your breath huffs out against his lips. You scraped your tongue for this guy. He deserves all this and more. “I’ll see you in Hell.”

His eyes roll up in his head and he collapses to the floor. You step over his unconscious form and survey the apartment you’ve found yourself in, dingy and filthy and smelling unpleasantly of human body odor. This is the kind of mortal who thought it was wise to reject you, just because you didn’t exactly resemble the absurd sketch in his grimoire. This is the kind of mortal who thought you weren’t good enough for him. Your lower lip begins to tremble, no matter how hard you sink your sharp teeth into it, and sulfuric tears begin to leak from your eyes. You were so excited to be summoned, so hopeful that you could do a good job for once. Now you just want to go home.

But you can’t. When you try to dematerialize and let Hell call you back, you can’t, and you realize why not in the same second as you realize that you didn’t curse that human nearly hard enough. You were summoned to this world to serve a purpose – to fuck some mortal so hard that they’ll sell you their soul – and until you serve that purpose, you’re trapped here. You need to find a mortal to sleep with, immediately. And you can’t go out looking like this.

You ransack the mortal’s apartment. None of his street clothes are anything you’d be caught exorcised wearing, but he has a long coat that he probably thinks makes him look mysterious and cool. You shrug it on, noting that it covers your skimpy outfit while still providing easy access to your body when it’s time to take it off, and keep searching, in case there’s anything else you can use. Money, as it happens – this human has a bank account and credit cards, and even unconscious, it’s all too easy to read his mind for the PIN. You pocket all of it, hide your demon form with a glamour, then leave the apartment door wide open on your way out.

As soon as you hit the street, though, you realize that you have an even bigger problem than you thought. You assumed it was some featureless winter evening, the kind where a bored, lonely mortal has nothing better to do than flip through a grimoire and get himself into trouble, but every storefront you look at is decorated with hearts. Every mortal you pass on the street is on someone else’s arm, or carrying flowers, or making out in the glow of a streetlight. It’s Valentine’s Day. You’re fucked.

Contrary to what humans like the idiot who summoned you think, Valentine’s Day isn’t actually about sex. Sex is a side effect of what Valentine’s Day is really about, which is romance. It’s about love and soulmates and tenderness and affection and forever, which is exactly nothing you know anything about. Succubi and incubi exist on the dark side of all of that, in its nasty, sleazy, prurient shadow. You don’t court, you seduce. You don’t make love, you fuck. You don’t show people the face of God, or whatever that dumb-ass musical says; you show them the gates of Hell and walk them through. Seducing a random mortal is a tall order for you on a given day. Seducing one on Valentine’s Day is going to be damn near impossible.

You feel tears welling up again and blink them back. Crying over rejection from a filthy, useless mortal was bad enough. Demons shouldn’t feel that kind of pain, and if they do, they shouldn’t wallow in it. Demons get the job done. And it’s not totally hopeless, when you force yourself to be honest about it. For all the mortals who are happily coupled, there are plenty who aren’t, and if the mortal who summoned you is anything to judge by, some of them aren’t averse to a little salacious, damnation-worthy fun.

As far as places to find single humans go, you’re spoiled for choice; while all the restaurants have Valentine’s Day specials for mortals out on a date with their special someone, it seems as though every club or bar is advertising an event for singles. You peer into a few bars, but none of them strike you as having the right mood. Most of them carry a pathetic air of hopefulness, as if the humans within believe they really might find someone to love tonight of all nights. You don’t need hopefulness. You need desperation. You need a human so lonely and desperate that they won’t question why a stranger wants to fuck them. If you were attractive in your human guise, you’d have a better shot, but apparently you aren’t. Only a human who’s truly desperate would go for you.

Finally you come across a bar where the mood seems a little more appropriate. Some sort of singles event is winding down as you come in, and you sense the despair beginning to set in. Most of the humans here could easily pair up with one of the others if they were willing to alter their standards, but humans have gotten entitled these days, and they all think they deserve a partner who matches their ideals. They cling to that fiction even as the mood in the bar worsens. They don’t need to settle. They’re holding out for true love.

Pathetic. You square your shoulders and wade into the mix.

The gender of your target doesn’t matter to you. It doesn’t even matter if they’re willing to sell their soul tonight – once you’ve fucked them, you can come back as many times as it takes for them to give it over. But even with your criteria broadened, you’re having trouble. As you search through the humans, tasting the flavor of their emotions every time you brush against one, you don’t find a single one who feels the way you need them to.

You taste sadness. Loneliness. Despair. Resignation or acceptance – sometimes they’re hard to tell apart. A few strange humans have even found refuge in faith, some idiosyncratic hope that they’ll find what they’re meant to find when the time is right, as if God has time to ordain such stupid things. On another night, you’d take pleasure in crushing their hopes, but your own hopes of getting out of here are sinking by the second. You need a human. Any human will do.

But just as you’re resigning yourself to seduce a woman, one whose loneliness carries just the faintest tinge of despair, you’re hit with a wave of exactly what you’ve been looking for. Not just despair, but disappointment. Not just loneliness, but hurt. Not just resignation, but frustration and embarrassment, at feeling hurt and disappointed and finding themselves here at all. You turn away from the woman without ever drawing her attention to you and follow the thread of rejection through the bar to a booth in the corner, where a mortal sits alone.

Along with the relief of finding a target at last, the first feeling that crosses your mind is surprise.  This isn’t the sort of mortal you’d expect to find alone on Valentine’s Day, just based on his looks alone – almost-delicate facial features, long white hair, a frame that’s broad-shouldered yet lithe, observable even when he’s seated. As you get closer, you see a birthmark below the corner of his mouth, scars over his mouth and eye, and long lashes framing his crimson eyes. This mortal is pretty. Some of your sisters don’t care what their targets look like, but you like your mortal men pretty.

The mortal looks up as you come to the edge of his table. He seems as surprised to see you as you are to see him. “You’re late to the party.”

“Apparently not, since you’re here. Do you mind if I sit down? My feet are hurting in these shoes.”

He looks down at your shoes, and just like you were hoping, his eyes trace upwards, over your bare ankle to your calf to your knee before it disappears beneath your stolen coat. “Go ahead,” he says. “There’s room.”

There’s plenty of room, but you sit down next to him anyway, your leg pressed against his. You feel him startle, feel him go tense, and decide it’s worth drawing attention to. “Did I scare you?”

“No,” he says, but you can hear his heart beginning to race. “Just wondering if this is a setup or something. People like you don’t usually want anything to do with people like me.”

“People like me?” you say. You turn towards him, elbow propped on the table, chin propped in your hand. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb,” your mortal says. “Looks like yours, there’s no way you’re single.”

You can’t imagine this mortal’s self-deprecating angle working on anyone, but the compliment makes you glow ever so slightly. “Strange. I was thinking the same about you.”

Your mortal doesn’t glow. He blushes. “Don’t lie.”

“Would I lie?” Yes, frequently and gleefully – but not right now. “You’re gorgeous.”

He scoffs, averts his eyes, but his heart’s beating faster. It’s cute, and since he’s opened this door, you might as well walk through. Time for a little touching. You start with the scar above his eye. “I like this, and this –” you trace the scar, then tuck a few strands of white hair behind his ear, letting your fingers graze across his cheek and down to his jaw before reaching the scar over his mouth. “And this –”

He speaks while your fingers are still against his lips. “Careful.”

“I’m being really careful,” you promise. You run your fingers over his mouth again, slow and teasing, then turn your attention to the birthmark. “And I like this. It really completes the picture. Whoever rejected you tonight, they were out of their mind.”

“I could say the same about whoever rejected you.” Your mortal’s hand brushes against your knee, then drifts away, and you shiver ever so slightly. You like this mortal. It’s always easier when you like them. “I saw you watching the rest of them. Why did you pick me?”

“Like I said, you’re gorgeous,” you say, and shrug. The shrug presses you a little closer against him, and you don’t pull back. “And you looked like you were having the same kind of night as I am. I thought we could make each other feel better.”

He gives you a skeptical look, but the flush in his cheeks gives him away. Oh, you like this one. Even if he gives you his soul tonight, you’ll come back to visit him at least a few more times. “How do you think we can do that?”

“By giving each other what we want,” you say. “Don’t you get tired of having to play a part, to be what someone else expects you to be, and never have your desires fulfilled? I could give you that.”

He scoffs. “You think you know what my desires are?”

“You’d tell me,” you murmur. “That’s the point.”

Your mortal’s skepticism doesn’t fade, but neither does his blush. “What about what you want? I don’t buy for a second that it’s just to sleep with me.”

The question gives you pause. It’s not one you’ve thought of before. Succubi don’t have sexual desires, really – your goal is always to seduce your target, which means it’s all about what your target wants. You aren’t very good at your job, but you’ve put up with all sorts of things, doing them or having them done to you, if it means the mortal you’re fucking will hand over their soul. What you want, personally, doesn’t factor in even slightly. What do you want from this mortal? You don’t know.

“You don’t know,” your mortal says, as though you’ve spoken aloud. His hand brushes against your leg again, settles there. “I’ll help you find out.”

“Only if you tell me what you want,” you insist, as he brushes your coat aside and finds your leg bare. His fingertips are dry and rough as they trail over your skin, brushing the inside of your thigh. “Oh –”

“Too much?” he asks. There’s an almost wicked glint in his eye.

You feel your own heart pick up the pace. This will be a challenge. You like a challenge. “Answer my question first. Every time you answer, you can move your hand.”

“I want you.”

“Wrong answer.” You close your legs, not that they were that far apart in the first place. You’re not easy. “I asked about your unfulfilled desires, and you just met me today. I can’t be the only thing you want.”

“Mm.” Your mortal makes a dissatisfied noise. Even as he leaves his hand in place, you see an awkwardness settle over him – nerves, or something like it. For such a gorgeous mortal, he’s an interesting contradiction. “I want – to be out of control.”

“Out of control?” You won’t open your legs just yet. “Tell me more.”

“You were right about me. I’m always doing what others want. I always have to be in control. I want to be outside my own control,” your mortal says. He can’t meet your eyes, and the flush in his cheeks looks almost uncomfortable. When you lean in to kiss it, his skin is hot beneath your lips. “I want someone else to –”

“Praise you? Worship you? Pleasure you until you can barely think?” You know you’ve got him by the sharp intake of breath, by the way he startles. “That would be my pleasure, too.”

You part your legs enough to free his hand, and his fingers, shaking slightly, work their way up the inside of your thigh. “What else?” you ask. “Be specific.”

“I want whatever you can give me.” He turns his head, looking away, which is an error on his part; it leaves his neck exposed, and you lean in to kiss it, feeling his pulse jump and race. “If I tell you it’s too much, I want you to give me more.”

“That was a good answer.” You part your legs a little further, and he takes it as the invitation it is. “Anything else?”

“I want to do the same to you,” your mortal says, and your face flushes. “It’s only fair. If you get to ruin me, I get to ruin you.”

Ruining him calls to mind all sorts of things, acts you’ve performed for other mortals by rote, acts you want nothing more than to perform for him, and the thought overwhelms you enough that you miss what he’s doing with his hand between your legs until he’s touching you, tracing your clit through the thin fabric. You realize with some degree of horror that you’re wet, and worse, that even his delicate touch has you spreading your legs wider. While you weren’t paying attention, your mortal made a bid for the upper hand, and he almost got it.

Not quite, though. You renew your efforts on his neck, feeling him shudder. You’ll do as he asks, as he desires – but not until he begs you, out loud, to give him what he needs. He shifts, squirms, in response to your attentions to his neck, much as you’re doing with his hand between your legs. “Mutual ruination,” you muse. “That sounds like a plan to me.”

Your hand’s been trapped at your side. You work it free and slip it behind his head, tangling your fingers in his hair. Then you turn him back to face you, drinking in the sight of him for a moment before you lean in to kiss him. The only way your mortal’s never had his desires fulfilled is if he’s never voiced them. You can’t imagine anyone looking at him, seeing him like this, and denying him what he wants.

Most mortals you’ve seduced lose patience with kissing quickly. The kind of mortals who summon a succubus only have one thing on their mind, but your mortal doesn’t know what you are. He kisses you eagerly, if inexpertly, and it’s only right for you to reward his enthusiasm. Besides, there’s something about kissing him that feels right, too right for the unholiness of what you are. If being with a mortal feels this good, you’re probably doing it wrong.

What does it matter? As long as you sleep with him, you’ll be free to return home. You’re a demon. Wrongness and rightness don’t factor in. You kiss your mortal carefully, paying some mind to the sharpness of your teeth and the delicateness of his skin. He’s less careful with his teeth. They nick your lip and blood wells out, and he licks it away without a moment’s hesitation. That flick of his tongue makes you consider other places it might belong, and you catch your breath. Or maybe it’s because he’s tugged your underwear aside to touch you directly, and you can no longer ignore the way he makes you feel.

You lean back, struggling to clear your head. A thought crosses your mind. “What’s your name?”

“Tomura.” Your mortal’s crimson eyes are dilated with want, the desperation you were so drawn to evident across his face. “Please –”

You kiss him again, and as he begins to finger you in earnest, stroking your clit and dipping his fingers shallowly inside you, you untangle your fingers from his hair and trace the inside of his thigh. Tomura startles at your touch, but spreads his legs at once, and your head spins with want. “How long have you wanted this?” you murmur against his lips. “Tell me.”

“Eternity.” Tomura twitches as you brush your hand over his groin before returning to toy with his thigh again. “But it’s not what they want me for. Nobody asked what I wanted until you.”

“Then they were missing out.” You bite back a gasp as Tomura sinks two fingers inside you, curling them just so, but his touch is only half the reason – the other half is the thought that you’re the first to see him this way, the only one to see him this way. “If they could see how pretty you are like this –”

“Do you want them to?”

“No,” you decide at once. You brush your hand over his groin again, noting how tightly his pants are stretched over his hardening cock. “I want you all to myself.”

His body jerks, craning upwards into your touch. “Now,” he says, almost demands. “I need it now.”

“People could see,” you warn. “If they walk by, they’ll know we’re up to something. Do you care about that?”

“Yes,” Tomura says, and you run your thumb over the tip of his cock through his pants. His body jerks, and you do it again. Again. “Fuck –”

“We can leave whenever you want,” you say, even as your body tenses around his fingers. You feel wound tight, your legs shaking from the strain, your lungs feeling as though they can’t hold on to even a single whisper of air. Mortals have choked you before while you’re seducing them and it’s never been like this. “Tell me to stop and we’ll go.”

Tomura doesn’t tell you to stop. You undo his belt, unzip his pants, and the instant your hand closes around his cock, he moans, loud enough to attract attention if anyone from the failed singles event is still around. He’s embarrassed by it – you can tell – but he doesn’t tell you to stop, and you keep stroking his cock. “So pretty,” you say, your voice catching as the heel of his hand presses against your clit. “Does that feel good? Let me make you feel even better.”

You grasp his wrist and pull his hand from between your legs, thankful for the reprieve. Tomura tastes his fingers, savoring them in a way that makes you feel almost awkward. “I wasn’t done.”

“No, but you’re about to make a mess.” You give a pointed glance down at his cock, which is oozing enough precum to stain his underwear. “I’ll be right back.”

There’s plenty of space for you under the table, and better yet, you’re out of sight, which means Tomura can’t see your reaction to the way he spreads his legs for you. And you haven’t vanished a moment too soon. You can hear footsteps approaching, and you sit forward and take his cock in your mouth just as the newcomers arrive.

“You sure you need this whole booth when you’re by yourself?” whoever it is asks. You hear Tomura start to answer, but you suck lightly on the tip of his cock, forcing him to bite back a curse. “What is your problem?”

“No problem,” Tomura grunts. You put your tongue to use, tracing it over his tip as you wrap your hand around the rest of his length. “Fuck – fuck off. There are other places to sit.”

The newcomer might say something else, but you can’t hear it around your own heartbeat thudding in your ears. Tomura wants you. He wants you so badly that he’s letting you blow him in public, that he won’t tell you to stop even when the two of you might be caught. The instant the other mortal leaves, you’re cradling his balls in your free hand, then sliding your hand a little further to press against his taint. Tomura’s entire body jerks and trembles. “Careful,” he forces out between gasps of air. “I’m going to – come –”

You wish you weren’t under the table, even if being under the table is necessary to contain the mess. You wish you could see Tomura’s face as his composure shatters, as he tries and fails to thrust upwards into your mouth and spills a ridiculous amount of cum down your throat. But he’s not quite out of control, not yet, and if you’re going to steal his soul, you really should give him what he wants first. You keep stroking his cock even as the shaking subsides, your tongue still dragging over his tip. He hasn’t gone soft just yet. You’re kind of impressed.

You’re impressed, too, with how he holds out. You know you’re overstimulating him, but he hasn’t told you to stop yet. And he asked you to keep going even if he told you it was too much. Still, you don’t like the idea of hurting your mortal. You renew your efforts, employing all the tricks you’ve learned to keep mortal men hanging on your every move, and to your shock, Tomura comes again. This time he’s almost sobbing, and you draw back at once, climbing out from under the table to check on your handiwork.

There are scratches in the couch cushions and on the tabletop, and both the napkins that were on the table have been crumpled out of existence. Tomura looks wrecked. He’s been yanking at the collar of his shirt, running his hands through his hair, and his face is flushed and sweaty. His eyes are blurred, and he’s still breathing hard, but when you lean in to kiss him, he obliges instantly. He’s unsteady, and yet there’s a strange hunger in the way he kisses you, a hunger that takes yours and amplifies it in a way you can’t quantify, let alone guard against. You find yourself melting into his touch, needing closeness, needing contact. And he gives it to you.

You’ve only just settled into a languid pace, your hands in his hair and his arms wrapped firmly around your waist, when someone smacks a server’s tray down on the table and startles you out of it. It’s the bartender. “Do you mind?” she demands, her face red. “This isn’t that kind of place! Take it outside.”

That’s fine with you. A little PDA is one thing, but whatever happens next between you and Tomura, you want privacy for it. You start to slide out of the booth, but Tomura won’t let you. He kisses you again, and you realize he’s giving himself cover to button his pants. But as long as you’re here – “What did I just say?” the bartender explodes. “Get out!”

You and Tomura stumble out onto the street, and the instant the door shuts behind you, Tomura pins you against it to kiss you again. “Does that feel good?” he asks, the same question you asked him earlier. You didn’t give him a chance to answer, and he doesn’t give you one, either. “Let’s go somewhere. You’re not the only one who doesn’t like to share.”

“Where should we go?” you ask. “I’d rather not go to a love hotel. Your place?”

He hesitates for a moment. “My place. Come on.”

You kiss on the train platform, mostly to keep out the cold, but on the train, you find yourself simply looking at Tomura, talking to him. You find out that he got rejected tonight, too, and came to the bar to mope about it. “They’re nothing. Their opinions don’t matter,” he says. Even his disdain sounds like yours. “That doesn’t change how it feels.”

“I know,” you say. You lean against him, your head on his shoulder, your left hand intertwined with his right. “My – date – said I wasn’t his type, then showed me this ridiculous drawing –”

“May his dick shrivel up and fall off,” Tomura says matter-of-factly, and you find yourself giggling. “If you aren’t enough for him, he doesn’t deserve to have any at all. Still –”

He trails off. “His loss, my gain.”

“You’re just saying that because I blew you.”

Tomura snorts. “Don’t be stupid. You asked what I wanted. Nobody’s ever asked me that. That’s not what I’m for.”

“What do you mean?” you ask. He doesn’t strike you as a sex worker – he’s too earnest, too vulnerable, in how he responds to you for it to be his day job. He shrugs, shakes his head. “I think you’re for whatever you want to be for. That’s how you are to me.”

His grip on your hand tightens for a moment, then loosens again, fingers tangling with yours. A strange spark, like an electric shock, ripples across your hand, and you look down to see an odd shadow around your ring finger. That wasn’t there before, but then again, you’ve never spent this long in the mortal world without fulfilling your purpose. “What about you?” Tomura asks. “Why don’t you know what you want?”

“I never thought about it before.” Some of your sisters enjoy their jobs, but it’s always felt like a job to you. Something to get through, so you can go home. “It hasn’t really mattered.”

“It matters now,” Tomura says. “When we get back to my place, I’ll show you.”

Tomura’s place is in a downtown high-rise, the third floor from the top of the building, and he gives you long enough to finally step out of your awful shoes before he peels you out of your jacket. For a single moment you’re convinced you’re about to see the same reaction as the mortal who summoned you, but instead Tomura’s eyes travel slowly over your form, lingering in every place you’d expect and a few places you didn’t. “This picture he showed you,” he says. “The one he thought was better than you. What did it look like?”

“Uh –” Where do you start, really? “The proportions were totally off. Its waist was tiny, and its breasts were huge –”

“Huh.” Tomura’s hands are at your waist, running over the curve from torso to hip and back with a firm, steady touch. One stays there, but the other migrates upwards, cupping your breast through your scant clothing. “What else?”

“It had this stupid outfit on. Like, way smaller than mine. You could see everything,” you say. Tomura’s thumb brushes over your nipple, then comes back to circle it, and heat begins to pool in your lower abdomen. “It barely covered her nipples – or her clit. It just looked kind of – I mean, I can hang in there with the best of them, but –”

Your voice catches. Tomura’s hand slides from your waist down between your legs, stroking your clit with his middle finger. His touch is featherlight, compared to the way he’s playing with your nipple, pinching and tugging it, making you squirm. “What else?” he prompts.

“The stupid face she was making. It was straight out of a porno – like, one of the really cheap ones. What some guy who’s never seen a woman come before would –” You startle as Tomura’s fingers slip further between your legs, then sink easily into you. “Tomura –”

“This drawing sounds like a fucking mess,” Tomura says. He reaches down and grasps your thigh, hiking your leg up around his waist and leaving you even more exposed for him. “I want to see the real thing.”

He wants you to come for him. You know how to fake a convincing orgasm – or an unconvincing one, depending on the target – but you don’t want to fake for Tomura. You promised him he can have what he wants, and he wants this, you. Your chest goes tight. “I don’t know if I can, like this.”

“I’ve got lots of ideas.” Tomura kisses you, and that need to melt into him resurfaces, even as your body responds to his onslaught. “Show me.”

You try to keep kissing him, but you can’t. Your legs are shaking again, and it’s hard to breathe, and you have to draw back to gasp for air. Somewhere in the back of your mind is the thought that this isn’t how it’s supposed to happen, that something went wrong in your seduction of this mortal if he’s the one trying to please you, but it’s stifled by other, more pressing matters. The heat flooding through you, the awful and yet indescribable exposure of your legs spread this way, Tomura’s hand anchoring you so you can’t pull back off his fingers until he’s done with you.

Or until you’re done with him. You come hard enough to blur your vision, hard enough that your legs almost give out, and Tomura keeps his fingers inside you until your twitching and squirming subsides. When he draws them back, you can see that his hand is soaked. He brings them to his mouth to taste them again, and you spot a shadow around his fourth finger. It can’t hold your attention for long. “That was good,” he decides. “But I want to see more.”

“More?” Your voice is shaky, and you’re hanging onto Tomura for dear life. “What do you mean?”

“You said I could have what I wanted,” Tomura reminds you. “This way.”

You follow him down the hall on shaky legs, into a bedroom with an enormous bed. Finally. You’re not getting into bed with Tomura still wearing your horrible outfit, so you peel it off, then turn to help him with his clothes. You undress him slowly, kissing every inch of skin you uncover, trying to regain some of your lost composure. But it’s hard to compose yourself when there’s so much of him to explore, to praise. So pretty, so noisy, so needy even when there’s no need for it – because you want him to have what he wants, and you want to be the one who gives it to him. The only one who gives it to him.

And that’s what you find yourself murmuring, as you guide him down to the bed to lie on his stomach, as you brush his long hair aside to kiss his back and his shoulders. I have what you need. Everything you need. You’re mine.

Tomura’s breathing turned quick and shallow a while ago, worse as you kiss the small of his back, the arch of his hip. He stirs beneath you. “I want to see more,” he says. “On your back.”

He’ll fuck you now, and he’ll come, and then you can finally go home. You spread your legs, leaving room for him to settle between them, and he does – much further down than you expected. He anchors your hips to the bed before you can stop him, holding you down with strong hands as he lowers his head between your thighs. The way his hair brushes against them tickles. The marks he leaves on them are oversensitive, making your legs twinge long before his tongue drags over your clit, and you wonder how you’ll explain the marks when you get back to Hell. How you’ll explain the fact that this mortal seduced you almost as skillfully as you seduced him.

Tomura eats you out messily, enthusiastically, until you’re arching your back and thrashing in his grip. The heat of his mouth against you, the pressure of his tongue against your clit or the way it feels when he licks inside of you – it all feels almost sinful. Too good for you to have, too good to want more of, too good not to beg him to keep going. You can barely manage to praise him for it, but when you do, his grip on your hips tightens and he grinds against the mattress. It’s wrong. There’s something wrong, and you want it so badly, and for the first time, you understand a little bit of why humans are so quick to sell their souls.

Tomura makes you come once, then a second time while you’re still trying to recover, and you barely manage to scramble away before he can slide his fingers inside you and try for a third. “What happened to not being in control?” you ask, and he shrugs, half a smirk on his face. “Lie down. It’s my turn.”

You crawl over him as he lies back, tasting yourself on his lips when you lean down for a kiss. Tomura relaxes so easily for you now, so much that he lets you grasp his hands one by one, raising them above his head. For the first time since you cloaked your true form, you engage in a little bit of demon magic. Enough to conjure restraints, and tie Tomura’s hands to the headboard before he can so much as open his eyes.

You’ve shocked him. You can see it, and better yet, you can feel it, in the way his skin heats up and his heart races. “You said you didn’t want control,” you remind him. “And I said I’d pleasure you until you couldn’t think.”

“Are you?” Tomura’s voice goes raspy. He watches you with wide eyes as you shift further down on the bed. “What are you going to do?”

“Everything.”

You learned all sorts of magic in the course of stepping into your role as a succubus, but this is the first time in a while that you’ve used any of it. And it’s for small things – the restraints on Tomura’s hands, the feather you conjure to trace all over his body until he squirms, the lube you coat your fingers with before you start working them inside him. Tomura doesn’t stop you, but he has a request. “Don’t fuck me like that. Not tonight.”

“Just my fingers,” you promise, and he nods, his eyes dark with need. “Whatever you want.”

You haven’t had the chance to watch Tomura come yet, and you get a chance as you finger him to an orgasm. He takes your breath away, your mortal – so pretty, so vulnerable, so loud and expressive and lost in it that you can’t help but stroke his cock with your free hand while you work him up a second time. In an ordinary seduction, with an ordinary target, now is when you’d stop. Now, when all he can do is beg for you, now when he’d give you anything to keep going; right now is when you’d ask for his soul in exchange. You know how to phrase it so that the mortals never guess what they’re truly giving up. It would be easy.

And it’s not what you want. There aren’t words for how much you don’t want that. Not when you’ve earned your mortal’s trust, not when he’s certain enough that you’ll give him what he wants that he doesn’t feel shame in begging for it. You know Tomura’s close when he starts squirming away from your fingers rather than clenching down on them. “Ride me,” he pants. “Ride my cock.”

Demon magic cleans your hands, and you slip down onto his cock with only a little strain. “You’re perfect,” you tell him as he stares helplessly up at you. “We fit so well –”

Tomura’s hips jerk upwards beneath you, making you gasp. “If we fit so well, come on my cock,” he pants. He’s been yanking at the restraints. You made them soft, but his wrists are chafed. “I need you to. I can’t – fuck, I need you –”

You’ve never needed a mortal before. You’ve never needed anyone before, but you need him, enough that doing what he asks doesn’t feel far-fetched at all. You ride him slowly, finding an angle that suits you, realizing how sore you are in the same moment. It’s been a hard night’s work. Usually mortals can’t keep up with you, and usually it feels like work. Tomura’s fingers curl and uncurl uselessly as he fights the restraints, and you reach up to grasp them, to hold them steady. And that’s when you notice it – the same shadow marking around his fourth finger as around yours.

Where did that come from? What is that? The restraints you conjured vanish in the space of a single heartbeat, and Tomura’s hands clamp down on your hips, guiding you as he thrusts upwards. His hair is glued to his forehead with sweat, to his chest and his shoulders and the sides of his neck, and the same heat writhes beneath your own skin as Tomura takes control over your pace. His thrusts are unsteady, but every time, he finds the angle you need him to.

You can’t breathe. You can barely think. Everything narrows down to heat and pressure and friction and pleasure and agony, because your body’s wrung out and still needs more, because Tomura’s falling apart beneath you and pressing his thumb over your clit to take you down with him. Pleasure explodes through you, collapsing you on top of Tomura. His grip on you barely loosens, even as your efforts to hold onto anything fall away. Anything includes your human guise.

Damn it. You untangle yourself from Tomura as quickly as possible, only to tuck yourself in against his side, uncomfortably relieved when he holds you tight. If you keep your tail under control and he doesn’t get a good look at you, he’ll never know what you really were. He’ll know something’s up, though. When he wakes up and finds that you’ve vanished out of this world, leaving evidence only in the chafe-marks around his wrists and the taste of you still on his tongue, he’ll know there was something strange about you. And he’ll have a lot of questions when you come back.

And you will come back. That’s the only thing that makes the knowledge that you’re mere moments from being drawn back to Hell bearable. Most of the time you can’t wait to leave your targets, whether you’ve collected their souls or not. This time, though – “I don’t want to leave yet.”

But you weren’t the only one speaking. Tomura said the same thing, on the off-beats as you spoke. “You’re leaving?” you ask. “This is your house. Where are you going?”

“Where are you going?” Tomura retorts. His grip on you tightens further – tight enough to bruise, if you were human or mortal. “What –”

He sits up suddenly, pulling you with him. Hell is pulling you back, but not quickly enough. Tomura looks at you, sees you – sees your horns, sees your tail, which is lashing anxiously in spite of your efforts to calm yourself. But you see him, too. You see the ram’s horns curling from beneath his white hair, the sharpness of his teeth. He’s not trying to control his tail at all. It wraps around your leg tightly. “You’re a demon.”

“So are you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why didn’t you know?” You try to separate yourself from him. Tomura should be letting go of you, should be shoving you away, but he’s still holding on, tighter every time you try to pull away. “Let go. If they find out –”

The world tears open around the two of you, well before you can pull away, and Hell pulls you back in at warp speed.

You don’t end up back in the spot you dematerialized from, and you doubt Tomura does, either. The two of you crash down on a rocky plateau, just on the outskirts of one of the cities, a desolate place no one comes to unless they’ve been cast out to wander amongst the souls of the dead. Why are you here? Is it because you came back together? Maybe that’s why – it couldn’t return you to your separate summoning locations when you’re so close together, so it split the difference and dropped you off here. Maybe there’s still time for you to hide this.

“Wow,” a familiar voice announces from somewhere behind you, and your heart sinks, “have the two of you fucked up.”

Tomura swears under his breath. “Is that your boss?”

Your boss, or your mother – nobody’s clear on which. Nemuri is picking her way through the jagged stones towards you, a vicious smirk on her face. “I can explain,” you start. “It’s not –”

“I tricked her,” Tomura interrupts. You stare at him in horror. “It was me. Not her.”

“No,” you snap. “I seduced him. I’m the one who –”

“I’m sure you believe that.” Nemuri’s smirk broadens, showing her fangs. “You’re so pathetically incompetent that –”

“Now, now, Nem. Let’s not let my guy off the hook here.” The new voice, loud and rich and full of almost-insane laughter, can only belong to another elder demon. Like Nemuri, he’s wearing a vicious smirk. “Remember, my guy’s the one who got rejected by his summoner and packed it in for the evening. At least yours gave it a second shot.”

“That’s my boss,” Tomura mumbles. “Fuck.”

“In fact,” Tomura’s boss continues, “one could argue that your girl’s off the hook. She did her job. It’s not her fault that my guy’s aura of misery was so strong that it made him actually look human. Or that he was so desperate to be wanted by somebody that he forgot to check whether she was actually a demon trying to steal his soul.”

Tomura’s shoulders hunch, and a surge of anger runs through you. “When you put it that way, Hizashi, it does sound like my nymphet is off the hook,” Nemuri says. “But when your pathetic little imp tried to take the fall for her, she wouldn’t let him. It seems they’re terrible at everything demonic, lying included. They’re telling the truth.”

“They really did seduce each other,” Hizashi muses. “That’s cringe.”

“More importantly, it’s against the rules.” Nemuri’s standing over you. Hizashi joins her, and the two of them leer down at you and Tomura, practically licking their lips. “Whatever shall we do with them?”

There aren’t many punishments that can affect demons – you’re basically gluttons for it. Then again, there aren’t many rules for demons to break. “I’m not sure,” Hizashi says. “Offer them up to Heaven for punishment? Banish them to the mortal world until the trumpets sound? Throw them out to wander with the restless dead forevermore?”

You might not love your job, but you have your sisters. If you’re cast out, you’ll never see them again. The only thing worse would be getting thrown to Heaven as an offering, one of Hell’s not-infrequent tithes to keep the peace. Tomura’s tail wraps around your waist, and you cover his left hand with your right as you wait for your fates to be decided. The thought crosses your mind, pointlessly, that you won’t spend an eternity of exile entirely alone. You’ve dragged someone else down with you, which might be the most demonic thing you’ve ever done in your life.

“Now that I think about it,” Nemuri says, her smirk broadening still further, “I don’t think we need to punish them – not when they’ve punished themselves so effectively.”

“What does that mean?” Tomura snaps. Hizashi is guffawing, his voice echoing off the jagged rocks. “Don’t laugh. What does that mean?”

“What does it mean, you gloomy brat?” Hizashi wipes at his eyes, still chuckling. “Take a look at your hands, both of you.”

You let go of Tomura’s and lift your own. Your right hand is clear, but your left – you remember noticing the shadow around your fourth finger, feeling the faint spark as it darkened a little further. It’s not a shadow anymore. Instead it’s a thin golden shackle, encircling your finger below your knuckle. No, not a shackle. A ring.

It won’t come off. You yank on it, try to dig your nails beneath it, but it won’t come off. Next to you, Tomura’s doing the same, cursing fluently, and Hizashi and Nemuri are laughing at you both, leaning on each other to stay upright. “It’s the first rule we teach you all when you’re spawned. No fucking your own kind, and this is why!” Hizashi is laughing almost too hard to speak, while you try to chew your ring off and Tomura breaks his own finger trying to remove his. “Thanks to your little tryst, the two of you are bound forever in unholy matrimony!”

“My congratulations to the happy couple,” Nemuri says. “The two of you are never going to live this down. You’ll be the laughingstocks of Hell. You’re going to beg us to banish you!”

“And we won’t,” Hizashi says. “I can’t think of a better object lesson than the two of you. We send you to the mortal realm to collect souls, and not only did you end up fucking each other, you didn’t commit a single demonic act!”

“I cursed somebody,” you protest.

“Me too,” Tomura says. “The mortal who –”

You remember what Tomura said about the mortal who rejected you: May his dick shrivel up and fall off. “You cursed the same mortal,” Nemuri says. She pauses a moment. “I will admit, it’s a fairly creative curse. The imp’s little add-on will make a nice insult to the injury.”

You’re better at cursing mortals than you are at seducing them, but you can’t imagine Tomura’s bad at it. Not with the way he worked you over. You duck your head to hide the heat coming up in your face. “Well, we’ll leave the two of you to enjoy your honeymoon,” Hizashi says. He shrugs off the ornate robe he’s wearing and drops it on the ground in front of you, revealing body chains, nipple piercings, and nothing else. “Wear this on your way back into the city. Maintain a little dignity.”

“Here, imp. Just for you.” Nemuri drops her robe over Tomura’s head, and he shoves it off into the dust. “Everyone’s going to know about your little bout of lovemaking, but I imagine you’d prefer if they didn’t know exactly how you’ve been chewing on each other.”

The two of them stroll back towards the city, arm in arm, still laughing. It’s a long time before their laughter fades, and then you and Tomura are alone on the outskirts. The wind, blowing hot a moment before, changes direction, growing cold and carrying sharp shards of ice. You put on Hizashi’s robe, then turn towards Tomura. He’s already shivering, arms crossed and shoulders hunched, Nemuri’s robe discarded in front of him. You pick it up and settle it back around his shoulders, shifting his hair aside so it won’t get caught beneath the collar – and then you realize what you’re doing. You freeze. “Sorry.”

Tomura shrugs, but the robe stays on. “You’re better at this than your boss says you are,” he says without looking at you. “I believed you.”

“I’m worse than she says I am,” you say. “I wasn’t lying.”

Tomura looks up at that, and you look away, your eyes stinging in the freezing wind. You never lied to Tomura, not from the moment you approached him. This would be so much less embarrassing if you had. If you’d listened to any of the moments where you sensed that it was going a little too well, that it felt a little too good. If you’d kept your distance instead of falling under his spell as quickly and easily as he fell under yours. “Your boss was talking out of his ass. Your whole thing worked really well on me.”

“Yeah. Except it wasn’t a thing.” Tomura’s tail wraps loosely around your wrist. “Mutual ruination. You were right.”

He’s got your right wrist. You study your left hand with its ring, and Tomura lifts his alongside yours. His ring looks the same as yours, although he’s dislocated his fourth finger in addition to having broken it. “Want me to fix that?”

“Demon magic doesn’t fix things.”

“It’s not supposed to marry people, either.” You’re not expecting that argument to work, but Tomura lets you capture his hand anyway. You relocate it manually, then try to work some magic over it. All your magic serves to make a seduction easier, so it shouldn’t be hard to twist it into something you can use for the sake of your – “I think it worked. How do you feel?”

“Like I fucked up,” Tomura says. Fair enough. “And I’m not sorry.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” Tomura’s hands slip inside your stolen robe, settling into the same place he was holding on as you rode him. “This isn’t that weird. Mortals do it all the time.”

“Except mortals who get married in Vegas can get divorced,” you point out. Somebody has to play angel’s advocate here, even if you’re already unfolding yourself from seated so you can get into his lap. “We didn’t even make any vows.”

“You did,” Tomura says. “I heard you say it.”

You’re mine. Is that really all it took? It makes a certain kind of sense, when you force yourself to look at it honestly. Mortals almost never doom themselves consciously. It’s always a moment of weakness, a split-second lapse, an instant where desire rules over reason. “Then you can break us up. Since I’m the only one who vowed anything.”

“No way.” Tomura’s lips brush the side of your neck, making your nerves twinge. “I agreed.”

You set your hands on his shoulders and push him backwards, and he goes willingly. The way he’s looking up at you counts as a sin all on its own – crimson eyes half-lidded, pupils already dilating, his cheekbones already dusted with pink. “Did you figure out what you want yet?”

“I have some ideas,” you say. You collect his hands from your waist and pin them on either side of his head, leaning down for a long, slow kiss. “But I’ll start with you.”

[moodymelanist]

too good to deny it

happy @sjmromanceweek 2025 everyone! I'm so excited for this event to be back and we're kicking things off with some Nemerie 🫶🏽

Summary: Nesta has never kissed anyone before, and when she gets asked on her first date, Emerie takes matters into her own hands.

Word Count:

Read on AO3 here!

♡♡♡♡♡ Emerie

Emerie was suffering through her statistics reading when her roommate barged through the door in what looked like a state of panic. “Emerie. Em.”

“Yeah?” Emerie asked, looking up from her textbook at the sound of Nesta’s voice. She hadn’t known Nesta very long — they’d only been living together since the start of the semester, and this weekend was her last chance to get some decent studying in before midterms started in earnest — but judging by the look on her roommate’s face, this was something serious. “What happened?”

Nesta shrugged out of her backpack and sat down hard on the edge of her  bed. “I think I have a date this weekend?”

“What?” Emerie asked, fully sitting up at her desk now. “What do you mean you think?”

“Well…” Nesta trailed off with a sigh. She kicked off her white sneakers before shifting back onto her bed in an attempt to make herself more comfortable, and Emerie turned around fully in her desk chair, statistics studying be damned. This was way more important. “You know that guy who’s been driving me crazy?”

“Which one?” Emerie questioned. She’d heard Nesta complaining about a guy in her bio lecture, but there was also the guy in her political science lecture that drove her nuts, too. “Bio lecture or poli sci?”

“Bio lecture,” Nesta confirmed. Emerie wracked her brain for the guy’s name — it was something that reminded her of Narnia. Caspian? Casper? Something like that. “Apparently he was flirting with me the entire time.”

“What an effective method,” Emerie replied dryly, pulling a soft laugh out of Nesta. It made something go a little warm and fuzzy in her chest, but she pushed it aside the same way she’d been doing these last few weeks. “So he’s been pulling your pigtails all semester and now he wants to get serious?”

“I guess so?” Nesta answered hesitantly. She seemed uncertain, which was rare for her; in the short time Emerie had known Nesta, she didn’t tend to show anything other than a very healthy dose of self-confidence. “I mean, I don’t know. He asked me to go to dinner with him on Saturday and I said yes and now I’m kind of… panicking.”

“You? Panicking?” Emerie responded, raising both of her eyebrows. Nesta didn’t do panic, which was generally pretty helpful, but now that she was actually showing something like human weakness, Emerie didn’t totally know what to do with it. “Why? He’s just some guy.”

“Okay, but I don’t do just some guy,” Nesta said. She curled into herself a little bit and Emerie frowned, not sure what to do with that, either. “I haven’t done… any guys, actually.”

Emerie just blinked; she actually had no idea what Nesta was going with this. “What do you mean? Guys must ask you out all the time.”

“Not really,” Nesta told her, a faint blush appearing on her cheeks.

Okay, now Emerie was really intrigued. She closed her textbook and got up to come sit on the bed next to Nesta, their thighs nearly pressed together because of how little room existed on their twin XL mattresses. “Nesta. What are you talking about?”

“You’ve met my mom,” Nesta said, and boy, had Emerie ever. She’d thought her family was bad, but watching the way Mrs. Archeron bossed every member of Nesta’s family around had managed to put even her uncle to shame. Emerie had been a little worried that Nesta would be just as bitchy as her mom, but thankfully that hadn’t been the case, and they’d turned into fast friends instead. “Everyone back home already knows how insane she is. Even if I’d been allowed to date, nobody wanted to deal with her.”

“Oh my God,” Emerie said back. She privately thought it was dumb to pass up on the chance to call Nesta Archeron your girlfriend just because her mom sucked, but maybe she had more brain cells than the guys in Nesta’s hometown. “So you’ve never—?”

“Whatever you’re thinking, no.” Nesta looked away, her cheeks going even pinker. “I’ve never even touched a guy other than dance classes, and that definitely doesn’t count.”

Emerie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. How could someone as gorgeous as Nesta be freaking out about something as simple as this? Emerie didn’t have that much experience with guys — she’d figured out what that strange swooping feeling in her stomach when Jade from Victorious came on her television screen meant early, thank you very much — but from the little she did know, it wasn’t really that hard dealing with them. She imagined it would be even easier when you looked like Nesta, with her icy eyes, bronze hair, and general air like she knew exactly what she was doing and you’d be dumb not to go along with it. 

“It’s not that hard, really,” Emerie replied after a second, still reeling. Her first date with a guy on the lacrosse team had been pretty mediocre, but she hadn’t realized the reason she’d been so bored was because she’d wanted to catch the captain of the girls volleyball team’s attention instead. “You just have to laugh at their jokes and put your hand on their arm a little.”

At Nesta’s dubious look, Emerie added, “I’ve seen your Story Graph, Nesta. I know you know how to at least do that.”

“Okay, okay,” Nesta responded with a sheepish smile. “But what if he wants to kiss me?”

“It’s not as hard as it seems,” Emerie answered. “I mean, you’ve seen movies.”

“Of course I’ve seen movies, Em.” Nesta rolled her eyes and Emerie laughed. “But it’s not like I’ve actually done it myself.”

Emerie scrambled to find a response that seemed normal enough. “You can just practice on the back of your hand. Or maybe your arm?”

“Wouldn’t he be able to tell?” Nesta asked, biting her lip. Emerie tried her hardest not to notice how pink they were. “I don’t want to look like I don’t know what I’m doing. Or worse, kiss like a golden retriever. My sister says her boyfriend does that and she hates it.”

“Okay,” Emerie said slowly. She wasn’t completely sure how to respond to that, but she’d do her best. “We don’t have time to unpack the golden retriever thing, but I promise you won’t kiss like that.”

“Okay, but how do you know?” Nesta said back. “You can’t promise that.”

“Just kiss me and I’ll tell you,” Emerie blurted out before she could stop herself. She had to physically shove her hands under her thighs to stop herself from clapping her hand over her own mouth and make the situation even more embarrassing; she’d already done the worst, so now she just had to shut up until Nesta laughed it off.

Nesta didn’t laugh it off, though. She just narrowed her eyes like she was actually considering it, and Emerie nearly bit off her own tongue when Nesta said, “Are you sure?”

“I mean, only if you want,” Emerie replied, hoping it didn’t come off as desperate as she thought it did. Her heart was pounding so loud in her chest it was a miracle Nesta couldn’t hear it with how close they were sitting. “We don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Nesta responded. She looked at Emerie expectantly and added, “Well?”

Emerie quickly shifted so she was facing Nesta properly, leaning on their cinder block wall for some more support while Nesta did the same. This close to her, Emerie could see Nesta had the faintest dusting of freckles across her skin that looked like they trailed down under her shirt, and Emerie hoped Nesta didn’t hear how thickly she swallowed.

“Okay, so…” Emerie trailed off before summoning her courage. She wasn’t going to squander this opportunity, and if Nesta decided to use this knowledge to her date’s advantage, at least Emerie would have the memory. “Pick a side to tilt your head so you don’t bump your nose.”

“Like this?” Nesta asked, tilting her head to the right so far it was a miracle she didn’t strain her neck.

“No, no,” Emerie answered with a little laugh. She reached out to touch Nesta’s face without thinking about it, her cheeks going warm as she tilted Nesta to a better angle. “Like this.”

“Okay,” Nesta breathed. Her eyes looked incredibly blue this close up. “Now what?”

“Just lean in,” Emerie told her. She thanked whatever god was listening that she’d happened to brush her teeth when she’d come back from her discussion section earlier this afternoon. “And close your eyes.”

Nesta didn’t so much as lean in as she aggressively pushed her mouth in Emerie’s direction, but Emerie certainly wasn’t complaining. Nesta’s lips were soft and full against hers, and she could faintly taste the spearmint lip balm that Nesta liked to use. Emerie was fully expecting this to just be a peck, but to her surprise, Nesta’s lips parted and suddenly her tongue was licking at Emerie’s lips.

Emerie gasped a little, surprised, and that was all it took for Nesta’s tongue to slip inside her mouth. She tried to show Nesta how good it felt to slide their tongues together, how to move their lips to form a semblance of a good rhythm, but who was Emerie kidding. Nesta was clearly a natural, and Emerie was one hundred percent benefitting from that right now.

“Um,” Emerie said once she realized just how long they’d been kissing and pulled away. She didn’t know what to say but she didn’t totally know what to do with the strange silence between them. “So. Um. That’s how you kiss.”

Nesta studied her for a few moments before her look turned knowing. Emerie wasn’t sure whether she should be afraid of that look or not, but wow, was it doing things for her. “Right.”

“Right,” Emerie repeated, still at a loss for words. Her lips were still tingling from where Nesta’s had been pressed against them a minute ago, and she had to fight the urge to bring her hand up to touch them. “So. Yeah.”

“I’m canceling my date,” Nesta announced suddenly. Her lips were an even darker shade of pink now from all the kissing, and it was really distracting. “We’re doing more of that.”

Emerie had to mentally rewind the last few seconds to make sure she hadn’t misheard. “What?”

“I said we’re doing more of that,” Nesta repeated firmly. She leaned forward so their lips were just barely touching, and even that was enough to make Emerie a little crazy. “Unless you don’t want to?”

“No,” Emerie said quickly, and then immediately realized how Nesta might interpret that. “I mean, yes. I want to.” 

“Good,” Nesta said back, leaning in to press her lips firmly to Emerie’s.

This time when they kissed, they were both smiling too hard for it to really count, but Emerie didn’t mind.

tag list: @c-e-d-dreamer | @jsmelodies | @queercontrarian | @nativeswfl | @that-little-red-head | @dustjacketmusings | @fieldofdaisiies | @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk | @kale-theteaqueen | @goddess-aelin | @livinforthetea | @valkyrie-archeron | @agents-assemble | @sweet-pea1 | @lilah-asteria | @brieq | @mydnights | @jmoonjones | @readskk | @fwiggle | @bookstantrash | @climbthemountain2020 | @underneath-the-sidras | @illyrianshadowhunter | @sublimecoffeefestival | @superspiritfestival | @sv0430 | @podemechamardek | @unlikelypersonalknight1 | @burningsnowleopard | @bri-loves-sunflowers | @itsinherited

[julietsf1]

Perfect Fit - Kenan Yıldız x Stylist!Reader

summary: Being Kenan’s stylist was supposed to be about clothes. Not lame excuses to spend time, lingering touches, and the slow realization that you might be in over your head (8.5k words)

content: slow burn, grumpy x sunshine, Stylist!Reader, inspired by the movie two weeks notice

an: guess who got dumped just days before valentines :') we move tho! something not f1 today guys (whaaaat??!!) I am watching a lot of football during break and I adore this guy!! next fics will be F1 again dw! wishing you all an amazing day <3

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The first time I meet Kenan Yıldız, he is exactly fourteen minutes late and precisely ten times cockier than necessary.

I check my watch as he strolls into the private suite at the Juventus training center, hands in his pockets, grinning like he’s just won the lottery. Which, in fairness, he kind of has—football stardom, magazine covers, and a jawline that probably has its own fan club.

Still, none of that excuses his chronic inability to tell time.

I exhale, tapping my nails against the table as he finally, finally stops in front of me. “You’re late.”

Then, he shrugs. “You’re early.”

I stare at him. “That’s literally not how time works.”

He grins, like he’s enjoying himself far too much already. “It’s how my time works.”

He flops onto the couch. Flops. Like an overgrown puppy who has never had to experience the burden of professionalism.

“You hired me for a reason,” I remind him, keeping my tone even. “Which means you show up on time, listen to my advice, and do not, under any circumstances, make my job harder than it already is.”

Kenan, to absolutely no one’s surprise, looks thoroughly unbothered.

“You say that like I don’t have incredible fashion sense.”

I stare at him. “You showed up wearing Nike slides with socks.”

“They’re comfortable.”

“You are a multi-millionaire professional footballer. You can afford comfortable shoes that do not look like you are a high school boy.”

Kenan grins, stretching out on the couch, taking up an absurd amount of space, and watching me like this is the best entertainment he’s had all week. “Hit me with it, boss.”

Boss. The word drips with teasing.

I inhale deeply. Count to three. Do not strangle the athlete.

Instead, I pull out my laptop and spin it towards him, revealing a carefully curated mood board. “We start here. You have the Ballon d’Or ceremony in two weeks, and I am legally obligated to prevent you from showing up in anything offensive to the general public.”

Kenan leans forward, eyes flicking between the images—navy suits, sleek black tuxedos, a deep burgundy number that would look absurdly good on him if he had an ounce of taste.

Then he leans back, eyebrows raised.

“No way.”

I narrow my eyes. “No way what?”

“No way I’m wearing this.” He points at the burgundy suit, horrified. “Do I look like a retired jazz musician?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “It’s Dolce & Gabbana, Kenan.”

“It’s ridiculous.”

“You wear Juventus kits half the week.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s literally not.”

Kenan grins. “You’re very passionate about this.”

“Yes,” I deadpan. “That’s how jobs work.”

Kenan laughs, full and unbothered. “Alright, alright, keep your cool, boss. Let’s try some things on.”

…

It turns out styling Kenan Yıldız is a full-contact sport. And by that, I mean he is actively working against me.

“Oh, no, absolutely not.” I gesture at him to take the blazer off. “That’s too tight on the shoulders.”

Kenan spreads his arms dramatically. “I feel fine.”

“That’s because you have the self-awareness of a brick.”

He gasps. “Wow.”

“Take it off.”

“You just want to see me shirtless.”

I blink. “Kenan, I have dressed men for a living. If I were that easily impressed, I’d be unemployed.”

He grins, amused, but thankfully, doesn’t push it. Instead, he shrugs out of the blazer.

I am a professional. And, professionally speaking, I do not notice how broad his shoulders actually are. Definitely not. 

Nope.

Instead, I grab the next suit. “Here. Try this one.”

Dark navy, sleek lapels, crisp white shirt. It’s tailored enough to emphasize sharp angles, long lines.

It works.

I tell myself that my job is to make sure my clients look good.

That’s why I’m staring. Obviously.

Kenan catches my expression in the mirror and raises an eyebrow. “That’s a very serious face. What’s the verdict?”

I keep my voice even. “This one’s better.”

“Better?” He turns slightly, inspecting himself. “Or do I look outrageously handsome, and you just don’t want to admit it?”

I give him a look. “I’ll let the press decide.”

Kenan laughs. “Fair enough. You like navy on me though, don’t you? Be honest you were staring quite a bit.”

I blink, caught of guard.

“I was just checking for tailoring issues.” I mumble, feeling a bit embarrassed. 

He just snickers and turns around again, adjusting his jacket in the mirror.  “So, are you this fun with all your clients?”

I glance up. “No. Usually they listen to me.”

He smirks. “And yet you seem to be having such a great time.”

I scoff, shoving fabric swatches into my bag. “Delusional.”

He tilts his head. “No, I’m just observant.”

I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “Try not to get this suit dirty before the event, yeah?”

“I’ll do my best,” he says solemnly, then grins. “No promises, though.”

…

I am at my desk, minding my own business, deeply focused on fabric selections for the newest Juventus-Loro Piana collaboration. Something elegant. Something refined. Something that perfectly walks the line between classic and modern.

What I am not focused on is preparing for the door to slam open so violently it rattles the frame, as if the person behind it has never once encountered the concept of knocking.

Kenan strides in like he owns the place, Juventus training kit clinging to him, a towel slung casually over his shoulder, water still dripping from his hair in rivulets. He looks like he just stepped out of an expensive body wash commercial, the kind that would sell you on the idea that showering is some profound, life-altering experience.

Except Kenan isn’t selling anything.

He is, however, still wet.

Like, actively damp.

I stare at him for a second too long before recoiling in exaggerated horror. “Did you swim here?”

Kenan stops in his tracks, blinking at me like I’m the one who doesn’t make sense.

“Shower,” he says simply, as though that explains everything.

“Yes, I can see that,” I reply, narrowing my eyes at the small puddle forming beneath his slides.

Kenan just grins, completely unbothered. “Then why’d you ask?”

I exhale sharply, dragging my hand down my face. “Kenan.”

“Yeah?”

“What do you want?”

Instead of answering, he plops into the chair across from me, stretching out like this is his personal lounge. His long legs sprawl out casually, his damp towel draped haphazardly over one arm, and he’s grinning like he’s having the best day of his life.

“Need your opinion,” he says, completely unprompted.

I narrow my eyes suspiciously. “On what?”

Kenan gestures at himself with both hands, like he’s presenting a revolutionary new look. “My outfit.”

I blink.

Slowly.

Kenan, unfazed, leans back in the chair and shrugs. “Thinking of heading out later. Need to know if I should change.”

I stare at him.

I glance at his slides. At the clingy, sweat-soaked training kit. At the water dripping from his hair and pooling on my floor.

Then I stare at him again.

“Kenan,” I say finally, my tone flat.

“Yeah?”

“You are in a training kit.”

“So?”

“So unless your plans involve breaking into a 24-hour gym, yes, you should change.”

Kenan nods slowly, like I’ve just delivered some groundbreaking revelation. “Interesting. Interesting.”

I lean forward, folding my hands on the desk, fixing him with a hard stare. “Kenan?”

“Yeah?”

“Get out.”

Kenan grins, his expression one of pure mischief.

And, predictably, he doesn’t move.

Instead, he leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “You know, you really should work on your people skills. Very unprofessional of you to kick out your favorite client.”

“You’re not my favorite client,” I deadpan.

He gasps, clutching his chest like I’ve mortally wounded him. “Wow. That’s harsh.”

I let out a long, pointed sigh, pushing my chair back and standing up. “Fine. You want help? Here’s my professional advice: go home, shower—again, because apparently one wasn’t enough—and wear literally anything that doesn’t have a Juventus logo on it.”

Kenan hums thoughtfully, as if he’s actually considering it. “What about the slides? Keep them or lose them?”

“Kenan.”

“Yeah?”

“Get. Out.”

He doesn’t.

Of course, he doesn’t.

Instead, he leans back even further, crossing one leg over the other, completely ignoring the fact that he’s dripping water all over my floor.

“You’re fun when you’re mad, you know that?”

I glare at him.

Kenan just laughs, completely unfazed.

And, annoyingly, he still doesn’t leave.

…

It’s late afternoon, and I am in the middle of an important call with a brand executive—the kind of person whose voice alone makes you sit up straighter, whose Italian accent makes everything sound elegant, even words like inventory management—when the door to my office swings open without warning.

I don’t need to look up. I already know.

I take a slow, measured breath. “Kenan, if you interrupt me right now, I swear to god—”

I do, in fact, look up.

And there he is.

Standing in my doorway like he belongs there.

Kenan is dressed in what I can only describe as his most unserious outfit yet—an oversized hoodie, the hood pulled up like he’s in witness protection, sweatpants that are definitely not his size, and a smoothie in hand.

I watch as he makes his way to my couch, sits down, stretches out like he owns the place, and waits.

I press my lips together. I will not engage.

The executive is explaining the finer details of their new suiting collection, using phrases like textural fluidity and contemporary tailoring, and I desperately want to focus.

Kenan, unfortunately, does not care about my professional aspirations.

First, he sighs. Loudly.

I ignore him.

Then, he tilts his head at me, blinking slowly, as if I’m some sort of unusual species he’s studying.

I continue nodding along to my call, even as he leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his fist, elbow perched on the armrest like he’s the star of some old painting.

But when he starts slurping his smoothy—slowly, loudly, dramatically—I finally give in.

I mute my call, turn slightly in my chair, and narrow my eyes at him.

Kenan, completely unbothered, lifts his eyebrows.

I keep my voice even. “Kenan. Why are you here?”

He clears his throat, sitting up slightly. “I have a question.”

I exhale. “A question.”

“Yeah.”

I brace myself. “And what, exactly, could not wait until after I finished a conversation with one of the most prestigious fashion houses in the world?”

Kenan gestures loosely at himself. “Hoodie. Thoughts?”

I blink. “Your thoughts… on your own hoodie?”

Kenan nods. “Yeah. Should I add a jacket?”

I stare at him.

Then, after a long pause, I lean forward slightly, resting my elbows on my desk.

“You interrupted a meeting with Loro Piana.”

Kenan nods. “Correct.”

“To ask me if you should add a jacket.”

Another nod.

I inhale. Exhale.

I fold my hands together and say, very calmly, “Kenan, get out.”

He grins, standing up. “So… no jacket?”

“Switch to jeans, there is a suede bomber on the rack in the corner over there, leave me alone now please.”

Kenan chuckles, strolling out of my office, swiftly grabbing the jacket.

…

I should have known something was up the moment Kenan knocked.

Because Kenan never knocks.

The second I look up from my laptop, the door swings open, and there he is, grinning like a man who has just thought of something ridiculous and is about to make it my problem.

“You busy?”

I don’t even bother looking up from my screen. “Extremely.”

“Perfect,” he says, stepping fully into my office. “Be ready in an hour.”

I pause. That gets my attention.

“For what?” I ask warily.

Kenan leans against my desk, arms crossed in a way that suggests he thinks he looks effortlessly cool when, in reality, he looks like he’s about to present a terrible business proposal.

“Boat day.”

I blink. “Boat day?”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

Kenan tilts his head, like my answer has personally offended him.

“No?”

“That’s correct.”

He exhales dramatically, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Alright, fine. I wasn’t gonna say anything, but I actually need you there.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why?”

Kenan straightens up slightly, looking me dead in the eye. “Fashion crisis.”

I fold my arms. “You’re lying.”

He gestures at himself. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

Kenan sighs. “I just—look, things could go terribly wrong today. What if I make a bad fashion choice? What if my trunks clash with the boat? What if someone wears the same ones as me?”

I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “That’s your concern? Not drowning?”

Kenan waves a hand. “I’m an athlete, I’ll survive.” Then, after a beat, he gives me a winning smile. “Come on, boss. I need you.”

I roll my eyes, already sensing that I am going to lose this battle.

…

It takes me approximately four minutes from the moment I step onto the yacht to realize that Kenan has played me.

This is not, as he vaguely implied, a casual little boat trip.

This is a full-scale Juventus squad takeover.

The kind where music blares so loud you feel it in your chest, where food and drinks are scattered across tables in laughably excessive amounts, and where half the team has already started throwing themselves off the side of the boat like unsupervised toddlers.

I stop at the edge of the deck, blinking at the chaos in front of me, unsure of where to even begin processing this. Then, slowly, I turn to Kenan.

Then back to the scene.

Then back to Kenan.

He grins like he’s just done something spectacularly clever.

“See? Fun.”

I adjust my sunglasses and stare at him. “Why am I here?”

Kenan tilts his head, like he’s genuinely considering the question. “Moral support.”

“Moral support for what, exactly?”

He gestures vaguely to the entire scene, his hand making a lazy arc in the air. “For me.”

I exhale sharply, crossing my arms. “You’re not in distress.”

“I could be,” he counters, deadpan.

“You’re not.”

Kenan doesn’t respond. Instead, he reaches behind his back and pulls out two pairs of swim trunks like he’s unveiling some great treasure. One red. One yellow.

I blink. “What is that?”

“My dilemma.”

I stare at him.

Kenan holds up both options, one in each hand, like he’s presenting me with the most critical decision of his life. “Red or yellow?”

“You dragged me onto a boat so I could pick your swimsuit color?”

Kenan nods solemnly.

I sigh, pressing my fingers to my temples. “Red.”

“Why?”

“Because it’ll make you look more tan.”

He squints slightly, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m messing with him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Kenan, I’m sure. It’s literally basic color theory. Unless you’d prefer to look pale?”

Kenan hums thoughtfully, flipping the yellow ones over his shoulder like they no longer exist and holding up the red. “You heard her. Red it is.”

I exhale, already exhausted, and mutter under my breath, “This day is going to be a lot.”

I make my first mistake when Kenan pulls his shirt over his head, preparing to jump into the water.

I look.

Not on purpose, obviously. It just… happens.

My gaze moves before I can stop it, taking in the casual ease of his movements, the way the sunlight glints off his skin, the way his back muscles shift with every motion. It’s objectively unfair. And now I am suffering.

I force myself to look at literally anything else—the horizon, the food table, the possibility of throwing myself into the ocean just to escape this sudden, deeply annoying awareness of him.

Kenan, naturally, remains completely oblivious to my internal crisis.

“You coming in?” he calls over his shoulder as he steps toward the edge of the yacht.

“I just got here,” I reply, arms crossed.

“So?”

“So, I’m taking my time.”

Kenan narrows his eyes slightly, like he’s just detected a challenge. I don’t like that look.

“I can teach you how to dive,” he offers, his voice infuriatingly casual.

“I know how to dive,” I shoot back.

He raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Kenan hums, clearly unconvinced. “Let’s see it, then.”

“I don’t perform on command,” I say, my tone firm.

“You’re scared.”

“Oh my god, I am not—”

“Prove it.”

I don’t think. I just move.

Bending my knees, I inhale sharply and push off, cutting cleanly into the water.

I surface just as Kenan jumps in after me, slicing through the water effortlessly.

That’s when I make my second mistake.

I look at him.

Really look.

Sunlight glints off the water as it drips from his hair, slicked back from his face. His jawline is sharp, his grin smug and easy, and there’s something about the way he moves—like he’s completely at home here, like he’s built for this—that makes me forget how to form coherent thoughts.

And then, worse—he looks back.

Bright eyes meet mine, amused and knowing, like he’s caught me staring. Which, to be clear, I was absolutely not doing. At all. Ever.

I clear my throat, shifting slightly, desperate for neutral territory. “You’re showing off,” I accuse, my voice sharper than I intended.

Kenan’s mouth tugs into a half-smirk. “And?”

“And it’s annoying.”

He grins wider, water dripping from his chin. “You sound jealous.”

“I sound rational,” I retort, shoving water in his direction.

Kenan laughs, tilting his head back, and then—without warning—he reaches forward.

His thumb brushes a stray drop of water from my cheek, a quick, thoughtless movement that shouldn’t mean anything.

And yet—it does.

The air shifts, subtle but impossible to ignore.

His fingers hover for just a second too long, his eyes catching mine and holding. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something curious, like he’s just noticed something for the first time.

And for a moment, I can’t breathe.

Then—just as quickly—he pulls back.

The moment disappears.

And we both pretend it didn’t happen.

…

It starts, as all bad ideas do, with Kenan appearing uninvited.

I am seated at my desk, entirely minding my own business, when a shadow falls over my workspace.

Before I can look up, Kenan drops into the chair across from me with the weight of a man who has just made a major decision and is about to make it my problem.

“Help me shop,” he declares, like we were in the middle of a conversation I have no memory of participating in.

I blink. Slowly.

Kenan does not blink back.

I cross my arms. “You? Shopping?”

He spreads his arms. “What, you think I just live off free team merch?”

“Yes,” I say, without hesitation.

Kenan grins. “Okay, fair. But I still need new stuff.”

I narrow my eyes. “New stuff?”

“For events,” he clarifies, shifting comfortably in his seat like he’s already convinced me. “You’re always telling me I should take my styling more seriously, so—” he gestures at himself—“here I am. Taking it seriously.”

I study him carefully, sensing an ulterior motive.

“So let me get this straight,” I say, resting my elbows on the desk. “You want me to drop everything and go shopping with you?”

“Yes.”

“Right now?”

Kenan nods.

I exhale, setting my tablet down slowly, deliberately. “Do you know how many emails I have left to answer today?”

“No,” he says. Then, before I can continue, he leans forward, pressing both hands together in a mock-pleading gesture. “Come on, boss. Think of it as a mission. A challenge. Your most difficult client yet.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That is not the selling point you think it is.”

Kenan tilts his head slightly, like he’s about to switch tactics.

And then, with devastating precision, he delivers the final blow:

“I’ll buy you coffee.”

My resolve shatters instantly.

I exhale. “Fine.”

Kenan lights up immediately. “That’s what I like to hear.”

…

Shopping with Kenan is like shopping with a toddler who has recently discovered his own free will.

At first, it’s fine. Normal. Civilized. He listens to my advice, nods along as I explain the importance of quality tailoring, even picks up a few decent items.

And then.

It starts.

“What about this?” he asks, holding up a horrific orange camoflage tracksuit.

I stare at it. Then at him.

“No.”

Kenan shrugs, completely unbothered. “I like it.”

I exhale slowly. “You are not wearing that in public.”

He grins. “You’re just mad because you know I’d pull it off.”

“You would not.”

“Would too.”

I rub my temples. “Put it back.”

Kenan sighs, begrudgingly returning it to the rack. But exactly two minutes later, he reverts to chaos.

First, a leopard-print jacket.

I shake my head.

Then, a graphic T-shirt that says ‘Big Dog Energy.’

I physically take it out of his hands and put it back myself.

“This is important,” I say, placing two actual, stylish options in his arms. “We need pieces that are versatile, that fit your personal aesthetic while maintaining an effortless, tailored look.”

Kenan blinks. “That’s some José Mourinho level strategizing. All of that for a pair of pants and a shirt?”

“Yes, because I actually know what I’m doing,” I say, nudging him toward the fitting room. “Now go try these on before I start dressing you like an old Italian lady.”

Kenan grins. “That’s a threat?”

“You’re seconds away from pleated skirts.”

He laughs, but goes inside anyway.

…

I believe the mission is complete.

But then—as we leave the last store, arms full of shopping bags, Kenan suddenly groans and rolls his shoulders like he’s just carried the weight of the world on his back.

“Ugh,” he says. “I need a break.”

I sigh. “Kenan, we’ve been shopping for three hours.”

“Exactly,” he says, slinging an arm around my shoulders like this has been an equal burden for both of us. “Which is why we deserve a reward.”

I eye him suspiciously. “What kind of reward?”

Kenan does not answer.

Instead, he steers me toward a side street, moving with the confidence of a man who has already decided my fate.

“Kenan,” I say, realizing too late where we’re headed.

No.

Not a spa.

A very fancy spa.

I stop walking immediately.

Kenan, noticing too late, is forced to halt as well.

I stare at him. “No.”

Kenan grins. “Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Kenan—”

He tilts his head. “You work too much. You stress too much. You never take a break.”

“I just spent the entire afternoon shopping with you,” I argue.

Kenan ignores this. “This is what you need.”

I narrow my eyes. “And your solution is to physically drag me into a spa?”

Kenan does not hesitate. “Yes.”

I exhale. “Why do I feel like you’ve planned this?”

Kenan grins wider. “Because I have.”

And then—before I can protest further—he opens the door and gently shoves me inside.

…

I don't know what kind of witchcraft these spa people are practicing, but I have fully given in to it.

There is something profoundly humiliating about the fact that Kenan Yıldız, of all people, was right.

Because I am relaxed.

Painfully, dangerously relaxed.

I sink deeper into the plush, warm surface of the massage table, the scent of lavender and eucalyptus thick in the air, the slow, expert pressure of hands kneading away every last drop of tension from my body.

It is impossibly good.

The kind of indulgence I would normally refuse, the kind of experience I would dismiss as unnecessary.

Except it is so necessary.

It’s so good that I don’t even care that Kenan is lying just inches away, stretched out on his own table, probably smug as hell about the fact that he successfully dragged me here.

I can hear him shift slightly, adjusting his arms at his sides. The sound is quiet, unremarkable.

And then—

The groan.

Deep. Low. Involuntary.

I don’t move, don’t react, but I feel it like a full-body event.

Like an alarm going off in my brain, interrupting my hard-won serenity, making my pulse hitch slightly before I force it back down.

No.

Absolutely not.

I refuse to acknowledge it, to let my mind go anywhere near the path it’s suddenly threatening to take.

I focus instead on the weight of the warm towel on my back, my grocery list, the weather forecast, the to-do list I abandoned the moment Kenan dragged me here.

But then—another groan.

Softer this time, barely more than a sigh, a quiet, unfiltered reaction to the way the masseuse’s hands dig into his shoulders.

My fingers twitch against the plush surface beneath me.

I press my cheek harder into the cushion, jaw tightening, every last bit of professionalism I possess clinging on for dear life.

This is not happening.

I am not hyperaware of him.

I am not wondering what it would sound like if—

No.

I take a slow, measured breath, force my mind onto something else, anything else.

But then—as if on cue, as if this is a test of my sanity—Kenan exhales, his voice slow and drawn out, heavy with satisfaction.

“Oh, yeah,” he murmurs lazily. “This was a great idea.”

I crack one eye open, glancing sideways at him. “You’re not supposed to talk.”

Kenan doesn’t even turn his head, just smirks faintly. “Why not?”

“Because it ruins the experience,” I mutter, shifting slightly, trying to reclaim the blissful silence I had finally achieved.

Kenan hums in agreement, but then, after a beat—

“You’re enjoying it, though.”

I don’t answer.

He turns his head slightly, grinning. “You are.”

“No, I’m not.”

Kenan tilts his head, studying me with too much amusement. “Liar.”

I close my eyes, exhaling slowly.

I am not doing this with him.

Not here.

Not while I am too blissed out to argue properly.

“Kenan.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

He laughs under his breath, but mercifully, he drops it.

And for the next few minutes, there is nothing but silence.

I let myself relax again, let my mind drift, surrendering to the warmth of the table, the slow, steady pressure of the massage, the weightlessness of being taken care of for once.

It is perfect.

Which is why, of course, Kenan has to ruin it.

I am still lingering in my post-massage haze when we are ushered into the next part of our spa treatment.

There is a moment of disorientation as I wrap myself in a ridiculously plush robe, knotting it at the waist, letting the softness of the fabric lull me even deeper into a state of near-delirious comfort.

Kenan, meanwhile, has fully leaned into his new life as a luxury spa enthusiast.

He is walking like a man who has just come into a great inheritance, arms swinging loosely at his sides, his robe slightly untied, his expression one of supreme satisfaction.

He glances at me as we walk down the softly lit hallway.

“You’re glowing,” he says smugly.

“I hate you,” I reply, but it’s missing any real venom.

Kenan smirks. “You love me.”

I scoff, tightening my robe for emphasis.

He bumps his shoulder into mine as we turn the corner. “Admit it,” he presses. “You liked it.”

I lift my chin. “I tolerated it.”

“Mmm.” He tilts his head as if considering. “So if I suggested we make this a weekly thing—”

“I would have you arrested.”

Kenan laughs, clearly pleased with himself.

We round the corner, stepping into the next treatment room, where trays of neatly arranged skincare products are waiting for us.

The spa attendant walks us through the benefits of the clay mask, explaining its detoxifying properties, the natural minerals, the way it will leave our skin glowing.

I nod along, listening attentively, taking this seriously.

Kenan, on the other hand, is poking at the clay like it’s some kind of foreign substance.

He leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “So, are we supposed to eat this, or…?”

I snap my head toward him. “I swear to god.”

Kenan grins, pleased that he has successfully annoyed me.

And then—before I can react—he swipes a streak of clay onto my cheek.

I gasp, scandalized.

“You did not just—”

Kenan leans back, looking entirely too proud of himself.

“Look at that,” he muses. “You’re already looking better.”

I narrow my eyes.

“Kenan.”

“Yes?”

“You have five seconds to run.”

He laughs, but it’s cut short the moment I dip my fingers into the clay and smear a thick, deliberate streak down the bridge of his nose.

He blinks.

I smirk. “Oops.”

And then—it’s war.

Kenan lunges, trying to grab my wrist, but I twist away, swiping another streak across his jaw.

He retaliates immediately, dragging a line of clay across my forehead, laughing as I gasp in horror.

“You’re gonna regret that,” I warn, dipping both hands into the mask.

Kenan dodges backward, but not fast enough.

I manage to smear clay across his entire cheek before he grabs my wrist, successfully pinning my arm down as he smears another layer across my temple.

We are laughing too loudly, bumping into the skincare table, earning scandalized looks from the spa attendants, who are clearly regretting ever letting us in.

By the time we finally call a truce, Kenan has clay all over his jawline, a streak across his eyebrow, and possibly some in his hair.

I am in no better shape.

We catch our breath, grinning like idiots.

Kenan leans back, tilting his head as he studies my face.

“You know,” he says, smirking faintly, “I think this is your best look yet.”

I scoff, wiping some of the mask off my cheek. “You mean, this is your best look yet.”

Kenan shrugs. “Well, yeah. Obviously.”

I laugh, rolling my eyes, and for a moment—just a moment—it’s too easy.

Too comfortable.

Like we aren’t just stylist and client. Like maybe, just maybe, we’re something else.

But then—the spa attendant clears her throat loudly.

Kenan and I snap back to reality.

Right. This was meant to be innocent.

…

I should be curled up under a blanket, wrapped in the soft glow of my laptop screen, watching Hugh Grant fumble his way into Julia Roberts’ heart while I eat my weight in popcorn.

Instead, I am sitting at a table at one of the most prestigious football award shows in the world, fixing Kenan Yıldız’s tie for the third time.

“Seriously?” I mutter, tugging at the silk knot as he sits there grinning, far too amused by my growing frustration. “How do you keep messing this up?”

Kenan shrugs, as casually as if he’s discussing the weather. “Maybe it’s cursed.”

“Or maybe,” I counter, tugging harder than necessary, “you have the attention span of a goldfish.”

“That’s a possibility, too.”

I inhale, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand. Not the fact that his tie is somehow always crooked, not the fact that he smells unfairly nice—woodsy and fresh, like expensive cologne and soap. Not the fact that his tux fits like it was made for him, which, technically, it was.

I tighten the knot, fingers brushing against the cool silk of his collar. Then I step back, ignoring the way his eyes follow me.

“There,” I say, smoothing down the lapels of his jacket. “That should hold.”

Kenan reaches up, tugging at the knot experimentally.

And then—he tilts his head. “It’s a little tight.”

I stare at him. Consider violence.

“Oh my god, Kenan.”

He tries not to laugh. “I think I might be suffocating.”

I exhale through my nose, stepping forward again and loosening it just a fraction. “You are a professional athlete. I think you’ll survive a slightly snug tie.”

“You’re very aggressive about this,” he muses.

“I’m aggressive about my work.”

“Hm.” He smirks. “You sure it’s not just me?”

I pull the tie one last time—just a little too tight for good measure.

Kenan coughs. “Okay. Point taken.”

I take my seat beside him, crossing my arms. “You never actually explained why you brought me here.”

Kenan leans back, stretching lazily. “Because what if I had a wardrobe malfunction? Imagine the headlines. ‘Rising Juventus Star Exposes Entire Ballon D’Or Ceremony Thanks to Fashion Mishap.’”

I give him a look. “Right, because that’s such a likely scenario.”

“You never know,” he says, completely serious. “Zippers are tricky.”

I stare at him. “Kenan, you’re wearing a bow tie and a tuxedo.”

“Still, anything could happen.”

I sigh, rubbing my temples. “You actually called me here because you thought you’d have a fashion emergency?”

Kenan tilts his head, amused, but not exactly denying it.

I exhale, shaking my head. “I canceled movie night for this.”

Kenan straightens slightly. “Movie night?”

“Yes, Kenan. That thing normal people do when they are not being dragged to last-minute award shows for ‘fashion emergencies.’”

His eyes spark with something I can’t quite place—amusement, maybe curiosity. “What movie?”

I wave him off. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does, though.” He nudges my foot under the table, and I kick him back. “Tell me.”

I glance at him, half annoyed, half entertained. “Fine. Notting Hill.”

Kenan’s expression shifts, like I’ve just presented him with something fascinating.

“Hugh Grant?” he asks, suppressing a grin.

I sigh. “Yes, Hugh Grant.”

Kenan hums, clearly holding back laughter. “Are you a rom-com girl?”

I cross my arms. “I am a human being with emotions, Kenan. Of course, I watch rom-coms.”

“Didn’t peg you for the ‘charming British man falls in love with beautiful woman’ type.”

“I think you’re forgetting Julia Roberts is the one falling in love with him.”

Kenan nods, pretending to consider this. “So you like the whole reluctant, ‘I shouldn’t like you but I do’ thing?”

I narrow my eyes. “Why are we discussing this?”

He smirks. “Just gathering intel, boss.”

I blink at him. “For what?”

But before he can answer, a reporter materializes at the side of the table, microphone in hand, already launching into questions about Kenan’s season.

Kenan shifts gears effortlessly, offering charming but nonchalant answers, throwing in just enough personality to keep the conversation light. He’s confident, comfortable, every bit the rising star.

And then—the reporter turns to me.

“And you are his date?”

Before I can answer, Kenan speaks first.

“Best company I could ask for,” he says smoothly, flashing an easy smile.

The reporter nods, clearly filing that information away. Then, she tilts her head.

“Well, you two make a lovely couple.”

Silence.

For exactly three seconds.

I glance at Kenan, fully expecting him to jump in—to laugh, to correct her, to make a joke.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he just… smirks. A knowing, slow, absolutely infuriating smirk. 

I blink at him. Excuse me?

The reporter, seemingly satisfied, quickly thanks Kenan before shifting her attention back to the main stage, preparing for the next segment.

Kenan glances at me, clearly entertained.

“What?” he asks innocently.

“You didn’t correct her,” I say, narrowing my eyes.

He shrugs, reaching for his drink. “Didn’t seem important.”

I stare. “Oh, so that’s how we’re playing this?”

Kenan takes a sip, smiling against the rim of his glass.

And I know, with absolute certainty, that I will be thinking about this later.

…

The event wraps up hours later, and the energy that had been buzzing through the ballroom—the flashing cameras, the hum of conversation, the champagne-fueled laughter—fizzles out the second the car door shuts behind us.

It’s just me and Kenan now, wrapped in the quiet hum of the city, the streets blurred by the tinted windows.

He exhales, rolling his shoulders slightly as he settles into the seat beside me. His bow tie is undone, the silk hanging loosely around his neck, and his jacket is draped lazily over one shoulder. The perfectly put-together image from earlier is gone, replaced by something more undone.

I glance at him. “So? First big award show. Thoughts?”

Kenan stretches his legs out slightly, his head tilting against the seat as he flicks his gaze toward the window. “Not bad. Bit long, though.”

I huff a quiet laugh. “Yeah, sorry. No halftime break in real life.”

He turns his head toward me, grinning faintly, his voice lower now, softer. “Yeah, what’s up with that?”

I shake my head, looking away, watching the neon lights streak past outside. The movement of the car feels almost hypnotic, like we’re floating through the city instead of driving through it.

Another beat of silence.

Not an uncomfortable one. Just something quieter.

Kenan shifts beside me, stretching out his legs slightly, adjusting his posture in that effortless, lazy way he always does. And then—his hand settles on my knee.

Not a quick touch. Not accidental.

Just there.

Steady. Warm. Like he isn’t even thinking about it.

Like it’s completely normal.

My breath hitches—just slightly, barely noticeable—but I feel it.

I should move. He should move. One of us should acknowledge it. But neither of us do.

The space between us feels different now. Closer, somehow. Heavier.

The car hums softly beneath us, the muted sound of the tires against pavement filling the space where words should go.

And then, without thinking, I glance at him again.

And find him already looking.

It’s not like before.

Not teasing. Not playful. Something I don’t have the words for.

His gaze lingers, just for a second too long. Not in the usual way—not like when he smirks at me before making some sarcastic remark, not like when he’s enjoying winding me up.

This is different.

I feel it in the way my pulse kicks up, in the way my breath catches just slightly. It’s not dramatic. Not obvious.

But it’s there.

And I don’t know what to do with it.

So, I look away.

…

You’re coming to dinner with me.”

I glance up from where I’m sprawled dramatically across the couch in the fitting room, my limbs heavy with exhaustion after a long day of fighting Kenan’s terrible fashion instincts.

“No, I’m not.”

Kenan doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes, you are.”

I let my head fall back, groaning. “Kenan, I’ve been stuffing you into suits for six hours. I have blisters. My soul has left my body. I am going home.”

Kenan, completely unbothered, grabs my bag and slings it over his shoulder.

“No, you’re coming to dinner,” he corrects, grinning at me like this is already a settled matter. “Because we’ve been locked in here all day, and you need to eat before you start resenting me.”

I lift my head just enough to narrow my eyes at him. “I already resent you.”

Kenan just laughs. “See? I was right.”

I sigh, dragging my hands down my face. “Kenan, I look like I’ve been wrestling with a dozen overpriced jackets all day.”

“So?”

“So, I’m going home.”

“You’re coming to dinner.”

I give him a long, tired stare.

“Kenan—”

“It’s literally just food,” he interrupts, voice easy, persuasive, the way it always is when he knows he’s going to win. “Don’t overthink it.”

I exhale, already feeling myself caving.

It’s just food. It’s just dinner. That’s what I keep telling myself, over and over again, trying to push away the small, creeping realization that it doesn’t really feel like just dinner. I know what just dinner feels like, and this is not it.

We talk the entire time, without effort, without having to think about it, the conversation flowing so naturally that I don’t realize how much time is passing. He makes a comment about something, I fire back, he laughs, I roll my eyes, and somehow, we’re still going, as if we could sit here for hours and not run out of things to say.

And the way he looks at me—really looks at me—makes it even harder to pretend this is nothing. There’s no teasing smirk, no sarcastic remark waiting to be delivered. He just listens, like he actually cares about what I have to say, like he’s interested in the conversation itself, not just waiting for his turn to speak. Every time I laugh, I see it—the way his mouth tugs slightly at the corner, the way his expression softens in this way that makes something in my stomach tighten a little too much.

I tell myself I’m imagining it.

I pretend not to notice.

I am so careful not to acknowledge it.

So careful.

Until—

Kenan shifts, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbow against the table, his movements easy and unhurried. He’s still talking, still completely comfortable, still looking at me in a way that makes my skin feel warmer than it should. His hand moves as if it’s just part of the conversation, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and suddenly, before I can even process it—his fingers brush against my skin.

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

I still.

It’s nothing. It should be nothing. A casual, thoughtless movement, something people do all the time without thinking. But I feel it anyway. The way his fingertips graze just barely against my skin, the way my breath catches before I can stop it, the way my pulse stumbles slightly out of rhythm.

I don’t move.

And when I finally bring myself to look at him, he’s already watching me.

There’s no teasing smile this time, no expectation that I’ll roll my eyes or tell him to stop being annoying. His gaze lingers, not in the way it usually does when he’s winding me up, but in a way that makes me acutely aware of how close we are, how low the lighting is, how long we’ve been sitting here.

And then, just as casually as anything else, like he’s just stating a fact, he says—

“You look nice tonight.”

I blink.

Kenan doesn’t laugh it off or turn it into a joke. He doesn’t make a stupid comment to lighten the mood.

He just says it.

And suddenly, I feel the shift. The weight of the moment. The way this night has felt different from the start, how I’ve been trying so hard to ignore it, to brush past it, to keep everything as normal as possible.

I clear my throat, shifting slightly in my seat, leaning back just enough to regain whatever little distance is left between us. “That’s suspiciously polite of you.”

Kenan grins, but there’s something different underneath it this time. Softer. Quieter.

“I can be polite,” he says.

I raise an eyebrow. “Since when?”

Kenan laughs, shaking his head, as if this conversation hasn’t just tipped over into something else entirely. “Shut up.”

…

I tell myself I’m imagining it.

That nothing has changed.

That Kenan has always been like this—touchy, flirty, full of too much energy and no sense of personal space.

But lately, it’s harder to believe that.

Because now, when he leans in, he doesn’t just lean in—he gets close.

Close enough that I feel the warmth of him, the barest brush of his breath against my skin when he murmurs something in my ear, his voice lower than necessary.

Close enough that I catch myself not moving away.

Like right now.

I’m adjusting the sleeve of his suit, focused, professional, completely in control, when I feel him shift.

A slow, deliberate movement.

And then—his hand finds my waist.

Not a full touch. Just fingertips grazing over the rim of my blouse, barely there, like he’s testing the waters.

My breath catches, but I don’t react.

I won’t react.

Instead, I clear my throat and step back just slightly, putting enough space between us to make it look intentional.

“Keep your arm straight,” I say, like my voice isn’t thinner than it should be, like I don’t notice the way his fingers hesitate before falling away.

Kenan hums, amused.

“You’re being very serious right now,” he murmurs.

I glance up at him. “Because I am serious. This suit costs more than your car.”

Kenan tilts his head slightly, smirking. “That’s a bold assumption.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Kenan, I know what you drive.”

He grins, unbothered. “Fair enough.”

I turn my attention back to the sleeve, carefully adjusting the buttons at the cuff. But then—he shifts again.

His hand finds my wrist this time.

His thumb, brushing just slightly against my skin. Warm. Steady. Completely unnecessary.

And then—his voice. Low. Playful. Right against my ear.

“I like when you fuss over me like this,” he murmurs.

My stomach tightens.

I exhale sharply, yanking my hand away, because this is ridiculous.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, turning away before I can see his reaction.

Kenan laughs—quiet, smug, entirely too entertained.

It’s not just this moment.

It’s all the moments.

A collection of small, seemingly insignificant things that, when pieced together, paint a picture I refuse to acknowledge.

The way he stands closer than necessary. The way he touches me more now—fingers grazing my wrist when I pass him something, the press of his palm against my back when he moves past me, the way his knee stays against mine when we sit side by side.

It’s slowly driving me crazy.

…

I should have gone home.

We both should have.

It’s late, the Juventus complex is quiet except for the soft hum of the overhead light, casting a warm glow over the table where fabric swatches are still scattered from earlier. We finished hours ago, but neither of us has moved to leave. I tell myself it’s because I’m still organizing things, tidying up, making sure everything is in order, but that’s a lie. I just don’t want to be the first one to go.

Kenan is behind me, leaning against the edge of the table, watching me work like he’s waiting for something. He hasn’t said anything in a while, which is how I know he’s about to start trouble. Kenan is always at his most dangerous when he’s quiet.

Then, right on cue, his voice comes, easy and amused.

“You realize the fabric will still be there in the morning, right?”

I don’t turn around. “You realize you’re still here too, right?”

“That’s different,” he says, like that’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I finally glance at him over my shoulder. “Oh? How exactly?”

He grins. “You’re working. I’m just here for moral support.”

I roll my eyes and turn back to the table, stacking the fabric samples in an even pile. “How noble of you.”

“Right? You should really be thanking me.”

“For what, standing there and doing absolutely nothing?”

“For the company.” His tone is light, teasing, but there’s something else there too, something I don’t want to examine too closely.

I let out an exaggerated sigh. “Kenan, you do realize I spend half my life in fittings with you, right? I get more than enough of your company.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

I pause.

It’s too small a sentence to mean anything.

Except it does.

I shake my head and focus on my work, pretending like he hasn’t just called me out in the most subtle way possible. “Well, someone has to make sure you don’t embarrass yourself in public.”

He hums, stepping closer, just enough that I feel it. “And here I thought it was because you liked dressing me.”

I scoff, ignoring the sudden warmth creeping up my neck. “I dress a lot of people.”

“Yeah, but I’m your favorite.”

The worst part is—he’s not even asking.

He says it like it’s a fact, like it’s already been decided, like he’s just been waiting for me to admit it.

I huff out a laugh, reaching for another swatch, doing everything I can to keep my voice steady. “I promise you, I don’t have favorites.”

Kenan tuts under his breath, stepping even closer, leaning just slightly toward me. “That’s funny, because I’m pretty sure I overheard you telling someone last week that navy brings out my eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve been paying extra attention to me.”

I exhale sharply, shaking my head. “It’s literally my job to pay attention to you.”

“So you admit it.”

I freeze for half a second too long, and that’s all he needs.

Kenan laughs under his breath, like he’s caught me in something.

“That’s not what I meant,” I say quickly, but it’s useless.

He’s already too entertained.

Then, before I can even attempt to redirect the conversation, he moves.

A casual shift, nothing obvious, nothing dramatic, but suddenly his hand is resting lightly on my waist.

It’s not a tight grip, not a bold gesture—just a small, steadying touch, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It’s not.

But I don’t move.

His fingers flex slightly, a slow press of warmth through the fabric of my blouse, and I hate the way my pulse jumps in response.

I force a dry laugh, ignoring the way the air suddenly feels heavier between us. “Don’t.”

Kenan hums thoughtfully. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s weird.”

“I don’t think it’s weird,” he muses, his thumb brushing absently over the fabric. “I think you’re just trying really hard not to like it.”

The absolute audacity.

I let out a sharp breath, pulling back just enough to glare up at him. “I’m not trying anything.”

His mouth tugs into a smirk, slow and knowing. “No?”

Before I can come up with a response, before I can convince myself that I actually have one, he tilts his head slightly, studying me, watching me squirm, knowing exactly what he’s doing.

His eyes flick down to my lips—barely noticeable, but I catch it.

I catch it, and my brain goes completely blank.

And I know.

I know exactly what’s about to happen, I know that I should stop this before it goes any further, before he gets any more of an ego boost than he already has, before I give him one more reason to look at me like he knows something I don’t.

But I don’t stop it.

And maybe—that’s all he was waiting for.

Because then, he kisses me.

It’s not rushed, not hesitant, just easy. Like he knew exactly how this was going to play out before I even figured it out myself. Like he’s been waiting for me to catch up.

And, somehow, before I can even stop to think about it, I’m kissing him back.

His hands move to my jaw, fingers sliding into my hair, firm but not demanding, like he’s daring me to stop him.

But I don’t.

Because I don’t want to.

Because of course this was going to happen.

Because Kenan has been pushing me toward this moment for weeks, maybe longer, and I let him, and now I don’t want to stop.

I don’t even notice that my hands have fisted into his shirt, pulling him in, until I feel him grin against my lips.

He pulls back just slightly, just enough that we’re still close, still breathing the same air, still feeling the warmth of it.

His eyes flick between mine, slow and deliberate, and when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than before, smug but softer.

“Finally.”

I should argue.

But instead, I just kiss him again.

[seongwars]

more lads dad!au because dad!zayne and dad!caleb beef would be hilarious. spinoff from this drabble

The thing about heart surgeons was that they spent years in medical school, training relentlessly to save lives. But despite Zayne’s expertise, the one thing he couldn’t mend was his four-year-old daughter’s broken heart.

“Elsa, sweetheart, why are you crying?” he asked, crouching to her level as she hiccuped between sniffles.

“Because Archer doesn’t want to be married to me anymore,” Elsa sobbed, rubbing her fists against her red-rimmed eyes. 

“He said he likes Cece.”

Oh. His heart.

His daughter was barely out of preschool, and she was already experiencing the crushing weight of betrayal. While he remained calm on the outside, Zayne was seething on the inside. How dare this boy break his daughter’s heart? Who did he think he was?

“Archer?” 

“Caleb’s son,” you chimed in from the doorway, setting Elsa’s backpack down on its hook.

Oh. It all made sense now.

There were rumors that Caleb had been Mr. Popular back in high school, then again in college, and even at the academy. The kind of guy who could walk into a room and instantly become the center of attention, effortlessly drawing in mobs of adoring fangirls. His son, apparently, had inherited those same infuriatingly charming qualities.

Zayne clenched his jaw. No one, not even another four-year-old, was going to trample on his baby’s feelings and walk away unscathed. He turned back to Elsa, brushing a damp strand of hair from her cheek.

“Sweetheart, listen to me,” Zayne said gently, wiping away the last of Elsa’s tears with his thumb. “You don’t need to be married to Archer. You’re the most brilliant, kind, and incredible little girl in the whole world.”

Elsa sniffled. “Really?”

“Absolutely. Now, let me ask you something: does Archer know medical terminology?”

Elsa frowned, thinking hard. “No,” she admitted, shaking her head.

Zayne gasped dramatically. “See? That right there is a red flag, sweetheart. You’re already smarter than him! Do you know how many medical words you know?”

Elsa sniffled again, but a tiny smile started forming. “A lot.”

“That’s right! And what’s the big one you learned last week?”

“Myocardial infarction!”

Zayne’s eyes widened in exaggerated amazement. “That’s incredible! Now, tell me, does Archer know what a myocardial infarction is?”

Your daughter scrunched up her nose, thinking. Then she clapped her hands. “No!”

“Sweetheart, how could you possibly be married to someone who doesn’t even know what that is?”

Elsa giggled, wiping at her damp cheeks.

“What other big words do you know?” Zayne encouraged, leaning in.

She tapped a finger against her chin before her face lit up. “Hippocampus!”

“That’s my girl!” Zayne grinned, nodding approvingly. “Anything else?”

Elsa’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “Gluteus maximus!”

She giggled so hard at the meaning of gluteus maximus that she nearly toppled over, but Zayne caught her just in time, lifting her up and pressing a kiss to her forehead. Just minutes ago, she had been devastated over some preschool betrayal, and now she was giggling about medical jargon like the brilliant little girl she was.

It was far better than pining over a boy who didn’t even know what a myocardial infarction was.

☾⋆

“Hey, I saw Zayne today at drop-off, and he was squinting at me the whole time,” Caleb said, pulling Eden out of his high chair.

“Huh. Did he have his glasses on?” his wife asked, refilling Stella’s sippy cup. 

Caleb furrowed his brow. “Now that I think about it…no, he didn’t. Oh! That makes so much sense! I waved at him, like, three times, but he just kept squinting. Poor guy was probably struggling to see without them.”

Cece - Sylus' daughter Eden & Stella - Caleb's twins

[shokopan]

HAIKYUU BOYS AS COLLEGE CRUSHES PT 1 - FLOOR CRUSH | R. SUNA

⤷ inspired by my hq boys as high school crushes post i wrote a looong time ago but this time i'm writing longer ish drabbles :D

“hey,” an unfamiliar voice startles you momentarily before you glance up and see the cute guy on your floor peaking a little too conspicuously at your phone, “i like that band too,”

you’ve seen him around pretty frequently, almost guaranteed 2-3 times daily, whether it be going to and from classes, at the dining hall, at the campus library, or just on the floor of your dorm. you want to say that it’s his height and the fact that you guys seem to have the same routines and class schedules that makes him so recognizable, but it’s actually mostly because he’s an objectively good looking guy. the guy’s got slightly longer, tousled dark hair and sleepy eyes, and such a casual and relaxed style of dressing that almost irritates you because he looks so damn good with no effort. 

“no way! are you going to their concert next week?” your eyes light up, pausing your music and taking out your earbuds.

he shrugs, “i want to, but going alone sounds kind of boring,”

“same, i’ve been wanting to get tickets but i’d rather not have to get back alone at night, you know?” you hum, mirroring his shrug as the elevator you’d both been waiting for arrives.

“i mean,” suna starts as the two of you step inside, hesitating for a moment and scrunching his eyebrows together, “we could go together then? i mean we bump into each other all over campus enough that seeing each other at a concert seems pretty normal,”

“damn take me out to dinner first or something,” you joke, cracking a smile as your hand hovers over the rows of elevator buttons, “but yea i’d be pretty down, what floor?”

“first floor please, but oh thank god, i was panicking for a minute  thinking that asking you was fucking weird,” he sigh, “i’m suna rintarou by the way,”

“we see each other so many times a day, so in a way it’s like we’re not total strangers and don’t even stress, i’d probably have asked if you didn’t beat me too it,” you smile reassuringly, “and i’m l/n y/n!”

“nice to finally put a name to the person i’m haunted by,” suna grins, shrugging when you shoot him an unimpressed look. 

“i think you mean blessed, actually,” you roll your eyes as the two of you step out of the elevator when the doors open to the first floor, “anyways, are you headed to the dining hall?”

“yup,” suna nods pumping his fist unenthusiastically, “i’m starving for some mediocre slightly inedible food,”

“same,” you lament, “want to eat together?”

suna smiles and nods, not wanting to let on how long he’s been waiting for an excuse to talk to you and get to know their little campus crush, “yeah i guess, if you really insist,”

“i’m not,” you reply dryly

“i’m kidding let’s go, i want to get to know you after having seen you around everywhere and not knowing anything about you” suna chuckles, feeling a strange giddiness forming in his chest as he glances down at you/

“fine, fine, because you want to get dinner with me so badly,” you sing, smiling as you walk towards the dining hall with suna by your side, “anyways, have you ever done that 21 questions thing to get to know someone?”