the first time you meet gojo, there’s a massive language barrier.
he’s in the uk on a mission, destroying a special grade outside of a popular nightclub. you’re obviously completely oblivious to his world, but when he catches your eye, you can’t leave him alone. it’s probably the alcohol giving you confidence, and he’s trying to slip away, but he can’t communicate with you at all.
“we…” his accent is thick, and after listening to you ramble on for the past ten minutes, he realises he understood so little of what you were saying. “should leave.”
gojo had intended to use the pronoun i, so was more confused when you smile, grab his arm and begin to pull him along. you intrigued and scared him, somehow pushing through his limitless - he thinks that perhaps you’re so oblivious, it simply doesn’t work on your being.
“i don’t usually do this,” you speak, still holding onto him. he’s so distracted by the fact your hand is touching his skin that he ignores the fact you’re actually leading him somewhere, past the nightclub and toward an apartment block. “you’re lucky i don’t live that far.”
“what…” he begins again, cursing himself for paying off his english tutor in school. “nani o shite imasu ka?”
you look up to him, a little confused, before realising that he has said very little this entire time. “wait, do you speak english?”
you’ve stopped walking, and he tries to process what you’ve said, but only understands the word english.
“we are japanese.” he speaks, and you laugh enthusiastically. he realises he’s said something wrong, but not what.
“mine?” you ask plainly, gesturing to the apartment building. he’s looks at the old brickwork, and sighs.
“mine.” he repeats back. “casa?”
you laugh again, much harder. “close enough.” you let go of his hand, turning to open the door. looking over your shoulder, he’s still there, looking bewildered.
“you coming?”
he thinks for a moment, before letting out his own laugh at the ridiculousness. “ok.”
the next morning, he leaves without saying a word, and goes straight to his old english tutor. you’re astounded when he shows up at your door again in 4 months time, this time, speaking fluently.
the first time you meet gojo, there’s a massive language barrier.
he’s in the uk on a mission, destroying a special grade outside of a popular nightclub. you’re obviously completely oblivious to his world, but when he catches your eye, you can’t leave him alone. it’s probably the alcohol giving you confidence, and he’s trying to slip away, but he can’t communicate with you at all.
“we…” his accent is thick, and after listening to you ramble on for the past ten minutes, he realises he understood so little of what you were saying. “should leave.”
gojo had intended to use the pronoun i, so was more confused when you smile, grab his arm and begin to pull him along. you intrigued and scared him, somehow pushing through his limitless - he thinks that perhaps you’re so oblivious, it simply doesn’t work on your being.
“i don’t usually do this,” you speak, still holding onto him. he’s so distracted by the fact your hand is touching his skin that he ignores the fact you’re actually leading him somewhere, past the nightclub and toward an apartment block. “you’re lucky i don’t live that far.”
“what…” he begins again, cursing himself for paying off his english tutor in school. “nani o shite imasu ka?”
you look up to him, a little confused, before realising that he has said very little this entire time. “wait, do you speak english?”
you’ve stopped walking, and he tries to process what you’ve said, but only understands the word english.
“we are japanese.” he speaks, and you laugh enthusiastically. he realises he’s said something wrong, but not what.
“mine?” you ask plainly, gesturing to the apartment building. he’s looks at the old brickwork, and sighs.
“mine.” he repeats back. “casa?”
you laugh again, much harder. “close enough.” you let go of his hand, turning to open the door. looking over your shoulder, he’s still there, looking bewildered.
“you coming?”
he thinks for a moment, before letting out his own laugh at the ridiculousness. “ok.”
the next morning, he leaves without saying a word, and goes straight to his old english tutor. you’re astounded when he shows up at your door again in 4 months time, this time, speaking fluently.
come fall, a town tucked away in a little nook of the world is prepared for a cluster of things. autumn festivals, a bountiful harvest from summer, and prepared for the coming winter.
but every fall brought a considerable gloom over the small town.
for just a few trips ahead of this town sat a withering estate, dark and quiet. it required weaving through tree lines and dense forest, praying not to get attacked by the wild animals just to reach it.
in this estate, a lone count spent his days. his hair white as his skin, eyes stark against the dark walls of his manor. he roamed, hemmed and hawed as he awaited his yearly gift from the village.
a girl of their choosing.
see, this man was no ordinary man. his magnificence astonished those unfortunate to see it, sure, but his teeth were fashioned into fangs and his hunger was for something underneath the skin.
centuries ago this town stood tall and bustling, filled with fat lords and their even fatter heads. it was a place of great renown, housing famous leaders and politicians as they made their way through the countryside. the town was headed for a bright future, if not for one mistake.
they were aware of this count and his strange estate on a hill, and knew of the evil that resided within him. vampire, they muttered behind their hands, whispering the cursed word as if he could hear them. count gojo was a man everyone knew of, and feared him even more.
townspeople rallied together with pitchforks and blazing stakes, preparing to kill this dark mark that tainted their village. what they weren’t prepared for, however, was to be met with somebody else, a woman who inhabited the estate.
killing her was easy, she didn’t put up a good fight against the angry mob, but what they didn’t realize was that this woman was the only thing keeping the count from unleashing his fury and wrath out on the wretched world.
the monster killed everyone who dared enter his residence and his kill beloved, had their heads before they could beg for mercy. but the cunning count waited, knowing how long his could drag his wrath if he truly wanted to.
which is why, every year, he demands a daughter from the village. old or young, rich or poor, he doesn’t care. he asks for one to be sent to the estate, and they’re never sent back. it’s been rumored that he fattens them up before he sucks them dry, but how could anybody be sure when nobody has come back alive to tell the tale?
and with the old men still bustling about, the hierarchy of this ancient town remained in place. it was seldom that a daughter of a wealthy family was chosen, and with so many orphan girls and lonely women roaming the outskirts, what need was there for such fine girls to be chosen?
so, this fateful year, you found yourself sacked and loaded onto the back of a dingy carriage. screaming and kicking didn’t work, nor did attempting to bite the horseman’s ear off. they bound you up and sent you off to the vampire's manor.
they quickly dumped you on the ground, the horses neighing as they quickly ran away, leaving you alone and heaving as you stared up at the cobblestone and moss, tears drying in your cheeks as you stumbled to your feet.
you knew that running away was futile. the iron gates had clamped behind you almost as instantly as you had been dumped on the yard, and so you knew you had no option but to brave through.
dried leaves crunched under your boots as you made your way through the empty gardens, dying flowers and twitching bushes making you even more weary of what you’d find inside.
trembling fingers grasped the mahogany doors as they swung to the side, peeking your head in just a smidge to see what was there.
darkness enveloped your sight, and if it weren’t for the few candelabras, you wouldn’t be able to see a thing. a winding staircase and marble floors were awaiting you, and curiosity got the best of your mind as you carefully entered.
the wind howled, and the doors slammed behind you as you jumped in surprise, looking everywhere to see where you were supposed to go.
a creak from somewhere and a scattered squeak of rats had you wincing, heart in your throat as you tried to appear as fearless and strong as possible. you waded through the ground floor a little more before you paused, swallowing thickly before your shaky voice escaped you.
“is anybody here?”
a silence followed, settling deep in your bones as you could feel your pulse in your veins. you cleared your throat, backing up against a wall illuminated by the candlelight.
“i’m the daughter,” you call out again, “or sacrifice. i’m not sure what it is-”
a sudden gust of air fluttered around you, and you pressed yourself harder against the wall, eyes wide with trepidation as you heard a deep set of patterned sounds, almost like deep breaths, from somewhere deep in the manor.
“sir?” you craned your neck to see past where the candlelight dimmed out, trying to see if the man everyone dared not speak of was near, “is that you?”
a deep sound, akin to mock laughter, unexpectedly vibrated through the floor, making your teeth chatter and hand curl against your chest.
“sir?” a deep voice abruptly answers back, and you feel the hair on your neck stand up.
you swallow again, your lips trembling slightly.
“i take night and steal the breath of those who enter my home,” the count continues, his voice growing strangely nearer with each bated breath you take and each syllable he announces, “towering men who have seen my face cower and cry. my teeth can prick at your skin and draw blood away from your heart. many liken me to death itself. and yet,” he pauses and you feel your brows furrow, trying to figure out where he was, “you call me sir,”
your eyes dart to the side.
moving soundlessly, he had been able to push he way near to you without you knowing. standing tall, the count stood near you, just where the light illuminated his face, making you slightly jump and your breathing hitch.
beautiful would do him an injustice, and terrifying would do him a disservice. for every tale you had heard of him didn’t stress his eyes nor his lips as well as they should have, the angle of his jaw and the slope of his nose. the stories failed to mention how his stare managed to pierce through yours and make your paralyzed with fear, but there was no time reflect on bed time tales when the real creature was standing mere feet away from you.
the two of you stared for a brief moment, your breathing bated as you baked away slightly.
his eyes raked over your face, flickering from your parted lips and your wavering eyes. his lashes fluttered as he looked down to the column of your neck, your heaving chest, and your shaking hands. lastly, he noted your tattered dresses lined with mud and dirt, clicking his tongue in disappointment at having received yet another peasant girl.
they so rarely had sweet blood.
he hummed thoughtfully, drawing nearer to you as his delicate and swift fingers roamed the air around your face.
“am i still your sir?” he murmured, tilting his beautiful head slightly to the side as locks of white hair moved with his movements as if they were strands of silk.
you blinked, lips pursing in slight confusion and apprehension.
“i…i think so,” you whisper, not knowing how to answer his strange question, “you haven’t done anything to be undeserving of it.”
his white brows flicker momentarily, his eyes turning sharp and a deep blue as you wring your hands together uncontrollably.
“you are aware of me?” he takes a step closer.
“yes.” you answer and gojo nods.
“you know why you are here, then?”
your chin dips and he can see the remnants of past tear stains on your soft cheeks, and you nod again.
he pauses.
“am i still your sir?” he repeats his initial question, and you glance up at him, your eyes glossy and your nose wrinkled. he thinks that he somewhat enjoys your appearance.
“i find often that men most undeserving of being called sir are those who demand it,” you say after a beat, choosing your words carefully, “and...and you have not yet demanded it of me.”
the vampire stands towering over you, the moonlight wading through the tall windows as he peers down at your figure. something in his face shifts, twitching, as if not knowing what to do.
he stares at you for a little longer. slightly shaking but your chin angled up and at him, challenging him in a way that he hadn't seen in nearly four hundred years.
gojo’s jaw ticks before another gust of air envelops you, the twigs and leaves on the ground that had been pushed in through the cracks of the foundation twirling around you as you shield your face, stumbling away as you squint through your arm, your head tilting up to find yourself alone.
this must be his way of toying with his food, you think morbidly, testing to see what they must taste like.
how else would you know that this was quite unusual for the count? that the vampire never let anyone live through the first night, much less find a room to sleep in, as if this were your home?
but those stories you were told as a child never had endings, and this one was just beginning.
levi ackerman x f!reader - ghost au - mentions of death/afterlife
For days, you spend every possible moment in your bedroom. Going to work and running home feels trivial when faced with a possible entity living in your house.
For hours, you keep your headphones cemented to your head. Not every voice that comes through is his, but Levi is the most consistent. He's not sure when he died. Everything is a blur. He hasn't always haunted this house.
You ask if he can see you.
At first, he doesn't answer. Acts aloof. Changes the subject.
So you ask again.
Your nightstand lamp flickers. The air by your shoulder chills.
"Yes."
for @thedrabblecollective's 2026 may challenge | three / five. ( masterlist )
If I was in a fanfiction and started coughing up flowers while working at a flower shop (because this is a flower shop au) I would NOT connect my crush on the tattoo artist next door to the flower cough situation. I would freak the fuck out and think the pollen at work was doing some Last of Us shit to me, quit my job and move FAR away. inadvertently my flame for the tattoo artist would fade with distance, solving my hanahaki situation and proving my 'the flowers were trying to turn me into a plant zombie' theory
the it guy at your work that is solely remote. the way he types to you is oddly... tender for business. messages like. "I knew you were a clever one." "See? You didn't need my help." "I'm starting to think you're breaking things just to message me."
it gets too the point where you have to call him and your hands are sweating at the thought of hearing this guy's voice and not being attracted to it--
"he's an it guy. he's not going to be hot," your friend chastises you. "He probably has a stutter or something. Or, I dunno. Just dorky."
Stutters and dorkiness can be attractive, you think bitterly as you pick up the phone
"Hey," you clear your throat. "This is, uh. I'm calling with an automation issue?"
"Never thought I'd be happy to get a call about something breaking," A chill runs across your skin. His voice is smooth and round, deep, yet crisp. There's a hint of an accent -something South American, maybe. You aren't sure- that hangs lightly on his words. "And yet, here I am. It's nice to finally hear your voice for myself."
He chuckles into the receiver. It's a bad habit you two have gotten into, sitting on the phone together when the work is slow, so you keep your voice down as you talk.
"Snooping through the employee picture files, I see." he notes. "There's no social media for you to find either, but I'm sure you already knew that."
You flush. He's right, of course. It's the first place you looked. There's no trace of the man online, no photos of him to scrounge up. Truly faceless.
"I'm just curious. We talk every day and I have no idea what you look like."
"I prefer to stay formless. Merely a ghost in the shell of your laptop."
You laugh so hard that you snort. "Is that an anime reference?"
"I--" He's never stammered before- a break in his usually polished veneer. "I didn't think you'd pick up on that."
tw: levi's mum is dying so, be warned for a little angst
"beneath it all, I think she just worries about me, about what I’ll do when she...”
You shift uncomfortably in your seat; your arm draped loosely across your stomach. Levi sits opposite you, his expression as narrow as it always is, pout causing his lip to curl downward ever-so-slightly. His posture mirrors your own with his back slouched against the chair, bottom sinking down into the cushion. The old leather peels, wrinkles set into the skin.
“So,” You clear your throat, your fingers beginning to clutch at your jumper, that arm getting a little tighter as you subconsciously hug yourself. “Before we do this, we should go over some ground rules.” Swallowing, you adjust yourself in your seat, leaning forward, bringing your legs a little closer – but you only seem to end up in the same position you began in.
“Only fair.” His tea only fills half of the mug, the bag sitting on the edge of the saucer beneath. There’s a small pool of liquid sitting under the cup that dribbled from the bag – you know it bothers him. Levi notices your eyes lingering over the beverage. He doesn’t comment on it.
“What about affection?” You push the question through your teeth, mentally cringing as you watch his eyes narrow.
“What about it?” His tone is colder than before, but the fact he’s willing to entertain you can only mean he’s willing to discuss this further.
“Well, we aren’t gonna sell this if we’re sat ten feet apart.”
It’s Levi’s turn to uncomfortably writhe within the sofa cushion, his hands clenching into fists.
“Well, no shit.” The hard exterior deflects any source of self-doubt and judgment. “You’ll have to stay close, wrap your arm in mine, just...” He swallows. “Make it look natural.”
“Right, natural.” This was anything but.
“My mother - she’s weak, but she’s not stupid. I don’t think she believed me when I told her I was seeing someone – she’s likely going to catch on if we slip up.”
You scoff. “So, no pressure.”
“No pressure.” Levi nods slightly, black hairs of his fringe rousing as he combs a clammy hand through the side of his undercut.
“What’s she like, your mum?” You’re hesitant to ask – I mean, who’d ask about a friend’s dying mother? You almost retract the question when he looks to you in silence, though as you begin to part your lips, he’s clearing his throat.
“Strong. Kind. But, beneath it all, I think she just worries about me, about what I’ll do when she...” He trails off, and once again any eye contact has been released. Levi looks down to the now cold cup on the edge of the coffee table, and wonders why he’d felt unable to drink the tea he’d paid for. Why did he feel so ill?
“I’ll try my best, Levi.” Your words of reassurance do penetrate his skin, though he’s unsure if he’s able to feel your warmth. You don’t speak for a few minutes, instead allowing the ambient drone of the espresso machine and chimes of mugs and saucers fill the air between you. It wasn’t nice, but it was calm, and that you were grateful for.
“Can I just ask one thing?” Your voice is almost lost in the sound of laughter from the table beside you.
“Sure.” Levi’s gaze meets yours once more.
“Why me? Out of everyone you could’ve asked, why did you ask me?”
Levi’s responses haven’t been the fastest, evidence to his current decline in mental ability. His mother’s condition has been a burning concern at the back of his mind for so long, but with a quick decline and terminal diagnosis, that burning has become an outright fire. His mind is unable to think about anything other than his mum, the most consistent person in his life, and how great a loss he will feel. It feels morbid, how he’s grieving her before she’s even dead, how he feels as though he just wants to get it over with.
“I trust you.” Levi triumphs against the inner turmoil and forces the words through his mouth. His filter lacks more than ever at the moment and that brutal honesty has upset most of his friends, even causing irreversible damage with a few. But you, you’re patient with him. He should definitely apologise to you regarding his actions over the past month – he's harsher and much less patient. But he knows that you’ll wait for him to be ready, you’ll be there at the finish line. That’s something he cannot fault.
“Thank you, for this.” He speaks again, and although he feels the weight of the world upon his shoulders, you’re able to help lighten that load.
You didn't smoke, couldn't stand the taste no matter how hard you tried. House parties, peer pressure, even stress, none of that would force you to take a cigarette between your lips - until recently.
You were strapped for cash and applying for nigh on a hundred jobs when you were offered an interview in a coffee shop - some family owned brand you'd never heard of. You didn't think all too much of the place when inside either; a couple of run down employees, a cramped workspace and too many customers, but when you're offered a job, you take it.
Most of the staff members end up being decent, but for some God forsaken reason, your favourite ends up being the biggest piece of shit in the joint. Sukuna, the laziest, most ungrateful guy you know for some reason holds the most charm. His shitty jokes, quick remarks and lack of patience has some how completely encapsulated you.
And now, you stand behind the dumpster with a filter to your lips, and a light at the end of that cigarette. Sukuna's light, if you were being specific, and your heart is ever racing when you reel over those words. Sukuna's lighting you up. Just the two of you.
"-she can kiss my ass if she thinks I'm doing overtime." You miss the first part of the sentence, entranced by the glowing ember at the end of Sukuna's painted nails, but catch the latter half.
"If it's not contracted, you don't hav'ta." You shrug, puffing out that first cloud of smoke. You lean against the brick, unfortunately aware of the time limit you have back here. With just Choso behind the counter, you're pushing your luck taking a break with the only other member of staff in the building.
Sukuna doesn't reply, he just watches you through his half lidded eyes, his own cigarette between his teeth. He thinks to himself, a little too long, mulling over the few breaks you've shared together since you'd started, when was it, four months ago?
"When did you start smoking, anyway?" He asks, eyebrow furrowed. You suppress the smile building up behind your straight lip as you shrug once again, another puff.
"Dunno, why?" That's always the best way with Sukuna, to meet his question with another. He doesn't like to show he cares, so he'll likely grow silent.
The breaks are always too short, but they're worth the taste of tobacco.
cw: aizawa x reader, cisfem reader, office AU, no quirks. Mentions of drug use
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You kick yourself for leaving your room a mess. Your fluffy pajamas are strewn across the blue sheets of the bed, your makeup bag is scattered across the bathroom sink. The sheets are fluffed up from when you threw your luggage on them and the remote is nestled in your pillow-
But Aizawa doesn’t notice.
He’s too busy kissing you like he can’t get close enough. On the greediest of movements, his teeth click against yours and he whimpers into the plush of your tongue, desperately pushing into you. His body follows suit, cornering you against the backside of the door, crowding you until your heart rate spikes-
Then his lips travel down, down, to the curve of your neck, the spot that makes your knees buckle a bit with his tongue drags across the skin. He must feel it too, because he does it again. Snd again. The sensation rips through your body the way fire rips through oil and you fear that you may combust before the fun’s even begun.
“Ah-hh-a-” Your body punches out without your permission. He growls in return and sucks at the same spot again- “Jesus, Shouta-”
“Say it again-” Aizawa demands.” Say my name again.”
And you do.
This time, he sucks you skin into his mouth until you whine for him to stop. He does and you can feel the blossoming pain of a bruise in his wake, throbbing for less and more concurrently.
You can feel how hard he is against you. It presses through the thick cloth of his pants, right into your lower stomach. It's thick. It's hard. He wants you-- unbelievably so. It takes every firing synapse in your skull to reach down and paw at his cock, to feel it beneath your fingertips.
Heated desire flows through you, thrums, hot and totally overwhelming in every way. You barely notice how you’re sinking, down the smooth plane of the door, down until your knees hit the floor. He follows you the whole time, hunching over you as to not break the contact for even a moment. Tickles of hair and breath and simply him touch your cheeks. Somehow you end up supine, Aizawa slotted between your legs, carpet catching against your hair as he sinks lower, lower-
“We shouldn’t do this.” he whispers and you kiss him deeper, because no, you shouldn’t, but there’s something inside you that needs this, needs him. You press into his shoulder and off of the ground, flipping both of you around so he’s splayed on the floor. Gravity grinds you down against him and he groans - pained, wanted-
“We shouldn’t do this.” He’s firm this time, even with those dark, wet eyes that seem to be begging for it- “You’ve been-”
“I thought you wanted me.” You grip his shirt and you aren’t sure why. You aren’t going to disobey his wishes, but you wish you could, just to derive some pleasure from him, from tonight. “I thought we were past this hot and cold thing.”
“I do,” he says. “I am.”
Gently, he places a hand on your thigh. The cuts on your feet thrum in the silence, the pain sharp and demanding, just like the ache in your chest.
“But, not like this. You’ve been crying, drinking…”
Your grip loosens.
“Do…do you even want this?” he asks.
Do you? You let him sit up and you fall away and try to process it all. This whole drama between the two of you has you upside down; the fighting, the truce, the spark that's just lit between you- it all came together tonight. He waited for you, he was here-
You want everything that Aizawa could be to you- but do you want him?
You barely know who he is. Even after all these years, Aizawa Shouta is basically a mystery to you. You don't know his favorite color or food or anything-- hell, you didn't know he owned cats until today! The emotional high you’ve been riding starts to waiver. You don’t think you’d regret sleeping with him, but…
“I don't know,” you say, carefully, because you don't. Not really. You know you need someone new, but you aren’t sure if that’s Aizawa.
Aizawa nods, solemn, swallowing the news. He takes it better than you thought he would; he seems thankful to have a chance more than anything.
“I don’t want you to almost want this.” He adjusts himself awkwardly, pants still tight at the front. It’s funny- you don’t even think you’ve seen a man use both heads at once. You don’t laugh, though, or even smirk; not while Aizawa looks so utterly defeated. “I want to be more than that.”
The two of you untangle from each other, you fixing your shirt, him fixing his pants. His hair is disheveled, wild from your touch and the carpet, and his lips are freshly kissed red. The hotel clock changes to the top of the hour, blinking its deep red pattern as you both sit there, silent. You find spaces against the door, side by side. Occasionally you can hear the elevator ding in the distance of the hall.
Fucking would be easier than this. Sex doesn’t need pretext or explanation, it just is what it is. You could just do it and move on, let tomorrow’s problems stay unaddressed, but instead you have to percolate it your emotions, decide exactly how you feel-
“It’s not that I don’t not like you.” You interrupt your own thoughts. “I do, I think. Like you.”
You shrug, still avoiding his gaze even as your shoulders slim each other. “At least, you make me do some stupid shit that no one else makes me do, other than--”
You don't want to talk about Touya. Luckily, he seems to understand. Aizawa just nods back to you, eyes lowered, expression tight.
“You also make me do some things that I regret,” He speaks so carefully.
“Like firing Denki?” You try to joke. “And moving the coffee machine?”
“I only fired Denki because he was abusing your good will and pushing his work off on to you.” Aizawa shifts a bit again with a sigh. “I don’t regret that. I do regret making you so upset over it all.”
You guffaw. “You knew I did his work?” You thought you had been secretive about it!
“Of course I did.” He shifts to turn your way, face so close to yours you can feel his breath against your cheek. You watch from the corner of your vision and try not to let that fluttering in your stomach take over. “No one else double staples like you do.”
You throw your hands up in frustration at the thought. “I never get the angle right the first time!”
And he smiles back at you with only his eyes, soft and sweet.
“I know.”
Since when did he start looking at you like that? And since when did you start to like it?
Did Touya ever look at you like that? Maybe a long, long time ago, before the pills and heroin, back when you were both human and young. The attention is so sweet that it aches to bare, and yet you still do, maybe even smiling back.
You try not to shatter the moment. “You really do like me, don’t you?”
He nods.
“Then why were you always so-?”
Aizawa opens his mouth, then closes it, Then, he does it again, seemingly finding no answer. His bad leg curls up to his chest and he loops an arm under his thigh to hold it in place. Silver peeks out from under the cuff, but he doesn’t seem to notice. The shape is very calf like, but utilitarian- no real design other than smooth curves. You try not to stare, especially when he speaks up again.
“I don’t know.” Shouta pulls himself tighter. “It’s like I’m still some stupid twenty year old when I’m around you.”
You remember the feeling of being twenty: the turbulence, the love, the fear. You think about your ink stained hands, the ones so desperate to hold and be held. Ones so young and yet so, so wounded. Against your better judgment, you reach out with those hands and grab Shouta’s free hand, giving it the lightest of squeezes.
“I feel that way too.”
And, when he squeezes back, you think, just for a moment, that maybe you do want this.
The time he’s granting you is so appreciated and you almost want to try and fuck him again-
“Where do we go from here?” Aizawa asks.
“I think I’d like to try… whatever this is,” you say. A thrill and a fear thrills inside you. Something new, something unknown. The mystery of it all is terrifying.
“It’ll be a lot of paperwork though.” Aizawa, of course, brings you back to reality. That’s right, as coworker’s, it’s probably not the most smiled upon thing to date-- especially since Aizawa is so high up in the company. Bakugo and Izuku are together, but they had to disclose that fact before they were even hired.
God, you’ll have to tell Yagi that you’re seeing Aizawa, won’t you? You can’t decide if he’ll be proud or alarmed.
“We don’t have to jump right into dating,” you say, quickly. “We can just.. Go on dates.”
Aizawa’s scowl makes a return. “That’s dating.”
“No, it’s going on a date.” You stay firm. “Very different. Much less commitment. Nothing to tell the company about. Or Hizashi.”
“Hizashi can never know.” Aizawa groans. His hands fly to his head in mock pain. “He’d be insufferable about it.”
“The whole town would know if we told Hizashi!”
A giggle escapes you, then Aizawa follows suit. His laugh is crackling, low, rumbling, but it makes your hands vibrate with something you don’t recognize. Before you can stop it, you laugh harder too, then he follows, until you’re both nothing but laughter and tears, crumbling over almost nothing at all. Your head rolls onto his shoulder so you can feel how he bounces with joy, and it only fuels you more. It takes a full minute to pull yourself together again, core aching from the exertion.
“Okay,” There’s still a hint of levity to his voice. “Let’s move slow then. Figure out what you want on your own time.”
“Okay,” you say.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
The fact that you’re so intertwined with him sets in. Your head is on his shoulder, leg popped over his, hands clasped so tightly you think you might never let go. It’s juvenile, like two kids behind the bleachers, savoring the moments before they get caught. You… like it. Dopamine receptors that haven’t been tickled in years are alight in your brain, giving you this tickling, quantifiable satisfaction.
You stay there until the carpet burns your ass.
“Do you want to sit on the bed?” you say, peeling yourself from him and rising to your feet. Exhaustion is already aching under your eyes and in your joints. “It’ll be comfier.”
“I shouldn't stay too long.” He's already standing and walking towards the bed. “I have to present in the morning.”
You quickly throw your mess to the slide and then slide on top of the sheets. Aizawa follows, stiffly flopping beside you. His bad leg kicks out a bit when he falls and you can’t help but wince at the thought. Another mystery about him that you haven’t been about to uncover: his leg is his business, but you can’t help but be curious, especially since it’s related to his speech tomorrow. Tensei or Hizashi could probably tell you, but that seems like a violation of Shouta’s privacy.
“I need to sleep,” he says, drifting along to your silent siren’s song. He’s already slotting himself against you. “It’ll only be for a couple minutes.”
“Okay,” you say.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
For a while in comfortable silence, you listen to the way he breathes; its rhythmic, tempo only hitching when you move at all-- especially when you drape an arm across his chest. His eyes are bloodshot from work and the late hour, but you almost like how it looks, how the red deepens the brown until it’s past inky, almost bottomless.
Aizawa suddenly sighs, expression downturned.
“Can I say something?”
You nod.
“I don’t want you to watch the presentation tomorrow.”
“Oh.” You clear your throat to buy time. How are you supposed to react to that? You want to lash out with anger - after tonight, he turns you away? Again?- but you try to swallow that down. Jumping to conclusions hasn’t helped either of you. “Did I do something?”
“No.” He’s quick to correct. “My leg will be on display and--”
Aizawa sucks in his peach slice lips. “It’s different when it’s strangers looking at me with a scientific eye. You-- you’re different.”
Oh.
“You feel vulnerable,” you guess.
“Perhaps,” he all but confirms. Now, he won’t meet your eye, his gaze stuck to the ceiling. You try and find where he’s looking, try to pick one dot out in the uneven ceiling that makes sense, like you’re watching stars instead of plaster.
But there isn’t anywhere to look.
Maybe you’ll never see things completely from his perspective or see what he sees. Maybe that’s okay, as long as you’re here to listen. Your hand finds his once again, just as his started looking for yours.
“How did it-?” you try.
“Car accident.” Aizawa cuts you off. “Head on collision with a drunk driver. I was twenty.”
So young. You wince as you remember your fight for the front of the car that morning; he probably does need it, both for his leg and his mental well being. You try to imagine him, twenty, unscarred, no little crescent scar on his cheek and no hitch in his gate-
“That must have been so scary.”
He hums an affirmative. “Not as scary as the recovery.”
You squeeze his hand in yours, as tight as you can muster. “I’m so sorry.”
“Me too.”
You almost talk about Touya, how your twentieth was hard in a different way, but the words don’t come. As close as you two have allowed yourselves to become, there’s still a wall between you-- double sided. Behind yours is years of loving a man who is set on destroying himself, loving someone that’s forgotten how to love you back-
Behind his, his own traumas.
“I’ll hang out with Hizashi tomorrow,” you say after a very long time. “We’ll go slow.”
“Thank you.”
His nose presses into your cheek, followed by the plush of lips. When it draws a giggle from you, he does it again, slighting closer to your lips. His hands are trying to loop around you, under you, through the warmth of blanket to grab handfuls of your waist and thigh. When he squeezes, he laughs too, something low and grumbling that gets caught in his throat. If he weren’t about to kiss you, you probably wouldn’t have caught it.
“You said we should move slow,” you curl your arms around his neck and drag your body closer, until you’re pressed right against him-
“I think-” He presses his lips to your temple. “A kiss-” He does the same to the other. “-or two-” There’s a pause before he hits your lips. “Is alright.”
You oblige.
You never imagined being here, with him, would be so incredibly gentle. Not that you ever thought you’d be here, having a slow, meticulous kiss with Aizawa Shouta. He just seems so rough, so uncaring from a distance; who could have guessed he had such a capacity for the saccharine? Who could have guessed that he’d hold you like he needs you, that he’d suck on your lip like he’d die without you?
It slowly devolves. The heat between you burns brighter and brighter, a rolling core of embers right under the surface, but you start to drift. Maybe it’s the expensive bed and perfect pillows, maybe it’s the comfort of being held, but sleep starts to creep into your mind. He must feel it too; the pauses between yet peck grow longer and longer, each drag of skin against skin getting lighter, more fleeting-
The bed creaks as he rolls over.
“Shouta?” you ask, unable to open your eyes. “Are you really okay with me not knowing what I want from this?”
There’s a pause. He shifts back to you, hand on your waist.
“Don’t sleep in your contacts.” Shouta mumbles into your temple, on the precipice of sleep himself. “You’ll be mad in the morning.”
You hum his worries away.
---
He’s gone in the morning. You awake to creased sheets, the peep of sunlight creeping through your blinds, and sticky, blurry eyes. He was right- you do regret sleeping in your contacts, but that doesn’t kill the butterflies that have hatched inside you, flitting about in sheer excitement. You (kind of) (sort of) (not really) have a boyfriend. At least, someone in the shape of a boyfriend, who holds you all night and kisses you deep and makes your pussy-
You shake that off.
As you prepare for the day - brushing your teeth, washing your face, stripping off your dirty clothes and replacing them with a fresh pair of undies- you keep thinking back to him, him, him. Aizawa’s right- you feel twenty again. Maybe even better. You have no qualms about walking around naked post shower, breasts out and pearled in the thrull of the AC.
You’re standing in the middle of the room, watching the news and googling ‘coffee near me’ when you hear the door. It beeps, then creeps open, Aizawa ducking back in. Gone is the outfit from yesterday, replaced with a nice top and… sweatpants. He’s also freshly bathed, raven hair barely damp against his shirt. His usually hooded eyes pop wide and he freezes when he sees you standing there, only your panties to save your decency.
“Hi!” you say, more surprised than anything else.
“Hi,” he says back, just as awkwardly. He’s trying not to stare at you; you quickly scurry back under the covers to hide yourself, shoving handfuls of sheets over your tits.
“You look-- I didn’t think you’d be awake--- I brought breakfast,” he tries, holding a brown bag up for you in one hand and a cup in the other. “And a latte. Nice-- glasses.”
You look at him. Really, really look at him. Breakfast in bed? You didn’t even fuck him. Why would he--?
“Really?” you try not to sound skeptical.
He hums a yes. “I borrowed your key, hope that’s okay.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s-” You’re less concerned about that than breakfast. After not having a real dinner, you’re starving; he must have been too. Taking the bag, you quickly look inside. It’s a little bagel sandwich, wrapped in tin foil and a heavenly smell. “You really brought me food?”
“Stop asking me that and take this.” He places the drink on the nightstand. “It all seemed like things you would like.”
You aren’t sure if you’re hungry or if the sandwich really is good. All you know is that you unpeel it from its wrapping and take a less than demure bite, followed very quickly by a second. Your eyes actually flutter back into your skull for a moment; fuck-- that’s a good fucking breakfast. The coffee smells fantastic too. All of this while sitting in high thread count sheets? You might be in heaven.
“Don’t look at my breasts if they fall out,” you mumble through your food.
“I will be looking,” he says, completely serious. “Maybe even praying.”
With your free hand, you scooch the comforter down, exposing your tits to the cool hotel air. His expression grows hard and you glimmer under the attention. It’s new enough that it still feels elicit, dangerous, wrong, to be topless in front of the man.
“There is a God.” Aizawa sits on the edge of the bed. His eyes never leave your body. “Remind me to bring you breakfast in bed again some day.”
He leans on to his palms to duck over you, catching your cheek in a rather sloppy kiss.
“You aren’t going to eat with me?” you ask.
"I'd rather spend the morning eating you.” His flirtation merely has you choking on your spit. “But we agreed to go slow.”
He dots your other cheek with a kiss again. It’s funny how soft he has become in such a short time. Has this always been there, hiding under that stupid yellow sweatshirt? Or have you broken through him this weekend?
Then, you process what he said. Fuck, that sounds-- you’re still a little wet from last night, riding the high of being touched. It would only take a couple licks for you to-
“Don’t look at me like that.” Shouta shuts down your train of thought. “I really should be going to prepare.”
That’s right- there’s only a little time before he presents.
“Hm, okay. Another morning, then.” You take another bite. “Good luck with your speech. I won't be watching.”
You’re still a bit conflicted about not going, but you respect his choice. The accident seems to be a huge scar on his past; if he isn’t ready to debride it, you can’t force him. Besides, you haven’t discussed Touya with him-- that’s probably an equally big trauma in your life.
Especially because you may still be in love with Touya.
geto's transport to his afternoon hearing at the courthouse is in the company of two armed guards.
at first glance, two guards might seem excessive—especially considering how docile and compliant geto appears, waiting patiently just inside the gate of the prison until they get clearance to depart. his hands are shackled in front of him, his fingers interlocked, and he doesn't fidget or struggle with the cuffs. he's dressed properly in his drab grey prison-issue uniform, neat and tidy, his hair tied back into a bun at his crown. but considering the extensive, violent rap sheet formally attached to geto's name—which is to say nothing of the innumerable crimes for which he's never been charged—it could be argued that two men is almost laughably insufficient.
regardless, the three of them stand there in the afternoon air, waiting until the looming, barb-lined metal gate grinds open with an unpleasant, ugly sound. he politely thanks the gate attendant seeing them off before slipping into he backseat of the car that's been sent for him, and then the door shuts behind him with a dull, unremarkable thud.
it's a nicer car than any other inmate would be escorted to a routine hearing in. there are two rows of seats that face each other in the back of the black SUV, upholstered in a buttery soft leather, buffed to a shine. it's transportation more private than any other inmate would be granted the privilege of, too—both of the officers accompanying him sit in the front seat of the car, a violation of almost a dozen prison protocols, and there's a privacy screen rolled up between the front seat and the back which almost gives suguru the impression of being all alone.
or it would, if not for the fact that you're seated across from him on the opposite row of seats, your arms crossed over your chest and a sweet little frown pulling at the corner of your lips.
suguru can't help but smile when he sees you—a soft, fond expression.
you don't return it.
it seems that the gifts he's been sending you still haven't helped ease the sting of your anger. the material comforts have done nothing to extinguish the licking flames of your contempt. you're evidently still cross with him and putting up your little fight, but suguru just can't help but find it amusing when you get like this. he simply can't help but want to indulge his precious wife's petulance, to push you a little further. he likes it when you're fussy, because the truth is: it only makes the moment your resolve to be angry with him breaks that much more divine.
"have you been well, sweetheart?" he asks, his tone honeyed and gentle, his every word brimming with affection.
you turn away from him without a reply, your eyes peering through the tinted window to your right as the city streets slip by beyond the pane. his hands are still cuffed in front of him, but he flexes and unflexes his fingers as he resists the urge to reach out and touch you now that you're so close. you really wouldn't like that, he knows. you'd kick and scream and throw a fit if he let his fingertips graze that little strip of skin below the hem of your skirt that he likes so much.
it wouldn't do any good, of course. the guards up front—his own men who he'd had stationed inside the prison before he was 'apprehended'—wouldn't so much as swerve upon hearing your protesting cries. but suguru takes no pleasure in doing things that upset you. he finds no satisfaction in doing things you don't like—things you really don't like, anyway. so he keeps his hands to himself for now, content with just watching you stare sullenly through the darkened glass.
he smothers the smile he feels threatening to pull at his lips.
"you look well," he continues, since you've made no move to acknowledge his words. you're still wearing your wedding ring, so suguru knows you're not really as mad at him as you'd like him to believe. "it's a relief. i've been missing you terribly, you know."
you finally look at him, then—fixing him in a sharp, resentful glare. it makes him bristle with a twisted exhilaration. a feeling of anticipation swirling in his gut.
"you wouldn't need to miss me if you hadn't gone and gotten yourself locked up," your tone is just as pointed as your frigid gaze, but there's the slightest lilt of a whine in your voice that gives suguru hope.
"i know, i know," he coos, his head tilting. a tendril of his dark hair falls into his eyes. "i'm sorry, sweetheart. but i've already told you i'll be home before you know it. have i ever lied to you before?"
as much as you might wish you could say differently, even you know he's right. your husband doesn't say things he doesn't mean. he doesn't make promises he can't keep. for all his many crimes and shortcomings, geto suguru is not a liar—at least not to you.
your lips purse in a pout, your arms unfurling from their defensive position across your chest to rest with your hands primly in your lap. suguru takes this as another positive sign. considers this another inch gained in the direction of your forgiveness. of your surrender.
"have they been treating you well?" you ask him, a little quieter than before.
"yes, yes," suguru waves the question off dismissively. it's true—his treatment in the prison is leagues better than any other inmate. he'd been careful to see to it himself. his cell is more comfortable than any other room in the facility, he has everything he needs, and he has access to communication to the outside whenever he wants it. in effect, he's a prisoner in name only—there's not a guard or staff member in the building who isn't yielding to him.
you suck in a little breath, nodding a bit to yourself—the action is more unconscious than anything, he'd wager, but it's telling in that you feel reassured by what he's said.
"these cuffs are awfully tight," suguru says with a sigh, jingling the metal that circles his wrists demonstrably. he watches your gaze flicker to the shackles binding his hands, a conflict playing out across your pretty face. you peek up at him reticently, and the shy glance nearly makes him throb. "if i'm not mistaken, you have a key for these, don't you?"
of course you do. he made these plans himself.
you purse your lips, feigning distraction by looking out the window once more—but suguru knows you. he knows what's unfolding behind that guarded expression of yours. he revels in it.
"i'm mad at you," you say after a moment. glancing at him again.
"i know," suguru replies.
"it's so... quiet at home," you murmur, your gaze suddenly downcast and your tone markedly more meek.
suguru shifts in his seat, clearing his throat quietly. that tantalizing strip of skin above your knee is driving him insane.
"i'll be home soon," he reassures you, "it's only a matter of time now."
suguru watches how you bite down on the inside of your cheek, a physical manifestation of how you mull over what he's said. you meet his gaze again.
"you'll have to make it up to me," you tell him.
"i will," he answers immediately. "as many times as you'd like me to. over and over."
a faint jingling catches suguru's attention, and his eyes flicker down to your hands. in your lap, a shiny silver key dangles from a key ring looped around your ring finger—just above the diamond he put there, too.
he searches your gaze again, but finds something different behind your eyes than he did a moment prior. something headier. something more charged.
on the other side of the vehicle, you uncross your legs in your seat—your knees parting ever so slightly before him as a result. distantly, suguru registers how you wrap your fingers tight around the key, hiding it against your palm.
theres a long, exquisite moment of quiet, and your husband just can't help but grin.
his cuffs jostle as he leans towards you, the metal clinking as he pitches forward. you tilt back in your own seat, almost unconsciously, and to suguru's utmost delight your thighs part even further thanks to the futile retreat.
his voice is nearly breathless when he speaks again, low and smooth and undeniably dangerous.
welcome welcome! please do come in, that's it, sit down. we have your fave baristas here to take your order; choso, gojo, yuta, or, is there someone else?
with the beauty of autumn upon us, i am releasing a few different barista/coffee shop fics and drabbles. these will be a mixture of sfw and nsfw (tagged s), so please, read with caution.
here are some of the upcoming pieces. feel free to request more.
choso kamo - hot chocolate (s)
summary - solo study dates in the campus coffee shop turn sweeter when choso's on shift.
It's a nice weight, you think. Blanketing and comfortable as he bears down on top of you. The weight makes sense; he's firm and sturdy and broad through his shoulders, tapering down into a trim waist that you can't think about for too long or it makes your head spin.
He's warm too.
There's a heat that seems to perpetually radiate from him, regardless of the climate, against all odds. It's just as soothing as his weight to seek out and leech from him—particularly when the two of you are out in the cold, inching closer to him on the sidewalk just to fight the frigid breeze or twining your fingers through his own to keep your fingertips from pricking with the chill. His hands are one of your favourite parts of him, usually.
But not at the present moment.
"Sukuna—" the warning is lost to his esurient mouth, mumbled into soft lips and swallowed down before it can elicit any actual response. Sukuna has you pinned down on the sofa, underneath his warmth and weight, and those hands you usually like so much are creeping dangerously up, up, up under the hem of your t-shirt—even in spite of your repeated insistence that this wasn't allowed to proceed any further.
His breath huffs against your slick lips, a laugh you think, and that familiar heat of his hands slithers back down towards your waist like it has every other time you've cautioned him.
"Stop bein' a tease," he mutters, slipping one hand underneath your back and pulling up so your spine arches and presses the two of you even closer together in that impossibly narrow space you occupy on the sofa.
Your breath hitches as your hips grind against his, and the look on Sukuna's face is deeply pleased by the sound. You huff a little. "I'm not teasing."
"Yeah fuckin' ri—"
"Yuuji's only down the hall," you don't even let him finish his snark, chastising him firmly.
"He's asleep," the man above you tries to reason, dipping down to nip at your pulse. Sukuna's nephew had only fallen asleep a short while prior, and as sweet a little boy as he may be, you were all too conscious of his bloodline—you didn't trust Yuuji to stay asleep any more than you trusted his beloved jichan to keep his hands off you, just because you said so.
Using the hand he still has tucked underneath the small of your back, Sukuna effortlessly tugs you up against him. Everything spins as you're righted, and before you know it you're straddling his lap on the sofa in his older brother's humble apartment, peering down the dimly lit hallway in the direction of Yuuji's bedroom. Sukuna mouths at your chest through the thin material of your shirt, sucking against the visible bud of your nipple. He'd weaselled you out of your bra soon after the two of you started fooling around—what had started off as a bit of innocent heavy petting—slipping it off and tossing it somewhere in the living room, and you've lost track of it now that things had kept spiralling out of your control.
You should have known this was how things were bound to turn out when Sukuna had asked if you'd accompany him to babysit his nephew that night. You had plans to see a movie, maybe grab dinner, and then almost assuredly end up bent over some piece of furniture in your/his/a hotel room by the end of the night. That's how things usually go with Sukuna. But then Itadori Jin had called his younger brother only a short while before the two of you were planning to meet, pleading with him to watch Yuuji for the night since he had to stay late at work.
When you first learned Sukuna had a nephew, more by accident than anything, it had surprised you. He didn't strike you as the type to get along with children when he barely gets along with other adults. Then you met Yuuji—even more by accident than simply finding out, happening to cross paths with them one afternoon—and it surprised you even more to see with your own two eyes just how deeply he cares for him. Upon first impression, Sukuna is rough and crass and unsympathetic—and while yes, those things might be true to some degree, the more you've come to learn about him, the more you've come to see other sides of him that you're not sure many (if any) other people have the chance to.
You spent your evening playing games and colouring with Yuuji while Sukuna prepared his dinner (which Jin had left in the fridge, but still, there was a certain level of preparation involved.) The three of you ate together at the kotatsu in the living room, and you laughed every time Sukuna barked at his nephew to stop trying to sneak his vegetables onto your plate. You watched Sukuna and Yuuji roughhouse before collapsing into a pile on the sofa to watch a movie, watched the six year old fall asleep on his uncle's arm, watched said uncle pluck him up (more delicately than you've ever seen Sukuna treat anything) and eventually take him to his room and tuck him into bed.
The Sukuna you thought you met six months ago would have never changed all his plans, with relatively little hesitation or complaint, to babysit a six year old, and he certainly would never have invited you along to accompany him—a bit awkwardly, endearingly clumsy—just so the two of you could still spend time together.
Sukuna pulls away from your chest, a little string of saliva stretching from his mouth to the wet stain he's suckled into the material of your top. He blinks up at you, eyes heavy lidded and gaze hot. You trace your fingers through his unkempt hair, brushing it back from his brow.
"What?" he asks, his tone guarded, as though he's suspicious of how gentle you've suddenly become. "Aren't you gonna tell me to—"
"Hey," you cut him off, your hands settling on his shoulders. He pauses, his lips still parted in speech though the words have stopped. "Kiss me?"
There's not a moment wasted before he cranes up, obeying your request without any hesitation. Maybe it's because he doesn't want to give you the chance to change your mind. Maybe it's because he can't say no to you. Maybe it's because he wants it just as bad as you do.
This time you don't stop Sukuna when his hands slip up your top. Don't stop him when he takes it off all together, either. He's not as talkative as he usually is, having grown used to the way he likes to mouth off when the two of you are intimate like this. He's as conscious as you are of his nephew sleeping only a few rooms away. He's careful with you, not unlike how like he was with Yuuji, in his own particular way.
You don't plan to stop him at all, anymore. Your resolve to deny him (and yourself) having melted under a strange warmth you feel kindling in your chest. You're happy to let him—the Sukuna you think you might be the only one who knows—have you.
Or, you would be, if not for the unexpected return of his older brother, who flicks on the light in the living room with absolutely no idea what he's about to expose.
Thankfully you've learned from experience that first impressions aren't so important after all.
you know that bit from gone girl when the girl who's gone is like "i'm so much happier now that i'm dead"? that's me w jjk canon. i stopped caring abt it years ago and have not once regretted that decision <3
Captain Levi had never planned to fall in love with you, the pregnant widow of a Survey Corps member.
Your husband wasn’t part of his squad, but he’d seen him fall, just seconds too late from being able to save him. He’d found a letter to you in his pocket and delivered it to you in person; it was the least he could do, he thought. You were gracious and thankful to have this last message from your sweetheart but Levi saw the depth of sadness in your eyes, and something else simmering just below the surface.
“I’m pregnant,” you confess. “Three months.”
“Do you have family to go back to?” he asked.
“I have no one.”
And that’s how Levi found himself visiting your house whenever he came into Trost. It was late fall, so the Corps was on hold from any expeditions, and after he picked up his usual cleaning supplies, he’d find himself picking up some things for you and bringing it by.
“There’s some tea there that is supposed to be good for morning sickness,” he says as he hands you a bag of groceries, “and some of my officer’s rations of red meat. I heard that’s good for a growing baby.”
“You’re too kind, Captain. You don’t have to do all this for me.”
You were right, he didn’t, but he couldn’t help worrying about you, a soon-to-be mother, raising a child on her own.
A month turned into two, then three, your belly growing rounder, your features becoming even softer. There was a glow about you he couldn’t describe, almost angelic.
His monthly visits had become weekly; you would cook him dinner and he’d stay until the fire in the hearth was embers, and your eyelids became heavy.
But this time, as he stood up to leave, you took his arm.
“Captain…could you stay? Just for tonight.”
He knows he shouldn’t. You’re still grieving and probably just lonely. But he can’t deny the pull you have on him. You’re beautiful and kind-hearted, witty and spirited. His thoughts drift toward you so naturally now, wondering how you’re feeling, if you need anything.
If you need him.
And so he follows you to the bedroom and lays on the bed beside you, making sure to stay on his side and give you the space you need. You toss from side to side, finally lying on your back.
“The baby’s too active tonight. I feel like I’m a human punching bag,” you sigh out, then you roll over to look at Levi.
“Do you want to feel it?”
You gently take his hand and place it on your belly. For a while, he feels nothing but the pounding of his own heart, touching you in what feels to him to be so intimate.
But then there’s a little bump under his hand. Then another.
Levi’s experienced many things in his life, but never has anything brought him so much awe than those two little movements.
He spent that night with his hand on your stomach as you drifted to sleep, and decided right then and there that he would do whatever it took to keep you and that little one safe, healthy, and happy.
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