[warpednyliummybeloved]

its a crime how little there is for xmen 97 magneto x reader. i mean its the sexiest hes ever been LOOK AT THAT FINE ASS MAN MEOWWW

[inseobts]

You around kids

fem!reader

characters: zoro, sanji, law, shanks and ace

tags: fluff, light comedy, established relationship, comfort, emotional bonding, humor

a/n: sorry it's all cramped but I reached tumblr's limits of blocks per post, so if you need a easier way to read this, click on the ao3 link!!

words count: around 2.2k - 3.4k each

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

── .✦ Zoro:

The sun is warm but not too hot. A soft breeze plays with your hair as you walk beside Zoro through the busy town streets. The island is new, full of life and color, and the crew has scattered to do their own things. Nami went shopping, Sanji chased after ingredients... or maybe girls, and Luffy? Who knows.

You, on the other hand, just wanted a calm day. A nice walk. No drama. Zoro didn’t have any plans, so he chose to stay with you.

“Didn’t feel like wandering off,” he said with a shrug “Plus, you always get lost.”

“I do not!” you argue with a little laugh.

“You got lost on the ship” he says with a smirk.

You roll your eyes, bumping his arm lightly with your shoulder “That happened once. And you’re the one to talk???”

Zoro just grunts, amused, and keeps walking beside you. His hands are in his pockets, his swords resting at his side like always. He walks with that usual lazy confidence, but you can tell he’s relaxed.

Then, you hear a small cry. Like a kid. You stop walking “Did you hear that?”

Zoro lifts his head “Yeah.”

You both follow the sound, turning down a quieter street. And there, near the side of a fruit stand, is a small boy. He can’t be older than five. His face is red from crying, his small hands wiping at his eyes. He looks scared.

“Hey, sweetie,” you say gently, kneeling in front of him “What’s wrong?”

The boy looks up at you with big teary eyes “M-Mommy’s gone…”

“Oh no,” you whisper “You got separated?”

He nods fast, then suddenly throws his arms around you. You nearly fall back from the sudden hug but Zoro puts a hand on the back of your head, gently, just to keep you balanced.

Zoro’s eyes widen. You glance up at him, then back down at the boy. He’s shaking.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay...” you say, rubbing his back “We’ll help you find her. I promise.”

The boy doesn’t let go. He clings tighter, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear too.

Zoro scratches the back of his neck “You sure about this? We could find a guard or something.”

You give him a look “Zoro, he’s terrified. Would you want a stranger dragging you around if you were five?”

He sighs “Fine. So we’re babysitters now.”

You smile a little “Just until we find his mom.”

Zoro folds his arms, watching the boy with a face that’s trying very hard not to be soft “What’s his name?”

You turn to the boy “Sweetie, what’s your name?”

He sniffs “Kenji.”

“Okay, Kenji,” you say with a warm smile “I’m Y/N and this is Zoro. He’s kind of grumpy, but he’s nice.”

Zoro makes a sound like a scoff, but he doesn’t argue.

Kenji peeks up at Zoro “You have swords…”

Zoro raises a brow “Yeah. Don’t worry. I only use them on bad guys.”

Kenji nods seriously, then looks back at you “You’re really pretty…”

Your face heats up a little. Zoro frowns “Kid, don’t start.”

You laugh, standing up slowly as Kenji keeps his little hand in yours “Alright, let’s find your mom, okay?”

Kenji nods, still holding onto you like you’re his lifeline.

Zoro walks on your other side, still acting cool but every now and then, you catch him glancing down at the kid. And maybe, just maybe, you see a small smile on his face. Just a little one.

You’ve been walking around the town for a while now, asking people if they’ve seen Kenji’s mom. A few shopkeepers shake their heads.

Some say, “Sorry, haven’t seen any woman looking for a kid.”

You try the market square next. No luck there either.

Kenji’s small hand is still in yours, holding tight like he’s afraid to let go. His other hand rubs at his eye now and then, but he’s not crying anymore. Still, he stays close. You’re like his safe space now.

You glance down at him “Kenji, do you remember where you last saw your mom? Were you near a shop?”

He shakes his head slowly “I was looking at fish. Then I turned and she was gone.”

“Fish,” Zoro repeats “That narrows it down to…everywhere.”

You sigh “We’ll keep looking.”

Kenji tugs on your hand “Are you tired? I can walk by myself.”

Your heart melts “I’m okay, Kenji. But thank you.”

Then suddenly he reaches out and grabs Zoro’s hand too and you both freeze. Zoro stares at the small hand holding his, like it’s some kind of bomb.

Kenji doesn’t notice. He just keeps walking like it’s the most normal thing in the world, one hand in yours, one hand in Zoro’s. As if he’s done it a hundred times.

You glance at Zoro, and your face gets warm. Really warm. This…looks kind of cute. No… more than cute. It looks like… a little family.

Zoro’s eye twitches. He knows what it looks like too.

A woman passing by gives you a soft smile “Oh, what a sweet family.”

You nearly choke “Oh! We’re not—uh—we’re just helping—”

Zoro mutters under his breath, “For the love of… please don’t let anyone from the crew see this.”

You whisper back, “Why? Afraid they’ll think you’ve gone soft?”

He scowls “They will. And they’ll never shut up about it.”

But he doesn’t pull his hand away from Kenji’s. Not even when the kid swings his hands a little. You try not to smile too much, but your cheeks still feel hot.

“Y’know,” you say after a moment, “you don’t look that grumpy right now.”

Zoro gives you a side-eye “Say that again and I’ll let you get lost on purpose.”

You grin “Worth it.”

Kenji suddenly asks, “Are you and the sword guy married?”

You and Zoro speak at the same time.

You: “W-what? No!”

Zoro: “Hell no!”

You look at Zoro kinda offended by his tone.

Kenji tilts his head “But you look like it…”

Zoro lets out a long sigh “Kid, you really trying to make my day harder?”

You can’t stop laughing now. Even Zoro, after a beat, smiles just a little. Just enough to make your heart do a little flip.

The sun’s still out, the breeze still nice and you still haven’t found Kenji’s mom, but…you’re doing okay. And as long as the kid keeps walking between you and Zoro, hands held tight, maybe it’s not such a bad way to spend the day.

Kenji’s hand is still snug in yours, and Zoro hasn’t pulled away from the other side either, though his eye twitches every few minutes like he’s trying to pretend it’s not happening.

You’re still wandering through the streets, asking around and scanning every corner for a woman calling out for her son. No luck. Then suddenly, Kenji tugs at your hand and mumbles, “I’m hungry…”

You pause “Oh… right. You haven’t eaten anything.”

Zoro groans immediately “We don’t have time to stop and eat. We’re looking for your mom, remember?”

Kenji’s bottom lip quivers “But… my tummy hurts…”

He rubs his stomach with both hands now, giving you the most tragic look you’ve ever seen. You’re done. Defeated.

“Zoro,” you whisper, “he’s so cute. Let him eat.”

Zoro crosses his arms “He’ll survive. Kids bounce back.”

Kenji grabs your arm again “Please… just a snack?”

Your heart melts into a puddle “Zoroooo…”

Zoro looks at you and you’re doing it too… That look. Eyes wide, soft voice, the tiniest pout. Now both you and Kenji are staring at him like abandoned puppies in the rain.

He curses under his breath “You guys are teaming up on me.”

You say nothing, you just keep pouting. He rubs his face like this is physical pain “Fine. Fine. Twenty minutes.”

Kenji jumps up and cheers “Yay!”

You smile up at Zoro, wrapping your hand around his arm “Thanks, babe. You’re the best.”

He groans again, but you catch the way his ears turn a little red. You head toward a food stall nearby, and as soon as you do, you hear a loud voice call out “Oi! Zoro! Y/N!”

You both turn and there they are.

Luffy and Sanji, carrying way too many bags and snacks.

Sanji’s eyes go wide when he sees the kid. He drops his bags “WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!”

Kenji looks up at you, his mouth full of fried dough “Who’s the loud guy?”

Sanji points dramatically at Zoro “How could you?! You stole her away and now—now you even have a child?!”

Zoro blinks “What are you talking about? Do you know how kids are made?”

Luffy laughs “He looks just like your kid. You’re all holding hands and stuff. It’s so cute! You should make a real one!”

Sanji falls to the ground instantly “I’m dying. I’m literally dead. This is hell.”

You’re laughing too hard to speak.

Kenji, still chewing, leans over to Zoro “Are those your friends? They’re weird.”

Zoro sighs “You have no idea.”

Luffy crouches next to Kenji, nose almost touching his “Heyyy, what’s your name?”

“Kenji!”

“Cool name! You wanna be a pirate?”

Zoro grabs Luffy by the back of his vest and yanks him away “No recruiting children.”

Sanji stands back up, wiping his nose “Mon dieu… Y/N, if you ever decide you want real romance, you know where to find me.”

You smile sweetly “You’d have to fight Zoro for me first.”

Sanji turns pale, not because he’s scared but because you think of Zoro right away “…I’m good.”

Kenji tugs your sleeve again “Are they always like this?”

“Pretty much” you say with a giggle. Zoro mutters, “You get used to it.”

Even as the chaos unfolds, Zoro moves just a little closer to you. His hand brushes against yours again and Kenji, still holding your other hand, starts humming happily between bites.

After the chaos (and mild heartbreak) that was Luffy and Sanji, you wave them off with a tired smile. Sanji is still crying in the background. Luffy’s trying to steal a meat bun from someone’s cart.

“Bye, Kenji!” Luffy shouts cheerfully “Don’t forget to train so you can join my crew!”

“I won’t!” Kenji waves both hands like you’re sending off a ship.

You tug his sleeve gently “Okay, come on. Let’s keep going.”

Zoro mutters under his breath as you walk again, heading farther into the town “Out of everyone… they had to be the ones we run into.”

You smirk “Could’ve been worse.”

“No. That was the worst.”

“Even worse than running into ALL of them together?”

He gives you a sharp side-eye “Don’t push your luck.”

You giggle, swinging Kenji’s hand a little as you walk. He’s full now, calmer, but still sticking to you like glue. Zoro’s hands are back in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched. He looks like he wants to complain, but he’s still here. That says enough.

Then, out of nowhere, Kenji tugs at your hand and looks up at you seriously “Miss Y/N? Can I call you Mama?”

You freeze. Everything around you stops. The breeze. The street noise. Even Zoro seems to pause mid-step. You blink at him “W-What?”

Kenji looks a little nervous now, like he’s not sure if he’s done something wrong “I know you’re not really… but you’re really nice, and you make me feel safe like my mama does. I miss her…”

Your throat closes. You don’t even know what to say. Tears prick at your eyes so fast you can’t stop them. One slides down your cheek before you can hide it.

You crouch down, hugging him gently, trying not to cry too hard “Kenji… I’m sure your mom misses you too. We’re gonna find her, okay? I promise.”

He nods, leaning into your hug.

Zoro is quiet behind you. For once, not a single sarcastic comment. When you glance up at him, you see that flicker in his eyes. Something soft. Something… careful. He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you. And somehow, that silence means more than words.

You’re walking again, slowly now. Kenji hums as he walks between you and Zoro, swinging your hands. He’s more cheerful after eating, even skipping a little. It’s almost hard to believe this is the same scared little boy from earlier.

Then you hear a woman’s voice, panicked and breathless “Kenji?! Kenji!!”

All three of you turn around, a woman is running toward you, her eyes wide with worry. Her hair’s a bit messy.

Kenji gasps “Mama!!”

He lets go of both your hands and runs to her. You and Zoro stop walking, watching as he throws himself into her arms. She catches him and falls to her knees, hugging him tightly.

“Oh, thank god,” she whispers, burying her face in his shoulder “I’ve been looking everywhere, Kenji, I was so scared…”

“I’m okay, Mama!” he says brightly “I wasn’t alone!”

You and Zoro stand quietly a few steps away, watching them hold each other. Zoro crosses his arms and says nothing. But his expression is… softer now. Thoughtful.

Then, Kenji turns and grabs his mom’s hand.

“Come on! Come meet them!” he says, tugging her toward you.

She lets herself be pulled along and gives you a teary smile “You… You helped him?”

You nod “Yeah. He was alone and crying. We couldn’t just leave him.”

She presses a hand to her chest, still catching her breath “Thank you. Truly. I don’t know what I would’ve done—”

She starts reaching into a small pouch “Please, I have a little money—let me give you something.”

You shake your head quickly “Oh no, really. That’s okay. We had… a good day, actually. He’s a sweet kid.”

Kenji beams proudly beside her. Zoro’s still silent, standing with that usual lazy posture.

The woman glances at him, hesitating “Are you sure? Maybe he wants—”

Before she finishes, Zoro shrugs “Y/N did all of it by herself.”

You glance over at him. That’s not true, you both helped. But he says it like he wants to make clear that the kindness was yours. You give him a small smile.

The woman bows slightly “Thank you both again.”

You nod, just about to say goodbye when Kenji suddenly throws his arms around your waist again.

You blink “Kenji…?”

He’s crying again. Quiet, but real tears, as he mumbles “Do you… have to go?”

Your throat tightens “Hey, don’t cry… You’re with your mom now. You’re safe.”

“I know,” he says, sniffling “But I don’t want you to go. I love you… you’re my best friend.”

Tears fill your eyes instantly. You hug him back, squeezing gently, as you whisper “I love you too, Kenji, you’re really brave, you know?”

He looks up at his mom “Can she stay with us?”

Her eyes soften “Sweetheart… she has her own life and friends. But maybe one day you’ll meet again.”

He wipes his face with his sleeve, still clinging to you. Zoro turns away slightly, trying to act like he’s not watching, but his ears are red and in his chest, something warm builds, quiet and slow.

You’re so gentle. So natural with children. And for the first time… He lets the thought sit. Maybe a future like that, with you, soft like this… wouldn’t be so bad.

Eventually, you say goodbye. Kenji waves and waves until he’s out of sight. You and Zoro walk in silence for a few minutes. Then… you feel something. Zoro reaches over and takes your hand.

You blink, surprised “Zoro?”

He doesn’t look at you, eyes straight ahead, face a little pink “Don’t make a big deal out of it. Just… thought you might need it.”

You smile, squeezing his hand gently. A few more steps go by before he adds, quietly “You’d be good at it.”

“At what?” you ask.

He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly “…Being a mom.”

Your heart skips as he glances at you out of the corner of his eye “Not saying right now. Just… someday. If you wanted that.”

You stop for a second, staring at him. He’s not blushing anymore. He’s serious.

You nod, eyes soft “With you… yeah. I think I’d want that someday.”

Zoro looks away quickly, but you see the tiniest smile on his face.

You let go of his hand and he turns to look at you surprised. But then you jump and put your arms around his neck as he grabs you by your waist to steady you.

You kiss him quickly but softly while saying “I love you so much Zoro, thank you.”

He’s still surprised but asks “What are you thanking me for?”

“To think of me when you think about your future.”

He blushes and starts to look away but you catches him saying “Of course I would.”

You smile as you let go of him and then take his hand again as you swing it and walk as you’re the happiest girl in the world, with your biggest smile one and humming a little cute song.

Zoro watches you all the time with the softest smile he ever had.

── .✦ Sanji:

The sun sets behind the island’s hills, painting the sky in soft orange and purple. You can already hear music and laughter in the air. The village is buzzing with excitement.

“We’re just in time for the Moonlight Festival” Nami tells everyone, smiling as a few locals greet her.

“They want us to join?” Luffy asks, his eyes already searching for food.

“Yes,” Robin says “They’ve prepared clothes for us. It’s part of their tradition.”

You glance around. The people here are wearing bright outfits, flowing skirts, golden sashes, beads, and flowers in their hair. It looks magical.

One of the village girls walks up to you, holding a folded dress.

“For you,” she says with a kind smile “You’ll look beautiful in it.”

Sanji’s eyes narrow, already hovering at your side “She always does” he says softly, brushing a hand across your lower back.

You smile and take the dress inside a small tent to change.

When you step out, the crew is waiting. Zoro looks away with a bored expression. Usopp whistles.

But Sanji… he freezes. His face turns red in two seconds. Then an elegant nosebleed.

“Oh my god, Sanji!” you rush to him as he stumbles back, heart-shaped eyes glowing like lanterns.

“You… You can’t just walk out looking like that, mon amour,” he gasps “I was not prepared. That dress—you… your everything—!”

You laugh “You’re so dramatic.”

“I am in love,” he moans, holding a hand over his nose “And now I’m dying.”

“Save it for later, lovebirds,” Nami rolls her eyes “Let’s go! The festival’s starting!”

The streets are glowing with lanterns. Drums beat in the background. Kids are running around with flower crowns. You hold Sanji’s hand tight as you pull him through the crowd.

“Wait, wait—look!” you gasp, pointing to a stall “Caramel apples!”

Sanji chuckles “Mon amour, you know I can make you better ones. Twice as sweet. Three times as shiny.”

“Yeah, but these are festival apples,” you grin, bouncing on your heels “It’s different!”

He groans playfully but fishes some coins from his pocket “Fine. Who am I to stop you from being adorable?”

You grab the apple and take a big bite “Mmm! Okay. Yours are still better.”

He smirks “Told you.”

You two stroll past more stalls. Roasted nuts, cotton candy, fruit juice in bamboo cups… you try everything. Sanji keeps spoiling you without complaint, even if he keeps saying, “You know I could cook all of this for you, mon trésor.”

You wipe a bit of syrup off his cheek with your thumb “Yeah, but this is more fun.”

You turn a corner and freeze “Sanji!” you gasp.

“Hm?”

“There!” You point to a game stall. Behind it is a giant plushie… a round, smiling bear with soft ears and a flower crown.

Sanji squints “You want that thing?”

“Yes! It’s so cute!”

But before you can step forward, a group of small kids run up.

“We saw it first!” one of them shouts.

“No way! I’m gonna win it!” another boy says, grabbing a ball from the counter.

You look at Sanji. He cracks his knuckles and smiles “A competition, huh?”

“Winner takes the bear!” the tallest kid says.

Sanji kneels to their level, grinning “Alright, little ones. You’re on.”

Sanji throws the first ball... Miss.

“Damn it—”

The ball bounces off the edge of the target, knocking over nothing but his pride.

“Too slow, old man!” the little boy cackles and throws his own. Miss.

Sanji raises an eyebrow “Oh-ho? You think you’re better?”

“I am better!” the kid huffs, grabbing another ball. Miss again.

Sanji leans in “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Your aim is trash.”

“So is yours.”

They go back and forth for the next minute. Ball after ball. Miss after miss. Neither hits a single target. Sanji’s hair is messier now, and the kid’s cheeks are puffed in frustration.

You cross your arms and bite your lip to stop laughing. Finally, Sanji steps back, hands on his hips.

“This game is clearly rigged.”

The kid points at him “You’re just mad because you lost.”

“You lost too!” Sanji snaps back, eyes wide.

“Only ‘cause you distracted me with your loud yelling!”

They both look exhausted and full of mutual respect…and mutual failure.

You walk up between them and say, “Okay. My turn.”

Sanji blinks “Mon amour, are you sure? It’s harder than it looks—”

“I wanna try.” you say, handing him the caramel apple you’re still holding.

You pick up the ball. It’s heavier than you thought, but manageable. You narrow your eyes, pull back your arm and… You knock over all three cans. Clean.

Sanji’s jaw drops. The little boy gasps so loudly, you think he might pass out.

The game keeper just laughs and hands you the giant plushie “Well done, miss!”

You grin and hug the bear tight “I did it!”

Sanji laughs, not caring at all about being shown up “You’re amazing!” he says proudly “Absolutely perfect.”

He kisses your cheek with zero shame “My talented goddess.”

But the kid… the kid is just staring at you now. Like something huge just clicked in his little brain.

“…What?” you ask, smiling at him “You can still try again, maybe there’s another plush—”

“I love you.”

You blink “Huh?”

“I don’t know why,” he says, completely serious “But I do.”

You stand there with your plushie, speechless. Sanji snorts so hard he has to turn around to hide his laugh.

“Is it the bear?” you ask gently.

The boy shakes his head “It’s your face. And your power.”

Sanji is wheezing now “That’s a strong statement, mon petit rival.”

“I said what I said,” the kid replies firmly, hands in his pockets “If you break up with him, I’ll wait for you.”

You pat his head “Thanks, but… I don’t think that’ll happen.”

He sighs “Fine. But just know… you’re my first love now.”

Sanji finally turns around, wiping tears from his eyes “I’ve been defeated. By a child.”

You both laugh, holding hands again. You keep walking through the festival lights, one giant plush bear in your arms, and the chef at your side.

The night deepens, and the music slows down.

Soft lanterns float above the square, swaying gently in the warm breeze. They’re glowing in different colors as orange, pink, soft blue, like slow-moving stars. Couples begin dancing in the middle of the cobblestone plaza.

Sanji gently tugs your hand “Dance with me, mon amour?”

You grin and nod “Only if you don’t step on my feet.”

“I would rather die.”

He places one hand on your waist, the other holding yours with a practiced ease. His touch is warm and careful, like he’s afraid to break you. You sway together under the lanterns, the sounds of violins and laughter floating around you.

“You look beautiful in this light.” he says quietly.

You look up at him, smiling “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

You lean into him, resting your head against his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat. This moment is soft. Sweet. Just the two of you… until…

“HEY, Y/N!”

Your head jerks up. You turn. A small voice echoes through the crowd.

Sanji’s brows twitch “No.”

Walking through the legs of villagers, holding something behind his back, is that kid.

Your jaw drops “How do you know my name?”

He stops right in front of you, puffing his chest like a tiny warrior “The idiot said it like five times while we were throwing balls. ‘You’ve got this, Y/N! Knock ‘em down, Y/N!’”

You blink “Oh… yeah. That sounds like him.”

Sanji coughs “You remembered that?”

The kid pulls out what he was hiding behind his back, a delicate, glowing flower. Its petals shimmer like they’ve been dusted with stardust.

“This is for you,” the boy says, holding it out with both hands like an offering “You deserve something this pretty.”

Your heart does a little owh at the sweetness “Aww… thank you.”

You take it gently, not wanting to crush it.

Sanji, meanwhile, stares at the flower. Then at the kid. Then at you.

He chuckles lightly “How… thoughtful.”

You glance at him “You okay?”

“Oh, me? Perfectly fine,” he says with a smile that’s way too tight “Just enjoying the sight of my girlfriend being courted by an eight-year-old.”

The kid looks up at him “Nine.”

“Ah, of course. My mistake,” Sanji says, voice calm but eyes twitching “A mature gentleman.”

“Way cooler than you.” the boy mumbles.

Sanji crouches down slightly, still smiling “You want a kitchen knife to go with that flower, mon petit rival?”

You step between them, laughing “Okay, okay, enough. This is getting weird.”

The kid sighs and shrugs “I’ll just wait till you’re single. No rush.”

“There will be no waiting.” Sanji grits through his teeth.

“Time is on my side, old man.”

“SHE’S MY AGE TOO!” Sanji yells irritated.

You nearly drop the flower from laughing so hard. You pat the boy on the head again “You’re really sweet, but I’m staying with the idiot for now.”

“Forever,” Sanji corrects “She’s staying with me forever.”

“Yeah, yeah. For now…” the boy says, walking away into the lantern lights.

You turn to Sanji, still giggling “You were jealous.”

He raises a hand, dramatic as ever “I can’t believe he kept insulting me. I was not jealous. I was threatened.”

You raise an eyebrow.

He sighs “Okay. I was… mildly unsettled.”

You lean up and kiss his cheek “You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

He smirks again “And you’re always cute. But please… no more nine-year-old rivals.”

The music quiets. The stalls are closing. Lanterns start floating into the sky, some by string, some released into the wind with wishes written on paper. The villagers begin gathering near the beach and hilltops.

You stretch your arms with a happy sigh, the big plushie still tucked under one arm “It’s almost time for fireworks, right?”

Sanji nods and gently takes your hand “Follow me, mon love. I found us a better spot. Private. High up. Just us.”

“Romantic?”

He grins “Always.”

He leads you up a narrow path behind the main square, through a line of trees. A few lanterns hang along the way, giving the path a warm glow. Eventually, you reach a small wooden platform, almost like an old lookout. There’s a railing, a perfect view of the sky, and just enough space for the two of you to stand side by side.

You lean against the railing, wide-eyed “This is perfect…”

Sanji steps behind you, resting his chin lightly on your shoulder “I know. Just like you.”

You snort “Cheesy.”

He kisses your temple “True.”

Just as the wind picks up slightly and you snuggle closer into his arms…“Hey!”

You both turn your heads.

It’s the kid. Again.

Sanji groans, stepping forward “Are you following us now?”

The boy crosses his arms “I think destiny wants me and Y/N together.”

Sanji points at him “She’s literally standing here with me, holding the bear I helped her win—”

“I pushed you to give up and her winning it, so technically I helped too.”

“You called me ‘trash’ and insulted me!”

“And yet… here we are.” He spreads his arms as if the universe just proved his point.

You lean on the railing, grinning like an idiot while they go at it again “I feel like I should get popcorn for this.”

The kid puffs up his chest “You’ll thank me when we’re married one day.”

“I am going to faint.” Sanji rubs his face.

You laugh softly, eyes crinkling with joy. The two of them are so dramatic in their own ways… Sanji with his poetic French curses, and the kid with his over-the-top confidence.

But then the sky explodes into light.

You gasp and rush toward the railing, hands gripping the wood. Fireworks bloom above the hills, one after another, bursts of gold, red, green, and silver painting the night. Some twinkle, some crackle, some swirl in spiral shapes like dancing stars.

“Whoa…” you whisper, completely forgetting the chaos behind you.

Then, beside you, another small gasp. You glance down. It’s the kid.

His eyes are wide. His mouth slightly open in wonder “They’re… huge.”

“Is this your first time seeing fireworks?” you ask.

He nods slowly “Yeah. They’re… kinda magical.”

You smile, your face glowing with the same light reflecting in the sky “Right?”

Behind you, Sanji watches the two of you from a few steps back.

You’re both standing at the railing, heads tilted up, eyes full of wonder, soft smiles on your faces. The flower the kid gave you is tucked in your hair. The bear still in your arms. And somehow, in that one moment, you and the kid… look similar.

Same joy. Same spark. Same heart.

Sanji feels something shift in his chest. Not jealousy. Not annoyance. Something deeper. Warmer.

He pictures this moment again, but years in the future. You, at the railing, holding a small hand. Your child’s hand.

Their eyes lighting up like yours. That same smile. That same awe. And he’s there too, arms around both of you. His future, clear as the fireworks above.

You turn around and catch his gaze “Sanji?”

He blinks and smiles softly “Sorry. Just… thinking about how lucky I am.”

You raise an eyebrow “Because we won the bear?”

“No,” he says, stepping forward to join you at the railing “Because I get to watch you fall in love with everything.”

You rest your head on his shoulder again, your free hand finding his.

“With me?” The kid says.

“NO! DROP IT!” Sanji yells at him but then they both smile and keep watching the fireworks as they keep blooming. And Sanji is already planning forever.

The last firework bursts in a shower of silver and gold, lingering like a sparkler in the night sky. Then silence.

Soft cheers rise from the village below. The glow fades, lanterns flickering low. The magic of the moment hangs in the air for just a little longer, like it doesn’t want to end.

You sigh, still holding Sanji’s hand “That was perfect…”

Next to you, the kid is still staring at the sky. But the fireworks are gone now, long finished. Yet he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. His eyes are wide, his mouth just barely open. He looks like he’s still inside that wonder.

You smile at him “Hey… by the way… What’s your name?”

He blinks, like he’s waking up from a dream “Oh. It’s Tama.”

“Nice to meet you, Tama.” You kneel down a bit so you’re closer to his height “What do you wanna be when you grow up?”

Without hesitation “A pirate.”

You laugh softly “Really?”

He nods, proud “A brave one. With a big ship. I’ll visit all the islands with weird animals and floating rocks and treasure.”

Sanji smirks beside you, hands in his pockets “Then I guess we’ll keep being rivals even out at sea, huh?”

Tama gives him a sharp side-eye “I’ll have to steal y/n from you and out-pirate you.”

Sanji grins “Try me, mon petit.”

You giggle and ruffle Tama’s hair gently “Well, I hope we meet again when you’re out there chasing dreams.”

Tama glances up at you “What about you? What do you want to be?”

You pause. It’s not something you really think about. You look over at Sanji… messy blond hair, gentle smile, the way he’s still looking at you like the stars are in your eyes instead of the sky.

You shrug “I don’t care what I become. I just want to be with Sanji forever.”

Sanji freezes for a moment.

Then, he lets out a quiet breath, like someone just handed him the whole world.

His voice is soft “You’ll never have to wish for that, mon amour. I’m not going anywhere.”

Tama watches you both. He’s quiet. No more smug grins or snappy lines.

Then, slowly, he nods. He tucks his hands into his pockets and gives you a small smile, real and warm “Then it’s good the idiot is so persistent.”

Sanji raises an eyebrow “Hey—”

Tama doesn’t look at him. He’s looking at you “You’re really happy. I can tell.” His voice is calm now, like something inside him understands something bigger “So… I’m okay with it.”

Your heart softens “Thank you, Tama.”

Then, without fully thinking, you smile even wider and say, “Sanji, I hope our future baby is going to be like him.”

Tama blinks, clearly unsure what to say to that. Maybe even a little embarrassed. But he nods slowly, lips pressing together in a shy smile.

Sanji stops breathing.

He stares at you, completely still, as if the fireworks just restarted behind his eyes. That sentence… so casual, so soft… hit harder than anything tonight. Our future baby...

You’re thinking about it. About a future. About family. And not just that. You’re thinking about it with him. His heart squeezes in his chest.

You’re here, in his arms. You’re in love. And you’re imagining a child with his smile and your eyes, running around somewhere under the same stars.

You turn and see the look in Sanji’s eyes.

He’s smiling, but there’s something deeper behind it. Something full. Something that says, I heard that.

You just smile back, knowing he doesn’t need to say a word.

Tama shrugs and turns around “Don’t get too comfy though. I’ll be cooler than him someday.”

Sanji puts an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close “We’ll be cheering for you… maybe.”

Tama waves over his shoulder, heading back toward the village, lantern light flickering around him.

You and Sanji stay a little longer at the lookout, arms wrapped around each other, the flower still in your hair, and the last warmth of the fireworks still in your hearts.

The festival is over. But something even better stayed behind with you…

Love. Peace. And the promise of forever.

── .✦ Law:

The sea is calm. The deck is quiet. You wipe your hands with a towel and step out of the infirmary for some air. A peaceful day. For once.

“GUYS! GUYS!! I’m back!!”

Bepo’s voice booms from the ramp. You glance over, blinking. Law appears from the hallway behind you, arms crossed and already frowning. Penguin and Shachi pop their heads out of the engine room.

“Why are you yelling?” Law asks, sharp.

“I got everything!” Bepo shouts, jogging up “But also—uh—”

He’s carrying something. No. Someone. It’s a kid.

A little girl, maybe five years old, wrapped in one of Bepo’s spare coats. Her hair’s messy, face pale. No shoes. She looks completely terrified.

Shachi stares “That’s a child.”

“Bepo,” Law growls “You didn’t…”

“I had to!” Bepo pleads “She was hiding behind crates in the market. All alone. People walked right past her. Like she wasn’t even there!”

“So you picked her up and brought her here?!” Law’s tone spikes.

“I couldn’t leave her! I asked around, but no one knew her. No one cared! She wouldn’t talk to anyone but me!”

The girl looks around fast… strangers, loud voices, sharp tones. She panics.

Her eyes lock on you, maybe because you’re the only woman here at the moment, maybe because you’re not yelling, and suddenly she jumps out of Bepo’s arms.

“Wait—!” Bepo yells.

Too late. She runs straight to you and throws her arms around your waist, hugging you like her life depends on it.

You freeze.

“Woah—hey, hey,” you say softly, instinct kicking in. You crouch down, hands gentle on her arms “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

She buries her face in your chest and doesn’t say a word. Everyone is staring.

“Y/N,” Law says, voice low “Do you know her?”

You shake your head “Never seen her before.”

“Then why is she hugging you like that?” Penguin asks, confused.

You rub her back carefully “She’s scared. She saw someone safe. That’s all.”

Law narrows his eyes, crouching beside you.

“Kid,” he says quietly, “what’s your name?”

“…Mimi.” she whispers.

“How old are you, Mimi?”

She holds up five fingers without looking up.

“Do you know where your parents are?”

She shakes her head.

“Do you remember anything?”

She shrugs.

Law stands up “Fantastic.”

“I don’t get it,” Shachi says “Why would she run to Y/N? Just randomly?”

“She doesn’t know me,” you say, still holding Mimi gently “She was just scared.”

“She’s still shaking,” Bepo murmurs “I think she really was in danger.”

Law opens his mouth to reply, but footsteps thunder up from below deck.

“Ikkaku!” Penguin says as she appears, out of breath.

“Captain!” she gasps, holding up a tablet “Emergency Marine alert. I just picked it up from the city’s comms.”

“What kind of alert?” Law asks, tone serious.

She flips the screen around “They’re searching for a missing child. Classified level. No name. No photo. Just this—”

She swipes again. A blurry snail-cam image. It’s Mimi. Wearing that same coat.

“…Shit.” Law mutters.

Everyone stares at the screen.

“Why are the Marines looking for a five-year-old?” Shachi asks, stunned.

“Classified level? That’s not normal” Penguin adds.

Ikkaku reads off the report “Orders are to retrieve the child alive. No reason listed. But every local base is on alert. They think pirates might have taken her.”

Mimi stiffens. She presses closer to you.

“…Bad men,” she whispers “Mama said they’d come…”

“Mimi,” you say softly, “do you know who the bad men are?”

She shakes her head quickly “The marines… that I had to run. Mama said… find someone kind. Someone who felt safe.”

She looks up at you then. Big, frightened eyes.

You smile gently “You found me, don’t worry.”

Law steps beside you, staring down at the kid. His hand brushes yours.

“Y/N,” he says quietly, “She can’t stay on deck.”

You nod.

“She stays below, for now” Law says, turning to the crew “And no one talks about her. Not a word. We figure this out before the Marines come knocking.”

Bepo lets out a breath “Thank you, Captain.”

Law glances back at you and Mimi “Don’t thank me yet. This is trouble.”

“She’s just a kid,” you murmur, carrying her gently as you stand “We’ll protect her.”

Law’s voice softens “Yeah. We will.”

The door closes behind you both with a quiet click. The hallway outside Law’s quarters is silent now. You and Law stand inside the dimly lit room, away from the crew, away from Mimi.

He leans against the desk, arms folded, hat on the surface next to him. His jaw is tight. You’re pacing.

“She’s five, Law,” you say “Five. And terrified. You saw her face.”

“I know what I saw,” he replies, coldly calm “But she’s not just any kid, Y/N. She’s being hunted by the Marines. That’s not normal.”

“She didn’t ask to be hunted,” you shoot back “She didn’t choose any of this!”

“You think I don’t know that?” His voice rises slightly.

You stop pacing “Then why are you looking at her like she’s a problem?”

He straightens “Because right now? She is. She’s a risk. For all of us.”

You flinch.

“Oh, great,” you say, sarcasm slipping in “Glad to know your heart’s still functioning.”

His eyes narrow “Don’t twist my words.”

“I’m not twisting anything! You’re acting like she’s a ticking time bomb!”

“I’m being realistic!” he snaps “You always do this—take in strays without thinking!”

You freeze. The words echo. You always do this.

Your chest tightens “Then is that what I am to you?” you whisper “Some stray you took in?”

Law’s expression shifts instantly “What? No—”

You shake your head, stepping back, voice low and bitter “Forget it. I’m done.”

He moves toward you “Y/N, wait—”

“No,” you say, turning for the door “You wanted to be realistic? Fine. Be alone with your logic. I’m going to be with the actual human being we rescued.”

You slam the door on your way out.

You sit cross-legged on the floor of the small guest room, paper and colored pencils spread out between you and Mimi. She holds a red pencil in her small hand, tongue poking out a little as she focuses hard on drawing something.

You force yourself to smile “That’s a very good cat, Mimi.”

“It’s you” she says, showing you proudly.

You laugh gently “Oh! I’m the cat?”

She nods “You were soft when I hugged you.”

You pause “That’s… really sweet, actually.”

She looks up at you “Are you mad?”

Your smile fades “Why would you think that?”

“You left fast. Like Mama did… when she was mad.”

Ouch.

You set your pencil down and reach out, tucking her hair behind her ear “I’m not mad at you, I promise.”

“Then who?”

You sigh “Just… someone I love. We said some things we didn’t mean.”

She nods like she gets it “Mama and Papa did that too. Then they’d be quiet for a while. But after, they hugged a lot.”

You smile faintly “Maybe we’ll get there.”

Mimi turns back to her paper “Do you think my Mama’s okay?”

Your heart aches “I hope so, Mimi. I really do.”

You pick up a blue pencil and draw beside her in silence for a while. The sound of coloring fills the small room. For a little while, it’s peaceful again.

Even if your chest still burns with anger and something else you don’t want to admit yet. Not hurt. Just… disappointed.

The hallway outside the guest room is quiet now.

Right now, it’s just you and Mimi, surrounded by colored pencils and messy drawings. She laughs when your stick figure ends up with five arms. You giggle along, your mood slowly softening.

“Look!” she says proudly, holding up her latest masterpiece. It’s her, you, and what might be Bepo if you squint. You’ve all got huge smiles and stars around your heads.

“That’s amazing,” you say, genuinely impressed “Did you make me taller than Bepo?”

She nods “Because you’re strong.”

Your heart actually hurts a little at that “You’re the strong one, Mimi.”

She looks up at you, eyes wide and happy. It’s the first time she’s looked this light since she came aboard. Something warm blooms in your chest. You don’t say it aloud, but this feels… right.

She deserves moments like this. You both do.

There’s a soft knock at the doorframe. You turn and Law stands there. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just… watches.

You see his eyes flick to Mimi, then back to you. The scene freezes him. Like he’s seeing something he wasn’t ready for. Like he’s seeing you with a child in your lap, laughing, gentle, bright. Like family.

You look away first. Mimi doesn’t notice. She’s too busy coloring in the sky purple.

Law jerks his head toward the hallway, silently asking for a word. You hesitate.

Then slowly stand up, brushing your hands off “I’ll be right back, okay?” you whisper to Mimi.

“Okay.” she says without looking up.

You follow Law out into the hall. The door closes behind you, soft and careful. He runs a hand through his hair. He looks… tired. And guilty.

“I deserved everything you said earlier” he starts.

You don’t speak yet.

“I was angry. Not at you. At the situation. At how helpless it made me feel. It reminds me a lot of when… nevermind.”

Still, you wait.

“I wanted to do something. So I called in favors. Checked restricted comms. Dug deep.”

You lift your eyes to meet his “And?”

“I found out who her mother was,” he says “They were living on the outskirts of a Marine-controlled zone. Poor. Invisible. Perfect targets.”

Your throat tightens.

“She died,” Law continues “A week ago. Protecting Mimi. Marines were already closing in. Her mother fought back alone. Got her daughter away. Then…”

He trails off.

You stare “…Mimi saw that happen?”

He nods “But I think she doesn’t remember it. Or won’t. Trauma like that… it can block memories completely. Especially in kids.”

Your back presses to the wall “She… thinks her mom is still out there.”

“I know,” he says quietly “I was hoping she was. I wanted to go find her. Bring her here. Give Mimi the ending she deserved.”

You press your hands to your face “God…”

Law steps closer “I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure.”

You lower your hands slowly, voice shaking “You thought I’d fall apart?”

“No,” he says “I thought I would.”

That makes you look at him.

“I saw you with her just now,” he says “And I thought… maybe we could give her something close to a family. Not perfect. Not planned. But something.”

Silence hangs heavy for a second.

“I’m sorry,” he says again “For the fight. For what I said.”

You nod slowly “I was mad. But I never stopped trusting you.”

He reaches for your hand. You let him take it.

“She’s all alone now” you whisper.

“Not if we stay” he says.

You squeeze his fingers “I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s been three months since Mimi came aboard. She doesn’t cry at night anymore. She doesn’t flinch when someone raises their voice.

She laughs. Loudly. She steals snacks with Penguin, watches Shachi build models, draws on Bepo’s fur while he naps, and sometimes, when she’s really sleepy, she crawls into your bed without saying a word and snuggles between you and Law.

You and Law never talk about it, and neither does the crew, but everyone sees the way Mimi holds your hand like it’s the most normal thing in the world. The way Law makes sure she eats, takes her medicine, wears a coat when it’s cold, even when he grumbles about it. The way her drawings now always have three people in them.

You, her, and Law.

She knows the truth now. She remembers it all… her mother, the chase, the moment she lost her, the fear. It came back slowly, in pieces, but she never fell apart.

She held on. To you. To him. And now it’s time.

You found a safe place for her, a quiet island far from Marine eyes. A good family who knew her mother once, who wants to care for Mimi like their own. A home with books, and warm food, and other children. It’s the best chance she’ll ever get.

She knows it. She understands.

But even understanding doesn’t make it easy.

On the third-to-last day, you find Mimi sitting with Bepo in the garden space at the top of the sub. She’s holding her sketchbook.

“Hey,” you say gently, sitting down beside her “Can I see what you’re drawing?”

She turns the book around. It’s you and Law again… only this time, she’s drawn herself in the middle, holding both your hands. Above you is a sun with a smiling face.

Your chest aches.

“I like when we’re together.” she says, matter-of-fact.

“I do too.”

She leans against your arm “You’re not mad, right? That I said yes to going?”

You pause “Never. Mimi, we want you to be safe. That’s what matters most.”

She goes quiet for a second “But I’ll still miss you. A lot.”

You stroke her hair softly “I’ll miss you too. Every day.”

She looks up “Do you think Captain Law will miss me?”

You smile “I know he will.”

That night, Law finds you alone in the infirmary, pretending to organize the medical supplies. He leans against the doorway, arms crossed.

“You’re avoiding me” he says.

“No I’m not” you lie instantly.

“Y/N.”

You sigh and sit down on the cot “I just… don’t know how to say goodbye.”

He walks in, quiet, and sits beside you “You don’t have to.”

You glance at him.

“We’ll find a way to see her again,” he says “Even if it’s just from a distance. I promise.”

Your eyes sting “She’s the best thing that ever happened to this ship.”

He nods “She’s one of the best things that ever happened to me.”

You look at him, surprised.

“I didn’t think I could… do this,” he says “Feel like this. But she made me believe in something again. She made me remember if Corazon and even understand him more now.”

You reach out and take his hand “She made us a family, didn’t she?”

Law squeezes your hand gently.

“And we’ll let her go,” he says “Because that’s what family does. We protect them. Even when it hurts.”

The crew stands in a quiet line on the deck.

Bepo is the first to kneel down, huge paws gentle as he hugs Mimi tightly.

“Don’t forget me” he says, voice shaking.

“I could never.” she whispers, burying her face in his fur.

Penguin gives her a pack of candy and awkwardly pats her head “Eat this when you miss us, okay?”

Shachi kneels next “We’ll miss you, shrimp. Stay awesome.”

Ikkaku lifts Mimi’s little hand and presses a friendship bracelet into her palm “For luck” she says, smiling even though her eyes are red.

Everyone says their goodbyes. Everyone hugs her.

You stand back, next to Law, holding your breath. Watching. Trying to stay calm. But your chest feels tight. Your hands shake and Law, quiet and steady beside you, notices. He doesn’t say anything. He just reaches out and takes your hand in his. Warm, grounding. Solid.

You glance down, surprised. He never does this in front of the crew. Your fingers curl around his slowly. It helps. You’re grateful.

Mimi turns at last and walks up to you both. Her steps are slower now. Her smile is gone. And when she reaches you, she breaks.

Her small arms wrap around your waist so hard it knocks the air out of you “I don’t wanna go.” she sobs.

You drop to your knees and hold her, tears falling fast “I know, baby. I know.”

“I wanna stay with you. And Law. And Bepo and everyone. I don’t want a new house.”

“I know. But this is the safest place. It’s what your mama wanted. And we’ll still love you. Always.”

She shakes her head, crying harder. You don’t want to let go. You really, really don’t. And Law… he just stands there, quiet, one hand resting gently on your back as you cry into Mimi’s hair.

He doesn’t say anything, but you know he’s there. Holding you up in the way he always does.

When you finally pull away, your eyes meet his and he gives you the smallest nod. You nod back.

It’s time. Mimi turns to him slowly.

She throws her arms around his legs without a word. Law stiffens.

Then, very awkwardly, he kneels and hugs her back. His movements are a little stiff, unsure, but he doesn’t let go too quickly.

“I’m gonna miss you, Captain Law” she mumbles.

“…I’ll miss you too.” he says, voice low.

You blink. You’ve never heard him say that out loud.

When she lets go, her eyes are red and puffy, but she wipes them on her sleeve like a little soldier. Then she walks with the woman who came to get her, toward the small transport boat.

But just before she steps down the ramp, she stops, turns around, wipes her face and yells, loud as ever “HEY!”

Everyone jumps.

“If you ever give me a little brother or sister,” she says proudly, “I better get to meet them! I’ll be the best big sister in the world!”

Dead silence. Your jaw drops. Law’s eyes widen just slightly.

The crew turns to look at you both and absolutely loses it.

Penguin snorts. Shachi wheezes. Ikkaku starts clapping. Even Bepo chuckles behind a paw.

You and Law look in opposite directions at the same time, completely red-faced, avoiding each other’s eyes like it’s life or death.

“I… what…” you stammer.

“I didn’t…” Law mutters.

Mimi waves from the ramp, beaming “BYEEEE!”

And with that… she’s gone. Leaving behind stunned silence, a warm sea breeze and a very awkward question neither of you has ever asked before.

The door to Law’s studio closes behind you with a soft click. The sound of laughter still echoes faintly down the hall as the crew keeps joking about Mimi’s parting gift.

You and Law don’t say a word.

You wave a hand dismissively toward the corridor like go away, and Law rubs his forehead in quiet frustration as you both walk deeper into the room.

You drop onto the old sofa with a dramatic sigh. Your legs flop over the side “That kid really knows how to drop a bomb” you mumble into a pillow.

Law says nothing. He just walks toward his desk and sits down heavily, glancing at a stack of papers that definitely aren’t important right now.

“…So…” he says.

You raise an eyebrow, still hiding in the couch.

He clears his throat “Have you ever… uh. Thought about… you know.”

You peek at him “About what.”

He doesn’t look at you “A kid. Of your own.”

You squint “Why are you talking like that? You sound like Bepo when he ate spoiled mochi.”

He shoots you a look and you laugh, then immediately groan and hide your face in your hands.

“Oh god, I can’t believe we’re actually talking about this.”

“You didn’t answer” he says.

You peek through your fingers at him “Did you think about it before?”

He shrugs one shoulder “No. Not seriously.”

He stands up and walks over. He kneels in front of you and gently pulls your hands away from your face, exposing your cheeks and all the heat blooming in them.

His voice is soft “But now… I don’t hate the idea.”

Your heart skips. Your mouth opens and for once, no teasing comes out. Just a quiet little truth.

“…Same,” you say “If it’s with you.”

His ears go red. He clears his throat again, standing up abruptly like you just slapped him with a compliment.

“Don’t say stuff like that so easily” he mutters.

You laugh, covering your own red cheeks again “You started it!”

He turns back to his desk, muttering something under his breath.

You’re not sure what he’s thinking. But his shoulders relax a little while his hand lingers on the edge of his chair, like maybe he’s imagining what another little voice in this room might sound like someday.

── .✦ Shanks:

The sun is warm on your shoulders. The smell of grilled fish, sea salt, and cheap beer fills the open-air restaurant. You’re sitting beside Shanks, your legs draped over his lap, one arm around his broad shoulders. He’s laughing loud, one hand resting on your thigh, a bottle in the other.

The Red-Haired Pirates are noisy,talking with full mouths, yelling jokes across the table, getting into friendly fights over who gets the last crab claw.

You’re smiling, head leaning against Shanks’ shoulder, completely relaxed. Then you notice a woman, maybe in her twenties, carrying a small kid, probably two or three years old, on her hip. She’s standing near the entrance, eyes scanning the place fast, like she’s searching for someone. Her brows are drawn tight, lips pressed together.

“Shanks…” you murmur, nudging him with your elbow.

He follows your gaze.

She spots you. Her eyes go wide with something like hope. She walks fast toward your table, clutching the child tighter, muttering “excuse me” as she passes the crew. The little one, a girl, blinks up at everyone with big sleepy eyes. She stops right in front of you.

“Hi,” she says, out of breath “I—Sorry to bother you. I know who you are. You’re Shanks’ crew, right?”

You blink “Uh, yeah. That’s us.”

The woman shifts her weight, bouncing the kid gently “I know this is weird. Really weird. But I—I need help.”

Shanks straightens a little beside you. His arm slides behind your back but he stays quiet, letting you speak first.

“What kind of help?” you ask slowly, looking from the kid to her.

“My babysitter canceled last minute. I’m already late for work—I’ll lose my job if I don’t show up. It’s only for a few hours. Please,” she pleads “I don’t know anyone on this island, and you… well, I’ve seen you in the papers. You’re not bad people.”

You open your mouth to answer, then close it.

The little girl is chewing on her own shirt, blinking at you with big brown eyes. Her cheeks are flushed. Her hair’s tied up in a tiny puff.

You glance at Shanks. He’s watching you with that gentle smile of his. His eyes are soft. He doesn’t say anything, he just squeezes your hip lightly, like he’s telling you, Your choice.

“I don’t know anything about kids.” you say, voice low, nervous.

“You’ll be fine,” the woman says quickly “She’s easy. Doesn’t cry much. Her name’s Emi.”

The little girl makes a tiny sound, like she’s trying to say something but decides against it.

You look at Shanks again. He smiles wider.

“I’ll help you,” you say finally, sighing “Only for a few hours.”

“Thank you, thank you so much.” the woman breathes. She kisses the kid’s forehead and whispers something into her ear. Then she hands her over to you.

The moment Emi’s in your arms, she goes still. Warm and small. A little heavy. She smells like soap and bananas.

The woman gives you her name, a quick “I’ll be back before sunset.” and then she’s gone.

You sit there frozen. Shanks looks down at Emi in your lap. Then back up at you.

“You look terrified.” he says, chuckling.

“I am terrified.” you whisper.

“Want me to hold her?”

You shake your head slowly “No… I think I got this.”

Then Emi sneezes on your chest.

“Okay,” you groan “Maybe not.”

Shanks is already laughing.

At first, Emi just… sits there. On your lap. Quiet, blinking, nose still a little runny. She doesn’t cry. Doesn’t move much either. Just holds a tiny stuffed rabbit in one hand and sucks her thumb with the other.

You’re stiff as a mast. Shanks drapes his arm around your shoulders, whispering in your ear, “You’re holding her like she’s a bomb.”

“I’ve held swords with more confidence...” you mutter back.

He laughs, soft and deep, and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear “Try putting her on the bench next to you. Let her get used to everyone.”

You do. Emi shifts to sit beside you, rabbit clutched to her chest. She peeks around the table. The crew watches her like she’s a sea monster that just learned to smile.

“Hi, Emi!” Lucky Roux waves with a toothy grin “Wanna try some pineapple?”

She buries her face in your side.

Yasopp chuckles “You sure she’s not scared of you, Y/N?”

“She should be.” you say dryly.

But over time, it changes. Slowly. Emi starts pointing at things on the table. A shrimp. A spoon. A shiny gold coin someone dropped. You tell her the names. You offer her a piece of soft bread, and she takes it with two hands like it’s a treasure.

An hour later, you’re wiping jam off her chin with a napkin and helping her clap to Benn’s bad humming of a lullaby tune. She giggles when you make a fish face at her. You giggle back. And Shanks is quiet. He watches.

Not in a smug or teasing way. He’s not smirking. He’s not laughing with the others when Yasopp says, “Look at this! Y/N’s got the mom vibe going strong!”

He just… looks.

You glance at him and find his jaw a little tight. His drink untouched. His gaze heavy on you and the child. Like he’s thinking hard about something he doesn’t want to say out loud.

“Captain?” you ask softly.

He blinks, like he’s been pulled out of somewhere far away “Yeah?”

“You okay?”

He nods. Too fast.

Roux leans over with a grin “Hey, Shanks. You gonna put a ring on it if she starts popping out mini Shank’s?”

Everyone laughs.

You feel your face heat up, heart thudding a little “Oh my God—can you all shut up?”

“I want to marry her.” Shanks says suddenly.

Silence. Everyone stares.

You slowly turn to him “What?”

He meets your eyes. His voice is even, but his expression is… different. Calm on the surface, but his eyes are darker than usual “If she wanted that too. Yeah.”

You feel Emi rest her head on your arm, yawning, rabbit smushed between her face and your side.

You’re not sure what to say. The crew fumbles between teasing and trying not to look too shocked.

Shanks finally looks away, picking up his drink again.

Benn watches him for a long second. Then quietly says, “Alright, alright. Let’s not scare the kid, huh?”

And just like that, the noise starts up again. Jokes. Laughter. Loud plates. Big bites.

But Shanks doesn’t joke anymore, and you don’t miss the way he keeps looking at you like there’s something he’s not saying. Something that makes your heart beat a little faster.

Then everything fall falls apart when Emi gets bored.

One minute she’s snuggled against you, soft and sleepy, her rabbit tucked under her chin. The next she’s on her feet, running full speed down the middle of the open-air tavern, arms flapping like wings.

“EMI!” you shout, scrambling to follow her.

Your drink spills. A spoon clatters to the ground. Shanks laughs under his breath and gets up with you, already moving.

She darts under a table where two drunk fishermen are playing cards, crawls past their feet like some kind of tiny demon, and pops up between a tray of grilled squid and a candle.

“I got her!” Yasopp calls out, lunging, but Emi ducks and keeps running, laughing wildly now, barefoot and fast.

“She’s gone feral!” Lucky Roux howls.

“Shanks!” you bark, spinning around helplessly “Stop laughing and HELP!”

He grins, but there’s warmth in his eyes as he moves quickly, circling the tables “Aye aye, sweetheart.”

You try one side, he takes the other.

“Emi,” he says, crouching low, voice gentle, like he’s speaking to a scared animal “Hey, baby girl. Wanna play a game? It’s called Freeze. Can you freeze?”

She stops. Looks at him. Wobbles on her feet.

You sneak up behind.

“Gotcha!” you grab her mid-spin, lifting her up like a sack of potatoes.

She laughs and squeals, legs kicking.

“She’s a slippery one.” you mutter, holding her close, out of breath.

“I like her spirit,” Shanks says, grinning as he brushes a strand of hair from your face “She reminds me of you.”

You squint at him “You’re not funny.”

The crew starts clapping. Yasopp whistles. Roux raises his mug “Now that’s a team, huh? Look at them. Mom and Dad of the year.”

“Oh, please—” you start, but Shanks just reaches for Emi’s little hand and gives it a squeeze.

“Teamwork, right?” he says softly to her.

She nods. Then sneezes again. Right into his chest.

You burst out laughing this time and say “That’s karma.”

He wipes it off with a napkin like it’s nothing.

You sit back down together, Emi now curled in your lap again, finally tired. Shanks stays close. Not just beside you but with you. Helping. Watching. Smiling softly when Emi dozes off. But he’s still quiet. More quiet than usual.

Your eyes keep drifting to him. The way he’s looking at the girl. The little frown he doesn’t even know he has. The way his hand rests on her back like he’s done it a hundred times before.

He used to be like this with Uta. And Luffy, too. Soft. Present. Gentle.

You haven’t seen that part of him in a long time. You missed it.

“You okay?” you ask under your breath, while the crew starts arguing over dessert.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then finally, “Yeah.”

You stare at him a little longer “Are you lying to me?”

He smiles, but it’s not the usual cocky grin. It’s smaller. Tired.

“I’m not sure what I’m feeling,” he admits “Just… thinking, I guess.”

You squeeze his hand “About what?”

He shrugs, looking down at Emi “About a lot of things.”

And now you are quiet, because something in your chest shifts. Soft. Strange. Familiar.

Maybe it’s the way he looks at you, like you’ve already given him something he thought he’d never have again. Or maybe it’s the way it suddenly feels… real.

You. Him. And this small, chaotic moment that makes everything else disappear.

The sun starts to dip, painting the sky in gold and peach.

You’re still at the tavern, Emi snoring softly on your shoulder, her little fingers tangled in your hair. Shanks sits beside you, quiet. His arm rests behind you, not touching, just there.

And then she returns. The woman bursts through the crowd, her apron flying, face flushed with panic. The moment she sees you, she stops, hands over her heart like she might collapse.

“Oh my god—thank you. Thank you so much,” she breathes, almost crying as she rushes to you “I’m so sorry I took so long. I owe you my life.”

You wave a hand gently “It’s okay. Really. She was good. A little fast—like, sprint-across-the-rooftops fast—but… I had fun.”

Emi stirs and opens her eyes.

“Hi, baby.” the mother coos, arms outstretched. The little girl shifts toward her sleepily, and you pass her over with care. For a second, Emi resists, her hand still reaching for your shirt.

Your heart squeezes a little.

“Thank you again,” the woman says, eyes filled with real gratitude “If you’re ever on this island again, please come find us. I mean it.”

You smile, brushing some crumbs off your lap “Of course. Be safe.”

You watch them go, mother holding daughter close, disappearing into the market crowd. And then it’s just… quiet. Too quiet.

The crew starts packing up, joking softly, but there’s a change in the air. A stillness you don’t like. You look at Shanks.

He’s already looking at you.

Not grinning. Not teasing.

Just watching you with that faraway softness in his eyes, like you’re a slow dream he doesn’t want to wake up from. Like maybe, for a second, he saw something more than just this moment.

You reach for his hand and lace your fingers through his.

He squeezes back but doesn’t say anything.

The walk to the ship is slow. The crew’s laughing again, arguing about who drank the most, but it’s like the volume’s been turned down. You and Shanks trail behind.

Still no words. Not one.

That night, the sea’s calm. The stars are out. You’re both in your cabin, door closed, boots off.

You lie on your shared bed, watching him stand at the window, shirt half unbuttoned, red hair catching the moonlight, and you’ve had enough. You sit up.

“Alright, Red,” you say, crossing your arms “What’s going on in that dumb, beautiful head of yours?”

He looks over his shoulder, startled “What?”

“You’ve been quiet ever since Emi left. You’ve said maybe ten words total. And I know you. That means you’re thinking. Hard.”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck “Maybe I’m just tired.”

“Nope.” You crawl across the bed toward him, poke his side “Try again.”

He sighs “It’s… complicated.”

“So is your face, and I still look at it every day. Try me.”

That gets a small laugh out of him.

You press your forehead to his back “You don’t have to hold things in with me, Shanks. Not the serious stuff. Not the scary stuff. Especially not the stuff that makes your eyes look like that.”

He turns slowly, leaning against the window. You slide your arms around his waist and rest your head on his chest. He wraps his arms around you too, finally. Breathing in.

“Seeing you with her,” he says softly “With Emi.”

You wait.

“I kept thinking about Uta. About Luffy. About how fast it all went. How I blinked and they weren’t mine to hold anymore.”

You don’t speak. Just hold him tighter.

“And then… I saw you. Just being there. Caring for this tiny stranger like it was nothing. Laughing with her. Holding her. And something in me just… ached.”

You tilt your head up “Ached how?”

He looks down at you, eyes serious now “Like I wanted that with you. And I didn’t even know how much until I saw it.”

The words settle deep inside you.

“You’d be a good father.” you whisper.

“You’d be the best mother.” he says back instantly.

Silence again, but this time it’s full. Of possibilities. Of truths unsaid until now.

“I didn’t say anything,” Shanks adds, brushing a hand through your hair, “because I don’t want you to think I expect that from you. Or that I’m pushing it. I just… couldn’t stop seeing it.”

You lean in and kiss him slow. No rush. No pressure. Just soft and sure.

When you pull away, your voice is warm and quiet “Then keep seeing it. I don’t mind.”

You kiss him. Long, soft, deep.

The kind of kiss that says more than either of you can find the words for. His hands settle on your waist, grounding you, holding you like you might drift away if he lets go. And when you finally break apart, you stay close. Forehead to forehead. Breathing the same air.

Now it’s your turn. You exhale shakily “I always saw you with Uta. And Luffy. The way you held them, talked to them, made them laugh… the way they looked at you.”

Shanks closes his eyes, lips pressed together.

“I used to watch from the deck,” you continue softly, “and I’d think… that. I want that with him. Our own little chaos. Our own quiet moments. Our own family.”

His grip on you tightens just a little. His thumb strokes your hip, slowly.

“I never said anything,” you admit, voice quieter now “Because I thought… maybe you already had your turn. Maybe being a dad again wasn’t something you wanted. Like, maybe Uta and even Luffy were your ‘once in a lifetime’. And I didn’t want to be selfish.”

Shanks pulls back just enough to look at you fully, eyes wide, voice rough “Selfish? Y/N… You have no idea how wrong you are.”

You blink.

He cups your face, brushing his thumb over your cheek “If anything, I was scared you didn’t want that. I never wanted to put that weight on you. My name. My crew. My life.”

You both laugh a little, soft and breathless. And then he says it “I’d love to see a little you run around the ship.”

Your heart does a full spin in your chest. You both collapse back onto the bed, side by side, hands tangled together, staring at the ceiling like it holds the future in its stars.

“I think she’d be loud.” you say, smiling to yourself.

“She?” Shanks grins “You’re already picking sides?”

“I just know. She’d talk back to Benn by the time she could crawl.”

“She’d steal Yasopp’s sake and blame it on Lucky Roux.”

“She’d steal your cape and wear it like a dress.”

“She’d make the whole crew bow to her by age four.”

You laugh. He laughs too. Your fingers tighten around his.

“She’d be soft like you,” he adds suddenly, voice lower now “Kind. But dangerous.”

You glance over at him “She’d be brave like you. Wild, loyal, always smiling.”

He sighs, almost dreamily “I can already hear her little feet running on the deck.”

“And your big voice yelling ‘don’t climb the cannon!’”

You both break into giggles and then silence again, but this time, it’s wrapped in warmth, in hope.

Shanks turns his head to look at you. You’re already looking at him.

“I mean…” he says slowly, raising one eyebrow, “we could start working on that little Y/N… like… right now.”

You gasp “Shanks!”

He smirks wickedly “What? I’m just saying. We’re both here. The ship’s quiet. The moon looks nice. You’re cute. I’m cute. It’s called destiny.”

You snort “You’re impossible—ah!”

He attacks, fingers darting to your sides, tickling, making you laugh and squirm under him.

“Shanks! Stop!”

“Never!” he grins, pinning you lightly with his weight “You’re stuck now. You told me your secrets. I told you mine. That makes us legally married in pirate law.”

You laugh until your cheeks hurt. You wiggle, but he’s strong, gentle, always careful. And then you stop moving. So does he.

Your eyes meet again. Closer now. Breath mingling.

That softness returns. Like a wave pulling you under, not scary. Just deep. Full of something quiet and forever.

You reach up and brush his hair behind his ear.

He leans into your touch.

“Hey,” you whisper “I love you.”

“I know,” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your palm “And I love you more than I thought I even could.”

His mouth finds yours again, slower this time. No rush.

The kind of kiss that makes the world outside the cabin disappear and maybe, tonight is the beginning of something new.

── .✦ Ace:

The sun is warm, the breeze is salty, and Ace is doing what he always does when he’s not fighting or eating: walking too close to you with that lazy grin on his face.

“You sure you don’t wanna race?” he asks “You lose, you buy lunch.”

You raise an eyebrow “You’ll cheat with your fire.”

“Not true.” He places a hand on his chest, all dramatic “I only cheat if I’m losing.”

You snort “So always.”

He gasps “Betrayal.”

The two of you walk down the main road of a small island town. It’s quiet, peaceful, one of those places that doesn’t care much for bounties or pirate crews. People nod, wave, smile. Ace stretches, yawns, and puts his arm lazily around your shoulder.

“Maybe we should stay here a few days,” he says “Nice change from all the running.”

Before you can answer, a small voice says “Is that Fire Fist Ace?!”

You both turn. Two kids stand by a fruit stall, one boy, maybe six, and an older girl, probably nine. The boy’s eyes are wide. The girl looks like she’s not impressed yet.

Ace grins “Yeah, that’s me.”

The boy lights up “No way! My dad told me you can burn down a whole ship in one punch!”

Ace shrugs, clearly proud “Depends on the ship.”

The girl, however, is staring at you.

Her eyes narrow “You’re her, aren’t you?”

You blink “…Her?”

She steps closer, pointing at your waist “You’re the swordwoman who beat that Navy officer in Loguetown. The one who fights with two blades and never loses.”

You look down at her, surprised. She’s serious. Ace whistles.

“Wow,” he says “I didn’t know I was walking around with a legend.”

You nudge him “Shut up.”

The girl keeps going “They say you cut a cannonball in half.”

You sigh “It was already cracked.”

Still, her eyes sparkle. The boy joins in, bouncing excitedly.

“She’s so cool! Are you really pirates?!”

“Guilty,” Ace says, holding up his hands “But friendly pirates.”

“You don’t look friendly...” the girl says.

Ace grins “Good. That’s the point.”

Then the boy tugs at your sleeve “Can I see your sword?”

You crouch to his level “They’re sharp. Not safe for kids.”

He frowns “I won’t touch it. Promise!”

You glance at Ace, who’s watching you closely, smiling like he’s waiting for something. You sigh and slowly pull one of your swords just a little from the sheath, just enough to show the edge. Both kids gasp like it’s treasure.

“Can you teach us how to fight?” the girl asks suddenly.

You blink “You’re nine.”

“So? You were probably younger when you started.”

Ace chuckles “She was.”

You give him a side-eye “Stop helping.”

The little girl folds her arms “You could just show us something. Like a move. Just one.”

You sigh again but you’re smiling now “You’re very stubborn.”

She shrugs “You have to be, if you wanna be strong.”

Ace leans against a wooden post, arms crossed, amused “Sounds familiar.”

You glance at him “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I mean… yeah.” He grins “It’s the first time someone’s asking you for autographs instead of me. I’m letting it sink in.”

The boy tugs your coat again “Please? One move?”

You finally stand, looking at the open space near the dock “Fine. But just one. Then you leave us alone and go home, got it?”

The kids cheer and run to the clearing.

Ace follows, whistling “You’re gonna start a sword school at this rate.”

You roll your shoulders, then pull your blade halfway out, just enough to flash the steel. You drop into a stance, slow and firm. The kids go quiet. Then, with a sharp breath, you move. One swift, elegant slash through the air, so fast the wind shifts. The tip of your sword stops just above the ground, and your coat flutters around you.

The boy’s mouth hangs open. The girl’s eyes are huge.

Ace whistles “Show-off.”

You sheathe the sword in one clean motion.

The girl points “That was awesome! Can you do it again?”

“No,” you say, but you’re laughing now.

The boy runs over and hugs your leg suddenly “You’re my favorite pirate now!”

You blink, surprised. You pat his head awkwardly “Uh. Thanks?”

Ace watches you, your hand gently resting on the boy’s head, your stance still grounded, strong but soft. You’re not trying to impress anyone. You just exist like this. Capable. Calm. Kind. Something shifts in his chest.

You look up at him “What?”

He shrugs “Nothing. Just… didn’t know you were this good with kids.”

“I’m not,” you say “They’re just clingy.”

The girl now grabs your wrist “Can I hold your sword?”

“No.”

“Can I touch it?”

“No.”

“Can you teach me how to fight like that?”

“No—”

Ace walks over, laughing “C’mon, sweetheart. Be nice.”

You glare at him “You help, then.”

He lifts his hands “Nope. I’m just the fire guy. You’re the star today.”

The boy turns to Ace “Do you two live together?”

You and Ace exchange a look.

He grins “Something like that.”

The girl squints “Are you married?”

You cough “No.”

“Are you gonna be?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Ace just laughs and says, “Wanna help me convince her?”

“YES!” the kids shout in unison.

You groan and walk away “I regret everything.”

Ace follows, hands in his pockets, that lazy smile still on his face, but his eyes stay soft. He watches you gently shoo the kids away, then thank the fruit vendor with a quiet bow. And in that moment, he knows. Clear as day.

“She’s not just strong. She’s not just mine. She’d be the best damn mom the world’s ever seen.”

He doesn’t say it out loud. Not yet. But he’s thinking it. Hard.

You and Ace are sitting under a tree near the edge of the village, sharing a bag of sliced fruit.

“You think they’re gone?” you ask, biting into a juicy piece.

Ace shrugs “Maybe. Or maybe they’re forming a fan club.”

You nudge his leg with your boot “I don’t need a fan club.”

He gives you a lazy grin “No, but you deserve one.”

You roll your eyes, but your ears go a little pink.

Then, a small voice calls from down the road “WE’RE BACK!!”

You groan “No.”

Ace grins “Yes.”

The two kids come running, the boy nearly trips over his own feet and stop in front of you, proudly holding up folded paper sheets.

“Look!!” the girl says, unfolding one “We drew you!”

You blink “…You what?”

They hand you the papers. The drawings are messy, full of wild colors, but so full of heart. One is of you holding two swords, a big smile on your face. Another shows you and Ace together, tiny figures with stars around you. A third shows you with a little kid, sword in hand, standing tall.

You pause at that one. Ace leans over your shoulder to peek. His voice is softer now “Is that supposed to be your kid?”

The girl nods proudly “Yup! We made a story about you! You’re a pirate mom who protects her ship and teaches her kid how to be strong.”

You stare at the page, silent. The boy holds out a few crayons “You can draw too, if you want!”

Before you can say no, he’s already sitting down, opening another paper. The girl joins him. They look up at you, smiling.

“C’mon,” she says “We wanna make a whole crew!”

You glance at Ace. He shrugs, trying to act casual “Up to you.”

You sigh and sit down cross-legged in the grass “Alright. But I’m drawing the captain.”

“That’s YOU!” the boy says.

You raise an eyebrow “I meant me.”

They laugh.

You start sketching. Nothing fancy just simple shapes. You draw yourself with a pirate hat, a tiny sword tucked in your belt. The kids start adding characters around you: themselves, animals, someone with a frying pan who’s probably Ace.

You’re focused, smiling to yourself as you add waves and stars and a sun.

Ace just watches you from where he stands, hands in his pockets, face unreadable. There’s a heat in his chest now that has nothing to do with his powers. It burns deeper. It’s watching your hand gently guide the boy’s when he can’t get the lines straight. It’s hearing you ask, “Want me to draw your pirate flag too?” in that soft, patient voice.

It’s the way you look down at the page like you’re already imagining a future.

“This shouldn’t make me want her more,” he thinks, frustrated “But it does. She’s drawing little pirate stories with them on the grass. She’d be the kind of mom who makes the world feel safe.”

He swallows hard and looks away for a second, like it’ll calm him down... It doesn’t.

You finish your little drawing with a final scribble of wind in the sails.

“There,” you say, holding it up “Captain, crew, and treasure.”

The boy claps “It’s perfect!”

The girl leans over to look “Yours is way cooler than mine.”

“Nah,” you say, nudging her arm “You’ve got better colors.”

They beam like you just handed them gold.

Ace is still standing nearby, arms crossed, pretending to be relaxed, but his jaw is tight.

You glance up at him “You okay?”

“Me? Yeah.” His voice comes out rougher than he means it to. He clears his throat “Just… warm.”

The boy tugs at your sleeve again.

“Hey,” he says, eyes wide with curiosity “Do you have kids?”

You blink. Ace freezes.

The girl adds quickly, “You’d be a really cool mom.”

There’s a beat of silence. Just the wind and the scratching of a crayon. You sit back slowly and shake your head “No. I don’t.”

The boy frowns “Why not?”

You laugh softly “Because I’m still busy being a pirate.”

“But you could be both,” the girl says, very seriously “Like in the drawing.”

You smile at that “Maybe someday.”

Your voice is calm. Light. Like you’re just answering any question. But Ace… Ace is not calm. He watches your face as you say those words “Maybe someday” and his heart lurches. Because now it’s real. Not just a fantasy in his head. Not just a warm thought. You’ve imagined it too now.

He doesn’t say anything. He just walks over slowly and sits down behind you, arms resting over your shoulders as you lean back against his chest.

“You’d be amazing at it.” he murmurs, low so the kids can’t hear.

You glance up “At what?”

He looks down at you, eyes soft and a little wild at the edges, like something’s breaking open inside him “At being a mom. I mean it.”

You pause. Then, quietly, you ask, “You think about that?”

He nods “More than I expected to. More than I ever thought I would.”

The kids are still doodling, totally unaware. You say nothing, but your hand reaches up and rests gently over his. That’s all he needs.

The kids eventually stand up, arms full of drawings and unfinished paper pirate maps.

“We’re gonna go show these to our grandpa!” the girl says.

The boy nods “Thanks for drawing with us!”

You wave, still sitting in the grass “Stay out of trouble.”

The boy grins “Bye, pirate mom!”

You blink “I’m not—”

But they’re already gone.

Ace snorts behind you “Pirate mom, huh?”

You roll your eyes and lean back into him again “Don’t start.”

He rests his chin on your shoulder “Too late. You’ve got the role down already. You give good advice, threaten people just enough, and draw cool flags. What more could a kid want?”

You hum “A dad who doesn’t set the house on fire?”

He grins “I’d try to keep it contained.”

You laugh, light and warm “You’d accidentally roast our laundry.”

“Okay, yeah, but I’d teach them how to blow stuff up responsibly.”

You fake-think “Hmm. Dangerous. But useful.”

He smiles, but then falls quiet. You feel the shift instantly. His arms wrap tighter around your middle.

“You were really sweet with them.” he says softly.

You shrug “They were cute.”

“You were cuter.”

You snort “Gross.”

“No, seriously,” he murmurs “I was watching you and thinking… like, really thinking—”

He breaks off, then tries again “That I wanna see you like that again. With… our own.”

You smirk “You mean with a mini version of me bossing you around?”

He groans “Oh god. A tiny you would be terrifying.”

“Admit it. You’d love it.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“I would,” he says, suddenly serious “I really would.”

You look up at him. He’s already looking down at you, eyes soft, mouth slightly parted, like he’s realizing it all over again.

You tilt your head, grinning “You’re so obvious, Ace.”

“Am not.”

“You were practically glowing while I helped that kid draw a sword.”

“I was not glowing!”

“You sighed like five times.”

“I didn’t—”

“You had your sappy ‘I’m in love’ face on.”

“I always have my sappy in love face on.”

You laugh, twisting in his arms to face him fully “True.”

He leans in, forehead pressed to yours.

“I’m serious though,” he murmurs “Someday. I’d want that. With you.”

Your voice softens “Yeah. Me too.”

You kiss him slow, sure, and just a little teasing, then pull back with a grin “But if the kid turns out chaotic like you, I’m blaming your genes.”

He laughs against your mouth “Deal. But if they’re scary with a sword by age seven, that’s all you.”

You smirk “We’ll make a terrifying little pirate together.”

“Perfect.” he says, smiling like he already sees it.

[blowingbarnes]

Mr. and Mrs.... Rogers?!

Pairing: Spy!Steve x Spy!Reader WC: 10.5k Warnings: enemies to lovers, loosely inspired by mr. and mrs. smith, the avengers are not super mainstream in this, sexual tension, shower scene, makeout, jealousy, mean!steve at times, brat!reader, eventual smut (dry humping, fingering, unprotected p in v, edging, creampie, steve eating you out within an inch of your life (munch steve come homeeeeeeee), doggy style, tonguefucking), mentions of voyeurism, surveillance, size kink, miscommunication, angst-ish with comfort. Summary: You and Steve are voluntold you're married for an undercover mission. Should be easy, except you hate each other. +fran: this is the opening showing of the Captain Americana Film Festival and my humble contribution to Steve's birthday!!! I cannot tell you how much it filled me with joy that I sat down to write this on the 4th and actually spat out 10k words. WE ARE SO BACK!!! Happy 108th to the man who will always have my heart, has been the gold standard against which I measure every man, (this is blond man propaganda) and also my astrological twin <3 no one gets me like he does fr. ⤷ you should go listen to the incredible playlist named "mr and mrs smith [john and jane]" by marybatz on spotify

"Absolutely not!"

Fury had the timing of a tax audit to a billionaire CEO. Of course, of course, you'd be stuck playing this mission with fucking Steve. 

One second you were minding your business, enjoying what was left of your coffee and your relatively peaceful morning, and the next Nick Fury was informing you that you would be spending the foreseeable future pretending to be happily married to Steve Rogers.

"You're going." Fury didn't even break stride. He rolled his eye and kept walking down the hallway toward the conference room, clearly done entertaining your complaints before you'd even finished making them, with you hot on his heel. 

Your footsteps echoed in the wide hallway as you walked backwards, facing Fury. "Can't I marry someone else for this?" You pondered. "What about Barnes?"

Fury stopped so suddenly you nearly tripped. "You want to pretend to be married to Barnes?"

You opened your mouth, immediately closed it, thought for a second and shrugged, squeezing your eyes shut. "That's not the point."

"That's what I thought."

The polished floors reflected the overhead lights as the two of you moved through the hallway. “Nat, maybe? Some of those married dudes would eat up girl-on-girl and spill the beans right away. Mission would be so quick!”

Fury walked with the patience of a man who'd dealt with far worse than you. The fact that he hadn't strangled you after years of working together was honestly kind of impressive, a little endearing almost.

Both of you quickly arrived at the conference room door, Fury stopping with his hand on the handle, turning his face to you and letting our a frustrated sigh. "Do you like working here?"

You rolled your eyes, "Yes, sir." What kind of question was that?

"And what's your title?" His brow quirked up.

A confused look plastered all over your face. "Agent."

He leaned down to talk to you closer, almost like explaining rules to a petulant child, "Then be an agent." and proceeded to push the door open and hold it for you, giving you full view of Steve Rogers sitting at the head of the table with a sour expression on his face, just as displeased to have to pretend to love you for the mission. 

The training room should've been empty half an hour ago, and technically, everyone was done for the day. 

It should’ve been quiet—mats wiped down, lights dimmed, everyone gone for the night.

Instead, the air was thick.

Heavy with sweat, heat, and something sharp enough to make the back of your neck prickle. The entire team and a couple recruits were watching you.

Well, you and Steve. 

At first not openly—no one was stupid enough to make it obvious—but they lingered. Leaned against walls, sat on benches, hovered just close enough to pretend they had somewhere else to be.

It started as any other training session did, you rotated partners, almost like shark bait: in and out, partner after partner cycling through you while you stayed planted on the mat, pushing your stamina, your endurance, your patience.

Until you ended up on the other side of the mat from Steve. 

Barefoot, sleeves rolled, skin already lightly sheened with the littlest bit of sweat that somehow made him look betterinstead of worse—which was deeply, personally offensive.

Here's the thing: he was a super soldier. He had endless stamina, super strength, reflexes that outmatched 99% of the population, and he had it all with perfect blond hair and barely breaking a sweat on his sculpted body.

It infuriated the hell out of you. 

He blocked every kick, every punch, and when he didn't he wasn't even phased. 

It made you go harder, to the point where you found yourselves now: almost trying to hurt each other. 

By then, no one was even preteding to be occupied by anything else, shamelessly staring at the two of you at the center of the mat like Oppenheimer waiting for a bomb to go off. 

Steve had stopped treating you with the same careful restraint he used with newer recruits. He'd throw you harder into the mats, knock the wind from your lungs, shove you back with enough force to remind you exactly how much stronger he was, and you'd borderline play dirty.

Every hit had a little more weight behind it. Neither willing to back down. Neither willing to lose.

Sam was sitting backwards in a chair, chin propped on his arms, watching like he had front row seats to the best show of his life; Natasha looked delighted; Bucky looked concerned, brows drawn, arms crossed tight over his chest, like he was trying to decide whether to step in or let you both learn your lesson the hard way.

Steve stood opposite of you, his feet staggered and his arms up, making a "come at me" motion with his fingers. His hair was slightly mussed, a damp strand falling forward over his forehead.

"Come to daddy."

The entire room held their breaths, and you saw red. 

In hindsight, you should've planned a better move than to just charge at him, the strength in your muscles and bones not being able to match his. You should've thought of something tactical, something smart. 

But also… you fucking hated his guts. 

Which is exactly how you ended up with your cheek and stomach pressed to the sweaty mat, with Steve's whole weight on your back, your wrists pinned between the two of you and his right arm laced under yours and up your back, hand holding your neck down. 

His hands caught you mid-motion, grip iron-tight as he twisted, using your momentum against you with terrifying ease, his grip locking your body in place, the angle just shy of painful.

"You need to work on your psyche. Mind over matter." His stupid voice right in your ear made goosebumps bloom up your spine, so you did what any reasonable person would do.

You flexed the knee that was between his spread legs hard enough that you hit him square in the balls, giving you the out you needed. 

You straightened on your feet, pushing damp hair back from your face, a breathless, borderline feral grin breaking across your lips as he winced on the mat in pain. 

"Who's your daddy now?" 

Your breathless laughter was cut short, Fury's booming voice breaking through any pain or enjoyment present in the room. "You do know domestic violence is not part of your cover story, no?"

Both of your heads whipped in the direction of his voice. 

He continued to walk in your direction, dropping two folders in front of your feet, and Steve, who was still kneeling down on the mat. "Shower this off. You leave in the morning, lovebirds."

The neighborhood looked like the kind of place where people complained to the HOA because their neighbor's hydrangeas were the wrong shade of blue.

Every lawn was trimmed within an inch of its life, sharp lines cutting through impossibly green grass like someone came out with a ruler every morning. 

The mailboxes all matched—sleek, black, expensive-looking—and every driveway held something polished and obscene:luxury SUV or a car that definitely cost more than your first apartment.

The houses themselves were enormous. White trim, brick facades, wraparound porches, massive windows that left little room for privacy on a street that looked like it loved to mind every business but its own. 

You sat in the passenger seat while Steve drove to your home, the undercover file open across your lap like a book while your bare feet rested on the dash. 

Because annyong Steve was free, and your favorite past time. "No feet on the dash."

You turned a page, ignoring him. "They're staying." You read more of the file. "It's more comfortable that way." Your light blue summer dress was bunched up higher across your thighs, and he did a double take before taking a right turn to your house block.

He sighed. "If we crash—"

"Just look at the road instead of me and we'll be fine." That made him shift in the driver's seat, straightening his posture and looking ahead, his Adam's apple bobbing in annoyance.

What irritated Steve about you was the fact that these comebacks never even seemed to make sense or be thought of, it just rolled off your tongue, almost just for the plot. And you didn't even care. 

He didn't even know why you hated him so much in the first place, but he reciprocated the feeling as soon as he saw how insubordinate and bratty you were. 

Steve sighed the long suffering sigh of a man questioning every life decision that had brought him to this moment. "You're impossible." Muttered under his breath. 

"You're a Senior Project Manager at your own company, honey!" Fake admiration and praise filled your voice. "Oh, you proposed quick! Only a year after our first date." You turned to him, your first real smile plastered on your face. "You're so down bad."

The car came to a stop in your driveway, and Steve turned it off, unclipping his seatbelt. "Put your shoes on, we're here and I feel eyes already." 

"Bossy." You muttered, doing exactly as he said. As you got out of the car, your voice went up an octave, carrying through the humid summer weather. 

“Ready, honey?” you asked, slipping the word out effortlessly, like you’d been saying it for years.

He opened the front door for you, making sure whoever was watching heard him just as well, possessive in a way that made your breath hitch before you could stop it.

“After you, sweetheart.”

You'd barely had enough time to figure out which bedroom closet was yours before the doorbell rang.

ding-dong. ding-dong.

You froze in the middle of the bedroom, one hand still gripping a hanger, Steve somewhere down the hall filling a modified cabinet with all sorts of concealed weapons.

You dropped the hanger onto the bed without another thought, smoothing your hands down your dress as you moved. Steve stepped out of the kitchen at the same time, wiping his hands on a dish towel like he’d been doing something domestic instead of checking sightlines and exits.

Ben and Julie Poindexter stood in your porch like they had been plucked straight out of a catalog. They were ones you hoped to make the acquaintance of quickly, as he was the right hand of the big druglord you and Steve were tasked with making an airtight case on.

Years of field work had taught you that monsters were rarely obvious, still, some primitive part of your brain always expected criminals to look like criminals.

Instead, Ben Poindexter looked like somebody who coached Little League and had multiple PTA moms undoing extra buttons in their cardigans to get his attention. Beside him, Julie beamed, already leaning slightly forward like she couldn’t wait to know everything about you.

“Oh my goodness,” she breathed, eyes lighting up. “You must be the Adlers!” You felt Steve shift beside you, his hand coming to rest warm on your back with an ease that shouldn't be there in the best of actors. 

He smiled, and it was a good one. The kind that made people relax immediately. The kind that five years ago made you—

“Guilty,” he said easily. “Frank.” Right. Frank Adler. 

He extended his hand and Ben took it immediately, introducing you then. “I’m Dex,” the shorter blond said in return, just as easy. “This is my wife, Julie.”

“Hi,” you said, stepping forward like you hadn’t been mentally preparing to dismantle her entire social circle for intel. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

She lit up.

“Oh, you are just adorable,” she gushed, reaching out to squeeze your arm like you were already best friends. “We saw the moving truck this morning and I told Ben, I said, ‘We have to go introduce ourselves before everyone else gets to them first.’”

You faked confusion. "Ben…?"

He chuckled lightly in response. "That's me, I… uh… Ben's really only for her and my parents. Friends call me Dex."

You smiled back in understanding. “We appreciate that,” he said smoothly. “It’s been a bit of a whirlwind getting settled.”

“So,” Dex cut in, tone casual but eyes observant, “what brings you two here?” There it was. The first test.

You felt Steve’s thumb twitch slightly against your back. A cue , or maybe just instinct. “Work, mostly,” he said, not missing a beat. “I just transferred to oversee a new branch out here.”

Julie gasped softly. “Oh! That’s right, you’re the project manager, right? We heard something about that—”

Of course they did.

You tilted your head toward Steve, letting your smile soften just a touch as you looked at him. Pride, affection… Just enough to sell it.

“He won’t say it, but he’s very good at what he does.” You interjected, turning your sweet smile to your nosy neighbors again. 

His hand pressed a little more firmly into your back before easing again. “Someone has to pay the bills,” he joked lightly, glancing down at you.

"It's a 50/50 relationship," you shot back, nudging his side with your elbow just enough to look playful. "You earn money, and I look pretty in the things it buys." Your hand reached up to scratch the freshly shaven skin of his chin.

“Wow,” Julie breathed, practically vibrating with delight. “You two are so cute.”

You laughed, soft, a little embarassed… and completely fake. Dex watched that exchange carefully. His smile stayed in place, but his eyes sharpened just a fraction.

“New couples usually take a while to settle in around here,” he said, tone still easy. “But I think you two will fit right in.”

“Well,” you said lightly, leaning just a little closer into Steve without thinking about it, “we’re counting on our neighbors to help with that.”

Julie clasped her hands together. “Oh, you have to come to dinner this weekend! Everyone’s going to be there—it’s kind of our thing.”

“We’d love to,” Steve said, lightly nodding.

Both of them smiled in satisfaction, briefly saying their goodbyes and we'll let you get settled. As they started to step back, Julie waved enthusiastically. “Welcome to the neighborhood!”

Integration happened faster and easier than either of you expected. Almost like… bait. 

It started with waves.

Small, polite acknowledgments from across driveways—neighbors watering already-perfect lawns, women in linen sets pausing mid-walk with their equally curated dogs. At first it was just smiles, quick introductions repeated twice because no one actually listened the first time, or maybe they expected you to slip up. 

Names, occupations, how long you planned to stay.

Somehow, without either of you saying much at all, your lives had already been filled in for you. Steve—Frank—was “the project manager from the city.” You were “so sweet” and “adjusting beautifully.”

It was unsettling.

Steve got pulled in first.

Dex made it look casual—leaning over the fence one late afternoon while Steve pretended to struggle with a hose attachment he absolutely knew how to fix.

“Couple of us head out to the club on Saturdays,” Dex had said, like it wasn’t a test. Like it wasn’t an invitation into something much bigger. “You golf?”

Steve had shrugged, wiping his hands on a towel like the answer didn’t matter. “Enough not to embarrass myself.”

Dex chuckled. “Good. Fisk hates losing.”

That was how Steve Rogers found himself in pressed polos and quiet greens, standing under the sun with a man who ran half the city from behind clean hands and cleaner money.

Wilson Fisk didn’t look like a monster either. They never did.

From the sidelines, it would’ve looked normal—three men talking shop, trading easy laughs, the soft crack of a golf ball slicing through the air.

But Steve came home with tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before, and eyes that thought too much.

You were integrated differently. Faster, deeper in a sense. If you wanna know a man, you need to know the woman in his life first. Julie took one look at you and decided you were hers.

Brunch turned into wine nights, which turned into yoga classes and impromptu shopping trips where you learned which women talked too much, which ones listened too closely, and which ones pretended not to notice everything while noticing everything.

You laughed when you were supposed to, touched arms at the right moments, let yourself be pulled into conversations about renovations and charity events and who was “having trouble in their marriage” this week.

You played the part. Perfectly.

But you also listened. And Julie talked, about Dex, about their marriage, about his schedule, the men he worked with, his "job".

About Fisk in a careful, vague way that told you she knew just enough to be useful and not enough to be dangerous.

Inside the house, however, nothing really changed. You were in bliss whenever Steve was anywhere outside of the five thousand square feet of the house. And in hell when you could hear his footsteps through the hallways. 

“Why are your shoes in the middle of the hallway?” “Because I took them off.”

“You put a gun in the cereal cabinet.” “It was concealed.”

And yet, somewhere in between the arguing and the slammed cabinets and the pointed silences, you moved around each other.

Steve adjusted the cuff of his polo as he stepped out onto the green, the sun warm against the back of his neck, the grass trimmed so perfectly it almost didn’t look real. Somewhere in the distance, a fountain trickled softly—controlled, decorative, intentional.

Everything here was curated, including the people. Dex stood a few feet ahead, already mid-conversation with a Fisk, Steve immediately recognizing his big frame.

“Frank,” Dex called easily, turning just enough to wave him over. “Glad you made it.” 

Steve walked up at an even pace, shoulders loose, posture relaxed, every movement deliberate in its lack of tension. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Dex clapped his hands lightly. “Let’s see if you actually know how to swing that thing.”

The game itself was uneventful on the surface, small talk, a couple of drinks over a few holes, business talk, the kind of conversation that never said anything directly but still managed to reveal everything if you knew how to listen.

Steve pretending to be worse than Fisk at golf remembering what Dex said about him not liking losing. 

Well, who does? He thought.

He missed a shot he could’ve made here and there, fake grimace on his face to help sell the lie, burrow himself deeper in the web.

Dex talked the most—easy laughter, casual stories, the kind of man who filled silence before it could become uncomfortable.

Fisk didn’t, he was quieter, more measured. Almost amused. 

By the ninth hole, Steve could feel the shift, the attention settling more fully onto him. He was past the evaluation phase and onto something else. 

Fisk set his club aside after a clean shot, stepping back as one of the attendants moved to retrieve it. He didn’t look at Steve immediately, instead adjusting his cufflinks with slow, precise movements.

“Beautiful house you’ve got,” Fisk said finally.

Steve shrugged lightly, taking a swing of his beer. “Got lucky to swoop in right when it went on the market.”

Fisk hummed. “I find luck tends to favor the well-prepared.” Steve didn’t respond, Fisk’s gaze lifted then. “You and your wife settling in well?”

For some reason, hearing such a dangerous man mention you made him uneasy. And it shouldn't, because he hated you. Steve forced his expression to remain easy. “Yeah. She likes it here.” He paused for a second. “She’s… adjusting.”

Fisk’s lips curved slightly. “Is she?” Steve’s grip on the club in his hand tightened just a fraction.

Dex shifted beside them, glancing between the two, something quieter settling over his usual ease.

“You know,” Fisk continued, tone almost conversational, “I take a great interest in the people who choose to live in the neighborhood.”

Steve tilted his head slightly. “Seems like a lot of effort.”

Fisk chuckled softly. “It is if you don't have the… resources.”

Steve didn’t like the way he said that, didn’t like the weight behind it.

The back nine loosened things.

Or at least, that’s what it looked like.

Dex got louder, a little more relaxed with each hole, his posture easing into something casual as the game stretched on. Drinks appeared somewhere around the seventh—cold, expensive, handed off by staff who moved like ghosts—and by the tenth, the conversation had shifted.

Way less about business. 

Dex snorted at something one of the other men—some hedge fund name Steve hadn’t bothered to remember—had said, shaking his head as he lined up his shot.

“I’m telling you,” the man continued, grinning like he thought he was hilarious, “if you’re doing it right, she’s not walking straight the next morning.”

One of the others chimed in with something worse, cruder. The kind of joke that got easy agreement and knowing looks passed around like currency.

Steve didn’t react, just stood there, one hand resting loosely on his club, gaze fixed somewhere out over the green like he wasn’t listening.

“C’mon, Adler,” Dex called, nudging him lightly with his elbow. “You’ve been real quiet over there.”

Steve glanced over, trying to seem unbothered. Like he didn't want to roll his eyes at everything coming out of that prick's mouth. “Just listening.”

“That’s not how this works,” the hedge fund guy said with a smirk. “You gotta contribute. You’re married, right?”

“Familiarity,” Fisk continued, almost thoughtfully, like he was discussing market trends instead of people, “breeds a certain ease.”

“Guess some guys are just more private.” Steve chimed, moving as to redirect the conversation, walking a couple steps to the next hole. "I don’t feel the need to talk about my wife like that."

Silence fell upon the group for a second, Dex interjected to change the subject quickly, but the way Fisk looked at Steve the rest of the time made he hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Steve unlocked the kitchen door, toeing his shoes off as soon as he stepped inside. The house was clean, marble countertops reflecting the golden light coming through the curtains.

A candle burned on the center island that made the house smell like a bouquet of fresh flowers, blooming in deepest winter.

The door clocked shit behind him with a soft, controlled click, as he called out "Babe?" while letting his keys rattle against the marble.

He stepped further into the kitchen, eyes sweeping automatically—back door locked, blinds angled just enough, nothing out of place. The cabinet he’d modified earlier sat closed, unassuming, hiding everything it needed to.

He called out for you again, "Sweetheart?", feet padding into the house and when he got to the bottom of the stairs, he heard the shower running on. 

Steve's mind kept replaying the interactions he'd had that day, how Fisk seemed to have too much knowledge of his dynamic with you to not have—

Of course.

A man like Fisk wouldn't just intentionally have a blind side. 

The motherfucker had surveillance on your house. 

In your house. 

The sound got clearer and clearer as he moved up the stairs. The hallway stretched ahead, quiet and sun-dimmed, and then right outside of the bathroom door, steam curling underneath it. Steve paused just outside it, his hand hovering near the frame, his head tilting slightly as he listened.

You were humming, soft and absentminded.

Like you weren’t in the middle of a mission that had just taken a very sharp turn.

He exhaled softly through his nose, dragging a hand down his face, fingers catching briefly on the tension sitting heavy there.

He should wait, he knew he should. Whatever he had to say could wait ten minutes.

Five.

Hell, two.

But the words Fisk had said—had implied—sat in his chest like a weight that refused to settle. So if Fisk had creepily put surveillance in your home like Steve was 98% sure he had, you were gonna have to roll with the punches.

Steam hit him immediately, warm and thick, fogging the edges of his vision for half a second before it cleared. 

Stripping his shirt, kicking off the rest of his clothes in a blur of motion that would’ve felt ridiculous under any other circumstance.

He walked into the shower, watching you let the water trickle over you, over your face, your neck, your chest, and he thanked every God he could think of that his body was cooperating and he did not have more than a half-hard on right then and there.

Which meant that you finished rinsing your shampoo off and opened your eyes to find a very, very naked Steve Rogers encapsulated by the shower stall glass around you. 

With you.

All naked, and very wet, and very naked, and—

"Ahh!" You shrieked in surprise, stumbling back half a step, water splashing over him as your hands came up instinctively. "What the f—" Steve put his index finger on his lips with one hand, the other motioning to his ear and out.

We're being listened to.

"Honey," You immediately switched into your undercover tone, "you scared the crap out of me!"

Steve stepped closer, couldn't risk his voice being any louder than absolutely necessary to get you the information right then and there. 

His frame in comparison to yours felt even bigger now, steam curling around him like vines. You'd blame the way your nipples hardened at the sight on the water. 

“Fisk,” he whispered, barely audible over the spray. “He knows something’s off. Pretty sure we’re wired. The house is.”

Your breath hitched.

Absolutely having nothing to do with the fact that you were trying very hard not to stare at his— "Where?"

"Everywhere." He confirmed. 

Water ran down both of you in steady streams, heat curling between your bodies, steam thickening the air until everything felt too close.

“Well,” you murmured, louder now, just enough for anyone listening to catch it, your tone dipping into something softer, more playful, “next time, maybe knock?”

Steve huffed out a quiet breath that could almost pass for a laugh, his forehead dipping closer to yours, but not touching, droplets of water falling from his hair onto you.

“Didn’t think you’d mind.” One of your hands braced lightly against his chest, the other gripping his arm as if for balance.

Your hand slid up to the nape of his neck, pulling the hair there enough to make him hiss. “Oh, I mind,” you said lightly, your fingers threading just a little deeper into the short hair at the nape of his neck. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You were pretty good at… faking it. 

Night settled over the house smoothly, the sun bleeding into deep indigo slowly and surely until stars littered the sky and you all you could hear was the fair sound of nature beyond the glass.

The neighborhood dimmed in stages—porch lights flicking on one by one, warm squares of yellow glowing through wide, uncovered windows. Somewhere down the street, laughter carried faintly. A dog barked once, then twice, then went quiet again.

As your brain processed the information Steve had given you, you moved through the motions anyway. 

Teeth brushed. Face washed. Lights turned off and on in the right order. The kind of routine that would look normal from the outside, mundane and unremarkable to anyone paying attention.

The thought sat in the back of your mind, somewhat panicked and loud, but also a constant, steady pressure. 

You dried your hands slowly on a towel, eyes flicking briefly to the mirror. Your reflection stared back—hair dried and silky, skin still warm from the shower, expression carefully neutral.

Steve stood near the dresser, back half-turned to you, pulling a t-shirt over his head. The fabric stretched sinf— normallyacross his shoulders before falling into place, softening the sharp lines of him into something more… domestic.

You watched him through the mirror without meaning to, picking up a book, turning on his bedside lamp, and crawling under the covers of your bed, letting the light comforter rest on his legs and hips while he flipped through the pages with his back resting against his pillows and the headboard.

You bit your lip, thoughts blooming fast and messy under your skull, and flicked the lights in the bathroom off, walking towards your side of the bed. 

Your short camisole shifted through the air as you moved, light and soft, brushing against your thighs. Steve's eyes immediately clocking your bare legs before he forced them onto the words in front of him. 

You laid onto your side and closed the distance between you in one smooth motion, your body fitting against his side like that's where it was always supposed to be. 

Your arm slid across his waist, your cheek pressed lightly against the plane of his pecs, and you felt the very warm, solid, real muscle of him under your face go completely still. 

Not in any subtle way, you could feel the exact moment his brain short-circuited.

He turned his face just enough to look down and meet your gaze. His expression screamed an unfiltered "what the hell?"while yours softly said "we have to sell it."

He shifted, turning just enough so he wasn’t facing away from you anymore, his arm coming up—hesitant for half a second—before settling around you, his hand resting on your forearm, thumb tracing soothing patterns on the soft, moisturized skin. 

As you laid there, the cogs in your brain turned. You bit the inside of your cheek lightly, the more he believes it, the quicker we get out. 

You moved forward, your hand pressed against his chest, using him for leverage as you pushed yourself up, swinging one leg over his hips in a smooth, deliberate motion until you were straddling him.

The poor book slid uselessly to rest on the mattress on the other side of his body. You nuzzled your face into his neck, pretending to pepper kisses on the skin there, and Steve stiffened up.

His hands instinctively came up, not grabbing or even stopping you, just hovering at your waist like he didn’t know where they were allowed to go.

Your mouth lingered by his pulse point just long enough to make it convincing before you spoke, your breath hot against his skin. "Play along." You whispered.

You felt the tension in him—every muscle coiled, controlled, restrained in a way that had nothing to do with the mission and everything to do with the position you’d just put him in.

“Sweetheart,” he said, louder now, his tone shifting seamlessly, to something warmer, rougher, like it belonged to someone else. “You trying to kill me?”

From the outside, it sounded like a joke. A husband amused by his wife.

You tilted your head, letting your lips ghost just below his ear. “You just been working so much lately,” you murmured, just loud enough to carry.

His grip on you flexed, and he leaned into it. 

“I know, baby, I know,” he said, voice dropping, threading something you hadn’t heard from him since he had your face pressed into a sparring mat through it as his hands settled more firmly at your hips, anchoring you there. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Your stomach flipped, shameful heat pooling low in your core even though you tried to ignore it and call it by a different name. 

His fingers pressed just slightly, grounding, guiding, selling the illusion with an ease that made your pulse stutter.

Steve moved, fast as always, one second you were on top of him, the next your back hit the mattress, making it dip hard beneath you as he flipped you with practiced ease, your breath catching as his weight settled above you, caging you in without quite touching.

His face dipped toward yours, close enough that your noses almost brushed.

“What you’re doing,” he murmured against your ear, his breath warm, controlled, “is reckless.”

Your fingers curled slightly into his shirt, heart beating too fast, and you tilted your head just enough to whisper back, your tone soft and teasing, so low he almost didn't hear it. “So is getting caught.”

You tilted your neck up, and your lips connected with his.

It had been weeks of little pecks, prim and proper kisses in front of your neighbors, just enough to sell it on the outside. 

Holding his face in your hands and actually kissing Steve Rogers felt like a completely different experience. 

His tongue licked into your mouth with an intention you never really expected from Steve. Specially a Steve that was faking it. Your hands roamed the plane of his shoulders, trying to make it seem like the actual rustling of sheets one would expect of a couple who was going to—

He should really take this shirt off. 

And so your hands went to the hem of his white cotton shirt, pulling it up. Steve reluctantly let you take it off of him, leaving him only in the grey boxers that let you see he wasn't faking that much. 

"Oh my God," You whispered. "Are you serious?" That was more of a hiss. Was he seriously getting hard right now?

"I know," He whispered back, annoyed, frustrated, "I know. Just shut up about it."

Oh.

He wanted you to shut up about it. He wanted you to—

The petty part of your brain took over, and before you couldn't think of a less reckless thing to do, you squeezed your legs tighter around him, bringing his bulge flush against your clothed pussy. 

"O-oh—" Steve was surprised, not about the pettiness, but at the action itself. You bit your lip, almost proud of yourself, and tilted your hips up.

That earned you a scolding look. 

"Mmm," you breathed, just loud enough to carry, your voice shifting instantly to a soft, breathy, higher pitched version of yourself. "Fuck, baby, right there."

Steve's ears were ringing. Mostly because he didn't know what to do with his hard cock rubbing up and down against you. “Relax,” you murmured against his jaw, barely moving your lips. “You sound like you’re filing paperwork.”

He huffed softly, turning it into something that passed. “Maybe I like paperwork,” he muttered.

You scoffed. “You do not.”

“You don’t know that.” He whined softly against you. 

"You need to actually move your hips, Steve. Video needs to look like you're fucking your wife." You whispered in his ear. 

It's not like he couldn't feel how wet you were, slick pressing through the cotton of your panties and onto his underwear, darkening a spot there. 

“You’re unbelievable,” he breathed low, close to your ear.

“Say it louder,” you shot back quietly.

“You’re unbelievable,” he repeated, louder, tone shifting, like it meant something entirely different now.

Your heels dug into his ass cheeks, pulling him closer and closer to you, and closer and closer to the edge. 

You could feel the length of him twitch with each pass of his hips, and you pictured the leaking head of him making a mess out of the inside of his boxers, precum slicking him all over. 

“Okay—” he muttered quickly under his breath, breaking the moment before it could stretch too far. “We need a time frame. We can’t just—keep going forever.”

“Two minutes,” you whispered. “Make it believable.”

“Two minutes?” he echoed, actually offended. “That’s insulting.”

The thought of it sent heat down your core. His face was buried in your neck, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as your hands threaded through his hair. "Talk about me." Another perfectly placed thrust that nudged your clit. "'bout how I feel."

Steve grinded his teeth like he was fighting a mental battle between letting himself be consumed by this moment, and being proper. 

You nudged him again with your heel. 

"Nice and tight, sweetheart." He let his voice carry, surprisingly unwavering for how close he was. "Never get enough of your pussy."

What in the fuckity fuck?

Steve?

He almost said your name, your very real name, too lost in himself, letting his rhythm build up much too realistically, his thrusts deeper, the bulge now rubbing and nudging your clothed entrance as well. 

Your could hear the sound of wet fabric shifting, your panties getting caught and letting one lip slip out of safety and closer to Steve's leaking cock. 

"Frank," You said loudly, trying to catch his attention without success. "Frank." You tried again, more stern, being met with the same squeezed-shut eyes you tried to get an answer from. You dropped your voice low, hushed like a secret. "Steve."

That made him open his eyes, powder blue irises staring at you as his thursts hit a spot that had him moaning, stuttering over his own breath.

And spilling all inside his boxers, looking right into your eyes. 

His hips stuttered, almost as if his body wanted to milk itself dry, and his breathing slowed. 

You were speechless, big wide eyes looking up at him, genuinely not knowing what to say.

Both of you stared at each other in shock, horror, confusion as to why it felt so good to do that without someone who managed to get under your skin without even trying. 

You stayed like that until you felt the warm trickle of his seed seep through the cotton of his boxers and onto the front of your panties.

Steve dropped back to his side of the bed, and both of you avoided each other's gaze, just staring at the ceiling. 

"Are we—"

“…go to sleep,” you muttered.

Whatever Fisk needed proof of, seemingly he got it, since both you and Steve got invited the the biggest 4th of July bash of the neighborhood. 

Right at the belly of the beast. 

The whole backyard looked like something out of a magazine. 

String lights draped across the perimeter, glowing warm against the deep navy of the night sky, fireworks already starting to crackle faintly in the distance. 

The lawn stretched wide and immaculate, dotted with clusters of people holding drinks in delicate glasses, laughter spilling easily between them like nothing in the world could touch this place.

It was loud, busy, perfect, and underneath it all— wrong.

Steve had light wash jeans and a light blue polo on, you had a strapless summer dress and one of his linen shirts on, the shirt unbuttoned to give the air of a casual outing. 

You stood near one of the long tables, fingers loosely wrapped around a Moscow Mule you hadn’t touched, your eyes scanning without looking like you were scanning. Steve was across the yard, pulled into a circle of men near the grill, one of them mid-story, the others laughing at something you couldn’t quite hear from this distance.

And there she was.

Blonde, tall, and much too interested in your— Steve.

Her hand landed on his arm like she’d been waiting for an excuse, your eyes narrowed at her as you shoved a piece of salami and cheese into your mouth.

“That's Sharon.” Julie’s voice chimed in beside you, far too cheerful for how observant she actually was. “She's new. Came to stay with her aunt a bit, they live a few strees back. Divorced. Which means she’s—”

“—looking,” you finished lightly, before finally taking a sip of your drink like you hadn’t already clocked every detail.

Julie laughed. “Exactly.”

Your eyes flicked back to Steve. He hadn’t moved away, hadn’t stepped back, hadn’t even noticed.

Of course he hadn’t.

He was listening—really listening—to whatever the man next to him was saying, nodding slightly, relaxed in that effortless way that made people lean in closer without thinking about it.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, lowering her voice just enough to feel conspiratorial. “If he's anything like Dex, he's clueless. They don’t even realize when they’re being flirted with.”

You hummed softly. "He is clueless, alright."

“He’s very charming,” Julie added, watching you now instead of them. “Frank, I mean.”

Your lips curved. “He has his moments.”

Julie giggled, and you finished downing your drink, making your way to him, wrapping a hand around his perfectly sculped bicep and turning on your smile to the sweetest setting possible. 

His body reacted immediately, adjusting to your touch like it always belonged there. His gaze dropped to you, surprise flickering for half a second before smoothing into something softer.

“Hey,” he said, one hand coming up to rest at your hip without thinking about it.

“Hi,” you replied, tilting your head up toward him, your smile warm in a way that felt almost too real. “Sorry,” you said sweetly, not sounding sorry at all. “Am I interrupting?”

She blinked, then smiled tightly back at you. “Not at all.” Steve’s hand pressed slightly into your hip, a silent question that you answered it by leaning just a fraction closer into him.

“We were just talking about the neighborhood,” she continued.

“Were you?” you asked, your tone light, but your grip on Steve tightening just enough to be felt.

“Oh—yes,” she said, glancing briefly at him. “Frank was just telling us about his work.”

“Mm,” you hummed, eyes flicking up to his. “He works too much.”

Steve’s brows lifted slightly. “Oh, I do?”

“You do,” you said simply, sighing longingly, your fingers sliding absently against his side like it was second nature. “I barely see you anymore.”

Sharon laughed softly. “That’s a shame.” Steve lifted the beer up to his lips and took a swing.

“It is,” you agreed, smiling again. “But I make sure he makes up for it.”

Steve choked on his drink. Actually choked. Coughed once, quickly covering it with a laugh that didn’t quite hide the surprise.

His hand flexed at your hip. “Yeah,” he said, voice dropping just slightly as he looked down at you, something new threading through it. “I do.”

For a moment it didn't feel like pretending, but it also didn't feel real. It felt like a limbo much too similar to five years ago, when he first recruited you into SHIELD by accident. 

FIVE YEARS EARLIER

Colombia had been too hot. The humid, muggy weather made your skin sticky, a sheen coat of sweat all over your arms and legs, even though you were only wearing a white tanktop and a flowy, maxi floral skirt. 

Music was bleeding from open windows, people crowding narrow streets, making it the kind of place where mistakes didn’t just cost you the mission.

They cost you everything.

You’d been handling it just fine, up until you weren’t. The intel had been wrong. Or incomplete. Or leaked.

You didn’t know which yet—only that the second you stepped into that dim, crowded cantina, something in your gut twisted. Too many eyes, too many men pretending to drink, too many sharp ears and even sharper looks. 

You were planning an exit strategy, a way to get out of here with as few scratches and as many of these men killed. Mid counting how many thing you could use as a weapon, in walked a picture perfect specimen. 

Muscles everywhere, blond hair lightened even more by the sun, the faintest sunburn across his nose and cheeks making his blue eyes stand out more. 

You turned slightly, lifting your drink to your lips like you were just another woman trying to cool off, not someone seconds away from deciding how many people she might have to kill.

He clocked the men immediately. 

And then he clocked you. His broad frame faked a smile at you and stepped quickly to stand beside you at the bar, hand resting on your hip.

“Don’t,” he muttered under his breath, pretending to try to get the bartender's attention.

“Don’t what?” you shot back just as quietly, adjusting your sunglasses on your head like you were annoyed at them and happy to see him, not seconds away from being cornered.

“They’re looking for someone,” he said.

“I know.” A beat where he leaned down to whisper in your ear.

“They’re closing exits.”

And you responded through gritted teeth and a smile. “I noticed.” You let your body rest closer to his, feeling the heat radiating off of him.

Outside, thunder and lightning started, and a summer storm came pouring down. 

“Babe,” you said, loud enough to carry, tilting your head up at him like you were teasing. “You said one drink.”

He leaned into you, his hand sliding from your waist to your lower back, pulling you closer in a way that felt practiced.

“Yeah?” he shot back easily. “Thought you wanted to see more of the place.”

“Oh, I do,” you laughed lightly, fingers curling into his shirt. “Just… from inside a bedroom window right now." You leaned in closer, lowering your voice just enough to make it look intimate, like you were sharing something private instead of tracking his every movement.

“Relax your shoulders,” you murmured.

He huffed softly—almost a laugh, almost something else—and adjusted just slightly, his grip tightening at your lower back like he was settling into the role instead of fighting it.

A beat passed between you—quick, sharp, charged—and then he leaned in closer, his mouth ghosting just along your temple.

“Storm’s our out,” he whispered. “We gotta go.”

“Come on,” you said, tugging gently at his shirt, turning your body into his as thunder cracked loud enough to rattle the windows. “I am not ruining my hair for this.”

“Tragic,” he murmured, letting you pull him toward the back hallway.

The rain hit hard the second you stepped out of the main room—heavy, sudden, loud enough to drown out most of the noise behind you. The narrow corridor smelled like damp wood and cheap liquor, dimly lit and barely used.

Perfect.

Your hand stayed fisted in his shirt as you stumbled slightly—just enough to sell it—as he caught you, his arm tightening instinctively around your waist.

“Careful, sweetheart.” he said, louder now, for anyone who might still be listening. “You’re gonna slip.”

The back door burst open under his hand.

Rain poured down in sheets, warm and relentless, soaking the edges of your skirt instantly as you both stepped out into the alley behind the cantina.

Steve looked around to make sure no one followed, he kept you closer than necessary as you moved, your bodies angled into each other like you were shielding yourselves from the storm instead of disappearing into it.

One block, then another, until you were far away and safe in the back alley of the Sofitel. Your clothes were soaked, as were his, your shirt basically see through, you kept moving, pulling him down the short hallway and into the first unlocked door you found—some storage room or unused guest space, it didn’t matter.

The door shut behind you with a soft click. Steve walked in last, and you didn't put distance between you two, though right now looking at him through wet lashes you wish you did.

His eyes reflected the gloomy sky outside, his lips were pink and plump, and you felt yourself being drawn closer and closer to him, as did he. 

The storm outside cracked again, lightning flashing briefly through the thin curtains, illuminating the space in stark white for half a second, loud thunder taking you out of your trance, Steve jerking away like he was burned. 

"I, uh… I think we lost them." Your voice was shaky and unsure. 

“Not bad,” he added, quieter now, his eyes flicking over your face like he was reassessing something.

You scoffed lightly. “High praise.”

PRESENT

“Fireworks are about to start,” someone called from across the yard.

And just like that, the moment broke, and your attentions turned to the mission at hand: while everyone is distracted, get into Fisk's office and copy all of his intel. 

Steve leaned down slightly as people shifted away in the direction of the fireworks, his lips brushing near your ear, voice low. “You’re laying it on thick.”

“Am I?” you murmured back, sly smirk playing on your lips.

“A little.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "You should go for the office. I'll keep watch."

Steve looked at you like he wanted to say something, but nodded and snuck away, your eyes immediately making sure all persons of interest were accounted for and not in the office. 

The party swelled around you.

Fireworks cracked overhead in bursts of red and gold, laughter spilling across Fisk’s perfectly manicured lawn, glasses clinking, music humming low beneath it all.

Steve had been gone for about five minutes when you noticed Dex was gone mid conversation with Claire and her husband Matthew. You saw the little flop of blonde hair make its way into the house and your blood ran cold. 

Steve.

“I’m gonna grab another drink,” you said lightly, lifting your empty glass as proof, bee-lining up the stairs on the porch and to the kitchen. 

You moved like you weren’t tracking footsteps that weren’t yours, counting seconds, mapping distance in your head.

You slipped inside through the side door, heels soft against polished floors, your breath steady even as your pulse kicked harder.

You moved faster, turning the corner just in time to see the office door slightly ajar, light spilling out onto the hallway, and footsteps approaching from the opposite direction.

You pushed the door open and slipped inside, Steve standing by the big mahogany table with a thumbdrive pluggesd into the desktop, downloading everything.

“What—”

“Dex,” you cut him off, already crossing the room. “Coming.” His expression shifted instantly, worry, anxiety, combat. 

A shadow passed the crack of the door and you closed the distance between you, pushing yourself to sit on top of the table and pulled Steve to stand between your legs. Your hands grabbed his shirt, yanking him down toward you hard enough to make him stumble.

He exhaled harshly the second your lips touched, tasting the vanilla macadamia flavor of your lipgloss. Your tongue licked into his mouth and one of his hands found the plane of your back, the other bracing against the desk behind you as he backed you further into it, the impact soft but enough to sell it.

“Mm—” you exhaled softly, the sound slipping out before you could stop it.

Your fingers thread through his hair as you sighed against him, losing yourself in the cedarwood of his cologne, the taste of beer on his tongue, and— 

The door creaked open lgithly with someone's breathy "oh." coming through at the sight.

You didn't pull away, didn't even flinch. If anything, you leaned in more, your body pressing fully into his, your mouth lingering just long enough to make the moment undeniable.

You heard a the sound of someone clearing their throat, and that made both of you break apart. Your lips brushed his once more before you turned your head, like you’d just noticed her. “Oh—” you said, a little breathless, but smiling.

“Sharon,” your eyes widened slightly when you looked behind you, a flush creeping into your expression like you’d been caught.

Her gaze drifted from his hands on you to the hem of your summer dress, pulled up and draped high on your thighs, then up to your hands in his hair and Steve's face — his expression a mix of very confused, flustered, and fucked out. 

Steve cleared his throat, stepping back just slightly, like he was trying to recover something that had already slipped.

“We were just—”

“—busy,” you finished easily, sliding off the desk but not moving far from him.

“…right,” she said after a second, her lips pressing into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Well, enjoy the, uh… the party."

You stifled a laugh, biting your lip, as she walked away leaving the door open behind her. You hopped off the desk as Steve got his brain working again. 

“What the hell was that?” His voice cut through it, low and sharp.

You shrugged. "Saved your ass, you're welcome." You smoothed the hem of your dress against your thighs and walked around the desk, making your way out the door as Steve hushedly called out for you, swiming the thumb drive into his pocket before following you out of the house. 

Your heels hit the pavement in sharp, even beats, your jaw locked, your eyes fixed straight ahead like if you didn’t look back, he wouldn’t follow.

Fuck him and his long legs that caught up to you as soon as you reached your lawn. 

You stormed into your kitchen, pushing the door closed quicky to slam it behind you, but making it hit Steve on the shoulder as he crowded the space behind you. “Hey—” he pushed still, stepping closer. “No, seriously. What was that?”

You still gave him nothing, your jaw tightened. You stood with your back to the kitchen island, fingers gripping the marble, biting your own cheek. Your gaze stayed anywhere but him.

“That wasn’t about getting caught,” he said. “You knew she—” Then it seemed to dawn on him.  “You kissed me to make her jealous.” His voice was incredulous, almost like he solved a decade long mystery right then and there. "You were jealous."

You scoffed, still not meeting his eye. "Jealous? Over you? Plea—"

He crowded you even more now, bending down to look for your gaze and force you to meet his, sly smile playing on his lips. "You were jealous."

You huffed, finally looking into his eyes, sunlight playing on his face making the blue just a tad lighter. Steve had his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, almost waiting for a response from you. 

For what it felt like a second and a day all at once, your brain went numb. 

And then your hands were on each side of his face, bringing his lips to crash into yours. 

Steve's lips were warm against your mouth in the same way they were minutes ago. He stepped forward, towering over you making you tilt your head up to keep the kiss going, his hands grabbing your hips as he pressed you against the counter. 

He licked into your mouth and your hands fell to the nape of his neck, his shoulders, and finally his arms.

Steve leaned over, pushing you back further, until you had no more oxygen to burn in your lungs and you broke the kiss, making him kiss your jaw, below your ear, and down your neck. "You had no reason to be jealous, you know."

He grinded his hips against yours, letting you feel the length of him hardening by the minute. "'M not jealous." You felt underwater, dizzy, borderline having fuzzies in your vision. 

Steve chuckled against your neck, the warm breath making shivers run down your spine, his hands dropping to graze outside of your thighs. "Mmhmm." His right hand brushed over your thigh and made it way to your core, tickling the skin of your inner thigh. 

His fingers quickly found the wet spot on the front of your underwear, kissing his way back towards your lips. When he pressed deep circled into it, he felt you sigh into his mouth.

"Steve… People might see…"

"Don't care" he pressed his fingers harder, until your hips were bucking to get more friction, and you were whining against him. Words came muffled against your mouth. "Not jealous, huh? Didn't want me a single bit, right?"

You scoffed despite youself, "You're the one that came into your pants the other day." 

That did it. 

Skin to skin. His rough fingers sliding through your soaked slit, dragging your arousal across your folds, teasing you right at the entrance. You broke off mid-sentence, a soft whimper catching in your throat.

His thumb easily found your clit, and one of your hands squeezed around his bicep while the other pulled at the hair at the nape of his neck, your moans getting breathier and breathier by the minute.

His fingers thrusted in and out of you bringing you to an edge so close you could taste it, letting out little pants by the crook of his neck, inflating Steve's ego, making more blood rush south. "Wanna try that again?"

He curled them just right, your slick coating his knuckles as your hips twitched against his hand.

Your head fell back, lips parting on a desperate moan. "N-not jealous…" through gritted teeth, making him click his tongue. 

"Suit yourself." And just like that, his fingers were gone, slick mess on your thighs and an unsatisfied beast inside of you.

"Steve, what the—"

He pulled away the slightest bit and bent down, lacing his arm around your legs and throwing you over his shoulder, walking away in the direction of the stairs.

Steve nudged your bedroom door open once you got upstairs and flopped you down on the bed, making you bounce on the mattress.

He hovered over you, settling between your legs and rubbing the heat of him against you, while one if his hands snuck to the back of your dress and pulled the zipper down. He pulled the clothing item down your body as he kissed the same path, and soon you were only in his shirt and a thong.

Your legs opened to accommodate him further, thighs falling to your sides, and he slotted himself chest to mattress, lips barely an inch away from your pussy. Steve kissed your inner thigh once, then again, and your fingers threaded through his hair. 

"She's wetter than that night," He spoke softly, but his voice had a dark tone to it, blue eyes staring up at you. "Can't blame me from coming in my boxers when," and a bite to your flesh. "you were grinding a wet spot onto me, honey."

Fuck him and that nickname. 

His middle finger came to curl beyond the hem, pulling the sticky wet fabric down your thighs, and both of his thumbs spread your lips, watching your hole clench around nothing. 

His gaze once again reached yours, almost asking for permission. 

You didn't seem to be able to find it in you to say anything, not a single word but a quiet "Please." leaving your lips. 

The second his tongue touched your slit, you were all the way back in that mission in Colombia. Wet, horny, and almost begging him.

At the first taste of you, one would think Steve got possessed, quickly settling further into the mattress and wrapping his arms around your thighs, holding them open. "F-fuck, Steve—"

He groaned against you, the vibration going through you like electricity through water. His tongue traced your entrance, nose nudging your clit, and your back arched off the bed slightly, pushing your hips closer to his face.

Steve's fingers pressed against the tops of your thighs with bruising strength, not that you minded. 

Not at all. 

He licked zigzag patterens up and down your slit, and then would circle your clit with his tongue, sucking the nerves into his mouth and flicking it. "O-oh my God."

He chuckled into you, "Stop squirming." 

Like you could help it. Like it was your damn fault he let Sharon touch him and flirt with him and all but forced you to make sure everyone bought this sham of a marriage. 

"Easier— fuck me, easier said than done, Rogers." Your nails scratched deeper into his scalp.

Steve angled his head differently so he could tense his tongue and fuck you while his thumb moved from your thigh to rub quick circles onto your clit. 

Your thighs closed around his head, eyes squeezing shut as you heard him breathe heavy against you. Steve's other hand landed on your breast, kneading the skin there, pinching and pulling a nipple drawing a mewl out of you. 

"Steve, Steve, I'm— fuck, I'm gonna—"

You really shouldn't have told him, though he'd know you were close judging by the little flutters of your walls around his tongue. 

He pulled away harshly, chin slick and lips swollen, his hair a mess from you running your fingers through it. 

He stood by the foot of the bed, stripping down to nothing watching your dumbfounded fucked out expression. Your hair was matted, your nipples were hard, and there was a wet spot on the white comforter under you. 

In front of you, though, stood 230lbs of pure, unadultered, perfectly sculped by God, blond 100% American Prime Steve Rogers. 

Standing naked, tall, thick and proud.

And hard.

Your mouth salivated at the sight, looking at the leaking head of him appear and disappear inside his fist with each slick stroke he gave himself. Steve caught your ankle with his other hand, and pulled you to the edge of the bed, your toes touching the soft carpet of the bedroom.

He turned you around, fingers gripping the linen of his shirt you had on, dragging it down your arms but not over your wrists, twisting the fabric around his own fist. 

And just like that, you were face and shoulders down on the mattress with your wrists tied behind you, feeling him rub the head of his cock up and down your puffy slit, coating himself in your wetness. 

Steve heard a muffled whine from you, any words being impacted by the fabric of the bedding, "What was that, sweetheart?" He leaned over you, the tip of him notching just a smidge further. 

You turned your head to the side. "Steve, please…"

He clicked his tongue again. "No, you didn't want me, remember? Think I shouldn't even be doing this to you."

He motioned to pull out and you whined louder. "She— she was all o-over you…" Tears pricked your eyes from the pressure in your chest, from the ache between your legs, from the desperation of being kept at the edge. 

“Steve, please put it in…”

"Yeah?" He gave you the cue to keep going, pushing in unbearably slow and barely any. 

You nodded against the mattress. "Pissed me off." You gulped. "Please, please don't leave me like this…"

"All you had to do was stop being such a brat about it."

And then he thrust in enough to knock the air out of your lungs. The squelch of his cock pushing into you was obscene. And in your mind every inch he pushed after that thrust had one though going through your head:

There's more?!

"Oh God…"

That made Steve chuckle. "Just me, baby."

"Is— is it all in?" Your voice trembled, and if you had a mirror you'd see Steve's evil smirk as he dragged your wrists down to where your bodies connected, arching your back and hurting you with the stretch, only to wrap your delicate hands around what was left of him.

"Barely half." He grunted.

You whimpered, both in fear and anticipation, and Steve took the queue to push the rest of the way through, until your hand was flat on his pelvis, and then he let you rest against the mattress again. 

"So fucking good." He gave a couple tentative thrusts. "Can feel you gripping me like you don't wanna let me go."

You moaned at the feel of him hitting that sweet spot inside of you, making your eyes roll. "So— hah! Good, Steve…"

After he felt your pussy get used to the size of him, that when he really stopped playing nice. 

You could feel every ridge of him, every vein, the length of him pulsing and pulsing inside of you, throbbing against the spongy spot that made you see stars.

“Steve, please, please let me—“

Another harsh thrust interrupted you. “Tell me the truth then.”

You whimpered. The bastard was really going to make you admit it.

As you tried to think through it, brainless as you were, he slowed down, and down, until you could feel the pulse of his cock inside of you just as he could feel your walls flutter around him.

You whimpered, cheeks blushing at the thought. “I was jealous! I was jealous, okay?!” You pushed your hips into him, chasing friction harder, deeper.

“She thought she could have you and— and—“ He picked up the pace, your brain mush as your neck strained to keep your voice from being muffled. “And you’re my— Oh— oh my God!”

“Yeah?” Steve leaned over you, fingers finding your clit with ease. “I’m your what?”

You could cry. You could cry right no— oh you had tears streaming from your eyes onto the bedding. “Steve…”

His eyes rolled to the back of his head.

“That’s right, I’m your Steve.” His fingers picked up speed as did his hips, lips kissing your shoulder blade. “Come for me, pretty girl. Come all over my cock.”

“Mmmmngghhh—“ your vision went white, your body clenching tight around him and pulsing, as your moans got drowned out outside by the fireworks still going.

Steve slammed his hips deeper into you, to the point of almost painful, muttering curse words in sequence of “fuck, fuck, fuck.” until you felt him spill thick ropes of cum inside of you, filling you up until it dripped onto the floor.

As you both caught your breaths, you heard the wet schlick of him pulling out, dropping himself on the bed with a bounce.

After a minute, you spoke. "There's gonna be so much paperwork to explain all this..."

He looked at an imaginary watch on his wrist, turning to you with that boyish smile of his, sheen coat of sweat on his chest and hairline. “Got time for a couple more rounds before all that. You tapped out?”

You smirked at him, using your arms to push yourself up, hands on his chest for leverage as you straddled him, slick pussy on top of his hardening cock.

“I could do this all day, Cap.”

final thoughts: this started as me and Maddie just thirsting over the shower scene, and then... yeah... heh

🥯 glazed donut taglist: @earthsmightiestbenders @love-stucky @epiphanyrogers @pinksplace @chateaubarnes @tw1sters @avgdestitute @allthingswickedpodcast @supercoolswagicornxd

[dangerouslydelish]

No Questions Asked

A/N: This man does things to me

Pairing: Nightcrawler X Reader

Summery: Reader is a black market doctor who rescues Nightcrawler.

TW: blood, medical themes, violence mentioned, blood transfusion, black market themes

~=={ 💙 }==~➶☠➶~=={ 💙 }==~

Ch:1 - Right at Your Feet

Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

You wrapped the wound in clean bandages and moved on without hesitation, already gathering the bloodied gauze.

“That’s all done,” you said flatly, tossing the stained pads into a small plastic bag.

“Thanks, doc,” the heavyset man muttered, jaw tight as he took the bottle of pain meds from your hand. “What do I owe ya?”

You turned to him, resting a hand on your hip. “How much do you have on you?”

“I think… ‘bout three fifty?”

You nodded once. “Just pay me a hundred.” You grabbed another bottle and pressed it into his palm. “Antibiotics. Not strong ones so take two a day with food. You’ll be fine. If not, text the number.”

He gave a quick nod, handed you the hundred and left as unsteadily as he’d arrived.

Once he was gone, you cleaned in silence. The sharp scent of antiseptic mixed with the lingering metallic tang of blood as you wiped down every surface. When you were done, you tossed the bag into a metal drum and lit it.

The gauze caught quickly.

Flames curled and crackled, swallowing the evidence whole.

It wasn’t easy being a doctor.

It was even harder being one without a license, running on whatever people could afford to give you.

Sometimes it was loose cash. Sometimes a few hundred. Occasionally more.

But mostly, it was need.

You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t turn people away.

You just helped.

And lately… that meant mutants.

The ones who couldn’t hide what they were had it the worst. Turned away from cafés, stores…hospitals. As much as politicians liked to pretend things had changed, reality hadn’t caught up.

It never did.

It was the reason you lost everything.

The reason no hospital would touch your name now.

You exhaled slowly, the heat of the fire brushing against your face as the memories threatened to surface.

“Not now,” you muttered under your breath.

You had work to do. The fire cracked softly behind you, low and controlled. The abandoned hospital settled into its usual silence, distant city noise bleeding faintly through rusted walls, the hum of old wiring overhead.

You cleaned as best you could. An abandoned hospital wasn’t even close to being the appropriate place to treat patients, but it was what you had to work with; a filthy old 100 year old hospital, cleaning supplies and whatever medical supplies you could get on the black market.

You heaved a little, your back had begun hurting from all the work but now your area was cleaner than before, less chaotic.

Manageable.

Now—

A sharp crack split the air.

Not loud. Not like a gunshot. Distant but sudden and alarming. It happened again. Closer. Stranger.

Like space itself folding in on itself.

You froze. What the fuck is that?

The next second, it came again. BAMF.

A burst of thick, violet-black smoke exploded into existence a few feet away, you yelped as the sudden smell of sulfur hitting your nose was hard enough to make you flinch.

And then something fell out of it.

A body hit the filthy broken tiled ground with a sickening weight.

You were moving before your brain caught up.

“Hey! Hey!” you snapped, dropping to your knees beside him, hands already searching for wounds out of instinct. “Can you hear me?”

No response.

Your eyes scanned quickly, and then stilled.

Blue skin.

Dark hair.

A tail.

Your breath hitched, but only for a fraction of a second.

Mutant that is Badly injured. That’s all that mattered.

“Alright,” you muttered under your breath, already shifting into focus. “Stay awake… or don’t, I guess, just don’t die.”

Blood.

Your hands pressed down instinctively, trying to locate the worst of it. His clothes were torn, soaked through. Bullet wounds—multiple. Some clean, some not. And cuts… deep ones.

“Jesus…”

You glanced behind you at the half-cleaned station, then back at him.

No time.

“Okay, okay,” you grabbed his arm to throw it over your shoulders, bracing your feet against the floor before lifting. “You are way heavier than you look, you know that?”

You dragged him across the room toward the metal slab, your makeshift operating table, his body leaving a faint smear of blood behind. The sulfur smell still clung to the air, mixing unpleasantly with blood and smoke.

“Not the weirdest thing I’ve dealt with,” you continued under your breath, more for yourself than him. “Definitely top five, though.”

You heaved him up onto the slab with effort, your muscles protesting as you adjusted him flat.

For a moment, you paused.

Really looked at him.

Even unconscious, his face was… soft. Not what you expected. No tension, no aggression—just pain, dulled by whatever had pushed him this far.

Your gaze flicked briefly to his tail where it lay limp against the metal.

Then you shook your head.

“Focus.”

Gloves. Gauze. Tools.

You moved fast.

Cutting fabric away. Cleaning wounds. Assessing damage.

“Whoever did this to you…” you muttered, grabbing forceps, “really didn’t want you walking away.” A moment passed. “…Shame on them.”

The abandoned hospital fell into a different kind of silence.

Not calm. Focused. Sharp. You felt your mind heavily fall into the zone and your body followed, instinct kicking in.

Your hands moved fast, cutting away what remained of his clothes. Fabric peeled back easily, too easily, sticking where blood had already begun to dry.

“Alright…” you exhaled, scanning quickly. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

Gunshot wounds. At least three. One clean through the side. One lodged in deep, judging by the swelling and the way the blood refused to slow.

And another.

You pressed gently. He didn’t react.

“Yeah… you’re not staying alive for long if I leave that in.”

You reached for your supplies, laying everything out in practiced order. Forceps. Sutures. Gauze. Saline.

No assistant. No backup.

Just you.

“Lucky you landed somewhere useful,” you huffed as you poured antiseptic over the worst of the wounds.

His body reacted instantly. A sharp inhale, barely conscious, but there.

“Yeah, I know,” you said, not slowing. “It’s gonna hurt.”

His head shifted weakly against the slab, a faint sound slipping past his lips, something strained, unfamiliar. “Bitte…”

Not English.

You paused for half a second.

“…German?”

No time to think about it.

You braced one hand against his side, the other guiding the forceps in carefully.

“Don’t wake up,” you warned under your breath. “I really don’t need you moving right now.”

Metal met resistance. You adjusted, jaw tightening. “Come on…” A small shift. A precise angle. Then—

There!

You pulled the bullet free with a soft metallic clink as it dropped into the tray beside you.

Blood followed.

A lot of it. Too much of it.

“Mother-.”

Your hand pressed down immediately, grabbing gauze and applying pressure. It soaked through faster than you liked.

It’s too fast. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

You reached for more without hesitation, layering it, pressing harder this time.

“Stay with me,” you muttered, more instinct than intention. “You’ve made it this far, don’t get dramatic on me now.”

His breathing was shallow.

Uneven.

Not enough. It’s not enough.

You worked quickly, stitching where you could, closing what needed closing—but the blood loss was already catching up.

You could see it. You knew that if he didn’t get more blood now, he was going to die.

“Yeah… no,” you said under your breath as you quickly stitched up the wound and stepped back just enough to think. “That’s not gonna cut it.”

You moved quickly, sprinting to the space on the other side of the room, dropping to one knee beside a worn cooler tucked beneath the table. You flipped it open.

Inside, neatly packed and labeled, were blood bags.

Your blood.

You grabbed one. Then another. Better safe than sorry. By the time you returned, his skin looked worse.

Fainter.

You didn’t hesitate.

“Alright,” you muttered, already setting up the line. “You don’t get to die on my table. Not tonight.”

The needle slid in smoothly, your hands steady despite everything.

You hooked the line, lifted the bag, and watched for the flow. “Come on,” you grunted, massaging the blood bag with controlled urgency. Waiting for the blood to run down the tube. “Come on.”

Dark red threading its way down, steady and vital, making its way inside your patient.

You let out a breath you had a bad habit of holding when too focused.

“Good,” you heaved, the adrenaline slowly leaving your system, rendering your frame shaky.

You adjusted the line, securing it to a wall by a rusted nail hanging out of it before returning to his wounds, finishing what you started. Stitch by stitch. Clean. Precise.

The bleeding slowed.

Then steadied.

Then, finally, stopped fighting you.

Time blurred.

Minutes. Maybe longer.

By the time you stepped back, your shoulders ached and your hands were stained red to the wrists. The worst of it was over, his color (or whatever) seemed to be returning.

He was still breathing. Barely, but just enough.

You glanced at the blood bag. Half empty. “Guess you owe me more than a hundred,” you murmured dryly.

You stayed still, watching until the blood bag ran out and then replaced it with a new one. It was done. Now to clean any evidence.

Carefully, you removed your gloves, tossing them aside before dragging a hand down your face, only succeeding in smearing more blood across your skin.

You didn’t notice nor did you care. Instead, you pulled the chair closer and sat.

Watched. Waited. Because now?

Now it was up to him.

[literarydumpinggrounds]

This series is so cute 🥹 I just love that sweet blue man.. It’s also so refreshing to get some yearning and complex plotline in between the nsfw dosages amidst the endless sea of smut on here lately!!!

Excited to see where the story goes! 🫶🏻

[justevelynnnn]

pure desire

Content: Husband!Nightcrawler x fem!reader

Summary: Pov: You’re Kurt’s ovulating wife.

Warnings: {18+ MDNI} Reader has sexual thoughts, reader is ovulating, mentions of sex (no actual smut), profanity

A/N: I neeeed Kurt to be real.

Maybe it’s the smile. How white teeth, some sharp some not, brighten up your day when flashed at you. He smiles to much how could it not be his smile that has you riled up like this? You see it when he wakes up and when he goes to bed, both after he kisses your forehead.

Then you wondered, maybe it’s his hands. His big, strong hands. The way he holds onto you every morning as he’s snuggled up against you because you’re HIS. The way a hand rests on your lower back when you guys go to a fancy event.

And, not to far off from his hands, you started to wonder if it was his arms, too. He’s always working out his upper body muscles anyways. So, his biceps are there and very prominent. Maybe it was his muscles.

But who are you kidding.

You’re just ovulating. Every innocent thought, excuse, whatever just gets clouded up with lust. Pure lust and desire.

His smile? You wanted to see his smile as he came inside of you for days now. Something purely feral inside of you just wanted those pearly whites to bite into your neck and thighs as he claimed you as his once more.

You wanted his hands on your naked body. Caressing every inch of you, fingering you, anything. You wanted him to worship you.

When you saw him training all you could see was the muscles flexing in his arms. Those strong, strong arms. You wanted him to manhandle you, be rough with you as he pounded inside you. It was getting so bad to the point that you didn’t even care which hole he used.

It didn’t matter what he wore right now. Even when he wore his priest attire you could help but want him. You just wanted him. You wanted your husband.

Every hour, everyday, everywhere.

It’s too bad he couldn’t take a hint. Like for example you put emphasis onto “good” when you told him he looked really good today. And he just smiled and pecked you on your cheek.

Or last night, when you wore fancy royal blue lingerie to bed and he just kissed you again on your forehead. Part of you felt like you were being punked. Kurt’s libio sometimes can be no joke. When you first met him, he tried to restrain himself but you two ended up doing like rabbits anyways.

He said it didn’t matter anyways though because he knew he wanted to marry you. And then he did.

That was only a year ago.

You know the honeymoon phase is not over just yet. You and Kurt didn’t even need one with how strong your love was. But you just wished he’d pick up on these signals that you wanted nothing more but to fuck him like crazy.

All you needed was 5 minutes to passionately tear him apart. One orgasm.

What’s worse is he could literally be doing anything. Laughing, eating cereal, doing his hair, stretching, reading…

It didn’t matter. You wanted to pounce on him nonetheless. You were hungry.

Ovulating made you more crazy for him than you already were which was hell. It almost made you feel disgusting. Even though he is literally your husband now, he’s not as horny as you typically. You keep thinking about when he showed up in you guys room in his priest robe looking all serious. It was 8am on a Sunday, and you just woke up. He had early mornings on Sundays so he let you sleep in a bit.

He looked almost divine as he looked out the window, pondering in the golden sunlight. Beautiful, is how you’d see him if it was any other day. But, because it was this special week, he looked exquisite. And of course ridiculously attractive. You watched him silently from your shared bed as he just looked. He didn’t notice you were awake for 10 minutes.

You felt bad. This isn’t why he was dressed up, to be your eye candy. Lust is something you felt shame for even for your husband.

But, it drove you crazy. He fit you like a glove, it was just meant to be. It drove you crazy how in the mornings he never got morning wood do you’d have an excuse to “relive him”. It drove you crazy that he barely reacted to your lingerie. That you kissed him longer during these times or even held onto him tighter when he had to go.

And, so you finally confront him one day.

“Kurt..”, You say one night sitting on his side of the bed watching him in the bathroom wash his face.

You see his ear twitch towards you, and then he looks at you while humming in acknowledgment.

You say it looking right into his golden eyes, “Kurt..I want you.”

He doesn’t move for a second. Then he cocks his head.

“Vant me? How so?”

“Don’t play dumb, Kurt. I want you.”, you responded slightly annoyed. You tried to give him your best bedroom eyes too, batting your lashes and all, but he seemed unbothered.

“You vant me..hmmm.” He says looking back in the mirror. You can’t see his face fully but you swear he’s smiling to himself now.

“What’s funny?”, You giggled, though still a bit annoyed he’s playing with you. It would be more funny if you biggest want right now was for him to disrespectfully fuck you through the mattress.

He doesn’t respond this time. The room is silent aside from him moving in the bathroom and the beating of your heart from anticipation in your ears. He just hangs his towel up and comes out the bathroom still smiling. He stops in front of you and then he lifts your chin up so you can look into his eyes once more.

Then lowly, “How do you vant me, my dear?”

“Kurt-”

“Shhhhh,” He puts a finger to your mouth. “Tell me. Because i’ve been waiting for you to say it all week.”

Ohhh, he’s been waiting.

You bite your lip a bit thinking if you should say it, and then you do. “I want you to fuck me. Make love to me. Anything. Please.”

“Finally.”, he says with a big smile across his face. “You just don’t know how bad I vanted to ruin you when you wore that blue two piece.”

Before you can respond he leans down to kiss you deeply. Both of his hands hold onto your face gently as he hummed in satisfaction.

You tried to ignore the annoying ache between you legs when he breaks away so let you speak. “Why…make me say it? You’ve been driving me crazy for ages now.”

“I simply needed to make sure I was reading things correctly. That you really wanted me.”, He whispers it before kissing you once more, this time with more hunger. “Didn’t vant to overstep.”

You sigh as his hands reach behind you to unclip your bra. “Maybe I should just flat out tell you more often.”

“Maybe so.”, he chuckled while pulling off his shirt. “Now lay back for me. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

[jamesdeanbby]

hi !!!

could i just request randomly pulling up the shirt of

(im wanting the little blurbs thag you do that are just *chefs kiss* with like peter p, steve, tony, venom, etc etc)

just to look at their abs, lit the only reason.

totally oki if not have a great day :)

marvel men in.. !!

their gf loves their abs !!

🏷 @mavixgirl , @luna-kait

📎 men featured : logan howlett, worst wolverine, wade wilson, origins! wade wilson, remy lebeau, kurt wagner, eddie brock (& venom!!), steve rogers, tony stark, peter parker, thor odinson, johnny storm, peter quill.

LOGAN HOWLETT

You’re mid-argument. Something about him leaving his dog tags on the nightstand again, something about the smell of cigar smoke clinging to your favorite sweater. He’s doing the thing where he just growls instead of using words, arms crossed over his broad chest, looking like a man carved from angry marble.

You are trying to be mad. You really are.

But then your eyes drift down. To the hem of his worn, grey henley. To the way it’s riding up just a fraction of an inch above the waist of his jeans.

“and you never listen, and you just—Logan, hold still.”

He stops mid-snarl. “What?”

You don’t answer. You just walk forward, grab the damp, frayed cotton, and yank it straight up to his collarbone.

Silence.

For a full three seconds, he just stares down at you. Then at your hands on his shirt. Then at your face, which is currently doing a very poor job of hiding the fact that you are openly ogling the geography of his abdomen. The map of scars. The ridges of muscle that look like they were carved by a very angry, very horny god.

“…The hell you doin’?” he finally asks, voice dropping an octave.

“Checking for injuries,” you lie, voice barely a squeak.

He catches your chin with two fingers, tilts your face up. His eyes are unreadable, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Bub. I heal.”

“Then I’m checking for… symmetry.”

He stares at you for another long, agonizing moment. Then he sighs, the kind of sigh that carries the weight of a century of suffering. He gently pulls his shirt down, but not before you catch the faintest hint of a blush creeping up his neck.

“You’re a menace,” he mutters, turning back to the argument. But now he’s holding his coffee mug a little lower. And the next time he crosses his arms, he makes sure the shirt rides up just a little more. For the sake of symmetry.

WORST WOLVERINE

You find him on the couch. It’s 2 PM. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of Wade’s hot pink sweatpants (they were the only clean ones), a stained white tank top that has seen better centuries, and an expression of profound, feral exhaustion. Dogpool is licking his own foot on the floor. Blind Al is somewhere in the kitchen, loudly trying to microwave a fork.

You are supposed to be bringing him a beer. You do bring him the beer. But as you lean over to set it on the coffee table, your gaze snags on the hem of that tank top.

It’s already barely there. But you want more.

So you do it. You just grab the thin, greasy fabric and hoist it up to his armpits.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stares at you with those dead, tired eyes. His torso is a mess—a spectacular, horrifying, fascinating mess. Hair, scars, the memory of a thousand deaths. You could count his ribs if you wanted to, but you’re too busy looking at the way the muscles in his obliques twitch.

“…You done?” he asks, voice like gravel being dragged over broken glass.

“No,” you whisper.

He sighs. It’s the sigh of a man who has seen the multiverse crumble and found that this (his girlfriend ogling his post-apocalyptic abs) is the final indignity.

“You’re as bad as the red one.”

“I’m worse,” you admit, not letting go of the shirt.

WADE WILSON

You don’t even get to pull the shirt up. You barely reach for it.

One second your fingers are brushing the hem of his faded, chimichanga-stained t-shirt. The next, he has exploded out of it. The shirt is in tatters on the floor. He is standing in the middle of the living room, arms spread wide, wearing nothing but a pair of unicorn-print boxers and a triumphant grin.

“BABY! Why didn’t you SAY so?!” he bellows, striking a bodybuilder pose. “These bad boys have been DYING for a curtain call! Say hello to the lads! Upper management! The twins! The abdominal ambassadors!”

You blink. “I was just going to-”

“Shhhh.” He presses a finger to your lips. “No talking. Only looking. Feast your eyes, my little goblin. Feast upon the glistening, scar-riddled, perfectly-healed-from-forty-seven-stab-wounds terrain of TRUE LOVE.”

He then proceeds to do a full, unironic, unhinged strip tease to Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” on his phone speaker. He flexes. He points at each individual ab (he counts nine, there are four). He makes the muscle dance. He asks you if you want to “leave a tip in the tip jar” while gesturing vaguely below the belt.

By the end of it, you are crying with laughter, curled up on the floor. He takes this as a win, scoops you up, and carries you to the bedroom, whispering, “I knew my degenerative muscle disorder would pay off one day.”

You never did get to pull the shirt up. You didn’t need to. He pre-emptively detonated it.

ORIGINS! WADE WILSON

This Wade is smooth. Dangerously smooth. You two are sparring (lightly) when you trip him—not hard—and he lets you pin him just to see what you’ll do.

You lift his shirt.

He doesn’t flinch. He grins. “Checking for wounds, or checking for weapons?”

“weapons,” you say, eyes on the perfect V-line.

“Plot twist,” he murmurs, voice dropping an octave. “the only weapon I’m hiding is right—"

You slap your hand over his mouth. “Finish that sentence and I’m leaving.”

He shuts up and lets you look. He even does a little half-crunch so the lighting shifts. But the second your fingers drift too low, he catches your hand, kisses your knuckles, and flips you effortlessly.

Now he’s on top. His shirt is still up. “Your turn to show me something.”

“I don’t have abs like that.”

“Did I say abs?” He grins, all teeth. “I said ‘something.’”

REMY LEBEAU

You’re sitting on his lap in a booth at some dimly lit New Orleans bar. He’s in the middle of a truly insufferable poker story. You’re bored. So you lift his shirt.

He doesn’t stop talking. He just smirks.

“—and den de man, he say, ‘Gambit, you cheat,’ and I say, ‘Monsieur, I never cheat at cards. Only at love.’ Ah, chère, you likin’ what you see, non?”

You nod, transfixed. His skin is warm. There’s a fine trail of hair below his navel.

He finally looks down, still smirking, and flicks a playing card from his sleeve. He tucks it under his own shirt, right above his hip bone. “Find dat one, and you get a prize.”

You spend the next hour with your hand up his shirt, searching for a card that keeps changing positions via kinetic energy. The bar loves it. He loves it. By the end, you’ve forgotten the card entirely and are just holding his waist.

He kisses your forehead. “You cute when you focused.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Oui.” He pulls his shirt down. Then up again. Then down. Then up. “But you ain’t complainin’.”

KURT WAGNER

You are both in the X-Mansion’s library. It’s late. Rain is pattering against the windows. Kurt is reading a battered copy of The Three Musketeers in German, his tail curled contentedly around your ankle. He’s wearing a soft, black long-sleeved shirt that fits him like a second skin.

You’re not reading. You’re watching the way the fabric pulls across his shoulders. The way his biceps flex every time he turns a page. The way his tail flicks.

You lose the battle.

You lean over, grab the hem of his shirt, and yank it up to his chin.

He yelps. Actually yelps. The book goes flying. He bamfs—teleports—out of your grasp and reappears on the other side of the room, clinging to the ceiling like a startled cat, his shirt still bunched up around his neck, his golden eyes wide.

“Mein Gott!” he gasps, a flush spreading across his blue-furred cheeks. “What-why- schatz!”

You are laughing so hard you can’t breathe. He’s still on the ceiling, tail lashing, looking like a very confused, very sexy gargoyle. His abdomen is a work of art. Lean, powerful, dusted with the same velvety blue fur as the rest of him.

“I just wanted to see,” you wheeze.

He drops down from the ceiling in a puff of sulfur, landing in front of you with his shirt still askew. He looks at you, really looks at you, and his embarrassment melts into something softer. Something warmer.

“You could have asked,” he says, his accent thickening. He takes your hand and presses it to his stomach, right over his navel. The fur is incredibly soft. “You never have to steal what is already yours.”

EDDIE BROCK (& VENOM!)

You come home to find Eddie in the kitchen, hunched over a tub of tater tots, looking like a man who has made several poor life choices. He’s wearing a faded Newsies sweatshirt (don’t ask) and sweatpants.

You don’t even say hello. You just walk up, grab the hem of the sweatshirt, and hoist it up.

Eddie freezes, a tater tot halfway to his mouth. His stomach is… well. It’s not a six-pack. It’s a soft, solid, eat-a-whole-pizza-and-still-look-good kind of stomach. A little hair. A little scar from that time he got impaled by a symbiote hater. It’s perfect.

Before either of you can speak, a black tendril shoots out of Eddie’s chest and gently pushes the sweatshirt back down.

“No,” Venom’s voice growls, low and possessive. “Ours. Only WE get to look.”

“Venom, dude, they’re my girlfriend,” Eddie says, still not moving.

“Then WE will look at HER. Not at US.”

Another tendril wraps around you, and before you know it, your shirt is being torn off of you by a very insistent alien goo monster. Eddie chokes on his tater tot. You shriek.

“Better,” Venom rumbles, apparently satisfied with the view. “Now we are even. We will keep the sweatshirt down. You will keep YOUR shirt up. This is the new rule.”

Eddie buries his face in his hands. “This is not the new rule.”

“VOTE.” One tendril raises Eddie’s hand. Another raises an invisible one for Venom. “Two against one. New rule passes.”

You are now sitting on the couch on your bra, eating tater tots, while Eddie pretends to not be staring. You consider this an absolute win.

STEVE ROGERS

You’re in the kitchen of the Avengers Tower. Steve is making breakfast: pancakes from scratch, because of course he is. He’s wearing a soft, cream-colored henley and an apron that says “Kiss the Cook.” You have never wanted to kiss a cook more in your entire life.

He flips a pancake. His forearm flexes. The henley strains across his back.

You crack.

You walk up behind him, wrap your arms around his waist, and yank his shirt up.

He doesn’t react violently. He’s Steve. He just freezes, pancake flipper in hand, and looks down at your hands splayed across his bare stomach. His body is a monument. A tribute to the pinnacle of human (superhuman) achievement. Every muscle is defined, even after years of retirement. There’s a light dusting of blond hair below his navel. You could cry.

“Sweetheart,” he says, his voice that low, patient, dangerous captain’s voice. “What are you doing?”

“Admiring American history,” you whisper.

He turns off the stove. Slowly. Deliberately.

“We are in a common area. With cameras. That Tony definitely watches.”

“I wanted to see your abs.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Rubs the back of his neck. “You… you see them every day. When I change.”

“Not up close.”

He looks left. Right. Then, very quickly, he lifts his own shirt for exactly 1.7 seconds—then drops it. “There. Satisfied?”

“No. That was a crime.”

“You know,” he says, and there’s a hint of a smile tugging at his perfect lips, “in my day, a lady would simply ask to see a gentleman’s torso.”

“In my day,” you retort, “we just took what we wanted.”

“If I let you look for five seconds, will you stop doing this in transited areas of the Tower?”

“Deal.”

He lifts his shirt. You stare. He counts down from five out loud, but he goes slower on the “two.” And when he says “one,” he doesn’t let go.

You end up with your hands on his waist, him holding his own shirt up like a gentleman, for nearly a minute. Sam walks in. Sam walks back out.

Steve buries his face in your hair. “I am never going to hear the end of this.”

“Worth it.”

TONY STARK

You are in his workshop. He’s under a car (one of his classic convertibles) wearing a grease-stained band t-shirt and jeans that hang low on his hips. DUM-E is handing him wrenches. He is muttering about torque ratios.

You crouch down, slide a hand under the car to grab at the plank he's laying on and tug it out, and before he can say “Friday, what the hell,” you grab his shirt and yank it up to his neck.

Tony blinks. He’s on his back, covered in grease, and his girlfriend is now straddling his thighs, staring at his stomach like it’s the last slice of pizza on earth.

“...Okay,” he says slowly. “I’ve been in a lot of situations. Hostage situations. Space situations. That one time in Budapest with a goat. This is… new.”

“Shut up, Tony.”

“I’m not complaining!” He holds up his greasy hands in surrender. “I’m just saying, most people buy me a drink first. You went straight for the home run. I respect it. I’m a little scared, but I respect it.”

You run your fingers down the middle. He shivers. Actually shivers.

“Friday,” he whispers, “cancel my three o’clock.”

“You don’t have a three o’clock, boss.”

“Then cancel my existence. I’m busy.”

He pulls you down on top of him, shirt still up, and kisses you until you taste like motor oil and twenty-year-old guilt. When you finally come up for air, he’s grinning like the man who has everything, and just found out he gets to keep it.

PETER PARKER

He is hanging upside down from the ceiling. Because he’s Peter Parker, and he cannot just sit on a couch like a normal person. He’s wearing a ratty old t-shirt that says “I ❤️ NY” and has a small hole in the armpit.

You walk under him. He grins, upside-down, all big brown eyes and messy hair. “Hey, my lov—”

You grab his shirt. You pull it up (or is it down?).

It slides down all the way to his chin, revealing his entire torso. And oh no. Oh no. He’s lean. He’s wiry. He’s got that swimmer’s build, all long muscle and narrow hips, and a faint trail of dark hair that makes you want to do things that would make your Catholic grandmother faint.

His face, already upside-down, goes nuclear red. “Whoa! Whoa, whoa, whoa-!”

He tries to flip off the ceiling, but he’s so flustered he miscalculates and falls directly on top of you. You both crash to the floor in a tangle of limbs. His shirt is now down. He is now on top of you. He is very warm.

“I- you—why- my abs?!” he squeaks, his voice cracking like he’s fifteen again. “You wanted to see my- I have- they’re not even- they’re just-muscles!”

“Nice muscles,” you say, reaching up to poke one.

He makes a sound like a deflating balloon. “Oh my God. Oh my God, you’re touching them.”

“That’s generally what happens, yeah.”

He buries his face in your shoulder, ears burning red. But he doesn’t pull his shirt down. And he doesn’t get off you. And after a minute, you feel him mumble into your neck: “…do you want to see the back too?”

You have never loved anyone more.

THOR ODINSON

You are in New Asgard. Thor is on the couch, wearing a flannel shirt (sleeves rolled up, of course), eating a bowl of popcorn the size of your head. He’s in his “comfortable” era, softer around the edges, happier, more him.

You climb into his lap, because you fit there now. He grins, that big, golden, sunshine-in-human-form grin. “Hello, my love! Would you like some popcorn? I have also procured-"

You grab his flannel. You pull it open. Buttons fly everywhere. The shirt hangs off his shoulders, revealing his broad, glorious chest. He’s not as cut as he used to be. There’s a softness there now, a layer of warmth over the godly muscle. It is, objectively, the most attractive thing you have ever seen.

Thor freezes, a piece of popcorn halfway to his mouth. Then he looks down at his exposed torso, then at you, then back at his torso.

“…Did you just… de-shirt me?”

“Button-de-shirted you,” you correct. “And yes.”

He considers this for a moment. Then he puts the popcorn down, leans back slightly, and spreads his arms wide on the back on the couch. His smile turns slow, warm, and devastating.

“You know,” he says, his voice dropping to that low, register-rattling rumble, “on Asgard, it is customary to ask before one disrobes a prince.”

“On Midgard,” you reply, “we do what we want.”

He laughs a full, booming laugh that shakes the couch, and pulls you against his bare chest. He is so warm. So soft. So impossibly huge.

“Then by all means,” he murmurs against your hair, “take what you want, little mortal.”

You stay there for hours. The popcorn gets cold. Neither of you moves.

JOHNNY STORM

You are in the middle of a fight. A real one. He forgot your anniversary. You are screaming. He is deflecting. The Human Torch is currently being verbally immolated by his very angry girlfriend.

“and you said you would remember this time, Johnny, you promised!"

“Babe, I’m sorry, I was fighting a Mole Man—”

“THERE IS ALWAYS A MOLE MAN!”

You are so angry. So furious. Your blood is boiling. And then your eyes drop to his waist. He’s wearing his Fantastic Four uniform, the blue and black one, and the top is slightly untucked from his bottoms.

You grab it. You yank it up.

Johnny stops mid-sentence. His abs are obscene. A perfect, chiseled, airbrushed-by-the-gods six-pack that looks like it was designed in a lab specifically to make you forget why you were mad.

You stare.

He stares at you staring.

“…Are we still fighting?” he asks cautiously.

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “I forgot.”

His cocky grin returns. Slow. Smug. Infuriating. “So my abs just… saved the day?”

“Don’t push it.”

“I’m not pushing anything. You’re the one who pulled up my shirt in the middle of a screaming match.”

You drop the shirt. It falls back down. You immediately pull it back up again.

He throws his head back and laughs, bright and loud and Johnny. “Oh, you’ve got it bad, sweetheart.”

“Shut up and take off the rest of the suit.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

PETER QUILL

You are on the Benatar. In space. There’s a nebula outside the window. It’s very romantic. Peter is trying to impress you by playing Come and Get Your Love on his Zune and doing a stupid little dance.

He’s wearing his iconic red leather jacket, a grey t-shirt underneath, and that stupid, gorgeous, annoyingly charming smirk.

You walk up to him. He thinks you’re going to dance with him. He holds out his hand.

Instead, you grab his t-shirt and yank it straight up to his chin.

The music stops. Peter looks down. There’s a faint line of hair from his navel down. He’s suddenly blushing all the way to his ears.

“…Okay,” he says slowly. “I was not expecting that.”

“What were you expecting?”

“I dunno. A slow dance? A compliment about my eyes for once? Not-not a surprise shirt-ectomy!”

You run a finger down his sternum. He shivers violently.

“Dude,” he whispers. “My nipples are out.”

“I’m aware.”

He looks at you. You look at him. The nebula glows purple outside the window. The song is still playing, forgotten.

“…You wanna see the rest?” he asks, his voice cracking slightly.

“Peter Quill, are you offering to strip?”

“I’m offering to negotiate.”

[brightflame-star]

God I hate him but he’s so fucking tea

[dreadwife]

it's so funny when men try to act like walter white is a stoic badass when he spends 50% of the show's run time looking like this

[modernmusess]

katniss: everyone’s so focused on protecting peeta because they too know how pure hearted he is and believe that he—a boy they’ve never even met before—deserves to survive over them and their friends of literal decades

finnick, to literally everyone else: okay if peeta dies she’s gonna kill all of us and then herself, so hands in, protect bread boy on three-

[staying-soft-reactions]

world of the living / quincy - m!bleach x chubby fem!reader

You wake up and see/feel his hardness from under the sheets

featuring. kisuke urahara, isshin kurosaki, shinji hirako, kensei muguruma, ryojuro otoribashi, ryuken ishida, jugram haschwalth, askin nakk le vaar, bazz-b, lille barro, cang du cw/tg (19+ Only | Minors DNI). established relationship, humor, morning wood, non-explicit smut implications, mild crack, minimal-beta read

Kisuke Urahara

You woke up face down in the pillow with one arm hanging off the edge of the futon. The shop was quiet, which meant it was either very early or Tessai had already handled the morning without bothering to wake anyone.

Rolling over, your hand bumped against Kisuke's hip under the sheet, and then against something else entirely, causing your eyes to snap open, completely awake.

Kisuke was on his back beside you, one arm folded behind his head, breathing steady, apparently dead asleep. The sheet was draped low across his hips and doing nothing whatsoever to conceal his situation.

You looked at it. You looked at his face. You looked back at it and it twitched.

"You're staring~" he teased without opening his eyes.

"You're awake?!"

"I'm always awake love. I sleep in shifts, like a dolphin."

"You do not sleep like a dolphin."

"You don't know that." He still hadn't opened his eyes or acknowledged what was happening below his waist. You pressed your hand flat against his stomach, just above the sheet line, and felt every muscle there tighten at once. His breathing didn't change, which meant he was controlling it on purpose.

"Kisuke."

"Hm."

"Are you going to address this?"

"Address what?" He opened one eye, and looked down. "I'm a man in his own bed in the morning. Everything happening right now is within normal biological parameters."

"Normal biological parameters."

"Yup. Completely standard."

You dragged your fingers down from his stomach, tracing the line of hair below his navel, and stopped right at the edge of the sheet. Both his eyes were open now.

"Are you conducting an experiment now?" he asked, intrigued.

"Maybe."

"You don't have a control group."

"Don't need one." You tugged the sheet down an inch. His hand shot out and caught your wrist, but he didn't push it away. He just held it there, your fingers still pinching the fabric. You could feel him measuring your heartbeat.

"Your heart rate is elevated," he observed.

"And so is something else."

That managed to finally crack him as a grin pulled across his face, not the fan-hidden shopkeeper version but the one that showed his teeth and creased the corners of his eyes.

His grip on your wrist shifted and he pulled your hand under the sheet and pressed it against him and his breath left in a rush that he couldn't disguise as anything other than what it was.

"Okay," he said, voice stripped down to nothing. "Let's continue with this experiment, I'll follow your lead."

"First time for everything."

"Don't get used to it." But his hips were already lifting into your hand and his fingers were already in your hair and he didn't take the lead back for a long time.

Isshin Kurosaki

Something poked your lower back. You were half-asleep, curled on your side, and Isshin was pressed against you the way he always slept. His arm was heavy over your waist, his face was buried in your hair, and something was very insistently pressing against the base of your spine.

You shifted your hips backward, just to confirm. The pressure increased. Isshin made a sound into your hair that was halfway between a snore and a groan and his arm tightened around you.

"Isshin."

Nothing.

"Isshin."

"Mmrgh."

"You're poking me."

A long pause. Then his arm retracted and he rolled onto his back so fast the whole bed shook. You turned over to look at him and he was staring at the ceiling with a blank expression.

"That was... my knee," he said.

"That was not your knee and we both know it."

"It could have been my knee. You don't know the exact position of my knee at all times."

"Your knee is not in the middle of your body, Isshin."

He rubbed both hands over his face and exhaled a loud and long sigh. The sheet was doing nothing to help his case. You propped yourself up on your elbow and watched the flush run up his neck and across his ears until it almost reached his hairline.

"It's morning," he said into his hands. "This happens in the morning. It's a medical thing. I'm a doctor. I can explain the whole process if you want. Blood flow, hormones, there's a very boring diagram--"

"I don't want the diagram."

He spread his fingers apart and peered at you through the gap with his eyebrows raised. "What do you want then?"

You pulled the sheet down to his thighs in one motion. His hands dropped from his face. The flush had reached his forehead now and his chest was rising and falling too fast for a man who'd been asleep thirty seconds ago.

"Oh," he said quietly.

You swung your leg over him and settled in his lap and his hands grabbed your hips immediately, fingers pressing into your skin and jaw going tight as his eyes locked on yours.

"We don't have to," he started, and his voice cracked on the second word.

"I know we don't have to."

"The kids are--"

"At school. It's Tuesday."

He stared at you. You ground down against him slowly, and everything on his face rearranged. The embarrassment burned off and what was left was the version of Isshin that remembered exactly how to take charge of a situation.

"Right. Tuesday," he repeated, and his grip on your hips tightened and he sat up underneath you so fast your breath caught. His mouth was on your throat and his hands were pulling you flush against him.

Shinji Hirako

You woke up because Shinji was laughing in his sleep. Little huffs through his nose, his mouth twitching at whatever was happening behind his eyelids. He was sprawled on his back with one arm flung over his head and the other resting on his stomach, his hair wrecked across the pillow in every direction.

The sheet had migrated south during the night and was bunched around his upper thighs, which was how you noticed the situation before he did.

You watched for a moment. Considered being polite about it. Decided against it.

You poked him in the ribs. Hard.

He flinched, swatted at your hand, and didn't open his eyes. "Five more minutes, if the house isn't on fire, I don't care."

"The house might not be on fire, but your crotch is."

One eye opened. He looked at you. A slow, disoriented blink. Then he looked down at himself and the extremely obvious state of things, and the grin that spread across his face was completely unapologetic.

"Well good morning to me~" he said.

"You're not even a little embarrassed."

"Why would I be embarrassed? This is a compliment to you. You should be flattered."

"I've been awake for thirty seconds."

"And already making an impact. Look at you miss over-achiv--errrreee" He yawned while stretching his arms over his head, his back arching off the mattress, doing absolutely nothing to address or conceal himself.

In other words, he knew you were looking and intended on going you a full show.

"You're ridiculous Shinji," you scoffed.

"You're still looking though~"

"Kind hard not to."

That landed differently than you expected. His grin stayed but his eyes narrowed, and he turned on his side to face you. His hand found your hip under the covers and pulled you toward him until your body was flush against his and there was no sheet or distance between you.

"Hi," he said, face inches from yours.

"Hi."

"You wanna help me with this or you just want to keep pointing out the obvious?" his face was millimeters away now.

"What if I want to keep pointing out the obvious?"

"Then I'm gonna lose my mind, because I'm about as patient as you think I am." His hand slid from your hip to your lower back, pressing you into him, and his mouth grazed your jaw. "Which as we both know, is not much."

You hooked your leg over his hip and he groaned against your throat, performance be damned. His fingers dug into your back and his hips rocked forward.

"Oh, are we improvising now?" you said.

"Mm, shuddup."

"Just pointing out the obvious."

He pulled back enough to look at you with a heated look.

"Well," he said. "There goes my patience."

Kensei Muguruma

You woke up on your stomach with Kensei's arm pinning you across the lower back. He slept like a barricade, heavy and immovable, and most mornings you had to physically shove him to get enough room to breathe.

But this morning when you shifted against him you felt something firm against your hip, obvious and undeniable.

You turned your head on the pillow to see that he was still out of it. Face half-buried in the mattress, jaw slack, breathing deep. Kensei asleep was one of the only times his face fully relaxed, the permanent scowl smoothed out into something almost peaceful. You rarely got to see it.

Buuuuuut.

You also rarely got to see him at a disadvantage.

You pressed your hip back against him, slow and deliberate and his breathing hitched. His arm tightened across your back and you did it again, putting more weight behind it. A low rumble started in his chest, not quite a growl, not yet a groan.

"Keeeenseeei~" You kept your voice quiet.

His eyes opened. It took him about two seconds to register the situation, his jaw clenched and he pulled his hips back from you immediately, putting an inch of distance between his body and yours.

"Don't," he said. His voice was rough with sleep and something more heated.

"Don't what?"

"Don't make it a thing."

"I'm not making it a thing, it already it is."

You rolled over onto your side, facing him. His arm was still across you but his hips were angled away now, as if that single inch of space was going to save him. You could see the tension running through his shoulders, his neck, the way his hand had curled into a fist against the mattress.

Kensei embarrassed was Kensei angry, and Kensei angry was Kensei who wanted to put his fist through a wall. Or you, ideally.

You reached over and put your hand flat on his chest and he looked at it like you just placed a live grenade there.

"It's fine, Kensei."

"I know it's fine. I didn't say it wasn't fine."

"You're scowling."

"I'm always scowling."

You rolled your eyes, "You're scowling more than usual then."

His jaw clenched while you slid your hand down from his chest to his stomach, feeling every ridge of muscle contract under your palm before you traced the edge of his 69 tattoo with your thumb.

"You don't have to make it more of thing," he said again, quieter now, going with your logic.

"What if I want to make it more of a thing?"

He looked at you and his scowl cracked. It wasn't quite a smile, but it was close enough. His hand uncurled from its fist and landed on your waist, gripping hard enough to dimple your skin.

"Then get over here," he said, "and stop teasing me about it."

You closed the distance and pressed yourself against him and felt him exhale like he'd been holding it since he woke up.

His mouth found yours, rough and graceless, and his hand dragged you in by the back of your thigh. Whatever control he'd been performing dissolved the second your hips met his.

Rojuro Otoribashi (Rose)

You woke to the sound of humming. Of course you did.

Rose was on his back beside you, eyes closed, one hand conducting an invisible orchestra above his chest, fingers moving through the air in slow arcs. The morning light caught all that blonde hair spread across the pillow and made it look like something out of a gallery.

He was composing again. Probably had been for an hour.

What he had not noticed, apparently, was the sheet.

It was draped across his hips in a way that made the whole situation extremely obvious, and he was either genuinely unaware or so lost in whatever symphony was playing in his head that his body had become irrelevant background noise. Knowing Rose, it could have been either or both.

You propped yourself up on your elbows and looked as he kept humming. His conducting hand swept through a crescendo and you reached over and laid your palm flat on his stomach, just below his navel.

The humming stopped.

"Oh, good morning love." he said, eyes still closed, voice carrying the faintest vibrato.

"Morning... Love? You have bit of a situation."

"I have many situations. I'm a captain and a musician. Situations are all part of my work"

You exhaled a long sigh, "Rose. Look down at yourself."

He opened his eyes, lifted his head, and looked. He paused. Then he let his head fall back against the pillow with a sigh that somehow managed to sound melodic.

"Ah, I see... Well. The body is an instrument, and instruments don't always wait for the conductor's cue."

"Did you just... compare your penis to a musical instrument?"

"Everything is music if you listen closely enough." But his voice had lost its airy quality, because your hand was still on his stomach and your thumb had started tracing a slow line back and forth below his navel.

His conducting hand lowered and came to rest on top of yours. Not guiding, not stopping. Just holding.

"You could ignore it," you offered.

"One could ignore a thunderstorm. One could also ignore a Beethoven overture... It would be a profound waste in both cases."

"You're always so dramatic."

"I prefer passionate." He turned his head on the pillow to look at you, his eyes were focus on you. "You're not moving your hand."

"No."

"Are you planning to move it somewhere?"

"Depends."

"On?"

"Whether you stop comparing yourself to a cello."

He laughed and his hand closed around yours and guided it down beneath the sheet.

His breath caught when your fingers found him, a sharp intake through parted lips, and his eyes fluttered shut and opened his mouth in a gasp, his free hand fisting the pillow beside his head.

Ryuken Ishida

You opened your eyes at 5:02 AM because Ryuken's side of the bed was still occupied. That alone was unusual enough to wake you. Most mornings the sheets were already cold by the time your alarm went off, his side made with military precision.

But today he was still here. Flat on his back, one arm across his eyes, breathing evenly. The sheet were pulled to his waist in that precise way he did everything, edges straight, fabric smooth.

Although it wasn't smooth enough to hide what was underneath.

You looked. Probably for longer than you should have. Then you rolled onto your side and said, "You're still here..."

"I'm aware." His arm stayed over his eyes. His voice was flat and clipped.

"And you're--"

"Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to." His arm came down from his eyes and he stared at the ceiling. His jaw was tight and a muscle in his cheek was working. He looked like a man trying to perform surgery on his own composure.

You slid across the mattress until your body was against his side. He didn't move toward you, but he didn't move away either. You rested your hand on his chest, over the pressed undershirt he wore to bed.

"It's natural, Ryuken."

"I'm aware of the physiology. I am a doctor."

"Then why are you acting like you've been caught doing something wrong?"

His eyes were sharp and guarded when he looked at you, but his pupils were wide in the low light. He held your gaze for a long moment, then looked back at the ceiling.

"I am not accustomed to... being seen like this."

The sentence landed in the quiet room and stayed there. You understood what it cost him. You didn't push it. You just moved your hand from his chest down to his stomach, slow enough that he could stop you if he wanted.

He didn't.

"You don't have to do anything," you said. "I can just--"

"Don't patronize me." But his hand had come up and closed around your wrist, and instead of pulling you away he held you there, fingers tight, thumb against your pulse.

You turned your wrist in his hold, laced your fingers through his and brought his hand to your mouth before kissing his knuckles, one at a time, and watched the muscle in his jaw finally release.

"Come here," you said.

He rolled toward you stiffly, but his hand found your waist and his forehead dropped against yours. You reached between the two of you and touched him through the fabric and his whole body jerked once.

Jugram Haschwalth

You weren't sure what woke you at first.

Jugram was sleeping beside you on his back, perfectly still, perfectly composed, even in sleep. His hands folded over his stomach and his hair arranged on the pillow as if he planned its placement before closing his eyes.

Then you noticed the sheet.

There was a subtle elevation across his lap that did not match the flat, controlled lines of the sheets on top of him. You blinked at it. You blinked again.

Jugram Haschwalth. The Grandmaster, the man who ironed his cape and aligned his boots at right angles before bed... was lying with an erection pressing against Wandenreich-issued bedding like a quiet act of mutiny against his own discipline.

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

His eyes opened suddenly, like a switch being thrown and immediately fixed them on you.

"Why are you laughing," he said.

"You well--um...drawn your bedroom sword it seems."

The silence that followed was profound.

His gaze held yours and then, with enormous control, shifted downward. He observed the situation the way he might observe a battlefield irregularity, with calm assessment and absolutely no visible reaction. Then he looked back at you.

"This is merely a physiological occurrence."

"I know what it is, Jugram."

"It requires no acknowledgment."

"And yet here it is. Being acknowledged."

His jaw tightened by a fraction and you rolled onto your side, closing the distance between you before resting your chin on his shoulder. You could see the faintest color along the tops of his cheekbones.

Jugram Haschwalth was blushing. It was so subtle that anyone else would have missed it entirely, but you had spent enough time studying this face to know what his neutral expression looked like, and this was not it.

"It'll pass," he said to the ceiling.

"What if I could help it pass faster?"

He went quiet as though he had been caught without a plan.

You laughed softly and put your hand on his chest. His breathing stayed even but his pulse didn't, you could feel it jumping under your fingers, and the contrast between what his body was doing and what his face was doing was almost unbearable.

"Jugram. Look at me."

He did, looking at you the same way a person looks at someone they still can't quite believe chose them back.

"You could ask," you said.

"I don't ask for things."

His hand came up from his side and cupped the back of your head. His fingers threaded into your hair and held there, firm and deliberate. He pulled you down and kissed you, and it was nothing like the rest of him. It was deep and his teeth grazed your bottom lip.

When you slid your hand down his stomach and under the sheet he inhaled against your mouth and his hips lifted to meet you before he could stop them.

Askin Nakk Le Vaar

You were lying on your side, half-awake, watching the early light cut a stripe across the bed, when you noticed the sheet was doing something architectural over Askin's lap.

He was flat on his back, one arm behind his head, the other resting on his stomach, still asleep. The sheet tented upward with a frankness that bordered on comedic.

You stared at it for a moment. Then you reached over and flicked it.

His eyes flew open. "Ow. What. Why."

"Good morning to you too babe."

He blinked, looked at you, looked down at himself, and then let his head fall back against the pillow with a groan. "Ah. Right. That."

"That," you agreed.

He rubbed his jaw and stared at the ceiling. "You weren't supposed to be awake for this part. I had a whole system. Get up, handle it, come back, make coffee, maintain the illusion of dignity."

"Illusion's gone, sorry."

"Yup. Completely shattered. Thanks for that." He glanced sideways at you, one eye half-open, that stray strand of hair stuck to his cheekbone. "I could still go handle it... Bathroom's right there."

"You could." you agreed again.

"That would be the reasonable thing to do."

"Absolutely."

"Or."

"Or."

"Or," he said again, quieter.

"Or," you said, and neither of you were finishing the sentence. His throat moved when he swallowed. Your hand was already on his stomach.

"Somebody has to finish saying it," he murmured.

"Ooorrrr I could just do this." You slid your hand below the sheet and his whole body went taut, his breath leaving him in a rush as his hand grabbed your wrist but not to stop you.

"That works," he managed. "--That works too."

He pulled you over him, both hands on your hips, and when you pressed down against him the sound he made was something he would have let anyone else hear. His mouth found yours, slow and unhurried, his thumb tracing the curve of your hip.

"You're so fatal," he murmured against your lips.

Bazz-B

You woke up with Bazz-B's leg shoved between yours and his arm pinning you to the mattress. He was taking up most of the bed space at a diagonal, his face mashed into the pillow and mohawk crushed flat on one side. He was still out, his breathing heavy and body was slack.

But something between your thighs was not slack at all.

His hips were pressed flush against your leg and the situation was extremely, undeniably, clear. You shifted slightly and felt it press harder and his hips rocked forward on instinct, a slow, unconscious grind that made your breath catch before your brain was fully awake.

You laid there for a moment. Considering your options.

"Bazz."

Nothing. His arm tightened around your waist and he mumbled something unintelligible into the pillow and pushed his hips forward again. Your teeth sank into your bottom lip.

"Bazz." You shoved his shoulder. He grunted but didn't wake up. His hand slid down to your hip in his sleep and gripped it and pulled you closer against him, which made the whole situation significantly worse. Or better. Depending on perspective.

"Bazz!" You pinched his arm hard enough to leave a mark.

His head jerked up. "What--W-What's happening--"

"You're grinding on me in your sleep you idiot."

He blinked. The disorientation lasted about two seconds before awareness caught up. He looked down at the position they were in, his leg between yours, his hips pressed against your thigh, his hand gripping your hip.

"That's not--I was asleep!"

"I know you were asleep. That's why I woke you up!"

"So... I'd stop?"

"So you'd do it on purpose."

He stared at you before his gaze dropped to where his body was still pressed between your thighs, then back up to your face.

"Yeah? Is that what you want." he said. Slower this time.

"You heard me."

His fingers pressed into your skin, pulling you tighter against him.

"If you're messing with me," he said, "I'm going to be pissed."

"When have I ever messed with you?"

"Constantly. All the time. It's like half our relationship."

You rolled your hips against his one slow, deliberate grind. The groan that came out of his throat was raw and his eyes went half-shut as his fingers dug into your hip.

"I'm not messing with you," you said.

Lille Barro

Lille's room carried a specific kind of stillness, ordered and absolute. He was beside you on his back, eye closed and breathing measured. Even in sleep, Lille Barro looked disciplined.

You noticed the sheet first. It was pulled tight across his body and tented at the hips, and it took you a moment to reconcile what you were seeing with the man lying next to you. Lille Barro. Was lying here like any other man on any other morning.

You didn't touch him. You just looked, chin propped on your hand, and waited.

His eye opened and glanced at you.

"You've been watching me sleep again..." he said.

"For a few minutes."

His eye moved to the sheet and than back to you. His expression remained exactly the same.

"Even the divine inhabit a body," he said simply.

"Lille."

"I am merely contextualizing--"

"Lille." You put your hand on his stomach and his sentence died. Under your palm his muscles pulled tight and his breathing hitched for exactly one beat before he corrected it. You could almost see him recalibrating, reasserting control, building the wall back up brick by brick while your hand sat on his bare skin and made it all pointless.

"You do this," you said. "Every time. You talk about divinity and purpose and context. And the whole time your heart is going like this." You slid your hand up to his chest and pressed down. His pulse was hammering.

For the first time his composure thinned enough that you could see something underneath it.

Confliction. With part of him that believed he was above this and the part of him that wanted you to move your hand down lower.

"I am not accustomed to--" he started.

"I know."

"My purpose has always been singular. His Majesty's will. The execution of--"

"I know, Lille."

You leaned over and kissed the crosshair mark over his left eye and he stilled. You kissed his cheekbone. The bridge of his nose. The corner of his mouth. Each one deliberate. Each one placed with the kind of precision only he would understand.

His hand came up and caught the back of your head. His fingers threaded into your hair and held you there, your mouth a breath from his.

"Show me," he said. Quiet. Almost inaudible. "I do not know to be selfish. Show me."

You kissed him. His mouth opened under yours and his hand tightened in your hair and when you slid your hand down he exhaled against your lips like a man surfacing from deep water. His hips lifted to meet your touch and the rest of his composure didn't just thin, it dissolved.

You guided his other hand to your body and he followed your lead with the same focused precision he brought to everything, learning you the way he'd learned the rifle, thorough, intent, and unwilling to miss.

Cang Du

You woke because the room was cold and Cang Du didn't radiate heat when he slept. He barely radiated presence. He was on his back, perfectly still, the sheet folded across his waist with a neatness that suggested he hadn't moved once his sleep. His face was blank, his breathing silent.

But the sheet, neat as it was, couldn't lie.

You looked at the subtle tension in the fabric across his lap. Then you looked at his face. Nothing. He could have been carved from the same iron his body produced. You had no idea if he was awake or asleep, because with Cang Du, there was often no difference in the expression.

You put your hand on his forearm and his eyes opened. No surprise. No disorientation. Just a narrow look fixed on you with the same flat calm he used in everything.

"You're awake," you said.

"I have been awake for some time."

"How long?"

He paused. "Approximately forty minutes."

You stared at him. Forty minutes. This man had been lying perfectly still in the dark for forty minutes, refusing to acknowledge his own body, with the same stubborn discipline he brought to everything else in his life.

"Cang. That's absurd."

"It is not absurd. It is discipline."

"Okay, that's just sad."

You moved closer. You put your hand on his chest flat over his heart. His skin was cool, but his pulse hammered under your palm, fast and hard, the only part of him that couldn't hold rank.

"You could have woken me up," you yawned.

He looked at you. The flat calm didn't crack but something shifted behind it. His hand came up and rested over yours on his chest, pressing it down. His fingers were cool and rough and exact.

"I would not know how to ask," he said.

Seven words. From a man who barely spoke five words in an entire day. You felt the weight of them settle in your chest.

You leaned in and kissed the scar on his lip. He inhaled through his nose, sharp and controlled. You kissed the corner of his mouth. His hand tightened over yours. You kissed him fully and for a moment he was rigid and still, and then something gave way and he kissed you back with a crumbling restraint.

You pulled the sheet down and his jaw clenched. You touched him and his eyes closed and his head turned into the pillow and the sound he made was so quiet you felt it more than heard it.

TAG LIST [message if you would like to be added!]: @disturbyakuya

a/n. i laughed too much at myself while writing this. anyone wanna take a wild guess at what my favourite line was?

[oneswordstyle]

[vixeybabe]

Inexperienced | Inexperienced, Needy Law x Reader

I’m just going to leave this here teehee (Law whimpering tiktok) https://vm.tiktok.com/ZNRGNyM42/

This is long - I may have gotten a bit carried away icl. Inexperience, needy Law fuels me.

Synopsis: You and Law have been together for weeks but something is lacking - your sex life. Let’s fix that… the only problem he is painfully inexperienced. You can fix that ;) (Needy Law / SMUT / MDNI - you have been warned)

Warnings: Oral, smut, self pleasure idek just general sexy time things lol.

Word Count: 4203 lol

-

The Polar Tang is moored at a new island, the crew having just dispersed to obtain new supplies and enjoy some much needed rest and relaxation. Law has stayed behind, cooped up broodily in his office as per usual. There are piles of research materials spread across his desk - maps, medical journals, and articles, anything worth looking at.

You stayed back too, though your reasons are anything but academic. You originally planned to do some shopping with Ikkakku, but you have more important matters to attend to... Aka your sex life - or lack thereof. You and Law have been happily together for weeks now, so why on gods-green-earth has he not shown any interest in anything more than making out? You’ve put it down to the crew constantly being around, and the fact that he probably gets more sexually aroused over his research than he ever will a woman. God forbid you take him away from his work.

You find him exactly where you knew you would, in his office, with his mind completely engrossed in a complex diagram. His brows are furrowed and his forehead creased; the scratching of his pen is the only echoing sound in the submarine.

Law’s head snaps up as the door opens. He is slightly taken aback to find you standing there, as he had assumed you would be out having fun with the rest of the crew. You are wearing an outfit he has never seen you in before and it shows off way more skin than usual. Although the change is not unwelcome, it catches him off guard. The revealing get-up is phase one of your master plan.

His gaze lingers on you for a moment, moving down your body and admiring the sight of your exposed skin, before his face moulds into neutral curiosity. “What are you still doing here?”

“Decided to stay back, I’m sure the others can get everything we need without me.”

You lean against the door frame slightly, and his eyes flicker down again as he notices the way the fabric clings to every tantalising curve. A slow realisation finally dawns on his face, and he sets his pen down with a click to turn his full, undivided attention to you. 

“I see,” he says, tone dropping lower and a bit of its usual cold, calculated expression disappears.

“Thought we could have some alone time.”

Suggestive. Bold. You want to see what he does with your insinuation.

The submarine is quiet around you both as Law processes the implied invitation. His eyes roam over your body unabashedly now, looking to see if you mean what you say. Finding no hint of a joke, he swallows hard and nods slowly. “Alone time, huh?" He repeats.

You walk over and perch on the corner of his desk, the way his eyes linger on your body with a heat you’ve never seen before gives you confidence.

“Mhm, that is what I said.”

He has fixed his attention on you in its entirety now - the way you are perched so provocatively on his desk. The smell of your perfume - sweet and vanilla - drifts towards him. He leans back in his chair to observe the situation. "And what precisely did you have in mind during this... alone time?"

“Just spending some quality time together, anything you want to do?” You are goading him, trying to entice him into showing some initiative. After all, you aren't doing all the hard work…

He is nothing if not perceptive; he gets the hint - the outfit, the deliberate way that you position yourself. His eyes darken with understanding, and he takes a full breath, then one more. His gaze finally meets yours and his tone is now at a whisper. "I think we both know what you came here for." He is testing the waters. 

He extends his hand forward, offering it out to you, eyes probing yours, wanting confirmation that this is your intent and he is not mistaken. You take his hand and slide into his lap, settling onto his thighs as his breath catches in his throat. His hands instinctively grip your hips to steady you. His cheeks flush faintly, and the stoic Captain looks remarkably young.

"I've... never done this before." He can’t control the words that hurriedly fall out of his mouth, slightly panicked and so unlike him.

It clicks. The confidence from before had all been a facade. His life has been so undyingly devoted to revenge rather than romance; it isn’t that he doesn’t want you - he is just inexperienced in how to want you. Relief washes over you instantly. He is a man accustomed to dissecting the human body but uncertain how to deal with the actual living, breathing one pressed against him.

“Really?” It is the only reply you can think of in your shock.

He nods in a way that doesn't hide his vulnerability. His hands remain on your hips, thumbs lightly tracing circles on your skin. “I mean, I am aware of the basic practices..."

“What with being a doctor and all, I would hope so,” you joke, trying to lighten the mood and make him feel more comfortable.

He chuckles softly, the sound creating a vibration that travels through his chest. "Theory is quite different from practice," he admits as his hands slide to your waist. Your skin is so soft, and he would be lying if he didn’t admit to the way his body is yearning for your touch. "I understand the human body, but... I just don't know how to... handle a person like this."

“Want me to show you?”

Your suggestion hangs in the air, as his throat bobs and he swallows. His grip on your waist tightens ever so slightly. The surgeon of death, the man who could remove internal organs blindfolded and take the hearts of one hundred pirates, is left uncertain. He nods slowly, his forehead almost touching yours. You can feel his breath fan across your face as you both stare at each other.

"Yes.” It’s nearly inaudible and it catches slightly in his throat.

“You're sure?” You ask, brushing your fingers lightly down his arm. “Because we don’t have to, if you don’t want to. We can wait.”

Your heads are practically touching now, and he nods against your forehead. Your breaths mingle as he confirms, “I… trust you.”

The words linger heavily between you, and your heart swells up with love for the man before you.

"Teach me,” he murmurs, and you don’t hesitate before going in for a searing kiss. It leaves you both panting; it’s sweet yet forceful.

You draw back ever so slightly, “not here then. I mean, as much as I’d love to do it here, I think maybe your bedroom is more practical…” You get up from his lap, this time offering him your hand.

You watch as his eyes widen slightly at your suggestion, cheeks turning an even darker shade at whatever mental image your words are cooking up for him. He takes your hand without hesitation, letting you pull him to his feet and guide him to his room.

He isn’t speaking as you lead him through the corridor, and you decide again to ease the mood with humour, “I can't believe it was this easy to pry you from your office, miracles really do happen.”

A faint, sheepish smile touches his lips. "Don't get used to it." 

“You are like a hermit crab cooped up in there day in and day out.”

He chuckles at your babbling before pushing open his bedroom door and stepping aside to let you enter first. “After you.”

“What a gentleman.”

The door clicks shut behind you both, sealing you in. Law stands awkwardly, just inside, suddenly not knowing what to do with his hands - they flop uselessly at his sides.

“So…” he starts and then stops, as if he thinks better of it.

“It’s fine, we don’t have to rush this,” you say smoothly, reassuring him.

He nods, relieved and takes another deep breath. He is nervous. You can tell.

You pull him over to the bed and motion for him to sit on the cushy mattress. His eyes widen slightly at your assertiveness, but he complies without a second thought, sitting down on the edge of the bed. His back is ramrod straight, and you can just tell he is so pent up - it’s killing you. His legs are slightly parted, his hands resting splayed out on his thighs - he looks like a patient awaiting examination, instead of a lover awaiting pleasure. The scene would be almost comical if you didn’t care so much about this man.

“Law, baby, you’re so tense. Try to relax a little.”

You crawl onto the bed behind him, and instead of doing anything remotely sexual, you begin to massage his shoulders. Your gentle touch makes him melt backwards, a soft sigh leaving him as you work out a knot. “Feels good, yeah? You are so pent up, you need to give yourself time to wind down.”

He nods slowly, his head dropping forward to give you better access as his tense muscles begin to release under your skilled touch. He’s never had someone be so intimate with him before. It is quiet times like this that he really cherishes - you provide a safety net, enabling him to let his guard down in your presence. Another sigh escapes his lips, and you know you are succeeding at relaxing him.

You lean in and kiss his neck tentatively, seeing how he will react. His breath gets caught, bubbling up in his throat. He feels a shiver tingle all the way down his spine. A rumble vibrates through his chest, halfway between a hum and a groan of approval, praising you. His eyes slide shut, and all tension melts from his frame. Your lips are tantalising, teasing his neck between the soft rubs of your fingers.

"I could get used to this,” he moans out.

“Could you now?” You finish up massaging the knots on his shoulders, “now let’s get rid of this”. You help him remove his shirt, reaching around to pull the fabric over his head. His bare chest is toned, but not too defined - subtly muscular. He looks down at himself, feeling oddly vulnerable, but you smile at him reassuringly. “Lie on your back for me, baby.”

The term of endearment makes his heart flutter, and he obeys, lying back on the bed. He is surprisingly compliant, as he stares up at you with those dark eyes, pupils wide. You can tell he is trying to process it all, all the sensations racing through his body and mind. “Like this?”

“Just like that, you are doing so well.” You straddle his waist, leaning over him as you take in his bare chest. His breathing is shallow, and his hands hover, uncertainly beside him - like he is not sure where to touch and put them. He is quite submissive before you, and it almost makes you laugh to see him like this. Having him all vulnerable before you is a foreign sight, one you want to see more often. 

"I... don't know what to do with my hands."

You grasp his hands in yours. “You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to, but we could start with this?” You guide his hands to your waist, and he reaches out fumbling but gripping you with care. 

He watches you as you slowly lift your shirt up and over your head, revealing your chest and gentle curves. His eyes linger, hands tightening slightly.

“See something you like?” Your playful demeanour is back, and he flushes, looking away, but you guide his face back to you, your thumb resting on his chin. 

“You are teasing me,” he mumbles begrudgingly, but doesn’t move away this time.

His facial hair tickles your fingers as you go down for a kiss. He kisses you back, like you are precious. His hands slowly slide up from your waist to your ribs. He is so careful and tentative, cautious of making a mistake. 

You let one hand play with his hair, kissing him again more passionately, and he melts into it. He moves into your touch so freely, letting off a low, vibrating hum against your lips. Your fingers thread into his hair, and his entire body goes pliant beneath you, ready to be bent to your every whim. 

His hands flex against your ribs, “I… I like that,” he murmurs against your mouth. 

You can feel the bulge in his pants against your thigh, and you look down and giggle slightly. “I can tell.”

He flushes darkly again. His head falls back against the pillows in embarrassment. "That's... not something I can control," he admits, eyes squeezing shut. He has never been one to be so openly vulnerable, but with you, well, he thinks he can try. He is hard and needy beneath you, his walls crumbling. 

“It’s okay. I’m just joking,” you comfort, leaning down to kiss his neck. He gasps as your lips make contact, his hips buck up slightly, pressing his hardness against your thigh. 

“Mmm….”

“All you need to do is lie there, okay? Have me give the orders for once.” You trail your hand down to rub against his hard length, and he visibly shudders, body jerking again at your touch. He swallows hard as he watches your small hands move up against him through his pants. 

"Understood," he breathes out, his delivery going down an octave. He forces his hands to unclench from your waist, and he moves them to rest loosely above his head. You continue to feel around, he is huge there, long and thick - something catches in your throat. 

You pepper feather light kisses down his chest, as you move yourself down his body. You apply more pressure with your hand, and his mouth falls open, a low groan escaping his lips. "Fuck..."

“Enjoying yourself?” 

He nods, his hips lifting into your touch before he catches himself and forces them back down. "Too much," he admits. "I'm going to embarrass myself if you keep doing that."

“And we haven’t even got to the good part yet,” you tease. 

You reach the waistband of his pants and unbuckle his belt. His fingers grip so hard into the bed sheets, knuckles turning a ghostly white. His chest heaves, breathing unsteady - he looks so utterly wrecked already. 

“How do you... make me feel this way? I'm usually in control. I'm supposed to be the one..." He trails off...

“It’s okay to let loose a little, you are okay with this, right?” You pause needing to know before you can continue, fingers hesitating on the button of his pants.

The way he looks down at you is so intense, with desire and something else - love, trust. 

"Yes.” He is quiet, but his response holds firm. 

He lifts his hips obediently after you have unbuttoned his trousers, allowing you to slide them down his legs and off with ease. He now lies completely undressed before you, hard and exposed. You take note of every contour of his body, every scar that maps out its own gruelling story. You acknowledge every part of him, basking in the sight of the man you love. His cock stands proud and thick, with curls at the base.

"Don't look at me like that," he says, embarrassed. "I feel... self-conscious."

“I adore you,” is the only reply you can think to give, because you do… You adore the man lying before you, inside and out; your silent and stern protector, your rock, your everything. 

“Would it help if I got undressed fully as well?” You motion to your skirt and bra. 

"Yes," he breathes out, the word coming out like a plea. "Please... I want to see you too." He internally cringes at how needy he sounds, but you don’t leave him long to ponder it as you start to undress. 

You make quick work of removing the rest of your clothing as he watches with rapt attention, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. When you slide your panties off he makes a small, choked sound in the back of his throat as he admires you - every part of you on full display. 

"You're..." You swallow his words in a kiss before descending his body as he watches, holding his breath as you near his straining erection.

Your mouth levels with his cock, and he bites back a moan. 

“Wait…” His face contorts with need and embarrassment, and you pause, hardly breathing. “I want this, I want this so fucking bad - I just… don’t want you to think less of me if I embarrass-“ The rest of his sentence is lost as you kiss the tip of his cock before licking a strip up from the base to the tip. "Yes, God, yes," he hisses, his hips lifting.

You take him fully into your mouth, and he makes a sound unlike anything you have ever heard from him before, a desperate whimper. His whole body arches off the bed as you suck on his sensitive cock, hands flying to your hair - not pushing or pulling, just trembling there, gripping tentatively like you are something fragile. "Oh fuck-"

A long, low moan escapes him as his head falls back on the pillow again, and you watch him, sucking greedily.

"Oh... oh God.”

You continue pleasuring him, studying his face - the way his mouth opens in silent awe, cheeks changing in hue to a rosy pink. His vulnerable eyes meet yours, conveying his need, his desire and his surrender. His hips start to move hesitantly in a rhythm, and he searches your face for any sign of displeasure, but seeing none, he lets himself move unrestrained in your mouth. You take him further into the back of your throat, one hand fondling his sack as the other grips his waist. His thighs tremble violently. 

He whimpers pathetically before pressing his hand to his mouth; embarrassment flooding his features. You pull off him with a pop, replacing your mouth with your hand as you shift up his body to gently remove his hand from his mouth. 

“I want to hear you, want to know how good it feels.”

He bites his lip hard, trying to hold back. But the moment your eyes meet his, and you tell him you want to hear him, he can’t hold it in any longer. His hands fly to your hair, and he lets out a desperate groan as your hand pumps his cock, while you kiss him. 

“It does," he gasps against your lips. "It feels so good... you're so good..."

You grind against him slightly, the pressure on your clit shooting tingles all through your body. You are making a mess as you grind against him, your heat dripping with arousal. You both moan into each other’s mouths, and he realises that you are getting as much pleasure from this as he is.

One of his hands drops from your hair to your hip, encouraging the grinding motion. “Are you… ?” He pants against your lips, spellbound by the way you are moving on top of him. He loves the way your face contorts in pleasure, how needy you look - all for him. He could definitely get used to this sight. 

“Yes… god, just looking at you is doing things to me - things you can't even imagine.” 

Your confession is his undoing. He pulls back to search your eyes, seeing the truth lingering behind them - you're genuinely turned on by his vulnerable side, his embarrassment, his need. "Then show me... show me what seeing me like this does to you."

You turn your attentions from his cock to your soaking pussy, slowly massaging your clit. Dipping a finger inside your heat, you continue your circling motion. His grey eyes stare at your hand between your thighs, worshipping the sight. 

Law’s cock twitches, leaking pre-cum, as he drinks in the way you touch yourself before him. “Is that… because of me?” 

He doesn’t know what to do with himself - everything feels so intense. All he knows is his dick is throbbing painfully, aching for attention. 

“Mhm… all because of you… think you might need to do something about it.” You add another finger, moaning at the stimulation.

Seeing you touch yourself like that, hearing your moan - it's too much for his sexually naive brain to handle . "Like what?" he asks hoarsely.

You withdraw your fingers before lining yourself up with his cock, “like this?”

He freezes as you position yourself over his throbbing dick. His breath catches in his throat. Then his hands snap to your hips. He holds you there as he stares up at you with wide, desperate eyes. “Yes. Like that. God, yes, like that."

You sink onto him slowly.

His head tilts, exposing the long column of his throat and his bobbing adams apple. A broken sob tears from his lips.  “Oh fuck, oh fuck-“ His hands grip tightly, not forcing you but as if to ground himself to this moment. 

You give yourself a brief second to adjust to his size before moving. He watches the way your bodies connect, eyes fixated on the movement - every slow roll of your hips, the way he sinks deeper into you. His mouth hangs open now, sounds falling freely from his lips - moans, gasps, broken cries of your name.

“You are doing so well,” you moan, and his whole body shudders at the praise. He shouldn’t be enjoying this, feeling so powerless beneath you, but he can’t help but turn to mush at your affections. You are the only person who can do this to him, see this side of him - open and vulnerable, so unlike his usual demeanour. 

"I am?" he asks hoarsely, pleasure and embarrassment written all over his face. He can feel every inch of you around him, an overwhelming and incredible sensation. His hips start to move in sync with yours, his body reacting before his mind can. 

“Yes, baby, so good for me.” God, this really is humbling, he thinks, the way the word baby turns him to mush. 

His hips are meeting yours thrust for thrust now, as your bodies find a perfect rhythm. His hands on your hips begin to guide you, as he becomes more comfortable - more sure of himself and his movements. He finds the perfect angle that releases your name from his mouth like a call out to the gods. 

“Yes. Oh, Law. Yes - please,” your encouragement spurs him on, and he moves faster, harder. 

His dark hair sticks to his sweaty forehead, and he becomes so focused on the way your bodies intertwine that he doesn’t even seem to register his own movements anymore.

“Please, what?” He finally manages to gasp out, voice ragged.    

“Please just like that… Right there.”

His thrusts turn desperate. He is panting now, his moans uncontrollable.

You guide his hand down to your clit, and he finds it like he has done this a hundred times before thumb circling it as you roll your hips. He groans long and low, watching your breasts bounce with every movement. He wants to please you; he wants to make you feel as good as you’re making him. 

"Is this good?" He needs reassurance; even in his blissed-out state, he needs to know what he is doing is right. 

“Yes, so good. Just like that.” Your confirmation creates a new confidence, as he continues - watching your face for your reactions to his ministrations. 

"Baby... I think..." He pauses, stuttering and then swallowing again. The nickname is not something he uses often - he usually doesn’t bother with such terms of endearment, but it falls from his lips so naturally. His brain is short-circuiting with pleasure, and he becomes more urgent, more sloppy. “I'm gonna... I mean, if you keep moving like that..."

You know what he is trying to tell you, and you are nearly there as well. 

“Cum… I’m so close, cum with me.” 

Those words are the last straw. With a loud moan that seems to fill the room, he comes, his cock pulsing inside you. His thumb presses hard against your clit, and the sensation pushes you over the edge. You both ride out your orgasms together, bodies shifting in tandem.

You collapse fully against him, face nestled into his neck. You cuddle into him, his arms immediately reacting even though his brain is foggy. He pulls you closer against his broad chest. 

“I love you, y’know.” Your confession, the way you fit perfectly against him, the afterglow of the moment you have just shared - makes him feel all warm and fuzzy, satiated in a way he never knew he could be.

His hand finds your hair, fingers needing your scalp tenderly. "I love you too," he repeats serenely, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. 

[dalekofchaos]

[narnian-neverlander]

Don’t Go Where I Can’t Follow [Vinsmoke Sanji x GN!Reader]

“I’d rather have it be me than you. I’ve been made the luckiest man on the Grand Line solely through you choosing to love me, so if I take my last breath protecting you, I’ll do so gladly.”

“Yeah, I know. Trust me, I know. And I don’t think you understand how absolutely terrifying and daunting that is.”

Genre/Tropes: hurt/comfort, established relationship

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: mentions of canon typical injuries

A/N: Rewatching Whole Cake always makes me wanna wrap his self sacrificial self in a blanket and keep him safe even more than I usually do, so here we are. Written with anime Sanji in mind, but could be read as OPLA Sanji, too, I think??

The food in front of you must’ve grown cold by now with how long you’ve been pushing it around your plate listlessly, any appetite replaced by anxiety induced nausea the moment Usopp had found you stumbling out onto the deck, still bleary eyed and only half awake, and had told you to pick up the pace if you still wanted any breakfast. The buzz and chatter of the crew has faded to not much more than static in your ears as you keep stealing glances at the blond serving food and bright smiles like nothing’s wrong in the slightest. It takes several calls of your name to realize Luffy is talking to you, desperately wanting to know if you’re gonna finish your breakfast, so you end up shoving your untouched plate in your captain’s general direction, harsher than strictly necessary, before falling back in your seat heavily, arms crossed over your chest, eyes downcast and overall radiating discontent and restlessness. It earns you a concerned gaze from the cook, one you’ve become so accustomed to you can feel it, yet you refuse to lift your head or react in any other way.

The rest of the crew catches on to the tension between you both quickly, all filing out of the kitchen one after the other with flimsy at best excuses, except for Luffy, who has to be dragged out by Zoro, bless the swordsman’s heart. Silence settles over the room, awkward and strained, so unlike the comfortable warmth that usually occupies the quiet spaces between you.

“Angel, you didn’t eat a single bite. Would you like me to make you something else?”

His voice is low, soft, careful, meant to calm and reassure you. Any other day, it probably would, as it usually does.

Today?

Today, it makes you want to strangle him.

“Are you serious right now…?” you ask, trying to keep your voice level.

“Why wouldn’t I be? We’ve had a rough couple of days and are all still recovering, you need to keep your strength up, ma chérie.”

Tipping your head back, you exhale the anger burning you from the inside out in a long breath before leveling him with a disapproving glare.

“Exactly. So why are you standing here, first day out of a coma, still covered in bandages, pretending like it’s just any other regular morning? Like nothing at all happened?”

The soft smile slips from his face, replaced by a worried frown as he runs a hand through his hair anxiously, leaning against the counter across from you.

“It’s not that big of a deal, we’ve had close calls before.”

“Not that close.”

“Sweetheart, please, I’m fine, you don’t have to—”

“You almost died, Sanji!!” you finally explode, shooting up from your seat so fast, your chair goes tipping over and clattering to the ground loudly. “Your fucking heart stopped and you were out cold for days!! I don’t— Why— How can you just brush that off like it’s fucking nothing?!”

You cross your arms over your heaving chest, a false, thin layer of security over your aching heart, nails digging crescent idents into your arms while you desperately hold on to the anger, lest the grief and fear of the last few days take over again.

Seeing you so upset because of him pains Sanji more than his actual injuries and he just barely resists the urge to wrap you in a hug, fully aware that you won’t let him lull you back into familiar security and comfort through honeyed words and gentle touches this time.

“I am so sorry, my love, I never meant to frighten you like this, but I don’t regret any of it and even if I could go back I would not change a thing.”

Terror comes creeping back into your veins, mingling with the rage to burn like poison, same as the tears you can feel building, threatening to spill from tired eyes as you throw your hands up in exasperation.

“Does your own life really mean that little to you?!”

There’s a tick in his jaw from grinding his teeth too hard, crossing his arms over his chest while he stares right back at you, eyes pleading, but stubborn.

“No. But I’d rather have it be me than you. I’ve been made the luckiest man on the Grand Line solely through you choosing to love me, so if I take my last breath protecting you, I’ll do so gladly.”

You bark out a laugh, short and humorless, the first tears finally falling and leaving streaks across your cheeks.

“Yeah, I know. Trust me, I know. And I don’t think you understand how absolutely terrifying and daunting that is, to be absolutely certain that I can trust you with my life, but not with your own! And I get that it’s not your intention to make me feel like this, that it’s just in your nature to want to protect the people you care about and Sanji, let me make it clear to you that I have not felt unsafe or uncared for for even a single second since meeting you, but when you push it to such extremes, do you have any idea what that ends up doing to me?! I don’t want to lose you in some honorable, heroic act of self sacrifice, I want a future with you!!”

All color drains from his face rapidly, shock taking over his features so instantly and completely, you clamp your mouth shut fast enough for your tongue to get trapped between your teeth, the coppery taste of blood not enough to distract you from realizing what you’ve just let slip - or from how utterly terrified he looks at hearing it. Averting your gaze, you swallow hard around the lump in your throat and wipe a sleeve over your eyes, futilely trying to stop the tears from flowing.

“I guess… I guess you don’t… think about that. I just— never mind, forget I said anything.”

You make for the door as fast as humanly possible, hand already on the knob when he calls out to you. “Don’t. Please. Don’t leave, not… not like this.”

Heeding his request, you turn and let your back collide with the door heavily, sniffling while you wrap your arms around yourself for comfort, but your eyes stay locked on the floor. It’s not like you actually want to leave, you hate arguing with him, as rare as it is, and you’ve never parted ways upset with each other, it’s not how your relationship works. But the shock of almost losing him is still gnawing at your bones, not to mention your own injuries haven’t fully healed; you’re exhausted, mentally and physically, and now the added humiliation of exposing a wish for a future he seemingly doesn’t want is making you want to crawl into a small, dark space to hide.

A pair of black shoes enters your field of vision, followed by slender fingers reaching for your hand, still tightly clamped around your own arm. His movements are slow, careful, giving you ample time to pull away if you so choose. When you don’t, he gently rests his hand over yours in a barely there, featherlight touch and the second his skin touches yours, warm and familiar, relief floods your system, everything else falling away.

He’s okay. He’s alive. He’s right here with you. Nothing else matters right now.

You weave your fingers together, grip like a vice, tight enough that you’re certain it has to hurt, yet he doesn’t let go, in fact, he steps closer and brings your intertwined hands to his lips, pressing chaste, soft kisses to each of your knuckles individually.

“Mon cœur, will you look at me, please…?”

One, two, three deep breaths, in and out through your nose, that’s how long it takes to work up the courage to do as he asks and you’re immediately met with anguished blue eyes, wet with unshed tears. His free hand comes up to brush a gentle thumb over your cheek, wiping away some of the salty tracks still clinging to your skin.

“I have so obviously failed you in countless ways, I couldn’t expect forgiveness, not even from someone as benevolent as you.”

“Sanji—”

“No, let me speak, please, my darling.” he interrupts softly, but doesn’t continue until you give him permission in the form of a small nod. “Not only did I cause you grief and pain through my actions, no matter how well-intentioned they might have been, I also have been negligent enough in my affection and devotion to have you truly believing that I don’t desperately desire a future with you.”

“Y-You do…?” It’s a hoarse whisper, quiet, but oh so hopeful.

“Embarrassingly much.” he confirms with a low chuckle, accentuated by the tips of his ears turning pink. “I’ve thought about introducing you to Zeff, at some point. I’m… still trying to figure out how to set that up without the old geezer sending you bolting in the opposite direction the second he opens his damn mouth…”

That earns him a huff of a laugh, along with the ghost of a smile tugging the corners of your lips upwards and it’s enough to assuage the ever present fear of overwhelming you, of being too much with his version of fondness and love.

“Thinking about finding the All Blue? That dream isn’t complete anymore without picturing you by my side. Getting to be with you long enough to see your smile lines deepen and the first glimpses of gray appearing in your hair, even if I might be the cause of some of them? Nothing would make me happier.”

“Probably all of the gray hairs that Luffy doesn’t cause, let’s be honest.” you mumble, brushing his bangs away from his eyes and cupping his face, heart fluttering when he nuzzles into your touch and presses a quick kiss to your palm.

Then you watch his brows furrow in deep thought, gears in his head clearly turning as he figures out the best way of phrasing his next words.

“I… I don’t want to die, please never think that. And I know you’re perfectly capable of looking out for yourself and that we have a crew that would move heaven and earth for each other, but… if there’s something, anything, I can do to save you when you’re in danger, even at the risk of my own life, I can’t just… uselessly stand by and watch it happen. Not again.” You immediately open your mouth to interject, to remind him that what happened to his mother was not his fault and that there was nothing he could’ve done, but you don’t get the chance before he’s speaking again. “I hate that my actions scared you, mon étoile, but I don’t think… I’m not sure that’s something I can change about myself.”

The poor cook looks so utterly lost and apologetic, hunched shoulders, trembling fingers and glossy eyes, your heart lurches in your chest, rattling around your rib cage, leaving bruises in it’s attempt to get to him. You never meant to make him feel like he has to change such a core aspect of himself just to keep you happy.

“I’m not asking you to, my light. The fact that your kindness knows no bounds, to the point where you would sacrifice anything for the people you care about is one of the reasons I fell in love with you in the first place. What kind of hypocrite would I be if I now asked you to erase that? I just wish you would think about yourself, too, every once in a while. If not for your own sake, then… then maybe you could do it for me? And for the future we both want? Because, Sanji, none of what you talked about can happen without you.”

Heaving a heavy sigh, he ends up dropping his forehead to yours, eyes falling closed while he threads his fingers together behind your lower back in a loose hug.

“Yeah, I… I know. And I’ll do better. Well, I… I promise I’ll try. For you. For us.”

He can quite literally feel the tension bleed from your form at his words.

“That’s all I ask,” you murmur, leaving a quick kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, my love.”

His answer comes in the form of little kisses, ghosted over your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, anywhere he can reach, and just as he leans in to capture your lips, your stomach very loudly reminds you that you’ve barely eaten anything proper in days. Sanji freezes at the sound, which has heat crawling up the back of your neck and stealing into your face instantly, but it only lasts a second, then he’s already laughing, quiet and soft and warm, before pressing a final chaste kiss to your warm cheek. “Will you please let me make you some breakfast now?”

He has already turned around, halfway to the stove, so he completely misses how you purse your lips and narrow your eyes at him in disapproval. “No, I won’t, actually.”

“So what would you— No?”

The blond whips back around so fast it’s downright comical, blue eyes wide and confused and looking so much like a kicked puppy you almost consider taking it back. Almost.

“You heard me, no. We might’ve made up, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t mess up and that has consequences. So you are going to sit,” you gesture at one of the stools at the counter, confidently striding past his bewildered form and beelining towards the cupboards, “and let me make breakfast, because I know for a damn fact that you haven’t eaten either.”

He blinks owlishly, like he’s trying to wake himself up from a dream, rooted to the spot, long, slender fingers flexing at his sides, utterly unsure of what do with himself now. “Love, don’t be ridiculous, I’m perfectly capable of—”

“I know you are, that’s not the point.” you interrupt him, shutting one of the drawers as you jab a spoon in his direction as threateningly as possible and yet again motion for him to take a seat. “This is your punishment so sit down before I make you, you know I can and will.”

Color blooms across his cheeks, stuttered half sentences dying on his tongue as he tries to come up with a defense he already knows you wouldn’t fall for anyways. Defeated, he drops himself down at the counter, chin propped up on one hand, watching you pull a bowl and flour from the cupboards, his fingers drumming an anxious rhythm against the counter top, bottom lip trapped between his teeth in thought.

“Darling, not to throw a wrench in your oh so carefully crafted plans, but being taken care of by you can hardly be considered a punishment.”

Turning back around from where you’ve grabbed a pan, you regard him with raised brows: head cocked to the side, nestled into his palm, blond hair illuminated by the sunlight filtering in through the bullseye on the door almost halo like, blue eyes warm and bright like the sky on a clear spring day and a smile so genuine and soft, your heart just about melts through your rib cage.

Sighing, you deposit the pan on the still cold stove, then meander over to stand opposite of him, forearms coming up to rest on the counter and then leaning in close enough for your breaths to mingle, one wave rocking the ship away from having your lips on his.

“For you, Mister ‘Acts of service are my love language and if I don’t take care of my loved ones constantly I will implode’? Yeah, this’ll do just fine. Nice try, though.” A condescending pat to his cheek paired with a smug grin follows, then you return to the station he usually occupies and start dumping ingredients into a bowl.

“Worth a shot.” Hands raised in surrender with his own grin tugging the corners of his lips upwards despite himself, he seemingly finally settles into his seat, albeit temporarily.

Of course you’re not wrong in your assessment, he does get antsy when prohibited from showing his affection through care, but when it’s you reversing the roles, he never actually minds, and you know this; it’s what has him analyzing the entire situation all over again. Sapphire eyes observe you carefully, the way you so comfortably move around a space that’s usually his like you’ve never belonged anywhere else, humming contently under your breath, calm and at peace for all the world to see, but that’s not what Sanji sees. There’s the slightest tremble in your hands, the inside of your cheek occasionally getting trapped between your teeth, gaze flicking over to him every so often, a shaky, little smile as his reward when you catch him staring - and the truth finally hits him like a slap to the face. No matter what you may claim, this isn’t some actual form of punishment, this is you, still trapped with the fear and panic from the last few days, and not knowing where else to put it all besides making sure he’s safe and sound and cared for. Of course you’re not going to let him lift a single finger. Of course you’re not going to let him out of your sight, the need to reassure yourself that no harm will ever befall him again too great. It’s exactly what he would do in your position and he’s long since learned that you can be scarily similar to each other.

Wether Sanji likes to admit it or not, he had in fact almost paid for his chivalry with his life this time around; had almost gone somewhere you would not have been able to follow, something he’d promised you he’d never even think of. In the moment, he’d told himself it’d be okay. That he’d live and even if he didn’t, you would be alright and that’s all that mattered. You’d grieve him for a while, or so he hopes, and then you’d heal. Move on. Find someone else, someone better, to spend your life with and make you happy. He would want you to. After all, you wouldn’t spend the rest of your life wishing for ‘What ifs…?’ with someone who’d never been worthy of your affections and love in the first place, would you?

In his mind, it had all seemed so easy.

Would it have been easy for him if your roles had been reversed?

The answer is as clear as he pictures the waters of the All Blue and just like that the world tilts on it’s axis, shifting into focus, bathing everything in a different light and Sanji feels nauseous with the weight of what he put you through. His ailing heart drives him from his seat despite the reprimands already falling from your lips, molding his body to yours, arms tightly wound around your middle and head buried in the crook of your neck. The complaints die on your tongue when you realize he doesn’t try to pry the spatula away from you, lets you flip your pancake in peace, no indication that he’s about to take any of the work from you, only a gentle, reassuring presence, strong, steady heartbeat at your back.

“Tu es mon univers entier, mon avenir…” It’s not much more than a quiet murmur against your skin, soft and reverent. “I was… blind to you seeing me as yours. And that is not your fault, my inner demons and insecurities should not have to be your burden and yet—” He cuts himself off with a frustrated huff, arms tightening around you. “I’ll never know what I did to deserve my very own guardian angel, but… thank you, my beloved. For looking out for me.”

Reaching back, you tangle one hand in his soft hair, gently scratching at his scalp and he immediately goes snuggling into you further, eliminating any nonexistent remaining space. “Someone very clearly has to.”

A barely there huff of a laugh, dry and joyless. “There ought to be much better uses of your precious time.”

You hum quietly in mock thought. “Can’t think of a single one.”

The sound that escapes him is somewhere between a laugh and a sob as he spins you around to face him, consciously moving you away from the hot stove and trapping you between him and the counter now digging into your back. There’s nothing but devotion, downright worship, written all over his pretty features, eyes shining like the rays of the sun reflecting off the waves, then, “I really want to kiss you, mon amour, please can I—”

You beat him to it, yanking him forward by his shirt, all too happy to oblige, the movement so hasty and desperate you end up clashing your teeth together. The recovery is quick, seamless, the kiss becoming less frenzied, passion and adoration taking center stage instead. A low groan from the back of his throat has you looping your arms around his neck to drag him impossibly closer, helplessly addicted to anything he gives you, his own hands reaching up to cradle your face in turn, thumbs softly brushing over your cheekbones and angling your head to deepen the kiss further, your surroundings falling away as the world shrinks down to just the two of you.

The need for oxygen is what regretfully forces you apart eventually, yet you stay tangled together, heaving chests pressed against the other, both unwilling to allow even an inch of space to disturb the little corner of the world you’ve carved for yourselves.

His warm breath fans over your face and then he moves lower to busy himself with leaving little nips and kisses against the sensitive skin of your neck, goosebumps following in his wake. “Heavens above, I adore you…” he sighs against your skin.

“Hmmm, lucky me, cause that’s just about the only thing that’s gonna make these pancakes edible.”

Confusion furrows his brows as he straightens back up, watching you reach over to grab the pan, depositing the charred victim of your distraction onto a plate you’d already set aside. When he actually has the audacity to laugh, you level him with an icy glare and jab an accusing finger into his chest. “This is your fault, you know. You distracted me.” Still chuckling, he lifts said accusing finger to brush his lips against it in apology. “Oh come now, love, there’s still batter left, everything’ll turn out fine. Besides, I’d happily eat poison if you were the one to serve it to me.”

You almost feel your knees buckle at hearing that, immediately reaching for his cheeks to pinch both of them in frustration. “I— You can’t— What did we just talk about?! Good grief, you are incorrigible!!” There’s no real bite to your words, only very real, very fond exasperation.

Clearly amused, he’s grinning while he pries your hands off his face and returns them to their previous position comfortably settled at the back of his neck. “And yet…” he starts, leaning forward to leave a small, soft kiss on the corner of your downturned lips, which has them quirking upwards despite your best efforts, “here you are.”

Shoulders dropping in defeat and rolling your eyes at his antics, you try your utmost best to appear cross with him, but you’re already mirroring his smitten, lovesick expression before you know it. “Here I am. And I’m not going anywhere.” A beat of hesitation, your voice growing quiet with the true weight of what you’re about to ask. “Are you?”

His teasing grin softens into something gentle and warm as he regards you: worry and uncertainty creating a crease between your brows, beautiful eyes pleading and fingers anxiously fidgeting with the short hair at the nape of his neck. Carefully unclasping your hands, he brings them to his chest instead, right over his heart, steady and strong against your palms, it’s rhythm trying to prove his next words true, to leave you certain that he means them mind, body and soul.

“No, mon étoile, I’m not. Not now, not ever.”

[animentality]

[deeversuswords]

[queenrojpag]

@animangacreators Challenge #60: Brothers

make a creation featuring an animanga brother: Todoroki Shouto