jinxy 2.0

Pls somebody give me suggestions cause I have a lot of ideas but idk who to choose.😤

༉‧₊˚✧Pairing : FireLord!Zuko x Fem!Raeder

༉‧₊˚✧ Summary: After having your first child with Zuko, you realized this is what he needed to finally heal. ༉‧₊˚✧ A/N: PURE FLUFF

You remembered Zuko during his first days upon the Fire Throne more clearly than anyone else ever could. Not the image the people eventually came to adore - the composed Fire Lord with sharp eyes and royal posture, draped in crimson and gold like he had been born for power.

You remembered the boy beneath the crown. Seventeen years old. Far too young for a throne built from generations of bloodshed and fear. He carried himself as though he belonged there, spine straight and chin lifted high, but you knew better. You saw the truth hidden underneath every carefully controlled expression. Zuko was terrified. Not merely of failure, nor of the war his family had left in ruins around him. He was afraid of himself.

Sometimes, late at night, when the palace corridors fell silent and the servants had long disappeared behind closed doors, you would catch him staring into the flames burning inside the royal braziers with an expression that almost resembled fear. As though he expected the fire itself to betray him if he lost control for even a second.

And perhaps that fear made sense.

He had been born from a love that was never meant to be gentle, crafted from two souls that should have never been bound together in the first place - a father who carved destruction into everything he touched, and a mother too isolated, too powerless against the monster surrounding her, to fully shield her son from the cruelty of the Fire Nation court. Ozai had burned his way through Zuko’s life long before the scar ever touched his face, and Ursa, despite loving him with everything she had, could only do so much while drowning in that palace herself.

The result of that broken union stood before the world as Fire Lord: scarred, exhausted, painfully human beneath all the royal armor. It showed in every part of him, in the stiffness of his shoulders whenever advisors questioned him too harshly, in the exhaustion beneath his eyes after another sleepless night, in the way his hands curled tightly into fists whenever anger rose too quickly in his chest, as though he feared what might happen if he loosened his grip for even a moment. Pain lived inside Zuko like a second heartbeat. So did trauma. So did anxiety. So did guilt that never truly belonged to him.

Even years later, even after becoming the kind of leader the nations learned to respect, there remained something unbearably heavy about the way he carried himself. As though the sins of generations rested across his shoulders simply because he happened to be born into the wrong bloodline. As though he spent every waking moment trying to prove he was not his father.

And perhaps the cruelest part was that Zuko never fully understood how extraordinary that alone made him.

Because despite everything done to him, despite the violence, the exile, the humiliation, the years spent desperately clawing for love from a man incapable of giving it, he still chose kindness. He still chose mercy. He still chose to become better. Every single day, Zuko fought a war inside himself that nobody else could see, and every single day, he won.

You knew Zuko far too well to ever mistake his silence for coldness. You had grown beside him through every version of his life - through the fear of becoming the next ruler of a nation stained by war, through stolen moments of happiness that never seemed to last long enough, through heartbreak, grief, healing, and every painful step in between. You had watched him survive the worst parts of himself and somehow still stand back up afterwards.

That was why you noticed the little things nobody else ever paid attention to. The way he clung to routines as though they were the only stable things in his life. The way every movement of his seemed carefully calculated, every decision thought through a hundred times before spoken aloud. Zuko hated unpredictability.

He hated losing control. After spending his childhood surrounded by chaos and fear, he had built patterns for himself so meticulously that stepping outside them almost seemed to unsettle him physically.

Because beneath everything - the title, the power, the fire running through his veins - Zuko was terrified of becoming a monster. The thought alone haunted him more than any enemy ever could. You saw it in the restraint he carried around others, in the guilt that crossed his face whenever anger slipped too sharply into his voice, in the way he would sometimes stare at his own hands after firebending too aggressively, as though he feared they belonged to his father more than to himself.

And yes, Zuko was Ozai’s son. There was no denying that.

You could see it in the intensity of his gaze, in the frightening strength behind his bending, in the authority he naturally carried without even trying. But the resemblance ended where it mattered most. Where Ozai ruled through fear, Zuko ruled through understanding. Where his father took, Zuko gave. He possessed the same fire, yet chose warmth over destruction every single time. That was the kind of man he became.

And as a man, Zuko was extraordinary in ways he never fully realized. Capable, intelligent, fiercely protective, the kind of person who carried the weight of entire nations on his shoulders without complaint. Sometimes he became too trapped inside his own thoughts, overanalyzing every mistake until it nearly consumed him, but even then, there was something painfully genuine about him. Something dependable. Safe. At the end of the day, beneath the scars and royal robes and impossible responsibilities, Zuko was simply a real man. And more than that, he became a real husband.

He refused to give you anything less than a true marriage. Not one built out of obligation or political convenience, but one founded on love, trust, and choice.

He waited until the timing was right - until the world around him had finally calmed enough for him to love you properly, without war breathing down his neck or duty constantly tearing him away. Yes, it took time before he finally allowed himself to court you openly, and there were moments when the waiting frustrated you more than you cared to admit. But looking back, you understood why. Zuko wanted to offer you stability before asking for your heart completely. He wanted to be certain he could give you the life you deserved instead of dragging you into the chaos he had spent most of his own life trapped inside.

And the wait turned out to be worth it in every possible way.

Because somehow, impossibly, Fire Lord Zuko became the kind of husband young girls dreamed about in romantic stories.

Not because he was perfect, but because every ounce of love he gave was real. He memorized the smallest things about you without even trying - the teas you liked after difficult days, the exact way you preferred your blankets folded at night, the expressions that meant you were upset even when you insisted you were fine. He kissed your forehead absentmindedly while passing through rooms, held your hand beneath crowded council tables, and looked at you with such quiet devotion that sometimes it still stole the breath from your lungs.

And because Zuko loved so deeply, and because you were hopelessly in love with your husband in return, it was almost inevitable that your love would eventually grow into something even greater. Maybe the pregnancy had not exactly been planned, but somehow, it still arrived at the perfect time. Life had finally softened around the two of you - not completely, never completely, but enough for peace to settle into the palace without feeling fragile. Enough for Zuko to sleep through most nights without waking from old ghosts. Enough for both of you to finally breathe instead of merely survive. And perhaps that was why it happened so naturally. It did not take long at all after your marriage truly began for love to bloom into something deeper. A few quiet nights tangled together as husband and wife, a few moments where the Fire Lord stopped carrying the world on his shoulders long enough to simply be yours, and suddenly the realization settled between you both like sunlight breaking through clouds.

You were going to have a child.

Before that moment, you and Zuko had spoken about children countless times, usually during the quieter hours of the night when the world outside your chambers no longer demanded pieces of him. You always smiled whenever the topic came up because, unlike him, you had never feared the idea of parenthood. Children had always melted your heart so easily. It was simply part of who you were. Every time you heard a toddler babbling nonsense through the palace gardens or saw tiny hands reaching excitedly toward their parents in crowded streets, your entire expression softened without realizing it. Zuko noticed it every single time. He would catch you smiling at children during festivals or stopping to wave at babies carried through the market, and there would always be this faint amusement in his eyes, like he already knew exactly what kind of mother you would become one day.

But him… him, it was more complicated.

There was always warmth in his expression whenever he looked at the children of the people closest to him. You saw it whenever he held Aang and Katara’s youngest in his arms, awkwardly allowing tiny fingers to tug at his sleeves while pretending not to know what he was doing. You saw it in the softness that overtook his face whenever little ones laughed around him, a gentleness so natural it almost seemed to erase the harshness life had carved into him. For brief moments, he looked peaceful.

And then the fear returned.

You could always spot the exact second it happened.

The subtle tension settling back into his shoulders. The distant look creeping into his eyes as though some painful thought had suddenly dragged him away from the present. It was sharp enough to ache every time you noticed it.

Because Zuko wanted children.

But he was terrified of becoming someone’s father.

It was not difficult to understand why. His own childhood had left scars far deeper than the one burned across his face. Ozai had turned fatherhood into something cruel in Zuko’s mind - something tied to fear, disappointment, and pain rather than safety or love. You knew there were moments when he genuinely questioned whether darkness simply lived inside his bloodline, waiting to be passed down like some terrible inheritance.

Once, during one of those late-night conversations, he admitted it quietly.

“What if I end up hurting them without meaning to?”

The vulnerability in his voice nearly shattered your heart.

Because that alone proved he never would.

Zuko feared becoming his father so deeply that he monitored every emotion inside himself like it was a weapon waiting to slip from his grasp. He was careful with his anger, careful with his words, careful with the way he carried himself around people he loved. Sometimes too careful. And perhaps he did not realize it then, but monsters never question whether they are monsters.

Ozai never lost sleep wondering if he was causing pain.

Zuko did.

Constantly.

That was the difference between them.

But despite all of Zuko’s fear, despite the hesitation that sometimes clouded his expression whenever the topic of children came up, you still felt it deep in your heart - he would be a good father. No, more than good. He would become the kind of father children felt safe running toward without fear. The kind that would kneel beside scraped knees and bedtime tears with more patience than he ever believed himself capable of.

You knew it because, beneath all the damage life had inflicted on him, Zuko carried an overwhelming amount of love inside himself. It simply took him longer than others to trust that love enough to let it breathe.

Before your child was born, you had always imagined yourself becoming the mother of a little boy someday. In your mind, he looked almost identical to you - your smile, your features, your softer expressions - but with Zuko’s stubbornness and quiet intensity woven somewhere into his personality. You imagined tiny hands gripping your robes through palace halls and messy dark hair sticking up after naps. That image had lived inside your head for years so naturally that you never thought to question it.

But the moment Zuko became part of your life, that fantasy slowly began slipping away without you even noticing.

Because realistically? Your genes never stood a chance against his.

Not against those sharp golden eyes capable of melting and terrifying people alike. Not against the dark hair that seemed painted from firelit shadows. Not against the sheer force of presence the royal bloodline carried even in childhood. Somewhere along the way, you simply accepted the inevitable truth: any child of Zuko’s would come into the world already carrying pieces of him too strongly to miss.

And then it finally happened.

After months of waiting, worrying, hoping, and countless sleepless nights, you brought your first child into the world.

A daughter.

The moment the midwives placed her into your arms, it felt as though the entire palace, the entire world, fell silent around you. She was impossibly tiny, wrapped carefully in soft blankets, her little face scrunched with sleepy confusion at being pulled into such a bright and unfamiliar world. Thick dark hair already dusted the top of her head, and when she finally blinked her eyes open, your breath caught entirely in your throat.

Amber.

Warm, glowing amber eyes identical to her father’s stared back at you.

You thought your heart might burst right then and there.

She was beautiful. Not because she carried royal blood, nor because she was destined to become a princess of the Fire Nation someday, but because she already felt like something precious enough to heal broken parts of the world just by existing.

And when you looked toward Zuko, you realized he was staring at her as though he could not believe she was real.

Your husband - the man who once feared himself so deeply, the man who spent years convinced he carried too much darkness inside him - looked utterly defenseless in that moment. All the strength he wore like armor throughout his life seemed to crumble the second his daughter wrapped her tiny hand around his finger.

You would remember that expression forever.

Wonder. Fear. Love so overwhelming it almost looked painful.

Your daughter became the greatest gift either of you had ever received.

Perhaps especially for Zuko.

Because despite all the horrors he had endured, despite the scars his father left carved into his soul, life had still placed something so soft and pure into his hands and trusted him not to break it.

Your little firecracker quickly became the center of both your worlds, filling the once quiet palace chambers with warmth that had been missing for years.

Laughter echoed through hallways once known only for heavy silence and royal tension, tiny babbles replacing the distant sound of political discussions and endless responsibilities. It was almost unbelievable sometimes, how one impossibly small child could breathe so much life into a place that had spent generations drowning in fear.

And she looked so painfully like her father that it almost made you laugh.

Even at such a young age, before she could properly walk or speak without stumbling over her own words, Zuko’s features were already stamped all over her. Thick dark hair that stuck messily around her face after naps, sharp amber eyes glowing with curiosity, expressions far too dramatic for someone who barely reached your knees. Her cheeks were so chubby that they nearly swallowed her eyes whenever she smiled, revealing tiny little teeth through drooling giggles that instantly melted everyone around her. Yet somehow, despite how adorable she was, there was already something strong about her presence - something unmistakably royal, unmistakably Zuko.

Sometimes you would catch servants staring at her with amused expressions because it truly felt like someone had simply shrunk the Fire Lord down into toddler form.

But beneath all the laughter and chaos she brought into your lives, there was something deeper happening too.

Something quieter.

Your daughter healed wounds she did not even know existed. Wounds her father had carried for so long that he no longer remembered what it felt like to live without them.

Because becoming a father changed Zuko more than anyone realized.

He had not expected it to happen so soon. Truthfully, he barely felt old enough to process being Fire Lord half the time, let alone someone’s father. But what truly shook him was not simply parenthood itself.

It was the fact that he had a daughter.

A daughter.

A tiny, fragile little girl carrying his bloodline forward.

The realization alone seemed to haunt him during those first months.

You noticed it constantly in the way he watched her. Sometimes you would wake in the middle of the night only to find him sitting beside her cradle in complete silence, staring at her with an expression so conflicted it nearly hurt to look at.

She seemed impossibly delicate in his eyes. Too soft. Too vulnerable for a world he knew could be cruel.

He could barely comprehend how small she truly was.

Her skinny little arms would wiggle wildly in the air while she crawled determinedly across the palace floors, stubbornness radiating from every movement in a way that was very clearly inherited from you. And Zuko would simply stare at her, almost disbelieving, as though he could not understand how someone so tiny could already possess such fierce determination.

“She’s impossible,” he muttered once while watching her stubbornly attempt to climb over cushions twice her size.

But the fondness in his voice betrayed him completely.

She was so small, her head barely measured the size of his two fists put together. Sometimes when he picked her up, his hands looked absurdly large supporting her little body, making him freeze every single time as though one wrong movement might somehow hurt her. You knew part of him was constantly terrified of his own strength around her.

And perhaps that fear deepened because she reminded him too much of another little girl he once knew.

Azula.

More than once, you caught his gaze lingering on your daughter with distant thoughts clouding his expression. Later, quietly, he admitted it to you. He remembered Azula at that age too - louder, taller, round-faced and sharp-eyed even as a child. He remembered the palace swallowing both of them whole long before either truly understood what was happening.

Perhaps that was why he watched your daughter so carefully.

Not because he feared her.

But because he feared the world around her.

Because despite all the joy your daughter brought into his life, Zuko struggled far more with fatherhood than he ever allowed others to see. Becoming Fire Lord had already forced him to grow up too quickly, but becoming someone’s father at such a young age felt entirely different. He had barely learned how to carry the weight of a nation without breaking beneath it, and suddenly he was entrusted with something infinitely more fragile than politics or war.

A daughter.

The reality of it seemed to shake him to his core.

Not because he was disappointed, never that, but because the thought of his bloodline continuing through such a small, delicate little girl awakened fears inside him he did not know how to silence.

A girl. Someone soft enough to be hurt by the world far too easily. Someone who trusted him completely from the moment she opened her amber eyes.

There was always hesitation in him during those first months. Hesitation before picking her up from her cradle, as though his hands were too rough for someone so delicate. Hesitation while helping her stand on shaky legs. Hesitation even while holding her tiny hand because he feared squeezing too tightly without realizing.

Your daughter was as delicate as a flower in his eyes.

And Zuko, after spending most of his life surrounded by destruction, did not know how to trust himself with something so soft.

“What am I supposed to do with you, my little firecracker?” he sighed one evening while sitting beside the bed, watching her happily tangle herself in expensive silk sheets without a single care in the world.

She barely acknowledged him, too busy babbling nonsense to herself while kicking her tiny feet excitedly against the mattress.

And despite all his fear, despite the anxiety constantly living inside him, you could still see it happening slowly.

Zuko was already hopelessly, completely in love with his daughter.

No matter how much Zuko tried to keep that careful distance at first, your daughter had completely different plans.

Maybe you were the one who carried her for nine months, the one spending most of the day feeding her, bathing her, soothing her back to sleep after nightmares, but in her tiny little mind, none of that mattered nearly as much as her father did.

From the moment she learned how to properly reach for people, she reached for him first. Tiny hands constantly grabbing at his robes whenever he passed by, little babbles filling the room the second he entered it, amber eyes instantly lighting up with excitement at the mere sight of him.

She was hopelessly attached to Zuko.

And unfortunately for the two of you, she was also painfully possessive about it.

Every attempt he made at peacefully loving his wife somehow ended with a tiny interruption. The moment he sat beside you, she suddenly needed him. The second he wrapped his arms around you, she came waddling over with offended little noises, demanding to be picked up immediately.

Half the time, she would physically shove herself between the two of you with all the determination her tiny body could muster, glaring up at you as though you were the intruder stealing her father away.

And Zuko, traitor that he was, always laughed before giving in.

“How could I possibly ignore the princess of the palace?” he would murmur dramatically while scooping her into his arms, despite the way you rolled your eyes at him afterward.

Truthfully, though, he never stood a chance against her.

He belonged entirely to that little girl from the very beginning.

Watching them together side by side was almost unsettling sometimes because of how deeply they resembled one another. Not only physically, though even that was undeniable - the same amber eyes, the same dark hair, the same expressive face incapable of hiding emotions properly - but in countless smaller ways you never expected. The similarities revealed themselves slowly over time, catching you off guard in the strangest moments.

The way she slept sprawled across the bed exactly like him, limbs everywhere as though she had personally fought the blankets and lost. The way she furrowed her brows while concentrating on something simple. Even the way she walked somehow mirrored Zuko despite her tiny unsteady legs still wobbling beneath her with every rushed step. Sometimes she would stomp around the palace with the exact same dramatic determination her father carried during council meetings, and it took everything in you not to burst into laughter whenever you noticed.

You found yourself watching them often.

Quietly.

From afar.

Sometimes from the doorway of your chambers while Zuko sat cross-legged on the floor letting your daughter climb all over him like a tiny firebending menace. Other times from the palace gardens where she ran circles around him while he pretended not to notice her attempts at sneaking away.

And slowly, over time, you realized something beautiful was happening.

Zuko was healing alongside her.

As your daughter grew older - becoming louder, faster, more mischievous with every passing month - something inside him softened completely.

The constant tension living in his shoulders began disappearing little by little. He stopped overthinking every movement around her. Stopped analyzing himself so harshly every second of the day. Around your daughter, Zuko finally allowed himself to exist without fear constantly breathing down his neck.

He learned how to simply be.

To be a father. A husband. A man.

Not a Fire Lord burdened by expectations or haunted by his bloodline. Just… Zuko.

And for the first time since you had known him, he looked free.

You truly noticed it around the time your daughter turned one and a half. By then, she had become a whirlwind of energy incapable of sitting still for more than a few seconds. Tiny feet carried her everywhere at alarming speed while her endless curiosity constantly pushed her toward new disasters waiting to happen.

That afternoon, she had apparently decided the palace gardens were hers to conquer.

You stood nearby trying not to laugh as Zuko followed after her across the stone paths, large hurried strides struggling to keep up with the way she changed directions without warning every few seconds. One moment she was running toward the koi pond, the next she was distracted by flowers, and then suddenly sprinting toward a servant carrying fruit simply because she found the basket interesting.

And behind her came the Fire Lord himself.

Tall and radiant beneath the sunlight, crimson robes fluttering around his legs while loose dark strands of hair danced through the warm breeze. He looked almost godlike like that - powerful and untouchable beneath the golden afternoon glow.

Yet the expression on his face was anything but intimidating.

The anxious frown that used to follow him everywhere had disappeared completely, replaced instead by a teasing smile that looked so natural on him now it almost hurt your chest to witness it.

“My little firecracker,” he called after her with mock exasperation, laughter already slipping into his voice, “come back here before you destroy something important.”

“My firecracker, get back to your father!”

He always called her that - my little firecracker. You did not know exactly when the nickname appeared or why it stayed, but somehow it fit her too perfectly to question it.

Perhaps it was the way she burned through every room with unstoppable energy, or maybe it was because she carried so much of him inside such a tiny body.

At the sound of his voice, your daughter looked back over her shoulder with wide amber eyes sparkling mischievously, and instead of obeying him, her tiny legs moved even faster. The sight alone nearly made you laugh. She could barely run properly yet, her steps uneven and clumsy, but she acted as though escaping the Fire Lord himself was the greatest challenge ever placed before her.

Zuko let out an exaggerated sigh before immediately giving chase again.

“Oh no you don’t-....”

It happened so quickly you almost missed it. One second your daughter was squealing triumphantly while stumbling across the stone paths, and the next Zuko had effortlessly swept her into his arms with a victorious grin spreading across his face.

“Gotcha!” he laughed, lifting her high enough for her delighted squeals to echo through the gardens. “And where exactly did you think you were going, huh?”

Your daughter answered him with incoherent babbling and breathless giggles, tiny hands immediately grabbing at his face while he pressed his cheek dramatically against hers. They looked almost identical like that - matching dark hair tangled by the wind, matching amber eyes glowing beneath the sunlight, matching smiles so full of life it hurt your chest.

“You’re in serious trouble now, missy,” Zuko continued with mock severity while she laughed harder at absolutely nothing. “Your mother is waaay too far away to save you this time.”

At the mention of you, your daughter immediately twisted in his arms searching for where you stood nearby, little hands already reaching in your direction despite the fact she had spent the last ten minutes actively running away from him.

Traitor.

And then Zuko looked up too.

The moment his eyes met yours, something inside your chest softened so deeply it almost ached.

Because suddenly the image before you became one you knew you would carry for the rest of your life.

Your husband standing beneath the warm glow of the afternoon sun, robes fluttering gently around him, your daughter held securely against his chest while both of them looked at you with the exact same eyes. The two people you loved most in the entire world staring back at you with identical warmth painted across their faces.

One your heart. The other your soul.

And somehow, they carried the same beauty so unmistakably that it felt impossible not to see how deeply they belonged to one another.

“Well, well,” you teased softly while walking toward them, unable to stop smiling, “look who finally got caught.”

Zuko narrowed his eyes playfully while adjusting your daughter higher in his arms as though protecting his prize.

“I caught a very dangerous criminal, actually.”

Your daughter squealed proudly at that, clearly taking it as a compliment.

“Perhaps I should step in and save her?” you asked, stopping in front of them.

At your approach, both their faces lit up at the exact same time.

The same smile. The same eyes. The same overwhelming love.

And in that moment, watching the two of them standing there together while laughter filled the gardens around you, you realized something simple yet devastatingly beautiful.

That was what home felt like. ----------------------------------------

CRYING, SOBBING, AND THROWING UP IN FATHERLESS

A hand always lingering on your hip but subtly moving towards your ass

That’s what I’m talking aboutttt!

༉‧₊˚✧Pairing : FireLord!Zuko // Avatar!Aang // Sokka x Fem!Reader

༉‧₊˚✧ Summary : Yup, I think its pretty obvious what direction this is taking, given the new movie. So here we have some steamy and more intimate details about how Zuko, Aang, and Sokka are in a relationship. ༉‧₊˚✧ WARNING : MDNI

Being with Zuko was never something soft or easy - it was something you survived, something that burned and branded and reshaped you in ways you didn’t notice until it was already too late to turn back.

He had changed, yes. He wasn’t the same angry prince chasing approval anymore. But healing didn’t erase what he had been raised in, it just taught him how to restrain it. And sometimes, that restraint slipped. Not in cruelty, never that, but in intensity. In the way he felt everything too deeply, too sharply, like every emotion lived right under his skin, ready to ignite.

Loving him meant always being aware of that edge.

He wasn’t unpredictable in the way people feared - he was volatile. Like fire should be - warm one second, consuming the next. And somehow, you learned to read it - the subtle shifts in his voice, the tightening of his jaw, the way his golden eyes darkened when something inside him stirred.

Because when Zuko loved, he didn’t do it halfway.

He loved like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world. Maybe that was part of his nature - he was pure fire - mind, body, and soul. He loved so passionately, so consuming, that it got to the point where you realized you couldn’t be living without him, without his touch.

It was in the way his hands found you - firm, grounding, almost possessive, like he needed to feel that you were real. Even something small, like brushing your hair behind your ear or cupping your face, carried weight for a man like him. His touch lingered, heavy with meaning, with need.

And his gaze… that was something else entirely.

Zuko looked at you like you were something rare, something dangerous to want,but impossible not to. His eyes traced every detail of your face like he was memorizing it, like he needed to carve it into his mind in case it was ever taken from him. You were sure that he knew your face better than you'd ever know.

He had a weakness for beauty - there was no denying that. But it wasn’t shallow. It was obsessive, almost reverent. Your lips, your expressions, the way your face shifted when you laughed, when you frowned, when you felt - he studied all of it like it mattered more than anything else.

And in private, that intensity only deepened.

Zuko needed closeness - real closeness. Eye contact, breath mingling, the ability to see every reaction you had to him. He wanted to witness the effect he had on you, to feel it, to know it. There was something almost desperate in it, always. When it comes to his taste in women, you figure out that he is more into a pretty face.

That’s what gets him worked up - just taking a glance at your plump lips, the ones that burn so deliciously on top of his when he corners you in your shared bedroom, gets him hard. He’s a sucker for your pretty face, no matter what. He’ll have you in missionary for sure, no matter how often, because he gets to see that flushed face you make every time you’re feeling pleasure. Those doe syren eyes glimmering with tears, parted rosy lips, a deep frown between your brows as you moan his name over and over again. And he gets lost the moment he has it in sight, mouth drooling, skin sizzling as the last crumble of his sanity vanishes. All he needs is you - your trembling hands on his skin, your sweaty body glued to his, every little sound you make. Maybe he acts like a predator, not giving its pray the chance to breathe, but that man is still simping over you like a man who got to taste a woman for the first time.

He’ll have his thumb in your mouth, smearing the saliva he just spat in your mouth all over your lips as his tip pounds deep and rough in your warmth, just how you taught him you like. His eyes are stuck there, on your lips, taking in how you were moaning for him, with his face twisted in pure lust. “Shh, you’re about to make everyone hear you…” He hisses through his teeth, covering your mouth just as you clenched around him shamelessly. Yup, that’s how he always was - so possessive that the simple thought of someone hearing you triggered him.

But, sometimes that would change. Just when you got him mad enough that he got to fuck some sense into you. Having you face down, ass up as he tests how far he could drill into your cervix before you would squirt under him. “You’re mine, got it? My pretty fucking thing…My precious…” He grunts in your ear, winning a long whine from you that echoes in the large room, his fingers threatening to leave burn marks because of how hard he was holding you. “Yours! F-fuck…’M yours!”

Being with Aang felt like learning how to breathe again after spending too long surviving instead of living.

Loving him came naturally - effortlessly, almost frighteningly so. There were no games, no exhausting guessing, no constant fear of saying the wrong thing. Everything between you flowed with the same ease as the air currents he bent so gracefully. One day you simply realized he had become part of your life so completely that imagining your days without him felt wrong.

The relationship with him is just like the element he mastered first with such ease - like air. Falling in love with each other was so natural, it felt like breathing. Everything about this relationship is what you like to describe as impossible perfect. It was like you found the balance to find yourself. Because Aang was like a full mouth of fresh air in a poisonous world.

Aang had that effect on people.

He carried warmth everywhere he went, softening even the darkest rooms with laughter and ridiculous jokes that rarely landed the way he intended. And somehow, that made them even more charming. Even as he grew older - stronger, wiser, burdened with responsibilities no one his age should have carried - he never lost that bright spirit that made him feel untouchable in the best way.

He still acted impulsively sometimes. Still got distracted midway through serious conversations, still needed someone to remind him not to skip meals because he got too excited teaching airbending to children or racing sky bison through the clouds.

But that childishness was never immaturity.

It was freedom.

Aang loved life openly, without shame, and being around him slowly taught you to do the same.

And maybe that was why it caught you so off guard when you realized how intense he could be beneath all that sweetness.

Because Aang noticed everything. And when those big eyes got fixed on you, it felt like being watched by a wolf dressed under the skin of an innocent sheep.

Every lingering glance. Every teasing touch. Every tiny thing you did to get a reaction out of him. And maybe he looked innocent and acted like a fool most of the time, but Aang hid a pretty interesting side of himself when it came to women.

And spirits, was he easy to tease. 

For sure, he is an ass guy. That was clear as the sun on a bright day when his eyes wandered after you when you happened to wear a tighter pair of pants, causing him to almost break his neck. It's his little pleasure to touch your ass every time he gets to. He would spank it as he walked past by, pinch it when you weren’t looking, or simply affectionately massaging it while you were having a small chat with the others of the squad. Like it was the most natural thing ever.

You started catching him staring long before he realized he was being obvious about it.

The first time you caught him nearly walking into a doorway because he was too busy watching you, he had the nerve to look offended when you laughed.

“What?” he muttered, ears red. “I was distracted.”

“Clearly.”

From that point on, it became a dangerous little game between the two of you.

Because despite how respectful and gentle he was, Aang was still a young man very much in love - and once you learned exactly what got under his skin, it became almost unfair how easy it was to fluster him.

All you had to do was to brush against him ‘by mistake’ or bend over “to look for something.” In a matter of seconds, cause this is all it takes him to shove you somewhere private, before he’ll have your mind spiraling and his dick shoved messily up inside you.

He likes to have you riding him as he peeks over your shoulder to watch how his hands pull your cheeks apart just to squish them back together as your cunt eagerly swallows him.

“Uhuh….Just like this, baby. Don’t stop….” He hardly huffs under his breath, too focused on your ass to even care that you’re smushed against his hard chest, half-choked on your effort.

“My legs are about to give up…” Is all you manage to moan against his flushed skin, receiving a long moan from him in response.

“Just a few more minutes…I’ll fill you up so good, fuck!” His voice deepens even more if that's even possible, slapping your right cheek then the left one, drinking in how your skin flushed.

And when your legs finally give up, he effortlessly lifts his body still being inside you, still having you in his lap, and he hooks your legs over his arms, basically railing you in the air. It's his element for the love of God, so it's natural for him to move with ease, angling his hips just perfect to hit all the right spots. And he doesn't even bother to slip out, too gone in his own pleasure, milking you out until he cums so much, it actually drips out of you.

Being with Sokka was like falling in love in the middle of a storm - loud, chaotic, emotional, and somehow the most alive you had ever felt.

He wasn’t smooth like some charming prince from a romance novel. Spirits, half the time he was tripping over his own words or making jokes at the absolute worst moments imaginable.

But that was exactly what made him so impossible not to love. Sokka had this way of filling every room he entered, dragging laughter and life behind him like a tidal wave - one moment he had you ready to strangle him because of some smug comment, the next he was making you laugh so hard your stomach hurt. Even during the darkest moments, when exhaustion hung over the group after battles and sleepless nights, he still found a way to make you and everyone else smile.

Sometimes you wondered if he even realized how much of himself he gave to people.

Especially to you.

Because underneath the sarcasm and cocky attitude, Sokka loved with terrifying sincerity.

The two of you fought often - too often, according to everyone else. Half the group had probably witnessed at least one fight that started over something stupid and somehow escalated into a full screaming match before ending with the two of you making up ten minutes later like nothing happened. Both stubborn, both fiery, both unwilling to back down once emotions got involved. Arguments with him weren’t quiet disagreements; they were passionate, dramatic disasters filled with raised voices, sharp comebacks, and enough tension to make everyone slowly leave the room before things escalated further.

But the thing was...

Sokka cared too much to stay angry for long.

Even during arguments, his attention remained fixed on you. He noticed every frustrated twitch of your mouth, every moment your voice cracked from exhaustion instead of anger. And the second he realized he had genuinely hurt you, everything in him softened immediately.

That was the side of him few people got to see.

The softness hidden beneath the armor.

Because Sokka pretended confidence came naturally to him, but loving you made him vulnerable in ways he wasn’t used to. Sometimes, late at night when the world finally quieted down, he would hold you against his chest and speak in that low, tired voice he only used when he stopped trying to be funny.

“You know what scares me the most?” he once admitted quietly while tracing circles into your skin. “That one day you’ll wake up and realize I’m too much.”

Too loud. Too emotional. Too reckless. Too human compared to the powerful benders surrounding him.

And spirits, that broke your heart every time.

Becausehe never understood his own worth the way everyone else did.

He didn’t see the way people naturally followed his lead during danger. The way he would throw himself between you and any threat without hesitation. The way his presence alone made you feel safe - not because he was the strongest person in the room, but because he would rather die than let something happen to the people he loved.

Especially you.

And when he loved, he loved openly.

There was nothing subtle about it.

He talked about you constantly, smiled differently around you, touched you whenever he could. You became his favorite subject without him even realizing it.

“My girlfriend does this...”

“Oh, that reminds me of her...”

“She’d love this.”

A hand at your waist. Fingers brushing your shoulder as he walked past. Pulling you into his lap absentmindedly during long nights around the campfire because apparently being near you was some kind of necessity for him.

And the way he looked at you? Spirits...

Sometimes it genuinely stole the breath from your lungs.

Sokka looked at you like you were the answer to every hard day he had survived. Like after losing so much throughout his life, he still couldn’t believe he had somehow ended up with you.

Which made his attraction feel almost overwhelming at times. Not shallow, not careless - intense in that deeply emotional way that came from genuine obsession with every part of you.

He adored your body, yes, but it was always tied to you - the warmth of your skin beneath his hands, the sound of your laughter when he teased you too much, the way you melted into his touch after difficult days.

His little weakness was indeed his woman - the one he couldn't stop fantasizing about, the one who knew him best. Just imagining your pretty face, soft skin, your laugh… how his palms squished your body just how he like it... That man was smitten so bad, it had to be studied. His little secrete pleasure was having you wearing a V-neck shirt, maybe one of his, that exposed just a tease of those plush tits. Yeah, he was a sucker for your boobs. And when he finally got enough of just admiring, he dove in like a mad-driven man.

The once careful and carrying boyfriend turns into a menace. Pure devil, having you trapped under him, hips pistoning so hard into your sweet spot after he made you squirt three times in a row, sheets drenched under your bodies. It didn't matter if you moaned, screamed or whine. The problem was if you were too quiet.

"Look at this pretty face…" He would growl under his breath, choking you with both his hands as he had you holding your knees glued to your chest. "I feel like I'm about to break…" It's all you could whisper, lost in your pleasure, but enough to make him grin like a maniac, pulling back one of his hands just to toy with your flushed nipple.

"Such a sweet thing, from head to toe…" He would groan out loud, head leaning back, not even bothering to listen because he knew how much you loved when he went that rough on you. --------------------------------------------------

That's how I felt writing this

Part 1 , Part 2

Pairing: Lieutenant! Gojo Satoru ( HUMAN AU ) x FBI Agent! FemReader Summary: You're the FBI agent assigned to the impossible task: get a handle on Gojo's notoriously reckless team and file a report that will actually stick. But from the moment you walk into his base, your mission goes off the rails. You didn't just turn everything upside down - you burned the rulebook and discovered the fastest way to get to the man in charge wasn't through reports, but through his men. Or better said, how you ended up fucking your way towards him. WC : 8 K NOTE : Sooo, this turned out a lil longer than I intended, so I had to move all the smutty smut in the next part. Please, bear with me cause this girl is new on writting smut, ok ? Thanx :,)))

Content Warning! : mdni! , 18+, eventual smut, rough sex, multiple sexual partners, marking kink, breathplay/choking, power dynamics, degradation, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, teasing, unprotected sex,

Ever since he was a child, Satoru remembered the weight of eyes on him - sharp, disciplined, always watching. Not the kind that judged, but the kind that measured, assessed. Decided whether you were worth anything on the battlefield.

He grew up surrounded by uniforms. Pressed fabric. Polished boots. The metallic scent of weapons cleaned at dawn. Conversations whispered over radios instead of dinner tables. His grandfather carried the scars of war like quiet medals, his parents wore duty like second skin. Army, firefighters, special agents - each of them bound by the same unspoken oath: protect, no matter the cost.

In a world like that, choice was an illusion. Following their path wasn’t expected of him - it was inevitable.

And Satoru didn’t just follow it.

He tore through it.

At an age when most were still trying to understand command structures, he was already giving orders. Lieutenant. Military Forces. A title that sounded too heavy for someone so young, until you saw him in action.

Then it made perfect sense. Because Satoru didn’t fight like a soldier. He fought like a curse. Reckless. Untouchable. Smiling in the face of things that should have killed him ten times over. He took missions no one wanted, stepped into operations he wasn’t cleared for, crossed lines that would’ve ended other careers on the spot. And yet...He always walked out alive.

Not unscathed, never unscathed.

But alive. Breathing. Grinning like he’d just gotten away with something.

People whispered about it, that he was blessed. That he was insane.That something was fundamentally wrong with him.

But those who fought beside him knew the truth. Satoru wasn’t lucky. He was simply that strong.The strongest. And strength like his doesn’t stand alone. It has to come with some major issues somewhere - for Satoru, it ended up in his scandalous decisions and controversial persona. You either loved that man, or simply hate him to the bone.

And naturally, it attracts chaos. It builds something around itself for structure. You can be the strongest alive and kicking, but completely useless on the field if you dont have a team.

And Satoru ? Yeah, he got a team. No, something far more volatile than that. The best of the best, the most unhinged. A collection of individuals who, on paper, should have never been able to function together without tearing each other apart. Different temperaments. Different instincts. Too much ego, too much power and testosterone colliding all together, too many ways things could go wrong.

And yet, under Satoru’s command, they worked. Barely not getting killed, but still workimg.

Explosively, perfectly.

Honestly, it was a miracle he could keep them in line. Not because he lacked experience - no, that was never the issue because he was familiar with that - it was because managing them required something far more dangerous than skill.

It required understanding, mental strength.

And Satoru understood monsters better than anyone. Because, in his head, he was one himself.

The ones who stood beside him now weren’t just subordinates.

They were the same people who clawed their way up with him. The same ones who bled through missions that should have broken them. The same ones who had seen Satoru at his worst - and stayed anyway.

At the center of it all stood one name.

Suguru Geto.

The first to ever reach out a hand to Satoru, and the only one who never let go. They had known each other since their teenage years, long before ranks and titles complicated things. Back when everything was simpler. Or at least, it felt that way. Suguru had watched Satoru grow into what he was. Understood him in ways no one else could.

Matched him.

Where Satoru was overwhelming force, Suguru was precision. Where Satoru moved like chaos incarnate, Suguru moved like a calculated strike waiting for the perfect moment to land. They had fought side by side in more missions than either cared to count. Seen things that would’ve shattered lesser men. Learned each other’s rhythms so well that words became unnecessary.

That was why he stood at Satoru’s right.

Not by order. By right.

Suguru Geto was the only one who could truly keep up with him.

The entry operator - first in, last out. The spearhead of every assault. Watching him move was like watching something inhuman unfold - fluid, lethal, impossible to predict. His body reacted before thought could even catch up, adapting mid-combat with a precision that bordered on instinct.

Enemies didn’t fight Suguru.

They survived him.

If they were lucky.

And in a team built on unstable brilliance and controlled chaos, he was the anchor. The quiet force that held everything together when it threatened to fall apart. The only one who could look at Satoru Gojo - Lieutenant, prodigy, walking disaster - and not see a weapon…

But a person worth staying for.

Right behind them came the ones no one ever wanted to follow into a mission, but everyone prayed were already there.

The Explosive and Ballistic specialists. Two forces of nature carved from violence and bad decisions, bound not by loyalty - but by something far more dangerous.

Instinct.

Ryomen Sukuna and Toji Fushiguro.

If Satoru was chaos refined into something beautiful, these two were chaos left to rot and sharpen itself into something lethal. They didn’t enter rooms. They collapsed them. Both dragged out of pasts that could barely be called human - streets, blood, betrayal, survival at its ugliest. The kind of history that doesn’t leave scars you can see. The kind that rewires you. Breaks something essential and replaces it with something colder.

They should have been dead a long time ago.

Truthfully, they almost were.

More than once.

And somehow - somehow - Satoru had been there each time, pulling them out of situations that should have buried them for good. Not out of mercy. Not even out of strategy.

Just because he could.

And that alone was enough to tie them to him.

Not with respect, not with obedience. But with something dangerously close to interest. Satoru liked to call them the Cursed Twins.

Not because they were alike. But because together, they were unbearable. A constant headache. A walking violation of protocol. The kind of men who would listen to an order, look you dead in the eye… and then do the exact opposite if they thought it would get the job done faster - or more violently.

Chain of command meant nothing to them. Authority meant even less. Trying to control them was like trying to cage a wildfire and a storm at the same time.

And yet, send them on the field? They were unstoppable.

Sukuna handled explosives like an artist with a twisted sense of beauty. Every detonation was intentional. Precise, timed not just to destroy, but to dominate the battlefield. He didn’t just blow things up. He made statements.

Loud. Violent. Impossible to ignore.

And Toji - he didn’t need the noise. Where Sukuna was destruction you could hear, Toji was the kind you realized too late. Ballistics, close-range weaponry, anything that required deadly accuracy - he mastered it with terrifying ease. No wasted movement, no hesitation. Just clean, efficient elimination.

Cold.Surgical.Final.

Together, they were a nightmare.

Reckless. Unpredictable. Completely unhinged.

But effective? Painfully so. Because when things went wrong - and they always did - these were the two you wanted unleashed. Just… pointed in the right direction.

And Satoru?

He never tried to tame them. That was his real genius. He didn’t give them rules. He gave them a battlefield, a playground to accaparate.

And somehow, in the middle of all that destruction…They listened.

And if chaos ever threatened to swallow them whole—if even Satoru’s reckless brilliance stretched too far—

There was always someone watching from a distance, waiting, completely silent and always unseen.

Choso Kamo.

He wasn’t loud like Sukuna. Didn’t leave devastation in his wake like Toji. Didn’t command attention the way Satoru did, or move in perfect sync like Suguru.

Choso didn’t need to be seen to control the field.

Once, he stood where Satoru stands now. Lieutenant. Feared. Respected. Untouchable in his own right. The kind of man who could walk into a room and end a conflict without raising his voice - because everyone already knew how it would end if he did.

But command requires more than strength. It requires people.

And Choso… well, he was never built for that.

Words didn’t come easy to him. Connections, even less. Where others formed bonds, he built distance. Where others relied on communication, he relied on instinct, and instinct alone can only carry a team so far.

So he stepped down. Not because he was weak. But because he understood exactly where he didn’t belong.

He traded command for solitude, pp close for far away. And became something far more dangerous.

A sniper.

Now, instead of leading from the front, he ruled from the shadows - perched above the battlefield, hidden behind layers of concrete, distance, and that ever-present dark balaclava that erased whatever humanity his face might have shown.

To most, he was just the chill one.

The quiet presence on comms. The steady voice that rarely spoke unless it mattered. The man who seemed detached, almost indifferent to the chaos unfolding below.

But that was the illusion. Because beneath that stillness... Lived a beast.

Every shot he took was deliberate. Calculated down to the smallest variable - wind, distance, movement, timing. He didn’t fire often. He didn’t need to.

One bullet was enough.

Always.

And when his team moved, when destruction collided into something uncontrollable, Choso was the one who made sure it never fell apart completely.

Covering their blind spots. Erasing threats before they were even noticed. Keeping them alive in ways they would never fully see.

He didn’t ask for recognition. Didn’t need it.

Because while the others fought in the spotlight, Choso Kamo made sure there was still a battlefield left to stand on.

And then there was the one who refused to be dragged into their chaos.

The one who stood completely outside it - untouched, unimpressed, and, quite frankly, tired of all of them.

Kento Nanami.

If the rest of the team was built on instinct, ego, and barely-contained violence, Nanami was the exact opposite.

Structure. Logic. Control.

The surveillance and technology specialist - the mind behind the operation when brute force wasn’t enough. While the others stormed buildings, broke bones, and rewrote the definition of reckless, Nanami remained behind layers of screens and data streams, watching everything unfold with quiet precision.

He saw more than all of them combined. Patterns. Weaknesses. Openings.

Mistakes.

Especially mistakes.

Because if there was one thing Nanami had no patience for, it was unnecessary chaos.

And this team? They were full of it. The constant dominance clashes, the unspoken competitions, the way every mission turned into a proving ground for who was stronger, faster, more unhinged - it all bored him to a level that bordered on irritation.

”Testosterone-driven nonsense ”, as he liked to mentally file it.

He didn’t need to prove anything.

Didn’t care to, actually.

While they fought on the battlefield, Nanami had already secured it from a distance. Operating systems, drones, encrypted communications, live feeds - he controlled the flow of information like a quiet puppeteer. He knew where everyone was, what they were doing, what they were about to do before even they did.

If Satoru was the one leading the charge, Nanami was the one making sure it didn’t collapse into failure.

Maybe calm, methodical and detached, but not indifferent. Because despite the way he distanced himself, despite the way he chose screens over people, there was a quiet reliability to him that none of them could replace.

When comms went silent, Nanami was still there. When plans fell apart Nanami rebuilt them in real time.

When the others lost themselves in the heat of battle, Nanami brought them back on track.

Not with force or authority. But with certainty.

He didn’t need to raise his voice, didn’t need to step onto the battlefield.

Because in a team full of monsters trying to outdo each other, Kento Nanami was the only one who never needed to fight for control to have it.

And just like a crazy bastard like Sukuna got an even worse bastard to match him like Toji did, Nanami got his fair partner to stick with. There was the one who somehow kept the whole circus from collapsing entirely.

The glue no one asked for, but everyone depended on.

Hiromi Higurama.

Negotiator. Part-time lawyer. Full-time headache.

No muscle. No weapons. No flair for chaos. Yet somehow, without him, the team would have long since burned itself out, or worse, ended up in a body bag. Hiromi was the one forced to wrestle with the aftermath of their brilliance, the paperwork, the fines, the bureaucratic nightmares that followed every reckless move the others thought was a “great idea.”

Enemies didn’t make him angry. Explosions didn’t faze him. What made him grind his teeth into dust was the paperwork. Cleaning up after Sukuna’s detonations. Documenting Toji’s indiscriminate marksmanship. Filing reports on Satoru’s “creative liberties” with the chain of command.

He hated it. Every soul-crushing, form-filling second of it.

And yet… somehow, he loved them.

Because, in the end, this team was a team. Imperfect, combustible, impossible- but theirs.

Satoru thrived in chaos. Suguru maintained the balance. Sukuna and Toji tore everything apart. Choso was always on the edge of losing his shit. Nanami kept the information flowing. And Hiromi… made sure the world didn’t notice they’d broken all the rules and still walked away.

No matter the scars, the near-deaths, or the explosions, everyone got what they deserved. Survival. Glory. And, most importantly - money.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t clean.

But it worked.

Because somehow, against every law of order and probability, it always worked.

The real problems for Satoru Gojo started the moment their captain - Masamichi Yaga, or as they liked to call him, Triple B ( Big Bad Boss Yaga ) - announced the transfer of a new agent to their base.

No details. No file. Nothing.

Because he knew them well enough to understand that, given even the smallest lead, they’d tear through every system just to satisfy their curiosity.

And just like that, the balance began to crack. Because in a team built on control through chaos, uncertainty wasn’t just uncomfortable. It was destabilizing.

The balance didn’t shatter immediately.

It shifted.

It started with Choso. Which, in itself, was a bad sign. Because Choso didn’t react. He observed. He calculated. He stayed still.

But now?

Now he was… off.

More withdrawn than usual. Quieter. Edgier. The already thin line between him and the rest of the team stretched even further, like something inside him had locked down completely.

Not that anyone could call him out on it. Choso had always been anti-social.Always preferred distance over connection. But this...

This was different.

This was him pulling away on purpose.

And if there was one thing consistent about him, it was this: when something bothered him, he didn’t talk about it.

He retreated. Hard. Hard enough to pull everyone just as deep as he felt. And of course the others noticed.

And it got so bad, to the point where Higurama felt like that was enough because of how thick the tension in the air was. It was either waiting for something bad to unravel or to act before it was too late.

And if something smelled like trouble, it usually meant paperwork.

And if it meant paperwork, he was the one to gather the much-needed answers.

So he did what he always did.

He dug. Pulled strings. Called in favors. Stepped into systems he wasn’t supposed to have access to anymore. Legal channels, illegal ones—it didn’t matter. If there was information to be found, Higurama would find it.

And eventually...He did.

Not everything.

But enough.

“Agent, my ass…” he muttered, tossing the words out like they left a bad taste in his mouth. “We’re getting a full FBI watchdog. Babysitting our team. Police request, internal review… all that crap.”

Silence followed. Heavy.

Because that wasn’t just a transfer. That was oversight.

And for a team like theirs, well...

That was a problem.

“Special agent here.” “Top of the class.” “Untouchable.”

The words followed you long before you ever stepped into their line of sight.

They echoed through the gray hallways, slipped between conversations, lingered in the spaces even silence couldn’t fill. A reputation built ahead of arrival - clean, polished, dangerously impressive. Everyone seemed excited to have you there.

And naturally, they didn’t buy it.

Not at first.

Because in their world, titles didn’t mean much. Not unless you could bleed for them. So they did what they always did.

They judged.

Speculated between them. Dismissed. Twisted the image of you into something that made sense to them.

A “special agent” in a unit like theirs? That meant one thing.

A man.

Tall. Built like a weapon. Someone who could go toe-to-toe with Sukuna or Toji without snapping in half. Or maybe something worse - something unpredictable, sharp in all the wrong ways, like Gojo on a particularly unhinged day.

That’s what they expected.

That’s what made sense.

Until...

Click.

The sharp sound of stiletto heels cut clean through the base, precise and deliberate, each step echoing like a countdown.

Click.

Conversation died instantly.

Click.

Every head turned.

And just like that - everything they thought they knew collapsed.

Because you weren’t what they expected. Not even close.

You walked in like you owned the ground beneath you - measured steps, controlled, unapologetic. Chin lifted just enough to signal confidence, not arrogance. Your posture was flawless, almost surgical in its precision, like every movement had been calculated and perfected long before this moment.

And your eyes didn't flutter. Worse. They were sharp, observant.

Unforgiving.

They didn’t wander around uselessly. Didn’t hesitate. They met theirs - one by one - like you were already dissecting them, already cataloging strengths, weaknesses, patterns.

You weren’t trying to prove anything. You didn’t need to. And that was the first thing that unsettled them.

Because strength in their world was loud. Violent. Impossible to ignore.

Yours? Yours was quiet. Contained.

And somehow… far more dangerous.

You stood there, surrounded by men and women built like war machines, dressed in combat gear, carrying violence like second nature, but still, you were the one who stood out.

Not because you were softer. Not because you were out of place. But because you weren’t trying to match them at all.

And that, that threw them off balance more than they thought it would..

For a brief moment, something unspoken passed between them. A shared realization, sharp and undeniable.

This wasn’t reinforcement. This wasn’t someone sent to blend in.

This was someone sent to watch.

To judge. To control. And maybe to take them apart if needed.

No one said it out loud, but they all felt it somehow, dressed in different forms. Anger, annoyance, anxiety, stress.

Because the moment you stepped into their world, the rules changed.

It was written all over you. Not just in the way you dressed, but in the way you existed.

Professionalism wasn’t something you put on like a uniform. It was stitched into every movement, every glance, every controlled breath you took inside that room. Your manners were precise, calculated - not warm, not inviting, but correct. The kind that didn’t ask for approval, yet demanded it anyway.

You weren’t there to blend in.

You were there to impose.

Not a single strand of hair dared fall out of place. Your makeup was flawless without being excessive - sharp where it needed to be, subtle where it mattered. The black heels clicked against the floor with the same consistency as a ticking clock, polished to the point they reflected the cold lights above.

Perfect. Untouchable.

A sight that, under different circumstances, might have been called a spectacle for some mad driven men like them.

A sigh for sore eyes.

But that illusion didn’t last. Because beneath that perfection hid something... nasty.

It was expected that you wouldn’t try to manage them.

Didn’t attempt to fit into their rhythm, didn’t soften your edges to make things easier, to make yourself more pleasurable to have around. There was no effort to earn their approval, no attempt to establish hierarchy through force or familiarity.

You simply didn’t care at all. Because at the end of the day, you were in the same boat - you worked just as hard to be in that place, to be in the top charts, to be recommended.

So, yeah, you couldn't care less about their reputations, about their ranks. About the chaos they called teamwork.

To you, they weren’t legends. They were variables. And variables could fail when it comes to the system you worked for.

That was the problem.

Because you weren’t there to work with them. You were there to ensure the job got done properly. Every detail accounted for. Every outcome controlled. Every risk minimized.

And if something went wrong, it wasn’t just on them anymore.

It was on you.

That responsibility didn’t make you hesitant.

It made you ruthless.

And that was where things began to clash. Because if there was one thing everyone knew about Satoru Gojo’s team it was this:

They didn’t do protocol.

They didn’t follow structure, didn’t care for clean execution or proper conduct. Plans were suggestions. Orders were flexible. Rules were something to laugh at right before breaking them.

They thrived in disorder.

In instinct.

In the kind of chaos that couldn’t be written down or predicted. All under the observation of the one who should have been there to correct them, but ended up only giving in. The one and only Gojo Satoru. But you were the exact opposite of everything they stood for. That was the new addition to your job.

No unnecessary words. No wasted movement. No room for error.

You didn’t bend. You didn’t adapt to them.

Which meant only one thing.

Eventually, someone had to give in to save the team. And if one knelt, it was just a matter of time for the rest of them to give in, no?

And the question wasn’t who. It was about how you could get there.

So you did what they expected, at first.

You stopped observing and started acting. Quietly. Efficiently. Directly through the one man who actually had the authority to make it hurt.

Masamichi Yaga.

You didn’t argue with the team. Didn’t try to correct them mid-mission or waste energy clashing head-on with men who thrived on conflict.

No.

You documented. Every breach. Every reckless move. Every deviation from protocol that could have compromised the operation. Clean reports. Precise wording. Impossible to dismiss.

And then you filed them. One after another.

At first, it was background noise.

Annoying, sure - but ignorable.

Until it wasn’t. Because Yaga started to step in with each error reported to him. Yaha was a good man at heart. Maybe cold, but with a big heart. That was his best team, the top-tier men he had seen developing into what they were in the present. He wanted them safe, because, well, he knew about the risk of being the best. It was natural for them to have numerous enemies after so many missions. And the chaos that lingered between them was like an open invitation to get them killed on the first occasion. So, the decision of having someone to report about them to him was like the last scream for help. But none of them saw it like that.

“Sukuna. That’s the fifth report written because of you.”

Higurama’s voice cut through the room as a stack of papers hit the coffee table, sliding straight to Sukunas feet

The impact was sharp. Accusing.

But Sukuna barely glanced down.

A cigarette hung lazily from the corner of his mouth, smoke curling upward as if he had all the time in the world.

“That minx is a bitch,” he muttered, voice rough with irritation. “Not my fault she expects me to act like a lap dog.”

There was no remorse.

Not even a hint of it.

Just that same defiance that made him impossible to control.

“What do you mean you’re putting me on standby? Who the hell do you think I am?!”

The words didn’t just fill the room; they hit it. Hard and furiously.

All eyes snapped toward Toji, already halfway across the space, his presence swallowing the distance between you like it meant nothing. He didn’t hesitate. Never did. Not with missions, not with fights, and definitely not with you.

Because somehow, out of everyone on that team, it was always him.

Always the one pushing too far. Always the one testing the line just to see if you’d finally break. Circling you like a predator that couldn’t decide whether you were a threat… or something worth tearing apart just to understand.

“You don’t bench me,” he continued, voice low now, dangerous in a way that didn’t need volume. “You don’t get to.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t step back. Didn’t raise your voice.

Just met his gaze head-on - calm, steady, unshaken.

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” you replied, tone clean enough to cut. “You’re compromised. You don’t follow protocol, you ignore direct coordination, and you put the entire operation at risk. I have it all documented to demonstrate if you want to convince yourself.”

A pause.

Sharp.

Deliberate.

“You’re on standby.”

Silence dropped like a blade.

Because that?

That wasn’t a suggestion.

That was authority.

And in a team like this, authority was either challenged...Or destroyed.

Toji let out a quiet, humorless chuckle, dragging a hand through his hair before stepping even closer. Too close. Close enough to intimidate. Close enough to force a reaction.

“You really think a badge and a few reports give you that kind of power?” he muttered.

Still—

You didn’t budge.

Not an inch.

“Not the badge,” you answered, eyes locked on his. “The responsibility.”

That did it.

Something shifted in Toji, and everyone saw it - tightened, like a wire pulled too far.

Because you weren’t backing down. And for Toji, nothing mattered more than giving you a taste of your own medicine, because ha had enough. Of you always stepping on his tail, of the others always restraining him from reacting. And he started to run short on his best behavior, if you even call it that.

Across the room, Gojo exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face as if that alone might undo the situation unfolding in front of him.

He already knew how it would end.

Badly.

“Hey, hey…” Satoru finally spoke, tone light but strained at the edges, stepping in just enough to interrupt before things escalated further. “Let’s not start tearing the place apart inside the base, yeah?”

Satoru clicked his tongue under his breath, eyes flicking between you and Toji, already calculating, already bracing.

Because at this rate—

His days really were about to get a whole lot worse.

Across the room, tension would shift. Not subtle and very much present. Because that started to become extreme. They’d broken rules before. Many times. Enough to bury any other unit in consequences.

But nothing ever stuck. Nothing ever followed them back home like this.

Now it did. Now it had a name. A face.

You.

And that made it worse.

Because you weren’t just reporting them, it felt like you were cornering them, invading their space in the most disturbing mode possible. Gojo felt it the most. So, yeah, it was bad. Because Satoru isn't the type to stress himself, or let the ones around stressing him.

At first, it had been amusing, sure. A whole grown-up adult walking around just to babysit other adults. Something different to play around, to test, to push against.

But this turned pretty ugly real quick. This wasn’t a game anymore.

It was pressure at its finest. Slow. Persistent. Unrelenting. Pretty much present even when they had a bad day, or a few hours to spare. The kind that didn’t explode immediately - but built over time, creeping under the skin, tightening around the edges of control.

And Satoru was starting to feel it crack against his patience.

He leaned back slightly, fingers tapping once against the arm of the chair, eyes half-lidded but far from relaxed.

Because the problem wasn’t just you.

It was what you represented.

Restriction. Oversight. A leash he never agreed to wear.

He didn’t need supervision. Hell, he did just fine without someone to keep count of his actions. Didn’t need someone stepping into his team, into his territory, acting like they had the right to dictate how things should be done. Like she knew their past, the way to get them going.

Especially not someone who hadn’t fought beside them.

Hadn’t bled with them. Hadn’t earned that place.

And yet, there you were, now on the next step of your secret plan, always complaining, walking around with all kinds of papers just to remember who you were.

Just… tightening the net.

And that was the worst part. Because brute force, he could handle.

Chaos, he was.

But this? This quiet, calculated control?

This was something else entirely.

And for the first time in a long while, Satoru Gojo was getting stressed.

But somewhere along the way, something shifted - and not in a way anyone could immediately point at or name. It wasn’t loud, wasn’t disruptive, wasn’t even obvious at first glance. Just… enough. Enough for Gojo to catch it, because of course he did - he always did.

At the beginning, you had been exactly what he expected: predictable in your discipline, strict to the point of irritation, unyielding in a way that made even seasoned men grind their teeth. The kind of person who would treat everyone the same - cut them down evenly, hold them all to the same suffocating standard until something inevitably snapped. And for a while, that’s exactly what you did. Your words were sharp, precise, unforgiving; every mistake documented, every deviation corrected without hesitation, without bias, without mercy.

Except...you weren’t as impartial as you pretended to be.

It happened once. Just once. And that was all it took.

Because slowly, almost imperceptibly, Satoru began to notice a pattern forming beneath the surface of your control.

Your “daggers” - those perfectly timed remarks, those reports that landed like bullets, those cold, calculated corrections - never quite hit one person the same way they hit the others.

Choso.

At first, it looked like coincidence. Then like restraint. And then… something else entirely. You still corrected him, still observed him with that same piercing attention, still held him accountable - but there was a difference, subtle enough to slip past anyone who wasn’t paying attention. You hesitated. Just a fraction. You softened - not openly, not obviously, but enough that someone like Satoru, who thrived on reading the space between actions, couldn’t ignore it.

And Choso - who treated people like liabilities, who kept distance like it was a second instinct - started showing up.

More often than necessary. Lingering in places he had no real reason to be in. Taking patrols he usually would’ve ignored, choosing assignments that, somehow, always aligned with yours. Quietly. Consistently. Like a shadow that had decided, for once, to step closer to the light. No one said anything about it, not out loud, but that didn’t mean it went unnoticed. In a team like theirs, built on instinct and observation, these things didn’t need to be spoken - they were simply understood.

And Satoru… Satoru didn’t like things he couldn’t immediately make sense of.

Because for weeks, he had tried. Tried to talk you down, to reason with you, to smooth out that razor-edged temper of yours before it carved straight through the fragile balance his team depended on. He pushed, joked, provoked - anything to get you to ease up, to stop turning every minor misstep into another report stacked neatly against them. Not because he cared about the rules - they meant nothing to him - but because he did care about them. His team. Their dynamic. The unspoken trust that held them together when everything else fell apart. He wasn’t about to let that be dragged through the mud over something as trivial as “professionalism.”

And yet - you never budged.

Not for him. Not for anyone.

Until suddenly...

You did.

For Choso.

No explanation. No visible shift that could justify it. Just… different. And that was exactly what made it stand out so sharply.

Satoru leaned back one evening, watching from a distance as the two of you crossed paths. There was nothing dramatic about it - no conversation long enough to draw attention, no gestures bold enough to raise suspicion. Just a glance. A pause. A moment that lingered a second too long before both of you moved on like nothing had happened.

And that was enough.

Because Satoru didn’t need words to understand what he was seeing. He read patterns. Energy. Tension - the invisible threads people thought they hid so well. And suddenly, everything aligned just enough for something to click into place. Not fully. Not cleanly. But enough to form a realization that sat heavier than it should have.

“Oh…” he murmured under his breath, something flickering across his expression - amusement, maybe, but something sharper beneath it.

So that’s what this was.

Not coincidence. Not randomness.

Something intentional.

Maybe you were trained - conditioned to play your role so flawlessly it had become instinct. Composed, precise, untouchable. The kind of agent who didn’t need to raise her voice to take control of a room, who didn’t need authority announced because it was already felt. Everything about you was deliberate, refined down to the smallest detail, leaving no space for error, no space for weakness. The perfect image of discipline.

But Gojo was just as trained. Just as experienced. And far too observant to be fooled by perfection.

Because beneath all that polish - beneath the control, the restraint, the carefully constructed image - there was something else. Something subtle. Something sharp.

A glimmer.

It didn’t show often. Not openly. You were too careful for that. But it was there, flickering in your eyes at the wrong moments - brief, controlled, almost invisible.

Almost.

But not to him.

Satoru caught it every time one of his teammates walked past you. That split-second shift in your gaze, that faint moment when your control slipped. Not enough to raise suspicion on its own - but enough to form a pattern.

Like a predator circling.

Not striking.

Not yet.

Just testing.

Measuring reactions. Pushing boundaries. Watching how far each of them could be stretched before they snapped. You weren’t just observing anymore - you were engaging, subtly pulling at threads just to see which one would unravel first. There was something pleased on your face every time you made one of them glare, grunt in annoyance, or curse under his breath.

And out of all of them, Choso seemed like the only one feeling the same way towards you. His eyes follow you, analyzing from head to toe, only to stop shamelessly on your ass, whenever you wear those pencil skirts or those office pants that curve like second skin on your curves.

Then came the disappearances. Short at first, easy to overlook if you weren’t paying attention. One moment you were both there - the next, gone. No words, no acknowledgment, no explanation offered to anyone. Just absence.

And then you’d return.

Separately.

Like nothing had happened.

Only something always had.

Your lipstick, freshly reapplied - too precise, too intentional. Your posture unchanged, your expression composed, as if whatever occurred in those missing moments had been neatly sealed away.

And Choso...

Still silent. Still composed.

But not untouched.

The faintest flush would creep along the tips of his ears, betraying him for just a second before disappearing again, like even his body refused to fully expose what had happened.

Other days, the signs shifted.

He’d show up in turtlenecks, collars pulled higher than necessary, fabric sitting just a little too tight against his neck despite the temperature. Or he’d skip changing after training altogether - something he had never done before - remaining in his gear longer than needed, as if avoiding the act of exposing something… or hiding it.

And slowly, the pattern built.

Piece by piece. Detail by detail.

Until it stopped being subtle.

Until it became obvious.

At least to Gojo.

Glances started being exchanged between them across the room - quick, knowing, edged with amusement. No one said anything out loud, but they didn’t need to.

And somewhere off to the side, leaning back with that same unreadable calm, Satoru watched it all unfold.

Quiet.

Thinking.

Because what had started, it stopped. Choso Kamo slipped back into himself like nothing had ever happened, the distance returning with surgical precision, the silence settling in as if it had never been disturbed. Whatever had existed between you vanished too cleanly, too suddenly - like a thread cut before it could reach somewhere. He avoided you again, not clumsily but naturally. Most would’ve missed it, brushed it off as nothing more than Choso being Choso. Patterns didn’t just disappear. They shifted. And if one had ended, another was already beginning.

It happened at the party - one of those stiff, suffocating events thrown in honor of retiring captains, filled with pressed uniforms, empty smiles, and too much alcohol meant to make everything feel less artificial than it actually was. The kind of place Satoru hated, where everything felt staged and predictable. But he stayed, because watching people was always more entertaining than participating, and that night - that night was different. He noticed it the moment you walked in. You didn’t belong there, not in the way the others did, blending into ranks and expectations. You stood out to him, like his anticipation warned about what was about to happen. And then you disappeared. Just like he expected. But what caught his attention wasn’t just your absence. It was who followed.

Nanami.

That didn’t fit. Nanami didn’t indulge, didn’t deviate, didn’t participate beyond what was strictly necessary. If anything, he was the one observing from afar, quietly judging the rest of them whenever someone got distracted by a woman. And yet, he was gone, at the same time as you. Satoru didn’t move, didn’t interfere. He simply waited, watched, because by now he already understood the pattern.

Then you returned, and there it was again - that subtle shift clinging to you like a second skin. Your steps were lighter, your posture just slightly more relaxed, your presence carrying a quiet, contained energy that hadn’t been there before - something almost satisfied.

Moments later, Nanami came back, and that was worse. His tie hung loose around his neck, no longer pulled into that perfect knot he always maintained, his hair slightly out of place - not enough for most to question, but enough for Satoru. It wasn’t messy. It wasn’t obvious. But it wasn’t him. Nanami adjusted his glasses, expression composed as ever, but when his eyes met Satoru’s, there was a flicker - gone in an instant, but real.

And Satoru smiled. Slow. Knowing. Dangerous. Because now it wasn’t coincidence, wasn’t curiosity - it was a pattern. You weren’t slipping. You were choosing. One by one, testing, pushing, taking just enough before stepping back and leaving them to deal with the aftermath in silence. Like a game.

And his team? They were playing right into it.

Nanami glanced at him again, sharper this time - accusatory, almost defensive, like he already knew exactly what Satoru had pieced together, like he hated that he had. But Satoru didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The look he gave back said more than enough.

So you too, huh? And just like that, what had once been mildly stressful turned into something far more interesting.

The dim fluorescent lights of the gym buzzed overhead like a swarm of angry hornets, casting long shadows across the sweat-slicked mats and the clanging weights. It was late, and the cramped, echoing space was the guys' unofficial sanctuary. Their safe zone. Or more accurately, the one place you never stepped into. No polished floors. No controlled environment. No space for your sharp heels or sharper presence.

Just them.

“She fucked all of us, eh?” Toji's gravelly voice cut through the rhythmic grunts and metallic clinks, his massive frame barely breaking a sweat as he hoisted another plate onto the barbell. He lounged against the rack like he owned the place, his dark hair tousled from the workout, a smirk tugging at the scar slashing across his lip.

It wasn't exactly breaking news. The writing had been on the wall for weeks, scrawled in hickeys and lingering glances that none of them could ignore anymore. Hell, Sukuna had made it damn near public announcement when he'd stormed into your tiny office in a random afternoon, all fire and fury, only to slink out twenty minutes later with fresh, blooming bruises mottling his neck like violent tattoos. The kind that screamed "property marked" in the most primal way.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Getodrawled, his voice bored as he spotted Satoru on the bench press. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, his long black hair tied back in a loose ponytail that had started to fray. Satoru, ever the showman, let out a dramatic groan mid-rep, his blue eyes sparkling with a mix of amusement and something darker—betrayal? Lust? Who the hell knew anymore. The air hung heavy with unspoken tension, the kind that made the gym feel smaller, more claustrophobic.

“That prick? Geto? Me? Who the fuck else?” Sukuna snarled, one of his tattooed arms flexing as he exploded upward from a one-handed push-up, veins bulging like rivers of ink under his skin. He was ticking off names on his thick fingers, his crimson gaze narrowing. The list was growing, and it pissed him off more than he'd admit - how you'd played them all like fiddles in a cursed symphony.

Then Choso, quiet as a shadow in the corner, hesitated. His hand lifted slowly, almost apologetically, a deep flush creeping up his pale cheeks. The brotherly type, always the soft-hearted one with his messy black hair falling over those haunted eyes, he looked ready to bolt. Sukuna's jaw dropped, his laugh turning into a bark of disbelief. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me… The crybaby too?! That little nympho’s got no limits, does she?”

From his spot against the mirrored wall, Nanami let out a low, rumbling chuckle, the sound rare and genuine from someone stoic like him. He was half-slumped there,catching his breath after a brutal set of deadlifts. His blond hair stuck to his forehead in damp strands, and he watched the chaos unfold with the detached amusement of a man who'd seen too much to be fazed. “Cry all you want, but give the woman credit - she played us like pros. Fooled every last one of us without breaking a sweat. Impressive, in a fucked-up sort of way.”

Toji, though? He snorted, dropping the weights with a thunderous clang that echoed off the rafters. Impressed? Not even close. The ex-mercenary wannabe -broad-shouldered, rough around every edge, with a reputation for devouring women like they were his next meal - didn't do "impressed" when it came to matters of the heart or the bed. He'd had you in his grip, quick and dirty, on one of the tables from the shooting range - sprawled between bullets and heavy weapons with a gun shoved in your mouth ( yeah, no surprise the bimbo is into gun play ) , and it hadn't shaken him one bit. “You lot act like a bunch of virgins who finally got their dicks wet for the first time. Like she’s some goddess descended from on high, the woman of all women. Please. She’s just another pretty face with a tight - ”

Sukuna cut him off with a savage glare, pushing to his feet in one fluid motion. The pink-haired powerhouse wasn't one to let Toji run his mouth before he had the chance to. Especially when they both had been used by you. “You’re full of shit, Fushiguro, and you know it. All that ‘I’m the alpha’ crap rattling around in your skull must’ve scrambled your brains sideways, cause that woman is like a succubus. Almost felt like she was the one who does the fucking, not the other way around.” His voice dropped low, and for a split second, the gym went quiet - save for the distant hum of the AC and the pounding hearts of men who'd all tasted the same forbidden fruit. But the one that was too quiet in those circumstances was Gojo, and that was... suspicious for a womanizer like him. Sukuna really expected to have him on the list too, but when he glanced at the white-haired man, there was not even a spare emotion giving him off. ” Doesn't our Lieutenant have something to share with us? ” His dark eyes lingered on Gojo, causing all the attention to focus on him.

Satoru stopped mid-rep, the barbell loaded with punishing weight trembling slightly on his shoulders as if mirroring the sudden quake in his confidence. His usual cocky grin spread familiar on his lips, those piercing blue eyes - normally hidden behind designer shades widening as the reality slammed into him like a bullet. “I’m the one she missed,” he chuckled shortly as he tried to catch his breath.

The clatter of weights and grunts of exertion died down instantly, the air in the sweaty, humid gym thickening with a shared, dumbfounded silence. Every pair of eyes mirrored the same baffled expression. Gojo? Left out? The man who could charm the paint off a wall, who had half the women they had met eating out of his pale, long-fingered hands? It didn’t compute.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Sukuna broke the silence first, his tone sharp as he wiped sweat from his brow with the back of a tattooed hand, his crimson eyes narrowing like he was sizing up something weird. He stepped closer, all coiled menace, like he couldn’t decide if this was a joke or a personal slight. “You’re tellin’ me you - pretty boy, silver-spoon Gojo - didn’t get a piece of that action? Bullshit.”

Suguru tilted his head, a sly, almost pitying smile playing on his lips as he crossed his arms. “No kidding. You’ve got women lined up from here to the other country, Satoru. Hell, you’ve had the deputy blushing like a schoolgirl over coffee. So, what’s the deal? She actually turn you down?” There was a teasing lilt to his voice, but underneath it, a flicker of genuine curiosity. You were a puzzle, after all. Why would someone like you, who’d apparently claimed everyone else, skip the golden boy?

Toji let out a rough bark of laughter, dropping down to sit on a nearby bench, his scarred lip curling in amusement. “Damn, kid. That’s a new low, even for you. Thought you’d be the first one in her bed, not the last. Or hell, not at all.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, studying Satoru like he was a busted slot machine. “What’d you do, scare her off with that holier-than-thou shtick of yours? Or did she just see through the act?”

Satoru finally lowered the barbell with a controlled thud, rolling his shoulders as if he could shrug off the weight of their stares along with the iron. He ran a hand through his damp, snowy hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and flipped all of them off. “Laugh it up, assholes. You know how they say - save the best for the last. She has something in that pretty head, and she's coming for me. I just give her the time needed.”