#new writeblr

the Armed Detective Agency than you did in four years of university.

Worst because: you're hopelessly, desperately, embarrassingly in love with him.

And the bastard knows.

Of course he knows. He's the world's greatest detective. He probably knew before you did.

"Y/N!" Ranpo's voice calls across the office. "I need more ramune! The grape kind, not the original. And get me those files on the warehouse case. Oh, and there's a new detective manga that came out today—"

"Already on your desk," you say, not looking up from your computer. "Along with three bottles of grape ramune, the warehouse files, that limited edition Poe novel you mentioned wanting, and a bag of konpeito because you finished your last one yesterday."

Silence.

You glance up to find him staring at you with those sharp green eyes, a piece of hard candy already in his mouth, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"You're too good at this job," he says around the candy. "It's almost like you can read my mind."

"I've been your assistant for two years. I'd be shit at my job if I couldn't anticipate your sugar addiction by now."

His eyebrows rise slightly at the curse—you don't usually swear at work—but his smile only widens. "Sugar addiction? That's a strong accusation."

"You literally have candy in your mouth right now. At 9 AM."

"It helps me think." He pops open the ramune with practiced ease. "Is that all it is? Just... professional competence?"

Your cheeks heat traitorously. "What else would it be?"

"I don't know." He tilts his head, studying you with that unnerving intensity that makes you feel like he can see straight through you. "You tell me."

Fuck. He's doing it again. That thing where he knows something and wants you to admit it first.

Before you can respond, Kunikida slams a file down on his desk with his usual exasperated precision. "Ranpo, we have three active cases. Can you please focus instead of tormenting your assistant?"

"I'm not tormenting her!" Ranpo protests, but there's a gleam in his eyes that says otherwise. He reaches into his candy stash—a drawer you keep religiously stocked—and pulls out a lollipop. "I'm just making conversation. Right, Y/N?"

"Right," you manage weakly.

Dazai glances up from where he's lounging on the couch, a knowing smirk on his face. "Ah, young love. So innocent. So obvious. So entertaining to watch."

"Shut up, Dazai," you and Kunikida say in unison.

"But it's so fun!" Dazai sits up, suddenly very interested. "Our dear Ranpo has been pining for two years and still hasn't made a move. It's like watching the world's slowest romance novel."

"I am not pining," Ranpo declares, unwrapping his lollipop with theatrical flair.

"You gave her candy from your personal stash last week," Yosano points out from her desk, not looking up from her medical journal. "YOUR personal stash. The one you threaten to kill people over if they touch."

"She looked sad! I was being nice!"

"You're never nice without ulterior motives," Dazai says cheerfully. "Face it, Ranpo. You're smitten."

Ranpo's ears turn pink—actually pink—and he quickly busies himself with his manga, but you catch the way his eyes flick to you over the top of the page.

Watching.

Always fucking watching.

You turn back to your work, trying to ignore the way your heart won't stop racing and the way the entire office is now clearly invested in whatever the hell is happening between you and your boss.

Two years of this. Two years of being in love with someone who can deduce your every thought and probably finds your feelings amusing.

You're so screwed.

The first anonymous gift appears on a Tuesday.

You arrive at your desk—coffee in hand, ready to start another day of pretending you're not catastrophically in love with your boss—and freeze.

There's a small box on your keyboard. Wrapped in colorful paper with a little bow on top.

No card. No name.

"What the hell?" you mutter, picking it up carefully.

Inside: an assortment of your favorite hard candies. The expensive kind from that boutique shop across town that you mentioned loving exactly once, three months ago, in a casual conversation you barely remember having.

Your heart does a stupid little flip.

"Secret admirer?" Ranpo asks from his desk, not looking up from the video game he's playing on his phone. There's a half-eaten candy bar beside him and what looks like his fourth ramune of the morning.

You nearly drop the box. "What? No. I don't—it's probably just—"

"A mysterious gift with no card, containing your exact favorite candies that most people don't even know you like?" He finally looks at you, popping a gummy bear into his mouth. "Yeah, totally not a secret admirer."

"Maybe it's from a grateful client or some shit."

"Clients send flowers or fruit baskets. This is personal." He gestures with his candy. "Someone's been paying very close attention to you, Y/N. The question is... who?"

Before you can answer, Dazai materializes beside your desk like the menace he is. "Ooh, secret gifts! How exciting! Open it properly, let's see—" He examines the candies with intense interest. "These are expensive. Like, really expensive. Someone's got it bad for you."

"Or someone's fucking with me."

"Why would anyone fuck with you?" Yosano has joined the crowd now, along with Kunikida who's pretending not to be interested but is clearly listening. "You're literally the nicest person here. Well, except when Ranpo's being difficult. Then you get this look like you want to strangle him."

"I do not—"

"You absolutely do," Kunikida confirms, adjusting his glasses. "Last week when he demanded you find a specific flavor of ramune that's only sold in one shop across the city, you looked homicidal."

"I got him the ramune though," you mutter.

"That's because you're a saint," Yosano says. "Or because you're in love with him. Probably both."

You choke on air.

Ranpo, across the office, drops his phone.

The resulting silence is deafening.

"I'm not—that's not—" You're flailing now, face burning. "I'm his assistant. It's my job to—"

"To memorize his candy preferences and smile every time he solves a case and look at him like he hung the moon?" Dazai grins. "Yeah, that's definitely just professional dedication."

"Everyone shut up," you hiss. "Ranpo can hear you—"

"Ranpo can definitely hear us," Ranpo calls out cheerfully, now openly watching the chaos unfold with barely concealed amusement. "These walls are thin and you're all terrible at whispering. But please, continue. This is fascinating."

You want to die. Just sink through the floor and cease to exist.

Yosano takes pity on you and steers the gossip crew away. "Come on, let's give her some space. We can speculate about her love life during lunch like civilized people."

When they've dispersed, you chance a glance at Ranpo.

He's still watching you, a piece of chocolate melting in his mouth, eyes glinting with something you can't quite identify.

"For what it's worth," he calls across the office, "I think your secret admirer has excellent taste. In candy and in people."

Then he goes back to his game, leaving you to wonder what the fuck that meant.

You spend the rest of the day hyperaware of everyone watching you.

Dazai keeps making exaggerated kissy faces when Ranpo isn't looking. Yosano winks every time you make eye contact. Even Kunikida seems invested, though he's trying to hide it behind his usual stern facade.

At lunch, Yosano corners you in the break room.

"Okay, real talk," she says, settling across from you with her bento. "How long have you been in love with him?"

"I'm not—"

"Girl." She gives you a look. "I'm a doctor. I can literally see your heart rate spike every time he talks to you. So how long?"

You sag in defeat. "Since probably the first month I started working here."

"And you haven't said anything because...?"

"Because he's my boss? Because he's Ranpo Edogawa and I'm just his assistant? Because he probably knows and finds it amusing?" You stab your food viciously. "Pick a reason."

"Or," Yosano suggests gently, "because you're scared."

"Obviously I'm scared. He can deduce anything. If I tried to confess, he'd know before I even opened my mouth. How humiliating is that?"

"Maybe. But have you considered that maybe he feels the same way?"

You laugh bitterly. "Ranpo? In love with me? That's—"

"Not as crazy as you think." She leans forward. "Y/N, I've worked with Ranpo for years. I've never seen him share his candy with anyone. Never seen him smile the way he smiles at you. Never seen him care about someone's opinion the way he cares about yours."

"He smiles at everyone when he solves a case—"

"He smiles at you even when he's doing paperwork. Which he hates." She raises an eyebrow. "Just... think about it. And pay attention to who's watching your reaction to that gift."

After she leaves, you do think about it.

And you realize: you never actually saw who was around when you arrived this morning.

Who had access to your desk before you got here?

The second gift appears on Thursday.

You're finishing up some filing when you return to your desk and—

Another box.

Smaller this time. Wrapped in the same colorful paper.

"Oh, this is getting interesting," Dazai comments, appearing out of nowhere like the creep he is. "What do you think it is? Jewelry? Love letter? More candy?"

"Why the fuck would it be more candy?"

"Because your admirer clearly knows the way to your heart is through sugar. Just like Ranpo." He grins. "Interesting parallel, don't you think?"

You ignore him and open the box.

Inside: a plush cat. Small, adorable, with big eyes and impossibly soft fur in your favorite color.

Your favorite color that you mentioned once, months ago, when someone asked about your apartment decor.

"Okay, this is definitely a secret admirer," Yosano says, examining the plush with delight. "And they're GOOD. Look at this quality! This is expensive!"

"Two gifts in three days," Kunikida observes, adjusting his glasses. "Someone's persistent."

"Someone's in looooove," Dazai singsongs, loud enough for the whole office to hear.

Including Ranpo, who's suddenly very interested in his desk drawer full of candy.

"Any suspects, Y/N?" Dazai continues, grinning like the cat who got the cream. "Anyone who pays particularly close attention to you?"

You want to die. "No."

"Liar." Ranpo says it cheerfully from across the room, not looking up from unwrapping what appears to be his tenth piece of candy today. "You have at least one suspect. I can tell by the way you're blushing."

"I'm not—"

"You are. It's cute." He finally looks up, meeting your eyes across the office. "Most people wouldn't remember such small details about someone. Takes real dedication. Real observation skills."

The way he says it makes your stomach flip.

Yosano nudges you. "Girl. He's literally giving you hints."

"He's just being Ranpo," you mutter, but your hands are shaking as you set the plush cat on your desk.

"Sure he is," Dazai agrees, way too cheerfully. "And I'm just being helpful when I point out that Ranpo came in extra early this morning. Before you. Before everyone, actually. Which is weird because he's usually late unless something important is happening."

Your head snaps up to look at Ranpo.

He's very deliberately not looking at you, suddenly fascinated by organizing his candy stash.

"Interesting," Yosano muses. "Very interesting."

"Everyone back to work," Kunikida orders, but even he's smirking slightly.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of speculation and increasingly obvious hints from your coworkers.

And Ranpo, bless him, keeps eating candy and pretending he's not watching your every reaction.

The gifts don't stop.

If anything, they escalate.

Monday brings a rare detective manga—not just any copy, but a signed first edition that must have cost a fortune.

"Holy shit," you breathe, staring at the author's signature.

"Language, Y/N," Kunikida calls from his desk, but he's craning his neck to see what you got.

Dazai abandons all pretense of working and comes over to investigate. "Okay, your admirer is either rich, dedicated, or both. This is serious courting behavior."

"It's not courting, it's—"

"It's definitely courting," Yosano confirms, joining the growing crowd. "Look at the dedication! This took effort to find!"

You turn the manga over in your hands, and that's when you see it: a small sticky note on the back.

I remembered you mentioning this. Hope it lives up to expectations.

No signature. But the handwriting is neat, precise, oddly familiar.

"The plot thickens," Dazai says dramatically. "A handwritten note! We're getting closer to the reveal!"

"Or," you say pointedly, "my admirer wants to stay anonymous and you all need to mind your own business."

"Where's the fun in that?" Dazai grins. "Besides, this is the most entertainment we've had in months. Well, except for when Ranpo ate so much candy he made himself sick."

"That was one time," Ranpo calls from his desk, where he's currently working his way through a bag of gummy bears. "And it was worth it."

"You threw up in a trash can."

"Still worth it."

Despite yourself, you laugh. And when you look up, Ranpo is watching you with that soft expression he sometimes gets—the one that makes your heart do stupid things.

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing." He pops another gummy bear in his mouth. "Just glad someone appreciates my dedication to candy consumption."

Tuesday brings your favorite tea blend—the expensive loose-leaf kind you can't usually justify buying.

Wednesday: A bookmark with a quote from your favorite book, the one you mentioned in passing during a lunch break two months ago.

Thursday: A small potted succulent for your desk, because you'd mentioned wanting to keep plants but being worried about killing them.

Friday: Chocolate. Expensive, artisan chocolate in flavors you didn't even know existed.

By the end of the week, your desk looks like a shrine to thoughtfulness, and the entire office is invested in figuring out who your admirer is.

"It's got to be someone from the agency," Yosano insists during Friday lunch. "These gifts are too specific. Too personal. Whoever it is knows you really well."

"But who?" you ask, genuinely confused. "I'm friendly with everyone, but I don't think I'm close enough to anyone for them to remember all these tiny details."

"Except Ranpo," Dazai points out. "You're with him literally every day. You probably tell him things without even realizing it."

Your heart skips. "Ranpo wouldn't—"

"Wouldn't what? Court his cute assistant with thoughtful gifts?" Dazai's grin is wicked. "Why not? He's got the money, the observation skills, and the motivation."

"What motivation?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe the fact that he's been mooning over you for two years?"

"He has not—"

"Y/N," Yosano says gently. "He literally shares his candy with you. His personal candy stash. The one he threatens murder over. If that's not love, I don't know what is."

You want to argue, but... she has a point.

Ranpo is weirdly protective of his candy. You've seen him nearly bite Dazai's hand off for reaching for his pocky.

But he offers you candy all the time. Shares his ramune. Lets you steal his chocolate when you're stressed.

"Fuck," you whisper.

"Exactly," Dazai says cheerfully. "Now you're getting it."

Week two of gifts is when things get obvious.

Monday: Movie tickets. Two of them. For a detective film you'd mentioned wanting to see.

"Two tickets," Yosano observes, examining them with delight. "Your admirer wants to go with you!"

"Or they have a friend who wants to see it," you protest weakly.

"Girl. Use your brain. This is a date invitation."

Tuesday: A gift card to your favorite restaurant. For two people.

"Again with the two!" Dazai crows. "Your admirer is not subtle!"

Wednesday: Concert tickets. To a band you love. Again, two tickets.

"Okay, this is definitely a pattern," Kunikida admits, adjusting his glasses. "Someone wants to take you on dates but is too cowardly to ask directly."

"Hey Ranpo," Dazai calls across the office. "You busy Friday night?"

Ranpo, who's been suspiciously quiet all week, looks up from his candy. "Why?"

"Just wondering if you'd be free to, oh I don't know, go to a concert with someone."

Ranpo's ears turn pink. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't." Dazai's grin is positively feral. "Just like you don't know anything about mysterious gifts appearing on Y/N's desk."

"I'm the world's greatest detective. I know everything." But he won't meet anyone's eyes, suddenly very focused on unwrapping a lollipop.

"Then you know who the admirer is," Yosano says sweetly.

"Of course."

"Are you going to tell us?"

"Absolutely not. Where's the fun in that?"

The entire office groans.

But you notice he's smiling. That secret, knowing smile that makes your stomach flip.

Thursday brings the turning point.

You're at your desk, trying to focus on filing reports, when Ranpo appears beside you.

Actually beside you, not across the office. Close enough that you can smell his cologne and the faint sweetness of candy.

"Hey," he says softly.

You jump. "Fuck—Ranpo. Hi. You need something?"

"Yeah." He leans against your desk, and you realize with a jolt that he looks nervous. Ranpo Edogawa, who's never uncertain about anything, looks nervous. "I wanted to ask you something."

"Okay?"

"Those concert tickets you got. You planning to use them?"

Your heart stops. "I... I don't know. Maybe?"

"You should." His eyes meet yours, and there's something intense in his gaze. "The band is really good live. You'd enjoy it."

"Have you seen them before?"

"Once. It was amazing." He pauses, then adds carefully, "It'd be even better with good company."

"Good company," you repeat faintly.

"Yeah. Someone who appreciates music. Someone who'd actually pay attention instead of being on their phone the whole time. Someone who—" He stops, and his ears are definitely pink now. "Someone I'd want to be there with."

Your brain is short-circuiting. "Are you... are you asking me to go with you?"

"What? No. I'm just saying. Hypothetically. If someone asked you. To use those tickets with them. It'd be fun." He's talking faster now, flustered in a way you've never seen him. "Not that anyone's asking. I'm just. Making conversation."

"Oooo, someone's blushing, isn't she?" Dazai calls from across the office, because of course he's been listening. "This is better than TV!"

"Shut the fuck up, Dazai," Ranpo snaps, but his face is even redder now.

"You know," you say slowly, heart pounding, "I think good company sounds nice."

Ranpo's head snaps up. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. If someone were to ask. Hypothetically."

His smile is blinding. "Hypothetically. Right." He straightens up, regaining some of his usual confidence. "That's... good to know."

Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of candy—one of the expensive ones from the boutique shop, the ones that started this whole thing—and sets it on your desk.

"For later," he says softly. "When you need something sweet."

He walks away before you can respond, leaving you staring at the candy and trying to remember how to breathe.

Yosano appears immediately. "Girl. That was the most obvious non-confession confession I've ever witnessed."

"He didn't confess anything—"

"He basically asked you on a date! Using hypotheticals, but still!"

"You think?"

"I know." She grins. "And judging by the way he's currently hiding behind his manga and refusing to look at anyone, he knows too."

You glance over at Ranpo's desk.

He's got a manga open, but you can see his hands shaking slightly as he turns the pages.

And beside him, an open bag of candy he's nervously working through.

Your heart does something complicated in your chest.

Maybe Yosano's right.

Maybe this is actually happening.

Maybe—

Your phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number:

You looked cute when you blushed. — R

You nearly drop your phone.

R.

Ranpo.

Holy fuck.

It's been him all along.

Week six brings the final gift.

The journal. Leather-bound, expensive, your initials in gold.

And the note that changes everything.

I think it's time we stopped pretending.

Meet me on the roof at 9 PM.

— R

You stare at it for a long moment, heart pounding.

Then you look up at Ranpo's desk.

Empty.

His coat is gone.

He left early. Without saying goodbye. Without any of his usual demands for snacks or attention.

He left so you'd find this alone.

So you could decide without him watching.

"Fuck it," you mutter, grabbing your coat. "I've waited two fucking years. What's a few more hours?"

But you know you're going.

Of course you're going.

You've been going since the first gift arrived.

You just didn't know it yet.

The rooftop door is heavier than you remember.

You have to put your whole weight into it before it finally opens, and then you're stepping out into the night air, and—

He's there.

Ranpo is standing near the edge of the roof, hands in his pockets, looking up at the sky.

The rain has stopped. The clouds have parted. And above you, impossible for Yokohama, is a sky full of stars.

He doesn't turn around. Doesn't acknowledge your presence.

Just keeps staring up at the stars like they hold all the answers he's been searching for.

"You came," he says quietly.

Your throat is tight. "Did you think I wouldn't?"

"No. I knew you would." Finally, he turns to face you, and even in the dim light from the city below, you can see the vulnerability in his eyes. "I'm the world's greatest detective, remember? I know everything."

"Then why—" Your voice cracks. "Why all of this? The gifts, the notes, the games? If you knew how I felt, why didn't you just fucking say something?"

"Because I'm a coward." He says it simply, like it's an undeniable fact. "Because I'm brilliant at solving mysteries but absolute shit at understanding my own feelings. Because it took me two goddamn years to realize that somewhere along the way, I fell in love with my assistant."

The world stops.

"You... what?"

"I'm in love with you." He takes a step closer. "I've been trying to figure out exactly when it happened. Was it the first day, when you brought me my favorite candy without being asked? When you stayed late to help me with that impossible case and didn't complain once? When you smiled at me like I'd hung the fucking stars just for solving a simple deduction?" He shakes his head. "I don't know when it started. I just know that somewhere in these two years, you became the most important part of my day."

Tears are already burning in your eyes. "Ranpo..."

"My cases are more fun because I get to tell you about them. My victories are sweeter because I get to see you proud of me. My world is brighter because you're in it." Another step closer. "And I'm terrified. Because I'm good at a lot of things, but I'm not good at this. At feelings. At relationships. At being vulnerable enough to tell someone they've become my entire fucking world."

"You're doing pretty well so far," you manage, voice shaking.

"Am I?" His laugh is shaky too. "Because I feel like I'm fucking this up. Like I should have rehearsed this better or brought you something more romantic than candy and stuffed animals or—"

"The gifts were perfect," you interrupt. "Every single one. They were perfect because they were from you. Because they proved you were paying attention. Because they made me feel seen for the first time in my entire fucking life."

He stops, staring at you. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. You're brilliant and infuriating and you make me absolutely crazy, but you're also the best part of my day. Every day. And I've been in love with you for so long I can't remember what it felt like not to love you."

"Fuck." The word comes out reverent. "Really?"

"Really, you absolute idiot. Did you think I stayed late all those nights just for the overtime? Did you think I memorized your favorite snacks because I'm a dedicated employee? I'm in love with you. I've been in love with you since probably the first week I started working here."

He laughs—actually laughs, bright and genuine—and suddenly he's crossing the remaining distance between you, his hands coming up to cup your face.

"I need to kiss you," he says urgently. "I've been imagining this for months and I need to know if it's as perfect as I think it's going to be. Can I—"

You don't let him finish.

You grab the front of his shirt and pull him down, crushing your lips against his.

For a heartbeat, he's still—shocked.

And then something ignites.

His hands tighten on your face, angling your head as he kisses you back with a desperation that steals your breath. It's not gentle. Not tentative. It's hungry and intense and absolutely consuming.

You gasp against his mouth and he takes advantage, deepening the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes your knees weak. His hands slide from your face into your hair, tangling in the strands, holding you exactly where he wants you.

You fist your hands tighter in his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer, needing more, needing everything.

When he breaks the kiss, you actually whimper at the loss.

"Holy fuck," he breathes against your lips. "That was—"

"Better than you imagined?"

"So much fucking better." He kisses you again, softer this time but no less intense. "Again. I need to do that again."

So you do.

And again.

And again.

Until you're both breathless and dizzy and completely drunk on each other.

"Be mine," Ranpo murmurs between kisses. "Officially. Let me take you on dates and buy you things and show you off and tell everyone that the most amazing person in the world somehow decided I was worth loving."

"Yes," you breathe. "God, yes. I'm yours."

"You've always been mine." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his expression is pure joy mixed with something fierce and possessive. "I just needed you to realize it."

"Arrogant ass."

"Accurate ass." He grins. "I'm the world's greatest detective. Of course I knew we'd end up together."

"Then why did you make us wait two fucking years?"

"Because—" His expression softens. "Because some mysteries are worth taking your time to solve. And you, Y/N, are the best mystery I've ever encountered. The best case I'll ever solve. The best thing that's ever happened to me."

Your heart does something complicated in your chest. "That's actually really sweet."

"I have my moments." He kisses your forehead, your nose, your lips again. "Now shut up and kiss me again. I have two years to make up for."

So you do.

Above you, the stars shine impossibly bright.

And in Ranpo Edogawa's arms, wrapped in warmth and want and the promise of everything you've been dreaming of—

You've finally found home.

"The greatest mystery I ever solved was how to make you mine." — Ranpo Edogawa

ty for reading!

Soft light spilled from the azure sky, the same brilliant colour as Gotak's hoodie. With his hands tucked in his pockets, he strolled leisurely ahead of her with an easy, unhurried pace.

Meanwhile, the strap of her bag was digging into her shoulder, an uncomfortable pressure that had grown into a persistent ache with every block they'd walked.

"Gotak," she said, her voice a little strained.

He half-turned, raising an eyebrow but not slowing down. "Yeah?"

"Haha…My bag is so heavy today," she said, trying to sound casual and not a cry for help.

He simply blinked, a look of exaggerated confusion on his face. "Okay?" he said, the word hanging in the air between them, completely vacant of any offer to help.

Flustered, she scrambled to elaborate, her face growing warm. "I mean... It's like I packed my entire locker in here. My shoulder's killing me."

He cut her off, his tone one of pure, playful mock-confusion. "What does that have to do with me?"

The question landed like a gentle slap. It was so blunt, so deliberately obtuse, that it made her instantly embarrassed for having even brought it up. Of course it had nothing to do with him. She felt silly, her hinting suddenly feeling transparent and pathetic.

"Oh, uh.... nothing," she mumbled, looking down at the pavement, her cheeks flushing. "Never mind. It's fine."

That's when he stopped. He turned around, and a wide, knowing grin broke across his face. He'd been playing dumb the whole time.

"Man, you are so bad at just asking for help," he chuckled, shaking his head as he walked back to her. " "You were just making a lot of noise without actually asking for anything. " He reached out and lifted the strap off her sore shoulder. The relief was immediate and wonderful.

"Thanks," she smiled, rolling her now-free shoulder gratefully.

"No problem. But you owe me a juice box." he said, swinging her bag onto his own without a hint of effort. "This is premium porter service."

A/N: First ever snippet written xP I hope you like it!!

lmk if you have any advice/suggestions for me, I'd love to improve my writing :3

EDIT: WOAH THANK YOU GUYS FOR 100+ LIKES🥺

Masterlist

she was beautiful, black hair and an amazing style. if you were in the right headspace you'd ask her out. but, your short, dark blue skirt was to tight, pressing a little to much against your ass and thighs, you're drunk, and the heat between your legs is pooling and needs to be released somehow. she was basically a lesbian's wet dream, but with the amount of alcohol coursing through you, right now she's making you an amount of wet that would only happen in a dream.

she pulled away from the kiss, her words slurring together as she dragged you into the family bathroom "c'mere... lemme make you feel good" she had barely closed the door when she was on you again, kissing you and squeezing your breasts in each of her hands.

you moaned, her hand now on your left breast as she kissed down the right one. you had managed to shimmy out of your skirt, the fluorescent light of the family bathroom buzzing above you and her as she knelt down in front of you, dragging your panties down. as you were processing what was even happening, her tongue was on you, pressing, sucking, moving inside you.

the pleasure made you sink to the floor, your head against the door as she continued to fuck you with her tongue. your moans were like heaven to the girl, the more high pitched they got the faster she went. your back arched and your eyes squeezed shut, feeling the tight coil in your stomach threatening to boil over. you barely had the words "i-i think i'm gonna-" before she added her fingers too, slipping in two fingers inside you as she sucked on your clit.

she moaned against your clit "mm yeah cum for me pretty girl." and you immediately folded, trying to stifle your moans by biting your lip as you came undone on her tongue. you were in the bathroom of course, people would get suspicious if they heard your loud moans. wave after wave, you clenched around her fingers as you tried to catch your breath.

you watched the girl as she fumbled with her own pants, the air you were trying to regain knocking out of you when your eyes landed on a bulge pressing against her panties as she tantalizingly pulled them down, revealing a large strap on against her pale skin. she pulled her fingers out of you, gathering up your cum spilling onto the floor and pumping it onto her cock, making it act as a lube for when she'd slam it into you.

she smirked as she looked down at you, licking her lips with a fiery hunger behind her ice-blue eyes, "mmm so pretty for me baby... all pretty and spread... ready to be fucked..."

her voice was like heaven, you already felt yourself getting worked up again as she hooked your legs around her waist, her tip pressing insistently against your entrance.

the world was blurry, but you wanted this. your body needed this. she slowly pushed inside of you and you cried out, feeling her length stretching you open with every millimeter she moved. her head fell back, moaning as she watched your cunt swallow up all of her strap until your hips were pressed together. her pelvis was right against yours and she ground up against you, making you see stars behind your eyelids and a choked moan fell from your mouth.

she started moving, slowly at first, making sure you were fully adjusted before she sped up. her slow turned into rough. hard. fast. you were slamming against the bathrooms door with every thrust of her hips. tears were blurring your eyes, the pleasure and pain of it all mixing into something you could only describe as ecstasy.

her mouth was open above you, watching her strap ram into you over and over. "you like that don't you? you like getting split open by me?" fell from her breath, the rhythm never consistent and her words barely legible.

your sounds filled the room quickly, the bang of the bathroom door, the squelch of your pussy getting filled by the girl, the slaps of your skin meeting abruptly, both of your moans and gasps and pants dancing in the air.

you felt the coiling start building up in your stomach again, starting to writhe underneath her. the sensitivity of your previous orgasm present and heightened with the mix of the alcohol. "mm- i-i.. i'm close.." you whimpered, your body glistened with sweat and your eyes full with unshed tears of pain and pleasure.

she locked eyes with you, a devilish look in her eyes as she panted out "wanna... hear you scream my name when you cum on my cock... cmon say billie when you clench on me baby."

billie was her name. the name of the girl who was ramming into you and was about to make you cum all over her strap. that was the final push for you, the way her voice was dripping like venom and how she said her name sent you over the edge.

you clamped down on her cock, screaming out her name as your orgasm washed over you. your vision blurred, you teetered on the edge of consciousness, and the only thing you could comprehend was the fullness you felt each time you clenched around her cock.

she followed close behind you, finishing with a groan and her head back, eyes closed in pleasure.

you both sat there for a moment, catching your breath and coming down from your highs. she pulled out, a string of your juices connecting the tip of her strap and your cunt.

you both were insanely out of it, fucked out and drunk. you slowly put your clothes back on, having to pause every so often from the spinning in your head or from how you could barely feel your legs.

...

the next morning you woke up in your friends bed, a splitting migraine and only bits and pieces of the night remembered. what you did remember, is the crazed looks you got as you came out of the family stall, and the dried up cum between your legs now, along with multiple dark patches of skin.

The streets of the village were dusted in gold. Morning light filtered through branches of the tall willows that lined the main road, where vendors had begun unpacking their stalls—fruit, herbs, paper charms, sweet dumplings still warm from the steam.

Madara Uchiha walked down that road with a basket in one hand and a sleepy toddler on his hip.

He ignored the looks. He always did.

At first, the villagers had stared because they were afraid. Uchiha Madara—once whispered as a monster, warlord, demon in a man’s skin—was living among them now. Not as a ghost in the mountains. Not as a tyrant demanding obedience. He lived in a modest home on the village’s edge with a garden, a patient wife, and two children who adored him.

Now, the looks were of something else. Curiosity. Confusion. And, for some, admiration.

Because Uchiha Madara—the man everyone swore would die by his own hatred—was... thriving. Gentle. Devoted.

“Papa,” the toddler murmured sleepily, head resting on his broad shoulder. “Can I have the dumpling with the honey again?”

“You already had two yesterday,” he replied, smoothing her hair back. “One more and your mother will make me sleep in the garden.”

“She likes you too much for that,” she mumbled, cheek smushed against him.

Madara chuckled. A low, rare sound. But his daughter, like his wife, could always get that out of him.

He stopped at the dumpling stand. The old vendor didn’t flinch like he used to. In fact, he smiled now—tight, polite, but it was progress.

“For the little one?” the vendor asked, already reaching for the honey glaze.

Madara nodded. “And one red bean for my wife.”

“She likes the seasonal kind?” the vendor asked, wrapping them neatly.

“She likes whatever I bring her,” Madara replied with a hint of pride. He accepted the parcel and handed over coins.

A few years ago, no one could’ve imagined this scene. Least of all him.

Flashback — Five Years Ago

The village was still healing after the wars. Hashirama’s dream was finally realized, but the trust between clans was fragile. Madara, bitter and disillusioned, had retreated to the outskirts of the Hidden Leaf. He didn’t want peace, not really. He didn’t believe in it.

Until he met her.

A civilian woman—strong-willed, with laughter that broke tension like glass shattering. She had no chakra to speak of, no bloodline, no interest in politics or power. She was kind, but never naive. Sharp, but never cruel.

She saw through him. Not through his Sharingan, not through battle stories. Through the weariness he wore like armor. She spoke to him like he was just a man. Not Uchiha. Not traitor. Just... Madara.

He was suspicious at first. Why wasn’t she afraid? Why did she talk to him like that?

One evening, while he was helping repair a broken irrigation canal, she brought him tea.

“I don’t need your pity,” he grunted.

“Good,” she said. “Because this is jasmine. I’m not wasting it on someone who can’t appreciate it.”

He scowled. But he drank it.

Over time, she brought more tea. Then books. Then idle conversations that turned into long, thoughtful silences. Madara found himself smiling—genuine, unguarded—more than he had in years.

Then, one morning, he realized something terrifying.

He wanted to stay.

With her.

Present Day — The Village

Madara arrived home to the small house with warm wood beams and vines curling along the trellis. A breeze rustled the wind chimes. His eldest son was sitting cross-legged in the garden, carefully sketching something in a worn notebook.

“Takes after his mother,” Madara murmured.

He stepped inside. The smell of sweet miso and herbs greeted him. His wife stood at the stove, hair tied back, humming. When she turned and saw them, her eyes softened.

“Good morning, grumpy bear,” she teased, kissing her daughter’s forehead, then Madara’s cheek. “Did he behave?”

“She’s already negotiating for dumplings before breakfast,” Madara said, handing over the parcel.

“A criminal mastermind,” she said dryly, giving their daughter a mock-serious glare.

“I learned from the best,” the child said, grinning at her father.

Madara raised a brow. “Flattery won’t save you.”

“But dumplings will,” his wife said, slipping one into the child’s mouth with a wink.

Madara pretended to sigh, but his heart was light.

Midday

They sat on the engawa—wooden porch—watching the clouds drift. His wife leaned against his shoulder, her fingers idly stroking the callouses of his palm.

“You know, people still don’t believe it,” she murmured.

“Believe what?”

“That you—Madara Uchiha—are out here folding laundry and chopping vegetables with a toddler on your back.”

“Let them disbelieve,” he muttered.

She laughed. “I think it’s cute.”

“I am not cute.”

“You are when you’re holding baby chicks for our daughter’s class trip.”

Madara glared at her, but it had no heat. “I was protecting them from those gremlin children.”

“They’re five.”

“Exactly. Vicious age.”

She laughed again, and he let himself fall into the sound. How had this become his life? So domestic, so soft, so... alive.

Later That Day — Village Center

Madara didn’t go to the village often, but today he volunteered to help at the academy festival. Something about sparring demonstrations and a tug-of-war competition.

When he arrived, other parents looked at him with varying degrees of awkwardness. But the children—oh, the children adored him.

He was tall, intimidating, and could lift four of them at once. The boys all wanted to spar with him. The girls were obsessed with his long hair and his patient way of explaining stances.

During the tug-of-war, Madara took his place behind a team of squealing ten-year-olds, pretending to strain while the rope barely budged.

“You’re going easy on them,” one parent whispered.

“Of course,” Madara said. “This is a battle of wills, not strength.”

The kids won. They erupted into cheers. Madara was mobbed like a hero returning from war.

His wife watched from the sidelines, arms crossed and smiling fondly. “You love it,” she said when he finally made his way over.

“I tolerate it.”

She slipped her hand into his. “Thank you for coming.”

He squeezed her hand. “You and the kids are my clan now. Where you go, I follow.”

Evening — At Home

The children were asleep. Madara sat by the low table, sipping tea. His wife curled up beside him, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Do you miss it?” she asked softly.

“The wars?”

“No. The power. The command. The... fear people used to have when they said your name.”

Madara was silent for a long moment.

“I used to think power was the only way to protect my clan. That fear was the only way to gain respect. But now…” He looked at her hand in his. “Now I think... being needed is more powerful than being feared. And I am needed here. Wanted here.”

She looked up at him. “You’re loved here.”

That silenced him. That word always did.

Because it still scared him sometimes. That someone could love the darkest parts of him without flinching. That children clung to his cloak like he wasn’t once a man soaked in blood. That peace hadn’t broken him—it had healed him.

She leaned up and kissed him.

“Happy?” she whispered.

He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close.

“I never thought I’d live long enough to be,” he murmured. “But yes. I am.”

Midnight — In the Garden

Madara often wandered the garden at night when sleep evaded him. Tonight, fireflies blinked between the rows of plum trees. He paused by the pond, watching the koi stir.

He heard soft footsteps and turned to see his son.

“Can’t sleep?” Madara asked.

The boy shook his head. “I keep thinking about that painting I’m doing. I can’t get the sky right.”

Madara crouched beside him, gazing at the stars above.

“You don’t have to get it perfect,” he said. “Just honest.”

The boy tilted his head. “You sound like mom.”

“She’s wise. I learn from her.”

A pause. Then, “Will you stay here forever?”

Madara looked at his son, his quiet eyes, his calm demeanor, so much like his own—before the world had hardened him.

“Yes,” he said. “I will stay as long as you need me. Longer, if I can.”

His son nodded, leaning against him for a rare moment of vulnerability.

And Madara, once feared for his ruthlessness, held his son with infinite gentleness.

sunrise-

The village awoke slowly. The smell of cooking rice drifted through the streets. Chickens clucked. Wind chimes rang. Another peaceful day.

Madara stood at the gate of his home, hair loose, arms crossed, watching his family emerge behind him.

His daughter skipped past him into the yard. His son followed, notebook in hand. And his wife—his anchor—came to stand beside him.

He looked at all of it—the garden, the village, the lives blooming where once there had been only war.

And he smiled.

Not the cold smirk of a warrior. Not the arrogant sneer of a clan head.

A real smile. Warm. Content. At peace.

The kind of smile no one ever thought Uchiha Madara was capable of.

End.

(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ THE END ♥