𝑀𝒾𝓈𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃: 𝐼𝓂𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝐼𝓃-𝐿𝒶𝓌𝓈
𝒮𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎: You’ve been dating Shishiba for a year and a half—your perfect, infuriating, dangerous boyfriend. And for just as long, you’ve hidden him from your old-fashioned parents, who have a special talent for scaring off every guy you ever liked. But somehow, after a convincing pep talk (and maybe a little begging from him), you’re now strapped into the car beside him, heading four hours to their house.
His mission is simple: don’t say a word about his job, his friends, or his college degree. And somehow… even now, you’re still wondering how you ended up with one of the most dangerous assassins on the planet. But you love him, and nothing—parental approval included—can change that.
𝒯𝒶𝑔𝓈&𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈: One-shot, awkward first time meeting parents, fluff, smut, light teasing, Shishiba is a bit of a menace (my other fic is having its influence on me), reader is tensed, countryside aesthetics
The pastel light drifting through the curtains slowly shifted into soft blues as morning crept in. A strong, warm arm draped across your waist, and something firm pressed insistently against your ass. You froze. He groaned low in his throat as you tried to slide away, but you knew better—if he fully woke, you’d be stuck under him again.
Two steps were all you managed before his hand shot out, catching your wrist and yanking you back onto the bed.
“Babe… It’s morning already. Let me go. I’ve gotta get ready for tonight, remember?”
He didn’t even bother replying. Instead, your wrists were pinned above your head, secured against the plush pillows, and his lips traced slow, lazy kisses along your neck and jaw. You shivered as his hips shifted deliberately, brushing against your clit through the thin fabric of your panties, damp already from your arousal.
One hand wandered down your body, fingertips tracing every curve until it found the waistband of your underwear. He toyed with it expertly, teasing, fingers hovering just above your folds. A soft moan slipped past your lips, betraying your helpless desire.
He kissed lower, nuzzling between your breasts and lingering there, teasing with the tip of his teeth on one nipple. You squirmed and arched into him, heart hammering, as his fingers slipped beneath the waistband, slowly sliding your panties down your legs. His grin was audible in his low, teasing chuckle.
“You’re so impatient,” he murmured, voice rough, tugging you closer. “I told you, I love the game.”
You could only whimper in response, and he smiled at the sound, pressing himself harder against you. His mouth returned to your neck, lips, and teeth, leaving a trail of heat across your skin, while his fingers finally explored the softness waiting for him. The teasing was maddening—slow, deliberate strokes, just enough to drive you wild without letting you reach release.
“Shishiba…” you gasped, hands twitching against his restraint. “Please…”
“Hmm? What was that?” he teased, voice low and velvet-smooth. “You have to ask properly, sweetheart.”
You bit your lip, cheeks heating. “Please… I need you.”
That was all he needed. His smile widened, and finally, with measured precision, he slid inside you. Your back arched, chest pressing into his, every inch of him driving you higher. He moved slowly at first, savoring every reaction, every gasp and shiver that escaped your lips.
“God, you feel so good,” he murmured, each word punctuated with a soft groan as he rocked against you. His hand traveled to cup your face, tilting your head to his chest as he kissed you, teeth brushing your lips, claiming them in small, teasing bites between tender kisses.
Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, desperate for more contact. He hummed, a vibration against your lips, and increased his pace ever so slightly, just enough to make your thighs tremble.
“You sure you want me like this right now?” he whispered huskily against your ear. “You were arguing with me yesterday not to touch you, since you wanted to wear heels.”
You moaned, giving him the answer he wanted, clinging to him as his hips drove you to the edge. Every touch, every kiss, every teasing word brought you closer and closer until your body finally betrayed you, shivering and trembling as pleasure washed over you in relentless waves.
He didn’t let go, holding you against him, murmuring your name over and over, letting you ride out your climax safely in his arms. After a long, shaky breath, you relaxed, nuzzling into his chest as he rested his forehead against yours.
“Morning’s supposed to be calm, you know?” you muttered weakly, still catching your breath.
He chuckled, smirking down at you. “Calm is boring. And besides, we have the parents to impress later. We might as well start the day properly.”
You giggle, and after a long, lazy stretch, you finally disentangle yourself from Shishiba’s arms. He grumbled softly, pretending to sulk, but didn’t move too far. His hand lazily brushed your hip as you slid out of bed, the morning sunlight highlighting the soft curve of his smile.
“I guess… breakfast sounds good,” you murmured, voice still thick from sleep and pleasure.
Shishiba beamed. “Finally! I was starting to think you’d leave me in bed all day without feeding me.” He pushed himself upright, running a hand through his messy, long, shiny hair, still half-asleep, but very much smug.
You roll your eyes, smacking his arm. “Stop being so dramatic.”
In the kitchen, you fumbled with toast and coffee, stealing glances at him as he leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching your every move like some predator disguised as a boyfriend. “You make it sound like I’m not the one who just spent the morning… training,” he teased, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest.
“You’re impossible,” you muttered, but your lips curved in a smile.
“Yeah, but you love it,” he said, plopping onto a chair with a mischievous grin. He watched you pour the coffee, eyes sharp, gleaming with that same playful dominance from the bedroom.
Breakfast was slow, teasingly casual. He commented on the way you buttered your toast, the careful way you sipped from your cup, and—most dangerously—the way you fidgeted, knowing he could pin you to the table with a smirk if he wanted. You shivered, equal parts amused and flustered.
Once the plates were cleared, he finally stretched, leaning back, giving you a lazy, lingering look. “So… what’s the plan for the afternoon? Gonna get dressed up and pretend you have a normal boyfriend?”
You laughed, feeling the tension from the morning mix with the lingering warmth between you two. “Exactly. And you’re going to behave… mostly.”
“What are you talking about? Are you insinuating I ain’t a gentleman, sweety?” His smirk was obvious—he loved that he could still tease you after everything.
You rolled your eyes but felt a flush creep up your neck. “You know exactly what I mean. Now, help me pick out an outfit before I start panicking about impressing them.”
He stood and sauntered closer, low voice teasing, “Hmm… maybe I’ll just pick it for you. Something that screams, ‘I’m taken, and I’m dangerous.’”
And just like that, the morning melted into afternoon. The playful tension, the teasing, the heat between you two lingered, mixing with the calm domesticity of getting ready—a quiet calm that belied the storm of nerves about to hit when you would get to your parents’ house.
By the time you slid your bag over your shoulder, Shishiba was already leaning against the car, arms crossed, that infuriating grin in place.
“You ready for four hours of bonding, sweetheart?” he teased, sliding into the driver’s seat.
You groaned, climbing in beside him. “Bonding… or torture?”
“Depends on your definition,” he said, eyes glinting as he started the engine. “I promise to behave… mostly.”
The first hour passed with easy chatter: playful banter about what your parents would say, debates over which snacks were appropriate for the road, and quiet teasing touches—his fingers brushing your knee under the seat, just light enough to make your thighs tighten. You tried to focus on the scenery, but the occasional lean against you, shoulder or hand grazing yours, made it impossible to stop thinking about him.
“You’re fidgeting,” he noted casually, one eyebrow arched. “Already nervous?”
You shot him a glare. “Not at all. Totally relaxed. Why do you even care?”
“Because it’s fun to watch you squirm,” he said simply, a sly smile tugging at his lips. He reached over, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, and let his fingers linger a second longer than necessary.
A half-hour later, he pulled a pair of sunglasses down over his eyes and gave you a lopsided grin. “I’m bored. Entertain me, sweetheart. Tell me what outfit you ended up picking. Or maybe you want me to guess?”
You rolled your eyes but laughed, the tension from breakfast and the morning heat melting into something lighter, warmer. You described your choice, trying to be normal, while he nodded seriously, then teased mercilessly about little details—the shade of your blouse, the length of your skirt—until you swatted at his arm, blushing furiously.
By the second hour, the touches became more deliberate, his hand brushing closer to your inner thigh under the seat. “Careful, you know,” he murmured, voice low and dangerous. “Four hours is a long time… I might get bored.”
“Shishiba!” you whispered-shouted, half-laughing, half-panicked, squirming in your seat.
He chuckled, leaning closer, lips near your ear. “Relax. Just… enjoy the ride.”
The rest of the drive passed like that—flirtation, teasing, occasional quiet moments where his shoulder rested against yours, hand brushing yours, subtle heat building under the surface. By the time the landscape started changing, signaling you were getting close, the playful tension had morphed into something almost electric, simmering under every glance and touch.
Shishiba glanced at you from the corner of his eye, his wicked smile softening just a touch. “Ready to impress the parents?”
You swallowed, nerves fluttering, and nodded. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Good,” he murmured, eyes flicking to the road, though you could feel his hand slide over yours again. “Because we’re in this together… whether you like it or not.”
The neighborhood stretched out ahead of you, quiet and neatly kept, a perfect postcard of suburban tranquility. White picket fences framed manicured lawns, flowers in full bloom, the sun casting a warm glow over the streets. Birds chirped lazily in the trees, their songs mingling with the faint hum of distant traffic. You couldn’t help but take a deep breath, letting the calm wash over you, even as your heart thudded in nervous anticipation.
Shishiba’s hand found yours in the car, thumb brushing along your knuckles. “Beautiful, huh?” he murmured, his voice soft in contrast to the usual smug edge.
“Yeah…” you said, still scanning the perfectly painted houses, the way sunlight danced on windows, how everything seemed so… peaceful. “It’s nice here.”
He squeezed your hand once, a grounding pressure. “Don’t forget why we’re here.”
The driveway leading to your parents’ house was lined with small flowering bushes, their petals gently swaying in the morning breeze. The house itself was large but welcoming—cream-colored walls, dark green shutters, and a neatly paved path that curved from the sidewalk to the main door. You had spent countless childhood mornings running along this path, backpack slung over your shoulder, laughing at some imagined adventure—but now it felt… intimidating, the weight of adult responsibility pressing down on you.
Shishiba parked the car and stepped out first, moving toward you with that effortless grace that made you simultaneously proud and slightly nervous. He extended a hand, and you took it, feeling the familiar warmth and reassurance in his grip.
The closer you got, the more your stomach fluttered. The front door came into view, flanked by two large potted plants, and through the glass panes, you could see the silhouettes of your parents. They were standing side by side, perfectly poised, eyes trained on the approaching figures. Your pulse quickened.
Shishiba leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear. “Relax. They’re going to love me… eventually. Probably.”
You rolled your eyes, though a small smile tugged at your lips. “Hopefully.”
Step by step, you approached, the crunch of the gravel underfoot loud in the quiet morning. The flowers lining the path seemed almost to glow in the sunlight, the air filled with the faint scent of roses and freshly cut grass. It should have been peaceful, but your heart hammered with a mix of anticipation and dread.
Finally, you reached the front door. Shishiba straightened, hand still in yours, giving you one last teasing grin before raising a hand to knock. The door swung open almost immediately.
“Darling!” your mother’s voice rang out, warm and welcoming, but with a hint of sharpness in her eyes as they quickly assessed Shishiba. “And you must be…”
Shishiba’s smirk didn’t falter. He stepped forward, inclining his head with an exaggerated bow. “I’m Shishiba. Very pleased to meet you,” he said smoothly, voice calm, measured, almost too charming.
Your father’s gaze flicked to you, then back to Shishiba, eyebrows raised. “Well… you certainly are… confident.”
“Confidence is part of my charm,” Shishiba replied lightly, one corner of his mouth quirking up, his hand still brushing yours just enough to reassure you without making it obvious.
Your mother’s eyes softened slightly as she took in the way he held himself, and the small but deliberate gestures toward you—his subtle attentiveness, the way he kept your hand close but allowed you space. “Come in, please,” she said, stepping aside.
You and Shishiba crossed the threshold together, and immediately the home enveloped you in its familiar warmth—the rich scent of polished wood, the faint trace of your mother’s favorite flowers, the hum of life lived here for decades. Shishiba’s presence added a new energy, a subtle tension beneath the calm.
“Make yourselves comfortable,” your father said, gesturing to the living room. Shishiba’s hand finally relaxed its hold on yours, though he didn’t move far, still close enough that your shoulders brushed.
You took a shaky breath, glancing at him. His smirk softened just a fraction, reassuring. “We’ve got this,” he murmured under his breath, and somehow that small promise made the knot of nerves in your stomach loosen just a bit.
The dining room smelled of roasted vegetables and herbs, warm and inviting, the table set perfectly with your parents’ best china. Shishiba followed you in, hands still brushing yours as he subtly guided you to your seat. He leaned in just enough to murmur, “Remember, mostly behave,” before sliding into the chair beside you.
Your mother’s eyes flicked over him again, sharp and assessing. “So… Shishiba,” she began, voice neutral but firm, “tell us about your job.”
Shishiba tilted his head, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips. “Ah… well, it’s… complicated,” he said smoothly, eyes never leaving yours for more than a heartbeat. “Let’s just say I’m… good at solving problems.”
Your father raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Complicated? Can you be more specific?”
He shrugged innocently. “I work in… high-stakes situations. Keeps me on my toes.” His voice was calm, almost casual, but you could feel the tiny thrill of danger in the way he said it—a subtle reminder that yes, he was dangerous, but in the most controlled, impressive way possible.
You shifted, trying not to squirm under the tension, and your mother’s gaze softened slightly. “Well… as long as you take care of our daughter,” she said, tone warmer now, though still watchful.
Shishiba reached for your hand under the table, fingers brushing yours lightly. “Always,” he murmured, smirk hidden, eyes locking with yours just long enough to make your stomach flip.
Dinner passed in a mix of polite conversation and small bursts of chaos. He commented casually on the food—slightly teasing about the mashed potatoes being too creamy, the roast too dry—yet he made it sound charming, like a critic with impeccable taste rather than a provocateur.
You caught him leaning in occasionally, whispering small jokes only you could hear. “If your mom knew how much I teased you this morning…” he murmured, voice low, fingers brushing yours under the table. You could only flush and shake your head, smothering a giggle.
Your father, trying to steer the conversation back on track, asked about your work. Shishiba listened intently, nodding at appropriate moments, but every so often, his eyes flicked to you, mischievous and teasing. It was impossible to stay completely composed with him so close, so present, so daringly smooth.
Halfway through the meal, your mother tilted her head, scrutinizing him again. “And your friends… are they… normal?”
Shishiba chuckled softly, fingers tightening slightly around yours. “Oh, very normal,” he said with mock seriousness, voice rich and deep. “But I suppose it depends on what your definition of normal is.”
The tension had started to soften into something warmer. Laughter mingled with polite conversation, and even your parents were visibly relaxing. Shishiba’s subtle attentions—holding your hand when you reached for a dish, small teasing glances, whispered jokes—kept you both connected, a secret thread of intimacy weaving through the room.
Your mother stood, signaling that dessert was ready in the kitchen. “Shishiba, you’ll join us for some cake, won’t you?” she asked, voice warm now, but still assessing.
“I’d be honored,” he said smoothly, inclining his head with that effortless grace. He leaned toward you as you both rose from your chairs, murmuring, “Cake, huh? Sorry for your mother, but I need space left in my stomach for when we are just the two of us.”
You tried to glare at him, but the small laugh that escaped betrayed you. Even now, in the calm domesticity of your parents’ home, the tension between you two simmered just beneath the surface—subtle touches, lingering glances, quiet smirks.
In the kitchen, dessert was served, and Shishiba’s attention never wavered from you. He commented on the cake with exaggerated seriousness, stealing small tastes from your fork when you weren’t looking, leaning close enough that the warmth of his body pressed against yours.
Your father, still watching him carefully, finally cracked a smile. “You’re… a handful, aren’t you?” he asked, shaking his head.
Shishiba’s grin widened. “I prefer… spirited,” he said, voice smooth, eyes glinting mischievously.
You felt your cheeks warm, caught somewhere between pride, exasperation, and that familiar flutter of excitement he always stirred in you. Every subtle touch, whispered joke, and smirk under the watchful eyes of your parents only made your pulse race faster.
By the time dessert plates were cleared, Shishiba leaned close again, voice a low rumble only for you. “Well, we survived. And they seem impressed… and I think we did it my way.”
You leaned into him, letting your head brush his shoulder. “Mostly,” you repeated, smirking despite yourself. “But it’s exhausting pretending to be normal with you around.”
He grinned, leaning down until your lips met in a slow, teasing kiss. One of his hands cupped your face, the other resting possessively on your hip, pulling you impossibly closer. Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging just enough to make him hum against your mouth.
The world around you faded. Just him, you, and that dangerous, intoxicating heat between you.
When you finally broke apart, his grin was triumphant, eyes glinting. “Normal is boring,” he whispered.
You laughed softly, pressing a quick, teasing kiss to his jaw. “Good thing I like boring… sometimes.”
He chuckled, brushing his nose against yours. “Sometimes is better than never.”
And with that, you stayed wrapped in each other’s arms, the night settling around you, perfectly yours.
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