#i kind of pulled you into a mission with me

[sturniphone]

── ⌗ older!matt . . . bunny!reader

❛ bunny's period is a little late ❜

It starts quietly.

Matt’s brushing his teeth late one night, sleeves pushed to his elbows, collar open from a long day. His glasses are low on his nose, hair a little rumpled, and his phone glows beside the sink, calendar pulled up—his private one. Pink hearts mark the days you’re usually late. But now, the space between them stretches. Three weeks. Three whole weeks.

He freezes mid-brush, staring at the screen, foam on his lips. He scrolls back. Forward. Counts. You’d been tired lately. Nauseous, a little weepy over commercials. Moody, sure, but clingy too, crawling into his lap mid-morning, falling asleep on his chest, pouting when he left for work. He thought it was just one of your bunny phases.

He doesn’t say anything. Not yet. But the next night, he comes home late, tie loosened, tired, and finds the apartment too quiet. You’re not in the kitchen. Not in the living room. He finds you in bed, wrapped tight in the duvet with your back to the door. Your shoulders shake.

❝Bunny? What’s wrong? What happened?❞ You turn slowly, eyes red, cheeks tear-streaked. ❝Matt... I think I messed up. I didn’t track it. I thought it would come, but it hasn’t, and it’s been weeks.❞ Your voice cracks again. You wipe your nose on his sleeve. ❝What if I’m pregnant?❞

He kneels at the edge of the bed. ❝Hey. It’s okay. You’re okay. We'll figure it out. I'm here.❞ You sniff, curling into him when he leans in to hold you. ❝You can’t get the test here. I can’t go to the pharmacy on Main—they’ve known me since I was four. They’ll know, Matt.❞ He kisses your forehead, serious and soft. ❝Okay. Then I’ll go to the next town. It’s only thirty minutes. I’ll get everything. You just stay in bed. Rest. You’ve been so brave, bunny.❞

❝Secret mission?❞ you whisper. ❝The most important one.❞ He leaves quickly, still in his slacks, throwing on a hoodie over his button-down. He drives with the windows down to keep awake, palms tight on the wheel. The next town’s pharmacy is still open. It smells like peppermint and hand lotion. He buys three kinds of tests, a new Jellycat bunny with a pink ribbon, your favourite berry juice box, and a bag of mini strawberry marshmallows.

The cashier gives him a funny look, but Matt just smiles and adds a lollipop to the pile. He’s home before ten. You’re still in bed when he enters, curled under the blanket like a little pearl. He sits beside you and runs his fingers through your hair. ❝Hey. I got the soft test. No scary packaging. And look—your bunny’s got a friend now.❞ You peek up, watery eyes locking on the plushie in his hand. You giggle weakly. ❝She’s cute.❞

The silence between you stretches like bubblegum—sticky, sweet, and a little bit sick. Your fingers twist in the sleeves of Matt’s hoodie, oversized and warm, your eyes puffy from crying, face buried into the worn fabric where his cologne still clings.

He kneels in front of you in the soft light of the bathroom, test box in hand. His glasses are slipping down the bridge of his nose, and he smiles gently even though something aches behind his eyes.

❝Not as cute as you.❞ He passes you the test, brushing your knuckles with his lips. You hesitate, clutching it like it might bite. ❝Do I really have to do it now?❞ you whisper, voice thick. ❝You don’t have to do anything, bunny. But if we wait, you’ll just keep worrying. Let’s know. Together.❞ You nod, but your legs won’t work, and Matt stands, helping you up slowly.

❝I’ll be just outside. Blanket’s there, juice box too. The berry one. Your favourite.❞ He steps out, leaving the door just cracked. A second later, his fingers reach through the gap, just the tips. ❝I’m right here. Take your time.❞ You lace yours through his, breathing slow and shaky. The test sits on the counter, unopened, and you stare at it for too long. Finally, with trembling fingers, you open it, read the instructions twice, and do what it asks.

Minutes pass. Long ones. Thick with breath and silence. ❝What if it’s real?❞ you whisper. ❝Then we figure it out. I’d take care of you both. I already do.❞ His voice is soft, barely a breath. ❝You’d be the sweetest mama. You already are, to everyone around you.❞ You squeeze his fingers tighter.

Inside, his mind is running. Pictures flood in—the soft cotton of your sleep shirt pulled tight over a round belly. Your sleepy, tear-bright eyes blinking up at him while he rubs your back. The two of you tucked up in bed, whispering baby names in the dark. You, glowing.

But the images are gilded with guilt. You’re so young. Still wide-eyed and giggly and full of bunnyish wonder. He loves you more than anything—but maybe it’s selfish, the way he wants so much. Wants you like that. Wants a forever. The beep pulls you both back.

You open the door slowly, holding the stick between your fingers like it’s made of glass. ❝Negative.❞ Relief breaks through you in sobs again, and he catches you before you fall, arms wrapping tight around your waist. He lifts you gently, cradles you so close your feet don’t touch the floor.

❝It’s okay. We’re okay.❞ He kisses your temple, breath warm and grounding. Later, you’re curled into his chest on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, juice box half-finished on the table. A plush bunny tucked between you. The lollipop he brought you clicks against your teeth.

❝You’re not mad?❞ you ask, voice small. ❝Never.❞ He nuzzles your hair. ❝We’ll get there, bunny. Someday. When you’re ready… we’ll be ready together.❞

⋆˚꩜｡ lola talks . . . this need like 1 billion notes because I fucking love this and it's my peak

── ʚ contacts . . . @chrepsi @ph3ebssturniolo @sturnsxbbyeilish @j21l91 @pip4444chris @mattslutt @sophand4n4 @mattscoquette @mi-co-uk @tezzzzzzzz @emely9274 @oopsiedaisydeer @theowensturniolo @httpssturns

⌗ © sturniphone

[mangooes]

Mini Sylus and Big Sylus

It started innocently enough.

A street market. A silly prize game. A dragon plush.

A black dragon plush, to be precise — complete with little crimson eyes, a tiny scowl stitched into its face, and black mist-like accents on its wings. It looked far too familiar for Sylus’s comfort.

“Sysy, look!” (Name) had lit up, eyes sparkling like a child in a candy store. “This one looks like you!”

And he had watched — helplessly, betrayed — as she cradled the plush in her arms like it was the most precious treasure she’d ever won.

She named it “Mini-Sylus.” He swore something inside him broke.

At first, he tried to be mature. He watched as she hugged the plush during movie night. Tucked it beside her pillow. Even dressed it in a little black jacket she sewed by hand.

The final straw?

She kissed the plush goodnight.

Right in front of him.

Later that night, in the dim light of their bedroom, Sylus stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, crimson eyes narrowed like a stormcloud.

There she was — (Name), curled up under the blankets, one arm wrapped tightly around Mini-Sylus, snoozing peacefully with the faintest smile on her lips.

Sylus scowled.

“He’s not even life-size.”

He stalked closer, leaning over her sleeping form. “You’re seriously cuddling that thing instead of me? He doesn’t even breathe, kitten.”

She murmured in her sleep, clutching the plush tighter.

Sylus’s eye twitched.

“…Unforgivable.”

With the quiet intensity of a man on a sacred mission, he extended one finger — and from it, a faint trail of black-red mist curled out, wrapping around the plush. Poof.

Gone. Disintegrated into particles of ash.

He stood there with a smug smirk.

“That’s what you get for trying to replace me.”

Then, slipping into bed beside her, Sylus gently pulled (Name) into his arms — tucking her into his chest like a smug dragon hoarding treasure. She mumbled and shifted.

“Mm… Mini-Sylus…?”

He froze. “He went on a permanent vacation,” he said coolly. “This is Big-Sylus now taking over.”

(Name) groaned, not fully awake, and nestled deeper into his hold. “You’re so jealous…”

“Of a cotton imposter? Never.”

A beat of silence.

“…He did get more kisses than I did this week.”

Another grumble from her.

Sylus smirked and kissed her forehead, whispering against her skin, “Don’t worry. I’ll give you the real thing.”

The next morning, (Name) woke up to find a plush replacement on her nightstand.

An identical one.

Except this one had a little tag on it that read:

“Property of (Name). Personally approved by the real Sylus. – Husband.”

She turned to look at the actual Sylus — who was pretending to read something but very much watching her reaction.

“…Did you seriously burn the last one and custom order a new one?”

“No.” (Pause.) “…Yes.”

She burst into laughter.

“Jealous maniac.”

“Possessive husband,” he corrected, already pulling her into his lap. “Now give this dragon all your morning affection before I disintegrate his replacement too.”

She snorted, kissing him on the cheek. “Fine, fine. You’re irreplaceable.”

“Damn right I am.”

I know sylus is easly jealous but i know he is not like xavier lmao (i think xavier would get rid of the plush forever) anyways, i have a new project up commin for all the lis! Inspired by triple S's new song DKSJADNAK its angst tho, and a bit more of a dark theme (I never write these kind of things so i'm sorry) it's a non mc story so yeah KDASJDNAK STAY TUNED IGG (??) I'll still upload sylus fics reguraly starting from today since i finished whatever bussiness i had in rls, sorry for the wait and oh my god thank you for 800+ folls!?!!?

[clemmmmmmmmmmmmmm]

“Freak like me…,”

Batboys x reader headcannons

sorry yall😔i keep disappearing,i have like major writing block and my husband and i are going to renew our vows.We got married at 16(I DONT RECOMMEND) and we have been dating since we were 12, i turn 20 this year😭😭😭

ANYWAYS LEAVE REQUESTS💛

BRUCE WAYNE

🏛 Favorite Place:

-His master bedroom — but specifically the bed with fresh sheets and dim lighting. He’s private and a control freak, and intimacy is something he treasures deeply.

-However… he’s absolutely taken you in the Batcave. Against the Batmobile. Once. Maybe twice. But he’ll never admit it.

⏱ Quickies?

-Not his favorite. Bruce prefers drawn-out, sensual, controlled sessions.

-That said, if it’s been a rough mission or he’s overwhelmed, he will pull you into a dark hallway, growl in your ear, and lose his mind for 5 minutes.

-“This isn’t enough—but I need you right now.”

⸻

Dick Grayson

Favorite Place:

- Rooftops. Balconies. Anywhere high up with a view of the city lights. There’s something about the rush, the stars, and you.

-Also? Showers. He loves the intimacy of washing each other, and then not staying clean for long.

⏱ Quickies?

-100% yes. He loves them. Elevators, bathrooms, pulled-into-a-closet vibes.

-He’ll whisper something filthy in your ear during a gala and have you against the wall five minutes later.

- Very into spontaneous affection. “Hey, you looked too good. I had to.”

⸻

Jason Todd

Favorite Place:

-His apartment — couch, kitchen counter, bed, wall. But more than anything, his safe space is wherever you feel safe.

-Has a real soft spot for post-mission sex in the shower or while still half-dressed. There’s something healing about it.

⏱ Quickies?

-Loves them when they’re emotionally charged. Not a fan of purely mechanical quickies — he wants a reason.

-Angry? Stressed? Jealous? Then yes, he’ll have you bent over in a parking garage before you can say “Red Hood.”

-He’s rougher during those moments, but always with aftercare. “That was fast. But you still okay, baby?”

⸻

Tim Drake

Favorite Place:

-His office chair. That boy works too damn much, and nothing clears his head like you straddling him mid-research.

-Bonus: the Wayne Tower penthouse library. Something about the shelves, the silence, and you on the table just does it for him.

⏱ Quickies?

-He likes the idea of quickies more than he actually enjoys them. They usually stress him out unless he’s really in the moment.

-f it’s an early-morning before-you-leave-for-work kind of thing? He’s all in.

-But mostly he’s a slow burn kind of guy. Think intense eye contact, slow hands, whispered “God, you’re beautiful.”

⸻

Damian Wayne

Favorite Place:

-His room, with the doors locked and the drapes drawn. Damian is private, intense, and not one for public displays.

⏱ Quickies?

-Not a fan. He hates the rushed feeling — he wants full focus, precision, and control.

-But if you challenge him, tease him, or catch him off-guard? He might grit his teeth, grab your wrist, and make it happen fast, rough, and possessive.

-Afterward, though? “Next time, we do this properly. You deserve more than just that.”

[fandomwritesstuff]

The Sun to my Moon

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds/The Void x Thunderbolts!Mutant!Reader Summary: After delayed on missions, you just want to go back. You miss everyone but you really miss Bob, as your relationship is evolving. Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Light angst, smut (unprotected P in V, Oral m receiving, little possessiveness kink ig?, breastplay) (let me know if I missed any) A/N: First time writing smut(feedback appreciated but be kind). This story also took off from me. Slightly inspired by 505 by Arctic Monkeys. Let me know what you all think. Also may or may not be working on a Bob Floyd piece if anyone is interested... Word Count: 3,639

“Just a few more days” Valentina told you during your call to report in. Your eyes twitched in irritation.

“You said that two days ago.” You reminded her, voice harsh as you glared at the wall you were staring at. You couldn’t stand the shitty hotel room any longer, nor should you have to when you knew there was a nice, warm room with your bed in it at the Tower. 

This was the third mission that you had been sent on this month alone, and it was supposed to have ended almost a week ago. However, Val seemed to find more excuses each time to keep you away. 

The thought of relaxing back at the tower with everyone else was all that was keeping you going lately. Hell, you would even take sparring with Bucky, Yelena, or Walker right now over staying in this room for one more minute. 

What you really wanted though, was to get back to the book that you had been reading with Bob. You hadn’t been able to even get halfway through before you were pulled away again. 

It made you wonder how Bob was handling these delays. You had told him when you expected to be back. Now, you somewhat regretted that, knowing he would worry until you walked back through the doors of the Tower. You were glad that Yelena was still there, hopefully she could keep him steady enough. Not that you could ask–you’ve had no contact with the team for this last mission. One reason going undercover was never your favorite. 

Pretending to be someone you weren’t also played into the dislike you had for these missions. You hated the crawling feeling you would get when the lines blurred between yourself and who you were posing as. It was a tricky tightrope that you knew how to walk, but could slip either way. However, being one of the least recognizable on the team and a shadow manipulator, made you the first in line for the role.

Normally, you were fine pushing through–finishing to whatever end Valentina wanted. Missions were your payday afterall and could be for good causes. However, with three straight missions, and the abnormal pushes to continue–care was out the window.

“I want my extract, tonight.” The command was met with silence and then a deep sigh. 

“I can arrange for it to be tomorrow afternoon at the earliest.” Val claimed. Shaking your head, you scoffed. She wanted you to go back in the morning–not happening. 

“What’s so hard to understand about tonight?” You asked rhetorically. “There’s no more information to gain–I’m leaving tonight whether you have a plane ready or I pick up a car on your dime.” You knew the ultimatum would piss her off, but you were apathetic to her feelings at this point.

Val scoffed but you could hear Mel in the background discussing the options. It wasn’t clear enough for you to make out, but you knew Mel would do everything in her power to get you back tonight. 

“Fine, a jet will be there in an hour. If you’re not ready, you’ll pay for your own way back.” She snapped and ended the call before you could respond. Rolling your eyes, you set your phone down and started to collect the items that you had brought with you. 

Packing up was fairly simple for you, as you never fully unpacked to begin with. Most of your clothes were still in your duffel bags, it just took a little rearranging of them to fit in your hygiene items. You then packed the items from the nightstand, your chargers, book, and you couldn’t forget the keychain that Bob had given you just before you left. It was a little moon that fit like puzzle pieces with the sun side that he had kept. 

You saw the keychain on your last shopping trip. Bob had come with you just to get outside for a little, or so he had said–Yelena made it known that she believed he went just to be closer to you. You made a comment about how they're keychain fit the two of you–him having the power of a thousand suns or something like that and you being a shadow manipulator working better at night. 

Bob had agreed and didn’t say anything as you walked away from it in the store. Little did you know that he had grabbed it and quickly paid for it when you weren’t looking. He didn’t even give it to you right away, either. He waited until right before this undercover mission. It brought a smile to your face thinking about it. 

He had been so nervous to approach you as you were grabbing a few items from storage. You had noticed him lingering in the hallway of storage. 

“Hey, Bob.” You called as you grabbed a weapon cleaner, having run out during your last mission. “You need something?” You asked with a gentle smile as you prepared to leave the room. 

“No, well n-not from there.” He told you. You noticed his hands were behind his back and he was rocking on the balls of his feet. He was wearing a light sweater with sweatpants, both slightly rumpled. 

“Then what’s up?” You asked, tilting your head as you closed the door to storage. 

“I, uh, wanted t-to give you this.” His hands moved to be in front of him holding the keychain that you saw in the store. “I remember you liked it in the store and I t-thought that maybe it could remind you of m–of the t-team while you’re gone. With you having so many missions and having to be away. I also thought you could pick which one you wanted and all.” He started to ramble. 

You stepped closer and gently grabbed the moon from his hands. “I can’t take the sun from the man with the power of a thousand of them.” You joked. “Maybe this will remind you that you’ll always be my sun god.” Flirting with him hadn’t been your goal–if asked you would blame it on being tired–but Bob’s face made it worth it. 

His eyes widened as his jaw dropped to the floor. You could see the gears turning and the glow of his power in his eyes at his unexpected overwhelming emotion. A flush filled his cheeks and his breathing was shaky as he started to blink harder. 

“Thank you, Bob.” You spoke softly. You wanted to hug him, but feared it would overwhelm him even more than he already was. Instead, you decided to continue getting ready for your next mission. “I’ll see you in a few weeks.” You reminded him as you walked past. He nodded as he watched you leave, feet firmly planted as if frozen to the ground. 

Chuckling lightly, you wondered how long he had stayed there after you left. The thought of one of the others finding him–especially Ava or Yelena–was especially funny to you. You couldn’t wait to ask them when you got back. Although talking with Bob was all you really wanted to do. 

Wanting to be comfortable, you changed into cargo pants, a plain shirt, and your tactical vest. Once you had double checked that everything was packed, you threw your backpack on and carried your dufflebags in your hands.

You were right on time as you made it to the launch pad, the jet was just landing. You smiled as you stepped on, ready to go home. Thankfully, it was a short flight and you stepped out onto the roof of the tower.

You felt your muscles relax–no longer as on edge. Taking a deep breath of the night time air, you closed your eyes allowing yourself a moment to yourself. Away from the missions, away from Val telling you what to do, and away from chaos that the team unintentionally brings. A calm washed over you like a wave, dragging away the tension as it receded. You were safe–you were home.

Inside of the elevator, you felt it couldn’t go any slower. You bounced on the balls of feet–ready to break out any moment. You only knew it was moving with the ding of each floor change. Each bell is a signal that brings you closer–not close enough–to your sanctuary. 

It was as if you could hear your bed calling your name, ready to sing you a song to help you sleep. However, when the elevator door opened the record skipped as Yelena leaned against the wall, waiting for you. 

“Yelena?” 

“Oh, good you’re back.” Her words were sarcastic as she pushed herself away from the wall. “We had a slight mishap while you were gone.” She used a slight gesture as she met your eyes. The we in question had nothing to do with the whole team. 

“What happened?” The tension was back in your shoulders. You braced yourself for the storm you couldn't see.

“Relax, we handled it–or really he did. He got upset with the delays, worked himself up a little, almost shattered a couple things, but was able to get control and bring himself back down.” She told you, motioning with her hand as she did. 

You stared at her blankly. “When was this?” 

“A couple nights ago, he’s been okay the last few days, but he has shut himself in your room.” 

“My room?” You asked. 

“We didn’t have time to make a plan and he was missing you, so I figured that was the closest he could get without you here.” She explained with a shrug. “Sue me.”

“Alright, make a plan later, got it.” You mumbled and took a breath. “It’s fine, he’s there half the nights I’m here anyways.” You let out a laugh with a sigh. Nodding and looking down at your feet, allowing the tension to ease. 

“Exactly!” She exclaimed. “Well, I’m going to bed.” 

“Night, Lena.” You called after her as she started to walk away.

“Night.” She gave you a small wave, not bothering to turn and face you. 

You then made your way to your room. The hallway was dark, lit only by the moonlight coming through the windows. You watched your shadow as it danced along beside you. Getting to your door, you opened it slowly–in case Bob was sleeping. You didn’t want to wake him if you could help it. However, when you saw him, your heart melted. Kicking off your boots, you walked closer.

You moved to sit on the edge of the bed, a smile pulling at your lips. He was curled up into a ball, blanket barely covering him and you could see the sweat stains on his light shirt from him overheating. His hair had fallen lightly in his face as he rested his head on one pillow and hugged your second one to his body as if it were an anchor keeping him stable. 

You brushed back his hair gently, unable to resist the temptation. His eyes fluttered before sluggishly opening, taking a moment to adjust to the low lights you had turned on. When they did, his eyes widened and you could see the yellow glow flicker as his excitement grew.

“You're back!” he exclaimed, moving to sit up on his hip. Your hand fell from his hair and on to the bed between you. 

You nodded, becoming hyper aware of the little space between you–the fact that he was in your bed and comfortable enough to sleep. It made you aware of feelings that you had been pushing down for a while.

“A-are you okay? Why were you so late? Y-you told me two weeks but then Mel was telling us about d-delays with little info. She'd tell us what Val had said–that you were supposedly alright just needed more time. I was so worried because you couldn't talk to us so we just had to trust her and-”

“I know, I know. I'm okay, she just wanted me to try and get more info. But I'm here now.” You interrupted his spiraling. 

The glow in his eyes was more prominent, his mind racing. His eyes were darting between yours as if trying to verify this wasn't just a dream. You moved your hand to cup his cheek and felt him lean into your touch. 

“I couldn't keep my sun god waiting, now could I?” You teased, causing his eyes to widen. You dropped your hand as his head moved away slightly to be level. 

“You mean it?”

“Mean what? That you're a sun-”

“That I'm your's.” he whispered as if afraid speaking too loudly would scare you away and make his loneliness real.

“If you want to be.” 

He nodded, biting his lip as his gaze met yours.

“I need words, Bob.” 

“I'd like that–t-to be your's, I mean.” he answered, pausing for a moment. “Can I… can I kiss you?” his eyes darting between your eyes and lips. 

“Yes,” you whispered, slightly leaning in as his hand came to cup your face. 

Closing your eyes, you leaning into him. His lips brushed your lightly, hesitating only a moment before pressing them onto yours softly. His lips were warm and slightly chapped. He hesitated to press harder, scared to hurt you unintentionally with his strength. Scared you might break like the glass he almost shattered when you didn't come back. And as soon as the kiss had started, he ended it, pulling back. 

You quickly brought your hand up to the back of his neck to pull him back in. Pressing harder against him, sending a message to him that you wouldn't break. You could take whatever he could give you. He slowly leaned back, still holding onto you, falling back on his elbows as you leaned with him. 

You moved to straddle him as his hand slowly came up to the zipper of your vest. Breaking the kiss he met your eyes in a silent question, gold more prominent than before. You nodded and he pulled the zipper down in one quick motion–vest slipping off your shoulders and on to floor soon after. You began to trail a line of kisses down his neck, and he tilted his head to give you more room. You sucked at the sweet spot on his neck earning a light whimper from him.

You slipped your hands under his shirt, and before you could ask he was moving to take it off. You smirked and continued the trail of open mouth kisses down his chest, dragging your nails lightly over his abs followed by your lips until you got to his waist. 

“May I?” You asked, looking up at him, fingers playing with the knotted string of his sweats. His eyes were wide, breath shaky, and there was a flush to his cheeks. 

“Ye-yeah.” He stuttered. Undoing the knot and hooking your finger into his pants–he helped you remove them by lifting his hips. His erection sprang free, curling slightly toward his stomach. The tip was red and you could see a small amount of precum. You smirked as you flattened your tongue against him, licking from base to tip. 

Bob’s eyes shut as he fell back completely with a moan. You wrapped your hand around the base and stroked a few times before swirling your tongue around the tip. You then closed your mouth around the head and sucked. 

“Oh, fuck.” Bob groaned, one hand moved to cover his face, the other found the back of your head. 

You felt his hand urge you on, lightly pushing your head further down. Taking more of him into your mouth, you started a steady tempo, using your hand for what couldn’t fit. He continued to whimper and moan, turning you on more. 

Suddenly his hand tightened in your hair and he pulled you off, causing you to stop everything. 

“Everything okay? Did I do something wrong?” You asked, attempting to meet his eyes. 

Bob dragged his hand down off of his face and shook his head. 

“Just didn’t want to cum yet.” He explained. There was a slight dazed look to him that brought a grin to your face.

Leaning up to kiss him, you felt his hands start to explore your body. His hands slipped under your shirt, drifting up past your ribs and cupping your breasts. You threw the shirt off, not caring to see where it landed.

Your bra soon followed as Bob started to trail open mouth kisses over your chest. You moaned as he sucked a nipple into his mouth while your hands started to undo your cargo pants. 

Moving off the bed for a moment, Bob let out a whine that made you nearly go crawling back. However, you decided to tease him, turning away as you slowly dragged your pants and underwear down your legs–giving Bob a good view of your wetness, earning a groan from him. You then slowly walked back to the bed–a slight strut in your step. Bob was on his elbows, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape. Crawling on the bed, you moved to straddle him once more.

“You tell me if it's too much or you need to stop, okay?” You asked, placing your hands on his chest. 

He nodded, before remembering to use his voice. “Y-yeah, I will.” His eyes were brighter than you had seen in a while, like little stars in the dark night sky.

Smiling you then dragged one of your hands down between the two of you. Grabbing him and lining him up with your entrance. 

You moved slowly–dragging out the pleasure for both of you, as you sank onto his length. Your hands rested on his chest as you watched his expression change. His face contorted with a moan and he fell back, hands moving to grab your hips. Once your hips were flush, you gave yourself–and Bob–a moment to adjust. 

Slowly grinding on him, his eyes snapped to yours causing you to smirk. You then slowly started to move. Bob's grip became tighter on your waist and you could feel him slightly lifting and pulling you back down each time. 

Your name was like a prayer on his lips. You moaned at the sight of his wrecked state. A man with that much power brought to a whimpering state, by you. 

Your sun god. 

Your's.

“S-say it.” He managed to say in between moans suddenly. 

“Say what?” 

“That I'm–fuck–that I'm your's.” 

“You're mine.” The words caused him to twitch inside you–a moan falling from both of your lips.

“You're mine, Bob.” That seemed to make him short circuit as he let out a visceral moan. His hands pulled you down as he bucked up into you. 

You then moved a hand down to touch yourself. A moan fell from your lips and you closed your eyes, relishing in the pleasure. Increasing your pace, when you opened your eyes, Bob was looking at you again. His pupils were blown wide but you could still see the gold burning there. Raw power flowing through him. His name overflowed from your lips like a fountain. 

Suddenly, Bob flipped the two of you and attached his lips to yours. The kiss was passionate but messy. A display of emotion as Bob set a quick pace.

You clenched around him–you wouldn't last much longer at this rate. He wouldn't either, his pace just barely faltering a little. 

“Mine.” You moaned again, when he released your mouth. There lights flickered, and it wouldn't take much more for him to let go.

“You're mine” a moan was ripped from your lips “and I-I'm your's.” 

That seemed to be all he needed to be pushed over the edge–you right behind him. He thrusted one more time before twitching and releasing inside of you. Your orgasm crashed through you like a wave and you saw stars.The lights flickered and burst–glass raining down in a small shower of sparks–as he collapsed on top of you to protect you. 

After a moment of collecting your breath, he pushed himself up. The gold in his eyes was dimmer–not gone but not as intense now. His eyes searched yours for a moment before slowly pulling out. 

“You okay?” He asked as he carefully maneuvered out of the bed, avoiding the glass on the floor.

“Yeah, shouldn't I be asking you that? Did you get cut?” 

“No, I-I'm fine. I'm sorry, my power just–I couldn't stop it.” he rambled, looking for something to clean up with. 

You leaned up and noticed that there didn't seem to be any glass on the bed. You wondered if his powers did that subconsciously to protect you–it must have. 

“Hey, just come to bed. We'll worry about cleaning up in the morning.” 

“Are you sure, I can at least grab a towel–”

“I'll be fine. Come to bed, my not-so-little sun god.” you spoke with a smile, patting the spot next to you. 

He only nodded, making his way to the other side of the bed and pulling the covers back, joining you. You curled into his side, resting your head on his chest as you wrapped your arm around his waist. 

Looking up, you smiled and couldn't believe you could now call this man your's. A man with so much power, it seemed unreal. 

“W-what?” Bob asked, catching your staring. 

“Just can't believe you're mine.” 

“You can't believe it–I feel like I'm gonna wake up tomorrow and this will all have been a dream.” He whispered, muscles tense. Both of you in awe of the other. 

“No dream, Bob. I'll be here when you wake.” You reassured him and he managed a weak smile before relaxing into you–arms moving to wrap around you. 

Soon you both fell asleep. Someone could worry about all the blown lightbulbs on this floor of the tower tomorrow morning.

[delilahsturniolo]

ᝰ.ᐟ NEW CLASSIFIED MISSION FILE . . .

★ secretagent!chris x secretagent!reader

⋆˚࿔ PLAY YOUR PART

in which . . . you and chris have to pretend to be a couple for a mission

contains . . . kissing, drinking, tiny bit of angst but really nothing.

HEAVILY inspired by this c.ai bot, idk if this person is on tumblr or not but if they are lmk so i can tag!

written by @delilahsturniolo. do not copy, steal, or modify my works. if you are taking any inspiration from this, please ask me first before posting and credit me in your description. happy reading! :)

view more of this au here!

the dress is too tight, the heels are too high, and your fake diamond bracelet itches like hell. you stand at the edge of the ballroom, drink in hand, scanning the room for your target. you don’t see him yet, the man selling classified intel to the highest bidder, but you do see the problem approaching from the other side of the room.

problem: chris sturniolo.

he’s wearing a black tux, smug smirk already in place, and somehow looks like he walked out of a magazine ad for expensive cologne and bad decisions. he’s also late. “you’re twenty minutes behind schedule,” you mutter as he sidles up next to you like he owns the place. or worse, like he owns you. “you’re welcome for showing up at all,” he replies smoothly, taking a sip of your drink without asking. “wasn’t sure if i wanted to deal with your charming personality tonight.”

“believe me, the feeling’s mutual.” his lips twitch like he’s trying not to laugh. “aw. did you miss me?”

“like i miss bullet wounds.”

you’re about to walk away, maybe shove him off the balcony, depends on your mood, when he grabs your wrist. gentle, but firm, and leans into your ear. “don’t look now, but our mark’s here. eleven o’clock. and he’s watching.” you glance quickly. and yep, the intel dealer is sipping champagne and staring right at the two of you like he’s waiting to see if the couple in front of him is legit.

chris leans closer, his breath warm against your cheek. “if you make a scene about dancing with me, it’ll blow the whole cover.”

“i’m not making a scene,” you grit out.

“good. because we’re dancing. now.”

before you can argue, his hand slides around your waist and he’s pulling you onto the dance floor. the ballroom is too bright. the music’s too soft. and your hand is now in his, which feels like some kind of personal hell. you glare at him. “if you step on my foot, i’m going to break yours.”

“if you weren’t so tense, i wouldn���t have to worry about that.”

“tense? i’m literally trying not to stab you with a butter knife right now.”

he laughs, like this is fun for him. like he isn’t the most annoying, smug, infuriating person alive. you hate how easy he moves, how he spins you with practiced fingers and a cocky little smile like he’s been dancing with you forever. “relax,” he says, low in your ear. “we’re supposed to be in love, remember?”

“i’d rather fake being dead.”

“careful,” he murmurs. “you say that too convincingly. starting to worry i’m not your type.” you lean in just enough to smile sweetly. “oh, you’re not. my type has impulse control.”

he laughs again, this time softer, like you surprised him. and then, for a second, something shifts. his eyes flicker to your mouth. your breath catches. and just like that, the room disappears. you don’t know who moves first. maybe it’s you. maybe it’s him. maybe it’s the fact that your cover story involves being madly in love, and right now, the tension between you feels like it could burn the place down.

but one second you’re glaring, and the next, his mouth is on yours. it’s not gentle. it’s messy, hot, and completely reckless. he kisses like he fights, with full commitment and zero hesitation. his hand tightens at your waist, pulling you closer. your fingers twist in his jacket, holding on like you forgot how to stand still.

you should stop. you should definitely stop. you don’t, because somewhere between mission briefs and bruised egos, he got under your skin, and right now, with his lips moving against yours like he’s starving, it doesn’t feel like an act.

it feels like a confession. when you finally pull apart, you’re both breathing hard. his forehead rests against yours, eyes flickering with something you don’t want to name. “…well,” he says finally, voice a little rough. “if that didn’t convince them, nothing will.”

“you’re an idiot,” you whisper. “you kissed me back, sunshine.” he whispers back. you shove him lightly in the chest. “you kissed me first.” he grins, the kind of grin that should be illegal in at least seven countries. “and you didn’t mind.”

you roll your eyes and step back, heart pounding too loud in your chest. the music fades. the mark turns away, satisfied. and chris? chris is still watching you like he just learned something important. you pretend not to notice. but you know. you both know. the mission just got a whole lot more complicated.

© delilahsturniolo

[dollyswishingwell]

this is 100% based off my first kiss. the guys have their first kiss with us, right? to their (likely) horror, we just kind of..scream? yells "I NEED TO CALL MY MOM!! (or anyone else, like tara or another parental figure)" and runs away in hysterics, excited as ever ^^

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ He kissed me!

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ can someone tell me if the new dotpoints are too harsh on the eyes or if you guys like the -‘s more? anyways all fluff lol

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ You’re so excited that he kissed you

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

• The kiss was perfect. Soft lighting. Melodrama. Inner orchestra blaring.

• He expected a swoon. A faint. Something cinematic.

• But instead,

• “RAFAYEL KISSED ME. THE RAFAYEL. AND I SURVIVED—”

• You yeet out of there like glitter in the wind.

• He stands there blinking like you just cast a spell on him.

• “I just kissed a goddess.”

• Not even mad.

• Chaos? Hysteria? Screaming into the night?

• That’s his favorite genre.

• Spins. Eats a flower. Grabs a pen for his scrapbook.

• “June 15th – I kissed her. She screamed. It was amazing.”

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

• He pulls you in with rare Zayne-like confidence. It’s soft, careful, reverent.

• You kiss. It’s breathless. Perfect.

• And then,

• “OH MY GOD—ZAYNE KISSED ME—AHHHHH—”

• You vanish in a puff of squealing joy.

• He stands there blinking like a software update failed.

• “…Did she just—?”

• Checks his own pulse.

• He was gonna hold your hand. Walk you home. Maybe even smile.

• Now he’s alone. Hoodie on. Ears pink.

• “…She’s cute when she’s excited.”

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

• It’s a dreamy, moonlit kiss. He touches you like you might disappear.

• He pulls back expecting another kiss, or at least a breathless pause.

• Instead,

• “I HAVE TO GO—I CAN’T EVEN FEEL MY LEGS.”

• You dart off like a possessed gazelle.

• Xavier tilts his head.

• “…Was that… good?”

• He touches his lips, confused, but grinning.

• “She ran away like a startled bunny.”

• Later, you get 17 messages:

• “You forgot your phone.”

• “Do you still want to kiss again?”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

• He planned it perfectly. The lean-in. The smirk fading into something deeper.

• He kisses you like he’s sealing a deal.

• Game over. You’re his.

• Until,

• “I GOTTA TELL SOMEBODY—I THINK I JUST ASCENDED—”

• Door slam. You’re GONE.

• He blinks.

• “She ran.”

• She ran??

• The smug drops. He’s personally offended.

• “I kissed her and she… sprinted?”

• Half tempted to kiss you again just to “correct the data.”

• But later that night,

• “Tch. She was glowing like a dumb little angel…”

• Kicks his legs like a menace. Laughing like a psycho.

• “She’s mine. She doesn’t even know it yet.”

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

• He waited for this. Thought it through. Perfect timing.

• He kisses you carefully, reverently, like you’re a mission.

• You blink.

• And then—

• “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH”

• You trip over your own feet running away full-speed.

• He stands there with his hand still half-raised to tuck your hair back.

• Glitching.

• “…Did I do something wrong?”

• Runs every possible scenario. Did he hurt you? Was it bad??

• Then replays your words.

• No… You were happy.

• You sounded like someone who just won the damn lottery.

• Soft smile tugs at his lips.

• “She’s mine.”

• Starts typing your name into classified Farspace files.

• “Next time… she won’t run.”

[wendichester]

Hi! Can you do one showcasing all the ways the reader protects/watches out for Dean. He’s always the afterthought for everyone because they just expect him to lead and be strong. Your last response about his version of Heaven probably being bittersweet had me sad! So, reader putting her foot down for her man, please! Reminds him he’s hers and not a soldier, not expendable. When someone comes up with a plot that requires him to sacrifice, she speaks up for him tells them to F off

read the heaven bit first .ᐟ

so first off, let's clarify the core dynamic here: 𖤐 dean is everyone's weapon or leader, but never their priority. it's always let's save the world, instead of let's keep each other safe. 𖤐 everyone is just used to him sacrificing himself because that's his default setting. 𖤐 you ( aka reader ) flip the damn table and say not anymore. it's the prompt he's not a weapon, he's mine and i'm lowkey totally here for it.

‧₊˚✩彡 the pattern that needs breaking sam loves dean but tends to go along with dangerous plans, trusting dean will handle it. cas is always focused on the mission, kind of emotionally stunted, tends to expect dean to endure because he has. mary and john? ugh. never really saw him--as said previously--saw a soldier, not a son. jack is a whole celestial being born with a messiah complex. thinks sacrifice = love because that was what dean and the others always showed him too. they all value dean, but none of them really protect him. because they think they don't have to. but you do.

‧₊˚✩彡 moments where you put your foot down 𓂃⋆ you speak up against the plans where dean is bait or the one bargin in as the distraction. and god damn the moment you do? everyone's stunned into silence. dean most of all. because he doesn't expect anyone to stand up to him--to stop the mission for him. 𓂃⋆ they always assume dean will handle dangerous people. but not you. "no. he's not your buffer. try talking to your own damn shady contacts." maybe you even go instead of him once and everyone's like oh, okay. 𓂃⋆ dean tries to pull the "if i don't come back" speech. you cut him off. "don't you dare act like you're a ghost in front of me. you come back. you always come back." you don't romanticize his self-destruction like others do. you hate it. 𓂃⋆ cas suggests an angelic solution that risks dean's soul. like, maybe siphoning something through him or binding him to a sigil. "use anyone else. he's not your empty vessel." cas looks conflicted. you stand between him and dean and he's flabbergasted like she's actually challeging a damn angel. 𓂃⋆ mary mentions all the things dean's good at and it's all war-related. "you ever ask him what he actually wants to be good at?" it's awkward. it's uncomfortable. maybe even explosive. but it cracks open something for dean. he's never heard someone challenge his family on his behalf.

‧₊˚✩彡 the emotional undercurrent of this: dean doesn't think he's allowed to be safe. he doesn't even notice when people don't choose him because it's so normalized. you saying "you are not theirs. you are mine." is like pouring honey on a lifetime of bruises. it's not just protective--it's possessive, but in a way that restores his sense of self. you're saying you're not just worth fighting for. you're worth keeping safe. every damn time.

They’re talking about him like he isn’t standing right there.

Like he’s just a checklist item. Like his life is a resource—burnable, forgettable, expendable.

Dean’s got that mask on. The one he thinks is subtle—stone face, arms crossed, jaw ticking every few seconds like a time bomb. You can tell he’s already accepted the role. The “if it gets ugly, I’ll take the fall” card.

You’ve seen this play before.

You hated it the first time.

So when Sam starts laying out the plan—meticulously, logically, with words like “timed entry” and “distract the hellhounds long enough,” and then casually drops Dean’s name as bait, your hands curl into fists without thinking.

“Sorry, what?” Your voice cuts in like a blade.

They blink. You never interrupt these planning sessions. You’re the quiet one. The observer. The one with a hand on Dean’s back under the table while the world maps out how to use him.

Sam looks confused. “It’s just that he’s the best shot we have at getting the demon away from the door. You know Dean—he can take it.”

Take it.

Like he’s a wall. Like he’s a gun.

Not a man.

Dean shifts beside you. He’s about to say “It’s fine”—you can feel it in your bones—but you’re already standing.

“No. He’s not doing it.”

The room goes quiet.

Dean tilts his head, looking up at you like you just spoke Enochian. You never do this. But now? Now you’re fire in a gasoline world.

“I’m serious,” you continue. “You all act like he’s made of Kevlar and pure damn luck, but he’s tired. He’s bleeding from that werewolf hunt yesterday. And I don’t care how good of a shot he is or how much ground he can cover—he’s not being used as a sacrifice so you all can sleep at night.”

Sam looks like you slapped him.

Cas shifts like maybe he agrees but doesn’t know if he’s allowed to say it.

And Dean… God, Dean looks like you just gave him breath after drowning.

You step closer to him. You don’t even care how dramatic it looks. Your fingers find the edge of his sleeve, tugging it like a lifeline.

“He is not your weapon. He is not your armor. He is mine.”

The words hit the floor like thunder. No one speaks.

You kneel slightly and tap his knee, forcing him to look you in the eyes.

“You hear me, Dean?” you whisper, just for him now. “You’re not the one who has to go first. You’re not the shield anymore. Not when I’m here.”

He swallows hard. His eyes are glassy, like maybe no one’s ever said that before. Like maybe he forgot he was allowed to hear it.

You straighten back up and look at the room.

“Find another plan.”

And they do. They scramble. They rearrange. Because your tone is sharp and final and God help anyone who tries to touch him without your say-so.

Later, you’re patching him up on the edge of a dusty motel bed. He’s shirtless, bruised, quiet.

“You meant all that?” he asks, voice low.

You blink at him. “What kind of question is that?”

“I just… no one’s ever…” He trails off. Like it hurts to say it out loud. “It felt good. Hearing it. You fighting for me.”

You look at him—really look at him.

He’s so used to doing. Saving. Bleeding. Leading. Everyone thinks he’s bulletproof because he acts like he is. But you see the cracks. You kiss them. You love them.

“I’ll always fight for you,” you murmur, smoothing your fingers over the bruise on his side. “You’re not alone anymore, Dean. You don’t have to carry the weight. Not while I’m still breathing.”

He leans forward, cups your face like you’re the miracle. Kisses you slow. Deep. Desperate.

“Thank you,” he breathes against your lips.

You pull back just enough to whisper:

“Don’t thank me. Just promise you’ll let me protect you, too.”

His voice breaks a little when he says, “I will.”

And you know he means it. For once.

[orellazalonia]

i would loooooove to see more invisible!reader if you are taking requests🥹love your writing💓💓

Hello, love! Sorry it took a bit, but I loved your request! Invisible!reader was one of the first ones I wrote about that really resonated with me and was a special turning point to what I wanted to write here. So, thank you for the request and I hope you enjoy! Happy reading!!!

The Way He Comforts

Summary: After overhearing teammates question your stability and usefulness during a mission, you silently spiral and retreat deep into the compound and yourself to be alone and unseen. Bucky, noticing your absence and familiar patterns, finds you and gently reassures you that he sees your worth no matter how overlooked you feel. (Bucky Barnes x invisible!reader)

Disclaimer: Hurt/Comfort. ANGST. Reader has the power of invisibility. Part 2 to The Way He Notices.

Word Count: 2.2k+

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

You hadn’t meant to overhear.

You were just… staying behind. Letting the others clear out of the control room first. The mission had been a blur of adrenaline, blood, gunfire, and hazes of movement and orders shouted over comms. Your body was back in the compound, but your mind was still locked in the field, replaying every move you made, every step you took or didn’t.

Were you too slow? Did you hold the team back? Did you make the right decisions?

You hovered near the back of the room, invisible out of reflex. Not hiding. Just breathing. Just existing where no one could touch you, or expect you to explain anything.

That’s when the conversation started.

“Look, I’m just saying,” A voice rung out sharply. Male. One of the newer field leads, you couldn’t remember his name, only that he talked too much during ops and liked to fill silences that weren’t his to break. “When we’re in a live-fire zone, I need to see my team. Literally. We can’t afford to have someone going ghost mid-fight.”

Your spine stiffened. They were talking about you.

You stepped back without thinking, foot brushing softly against the wall, mind screaming at your body to stay silent.

“She got the job done,” Natasha said coolly. A defense quick and firm.

You’d thank her later. Maybe. If you could look her in the eye again.

“Barely,” The man replied with a bitter huff. “We don’t even know how her powers work really. What if she’s compromised out there? I mean… they vanished mid-mission. Again. What if one of us had been hit and needed cover?”

Your heartbeat spiked. They thought you hadn’t done your part.

They didn’t see the gun that almost took Steve’s head off, one you disabled while invisible. They didn’t know you redirected a blast meant for Natasha or jammed the comms that would’ve called reinforcements. You did it all unseen. That was the point.

You bit the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted blood. Then came a snort from someone else. A laugh, short and mean.

“Kind of sounds like a trauma response.”

And it was, wasn’t it?

You’d spent years trying to make it something more, something useful. A gift. A shield. A way to survive. But here, in the cold buzz of the compound’s overhead lights, they made it sound like a liability. Like a malfunction.

“I’m just saying,” He went on, like he hadn’t just scraped the skin off your insides, “Is she stable? If she freaks out in the field, the rest of us pay the price. Might be time for someone to assess whether she’s really combat-ready. Not just… a ghost with clearance.”

The silence that followed was worse than anything. No arguments. No defenses. Just quiet. Agreement, maybe. Or indifference.

You felt your chest pull tight. Not with anger, but grief. A familiar, heavy kind of grief. The one that told you it didn’t matter how hard you trained. How hard you fought. Some people would only ever see you as a shadow. A risk. An afterthought.

You didn’t wait to hear the rest.

You slipped through the hallway unseen, your footsteps noiseless, even to yourself. You weren’t sure where you were going. You just knew you had to move before your throat gave out, before your body betrayed you, before the tears came and refused to stop.

-

On the days that followed the conversation, you stopped sitting at the table during team meetings.

You still attended, sure. Friday still registered your presence, and Natasha always handed you a second copy of the mission files without comment, but you sat on the edge now. A ghost in the corner. Your chair pushed half out of the circle, body barely visible, sometimes not at all.

And no one said a word.

Not one person asked why you didn’t speak up during the last debrief. Or why your plate went untouched in the kitchen. Or why you left your locker door cracked open now, like you were one second from walking away for good.

No one but Bucky.

He didn’t confront you or press. He just watched.

The first day, he caught your eye as you passed him in the hallway. That alone was unusual, you rarely made eye contact with anyone when you were phased out, drifting. But something about the way his gaze narrowed told you he already knew something wasn’t right.

You disappeared halfway through that morning’s training exercise. You weren’t even trying to be stealthy. You just… didn’t want to be perceived anymore.

And Bucky didn’t call it out. He just tilted his head and quietly adjusted the team formation. Covered the gap like it was part of the plan.

That night, there was a cup of tea outside your room.

No note. Just the kind you liked: strong, a little bitter, and steeped longer than necessary. It was still warm too.

You sat on the other side of the door for a long time, legs drawn to your chest, forehead pressed to your knees. You didn’t drink it. You didn’t throw it away either. You simply it there.

The second day, your invisibility didn’t drop for twelve hours even in the compound, even in your room. You didn’t eat and you barely breathed.

You stood in the hallway outside the gym long after lights-out, just listening to the steady thud of someone working the punching bag inside. You knew it was Bucky. You could tell by the rhythm in how it was sharp, controlled, and a little angry, like he was fighting something he couldn’t say out loud. His grunts were quiet as the chain squeaked with every impact.

You pressed your back to the wall and closed your eyes.

They think you’re a liability.

The words echoed, over and over, like your own heartbeat.

You didn't step inside. You couldn’t. You were afraid of what he’d see on your face, afraid of what you’d see reflected in his.

The third day, you didn’t show up for the briefing.

Not late. Not phased out. Just… not there.

Natasha texted once. “You good?”

You stared at it for a long time, then let your phone drop to the floor.

A soft knock came hours later.

Even though you didn’t answer, you didn’t have to. You already knew who it was.

“…I brought food,” Bucky said after a while. His voice was calm, a little hoarse from a day of not talking much. “Didn’t know what you wanted, so I brought four things.”

Silence.

You sat on the edge of your bed, trying not to shake. You could hear the tray when he set it down outside. The gentle clink of ceramic. He waited a few seconds longer, then added, quieter:

“You don’t have to talk. Just eat something.”

And then he left. You counted the steps. Fifteen down the hall. The soft sound of the elevator. Only then did you move. You opened the door slowly like your body wasn’t sure it was safe to fully exist.

There on the tray was a bowl of soup, crackers, apple slices, and your favorite sandwich. The one you always got when the team stopped for food on the way back from a mission.

And a sticky note.

It only said: “You’re not invisible to me.”

You stood there in the dark, tray in your hands, and blinking fast. Bringing the tray into your room, you sat on the floor, legs crossed, and took your first bite in two days.

It tasted like you might not have to survive alone this time.

-

The breaking point came two days later. It was late.

Too late for most of the compound to be awake, except maybe Bruce overworking in the lab or Tony arguing with the AI. But the gym lights were still on; dimmed and humming low. You stood just outside the weight room, fingertips brushing the edge of the wall, considering whether or not to walk in.

You’d been doing that more lately. Standing near things. Near people. Not fully in or out. Present, but only barely. You weren’t invisible this time though. You didn’t want to be.

Inside, Bucky sat on the floor against the far wall, arms resting on his knees, head tilted back as if he’d been staring at the ceiling for a while. He didn’t react when you entered. Didn’t flinch when your shoes padded softly across the floor. His gaze didn’t shift from the overhead light, but you knew he saw you. He always did.

You lowered yourself to the floor a few feet away, crossing your legs, and remaining silent. The air between you was quiet, restful; not awkward. You appreciated that about him. He never tried to fill your silence. He just made space for it.

After a while, he spoke.

“You stopped laughing.”

You blinked, looking over.

His head turned just slightly toward you.

“Not that you ever laughed much,” He added, voice low. “But you did. Sometimes. At stupid jokes. At Clint falling asleep standing up. At that dog in the documentary that ran into a sliding glass door.”

You gave a small, almost-invisible shrug.

“I miss that sound,” He said.

That was it. No demand. No pressure. Just a quiet observation. A reminder that he noticed you. That your absence, even your emotional one, meant something to someone.

You swallowed hard.

He looked down at his hands, flexed his fingers once.

“I don’t know what happened,” He continued. “I know it was something. You don’t move like that unless something’s broken.”

You didn’t flinch, but your breath caught. Barely. Like a string pulled tightly inside your chest.

“I’m not asking you to tell me,” His voice was gentle as he leaned his head back again. “But if you ever want to… I’ll be here.”

No more words.

Just that.

And it felt like enough. Like the space between you had shifted. No longer something to hide inside, but something you could share. Quietly. At your own pace.

You didn’t mean to speak, but words came out like breath. So soft they didn’t feel real at first, like mist escaping between your lips before you could stop it.

“I wasn’t supposed to hear it.”

Bucky glanced over at you. His expression was morphed in that same ever so patient way, like you could say anything and you would have hung the moon.

You swallowed hard. Your throat ached like something had been lodged there for days which maybe it had.

“It was right after the last mission. I stayed behind in the control room.” You looked down at your hands. “I didn’t mean to listen. I just… hadn’t faded back in yet. And… I heard them talking about me.”

You blinked fast, but the heat behind your eyes didn’t fade. Your voice stayed low, like the words weren’t meant to be heard, but had nowhere else to go.

“They said I was unstable. That I disappear when something goes wrong. That they didn’t know how my powers work. Like I’m a risk. Like I’m just a… ghost with clearance.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. Just slightly. Not in anger at you, of course. Never at you. But at what had been said. The way his shoulders straightened told you he was holding something down. Something sharp.

“I didn’t even know who said most of it,” You added after a beat. “Just… someone new. But the others were quiet. No one really disagreed.”

The last part was the hardest to admit. Bucky moved closer to you slowly, settling in beside you. Not touching. Not crowding. Just there.

“The silence,” You murmured. “It felt like agreement.”

It hung in the air, heavy and uninvited. But then, after a long, thoughtful pause, his voice came, low and certain.

“I would’ve said something.”

You looked at him. His expression wasn’t gentle this time, not exactly. It was solid. Grounded. The kind of gaze that didn’t flinch when you showed the broken parts of yourself.

“Not just because I care about you,” He went on. “But because they were wrong.”

A small breath left your chest, like your lungs had finally been allowed to exhale.

“I know how your powers work,” He said. “Not the science. But I know you. You disappear to stay in control, to protect. Not to fall apart.”

You blinked hard.

“You’re not unstable. You’re surviving.”

That did it. The tears didn’t fall. Not yet. But they burned. Stung hot like they were ready, if you’d only let go. You opened your mouth to speak but Bucky shook his head, just once.

“You don’t have to defend it or say anything,” He said. “You shouldn’t have to defend yourself. Just… know that you do belong.”

His hand moved slowly, deliberately, and came to rest beside yours on the floor. He wasn’t exactly touching yet, simply close enough that if you wanted to reach, you could. A small gesture he always had of letting you reach first.

And you did.

Fingers brushing his, tentative at first. Then curling just slightly. A silent answer. And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, you felt real again. Not a shadow. Not a ghost. Seen.

[dailyreverie]

Say don't go

A/N: Title comes from the Taylor Swift's song with the same same. This is just one long-ass declaration of love. And you know what, I don't care. Enjoy.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Prompts: ‘I don’t think I could love you’ "I don't need a reason to love you. You're enough."

Word count: 2.2K

CW: A few f words.

He should’ve seen it coming. From the moment he left the meeting room and you headed for the door right after him, Bucky knew there was no getting out of this one. He listened to your steps, almost holding his breath in hopes you would walk in a different direction, but the sound of your harsh steps told otherwise.

But what could he expect, if he knew damn well he has been nothing but awful with you for the past month. He did his best to hide it, not to be so obvious when it came to ignoring you, but it all became too evident during the last mission. You had been staring long enough at him for it to be a casual glance; you were waiting for him, waiting for a reaction, a word, a glance, anything, and Bucky remained stoic. Eyes to the front, no distractions. The hurt on your face when you turned away was enough for him to know you had reached the breaking point. And yet, as much as it hurt him, he was set on not turning around to face you.

“Bucky,” You called his name, your voice like a rock hitting the back of his head. He cringed a little, but kept walking either way. “James!”

Not here, he thought to himself. Not now. So he kept walking.

“Oh, so you are ignoring me.” Your voice was louder now, getting the attention of the few agents walking by. “You know what? Whatever. I wanted to talk it out and fix it, and I wanted to apologize to you.”

He stopped walking, he had to do so. His eyes stung enough for him to squeeze them shut, regretting everything he did that made you come and apologize. For fucks sake. You were the one apologizing to him? That was it. He was the biggest idiot to ever walk the Earth.

“You do listen, then.” You kept going. “Can you at least- Would you please just turn around?” Bucky couldn’t bring himself to do it, not even when he heard your distressed voice. He knew the second he turned around and looked at you, he was going to break your heart and whatever was left of his own in the process. You let out a sarcastic laugh when you realized he was not turning around. “Well, if that’s what you want. I’m sorry for saying that I love you-”

The loud voice that came with your apology was what got him to turn around, taking long strides over you so you didn’t say more out in the open halls, surrounded by agents who were now much more interested in your conversation than before. Without a word, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you to an empty meeting room, locking the door behind him.

“You know how much of an idiot I felt the minute after I said it that day?” Your voice was smaller now. “And not because of what I feel, I’m not sorry for that, but because I… I thought we…” A sigh left your lips when words failed you. “I thought what I was feeling, you were feeling it too. I never meant to offend you, or to pressure you into anything, if that’s what you felt.”

Idiot, was the word that kept going around Bucky’s head, feeling every muscle on his body tensing at your words. He couldn’t keep making the same mistake with you, because you and your stupidly kind heart were going to get sick of him one day, and stop giving him more chances.

“So yeah… I’m sorry. I don’t want us to stop being friends-”

“You don’t have to apologize.” He was expecting his voice to be rough, to get caught up on his throat, but the instant his eyes met yours, he melted, he let go of all fear, and made his voice come out almost as a sigh. “And we’re not going to stop being friends.” He felt as if his body had relaxed once he spoke to you, after so many weeks of not doing so.

You sat on the edge of the table, almost relieved, looking at him with crossed arms as he looked around the room in hopes that what he needed to say was there, somewhere. He was met with your stare again, kind and calm once again, the storm in them long gone.

“I’m sorry,” He said

“I fucked up,” You spoke at the same time.

“What did you fuck up?” Bucky spoke again

“Why are you sorry?” Once more, as if your minds were one, you asked at the same time. You laughed shyly with each other at the useless conversation, at the unanswered questions. “Please, let me.” You pleaded, your eyes shining up at him.

But Bucky shook his head no. “You don’t have to say anything.” He stayed at the spot by the door, not daring to take a step closer to you. “I’m the one who fucked it all up. I didn’t know what to do. I still don’t. When you said…” he took a breath, the words you said to him still lingering in his head, too fragile to speak them out loud. “...what you said, I couldn’t even think, couldn’t even breathe. You don’t deserve that.”

“Bucky,” You cut in with a sweet voice, one he didn’t even seem to register.

“I don’t think I could love you,” He blurted out, his voice quivering at the end. He only caught a glimpse of you then, your shoulders sagging and a shaky breath leaving your lips. He hated himself. “I can’t do it. It’s not in me, not anymore, I guess. I thought distance between us would make it all disappear, somehow.” He had never admitted that, neither out loud nor in his head; he wondered if the empty feeling in his chest was that, because it couldn’t be his own heart breaking into pieces, after all. “And I’m not sure that you can love me either. There’s a lot of me, a lot of past and baggage that just… disqualifies me.”

“Buck, please. Please stop talking.” You interrupted his monologue with a small, sympathetic smile, and with that, he finally looked at you. “It’s not true. None of that is true. You deserve happiness, and love, and to feel the sun, and have a nice meal, and the plum pie from that pretentious bakery in Brooklyn.” The small laugh you both let out, locking eyes with each other, made the remaining tension disappear. “You can have all that, and everything else you may ever want or feel or need.”

“You keep saying that,” He added with a sarcastic eye roll. He sat next to you, enjoying your company as he always does, except this time, he let himself do just that: enjoy, with no second thoughts about it. With you, every time you were around, it was easy to pretend his past wasn’t hunting him every time he so much as thought of catching a break.

“I said I love you, Bucky, because I know I do. And I know, who am I to tell you all this? What could I possibly know?” He looked at you when you stopped talking. It was your turn to avoid his gaze, to look at the carpeted floor of the room as if you were counting every thread. Who were you to tell him this? God… you were everything. Nothing mattered more to him than you, than hearing your every thought, and listening to your voice. 

Bucky wondered then if there was anyone else he cared about more; he couldn’t think of anyone.

It was so unlike you to second-guess yourself, and to be responsible for that would eat him alive. His warm, flesh hand found yours in between the two of you, even if he shook and hesitated when doing so. Your eyes followed the touch, turning it over to lace your fingers with his.

“You are one of the few people here who never hid things from me, you know that?” Your hand softly squeezed his, letting him know you were there to listen. “When I came here, and everyone was almost walking on eggshells around me, you were the only one who always, no matter what, said the truth. That’s who you are to me.” His fingers squeezed yours back, a quiet moment between you as his words settled on you. “I trust you, and everything you say, I know it’s true. It's just hard for me to understand, sometimes, how you-” When the words got stuck in his throat, by the look you gave him, he knew you understood.

“How could I love you?” You asked with hurt in your tone. What he had said made you understand what he was going through. Never with pity, never trying to correct him, just genuinely hoping to understand him.

“Tell me a reason why,” He almost begged, looking straight into your eyes, as if it were something completely unthinkable. Bucky looked at you, all light and beauty in every way, with your whole heart on your sleeve, and couldn’t understand how it could be possible for someone like you to feel that over someone as broken as him. 

Letting out a deep sigh, you moved your hands from his to place them on each side of his face, your thumbs doing soft motions over his jaw to force him to look at you. “I don’t need a reason to love you, when you, everything you are, is more than enough to do so. And I needed you to know that, that I love you, because I want you to believe it. And I know you say you can’t love, but you know how, every morning, my coffee is always ready and made exactly how I take it, at the exact moment I need it? And how every time we leave for early missions and I wake up late, somehow, I keep finding granola bars in the pockets of my jacket? You sat with me while I watched that dumb series last summer, you went with me to that bookstore that had the book I had been searching like crazy, and when I couldn’t find it, you somehow found it online.”

He hadn’t even realized he did it. He just did. Bucky shrugged nonchalantly, but felt himself blushing, and knew there was no way you wouldn’t notice. He didn’t care.

“You listen, and you care. And I’m sorry, but I don’t think even Sam has ever gotten that kind of treatment.” When you laughed and your eyes sparkled, he knew right then how wrong he had been. “I’m not going to force you into anything, I promise you that, but I do want you to be sure of something.” You stood up in front of him, your hands on his shoulders, making sure he was paying attention. Not like he needed that, he could never get his eyes away from you, not anymore. “You can love, Bucky Barnes, and you do. And however long it takes you to notice that, the moment you do, I can’t wait to get to see that, with whoever you fall in love.”

You left him with a squeeze of his shoulders and a kiss on his cheek, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the memory of you smiling at him. Flashes of you appeared in his head, of all the times he, without knowing, wanted to see you happy, wanted to be the one who made you smile, to make sure you were well; of all the times he looked for you, that he wanted you, that he needed you. He had been completely oblivious to the way he had fallen for you.

It wasn’t much longer when he stormed out of the room and headed down the floor with long steps, his head peaking into every room he passed. He only rushed when the elevator chimed with its arrival at the end of the hall, barely making it on time as he stopped the door with his metal hand. You jumped a little, but relaxed when you saw it was him. “I don’t need time.” He was out of breath as he spoke, never had he ever felt like that, not even after battles.

“What do you need?” You followed his every move as he stepped into the elevator, letting it close to give you privacy.

“You,” Bucky answered your question with a smile. His hands went to hold your neck, holding it softly to angle your face up. He didn’t think it twice now, his lips found yours in a soft press, molding perfectly with each other as he savored the feeling of you so close to him, so his as he had been yours for all this time. He loved you, he had been doing so for so long. He made sure to tell you that with his kiss, with the way his tongue found yours, and you both melted into each other’s taste. He moved you until your back hit the wall, your hands holding onto his back to keep him there. He kissed until you were out of breath, until your lungs were burning and you parted with smiles.

Without moving apart, with your foreheads still touching, he whispered: “I love you, and that's all I need.” 

🦾✨🦾✨🦾✨🦾✨🦾✨🦾✨🦾✨🦾✨🦾✨

Thanks for reading! Please reblog and comment if you enjoyed it!

[sailornymph]

close quarters; zoro roronoa

synopsis — you and zoro get sent on a ridiculous mission by luffy. it ends with one bed, two swords, and a whole lot of unresolved tension. but zoro’s patience only lasts so long — especially when you keep stretching like that.

content warning — sexual themes

a/n — oh my gosh, you wrote such a sweet message and i appreciate you giving me options lol, it just was so long, the app wouldn’t let me post it, but i hope you enjoy!!!

you should’ve known better than to take a “simple” request from luffy.

“it’s a moonlight crab,” he said, full of wide eyes and chaotic hope. “they only appear during the full moon — but they’re super fast. get two, and sanji’ll make us something real fancy.”

what he didn’t mention was that the crabs are almost invisible, only live in swampy alleys, and bolt into sewer drains at the sound of footsteps. or that it would take you and zoro six hours of chasing after shadows and arguing about directions, all while he mutters “should’ve stayed on the ship” under his breath.

now, you’re standing at the counter of a shady inn, soaking wet from an alley puddle ambush, your boots muddy, your shoulders sore, and zoro’s towel-draped form next to you radiating brooding frustration.

“one room left,” the innkeeper says. “one bed. take it or leave it.” you both glance at each other.

you shrug. “we’ll take it.”

he doesn’t argue. just grunts, grabs the key, and stomps up the stairs.

the room is small. a little damp. there’s only one lantern on the wall, casting a low flicker over the bed — a mattress just barely wide enough for two people who aren’t carrying unresolved tension and years of eye contact that lasted one second too long.

zoro drops his swords by the door and peels off his shirt like it’s nothing, towel still hanging around his neck. your mouth moves before you can stop it.

“gonna do that right in front of me?”

he glances over his shoulder. “what? it’s not like you haven’t seen me shirtless.”

“not in a bedroom.”

he smirks. “then don’t look.” but you do.

you always do.

you peel off your own damp layers, careful to turn your back, but zoro’s eye drags lazily across the shape of you in your undershirt and shorts — the way your spine curves, the dip of your waist. he swallows thickly and turns away like it doesn’t bother him. like he’s not biting the inside of his cheek to stay quiet.

you both climb into bed. on opposite sides. no touching. no words. for maybe five seconds.

“this is stupid,” you mutter.

“what is?”

“you. me. pretending this bed isn’t too small.”

zoro exhales through his nose. “you’re the one that said take it.”

“yeah, well. didn’t expect you to act like you’ve never shared a bed before.” he shifts.

the mattress dips. you feel it — the tension pulling tight like string. like if you breathe too deep, it’ll snap.

“…you want me to move closer?” he asks, voice low.

you blink at the ceiling. “do you want to?”

“yes.”

the next thing you know, zoro’s arm brushes yours under the blanket. his thigh presses against your leg. he’s close enough to feel the heat of his skin and the weight of his stare.

“you’re staring,” you murmur.

“so are you.”

you glance over at him, lips twitching. “something you wanna say?”

he leans in slightly, voice rough. “you never shut up.”

“make me.” that’s all it takes.

his mouth is on yours before you can smirk again — rough, hungry, heated. his kiss is the kind that steals the air from your lungs, all tongue and teeth and possessive growls. his hand slides under your shirt, palm flat against your stomach.

“fuck,” he breathes, lips dragging down your jaw. “i’ve wanted to do that for months.”

you gasp as his hand cups your breast, thumb flicking your nipple through the fabric.

“you could’ve said something.”

“don’t talk,” he mutters. “just let me have you.”

you do.

he yanks your shorts down, then his own, and between kisses and curse words, he’s already rutting against your thigh, thick and hard and leaking against your skin.

“spread your legs,” he growls.

you obey, shivering when his fingers slip between your folds, already soaked.

“you’re so wet,” he mutters. “fuck. is this all for me?”

“who else would it be for?” you snap back, voice breathy, he grins.

“good answer.” then he pushes in.

it’s deep. slow. stretching. your breath stutters at the burn of it, your hands gripping his shoulders as he sinks all the way in, groaning low against your throat.

“fuck—so tight,” he hisses. “feels even better than i thought.”

“you thought about this?” you whisper.

“all the fucking time.”

he sets a pace that makes the bed creak. makes the walls groan. makes you cry out his name more than once, especially when he grabs your thigh and angles you open, hitting deep with every roll of his hips.

“knew you’d take me so well,” he mutters. “knew you were made for this.” you arch into him, nails clawing at his back.

“harder,” you beg.

he gives it to you. brutally. beautifully. one hand around your throat, the other gripping your hip so hard you’re sure you’ll bruise.

you come with a cry, legs locking around his waist, and zoro follows right after — spilling into you with a rough moan and a kiss that leaves you dizzy.

later, when you’re catching your breath, pressed to his chest and feeling the slow rise and fall of him under your cheek, he murmurs:

“you know we’re not just friends anymore, right?”

you hum. “figured.”

“good.” he kisses your forehead.

you fall asleep wrapped in the scent of sweat and steel and zoro’s quiet heartbeat — and when morning comes, neither of you pretends it didn’t happen.

the moonlight crab is squirming in the net. zoro’s holding it out like it personally offended him. you’re standing next to him, arms crossed, a faint bruise on your neck that you definitely don’t plan on explaining. he hasn’t said a word since you left the inn. just grumbled something about “stupid errands” and “waking up sore for no reason that’s worth telling luffy about.”

you, on the other hand, are glowing.

“luffy!” you call, stepping onto the deck of the sunny. “we brought your damn crab!”

he turns around with a mouth full of meat and eyes like a kid on christmas.

“NO WAY! YOU ACTUALLY FOUND IT??” zoro grunts and tosses the net toward him. the crab chirps angrily.

“what are you even gonna do with that thing?” you ask, wiping sweat from your brow.

luffy blinks. “i forgot.”

you stare at him. “you FORGOT?”

“yeah! but it’s okay. now i have a crab friend.” he picks the poor creature up and holds it to his cheek like it’s a teddy bear. “thanks, guys! did you have fun?” zoro stiffens beside you.

you smirk. “we had a very productive night.”

“oh! cool! what’d you do?” zoro starts to open his mouth, then closes it again. you take mercy on him.

“nothing you’d understand.”

“was there a fight?” luffy perks up. “was it cool?? did zoro win?? zoro simply walks away.

you’re still laughing when he disappears down the stairs. luffy stares after him, confused. “what’s with him?”

“maybe ask sanji to make him some stamina food,” you say sweetly.

“stamina food?? why?”

you just pat his head and walk off. some things, you think, are better kept secret. but judging by the way zoro’s eyes find yours later — intense, hot, wordless — it’s not gonna stay a secret much longer and you’re okay with that.

[spideyxxxxx]

Peter Parker Headcannons

a/n! sooo here are some of my headcannons about dating mcu peter parker including his being spiderman, which isn’t a secret anymore since you two are already dating, let me know if you have others because i love sharing ideas!!

pairing! Peter Parker x implied femreader

Your playful throws? Pillows, socks, popcorn? They don’t trigger his tingle at all.

One day he catches a literal falling brick from a rooftop—but lets a foam ball hit him in the face because you threw it.

Realizes it’s because his brain doesn’t flag you as a threat. Even subconsciously.

Spirals for 15 minutes about how that could get him killed. Then softens.

“I think—I think I trust her more than like, my own instincts. Which is… terrifying and kind of adorable?”

“I think my Peter-tingle just… knows you’re safe. Like—safe safe. Like, I would never need to be warned about you. Even if you were swinging a baseball bat. Even if you were holding a bazooka.”

(he pauses, then adds earnestly)

“Please don’t ever hold a bazooka though. Like for real.”

You lean over him and gently bonk him again with the pillow.

This time, he still doesn’t dodge.

Sneaks out as Spider-Man after patrol just to land on your fire escape and peek into your window to check if you’re asleep safe.If your light’s on, he stays, perched upside-down like a weirdo.

Taps the window once like a ghost.

Sometimes you’re awake and let him in.

Other times, he smiles and swings away with a little “okay, she’s good” breath of relief.

“I know it’s probably excessive but like, what if a raccoon got in? Or a microwave exploded? These things happen.”

Mid-patrol, sitting with his knees pulled up to his chest, suit mask half-off, swinging his legs off a rooftop ledge.

Calls you just to talk.Not even about anything serious.

Just, “Hey, I saw a guy walking a ferret on a leash and thought of you. Also, hi. Also, I miss you. Okay bye—unless you wanna stay on the line while I beat up some muggers?”

Brings you snacks from bodegas like:

“I saw these weird cookies and thought you’d like them.”

“This soda is purple. That’s romantic, right?”

Also returns with random little trinkets he finds on rooftops. Like a pigeon feather or a single button shaped like a heart.

He gets weirdly shy giving them to you. Like it’s a marriage proposal.

“It’s dumb but it kinda reminded me of you—WAIT I MEAN IN A GOOD WAY.”

If you touch his face when he’s tired? Instant puddle.

He’ll literally tilt into your palm like a sleepy kitten.

Gets overwhelmed and short-circuits when you wear his hoodie or say anything nice.

“You like my—? I mean yeah obviously it’s warm I didn’t mean for you to keep it unless you want to which is totally fine oh my god I’ll shut up now.”

After missions that go wrong—explosions, injuries, Tony yelling—he doesn’t go home.

He comes to you.

Literally swings across the city bleeding just to see your face.

“Hi. I know it’s 1:37am. I needed to remember what breathing feels like.”

Doesn’t let you walk too close to the curb.

Walks behind you on stairs in case you trip.

Lowkey memorizes the scent of your shampoo so if anyone ever impersonated you (he’s seen too many shapeshifters), he’d know.

If you’re cold? Hoodie. Immediately. No discussion.

[cei1ne]

can you do a short fic of a surprise gift from dabi pleaseeeeeeeeee

—Toya Todoroki - ‘Blue flame, warm heart’

⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅Summary: Your boyfriend who was known to be nonchalant and cold finally proved that he wasn’t just a heartless bastard villain!

✩.･*:Pairing: Toya Todoroki ; GN!reader

｡..✭｡Tags: Cute ; Soft ; Loving ; Unexpected; Teasing ; Tsundere ; TRUE LOVE

:ﾟ･*☽Word-Count: Idk about 2k

ღೋA/N: Yeah so we know Toya isn’t very soft but for you he is so yeah… xx

✼•┈๑⋅⋯ ୨˚୧ ⋯⋅๑ ┈•✼

—Toya Todoroki - ‘Blue flame, warm heart’

You weren’t expecting him tonight.

Not that you ever expected Dabi. He wasn’t the kind of person who let anyone predict him. His comings and goings were like ash on the wind — here for a moment, then gone with no explanation, no goodbye, just a lingering smell of smoke and scorched air in your apartment.

And yet… there he was. Standing by your front door like he belonged there, hood pulled over that mess of blackened staples and hair tousled from the wind.

He didn’t knock. He never did. You only knew he was there because the hallway light flickered, then went dark.

“Hey,” he said gruffly, like he hadn’t disappeared for three weeks straight.

You didn’t ask where he’d been. You never did.

“Hey,” you answered instead, stepping aside to let him in.

Dabi brushed past you without a word, that familiar dry heat trailing behind him. He kicked off his boots lazily and shrugged off his jacket, tossing it over the back of your couch. Same as always — like he lived here, like this place was his just as much as yours.

But tonight, something was different.

You could feel it in the way he didn’t immediately flop onto the couch or light a cigarette. He stood awkwardly near the entrance, one hand in his pocket, the other clenched around… something.

You noticed the faint crinkle of wrapping paper.

Your brows lifted. “You… brought something?”

He didn’t meet your gaze. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I haven’t said anything yet.”

“You’re thinking something.”

“I’m breathing.”

Dabi let out a short scoff, but you caught the flicker of unease in his expression. His hand tightened around the little wrapped box — blue paper, slightly wrinkled, corners taped like someone who’d never done it before had struggled through every fold.

He shoved it toward you, not quite looking at you.

“Take it.”

You blinked. “What is it?”

“Just take the damn thing, [Y/N].” His tone was sharp, but there was no real heat behind it. If anything, he sounded… embarrassed.

You gently took the box from his hand. It was light. The paper was warm — probably from him holding it for too long, probably debating whether to actually give it to you.

“Did you… wrap this yourself?”

Dabi grunted. “No. Some twelve-year-old villain intern did it for me. What do you think?”

You laughed, but it was gentle. “I think it’s sweet.”

“Shut up.”

You smiled and unwrapped it carefully, trying not to tear the paper. Dabi watched you with barely veiled tension, like this was a mission more dangerous than any raid he’d ever been on.

Inside was a small black box. Jewelry-sized.

Your breath caught.

“…Can I open it?”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s for you, dumbass. Obviously.”

You opened the lid slowly.

Inside was a delicate silver chain with a small blue flame charm at the center — translucent enamel, impossibly detailed. It shimmered under the apartment light like it had a heartbeat of its own.

You stared at it, then up at him. “Dabi…”

“Don’t get all mushy on me.”

“I’m not. I’m just…” You swallowed. “It’s beautiful. Why?”

His shoulders stiffened. His eyes darted toward the window.

“Saw it in a shop. Reminded me of you. That’s it.”

You gently ran your fingers over the flame charm. “Because I burn things to the ground, or because I’m pretty?”

That finally earned you a grin — lopsided, sharp.

“Both.”

You stood there a moment longer, just holding the necklace between your fingers, unsure what to say next. It wasn’t the kind of gift you expected from someone like Dabi — hell, it wasn’t the kind of gesture you expected from him at all. He was rough around the edges, emotionally evasive, and allergic to anything resembling vulnerability.

And yet… this.

You looked up at him again. “Will you help me put it on?”

His eyes widened just slightly, like you’d caught him off guard. “Uh… yeah. Sure.”

You turned around and held your hair up, heart thumping when you felt his hands brush against the back of your neck. His fingers were rough, heat radiating from his skin like the embers of a dying fire, but he was gentle — almost too careful, like he was scared he might break you.

The clasp clicked into place. His fingers lingered for a second too long.

“Looks good on you,” he muttered.

You turned back to face him, searching his expression.

“You’ve never given me anything like this before.”

Dabi scoffed and flopped onto the couch, eyes already trained on the ceiling. “Yeah, well. Don’t expect it to be a habit. I’m not exactly Mr. Thoughtful.”

“No,” you said, moving to sit beside him, “but you are surprisingly soft when no one’s looking.”

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Careful.”

You smiled, leaning against his shoulder. “Or what? You’ll set me on fire?”

“Maybe.”

You could feel the tension in his body even now — like he was still unsure whether giving you that gift had been a mistake. His armor was cracking, but he didn’t know what to do with the vulnerability slipping through the cracks.

You stayed quiet for a bit, letting the silence stretch between you. It wasn’t uncomfortable — not with Dabi. It never had to be filled. He was the kind of person who spoke most in what he didn’t say.

Eventually, you nudged his arm. “You okay?”

He gave you a side-eye. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re fidgety.”

“I don’t fidget.”

“You’ve peeled the label off your lighter three times in five minutes.”

Dabi looked down at his hand. The plastic casing was indeed a little torn up.

“…I just don’t do this kind of stuff,” he said quietly. “You know that.”

“I know. That’s why it means something.”

He turned his face toward the window, where the moonlight cast a soft blue hue across the room. The flickering light danced across his scars, highlighting the parts of him he hated most.

You reached over and rested your hand on his knee. “You don’t have to be anything for me. You just have to be here.”

Dabi let out a breath — long, slow, like it was dragging something heavy from his chest.

“You think I don’t want to be better for you?” he said, voice low.

“I think you already are.”

His jaw clenched. “You’re wrong.”

You stayed quiet, fingers gently tracing circles against his leg.

After a long pause, he asked, “You really liked it?”

You tilted your head to meet his eyes. “Dabi, I love it. I love you, even if you never gave me anything ever again.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he reached out suddenly, hand cupping the side of your face with a warmth that startled you. His thumb brushed along your cheek.

“You know I’d burn the whole world for you, right?”

You smiled faintly. “I’d rather you didn’t. But the thought counts.”

He huffed a small laugh. “Shut up.”

You leaned into his touch. “Make me.”

He smirked — a flicker of mischief behind that tired gaze — and pressed a kiss to your forehead. His lips were dry, but the contact was soft..

“Next time,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “I’ll get you something even better.”

“Dabi,” you said softly, “you don’t have to keep proving anything.”

He leaned back, one arm draping lazily across your shoulders. “I’m not trying to prove anything. I just… I dunno. Wanted to see you smile.”

“You’re dangerously close to being sweet.”

“Say that again and I’ll vanish for another month.”

You chuckled and rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart — fast, but calming. The necklace around your neck felt warm now, like it had absorbed the heat from his hands.

You liked that.

You liked him.

Even if he didn’t always know how to show it.

[oxxytocinoverdose]

A good mom

Morro x fem!reader, Resurrected!Morro AU

Summary: He saved a kid on a mission, you went over to the police station to wait for the kid’s parents to show.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───

The kid is playing with his fingers, trying to twist them in ways that aren’t anatomically possible. He winces and pulls back, narrowing his eyes at the toddler. “Cut that out.” He just gets a giggle in response. You smile, breaking the short silence.

“Hey.”

“You didn’t have to show up. You really trust me that little with a kid?”

“It’s not that.. I just thought you’d be tired. You’ve got an exhausting job. Did all the other ninja really just leave you?”

“I told them to leave. It’s just one kid, I didn’t need them all here… besides, I think he likes me.” Morro looks down at the drooling toddler, who is staring up at him with curious eyes. “..I know how scary cops can be. Especially when you’re a kid.”

That makes you feel some type of way. Morro has told you about how cops treated him when he was just a little boy scavenging around for food. Good God.

“Close your eyes for a bit. I’ll watch the kid until his parents get here”

“If they fucking do! Who doesn’t think to check the police station of all places first?!” You brush his hair back, keeping it out of his face. You hand him a water bottle. He’s always forgetting to drink water, even after sprinting and training like crazy. “..Thanks..” he grabs it and unscrews the lid. He downs in a couple seconds. Men. How do they even do that?

“…Hi sweetie.” You smile at the child in front of you. “What’s your name?”

He just stares.

“Morro, what’s his name?”

“I dunno..”

“Are you kidding me? You didn’t ask?”

“I did. He looked at me the way he’s lookin at you right now.” “The cops don’t know his name?”

“They sent out a physical description.”

You turn your head back to the kid.

“You wanna sit down?” He gives you a gummy smile takes your hand in his fingers. You put your hand on your heart and look to Morro with wide, wet eyes. Morro is smiling back at you both, and ruffles the little guy’s hair. “He’s a social butterfly. Everyone’s charmed by him, even you.. but I’m immune.”

“No one can be immune to this cutie..”

He taps on the chair with his chubby little hands. You help lift him up, and his response is to giggle with his limbs up and his eyes squinted.

“God. He’s so manipulative.” Morro mutters

“Shut up, you edgelord. You know you want to squeeze him.”

“I do. That’s why he’s so manipulative… I never wanna squeeze anything..”

“Yeah? Tell that to my thighs.”

“Shut the hell up! There’s a kid here.”

“You swore in front of him!”

“Not worse than what you’re saying!”

“Nothing’s gonna happen if he repeats thighs. Something bad WILL happen if he repeats the f word.”

“Alright, alright. I’m soo sorry, kid.”

He isn’t even looking at Morro. He’s too busy clawing at your clothes. “Look at this airhead. He doesn’t even know he’s missing his parents.” Morro scoffs

“Only you would call a literal child an airhead.”

He crosses his arms, laying back on his chair. He sees you play with the kid, and feels his heart bit a little faster. Your hands know exactly how to pick him up, exactly what time of voice to use. High pitched, kind, energetic, maternal. You’ve known this kid for 5 minutes but you’d already do anything to protect him. It does something to him. You guys are already together. And there was no way he could ever let you leave. If you tried, he’d do anything to convince you so stay. You get him like nobody else. You’re permanent. He thinks about how a baby could make you more permanent . How you having his kid would mean you guys are truly, honestly meant to be together. He imagines his own baby in your arms- inheriting the same jet black hair, possibly his green streak, and it makes his eyes go wide.

You look so hesitant to let the baby go once his parents pick him up. You both are relieved his parents found him. But.. Morro was getting kind of excited thinking about you taking care of the kid a little longer, you guys taking care of the kid together…

“You’ll make a good mom.” He tells you. And what’s a little scary about it is the you’ll. Not you’d. Not you would, but you will. As if he’s already planning it. You know Morro. He plans things light years ahead. He’s always scheming, and when he has a vision he has a lot of trouble letting it go. He will make sure it happens.

“..Thank you.”

“..You’re welcome.”

The kid’s name was Bailey.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔ 　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　

[softsusanoo]

Lazy Training (18+)

summary: the nights in Konoha had grown quieter, but the silence did nothing to still the noise within you. Shadows stretched longer, and so did the pull toward him—subtle at first, then impossible to ignore. And when your paths crossed again, not in battle, not in duty, but in something softer, heavier, it felt less like coincidence and more like inevitability. Something had shifted. And neither of you could quite look away.

pairing: shikamaru x female reader (reader is a member of the ANBU)

genre: friends to lovers

word count: 10,7k

warnings: fighting scenes, mature content/mature language, smut, softdom!shikamaru, softdom!reader, smoking

The sun hung low in the sky, bleeding gold into the treetops. You walked slowly, letting your steps fall into rhythm with the soft hush of the breeze threading through the leaves. The air was warm—not the stifling heat of midday, but the kind that clung lightly to your skin, like memory. The kind that carried the scent of grass, dust, and something half-forgotten.

You didn’t rush. There was no need to.

The path wound ahead in lazy arcs, half-swallowed by weeds and thick with the smell of pine sap. You let your fingers graze the low branches as you passed, your gloves brushing against the rough bark and small curling leaves. Somewhere deeper in the forest, a cicada hummed, its song rising and falling in a tired kind of way.

He hadn’t wanted to come. Not really.

“Training? With you?” he’d muttered, flat on his back under a half-dead tree outside the mission hall, one arm slung across his eyes like the sky was just too much. “Sounds like a drag.” You’d said nothing then—just raised a brow, arms crossed over your chest. Waited.

After a beat, he sighed through his teeth and cracked one eye open. “Tch. Fine. But only because you’ll annoy me about it otherwise.”

You had smiled then. Just barely. He didn’t say it, but you both knew the truth. Time had been a rare thing lately. Scarcer than rest, scarcer even than silence. If you hadn’t asked, he probably wouldn’t have seen you at all.

The dirt path curved gently up a slope now, the tree cover thinning just enough to let in streaks of amber light. You stepped over a half-rotted log, your shadow stretching long across the moss-covered stones. You remembered another afternoon—years ago now—when you’d both been younger, not quite friends yet, just two people orbiting the same strange shinobi world.

It had been during one of those endless village-wide drills—mandatory formations, repetitive routines, all barked orders and synchronized movements under the hot sun. You’d spotted him off to the side, half-slouched against a tree, yawning like the whole thing might actually bore him to death. “You don’t care about any of this, do you?” you’d muttered as you passed him in line, your voice low and dry. He’d shrugged without looking up. “I care. Just not about people pretending to be useful by shouting.” That had made you laugh—quiet and sharp-edged, but real. You hadn’t expected him to be funny. You hadn’t expected him to notice things the way he did. From then on, it had been easy. Easier than most things.

The clearing came into view slowly, like it wasn’t in a hurry to show itself. Just a patch of grass worn down by time and use, framed by tall reeds and scattered stones. A few dragonflies hovered over the shallow dip of a stream nearby, their wings catching what was left of the day’s light. You stepped out into it, pausing at the edge of the clearing.

He wasn’t there yet. Of course he wasn’t.

You moved toward one of the flat stones and sat, stretching your legs out in front of you, the heat of the day still clinging faintly to the rock beneath your thighs. The katana across your back shifted slightly as you leaned forward, elbows on your knees. There was something about the quiet here. It wasn’t the oppressive kind. It was the stillness of things that had been left alone long enough to simply exist. You let it settle around your shoulders like dust. Behind your eyes, the memories flickered again. His voice, half-asleep beside a fire on the edge of some half-finished mission—“You’re always tense when the wind changes.”—your hands tightening on the straps of your gear, your reply a murmur—“And you’re always watching me.”

He hadn’t denied it. Just rolled over, the embers painting his face in soft reds. Another breeze moved through the trees, and you closed your eyes against it, letting it brush over your skin. The sun had started to dip lower now, the gold deepening into something richer, more muted.

Footsteps.

You heard them before you saw him. Not loud—he never was, even when he didn’t try. But you knew the rhythm of his walk, the slight drag of his heel, the way he took wider steps than he needed to, like it was all too much effort. “Yo,” came the voice, a little rough with disuse, as if he’d just woken up. You opened your eyes. He stood at the edge of the clearing, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other lifting lazily in greeting. His hair was tied as always, though a few strands had fallen loose at his temple. His vest was unzipped, shadows catching in the folds of the fabric. “You’re late,” you said. Not annoyed. Just stating fact. He rolled a shoulder. “Didn’t say what kind of afternoon.” You huffed softly. Typical. Still, something in your chest loosened just a little.

Shikamaru moved toward you without ceremony, dropped onto the grass a few feet away, arms stretched behind him as he leaned back. His gaze drifted upward, toward the cloudless sky. “Hot,” he muttered. “Mm.” You looked at him. The line of his jaw, the way the light caught the curve of his cheek. His eyes were half-lidded, unreadable. He let the silence stretch between you, like always. Not awkward—just quiet. Comfortable. You leaned back onto your hands, mirroring his posture. The grass was warm, the scent of summer thick in the air—wild mint, sun-dried earth, faint smoke from a distant cooking fire.

“Sure you’re up for this?” you asked eventually. He didn’t answer right away. Just let out a long breath, eyes tracking a bird overhead. “I’m here, aren’t I?” You nodded, not looking at him now. “Didn’t think you would be.” He made a sound—something between a scoff and a hum. “Tch. You’re annoying when you disappear for days without saying anything.” You blinked, turning toward him again. His gaze was still skyward, but something in his voice tugged at you.

“I didn’t disappear.”

“Didn’t say goodbye either.”

The words sat between you, quiet and unpolished. You weren’t sure what to say. Eventually, you pushed yourself up, brushing the grass from your palms. “Well,” you said, voice steady, “I’m here now.” He looked at you then. Really looked. His eyes, dark as burnt honey, settled on yours. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.” You watched him for a moment longer. Just watched. The way he slouched against the breeze like gravity was a personal offense. The soft line between his brows, always there even when he pretended not to care. You’d known him long enough to recognize the tension in his stillness—how stillness didn’t always mean peace. “Staring,” he said, not moving. You didn’t look away. “Observing.” “Tch.” His lips curled slightly. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

You stood slowly, the movement easy, unhurried. The scabbard at your back shifted with the roll of your shoulders, but you didn’t reach for it. Not yet. The warm wind tugged at your sleeves as you stepped out into the center of the clearing, your boots silent on the flattened grass. Behind you, you heard him sigh. Heard the rustle of cloth as he pushed himself to his feet with all the enthusiasm of a man asked to dig his own grave. “Taijutsu only,” you said, glancing over your shoulder. “Don’t be lazy.” “Ugh. Troublesome.” But he was already rolling his neck, loosening his limbs. “You sure you wanna spar like this? You’ll just get annoyed when I keep dodging.”

You turned to face him fully now. The light hit him from the side—warm gold catching in the line of his jaw, the faint sheen of sweat already forming at his collarbone. He looked half-asleep and entirely aware, like a predator playing dead. “Not if I hit you first,” you replied. That made him smile—just a little, just enough. “Bold.”

And then you moved.

No warning. No signal. Just the quiet thud of your foot pressing off the earth as you rushed him, closing the space with practiced ease. His body responded in an instant—lazy didn’t mean slow—and he twisted just as your fist cut through the air where his face had been a heartbeat before. You pivoted, not overextending, already anticipating the counter that didn’t come. His hand brushed past your ribs, a testing motion, not a strike. You ducked beneath it, shifting your weight to your back foot, grounding yourself. He was watching you. Not your face—your shoulders, your hips. Reading your next move before it even formed.

You lunged again, this time lower, sweeping at his legs. He hopped back, barely putting effort into it. You followed, tightening the space between you. “Not bad,” he murmured, ducking as your elbow came for his temple. “For someone who hasn’t trained in days.” “Is that your way of asking where I’ve been?” you shot back, breath even as your body twisted into a quick strike toward his midsection. He caught your wrist—not hard, just enough to redirect the blow. “Wouldn’t be asking.”

You broke the grip with a sharp flick, stepping in close, closer than you usually dared. He let you, which meant he was planning something. His body shifted, weight loading on his back leg. “Still dodging,” you said, breath hot against his jaw as you slid past him, fingers grazing the edge of his vest. He turned to follow, not quite fast enough. You felt your knuckles graze his ribs, a soft thud of contact. Not a full hit, but enough. “Still chasing,” he replied, but there was something in his tone now—less lazy, more focused. You were waking him up.

Good.

You circled him slowly, not dropping your guard. The air between you was thicker now, warmed by motion and breath and something else—something unspoken. He moved first this time. A faint shift, almost imperceptible, and then he was coming at you in a blur of angled momentum—nothing flashy, just efficiency and control. His foot aimed low, his arm coming high in a feint. You blocked the kick with your shin, absorbing the impact, then stepped into his guard, your forearm slamming up to catch his incoming elbow. For a second, your bodies locked—chest to chest, muscles taut, breath mingling. You smelled smoke on him, and green tea, and that vague scent of sun-warmed cotton. “Missed you,” he muttered, like it wasn’t a confession. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t let it distract you. “You said that out loud,” you replied. His brow arched. “Did I?” You used the moment. Hooked his ankle with yours, shifted your weight, tried to unbalance him. He didn’t fall—but he stumbled, and that was enough. You slipped behind him in a flash, fingers brushing the edge of his collar. A mock kill. He stilled. Just for a breath. Then exhaled slowly. “Alright. You win.” You didn’t move. “Too easy.” He glanced over his shoulder, smirk tugging at his mouth. “I’m letting you win. Clearly.” “Obviously,” you echoed dryly.

But you stepped back, giving him space. He turned to face you again, brushing a bit of grass from his shoulder with the flick of a hand. There was sweat at his temple now. You felt it mirrored on your own skin, a slow trickle down the side of your neck. The breeze picked up again. Your lungs pulled in the scent of the clearing—earth, water, sun. And him. You tilted your head. “Round two?”

He hesitated, eyes scanning you with something unreadable behind the calm. “Thought you’d be more tired,” he said. “Thought you’d be more difficult.” He gave a low chuckle. “Tch. You’re getting cocky.” You smiled, slow and sharp. “You like it.”

And again, you moved. This time, he was ready.

You traded blows like it was a language only the two of you spoke—quick jabs, low blocks, turns and redirects. His footwork was lazy and elegant all at once, like water flowing around stones. Yours was more grounded, but no less fluid. You pressed him, made him move. He responded with the same deliberate calm he always wore, except now there was an edge to it. A gleam in his eye that hadn’t been there before.

You kicked high—he ducked. You went for his ribs—he twisted, caught your wrist, let go again. The dance continued. “Still not using ninjutsu,” he said between breaths. “Neither are you.” “Shadow possession’s too easy.” “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He grinned, wide enough to show teeth. “Maybe I like working for it sometimes.” The comment sent a flicker through your stomach. Heat of a different kind. You slammed your elbow toward his chest. He caught it, barely, fingers brushing your skin. You twisted, broke free. “Careful,” he murmured, voice low now. “You’re smiling.”

You hadn’t noticed you were. You pushed forward, letting instinct take over. Your body remembered him. Remembered how he moved, how he thought. You knew him in this rhythm—this quiet collision of force and restraint. And he knew you.

The next strike came fast—your knee toward his side. He blocked with both hands, used the force to spin you off balance, and then you were tumbling onto the grass with a soft grunt, the world tilting briefly. Before you could fully recover, he was above you, one hand planted beside your head, the other raised—just barely, just for show.

“Gotcha.”

You looked up at him. His hair had come loose again. A single strand fell across his brow. His chest rose and fell in slow, even pulls. He didn’t look triumphant. Just…there. Present. “Not bad,” you said, not trying to move yet. His mouth quirked. “I’d say the same.” Neither of you moved for a beat. The wind whispered over the clearing, stirring the grass beside your head. A dragonfly buzzed somewhere above. You breathed. He stayed. You exhaled slowly, chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the earth. The silence between you stretched like the pause before a storm.

Then, quietly, you said, “No more rules.”

His brow lifted, a flicker of something alert behind his gaze—but before he could fully process the shift in your tone, you moved.

Fast.

A sharp twist of your hips, one leg snapping out to catch his side—not hard, just enough to shift his weight. His balance faltered for half a second, and that was all you needed. You were already on the ground with him, bodies tangled in motion, so you used the momentum—hands shooting forward to shove at his chest. He resisted, but not fully—already calculating, already adapting.

You didn’t let him.

A sharp press of your knee, a pivot of your shoulders, and you rolled—taking him with you. The world tipped sideways in a blur of grass and shadow. His arm tightened instinctively around your waist as you moved together, but you shifted again, using his own leverage against him. He landed beneath you with a quiet thud, breath catching as you straddled his hips in one fluid motion. Your heel planted firmly in the grass beside him, your palm came down, aimed directly over his sternum—controlled, but decisive.

A breathless second passed.

He blinked. “Okay,” he murmured, a small grin forming. “Didn’t see that coming.” You were already gone. A graceful backflip—weightless, clean—and you landed light as a whisper several meters away. Hands poised. Breath steady. The smirk faded from his mouth as he rose, slower this time. His eyes never left you. “So,” he drawled. “All jutsu allowed, huh?” You didn’t answer. Just smiled. He sighed. “Troublesome woman…”

But his hands were already forming seals. His shadow twitched like a living thing, snaking along the grass—quick, clever, hungry. You darted left, right, low. Your fingers flicked through your own set of seals, breath flowing like water through each motion. A soft glow flared at your palms and you whispered a quiet word—one you’d learned under fading lantern light and too many bruises. A wall of wind erupted in front of you, spinning in tight coils, lifting dust and leaves into a brief, blinding curtain. “Trying to block my line of sight?” Shikamaru called through it. “Smart.”

The ground beneath your feet trembled—just slightly—as his shadow moved beneath it, bypassing the wind entirely. You felt it graze your ankle and leapt high, spinning midair, forming another quick set of seals. A barrage of chakra-sharpened kunai appeared around you in a shimmer of pale light, launching downward like falling stars. You heard him curse, low and annoyed, as he twisted into a dive to avoid the spread. One of the blades clipped his sleeve. Another embedded in the ground just beside his hand.

You landed behind him in the same breath, already moving, already striking. He rolled away at the last second, and his shadow surged again—larger this time, faster. It caught your left hand. You froze as your muscles stiffened, shadow chakra locking the limb in place. Shikamaru straightened with a lazy kind of satisfaction, already pulling a senbon from his pouch. “You know,” he said, voice maddeningly calm, “if this was a real fight, you’d be dead now.” You met his gaze evenly. “If this was a real fight…” You smiled. Your hand twisted—only slightly, but enough. The jutsu unravelled like smoke. His eyes widened. “You countered—?” You moved again before he could finish. The air around you rippled. Wind-enhanced speed carried you forward in a blink, and this time your kick connected. Hard. His body hit the ground with a thud and rolled, though he recovered quick, sliding to a stop with both hands on the earth. He looked up at you. “That hurt.” “Good.”

He laughed then, actually laughed—a low, delighted sound you rarely heard from him in the middle of a spar. His hands blurred into another jutsu before you could press the advantage. “Shadow Strangle,” he said casually. The next thing you knew, the grass beneath you surged black. His chakra shot out in thick tendrils—grabbing, wrapping, tightening. You dropped to one knee, fingers forming seals in rapid succession. “Wind Release—Vacuum Sphere!” The blast cut through the shadows like a blade, severing their reach. The jutsu didn’t hit him, but it gave you space. You bolted to the side, heart racing now, and not just from exertion. He was better than before. Faster. Sharper. But so were you. The clearing was torn now—grass ripped up, small craters where jutsus had collided. Your breathing came hard and steady. Across from you, he stood loose and easy, but his eyes were sharp. “You’re stronger,” he said. You shrugged. “You’re not holding back.” “Should I be?”

Your eyes met.

“No.”

In the next moment, you both moved. Chakra burned through your limbs like fire. You met mid-air, your kick clashing with his forearm. The impact sent a shockwave through the trees. Birds scattered overhead. You landed on a broken log, pushed off it, feinted left. He anticipated it, tried to trap you with a looping shadow. You vaulted over it, somersaulted low to the ground, and released a burst of wind from your palm that knocked him back a step. Close. So close. He came at you with a kunai now, not even bothering with shadows. Just instinct and muscle and breath. You blocked it with your own, the clang of steel ringing out, sparks flying. You twisted into his guard, your forearm pressing to his chest—too close for weapons, too close for thought. Your faces were inches apart.

He was breathing hard now. So were you. “Getting tired?” you asked. “Never,” he murmured, and you felt his chakra rise again, hot and sharp. But instead of attacking, he smirked. And then his shadow surged beneath you.

Damn it.

You tried to move—too late. The binding caught your right foot. He lunged forward with a grin, arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you down in a clean, practiced maneuver. You hit the ground with a grunt, pinned beneath him. “Checkmate,” he whispered against your ear. You looked up, breath caught between laughter and frustration. Sweat beaded at his brow, sliding down his jaw. “I hate you,” you said. “No, you don’t.” His voice was low, close — and he hadn’t moved.

You were still beneath him, the weight of him grounding you, one hand pressed into the earth beside your head, the other curled near your waist, not quite touching. His breath ghosted against your cheek. His hair fell slightly into his face, strands shadowing his sharp eyes, the ones that always seemed to see more than he let on.

The world outside the clearing felt impossibly far away. Neither of you spoke for a while. Just breathing. Listening. “You’ve gotten good,” he said finally, voice quiet, like the comment wasn’t entirely welcome. “Too good.” You arched a brow. “Is that a compliment?” “No,” he said, deadpan. “It’s a threat.” You laughed under your breath, eyes falling closed for a moment. “Better be.” Still, Shikamaru didn’t move. And neither did you. Then—slowly, carefully—you opened your eyes again.

And looked up. Really looked.

There was something about the way the sunlight filtered through the canopy above, painting his features in shades of amber and gold. His expression wasn’t teasing now. Just thoughtful. Still. That same unreadable calm he always wore when the moment mattered more than he wanted to admit. Your chest ached a little. Not from the fight. You didn’t say anything. You just held his gaze. The air between you had shifted—less a breath, more a heartbeat. Tangible. Deep. That moment stretched, wrapped around you like warm cloth, familiar and bittersweet. His lips parted slightly, like he might say something—then didn’t. Instead, after a long pause, he asked, “When do you leave again?”

You blinked.

His voice was steady, but something behind it sounded tired. Not with you. With everything else. You hesitated before answering. Your throat felt dry. “…Soon,” you said, softer than before. “A few more days. Maybe.” You watched the way his jaw tensed, subtle but unmistakable. He looked down, just for a second, brows drawn as though the words tasted bitter in his mouth. “Of course,” he muttered, almost to himself. You felt the shift in his body, the quiet frustration he wouldn’t name. You knew that tone. Knew it well. It wasn’t anger. It was the kind of weariness that came from knowing something was necessary but hating it anyway.

You reached up, fingers brushing lightly at his sleeve—not enough to pull, just to anchor him. Just so he wouldn’t drift too far from this moment. He looked back at you, eyes meeting yours again, and this time he didn’t hide it. The faint flicker of something unresolved, something held back for too long.

You opened your mouth to speak. But the words never made it out. Because in the space between one breath and the next—he kissed you.

There was no hesitation. No warning. Just his lips pressing to yours, warm and sure, like he’d made the decision in an instant and didn’t plan to take it back. And everything stopped. The air stilled. The sounds of the forest dulled. Your thoughts—your heartbeat—stumbled over themselves before dissolving into quiet, into heat, into the softness of his mouth and the certainty of his hands. One braced beside your head, fingers curled into the grass, grounding himself in the moment. The other found your waist, firm and unyielding, as though afraid the world might pull you away from him if he didn’t hold you close enough. You inhaled sharply against him—but then you melted. Completely.

Your hand rose on instinct, fingers brushing against the curve of his jaw, the line of his neck, memorizing the feel of him beneath your touch. The stubble along his skin. The warmth of him, the steadiness. You curled your other hand at his shoulder, holding on like you were trying to memorize the shape of this moment—afraid it might vanish if you let go.

The kiss deepened—not rushed, not desperate, but full. Heavy with everything unspoken. It carried the weight of days and nights spent dancing around something neither of you would name, of passing touches and lingering glances, of unsent letters and silences too thick to cut through. He was quiet, always. But this—this was him speaking.

You felt it in the way his lips moved with yours, slow but certain, reverent almost. In the quiet sigh that trembled through his chest and into yours, like he was finally exhaling something he hadn’t let himself feel until now. Something careful. Something real. Your heart ached with how tender it was. With how long you’d both waited for this, maybe without even realizing it. And as his forehead came to rest against yours, his breath uneven now, you felt that ache deepen. His eyes were still closed. Like he wasn’t ready to let go of the moment just yet. Or maybe he didn’t trust himself to look at you without it breaking the spell. You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Your hand stayed at his face, thumb brushing his cheekbone softly, reverently, as if touching something fragile. And he let you. Leaned into it, just barely, as if even now, he didn’t want to ask for more than what you gave freely.

You felt the tension slowly unwind from his body, bit by bit, like every second of closeness was untangling knots neither of you had known were there. The weight he always carried—the pressure, the burden, the solitude—lifted, just a little. Enough for you to feel it. Enough to know how much he trusted you. When he finally opened his eyes, they found yours instantly.

And you saw it—all of it.

The worry. The longing. The fear of losing something he never dared to ask for in the first place. “I wasn’t going to say it,” you whispered, voice barely there. He didn’t need to ask what you meant. He already knew. He swallowed, throat bobbing slightly. “I know.” And still—he kissed you.

Again.

Softer this time. Slower. Like he was trying to memorize you in pieces. The way your lips parted for him. The taste of your breath. The tremble in your fingers. The way your lashes fluttered shut.

It was the kind of kiss that said: If you have to go, take this with you.

The kind that said: Don’t forget me.

The kind that said: I won’t say it. But I will show you. Every time.

And it shattered you in the gentlest way. Because he didn’t make promises. He didn’t offer declarations or pretty words. But this—he gave you this.

And in his world, that meant everything.

So you held him close. Closer than before. As if you could carve the memory of this moment into your bones. As if the weight of his body against yours, the warmth of his hand at your waist, the quiet strength of his heart beating through his chest, could keep you anchored when the silence came again. And maybe—it would. Maybe it had to. But for now…

For now, you just stayed.

●

Days had passed. Long ones.

You hadn’t seen him since that evening on the training grounds, when breath and bruises had turned into something softer. Into a kiss you hadn’t expected and hadn’t stopped thinking about since.

The memory lingered in a way nothing else quite had in recent months—like warmth tucked under your skin. Every time your mind wandered, it went back to that moment. The way his mouth had found yours, without hesitation. The way he’d touched you like he wasn’t sure he deserved it, but needed it anyway.

You thought about the sound he’d made when you kissed him back. About the silence that had followed, comfortable and close. About the weight of his forehead resting against yours.

It was strange, how something so quiet could echo for days.

He’d been called away on a mission shortly after. Nothing long—just a few days. But in the stillness of your own temporary leave, the absence of him became a kind of presence too.

You spent your time resting. Reading. Walking through the quieter edges of the village without a destination. You let yourself be still—just for a little while.

But tonight was your last night before heading out again. And the quiet had started to feel a little too quiet.

So you’d lit a few candles. Not because you needed them, but because the soft flicker made the evening feel more grounded. More yours. You’d just come out of the shower, wrapped in the scent of your favorite soap, skin warm from the steam, your hair damp and curling softly at the ends. You wore a simple wrap dress—comfortable but just a little pretty, like you were trying to feel human again before the cold distance of a mask and mission overtook you. It hugged you gently, cinched at the waist, and fell around your knees like water.

In the kitchen, the scent of miso and soy filled the air—your ramen wasn’t quite finished yet, but it was close. The broth simmered slowly, the noodles resting nearby, waiting. You sat curled on the couch, one leg tucked under you, a book open in your lap and a cup of green tea resting between your palms. The soft hum of the stove and the occasional page turn were the only sounds in the room. And then—three knocks at your door.

You froze.

You weren’t expecting anyone. Not this late. Not tonight. You set your tea down, placing the book spine-up on the couch cushion, and padded barefoot across the wooden floor toward the entrance. The knot in your chest tightened slightly, your shinobi instincts sharpening for a brief moment—until you opened the door. And everything softened.

Shikamaru stood in the doorway.

Hair slightly tousled, shadows under his eyes, mission gear gone, but fatigue still clinging faintly to him like dust. He wore a simple dark shirt and pants, nothing dramatic—but in his hand, almost awkwardly held, was a small bouquet of flowers. Wild ones, mostly. A few sprigs of white, pale purple, something with green stems that didn’t quite match. It wasn’t elegant. But it was… real.

The scent hit you first—a strange but strangely comforting mix of crushed petals and faint cigarette smoke. A contrast that somehow fit him too well.

You blinked. He didn’t say anything at first. Neither did you. The moment stretched, quiet and oddly full.

“…You’re back,” you finally said, voice soft, almost unsure whether to smile. “Yeah.” He scratched at the back of his neck with the hand not holding the flowers, looking somewhere just past your shoulder. “Didn’t plan to come by, honestly.”

A pause.

You tilted your head, brow arching slightly. “Should I be offended?” That made his lips twitch, just slightly. His eyes finally met yours. “I can leave if you want.” It was said with his usual dry tone, but there was something underneath it—something shy, almost. Like he wasn’t sure how he’d be received. Like he’d been playing the scene out in his head the entire walk over and had already prepared himself for you to shut the door in his face. You looked at him for a long moment.

Then you reached forward, fingers brushing gently over Shikamarus wrist as you took the bouquet from him and stepped aside. “Stay,” you said, quieter now. “I was just making ramen.” He hesitated, still lingering in the doorway as if unsure whether this counted as permission or a trap. “You’ll like it,” you added, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips as you turned and walked back into the apartment. You didn’t have to look back to know he followed.

The door clicked shut softly behind him. You set the flowers on the counter, searching for a jar to use as a makeshift vase. You heard him sigh behind you—tired, maybe, or just releasing something held too long. “So,” you said over your shoulder as you filled the jar with water. “Was it a difficult mission?” “Not really.” He sounded closer now. “Just… a lot of walking.” “You hate walking.” “Troublesome, yeah.” You could almost hear the smirk in his voice now. “But I made it back.” You turned, placing the jar of flowers on the table near the window. The setting sun caught the petals just right, making them look almost prettier than they were. You looked at him. He was watching you. His eyes didn’t move. The air shifted a little.

“I wasn’t sure if I’d see you before I go.” you admitted, suddenly unable to meet his gaze. “I figured you’d be—busy. Or… tired.” “I was,” he said quietly. “But I kept thinking about that kiss.” Your breath caught. You turned fully toward him now, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the counter for balance. Shikamaru shrugged, looking almost annoyed with himself. “Couldn’t get it out of my head. Figured that meant I should stop thinking about it and do something instead.” You didn’t know what to say to that. So instead, you walked past him to the stove, stirring the ramen gently, letting the silence stretch in a way that wasn’t uncomfortable.

He moved closer.

Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him behind you, not touching, but present. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to reach for you again—but hoped you might.

You turned, ladle still in hand, eyes finding his again. “Can you grab two bowls?” you asked gently, nodding toward the cupboard behind him. Shikamaru blinked once, as if coming out of some quiet internal fog, and turned around without a word. You watched him as he reached up, the hem of his shirt pulling slightly with the stretch. His movements were unhurried, efficient—but still carrying that particular kind of laziness only he had perfected. He handed you the bowls without needing to be asked twice.

“Thanks,” you murmured, taking them and setting them down beside the pot. You ladled the ramen carefully, making sure to get enough broth and noodles in each bowl. It wasn’t anything fancy—just something warm, something real. Something to fill the quiet with more than just silence. “Chopsticks?” he offered, already moving toward the drawer where you kept them. “You know your way around too well,” you said, a faint smile tugging at your mouth. “Troublesome how often I’ve been here,” he replied, handing you a pair and taking the other for himself.

You carried both bowls to the small coffee table in front of the couch, setting them down gently before settling in. Shikamaru joined you, legs folding easily beneath him, the lines of his body relaxing in that same way you remembered from nights long past—those quiet hours after missions, both of you too wired or too worn out to sleep. “You know… for someone who’s been here so often, it’s kind of funny nothing’s ever really… happened.” Shikamaru raised a brow. “Nothing?” You sank into the cushions a little deeper and gave him a look. “I mean, except for you randomly kissing me on that training field and then pretending like it didn’t completely scramble my brain.”

A corner of his mouth lifted, something slow and slightly smug. “Randomly? You were the one who pinned me to the ground.” “That was a sparring maneuver.” You rolled your eyes, but your lips tugged upward despite yourself. “You kissed me, remember?” He shrugged again and lowered himself onto the couch beside you, deliberately close. “Seemed like the right move at the time.” You ate in relative silence at first. It wasn’t uncomfortable.

The young man blew on the noodles before slurping them down, his usual expression of faint disinterest returning every now and then between bites. You watched Shikamaru from the corner of your eye, amused by the speed at which his food disappeared. “Did you even taste it?” you asked eventually, quirking a brow as he lowered his bowl. He gave a small shrug. “I was hungry.” You picked at your own ramen with a faint smirk. “Clearly.”

Shikamaru shifted beside you, leaning back into the couch. One arm draped along the backrest—casually, but it settled just behind your shoulders, his fingers barely brushing the fabric of your dress. Not quite touching you… but close enough that you felt the warmth of him, the nearness. The kind that made you hyperaware of your own breathing. The other hand lifted to rub lazily at the back of his neck, his movements slow, unbothered. “Could’ve told you no. Could’ve gone home. Slept.” “But you didn’t,” you said softly, not quite looking at him. “No,” he admitted, voice low and a little rough, his eyes half-lidded as he turned just slightly toward you. “Didn’t want to.” There was a pause. One of those stretches of silence that wasn’t awkward—but heavy. Charged. His fingers shifted, brushing a little closer to your shoulder, just enough to set your skin tingling beneath your dress. You didn’t lean in. But you didn’t lean away, either. There was a pause, long and warm.

Then he sat up and gestured vaguely toward the windowed door. “Mind if I smoke?” You shook your head. “Go ahead.” He stood and slid the glass door open with a soft sound, stepping out onto the small balcony that overlooked the quieter side of the village. The cool evening air slipped in around the edges of the room. You finished the last few bites of your ramen in silence, your thoughts drifting somewhere behind your eyes.

You followed him a few minutes later, barefoot on the smooth wood floor, your bowl now empty and set aside. Shikamaru leaned on the railing, cigarette between his fingers, the glow of the ember pulsing faintly in the growing dusk. The breeze ruffled his hair slightly. He didn’t turn when you stepped out. You didn’t say anything, either. You moved past him, quietly, and turned to rest your elbows on the balcony railing, leaning back against it with a soft sigh. Your eyes closed for a second, the breeze cool against your skin, your head tilted slightly toward the stars just beginning to peek through the dark. The sound of the village was soft below. Somewhere far off, a dog barked. The faint clang of metal echoed from a distant training yard. But here—it was still.

You opened your eyes again and turned your head slightly, watching him as he took another drag. His profile was quiet, unreadable. The same look you remembered from a hundred nights like this, from campfires and debriefings and the uncertain in-betweens of wartime. “You remember the coastal mission?” you asked suddenly. He glanced sideways at you. “Which one?” “The one with the smugglers. Three years ago. Before I joined the ANBU.” Shikamaru made a soft noise of recognition, exhaling smoke out toward the sky. “Right. The warehouse. You almost got crushed under a collapsing ceiling.” “You dropped that ceiling.” “It was tactical.” “You said, ‘Oops.’” He gave a faint snort. “Still tactical.”

You laughed, leaning your head back again, the sound brief but real. “You really were sure I was going to die.” “I wasn’t.” His voice was low. Thoughtful. “I was sure you wouldn’t let yourself.” You turned your head toward him, slowly. “I remember thinking I’d never felt more tired,” you murmured. “Everything ached. My legs were jelly. You pulled me out by the strap of my vest.” “You told me if I yanked any harder, you’d puke on my boots.”

“I meant it,” you grinned. He gave a half-smile of his own, the cigarette hovering near his lips again. The smoke curled lazily around him, catching in the breeze. It didn’t bother you like it used to. Now, it just smelled like him. Like missions and late nights and something too familiar to ever forget.

“I miss that,” you said softly. “Not the danger. Not the blood. Just… that kind of simplicity. Being on a team. Knowing someone had your back. Knowing it was you.” He didn’t answer right away. Then he flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette and murmured, “You were always the one who moved first. I just made sure no one stabbed you in the back while you did.” You smiled faintly, the words warm against the growing chill in the air. “You ever think about what things would’ve been like if I hadn’t joined the ANBU?” you asked, more out of the silence than out of hope for an answer.

“All the time,” he said, too easily.

You blinked. Looked at him. He didn’t meet your gaze. Just took another drag. Your throat felt tight, suddenly. Like something unnamed had been sitting there, waiting. You looked out over the edge of the balcony again, eyes tracing the rooftops and familiar shapes of the village that had never really changed. Only you had. “I still remember the way you looked at me when I told you I was accepting the offer,” you said. “Like you already knew I was going to say yes.” “I did,” he replied quietly. “Didn’t mean I liked it.”

You were quiet for a long time.

“Why didn’t you stop me?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper. He finally looked at you then. Really looked. “Because it wasn’t my decision,” he said. “And because… if it had been me, I’d have gone too.” You swallowed. There was something heavy in the air now, but not suffocating. Just weighty. Full of everything that had never been said but had always been there—hovering, like smoke that never quite cleared. “I thought I’d forget how this felt,” you admitted. “Standing here. With you.”

“Did you?”

You shook your head.

He dropped the cigarette to the ashtray on the railing and crushed it out, the ember vanishing.

“Come back alive,” he said simply.

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the quiet intensity in his voice. “I always do,” you replied softly. “Yeah,” he muttered, gaze flickering down. “But I still like hearing it.” You pushed off the railing and moved closer, slow. His eyes lifted again as you reached up, fingers brushing lightly over his sleeve. “You could’ve told me this before the kiss,” you said, almost teasing, but something in your voice wavered. He gave a small, tired smile. “Would’ve ruined the moment.” You huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re an idiot.” “I get that a lot.”

Another beat of silence passed between you.

Then, softer—almost reverent—you murmured, “I’m glad you came tonight.” Shikamaru’s eyes didn’t leave yours. His voice was quiet. Steady. “Yeah. Me too.”

You weren’t sure who moved first. But it didn’t matter.

His lips met yours with a quiet kind of urgency—like a thought that had been unfinished for far too long. It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t fumbling. It was slow and real and known. The way his mouth moved against yours, warm and certain, told stories neither of you had ever dared speak aloud. It was familiarity wrapped in something newly blooming. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask for permission—because it had always been waiting.

He tasted faintly of smoke and something softer underneath. His hand came to rest at your waist, firm but not forceful, grounding you like he always had in the chaos of everything else. Your breath caught softly in your throat as you tilted your head, letting yourself lean in—just enough to fall. You pulled back only slightly, just enough to whisper the question against his lips.

“…Why didn’t we do this sooner?”

Shikamaru opened his eyes, just barely. They searched yours for a quiet second before he spoke. “Timing,” he said. “Or maybe just me being a coward.” You huffed a breath of air that could’ve been a laugh if your heart hadn’t been pounding. “You?” He gave a small, rueful smirk. “Yeah. Me.”

And then he kissed you again.

This time, it wasn’t tentative. There was no testing, no lingering question. It was need—years of unspoken words, of shared glances and brushed hands and near-confessions left to hang in the silence. It was the release of everything you’d both held back for too long.

Your hand found his chest, fingers splayed over the fabric of his shirt, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath. Your other hand rose to the back of his neck, threading into the dark strands of his hair, drawing him closer. He let you. More than that—he leaned into you, the warmth of his body pressing against yours, matching your rhythm, deepening the kiss until you weren’t sure where one of you ended and the other began. The air between you shifted—warmer, heavier. Your breath mingled with his, skin prickling with every brush, every pull. You felt his fingers slide up your back, steadying, learning. Your body answered without hesitation, leaning into every inch of closeness he offered. It was heady and warm and utterly overwhelming. But it felt like coming home.

The kiss broke just barely—only enough to let breath return in shaky exhales. His forehead rested against yours, his eyes half-lidded, and for a moment, neither of you moved. Just the sound of your breathing. The quiet hum of the village night beyond the balcony. The way his hand didn’t leave your back. “…Still think the timing was bad?” you whispered, voice uneven. Shikamaru shook his head, eyes not leaving yours. “No,” he murmured. “Feels exactly right.”

The moment your lips met again, everything else fell away. The world outside your small balcony ceased to exist. There was only him. Only the warmth of his mouth against yours, the way his breath hitched slightly when your fingers slid up into his hair, the way he pulled you just a little closer, like he couldn’t help it. It was slower this time. Softer. But no less consuming. Your heart thrummed beneath your ribs, loud enough you were sure he could feel it. You parted your lips just enough for him to deepen the kiss, and he did—carefully, deliberately—like he had all the time in the world now.

Your back bumped gently into the doorframe as you pulled away just long enough to look at him. His eyes searched yours again, quiet and unreadable, but his hands stayed on you—one resting against the curve of your waist, the other slipping to the small of your back. “Shikamaru…” you murmured, not even sure what you were going to say. “Yeah,” he said, his voice low and rough with something unspoken. You didn’t finish the thought. Instead, your fingers curled into the fabric at his collar as you stepped back into the apartment, leading him with you. He followed without hesitation, never quite letting go of you, his fingers brushing against your skin with every step like a tether he refused to loosen.

The apartment was dim now, lit only by the low glow of the few candles you were lightening earlier. The ramen bowls sat forgotten on the coffee table, but neither of you even glanced at them. Every few steps, you stopped again—another kiss, another touch—like gravity kept pulling you back to each other.nBy the time you reached the hallway, you were both breathless, your smile caught between kisses and half-formed laughter. You bumped into the wall once, giggling against his shoulder. He mumbled something about how troublesome you were, but his mouth was on yours again before he could finish.

You didn’t let go of him. You didn’t want to.

Your hand slid down to find his, fingers interlacing, grounding yourself in the simplest, oldest gesture between you. The kind that said: stay. The kind that didn’t need words. When you finally reached the edge of your bedroom, you paused—just for a second. The air between you was warm and full and trembling with something delicate. His thumb brushed along your knuckles, eyes catching yours in the soft dark. “You sure?” he asked, voice barely more than a breath. You smiled, pulling him gently inside. “I’ve never been more sure.”

The door clicked shut behind you, but you barely heard it over the soft sound of your breaths—his and yours, mingling in the quiet. Shikamaru kissed you again before either of you spoke—slow, aching, like he was trying to tell you something without words. You melted into him, arms curling around his neck, fingers threading into his hair. His lips moved against yours with reverence, with restraint that was fast unraveling. You could feel it in the way his hands gripped your waist—gentle still, but with an edge of urgency just beneath the surface. Like he’d waited too long already.

The soft material of your wrap dress shifted under his fingers as he followed the curve of your body. When his knuckles brushed against the tie at your waist, he paused. His forehead rested against yours, and for a heartbeat, he simply breathed you in. Then he tugged the knot loose—slowly, carefully—watching the dress come undone like the last piece of distance falling away.

Fabric whispered to the floor, and you stood before him in nothing but delicate lace and bare skin. His eyes moved over you, not with hunger, but awe. Like he was seeing something rare. Something fragile. Something Shikamaru didn’t dare rush. “Damn…” he murmured, so low you almost missed it. His thumb traced along your hipbone, barely there, like he was afraid to press too hard and shatter the moment. You could feel your pulse flutter beneath your skin, your breath catching when he leaned in again—not to kiss your mouth this time, but the corner of it. Then your jaw. Then lower. Each press of his lips was deliberate, unhurried, trailing heat wherever it landed.

Your fingers found the hem of his shirt and slid beneath it, palms meeting warm skin. He inhaled sharply, but didn’t stop you. You undressed him in silence, your touch lingering, mapping the contours of his body like a blindfolded prayer. When your eyes lifted back to his, the air between you was thick—heavy with want, with everything you hadn’t said and everything you didn’t need to.

You leaned up to kiss him—this time slower. More intentional. And he kissed you back like he finally understood what it meant to need.

Shikamarus fingers skimmed the edges of your lingerie, reverent, featherlight. As if your body was a secret he was being allowed to learn, one breath at a time. When he pushed the straps from your shoulders, he didn’t tear them away. He watched the way your skin reacted to the cool air, his hands steady, his gaze impossibly soft. You gasped softly as his lips found your collarbone, a kiss so tender it ached. Your back arched instinctively, inviting him closer, and he accepted—his hands cradling your ribs like something precious. One slid to your lower back, pulling you flush against him, while the other traced a slow path downward, past the lace and silk, until every layer between you had been undone.

You were bare to him now, completely. But somehow, you’d never felt safer. He looked at you like he’d never seen anything more important.

Shikamaru leaned in, and your lips met once more, soft and steady. His kiss no longer asked a question. It gave an answer. His hands found your back, pulling you close again, chests pressed together, heat bleeding between you. You melted into him, fingertips sliding up the line of his spine as you kissed him deeper, slower. There was no urgency here—just quiet, careful hunger. The kind that had been held back far too long. You barely noticed the way you drifted toward the bed until the backs of your knees brushed against the mattress. He paused, looking at you again—just a breath of space between you—searching your expression for any trace of hesitation. You gave him none. Only a soft smile, your hands guiding him forward with a whisper of pressure.

The bed gave beneath your weight as you lay back, and he followed you down with quiet reverence. The world narrowed to the sensation of skin against skin, of warmth and breath and the gentle weight of him above you. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye, as if grounding himself in the reality of your presence. Shikamaru kissed you again, and this time his mouth didn’t just kiss—it lingered. He traced the edge of your jaw with slow, deliberate care, moved to your neck with soft, lingering pressure, coaxing sighs from your lips you hadn’t meant to give. His touch followed—fingers trailing along the lines of your collarbone, your sides, your waist—like a silent conversation passed through skin. You arched slightly into his touch, eyes fluttering closed. Your breath caught when his lips found the hollow of your throat, slow and sensual, his hand splayed against your ribs. The way he moved wasn’t hurried. It was intentional. Like each moment was meant to be savored, as if he wanted you to remember not just the feeling, but the meaning in every press of his mouth. Your hands roamed in kind, fingers gliding over the muscles of his back, the curve of his shoulder, the warmth of his skin. You felt every shift of him above you, every careful adjustment as he leaned down again, kissing you with more certainty, more need.

His hand skimmed down your thigh, pausing only to anchor you closer again. Your fingers slid into his hair, grounding yourself in the way he made you feel—seen, held, wanted. Shikamarus lips returned to yours, slower now but burning, and you met him with equal fire, your body instinctively rising to meet his. There was something sacred in the way you moved together, like every unspoken feeling was finally given space to breathe.

You could feel his restraint slipping away, the once-gentle brush of his fingertips on your thigh turning into a possessive grip. His kiss deepened, no longer tender but hungry—his tongue tangling with yours, demanding, urgent. Your legs parted instinctively, welcoming him closer, and he responded without hesitation. His hand slid upward, caressing the delicate skin of your inner thigh, sending shivers racing through you.

The contrast between the chill of the room and the growing heat between your legs sent a ripple of anticipation through you. You bit your lip as his fingers found your wetness—your arousal slick and warm against his touch. He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating from his chest into your core. Shikamarus thumb circled your clit with the lightest, teasing pressure, and you moaned into his mouth, your body instinctively arching toward him, silently pleading for more.

Shikamaru didn’t make you wait.

He explored you with an intoxicating blend of tenderness and intensity, his fingers delving into your folds as if Shikamaru were learning you by heart. Each stroke of his thumb against your clit was a question, each curl of his fingers inside you an answer. You responded in gasps and whimpers, your hips rolling against his hand, seeking more of the pleasure he gave so generously. His eyes never left yours, his gaze burning with a need that went far deeper than lust. It was raw. It was real.

His name fell from your lips in a breathy whisper—“Shika…”—and his expression darkened with want. He leaned down, pressing his mouth to yours again, his kiss open and consuming, as if he needed to taste every sound you made. As his fingers continued to work you, his lips left yours to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. When he found your pulse, he sucked gently, teeth grazing the sensitive spot, leaving behind a mark only you would know was there.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, drawing him impossibly closer. You could feel the hard press of his cock against your entrance, and it made you gasp—so close, and yet not enough. He paused again, one hand still pleasuring you while the other gripped your thigh tightly. His gaze locked with yours, wordlessly asking. You nodded, eyes wide and filled with trust and desire. He shifted his hips, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your opening, the stretch delicious and slow as he began to sink into you.

The moment Shikamaru entered you, the world seemed to go still. It wasn’t just physical—it was profound. The way he filled you, inch by inch, made you feel claimed, possessed, and utterly cherished. The stretch was intense, a perfect ache that had you clenching around him, your breath catching in your throat. His eyes searched your face for any sign of discomfort, but all he saw was your need, your raw openness.

Shikamaru stayed there, unmoving, letting your bodies adjust, letting the sensation sink into both of you like heat into skin. Then, slowly, he began to move—each thrust measured, deliberate, as if he were savoring every second, every inch of friction. You met his rhythm instinctively, your hips rising to meet his in a dance older than time. Your breaths tangled, your mouths met again, and in that moment, it wasn’t just sex—it was something far greater.

Your hands roamed his body, feeling the flex of muscle beneath sweat-slicked skin. His back arched into your touch, and his movements grew more confident, more demanding. You whispered his name like a prayer, like a plea, and it spurred him on—his hips snapping forward, harder now, deeper. Shikamarus mouth left trails of fire across your collarbone, his tongue and teeth alternating between teasing and worshiping your skin. When he leaned down to take one of your nipples into his mouth, you cried out. His tongue swirled around the stiff peak before he grazed it gently with his teeth, and the jolt of sensation shot straight to your core. He palmed your other breast, rolling the sensitive bud between his fingers until you were arching off the bed, your cries filling the air. Your bodies moved as one—sweat and breath, moans and gasps blending into a symphony of unrestrained need. You clung to him, nails digging into Shikamarus shoulders, leaving marks that would remind him of this moment for days to come. “Harder,” you gasped, and he obeyed, his thrusts becoming powerful, unrelenting, driving into you with a force that bordered on wild.

“Look at me,” Shikamaru growled, his voice thick and broken, and your eyes snapped open, locking with his. The intensity in his gaze was staggering—feral, tender, worshipful. “You’re mine.”

You nodded, the word catching in your throat as the pleasure built higher, tighter, unbearable.

“Always,” you whispered.

The word shattered something in him. He surged forward, hips slamming into yours with punishing precision. You could feel yourself tightening around him, your orgasm clawing its way through you, a tidal wave threatening to consume you both. Your cries grew louder, your voice breaking on Shikamarus name as the world spun out of focus.

And then it hit you.

You came with a scream, your body seizing around him, muscles contracting in waves of overwhelming pleasure. Shikamaru followed moments later, groaning your name as he buried himself deep inside you, his warmth flooding into you in hot, pulsing bursts. The sensation of him filling you, of your bodies locked so tightly together, sent another ripple of pleasure through you, leaving you trembling and breathless.

You clung to him as your bodies trembled, lost in the aftershocks of shared release. Shikamarus thrusts slowed, becoming gentle, almost reverent. He pressed soft kisses to your neck and collarbone, a tender contrast to the fury of moments before. Your bodies remained tangled, breaths mingling, heartbeats racing in perfect unison. In the quiet aftermath, nothing else existed—just the two of you, suspended in the stillness, wrapped in the glow of something that felt like more than desire. It felt like devotion. The rise and fall of his chest began to slow, calming in the hush that settled over the room. It was as though neither of you dared to speak, in case words might break whatever this quiet thing was now blooming between you—fragile and beautiful, like morning light just before it touches the world.

But eventually, he shifted.

Just enough to press a kiss to your hairline. Then another, softer, to your temple. And finally, he leaned back, brushing a few strands of hair gently away from your face. His eyes found yours in the dim candlelight still flickering from the hallway, and for a long moment, he just looked at you. Really looked.

There was no smirk. No laziness in his expression. Just something still and certain. Something that reached deeper than words.

He sat up slightly, careful with you. The sheets rustled as he leaned over to grab the light blanket at the foot of the bed, unfolding it and laying it over your body with a quiet kind of reverence. The aftercare wasn’t showy, but it was there—in the way his hands moved gently across your skin, the way he brushed a kiss to your shoulder before laying back down beside you.

His hand found yours again beneath the covers, intertwining your fingers with a sigh that sounded like peace. You stayed like that for a while. Quiet. Breathing. Feeling. His thumb traced over the back of your knuckles like he was memorizing every detail.n“…I leave tomorrow,” you said at last, your voice quiet and barely audible in the stillness. “First light.”

He didn’t say anything for a second. Just nodded, slow and thoughtful. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“I know.”

You turned to face him more fully, resting your hand against his chest where you could feel his heart beating—steady and strong beneath your palm. “I’ll come back,” you said, softer now. “To you.” His gaze flickered, just slightly. Something tightened and then released in his face, like he was trying to pretend your words hadn’t meant more than they should. But his fingers tightened around yours, just enough for you to feel it. “Tch,” he muttered, eyes closing briefly. “You’d better.”

You let out a small laugh, the sound breaking through the tenderness like sunlight. His lips twitched at the corners, but his expression remained subdued. “I mean it, Shikamaru,” you said, more serious now. “Whatever happens… I’ll come back.” “I know,” he said, quieter still. “But just in case…” He leaned in again, pressing one last kiss to your lips—slow, anchoring, the kind of kiss that said more than anything he could ever phrase aloud. It wasn’t full of desperation. It was full of promise. You let your forehead rest against his, your noses brushing, breath mingling in that last shared quiet before the weight of the world returned. Neither of you said goodbye. You didn’t need to.

Not when you’d already decided to return to each other. Not when your hearts had already met halfway.

[dollyswishingwell]

If requests are open, maybe a failed escape attempt and the aftermath with caleb, please. thank you.

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Leaving isn’t an option

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ yandere, he’s still soft tho

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ It never works

The door slammed shut behind you.

You didn’t even make it past the private lift before he caught you.

Your leg gave out first, the same one still half-healed from the mission. The pain was blinding, white-hot. You collapsed hard against the hallway wall, fingers scraping for balance, breath caught in your throat.

Then you heard the calm, cold footsteps behind you. The measured pace of boots. Not rushing. Not worried.

He knew you weren’t getting far.

“…Are you done, pips?” Caleb’s voice was low, unreadable. Controlled.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You were curled half on the floor, too proud to beg, too shaken to speak. Your body trembled as he crouched in front of you, purple eyes glowing faintly under the hall light.

His gloved hand reached out.

You flinched.

He paused, for a second. Just a second. Then he gently, gently touched your chin, tilting your face up to meet his.

“Look at me,” he whispered. “What part of ‘you’re not leaving me again’ didn’t get through that pretty head of yours?”

You hated how soft his voice was. Hated how careful he was being now. Like you were something fragile. Broken. He didn’t yell. Didn’t scold.

He just… looked at you like he was devastated.

“…My leg,” you mumbled bitterly, “still hurts.”

Caleb sighed. That same sigh he used to make when you rushed off without eating or ignored your rest timer on missions. The kind that said I told you so without saying it.

“You could’ve torn it open again,” he muttered, slipping one arm under your knees, the other behind your back. “Are you trying to make me lose my fucking mind?”

You squirmed in his hold, angry and helpless. “Put me down—!”

“No.”

You shoved weakly at his chest. He didn’t budge. He didn’t even blink.

“I’m not your prisoner—!”

“Yes, you are,” he said quietly. “You’re my everything. And I almost lost you. So now? Yeah. You’re mine to protect. Mine to keep.”

He carried you back inside the penthouse like you weighed nothing. The automatic doors slid shut behind him with a hiss. Locked. Again.

You thrashed as he laid you gently on the bed. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe.”

He knelt beside you, undoing your boot carefully, fingers brushing the swollen bruises on your ankle. His brows furrowed in frustration. Not at you. At the injury. At himself.

“I told you,” he said, more to himself now than to you, “I should’ve never let you go on that mission. I knew you weren’t ready.”

You stared up at him, breath ragged, as he pulled a blanket over your legs.

“You’re not leaving me again,” he murmured, leaning closer. “No more chases. No more bleeding out somewhere cold and alone. I don’t care if you hate me now. You’ll thank me later, when you’re healed. Happy. Safe.”

“And what if I never forgive you?” you asked, your voice hoarse.

His lips pressed to your forehead.

“Then I’ll wait,” he whispered. “I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. Dressing you in silk. Feeding you by hand. Giving you a life so perfect you forget what freedom even felt like.”

You felt the first tear slide down your cheek.

He kissed that too.

“Rest now, pretty girl,” Caleb said, stroking your hair. “You’ll wake up in my arms. Like you always should have.”

[juliettejwnewinesa]

hiii, so sorry but is it possible to have one with Baku?? like the fem reader is being blackmailed into being in the Union like Baku and wants out so she wants to team up but he’s like cautious of her but they end up helping eachother out - become friends and then slowly into lovers🫣🫣🫢🫢

Quiet Exit

Humin x fem!reader | Union AU | slow burn | betrayal themes | angst | eventual lovers

Song recommendation for this ff: You Don't Own Me

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You never asked to join the Union.

You hadn’t even known about them until someone caught you sneaking into a heavily secured building in Gangnam and suddenly you were in a black van, a bag over your head, and a choice on the table:

"Work for us. Or disappear."

The words hadn’t been a threat. They’d been a promise.

You signed, hands shaking. Your new name was stapled to a file. A new apartment. A burner phone. A gun. A handler who only showed up when they wanted something bloody done quietly.

You didn’t ask questions. Not out loud. But you kept a notebook. You traced names, eyes, patterns. And one stood out: Humin.

He was older than you by a few years. Quiet. Private. Always watching, never reacting. A ghost even among monsters.

You wanted out. He seemed like the only one who already had one foot out the door.

So one night, you waited for him.

The Union’s back garage smelled like oil and rust. You leaned against the hood of a broken-down car, palms sweating. When he stepped in, hoodie pulled over his head, hands deep in his pockets, you spoke before you could lose your nerve.

"I want out. I think you do too."

He stopped walking. Didn’t even flinch. Just stared.

"And why the fuck would I trust you?"

Fair.

You stepped forward anyway. Slowly.

"Because I’m the only one who’s watching as closely as you are. I know what they’ve done to you. I know you hate this. And because if I get caught trying to run, I’ll be dead in twenty-four hours. So I’m not here to trap you. I’m here to make sure we both live long enough to leave."

He didn’t answer. Didn’t move. But he didn’t leave, either.

That was enough.

For weeks, it was tense. You didn’t talk much. He didn’t look at you unless he had to. But slowly, piece by piece, he let you in.

First it was access. He gave you files you shouldn’t have had. Codes. Cameras. Then it was silence. Shared cigarettes behind alley dumpsters during missions. Wordless nods in briefing rooms. Then finally: trust.

"I’m going to Busan. There’s something there I need. You coming or not?"

And you were.

He was meticulous. Cold on the outside but the kind of careful that only came from pain. You wondered what they'd done to him to make him so precise with his rage.

One night, in a crumbling motel room outside the city, you patched up a deep cut on his side. He winced. You didn’t apologize.

"You’re shaking," he said.

"Adrenaline," you lied.

But it wasn’t. It was him. And the fact that this was the first time you were close enough to realize his hands weren’t cold at all.

Your handler began watching you more closely. You started finding your apartment searched. Your notebook moved. Your lock picked.

You told Humin. He didn’t speak for a long time. Then:

"You need to disappear. Now."

"I’m not leaving you here."

He laughed, bitter. "You don’t owe me anything."

"You’re wrong."

He stared at you like you’d punched him. But he didn’t argue.

You ran together that night. Burned phones. Stolen IDs. Train to nowhere.

In a dark hotel room in a city without a name, he stared out the window and asked:

"Do you regret meeting me?"

You didn’t answer right away. Then you whispered:

"No. But I regret not meeting you sooner."

When he turned around, something had broken in him. Or maybe, something had finally healed.

He stepped forward. Close enough that you could hear his heartbeat.

"You still want out?"

"Only if you’re with me."

His lips crashed into yours.

You made it out. Not clean. Not painless. But alive.

You live in a quiet town now. You don’t say your names. You pretend to be normal. You smile at markets and hold hands like you were never killers or prisoners.

Sometimes he wakes up screaming. Sometimes you do. But you’re there for each other.

Always.

Because love isn’t always soft. Sometimes it’s bruised and desperate. Sometimes it’s built in fire and run through blood.

But it’s still love.

And after everything, it’s yours.