#so I’m making that a mission from now on

[humanjarvis]

nurse for a day

synopsis: who knew a sick doctor could be such a handful? 

tags: stubborn zayne who hates being sick, reader takes care of him anyway, sleepy delirious zayne, fluff fluff fluff, humor(?), suggestive for .5 seconds word count: 2k 

a/n: i personally think i ate with this one 

It was quiet. Too quiet. 

As you slink through the seemingly empty house, ducking into shadows like you’re on a stealth mission, you really wish your boyfriend weren’t so damn stubborn. 

On your earlier phone call, Zayne had tried admirably hard to mask the nasally tone in his voice—to pretend like his frequent coughs were simply him “clearing his throat.” But you knew better.

He doesn’t get sick often—what with knowing exactly how to prevent it, and all—but when he does, he detests it for several reasons. The most pressing one, at the moment? You love when Zayne is sick.

Not because you think he deserves it, not because you want to see him suffer, but because you get to play nurse. After so many days being taken care of and scolded by the best doctor in Linkon, you finally get to return the favor. 

Except Zayne isn’t particularly…appreciative of the favor. You’re a very strict nurse, he’s frowned at you several times before. You tell him over and over again that you only want him to feel better, but that doesn’t stop him from holing up in a bunker every time he comes down with something. It’s the only time he avoids you. 

And now, he’s hiding from you. In his own home. 

You know he’s here. When you arrived, his freshly washed car was sparkling in the driveway, a full mug of jasmine tea was still steaming on the kitchen countertop, and various office supplies were left scattered across the coffee table. As if he’d heard you coming and frantically abandoned ship. 

You’d searched the usual spots: his empty bedroom, so pristine it looked like a hotel cleaning crew had stopped by; the walk-in closet, to make sure he hadn’t disguised himself among the hangers; and his study, where there’d been nothing but heaps of paperwork threatening the desk’s structural integrity. 

He’s being extra sneaky this time, you scoff to yourself as you tiptoe around upstairs. Room after room, and no endearingly, adorably, annoyingly stubborn doctor inside. 

But then, pressing your ear to the laundry room door, you hear it. 

The unmistakable crinkle of a candy wrapper.

You’ve never felt so lucky that Zayne reserves his self-control for you and not sweets. 

With a deep breath and a crack of your knuckles, you jiggle the doorknob slightly before bursting into the room. The man inside, hunched over the floor next to a tissue box, jumps at the sudden noise before freezing in place. And then, slowly, shyly, he spins to face you with the wide eyes and stuffed cheeks of a disgruntled hamster. 

Zayne has spent enough time with you to know what the unimpressed look on your face means: Explain yourself. 

“I don’t remember you knocking,” he sniffles curtly, unable to hide the way his stuffy nose constricts his throat. The rosy blush on his cheeks is the only indication of his guilt. 

“I don’t remember signing up to date an escape artist,” you shoot back, satisfied with his resulting wince. “What are you doing all the way in here? Was the space under the desk in your study not suitable this time?” 

“Just wanted a—”sniff—“change of scenery,” he jokes lamely, gesturing to the sleek washer and dryer towering over him. 

Sighing, you crouch down in front of him, taking in the wall of chocolate wrappers barricading him in. “Is the idea of me taking care of you really that bad? I’m just trying to help.” 

“That’s exactly it,” he says dryly. “You always help more than what’s needed.” 

At that, your eyes narrow into slits sharp enough to cut through bone. His bones, if he’s not careful. “Excuse me?” 

“I mean,” he clears his throat, grimacing at the dull burn in his sinuses, “You always help me exactly how I need it, and more.” 

“That’s what I thought you said. Now, come downstairs so I can give you the medicine you need, Dr. Zayne. And hand over the candy.” 

It was no secret that Zayne loved sweet things. The confiscated tub of chocolates sitting on the counter was evidence enough. 

But as you look down at his frowning face, cup of chemically red liquid in hand, you can’t help but wonder if it’s because Zayne loves sweet things that he hates taking medicine. 

Once he’d finally trudged into the kitchen, you’d sat him down on a barstool before fishing the dreaded bottle out of the cabinet. “Why not a lozenge instead?” he’d asked. “One of the citrus ones.” 

You hadn’t fallen for his trap, of course. But as he eyes you like he’ll make a break for it any second now, a weary part of you wishes you had. 

“You know,” you lean in conspiratorially, “they say if you plug your nose, you won’t taste it as much.” 

“Illness doesn’t make me a fool,” he mutters bitterly. “I, more than anyone, know how fruitless that trick often is. It doesn’t even work on the kids in the pediatric ward anymore.” 

“And why would a 27-year-old man need the same encouragement as sick children, I wonder?” you crack slyly. 

Zayne looks away, taking a sudden interest in the floor tiles. 

Snorting, you double-check the dosage in the medicine cup and hold it out to him. He regards it with abject misery, his big, hazel eyes staring up at you pleadingly, and you feel a crack in your resolve.

“Fine,” you grumble, pivoting to raid the pantry behind you. Retrieving the most acceptable pastry you can find—there are about 7 different options—you set the blueberry muffin on the island in front of him. 

At the peace offering, those hazel eyes light up slightly, driving out some of the pallor on his face. With a deep breath, Zayne grunts softly before downing the liquid like a shot, shuddering at the aftertaste. Eyes closed in a lasting grimace, he reaches blindly for the muffin before you push it into his grasp, and he sighs in contentment when he bites into it.

Running a hand through his dark hair, you can’t help but grin fondly. 

If only the pediatric ward could see him now. 

After Zayne recovered from the horrors of modern medicine, he’d sullenly asked for more tea, since the batch he’d made earlier was cold now. Pinching his cheek, you’d sent him to sulk on the living room couch so you could keep an eye on him. Which had worked, for several minutes. You’d gathered the ingredients, and he’d flipped blankly through a journal, intermittent sniffles reassuring you of his presence. 

But as you gawk at the abandoned sofa, you realize he must have ducked you while your back was turned. 

Yep. Definitely an escape artist.

With a frustrated growl, you hurriedly plunk the tea bag in and listen for signs of movement. Hearing the faint clicks of a keyboard, you stomp up the stairs to his study, not caring if the drink in hand sloshes over the rim of his favorite penguin mug. Serves him right.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you snap, setting the cup on his desk to put your hands on your hips.

“Working,” he answers with an innocent upturn of his lips. 

“I mean,” you clarify, “what do you think you’re doing when you should be resting?”

Too distracted to keep typing, Zayne switches his attention to the stack of papers before him. “I feel much better already,” he lies flatly, breaking eye contact when yours bore into his. 

As an incredulous laugh escapes you, you throw your hands up in exasperation. “What would you say to one of your patients if they tried to work through an illness?” 

“I’d say that as a medical professional, I only have the jurisdiction to advise them on the best course of treatment. Once out of hospital care, it’s up to them to exercise judgment and decide if they’re able to work or not. Like I’m doing now,” he retorts, and you almost commend his ability to bullshit such a polished answer.

“Right, of course,” you entertain him sweetly. “So is that why you just scrawled your signature through the bottom of that confidentiality agreement?”

With sluggish alarm, Zayne jerks his head down to survey the damage, and sure enough, his swooping penmanship has rendered the contract illegible.

“How could I have missed the signature line?” he whispers, face aghast with disbelief. “I…I don’t even know what…”

“I do,” you sing triumphantly, walking around to haul him up from his armchair. “I know exactly what’s wrong.” 

The main reason Zayne hates being sick isn’t the symptoms. It isn’t the unneeded pity, the inopportune sick days, or even the insidious slide of what tastes like poison down his throat.  

No. Unfortunately, for your stubborn snowman of a boyfriend, the main reason Zayne hates being sick is simply of his nature: cold medicine makes him terribly drowsy. 

Its heightened effect on him is just like his alcohol intolerance—something in his genes just can’t handle outside influences. 

So as you lead him back to rest on the sofa, laying his head across your lap, it becomes clear you’re now dealing with an oversized koala. 

“You smell nice. I think. I can’t really smell anything,” he murmurs into your navel, tickling your skin with his rhythmic deep breaths. 

“Mm. You smell nice too, under the medicine scent. Like jasmine tea.”

As you gently massage his scalp, he burrows into your stomach, lifting his head up seconds later as if remembering something. 

“Did you d’something different with your hair today? Looks nice,” he slurs, blinking at you with sleep-laced eyes. 

“Yep!” Nope. “Thank you for noticing, Zaynie. So observant even when you’re sick,” you coo, rubbing soothing circles into his back. 

With a delirious hum, he smiles softly at the praise before his gaze lands on your chest, rising and falling above him. “You’re very…warm,” he whispers, baby pink tongue wetting his lips. But just as he leans up to nuzzle into you, you stop him halfway. 

“Oh no, you don’t,” you chide, catching him by the scruff. “Not right now, at least.” 

A quiet sigh is his only resistance, and as he slumps back down, he brings a hand around your waist to leave a lingering kiss on your stomach. 

“Are you tired, Zayne?” you ask, cradling his head in your palms to meet his clouded gaze.

“Mm. I’d like to go to bed now.”

As you turn off the bedside lamp, preparing to leave Zayne in peace for the night, feverishly warm hands pull you down onto the mattress. Lying beside him, you flutter your eyes closed as he presses a tender kiss to your cheek. 

“Aren’t you worried about getting me sick?” you question, raising a brow in the moonlight. 

Chuckling, he shakes his head languidly. “Sinus infections aren’t contagious,” he yawns. “But even if they were, transmission would only give me the chance to look after you in return.”

“Are you sure? Someone once told me I’m too stern of a nurse. I’d hate to be the same way as a patient.” 

Zayne frowns contemplatively as he rests a hand on your hip. “Even though your methods are…involved,” he swallows, “I appreciate the consideration you’ve shown me today. Thank you for taking care of me.” 

“Approval from the illustrious Dr. Zayne,” you whisper, gently tapping his reddened nose. “I hope this means he won’t hide from me next time.” 

As he winces, you can almost see the events of this afternoon replaying in his mind. “If he can help it, there won’t be a next time. But yes, I won’t hide from you again. I truly do feel better with you here beside me.” 

“And you’ll feel even better with proper rest,” you remind him. “Sleep. I’ll stay right here until you do.”

Finally relenting, he turns on his side, holding you to him like a child with a teddy bear. 

And though he’s never believed in them before, when Zayne wakes the next morning, nose clear and fever broken, he thinks you might be a miracle worker. 

[callsign-fox]

Space to Breathe - Bob/Robert Reynolds

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/Sentry x Fem!Reader/Superhero

No warnings, lots of fluff!

*Could be a continuation of Dance with Me, but can also stand on it's own*

Thank you for all the love on my first one! It's SO much fun to be writing again! xo

----------------------------------------------------------

Y/N was no stranger to chaos. 

Being the Phoenix meant living in constant unpredictability, and getting close to people like Bucky Barnes and Yelena Belova only sharpened her instinct to brace for the worst. 

She’d faced monsters, corrupt governments—but nothing prepared her for him. He wasn’t a threat she could fight or a mission to complete. He was something else entirely. And that made him dangerous.

Y/N didn’t look back as she walked into the kitchen, but she felt the newcomer Bob’s eyes on her. That invisible thread tugged at her spine—persistent, undeniable. She’d felt it the moment they met, and it terrified her.

Leaning against the counter, arms crossed, her gaze drifted to him. Bucky was already talking, something about Valentina and a plan to take her down for good, but Y/N wasn’t listening.

Beside her, Yelena nudged gently. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” Y/N replied. It was automatic. A lie dressed in calm.

The meeting moved fast—intel, threats, movements. The kind of stuff that used to make Y/N’s skin buzz with adrenaline. But now, it felt muted. Distant. Her focus kept drifting, always back to him.

Bob didn’t say much, but he listened. Closely. His hands were folded in his lap, but they weren���t still—his fingers moved constantly, a nervous habit or something deeper, like he was trying to ground himself.

Once the debrief ended and the others trickled into different rooms, Y/N lingered behind, pretending to refill her coffee. She could feel him behind her before she heard him.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. 

She turned. “What are you sorry for?” 

He shrugged, gaze lowering. “I don’t belong here. I’m making you uncomfortable, I can see it in your face.” 

“That couldn’t be further from the truth.”

He brushed his fingers through his hair. “I…I just don’t want to be a burden.” 

“You could never be a burden, Bob.” She whispered, smiling up at him. 

His eyes flicked up to meet hers, a curious expression etched on his face. He hesitated for a moment, but finally asked, “Why can I feel you?” 

“I have no idea, but I can feel you too.”

He took a small step closer.

Y/N reached out slowly, her fingers just brushing against his. He started to pull away, then froze. For a moment, neither of them breathed—caught in the quiet weight of something unspoken. But when a door creaked open down the hall, they both flinched, the moment shattering like glass. 

“Alexi, if you touch my toothbrush I’m going to kill you!” Bucky yelled from the hallway. 

Y/N reached behind Bob and grabbed a set of keys that were sitting on the counter. “Come on, I know somewhere we can go.” 

He followed her out the apartment, up the stairs and out the side door that led to the rooftop. The city stretched wide and glowed below, lights flickering like the stars.

Y/N sat first, pulling her knees to her chest. Bob settled beside her, a safe distance apart-but not too far. 

“You don’t like being touched,” Y/N said quietly.

He tensed. “Not usually.” 

“But you let me.” 

“I didn’t want to move,” he admitted, “didn’t want it to stop. It feels…right.” 

That thread tugged again, deep and low in her chest. 

Y/N looked over at him, “Me either.”

The wind was soft up here, cool against their skin, and the sounds of the city below felt miles away. Up here, it was just them—two people weighed down by too much power, too much memory, and a connection neither of them could explain.

Bob leaned back on his hands, his gaze drifting over the skyline. “It’s quiet here.”

Y/N eyes drifted. “That’s why I like it. No questions, no pressure. So much space to breathe.”

He nodded slowly, like he understood. “I don’t remember the last time I felt calm.”

She didn’t speak—just shifted closer, her knee brushing his.

His breath hitched. 

“You don’t have to be anything up here,” She said, voice low. “No powers, no stress. Just…yourself.” 

Bob looked over at her then. Really looked. His eyes were soft now, less guarded, like he was letting her see behind the walls. Her pulse fluttered at the way he studied her—like she was something he didn’t know he needed until she appeared.

“I have to tell you something,” he said softly, voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m scared that if I do… you’ll leave.”

Y/N’s brows knit together, and she tilted her head, her voice steady and warm. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He hesitated, eyes dropping briefly to her lips before meeting her gaze again. “I would really like to kiss you.”

For a second, all she could do was stare, her heart thudding against her ribs. Words tangled in her throat, but one slipped free—quiet, certain. “Yes.”

His brow furrowed. “Yes… what?”

A small smile curved her lips as she moved just a little closer. “Kiss me.”

Bob leaned in slowly, like he was afraid the moment would vanish if he rushed it. His fingers brushed her neck before cupping her cheek gently, grounding himself in the warmth of her skin. She didn’t move, just let him take his time, let him choose her. 

His lips brushed against hers, and an immediate pulse of power thrummed through her body. They had barely touched, yet something inside her ignited—hot and electric.

Y/N gasped, the air catching in her throat, but Bob didn’t move. His lips hovered just above hers, breath mingling with hers in the fragile space between.

“Do you feel that too?” he murmured.

She nodded, unable to speak, her hand finding his chest, fingers curling tightly into his shirt like she needed something—anything—to hold on to. Her body was aching for him, hungry for more.

“Please,” she whispered, voice trembling. “I need more.”

When his lips finally met hers again, it was soft—reverent almost—but beneath it, desperation burned. He kissed her like he was trying to memorize her, like she was the only thing anchoring him in the world. He lit something inside her, a fire that roared to life, and she never wanted it to burn out.

He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against hers, like he was anchoring himself there. 

“This feels like...” he exhaled, voice shaking, “home. I don’t feel like I’m breaking anymore.”

Y/N smiled, breathless. “That’s because you’re not.”

Her fingers brushed slowly along his jaw, lingering before her thumb swept across his bottom lip with a teasing softness. Her voice was a whisper, thick with longing. “I don’t think I could ever let you go now.”

Something shattered behind his eyes—walls crumbling, fears dissolving.

He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer. “I’ve been waiting my whole life for someone to say that. And now that you have… I won’t let go. Not unless you ask me to.”

And for once, the chaos quieted.

Not gone. Just... stilled.

They were just two people finding something they didn’t know they were missing.

[dantes-jacket]

Wanna take a peak

Dante x fem reader

Author notes: request #5!! You walk in on Dante naked, and he’s cocky about it (I mean who wouldn’t when you’re built like a Greek god) anyways this gets a little heated towards then end, oh and obviously nudity lol. This was so fun to write

There’s only a handful of times you’re ever running in a full sprint. Sadly today is one of them because you’re running late to work. Not that your boss would care, Dante is super chilled and laid back. Most of the time when you get to Devil May Cry the man is still sleeping.

Today was Friday and you wanted to surprise him with a box of different strawberry treats for working so hard this week. He’s had a lot of missions back to back and barely had a second to even breathe. He had no mission lined up today so you knew today would be a perfect day to surprise him.

You look down at your watch mid sprint to see it saying 9:45, shit you promised him you’d be there at 9 to answer any calls. You turn the corner and see the shop in all its glory. You sprint the last hundred yards and stop right in front of the door. You try to catch your breath and fix your messy hair before walking in.

You open the door and head in. The shop is dark meaning Dante is still sleeping and didn’t open up shop. You set your things down on his desk then go turn on the lights and flick on the infamous sign. You walk back over to grab the box of pastries to put them in the kitchen.

You flick on the light in the kitchen to see where you are going. Dante loves to raid his fridge after missions so he always leaves his stuff on the ground in here and the last thing you need to do is trip on some demonic thing. As the light flickers on you hear a groan.

You quickly look around to see Dante standing behind the fridge door that is open. “Ugh turn those off.”

“Good morning Dante.”

He looks over at you and you watch the tiredness wipe from his system. He looks really happy and excited to see you. “Hey! You’re early, thought you were going to be here at 9.”

“It’s 10 now, so I’m actually late.”

“Oh you sleep in too?”

“No.” You show the box to him and open it up, “I stopped and got you some different strawberry pastries to surprise you. They are a little reward for the long hard week you had.”

He lightens up even more and slams the fridge close which was covering which makes you see everything. Dante is completely naked. With no shame. You’re so shocked you don’t even move. Your eyes run over his body. His muscles are so sketched that he looks like a Greek god has sculpted him.

He’s got a trail of white and silver hair leading down to… your breath hitches when you see it. His dick is thick and long. No wonder why he acts so cocky, he actually has the asset to back it up. Then you realize you’ve been staring.

You cover your eyes and screech, “DANTE!”

“What?” He grabs the box from you and obviously takes a bite of one of the pastries because he’s moans. “Man this is so fucking good.”

“WHERE ARE YOUR CLOTHES!?!”

He swallows another bite, “Oh yeah guess I forgot to put something on after my shower.”

You spin around so you can open your eyes. “How do you forget to put something on? What if someone else came in and saw you?”

The thought of someone else seeing him in all his glory makes you burn with jealousy. You two aren’t together but you’d like to say you are close. That does help the delusional part of your brain for justifying you liking your boss.

You didn’t hear him come up behind you after setting the box down on the counter. You feel a warm hand wrap around your waist and pulls you back into a warm embrace.

Dante has you lined up with his thigh so his uncovered dick doesn’t touch you. He’s already getting a hard on after you ogling him. He doesn’t need to explain to you why he’s hard so he’s making it easier for the both of you. He leans down and whispers deeply into your ear, “Are you jealous?”

Your face heats up and you definitely know your blush is reaching your ears. You also 100% know Dante can see it. You push yourself out of his hold, “As if! Just go put some clothes on.”

You keep your face hidden from him while you walk back to the office. Dante chuckles to himself, “Man thought we were finally going to get somewhere that time.”

You stand at his desk and try to sort through all the different reports he has on his desk. It’s hard to focus because all that comes to mind is his perfect body. Any time you blink or you close your eyes you’re blessed again with seeing his body. It sends a warmth to your core. You try to push those feelings aside and focus.

You let an annoyed sigh out and drop the papers back on his desk. How the hell are you suppose to focus today? It’s going to be a very long day.

You see two arms get placed around you on the desk and a warmth at your back again. He snuck up on you again! How did you let that happen? Now you gotta figure out how to get out of this, even though you don’t really want to.

“What’s wrong?” A deep voice rings in your ear again.

Playing it off and not telling him that his perfect body is the only thing in your head now, you talk about work. “I’m just confused on how to organize all these reports. Morrison is picky and the last thing I want is to be yelled at by him.”

Dante puts his chin on your head and mumbles, “I can help.”

He grabs different reports and skims over them. “Okay so if the report has more to it and actually has useful information put it in this pile,” he points to the pile on the right. “If it’s basically useless put it in this pile,” while pointing to the left side now.

You nod and grab more reports. You and Dante stay in this position while sorting them. It only makes you more antsy. You want to feel that body against yours, you want him to- you shake your head to snap you out of your thoughts again.

“What’s wrong?” Dante asks again.

You play it off once more, “Uh I’m confused on this one. Not sure where it should go.”

Dante lightly takes the report from your hands and skims it. “Eh don’t know either. I’ll just put it in the keep pile.”

“Okay. Better him yelling at you than me,” you laugh.

Dante leans closer to you and basically engulfs you with his body, “I hope you know I’d never let him yell at you. I’d protect you from anything.”

His words are so sweet, basically everything you want him to say. This only adds to your need of having him though. This time you give in. You lean back against him, “I know and I appreciate it.”

You look up and him and he’s already looking down at you. There’s a silence between you two, each waiting for the other to do or say something. You both slowly lean in until the front door swings open and slams against the wall.

You jump out of his hold and look at the customer. It’s a woman wearing a very revealing outfit. She’s looking straight at Dante, maybe they know each other?

“Dante!”

You didn’t know Dante was looking straight at you when you jumped away and didn’t even look at who came in. At the call of his name he looks to see who is calling him and he just rolls his eyes. Not this chick again.

“Hi Miss. Have another demon I need to take care of?”

“No, I came here to see youuuu.” She slowly struts over trying to pop her hips out. Oh so that’s what she is doing here. She wants Dante. It makes your blood boil but you can’t help but applaud her confidence.

“Why?” Dante says disinterestedly.

“I need to repay you for helping me.” She walks over and stands toe to toe with him not caring for his personal space. “How about dinner?”

“No thanks.”

She doesn’t stop instead she places her hand on his chest and run it down his pec and towards his abs, “Oh so we can’t just skip the foreplay.”

Your throat feels dry, how can she just walk in and suggest this? You reach for the random water bottle on Dante’s desk and take a big sip to try and help the lump forming in your throat.

Dante doesn’t let her touch him for long, he smacks her hand away and steps back. “Not interested. The only girl that can see me naked is her,” and points to you.

You choke on the water you just swallowed. You finish hacking up a lung and look at the man who is smirking.

The lady moves to stand in your direction to try and block Dante from looking at you. “Look at me! I’m much prettier, I can actually give you a fun night-“

“Get out.”

“Huh?”

“I said, get out. Don’t make me repeat myself again.”

“I don’t understand-“

“Don’t you ever talk bad about her again. You’ll never amount to her. Now get the fuck out of my shop.” Dante says in the most threatening voice you’ve ever heard him use.

At the tone of his voice the lady quickly makes her way out of the shop and slams the door on her way out. You watch the door and laugh, “Well that was something. She really had guts-“

You’re cut off by two hands on your face and the feeling of soft lips on yours. Dante’s kissing you…. DANTE IS KISSING YOU!?!

Once it clicks in your head that he’s kissing you, you eagerly return the kiss. It started off soft and slow but now it’s getting more heated and clash of teeth and tongues.

Dante pushes you against the wall and starts to kiss down your neck, “Thank god she left, been waiting to do this.” He continues to suck at your neck drawing out little moans from you.

You place your hands on his chest, “Dante-“

He unattached himself from your neck and looks back up at you. “What is it baby?”

“More please.”

He smirks, “Now you wanna take a peak?”

You flush at his comment and hide yourself in his chest. Dante lets out a deep laugh and holds you close. You two stand there hugging until the phone starts ringing. You try to break out of the hug so you can answer it but Dante won’t let you budge.

“I gotta answer the phone, let go for a second.”

“No can do. Today we are off and we are going to spent the entire day in my bed.”

The phone stops ringing once it does Dante steps away from the hug and closes Devil May Cry. He walks back to you and throws you over his shoulder, carrying you like a sack of potatoes.

“Dante, put me down!” You try to yell but it ends up just coming out as a laugh instead.

Dante joins you in the laughing and simply stating, “No, you and I got a date in my bed. Let’s make it fun.”

[zaynessbeloved]

Tipsy, hard and needing you

Synopsis: Rafayel doesn’t drink often...but when he does, he drinks to forget how much he misses you. After one too many glasses and one too many thirst-heavy messages, you find yourself in his studio, still in your scratched-up mission uniform. He’s flushed, needy, and harder than he has any right to be. And his drunken mind can conjure one thing, and one thing only: showing you just how much he missed you.

Content warnings: Explicit sexual content, established relationship, rough drunk sex, desperate whiny begging, body worship, bratty dynamics, dominance/submission themes (soft switch energy), marking, fingering, oral sex (receiving), size kink, overstimulation, intense eye contact, dirty talk, alcohol consumption (consensual), rafayel sending a suggestive pic/public teasing (prelude), rough handling, cockwarming mention, possessive behavior, mild obsession, emotional vulnerability, and unprotected sex.

Pairings: Rafayel x reader

Word count: 7k

A/n: i am insane because he has so many 4star memories of him being tipsy (implied) so i had to write a lil something on how i personally see him being tipsy/drunk. this is just my personal take, enjoy! <3

The mission isn’t long, but it’s exhausting. Your arms are still sore from holding your weapon too tight, and there's a smear of Wanderer dust clinging to your boot. You want nothing more than to peel off your jacket, throw your comm onto the charger, and melt into your bed.

Your phone buzzes. And then again. And again. You don’t need to check the name, you already know who it is. The first few texts are nothing new.

Rafayel: i’m dying Rafayel: this canvas is my mortal enemy Rafayel: come eulogize me, cutie. bring wine

Dramatic, as always. But then the tone of his messages shifts.

Rafayel: need you Rafayel: no seriously. i need you Rafayel: i’m not even being poetic this time

You pause mid-step, boots clicking to a halt in the middle of the quiet sidewalk. Another buzz.

Rafayel: come ruin me. please.

Your heart stutters, because the following message is a photo. Your breath catches the second you see it. He’s shirtless, which, fine, isn’t unheard of—Rafayel has never been shy about his body, and he always knows exactly what he’s doing with that silver chain and half-lidded stare.

But this isn’t aesthetic. It’s desperate. His hair’s messy, mussed from his own hands. His chest is flushed, and the angle is a little off, like he tried multiple times and gave up. One arm is stretched above his head, the other lazily gripping the waistband of his sweats. Low, way too low.

There’s a hint of ink from one of his recent tattoos, the glint of chain, the barest shadow of want.And the message underneath the picture?

Rafayel: if you don’t come over i might start painting with my dick. your choice.

You don’t even laugh, you just pick up the pace. You’re half-jogging now, mission forgotten, boots pounding against the pavement. Because Rafayel doesn’t get drunk easily, not unless he’s trying. And he doesn’t beg. Not like this. Not unless he’s completely unraveling.

You fire off a single reply as you duck into a side alley and cut through toward his studio

You: Don’t you dare start without me, Raf

His reply is immediate.

Rafayel: hurryyy. i’m so hard it hurts. also i think i might have tried making soup and almost burnt the kitchen down???”

You don’t know whether to groan, blush, or sprint faster. Probably all three.

You don’t even knock when you come to a halt in front of his door. You’re too far gone for that. Too wired from the rush of his texts, the photo seared into your brain like a brand, the idea of him hard and messy and waiting for you.

The studio door swings open before your knuckles can reach it, and there he is. Rafayel. Shirtless, barefoot, flushed from the chest up, hair a mess of tangled curls, one side of his sweatpants riding dangerously low. There’s a line of color creeping across his collarbones, the telltale shimmer of sweat glistening beneath silver chains. And, oh…he’s hard. Very hard. Painfully obvious under the thin fabric of his pants.

He opens his mouth, but you’re already grabbing him by the front of those pants and yanking him forward into a kiss that shatters whatever clever line he was about to deliver.

He gasps into your mouth, stumbling slightly, both of you nearly crashing into the frame of the door. His hands fumble at your hips, gripping too tight, a little frantic.

“Getting straight…” he pants, voice thick, breath hot, “…to the point, huh?”

You groan against his lips, tugging him deeper inside, one hand already tangled in the damp strands at the back of his neck.

The door slams shut behind you but neither of you cares, really. His mouth tastes like vodka and heat and desperation—like Rafayel, but unfiltered. His tongue licks into yours with messy abandon, too much and not enough. He moans when your teeth scrape his bottom lip, then pulls back just enough to look at you, breathing hard.

“You’re…” His hand brushes the rough fabric of your uniform, and he squints. “You’re still in your hunter gear?”

“Obviously,” you mutter, panting. “You couldn’t wait?”

His brows furrow, soft and tipsy. “Shit. Did I interrupt something? You were on a mission, weren’t you?” His hand ghosts over a dirt-smeared scrape on your arm, slow, almost guilty.

You kiss him again, hard. “Don’t care.”

He makes a sound that’s half whimper, half relief. And then his fingers start tugging at your jacket, clumsy and insistent.

“Well then…” he murmurs, lips brushing yours, breath thick with heat and vodka. “It’s getting hot in here, don’t you think?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just starts peeling the jacket off your shoulders, dragging it down with exaggerated care, eyes locked on every inch of skin he reveals like it’s the first time he’s ever seen you.

You break the kiss as he pushes you backwards, deeper into the studio apartment section of his loft. Canvases and crushed tubes of paint blur in your periphery as your boots stumble over the rug.

“Raf,” you whisper between kisses. “Why are you drunk?”

He presses his forehead to yours, lips brushing lazily at the corner of your mouth, still breathing hard. “Tell me…” his chuckle is low, wicked. “…should I be a good, honest boy? Or should I play hard to get?”

You groan, rolling your eyes so hard your head tilts back, exposing your throat to him. He takes the bait immediately. His lips latch onto your skin, hot and desperate, teeth grazing just enough to make you shudder.

“God, even drunk you’re insufferable,” you mutter.

“And yet,” he pants, “you’re here.”

You drag your hands down his chest, nails leaving faint trails over his flushed skin. He groans again, deeper this time, and it vibrates through his chest like thunder under silk. Drunk Rafayel isn’t loud. He’s needy. Whiny, flustered, and just this side of unhinged. And you haven’t even undressed yet.

Your hands find the hem of his sweatpants as you kiss him again, just barely brushing beneath the waistband, the faintest tease of fingertips over heated skin. He gasps into your mouth, then groans, deep and needy, when your nails scrape softly just under his hips. You pull him with you as you both stumble backward, his footing a little clumsy, until his back hits the edge of the kitchen counter.

The moment jars him, just enough to bite at the fog in his mind. He leans there, flushed and panting, eyes half-lidded and gleaming like molten purple under the dim studio lights. Behind him, a bottle of alcohol, nearly emptied, sits beside a forgotten glass, the rim still coated in a faint pinkish smear from his mouth.

You glance at it, frowning slightly. “Why’d you drink so much?”

He doesn’t answer at first, just breathes, or more like pants, trying to regain some sort of self control because he can still feel your fingers beneath the hem of his sweatpants. And then slowly, softly, his fingers curl at the edge of the counter as his head tilts.

“Miss Bodyguard,” he murmurs, breathless, voice slurring playfully, “touching me wherever is rude.”

You raise a brow, lips quirking. “You’re saying that right now?”

But there’s no bite in your voice because beneath the teasing, you see him. His face is flushed to the ears, hair damp at the temples, sweat slicking down the curve of his neck. And his eyes, god…his eyes are drowning in something deeper than just alcohol.

He swallows slowly, lifting those stormy eyes to yours.

“I missed you,” he whispers.

You blink, heart lurching.

“I know it was just a few days,” he continues, voice hoarse, trembling at the edges. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about you. All day, every minute.” He lets out a half-laugh, self-deprecating, breathless. “I tried painting. I tried walking. I even tried folding laundry, which—don’t look at me like that—but I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop wanting you.”

Your heart squeezes so hard it hurts. You knew Rafayel was intense—loved intensely, wanted fiercely. But this? This is raw, cracked open and so honest.

He’s still leaning against the counter like he’s trying to hold himself upright. You close the distance, fingers still flirting with the band of his sweats, but now it’s softer, less teasing, more grounding. His hands twitch at his sides.

“Raf…” you breathe.

He doesn’t answer, not with words. Instead, he drags you into another kiss, deeper now, hungrier. You press into him, one hand sliding up his bare chest, the other still dancing just under the fabric at his hips.

His head falls back with a ragged gasp as your mouth trails from his lips down the slope of his neck. You taste sweat, vodka, and the edges of desperation, and he shivers under your tongue.

“I think you need to go…” he pants, voice low and wrecked and just a little daring, “…a little lower.”

You smile against his skin, lips ghosting over his collarbone.

“Is that a request?” you whisper.

His hips twitch.

“That’s a warning.” he growls, breathless and already falling apart.

You smile against the curve of his neck. Not sweetly and definitely not innocently. No, you smile like you know exactly what you're doing. Because you do.

Your lips trail down the column of his throat, warm and slow, brushing over the slick heat of his pulse. He tilts his head to the side instinctively, giving you space, almost desperate to feel your lips on his flushed, sensitive skin. His breath catches, shaky and high, when your mouth closes over his collarbone, planting a few kisses, then sucking, just hard enough to bruise.

His hips twitch. You feel it, feel the tension and the desperation. He’s so hard now it must be painful, the heat of his cock burning against your palm where your fingers still tease, just barely dipped under the band of his sweats.

He groans, head knocking back against the cabinet behind him, chains clinking softly against his skin.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me, touching me like this…” he whispers.

But you do. You press another kiss to his clavicle, then a mark just beneath it. “I missed you too,” you murmur against his skin. “Every second.”

His breath leaves him in a sharp exhale, like the words hit harder than he expected. His hands clench at the counter’s edge, knuckles white, body trembling from how close your touch is to what he wants. He needs you to touch him so fucking bad.

But you don’t move your hand, not yet. You pull back instead, just a little, enough to look at him. And fuck, the sight of him like this steals your breath.

Rafayel, flushed and ruined, his lips parted, throat marked red and blooming, hair falling wild across his forehead, eyes barely open, just enough to look at you like you’re the only thing tethering him to this world. His chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths. His sweats are tented so hard it’s almost obscene.

You don't even have to speak. You just watch him, his whole body radiates heat and want, and the look on his face is ruinuos, drunk on vodka and you.

His gaze falters under yours, then lifts again, wild and starving. His voice is wrecked when he speaks, low and teasing, but laced with something darker, more dangerous.

“Do not tease me,” he breathes. “If you keep looking at me like that…” he leans forward, just slightly, a tremble in his frame. “…I won’t show you any mercy.”

You smirk. And that drives him insane. His hips jerk, desperate for contact, but you still don’t move your hand. Your thumb brushes just along his hipbone instead, feather-light. The touch is teasing yet promising underneath.

Makeout sessions with Rafayel are always like this—heady, breathless, intense. Full of moans and shivers and pretty bruises. Because when he touches, he touches with everything he has. And you know that. You know what he’s capable of in bed. You’ve felt it, how he unravels you like a masterpiece he painted himself—slowly, deliberately, with obsession bleeding into every stroke.

Which is why now…you’re not giving him exactly what he wants. You want to keep him tethering on this very edge of madness just a little longer. The thought of what that will make of him makes you so wet, and you mentally hold yourself to the promise of him ruining you later on. As he never fails to do.

You kiss him again, harder this time, deeper, and his whole body reacts. One of your hands slides up, threading into his hair and tugging just enough to make him groan into your mouth. He doesn't grip the counter anymore. Now it’s you he holds onto, the side of your neck, the back of your shoulder, your waist—desperate hands clinging like he's afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn't press you close enough.

His cock grinds against you, hot and aching, and he whines—low in his throat, helpless—when your hand still doesn’t wrap around him.

He’s burning for you, desperate for your touch, and you know it.

Your breaths mingle, thick with alcohol, lust, and the kind of hunger that makes your knees weak. You can taste the vodka on his tongue, sweet and sharp and drowning in need. And you’re drunk on it, on him.

Finally, finally, your fingers dip lower beneath the hem of his sweats, just a little. Your knuckles brush the thick, hot length of him and he moans into your mouth.

“Someone’s intentions,” he pants, voice shaking, playful but desperate, “are as clear as day.”

You smile against his lips and pull back just enough to start trailing kisses down his neck again. His head falls back with a ragged exhale, eyes fluttering shut.

“Don’t stop,” he gasps, “keep going.”

You do. You kiss his throat, his collarbone, the chain that dips between his flushed pecs. His chest is warm and sticky with sweat. His hands grip your hair, but not to guide, just to feel you, to hold onto something.

And then you drop to your knees. The motion is smooth, controlled, and so deliberate. He looks down at you like he’s been struck by lightning. You glance up, hands slow and gentle as they curl at the waistband of his sweats. His breath hitches as you drag them down, kissing along the trail of skin you expose, until finally he’s bare in front of you.

His cock is very hard, leaking, flushed red and aching, begging for attention. Begging to be touched, to find release. But still, you don’t touch.

Your eyes lock on his.

“You’ve been such a good boy,” you murmur, voice soft and sinful. “So honest with me. Now tell me…”

Your nails trace up the inside of his thigh. “…how did it feel? Missing me these past few days?”

His jaw clenches.

“Did you think about me?” you ask, lips ghosting over the crease of his hip. “Did you touch yourself?”

His entire body shudders. His hands tighten in your hair, and his cock twitches in front of your lips, but still, you wait, watching him unravel. Waiting for him to break.

For a second, he just stares down at you silently. You see it in his eyes, the hesitation, the pride, the fragile ribbon of restraint he's always trying to keep from unraveling. But then he exhales, deep and shaky, and lets it go.

“I thought about you,” he admits, voice hoarse, chest rising and falling. “Every night. Every damn time I closed my eyes, I saw you, cutie.”

Your eyes glint, lips hovering right near the base of his cock. His hips twitch forward, subtle, like his body is betraying his mind, again.

You tilt your head, breath teasing against flushed skin. “And?”

He swallows hard.

“I touched myself thinking of your mouth,” he breathes, a flush creeping up his chest. “More than once. I imagined this…you on your knees, looking at me like this.”

Your tongue flicks out in one long, slow lick from base to tip. He gasps, head tilting backwards, and you hum—low, sweet, satisfied.

“You’re such a good boy,” you purr, lips brushing the underside of his cock as you speak.

Another lick, slower now, around the tip, then back down.

He moans, and you can feel his whole body shudder. You lock eyes with him as your tongue moves, again and again. You take your time, tracing him with reverent cruelty, just enough pressure to make him shake.

He grips the edge of the counter behind him, knuckles white.

“Fuck…” he pants, voice cracking, “…cutie, I—I—”

You lick again, this time with more pressure, swirling your tongue just beneath the head. His breath punches out of him. His eyes flutter and his head falls back in pure pleasure.

“Oh my god—” he groans, the sound full of broken want, “please…”

That’s when you finally wrap your lips around him. Just the tip, but it’s enough to make him go insane. He gasps so hard it’s almost a whimper.

Your mouth slides down—slow, sweet, maddening. You feel his hips buck slightly, chasing the heat, desperate to be deeper, and you let him. Because you love him like this. Messy. Needy. Yours.

Your mouth moves, pace steady and deep, tongue tracing the vein underneath as he throbs in your mouth. He moans again, long and low and wrecked, every sound of it tinged with alcohol and craving and utter devotion. His hands find your hair again, not guiding, just anchoring, because he’s barely standing.

And you don’t stop. Not when his hips start rolling. Not when he starts panting your name like a prayer. Not even when he chokes out something that sounds dangerously close to “I love you” under his breath, breathless and soaked in want.

Your mouth works him steadily, slowly—deeper with each glide, wetter with every moan that slips from his kiss-swollen mouth. You feel him twitch on your tongue, hear the desperate curse that falls from his lips when you hollow your cheeks just enough to make his knees buckle.

And still, you don’t stop. You relax into it, hands firm at his hips, your tongue tracing every inch you can reach, your throat swallowing every groan he offers you. Without words, you tell him exactly what you want. Lose control. Take what you need.

You feel it when he finally gives in. His hips begin to roll, rhythmic and frantic, the hand in your hair tightening. Not to force, never to force, just to anchor. Like he needs to hold onto something to keep from falling apart.

His head tips back. A low, broken moan escapes him, raw and breathless.

“Fuck—fuck, you feel so good,” he gasps, voice wrecked, thick with desperation. “I want you like this every damn day…”

Your tongue slides along the underside of his cock, and he chokes on a moan.

“I missed you so much—fuck…don’t ever make me miss you again,” he pleads, frantic now. “It’s not fair…you make me feel like this and then you’re just gone…”

You moan softly around him, the vibration making him stutter a thrust. His hips twitch forward, messy and aching.

“I can’t…I can’t, cutie, please…let me—fuck, let me finish—”

His head drops forward like the strength’s been pulled from his spine, his glassy eyes locking onto yours below him and that is what breaks him. The sight of you, kneeling before him, lips stretched around him, cheeks hollowed, eyes shining and so willing.

He lets out a sound that’s halfway between a sob and a curse. And then he thrusts forward one last time—deep, desperate—and comes. His whole body convulses, every muscle tensing as heat pours from him, his groan long and shattered, his fingers trembling in your hair.

You keep eye contact the entire time and you take all of it, every last drop. And when it’s over, when his body slumps against the counter behind him and his legs are still shaking, his chest heaving, he whispers something soft, breathless, stunned.

“…I think I just died.”

You smile and lick your lips as you rise slowly, warm palms tracing up the curve of his waist. His hand finds your jaw, the grip gentle but sure, and he pulls you up into a kiss that’s messy and hot and absolutely drunk with need.

He tastes himself on your lips and doesn’t care—if anything, it makes him groan louder, deeper, kissing you harder as his hands slide lower to your hips, clutching them like he’s starving for more, like the high of release wasn’t enough to dull the ache you left behind.

Somewhere between kisses and panting and hands roaming skin, he wiggles awkwardly out of his sweats the rest of the way, nearly stumbling. You catch him by the waist, laughing against his mouth, but he uses the momentum and spins you, backing you up until your spine hits the edge of the counter with a soft thud.

Now you’re cornered. Now he’s the one in control again. His mouth is on your neck before you can say anything—wet, open kisses trailing down your throat as his fingers tug at the buttons of your uniform shirt, clumsy but determined.

“You see, cutie…” he murmurs, voice breathless against your pulse. “You already made my life a beautiful, chaotic mess.”

The last button gives way, and he pushes the fabric off your shoulders, kissing down the center of your chest until he reaches your bra. He groans softly, brushing his nose against your skin as he mouths your breast through the fabric, fingers digging into your waist like he can’t get close enough.

You pant, fingers tangling in his hair again, head tipping back as your hips roll forward, brushing against his now half-hard cock resting heavy against your thigh.

Rafayel growls.

“I barely touched this,” he whispers, warm mouth brushing against your bra as he speaks, “and you’re already flushed.”

He kisses over the soft breast, slowly dragging his teeth along the edge, and you whimper. You are flushed, breathless now, and he knows it. He drinks in every gasp, every twitch of your body like it’s paint running down canvas.

“I missed you,” you gasp between pants, threading your fingers tighter through his damp hair. “God…I missed you so much, Raf. I would’ve come sooner, I swear, but—”

“Don’t care,” he cuts in, groaning into your skin. “You’re here now. You’re mine now.”

His kisses get rougher, hungrier, as his hands slide up your spine, finally touching you properly, and his mouth finds your collarbone, your throat, your shoulder, all the places he needs to mark.

His mouth never leaves your skin. Not when he slides his hands up your back. Not when his fingers fumble with the clasp of your bra—frantic, trembling, almost too clumsy with how drunk he is. But then it gives way, and he lets the straps fall, kissing down your throat, nipping the slope of your shoulder, like he needs to devour every inch of you.

Your bra drops somewhere on the floor, but his hands don’t stop. They hook under your thighs, gripping you tight and then he lifts. You gasp as he picks you up and plants you on the edge of the counter, the cool marble pressing against your bare thighs, shocking in contrast to the molten heat in his mouth.

He is still kissing your skin, still biting your neck and leaving matching marks for his own. He doesn’t even pause to catch his breath, just pants into your neck like he’ll drown if he stops.

And yet, he slows. He shifts the angle, presses soft bites just under your ear, kisses the same spot until your spine arches on instinct, begging for more. But he doesn’t move his hands, doesn’t touch you where you need him most. Just keeps teasing.

You whimper, arching your back again—an invitation, a demand—but all he does is hum against your skin, warm breath fanning over your throat like a confession.

“Silly girl,” he murmurs, chuckling against your pulse, his voice ragged and low.

You groan, rolling your hips forward. “Rafayel…”

Still, he doesn't move, he just sucks harder at your neck, his teeth scraping the shell of your ear.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” you whisper, breath breaking between frustration and arousal.

He laughs again, breathless, dazed, drunk on you.

“Yeah…” he pants, voice soft and cocky. “I am doing this on purpose.”

His hands finally slide up your ribs, palms hot and greedy, and then at last, he leans down and wraps his lips around your nipple. You moan, back arching hard, your fingers threading through his hair and holding him there as his tongue swirls, slow and sinful. His free hand drags down and slips beneath the edge of your uniform skirt.

But still, he doesn’t go where you want him. His hands only grasp at your thighs, caressing the soft skin just above your knees, then sliding upward in slow, possessive sweeps, fingers curling tight enough to bruise.

You shudder under his mouth, under his hands, under the weight of his teasing control. And he hums against your chest, smug and starved all at once. You arch harder into him, the curve of your back deepening as you press your chest to his mouth, your thighs tightening around his waist. Your hands stay tangled in his hair, desperate and pleading without words, because god…he’s still teasing.

His tongue swirls around your nipple in slow, wet circles, just barely flicking when he knows you want more. His hands are gripping your thighs, hard, sliding up to the edge of your panties beneath your skirt and then stopping.

“Rafayel,” you gasp, half-laughing, half-moan, the frustration laced through every syllable. “You said you missed me so fucking much…and now you’re bullying me?”

He groans against your chest, hips twitching where they press between your thighs. Sweat clings to his skin, flushed and shining in the low studio light. His silver chains stick to his neck and chest, tangling slightly as he lifts his face, breathless.

Then he bites lightly at the swell of your breast before meeting your eyes, voice wrecked and fond and maddening all at once.

“But you’re very, very cute right now,” he says, lips dragging against your skin as he speaks. “And I’m allowed to admire what I missed.”

You whimper. He moans again, this time into your mouth as he surges up to kiss you, devouring, hungry, his teeth scraping yours in a kiss that’s too messy to be sweet and too honest to be anything less than worship.

And then finally—finally, his hand slides under the edge of your panties and pushes them aside. You don’t even get to breathe. Two fingers slide into you, deep and unrelenting, and you moan into his mouth, the sound punched straight from your lungs as your body clenches around him.

He swallows it all—every sound, every gasp, every trembling exhale—kissing you deeper as his fingers start to move, slow at first, then harder. Slick. Hot. So fucking good.

You grip his shoulders now, your back arched against the counter, head tipping back as he pumps into you, his breath ragged against your jaw, his mouth dragging down your neck again. Your hips start moving without thought, chasing every curl of his fingers.

The world blurs around the heat building in your core, and Rafayel? He’s already drunk, already ruined, but he wants to see you break before he even thinks about stopping.

Your hips roll into his hand instinctively, chasing the rhythm of his fingers as they pump into you, slick and deep. You whimper as he curls them just right, and your legs spread wider on instinct, thighs trembling around his waist.

“Rafayel—ahh, fuck…”

He groans into your neck, mouth hot against your skin. His free hand clutches your hip now, grounding you, anchoring you to the counter as he fucks you with just his fingers, but it’s so much more than that.

He moves like an artist. Like he’s sculpting pleasure from the very deep center of you. And his mouth doesn’t stop—biting, sucking, trailing heat down your throat, over your collarbone, back to your chest.

“You always break so beautifully,” he whispers against your skin, voice rough with lust, soaked in alcohol and longing. “So flushed, so desperate…”

You moan, louder now, as his fingers hit that perfect spot inside you again. Your hands grip his shoulders tight, fingers digging into the sweat-slick muscle. Your thighs shake.

“Please,” you breathe, “don’t stop—don’t you dare…”

He laughs, low and breathless, and his pace quickens. The slick sound of his fingers inside you is obscene, wet and filthy and so fucking hot you feel your face burn with it. Your moans turn higher, sharper, punched out with every curl of his fingers, and he loves it. Loves you like this.

“Say it again,” he whispers in your ear, breath hot and desperate. “Say you missed me. Say you want me.”

“Mhm, missed you…oh, fuck, I want you—Rafayel, please…”

His teeth sink lightly into your neck and he growls against it. “Good girl.”

You fall apart around his fingers, whimpering, clutching at his arms like he’s the only thing holding you together. The heat’s building too fast—white and burning—coiling in your gut like it’s about to snap. And still, his fingers move. Still, his mouth wrecks you.

And still, he whispers, “Come on, cutie. Show me how much you missed this.”

The pressure inside you spikes—sharp, hot, unbearable. Every drag of Rafayel’s fingers feels like it’s made of fire, and you can’t take your eyes off him. His flushed face, sweat-slicked chest, dark hair sticking to his forehead. The way he looks at you while he ruins you, like nothing else exists.

Your body is trembling. Your hips are bucking into every thrust of his hand now. And he’s whispering filth in your ear, low and unrelenting, the kind of voice that makes your stomach flip.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he murmurs, licking up the side of your neck. “I can feel it…you’re clenching around me so tight—god, it’s perfect.”

“Raf—” You gasp his name like a prayer, your voice breaking.

He fucks his fingers into you harder, deeper, faster now. Every stroke grazing just right. Your thighs squeeze around his waist, your spine arches off the counter, and your head tips back as the wave inside you crests—sharp and wet and blinding.

“Let go for me,” he growls, voice breathless and wrecked. “Come, cutie.”

And you do. You cry out, thighs shaking violently around his hips, your hands clutching him, clawing at his back. Your walls spasm around his fingers as your orgasm slams into you, hard and messy and endless.

He doesn’t stop. He watches it all—eyes wild, jaw slack, drinking in the way your body falls apart for him. His fingers keep moving even as you whimper and twitch, overwhelmed and shaking.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he pants, voice full of reverence and lust. “You’re so fucking beautiful when you come. Look at you…look at you.”

You moan, half-broken, half-pleading, and finally he slows. But only just. His mouth is everywhere now—pressing kisses over your jaw, your cheeks, your shoulder. His hand stays buried between your thighs, still feeling every twitch and aftershock.

“You’re mine,” he whispers raggedly, soft and deadly against your skin. “You know that, right?”

You nod, barely able to breathe, much less speak. You’re still catching your breath, body trembling, chest rising in frantic waves when his mouth crashes into yours again—a kiss more desperate than any before it. His hand hasn’t moved from between your thighs, and when his fingers stroke your oversensitive clit, your entire body jolts in his grasp.

“Rafayel—!” you gasp against his mouth.

He moans, muffled and low, as if he’s the one being undone, not you. But that’s always been the truth of it—every time he touches you, every time he brings you to the edge, he breaks with you. Falls apart in tandem. Wants you in a way that’s feral and emotional and frighteningly deep.

You know this rhythm. You know what he likes. And you know what’s coming. He lives to drag it out. To keep you trembling on the edge again and again, his control laced with adoration and hunger until you’re begging him to stop and begging him not to in the same breath.

But tonight… tonight he’s drunk. He’s missed you badly. He’s hard and flushed and not even pretending to be composed anymore. And you feel all of it.

His cock is pressed hot and firm against your thigh, twitching each time you grind closer. The thin fabric of your panties is soaked, pushed to the side, clinging to nothing. Every breath is a moan, every kiss tastes like vodka and sin.

You clutch his hair and gasp against his lips, trembling from the overstimulation, the heat, the need building all over again.

“I need you,” you whisper. “I need you, Raf. I need my lover. Please…I need you inside.”

He growls. That’s all it takes. Something inside him snaps. He grabs you hard, almost rough, pulling you into his arms. One hand still clutching your ass, the other around your back, dragging your mouth to his over and over again as he stumbles blindly through the apartment.

You giggle against his mouth as he stumbles into the wall, swears, and then keeps going.

“Where—?” you start to ask.

“Shut up,” he pants. “I’m taking you.”

You don’t argue, not when he makes it to the edge of the bed. Your bodies stay tangled in the heat of that kiss, standing at the edge of his bed, tongues dancing, mouths open and hungry. His hand stays locked around your waist, his cock pressed hard against your thigh, twitching with every pulse of your moans.

You gasp against his lips, breaking the kiss just long enough to reach down between your thighs. Your fingers hook into the edge of your ruined panties, dragging them down quickly, wet and wrinkled from everything he’s already done to you. They fall to your ankles, kicked away without thought. Your skirt follows, bunched and rumpled, shoved down and off. You’re flushed and shaking and so, so exposed.

Rafayel groans as he takes you in, still in your half-open uniform shirt, still breathless, trembling, and flushed from your last orgasm, and now bare from the waist down.

“Fuck,” he pants, dragging you back into a kiss, deeper this time, desperate. “Not fair. You’re gonna kill me, cutie”

You giggle into his mouth and he turns you, suddenly, his hands warm and firm on your hips. He presses his chest to your back, caging you in, his breath hot at your ear.

“I’m going to show you,” he murmurs darkly, “exactly how deep this goes. How fucking much it hurt to be without you.”

His hand slides up your spine, slow and deliberate, until it settles between your shoulder blades, and then he pushes you towards the bed.

“Bend over.”

You do—panting, moaning, letting him guide you forward until your hands brace on the edge of the mattress, fingers curling into the blanket. Your back arches, instinctively, your ass tilted perfectly for him.

He stands behind you, groaning like he’s lost his mind. And maybe he has. Because from this angle, you’re all flushed skin and damp thighs and trembling anticipation.

“God,” he growls, voice ragged. “You’re so perfect.” he palms your ass, carresing it. “My perfect girl.”

You shudder at the praise, moaning softly as your hips roll back once, begging. And of course—of course—he teases you more, because he can’t help himself. You feel his fingers ghost over your inner thigh, then pause, just before they touch where you need it so desperately.

“I guess Miss Bodyguard is still wet…” he drawls, voice lilting with mock surprise, smug and dark and hungry. “Tsk.”

He chuckles low in his throat as his fingers circle your clit once. You jolt, gasping, legs nearly buckling. And then he pushes in, all the way. You cry out, body arching hard, hands gripping the bed as his cock stretches you deep and fast, no warning, no patience.

It’s just him, just Rafayel, hungry and raw, claiming you, filling you, like he never stopped needing you. He groans behind you, loud and ruined, hips grinding against yours as he bottoms out. His hand stays pressed firm on your back, holding you there, keeping you open for him.

He doesn’t move at first. Just stays there, buried so deep inside you it feels like he’s part of your heartbeat, your breath, your very bones. His palm is still pressed to the curve of your back, keeping you arched just right, keeping you his.

And behind you, you hear it. That breathless, broken sound—half a moan, half a laugh.

“Fuck, cutie,” he murmurs, the words slurred with want. “You feel like home.”

Your hands tremble where they grip the bed, legs already shaking just from the stretch of him, from the pressure of being filled so full. You roll your hips back just slightly, and that’s all it takes.

He groans, and then he starts to move. Slow, at first. Deep, dragging thrusts that pull almost all the way out before he pushes back in again with force that makes the whole bedframe creak under your grip.

You cry out, mouth open, head falling forward as he sets the pace—not gentle, not tentative. Raw. He thrusts harder, faster now, the sound of skin on skin echoing around the room, wet and filthy and perfect.

“God,” he pants behind you, his voice deeper now, more serious than it ever is, even when sober. “I missed this…I missed you…”

His hand slides up from your back, wrapping around your waist, pulling you tighter into each thrust. You can hear how wet you are with every slap of his hips, can feel his body curl over yours, sweat slick, chest against your back.

“Every fucking night,” he groans into your shoulder, still fucking you, harder with every word. “I kept thinking about this…about you, ah…about your body… this pussy…”

You whimper, his words sending fire straight to your core, making your walls flutter around him.

He gasps. “Shit, cutie…do that again.”

You rock back, meeting his thrusts, and moan his name this time. He loses it. He slams into you once, twice, hard, his fingers digging into your hips.

“You drive me insane,” he breathes. “You fucking ruin me, cutie.”

“Rafayel…” your voice cracks, moaning, barely coherent. “Please…don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. He pounds into you, frantic now, hips relentless, every thrust angled to make you feel every inch of what you do to him.

The room is nothing but sweat and moans and the scent of sex and the low, breathless rasp of his voice murmuring, “Mine, mine, mine…”

Your moans fill the room like music—high, wet, breathless. Each time his hips slam into you, you gasp, and his name pours from your lips like a spell. You can’t even think. You can’t breathe without feeling him, every inch of him buried so deep, stretching you wide and perfectly.

He leans closer, his body pressing to your back, his breath hot against your neck, lips brushing your shoulder in desperate, half-mouthed kisses. Sweat slicks his chest, gluing it to your spine, and you feel how much he’s shaking.

And then his voice—hoarse and frantic, trembling with emotion he never hides well when it comes to you.

“Do you want me to go faster?” he pants, thrusting deep and slow for just a moment. “Huh, cutie? Tell me…tell me how you want me.”

Your head lolls back, the tension coiling hot in your belly, your arms shaking where they grip the bed.

“Yes,” you gasp, voice thin and wrecked. “Yes, Rafayel, faster—fuck, please…don’t stop—”

He groans, a full-bodied sound that tears from his throat like he’s breaking apart.

“You want me to ruin you again?” he rasps, speeding up his pace, each thrust now wild and relentless. “Wanna feel it for days?”

“Please—yes…oh my god…”

His fingers slide around your front, finding your clit with practiced ease. He circles it once and you wail, your body locking tight around his cock.

“You’re so close, aren’t you?” he whispers, desperate now, breathless. “I can feel you… fluttering, gasping—mine.”

“Yours,” you cry, broken, gone. “Always yours—fuck, I can’t—”

“You can,” he snarls, drunk and feral now, hips slamming faster, deeper, perfectly brutal. “And you will. I’m not stopping until I feel you come again. I need it…I need you to feel me everywhere.”

You’re past words. Past thought. Every muscle in your body tightens as the edge hits again, full force, harder than before, shaking you from the inside out.

And he doesn't stop. Not when you start to tremble. Not when your voice breaks. Not when you scream his name and come hard all over his cock, body collapsing, arching, lost. He fucks you through it, breathless, moaning, yours.

“That’s it,” he gasps, eyes wild, lips parted. “That’s my girl—god, you’re so perfect.”

You clutch the edge of the bed like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. Your body is trembling, your skin burning, your mouth wide open as helpless moans spill out between every brutal, perfect thrust.

He’s still moving. Still buried deep inside you, cock twitching with every pulse of your orgasm. Still holding your hips like they’re sacred. Still panting like he might fall apart if he doesn’t keep feeling you.

“Fuck—fuck, Rafayel—” you cry, voice broken. “I can’t…I can’t, I’m so—”

But you don’t tell him to stop. Even through the overstimulation, even through the tears gathering in the corners of your eyes from how good it still feels—you don’t tell him to stop.

You whimper, loud and high and wrecked, hips jerking with each thrust, and through the haze, you reach back, grabbing his wrist, holding him to you.

“Show me,” you moan, desperate, breathless, trembling. “Show me how much you love me… ah, how much you missed this pussy…how much you need me.”

He breaks. Completely. With a shattered groan, he slams into you harder, losing his rhythm, his hips stuttering with frantic, messy thrusts. His head drops forward, lips parted against your back, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your shoulder.

“Fuck…fuck, cutie—I’m gonna…” he pants, voice rough and wild, “I’m gonna come—oh my god…I missed you, I love you…I need you—”

And then he comes. Your name is the only thing he says as he unravels—half-moan, half-grunt, worship on his tongue—his cock buried to the hilt as he pulses hard inside you. Hot. Wet. All of him.

He thrusts through it, whining against your skin, chasing every last wave of it until he finally collapses—chest to your back, arms wrapping around your waist, his weight holding you both together.

Silence falls. Heavy, warm, trembling silence. Your knees give out first. He catches you, barely, pulling you down with him to the floor, tangled in limbs and sweat and ragged, open-mouthed breaths.

You both just breathe. There are no words yet. Only the echo of his moans still ringing in your ears. Only the slick warmth between your thighs, the tremble in your legs, the whisper of his lips on your neck as he presses kiss after kiss to your skin like an apology and a vow.

“Mine,” he murmurs again. “Never letting you go, cutie.”

And you don’t argue, because why would you? Because you are his, and you always have been.

© zaynessbeloved 2025

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

taglist: @syluslittlecrows, @asiaticapple

[the-librarby]

FANCY SEEING YOU HERE III

- DANTE SPARDA (DMC)

I heart girlhood and first kisses.

Part one Part two

It had been a month since that eventful first day, and Dante had gotten very comfortable in your presence. He dropped by with seemingly no rhyme or reason, every time you tried to assign him a case he would just wave it off. Apparently busy with other work.

Not only did he physically disturb your work hours, but he somehow got ahold of your work number.

When the landline rings, you pick it up without thinking, “Devil May Cry,”

“That’s it?” The voice crackles due to the poor speaker, “No, this is Y/N speaking, how can I help you?” A familiar voice mocks.

You lean back in your chair with a grin, crossing your leg over the other— you better get comfortable this is going to be a long call — and squish the receiver between your cheek and shoulder.

You hum, “Maybe you should be a receptionist, you’ve got the voice for it,”

“Oh yeah? What else am I good at?” The cocky grin is apparent in his tone.

You roll your eyes, “Being a pain in my ass,” your eyes flick to the clock display on your computer, “Aren’t you on a mission right now?”

Dante hums in confirmation, “I found some downtime, just to check in on you,”

Check ins, that’s what Dante liked to call this.

“I’m just as fine as I was yesterday, Dante,” you reply, “If I didn’t know any better, it sounds like you care about me, sweetheart,”

The rumble of his laughter over the speaker makes you inhale just a bit deeper, “Yeah, yeah caught red handed.”

You found it hard to navigate this dynamic with Dante. You expected the flirtatious conversations to die down but as you got more acquainted, if anything, it’s just amped it up. You’re certain it’s just the demon hunter’s nature, and not anything personal, which is fine by you. The last thing you need is to complicate this working relationship even further.

“You there, darling?” He questions, snapping you out of your train of thought.

You lean forward in your seat, moving the computer mouse to wake the screen back up, “Yeah, here,” you respond, “How’s the mission going?”

“So boring,” he complains, “Don’t make me talk about it, any plans tonight? Tell me it’s something fun,”

You laugh, “Going out actually,” you choose to ignore Dante’s dramatic gasp, “Calendar finally lined up, so I’m getting some drinks with some friends,”

Dante lets out the most wounded sound you’ve ever heard, “What! You never go out—”

“Not true!” You interject.

“—The one time you’re doing something fun and I’m not even there to see it!”

You frown, “Who said you would be invited anyway?”

Dante scoffs, “Don’t be ridiculous, doll, of course I would be there,”

You hum in reluctance, “No, I don’t think so. Pretty sure I sent all the invites out already, guess yours got lost?”

“I find it funny that you think you could stop me from seeing you.” He assures.

You gaze up at the ceiling, shaking your head in disbelief. You turn in your office chair, now facing the window behind you, the cord follows and wraps around the chair.

“Guess you’ll just have to sit this one out then,” you sigh.

“I’ll find a way,” he hums, “Keep your phone on you.”

Even miles away you can’t shake the feeling that you’re being watched by him, a constant shadow over your shoulder. The sun is starting to set across the buildings outside, you search every rooftop and can’t find a single sign of a soul.

“Sure,” you spin back around to face your computer, “Better let you get back to your mission, I know you work so hard,” you coo.

Dante sighs, “Think of me when you go out tonight, alright doll? Because I’ll be thinking of you,”

“Goodbye Dante.” you fluster.

You hang the phone up with a click. In the silence of your office you groan, dragging your hands down your face is exasperation.

It was later in the evening when you stepped into the bar you were meeting your friends at. In the corner you can see them waving you over, a grin breaks out on your face. Cheers and greetings are shared, you can feel your shoulders relax. This was needed.

“I need a drink.”

Resounding agreements are met with your statement.

Time starts flying by, and you’re starting to forget what drink number you’re on but it’s fine, you got it handled. When you approach the bar, a guy next to you starts chatting. It’s polite and civil, he’s definitely cute, but when he starts pulling his phone out your mouth opens on autopilot.

“Oh, thank you, but no thanks,” you raise your hand placating.

The guy looks a little wounded— you grit your teeth in embarrassment— but doesn’t comment. Your friend punches your arm as he walks off, her eyes are widened.

“Why did you ditch him? He was so cute!”

You shrug, making your way back to your table, “I don’t know, wasn’t feeling it,”

Another girl chimes in as you sit down, “Wasn’t feeling what?”

“This cute ass guy just asked for her number and she shot him down!”

“Politely!” You interject.

The table is looking in your direction, one girl hums conspiratorially, “Someone we don’t know about?”

You choke on your drink, “No!” It’s not convincing, “No, there’s not,”

“Bullshit, your face is red! Who is it? Someone from work?”

The girl beside you tilts her head, “Your shady receptionist job? That would be interesting.”

Okay, so maybe your friends don’t know the full details of your job. It’s not because you don’t trust them, it’s just because this job is meant to be temporary, and honestly you don’t want them to worry about the people you work with.

Like Dante. Your heart pangs for a second at the thought of his name. That makes you pause.

“Oh my god, it’s definitely someone from her shady receptionist job,”

You automatically become defensive, “There’s nothing going on at work,” it doesn’t feel like you mean it, “I mean, nothing can happen anyway, it’s work,”

You shove down the sadness you feel saying that out loud, it’s not something you can deal with right now. When you look around the table you can see the sympathetic looks from everyone.

You groan and chug the rest of your drink, “Another round?”

You’ve definitely lost track of the amount of drinks you’ve had now. You’re laughing at every little amusing thing that comes across your path, and your friends laugh at how slurred your speech is. You’re just about to enter a different bar when your pocket starts to buzz.

“Wait,” you take a wobbly step back and dig into your pocket, “I gotta take this,” you murmur distractedly.

When your friends start to protest you wave your hand at them, “No s’fine, go in, I’ll be like, five minutes?”

You turn your back to them as they walk in, the phone in your hands looks a bit blurry and it takes you a couple tries to hit the accept button but eventually you get it.

“Hello?” You chime cheerily.

A chuckle rumbles through, “Just how drunk are you, doll?”

You frown, “Don’t,” you reply accusingly, “Don’t call me that, only Dante calls me that,”

“Really? He your boyfriend or something?” The voices teases.

You pout, “No, he’s—” you hum in thought, “Uh, a friend,”

Really, how else could you explain Dante to a stranger?

“You don’t sound convinced,”

His voice is deep, you muse, “What are you? A therapist?” A frown creases your eyebrows, “I definitely can’t afford that,”

The voice over the line laughs, it makes you feel warm, “Where are you?”

You scoff, “M’not giving my address to a stranger!”

“Haven’t you figured it out yet, sweetheart?”

“Sweethea—” you gasp loudly suddenly, “Dante?”

“Bingo,” Dante laughs, it’s so familiar how could you not recognise it?

“Dante!” You repeat, in disbelief, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You are so gone,” he comments amusedly.

“Yeah,” you sigh in agreement. Slowly, on unsure legs you walk over to the edge of the pavement to sit on the curb outside of the bar, “I miss you, where are you?”

Dante is going to tease the fuck out of you tomorrow for this. But right now you are not sound of mind to care, or even realise what you are saying. Sitting on the concrete beside a parked car, you watch as other drunken groups stumble and laugh up and down the street.

“On a mission remember?” He muses.

“Oh yeah,” you respond, fingers loosely holding your phone, “How is the mission?”

“That really what you want to talk about right now?”

Your response comes out quick, “If it keeps you on the line,”

The a brief choked noise and pause, you think you hear a quiet curse— fucking hell— in the background, but it’s drowned out by the traffic.

“Where are you?” Dante repeats.

“Huh?” You swing your head around, squinting your eyes at the bar sign out front, “Some bar, Night lounge or somethin’”

“I’ll meet you there,”

You laugh, “What? You’re like—” you wave your hand in gesture, “Somewhere far away,”

“Don’t move, got it?” He ignores your comment, “See you soon, doll.”

You barely say goodbye before the line ends. You stare at your phone in confusion for a moment, what did he mean? Your sluggish mind can’t fit the pieces together, so you shrug it off. Standing up, you dust off your outfit and make your way inside the bar. The girls are urging you to catch up, having missed out on a few rounds.

You completely forget about the phone call.

Hours later, you blearily look at your phone. The clock displays 2:00am. You push your way off the dance floor, leaving your friends behind. Everything is becoming stuffy and you need space, it’s a clumsy exit but you manage to shove your way out. Skirting the edge of the dance floor, you make one last shove this time accidentally hitting someone square in the chest.

“Sorry,” you slur, hands up in defence.

A bigger hand circle your wrist, the other hooking under your chin to tilt your head up, “Just the person I was looking for,”

Slowly you blink to take the man in, black fitted top, broad shoulders, and long silver hair. A grin breaks out on your face, “Dante!” You cheer drunkenly, wriggling your hands out of his grasp and wrap them around his neck. You feel his arms curl around your waist.

Your cheek is smooshed against the juncture of his shoulder and neck, “You made it,” your murmur, “How did you find me?”

Dante looks down at you quizzically, about to respond when you’re suddenly tugged back by your shirt.

“Y/N!” Your friend shouts, “You can’t just run off like that!”

She starts to apologise to Dante on your behalf, “I’m so sorry, she’s drank a lot tonight—”

You hiccup on your laugh, “Don’t apologise,” you poke hard at Dante’s chest, “This is Dante,”

Your friend frowns, “Dante…?”

“From work,” he supplies.

Your friend frowns, looking between the two of you. Dante’s hand is resting comfortably on the small of your back, your hand turning from an accusing point to a splayed hand on his chest.

She raises her eyebrow, “Dante,” she repeats, “From work,”

“That’s me, Dante from work,” he nods.

Another girl from your group comes up, “What’s going on?” She shouts.

She jabs a thumb in your direction, a grin now on her face, “This is Dante from Y/N’s work,”

She gasps, “The Dante?”

Dante’s now starting to feel confused, the two girls in front of him are scrutinising him in his spot. He smiles politely, and lets them look. You on the other hand, are completely taken by a wave of sleepiness. Unaware of the looks exchanged, you slump into Dante’s side.

“Need home,” you murmur.

Dante leans down, hovering closer to your face to hear better, “What?”

You groan at the movement, every shift welcomes a new wave of dizziness, “Need to go home,” you force out.

“Well, Dante from work,” your friend interjects, “Think you can handle this one?”

If you were sober, you’d be more aware of the current stare down that was happening. It’s more than a simple question, Dante was facing a test of loyalty right now, and honestly, it was kinda terrifying.

He answers without doubt, “Yes, I can handle her,”

You crack your eyes open when you feel warmth wrap around you, “Bye Y/N,” kisses are pressed to your cheeks, “Get home safe, and text me!”

You mumble your goodbyes, lots of I love you’s are exchanged before Dante wraps his arm around your waist and leads you outside. Once you step out into fresh air, you sigh. It feels so good to be outside.

“Alright, let’s get you home,”

You slump your head against his shoulder, letting Dante lead the way because your legs are not working right now.

“I wanna take my shoes off,”

“You can’t take your shoes off,”

You cry worriedly, “Are they glued to my feet?”

Dante looks down at your frantic face, shaking his head, “No, we’re walking home, you can’t take your shoes off right now,” he clarifies.

You sigh in genuine relief, the split second reality of not being able to take your shoes off outweighs the minor pain they’re giving you for now.

“Would you cut my feet off if they were actually stuck?” You wonder aloud.

Dante frowns, “No, I would not cut your feet off,”

You tilt your head, “How would you get them off then?”

Dante is unsure of the direction of this conversation, he knows you’re just rambling but the accusing look in your eye makes him think you’re not going to let this go.

He sighs, “Cut them?”

You gasp, “But these are my favourite!” You kick your feet up as to show them off, but you start to topple backwards from the sudden weight shift.

Dante easily swings forward until you’re straightened up again, “I don’t know,” he hums, “Guess I would have to force them off, they’d have to unstick at some point.”

You smile, satisfied at his answer. The streets are starting to get a little quieter as you walk away from the bars, it’s nicer like this, you can hear the cars driving past and a quiet ringing in your ears from the loud music earlier.

Dante’s mind floats back to what your friends said, “Do your friends know me?”

You hum questioningly, thinking back over the blurry events of tonight. After the phone call you went back in the bar, your friends were sitting at the table urging you to catch up on drinks. No wait, something before that.

“Who were you talking to out there?”

“Dante,” you answer simply.

“Dante?” They emphasise, “Who is Dante?”

You shrug, “From work? He’s so annoying,” you roll your eyes, “Keeps calling me all sorts of names, doll, sweetheart, my love,”

While you’re rambling your friends eyes widen, the whole table shocked at the revelation you’ve just spilled.

“Y/N, my darling,” you scrunch your nose, “You know he likes you, right?”

“What?” You scoff, “That’s impossible,”

“Why?”

That made you pause. Why was it impossible again? Something about boundaries and lines interfering.

“Oh my god!” Hands slam on the table, “It’s him! The guy that nothing can happen with!”

Gasps resound around the table, but your head is spinning. Before they can ask you anymore questions you head for the bar.

“You’re the guy,” you say.

“The guy?”

You huff, waving your hand, “The guy,” you emphasise, “From work, where nothing can happen, because you’re from work,” you tag on the end, in case it wasn’t obvious.

Now Dante can read between the lines. In this case, the line is very obvious in your oversharing confidence. A line that should not be discussed right now. He knows. Your apartment building is coming into view, Dante recognises the familiar entrance steps and railing.

“Something you want to say to me, darling?” It’s cruel to ask in your state, but he can’t help it.

You stop abruptly in your path, Dante looks down at you as you turn to him, a determined look pinning your facial expression.

“Yes,” you accuse, stepping closer, “How dare you,”

Dante smirks, “How dare I what?”

You point a finger waving it between him and yourself, “Act like this,” you gesture, “You’re not my partner,”

The drunken words are not eloquently said, but he understands. He steps closer, you tilt your head up to continue facing him.

“Do you want me to stop?” He murmurs, suddenly serious.

You frown, “This is so not fair,” you reach your hands up to cup his face, “You can’t look at me like that,”

Dante would put money down to see what you see in him right now, “What do I look like?” He whispers.

Your thumb grazes gently under his eye, “Not how a friend should look at me,”

He glances down at your lips, “Will you forgive me in the morning?”

His abrupt question confuses you, “For what?” You smile in amusement.

Without warning he leans down, causing your hands to slide down to the back of his neck. Your eyes widen in anticipation, he pauses close to your face, giving you a chance to back off.

“I swear if this is a sick joke, I’ll kill you Dante.” you promise.

Hands grasp your hips, tugging you flush against chest. Seconds later, Dante’s lips are on yours. It’s gentle, is what your foggy mind can comment on. Your hands reach up into his hair, gently curling into the strands, him groans in response with deepened the kiss. One of your hands travels down his chest, feeling for the hem.

Before you can get your fingers underneath, you feel the world spin before your back hits something hard. The kiss breaks, and when you open your eyes and look around you can see you’re leaning against the brick all of your apartment building.

Dante’s heavy breathing matches your own, he shakes his head with a smile, “It’s time for you to go to bed,”

You ignore him, tugging him closer by the loops of his belt. He moves forward without a fight, you lean up to kiss him once more. Dante feels weak in this moment, he can’t say no, not when your fingers are curled around his pants like that. When your fingers reach for the hem of his shirt, there’s only a warning hum. A cautionary, don’t. With a smile against his lips, you breach under, letting your finger tips glide over his hipbone. You don’t get much further until a hand grasps your wrist.

“You’re breaching out of bounds territory,” Dante warns.

You grin, wriggling your fingers that are still trapped under his shirt, “Let me in,”

Dante smiles in amusement at your boldness, “No,” he counters.

Your mouth drops in shock, as if not expecting that response, “You’re so mean,”

His hand drags yours out, “You already knew that,” he winks.

You pout, glancing up at him through your eyelashes. Your slightly smudged mascara affects Dante in a way he didn’t know could, his thoughts are starting to drift too far. Thoughts of you in this outfit, on your knees on your bedroom floor, choking around—

He blinks the thoughts away. He needs to stop this.

Gently he tugs you off the brick wall, guiding you up the stairs to your apartment entrance. Getting the hint, you fish out your keys.

You look at him one last time, “This is real right? I’m not imagining it,”

Dante chuckles, “I would be a fucking fool to pass you up,” he leans forward for one more chaste kiss, his hand cups your face, “Text your friends that you’re home, before they think I killed you,”

You laugh, “I will,”

He leans again, finding it hard to part from your lips but he manages to pull away one last time, “Call me in the morning?”

You hum, leaning against his hand as you peek your eyes open, “Afternoon okay? I’ll definitely feel like shit tomorrow morning,”

Dante smiles, “Deal.”

[arkaiveofurown]

him as a boyfriend

Pairings: Sabo x Reader, Ace x Reader, Law x Reader

Word Count: ~2-3k per character

tags: fluff, established relationship

my masterlist here ♡

Sabo

Sabo leaned back against the wall of the ship, his arms crossed as you sat nearby, chatting with a crewmate. You could hear their voices, but they were just background noise as your mind wandered to Sabo. He caught you glancing at him, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“You alright?” he asked, always attuned to your moods, even without asking directly.

You nodded. “Yeah, just… thinking.”

“About what?” he pressed, though the tone in his voice was soft, knowing not to push too much.

“I don’t know… just feels weird sometimes, you know? Being out here… so free.”

Sabo’s smile widened. “You should be. You’re free to do whatever you want. No one can control you, not now.”

You hesitated, remembering how different things were when you’d first met him, when he’d been bound by so many rules and expectations. “I just… never knew what it felt like to have this much freedom. You know, no one telling me what to do.”

Sabo nodded, his eyes intense as he looked at you. “I get that. Growing up with people telling me what to do, who to be… I never want that for you. You get to decide who you are. I’ll always support you, no matter what path you choose.”

His voice was steady, but you could tell that there was a deep yearning in him. A yearning to see you be exactly who you were, free from the shackles that once held him back.

Sabo as a boyfriend is the one who encourages you to be yourself, to live freely, because he understands how hard it is to be controlled.

——

You were talking with a few other crewmates about a recent accomplishment—a small victory that felt like a huge step forward for the Revolutionary Army. As you spoke, Sabo appeared from behind, standing silently by your side.

“I’m glad to see you getting the recognition you deserve,” he murmured, eyes gleaming with pride. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried a weight.

You smiled at him, grateful for his steady presence. “It was a team effort,” you said modestly.

“No, it was your effort,” Sabo said firmly, turning toward you with a serious expression. “I’m proud of you. You’ve come so far, and I don’t think you even realize how much you’re capable of.”

He didn’t need to say more—his tone said everything. He never bragged about his own feats, but when it came to your accomplishments, he had no problem shouting from the rooftops. He wasn’t just proud of what you’d done; he was proud of who you were.

Sabo as a boyfriend is the one who always praises your achievements, no matter how big or small, because he knows you deserve to be recognized.

——

You had just gotten off the phone with a friend, your voice light and upbeat. When you hung up, you turned to Sabo, who was already watching you with a fond smile.

“You really don’t hang up on me like you do with everyone else,” you commented.

He gave a small laugh, shaking his head. “You don’t make me want to rush it. I like hearing you talk. I like… just being there with you. Even over the phone.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You usually hang up on people as soon as they start talking about business.”

Sabo smirked. “Yeah, but with you, it’s different. I don’t mind hearing your voice. Even if you’re just rambling about something silly, it’s the best part of my day.”

There was a quiet sincerity in his words that made your heart warm. Sabo didn’t just love you because of your strengths; he loved the little things, like your voice, your thoughts, the way you saw the world.

Sabo as a boyfriend is the one who will never rush you off the phone, because he loves hearing you speak, no matter what you have to say.

——

You hadn’t been expecting to see Sabo for a while—he was off on a mission with the Revolutionary Army, and the last time you spoke, he had been vague about when he’d return. But one day, as you were sitting alone in your room, you heard the familiar sound of footsteps outside.

The door swung open, and there he was, looking like he hadn’t been gone for months instead of just a few weeks. His eyes scanned the room and landed on you instantly. “I knew it was you.”

You blinked. “What do you mean? I’m not wearing anything special.”

He grinned, walking in with that unmistakable swagger. “You think I can’t recognize you from a mile away? You’re wearing the same bracelet you always wear on your left wrist. I’ve memorized every little thing about you.”

You blinked again, surprised. “You really do pay attention, huh?”

“Of course I do,” he said, sitting beside you, the same soft smile playing on his lips. “How could I not? You’re my priority. Every little detail about you matters.”

It wasn’t just that he could pick out the smallest things—it was the way he made you feel so seen, so important.

Sabo as a boyfriend is the kind of guy who remembers every detail about you. Even if you’re in disguise or afar, he’ll still know it’s you, because he has memorized everything about the way you move, speak, and even what you wear.

——

No matter how tough things got, how dangerous their missions were, Sabo always made sure to smile at you in the most gentle, reassuring way. It was as if his smile alone could calm you even when the world felt chaotic.

One night, after a particularly intense argument with some of the crew over the next mission, you were walking alone on the deck, your mind spinning with frustration. You didn’t hear him approach until his shadow fell over you.

“Hey,” his voice was soft, a contrast to the loud voices that had filled the ship earlier. He stepped closer, offering you that signature, gentle smile.

“I know you’re upset,” he began, speaking with a calm confidence. “But I want you to know that you’ve got every right to be frustrated. You just have to believe that things will work out.”

You didn’t say anything, simply looking up at him, drawn to the warmth in his eyes. It was like everything else around you faded, and you were left with just his smile—soft, reassuring, and always present, no matter what.

Sabo’s hand found yours, a small gesture but one that spoke volumes. “Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out together. You’re not alone.”

Sabo as a boyfriend is the one who offers you that gentle smile in the hardest moments, the kind of smile that reminds you that, no matter what, he’s there for you.

——

You had heard rumors that Sabo would be returning soon, but you didn’t know exactly when. So, when you walked out onto the deck one morning and saw him standing there, his familiar blue coat fluttering in the wind, your heart skipped a beat.

He turned as he heard your footsteps, his eyes lighting up when he spotted you. A soft smile spread across his face as he took a step toward you, reaching for the vivre card tucked in his pocket, something that always made you feel safe—because it wasn’t just a card. It was his promise.

“I’m home,” he said simply, his voice low and steady.

You laughed, shaking your head, a rush of emotions flooding you. “You don’t even know how badly I missed you.”

Sabo’s smile didn’t fade as he stepped closer, pulling you into his arms. As he held you, you could feel the warmth of his embrace, the quiet reassurance in the way he touched you. “I missed you more than you know,” he murmured into your hair. “And you don’t have to worry, I’m always coming back to you. I keep your vivre card with me, so I know where you are, and I’ll always make sure you’re safe. No matter what happens, I’ll find you. It’s not even a question.”

You couldn’t help but feel a rush of relief as you wrapped your arms around him. No matter how many missions took him away from you, Sabo always made sure you knew that you were his priority. The distance, the battles—it didn’t matter. As long as he had your vivre card, he would always know where you were, and he’d always come back to you.

Sabo as a boyfriend is the one who keeps your vivre card close to his heart, making sure that your safety is his number one priority. No matter the distance or danger, he will always go to you.

——

The evening was calm. You and Sabo found a quiet place to sit, and despite everything happening in the world, for once, everything was perfect.

He leaned back, his legs stretched out in front of him, and glanced over at you. You caught him staring and smirked. “What is it?”

His eyes softened, the playful smirk from earlier now gone. “Just thinking. I don’t think I’ll ever find someone like you.”

You gave him a side-eye. “Sabo, you don’t have to say that to be sweet.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I mean it. There’s no one else for me. I don’t care where this revolution takes us or what happens next—I just know that I’m not leaving you behind. You’re my future. And nothing’s going to change that.”

You felt your heart skip a beat. He was usually quiet, but when it came to matters of the heart, Sabo’s words always felt like a promise.

Sabo as a boyfriend is the one who makes a vow to stay with you, no matter the storm or the fire—the one who gives you a future in his heart.

——

Ace

“Ace,” you groaned, “why are you talking like that?”

He grinned down at you, chin propped on his hand, doing a terrible impression of a rich old noble. “My dearest, I do declare, the sun hath risen and so must we—lest the eggs be cold and the pirates be rowdy.”

You shoved a pillow in his face.

“I’m serious!” he said, muffled. “We mustn’t disappoint our crewmates, for they are in need of our stunning presence at breakfast!”

“Are you high on sea salt already?”

Ace burst out laughing, collapsing half on top of you. “Come on, that was a good one!”

You grumbled something into your pillow.

He poked your cheek. “Admit it. You smiled.”

You didn’t respond.

“You snorted. I heard it.”

“Did not.”

“I’m hilarious.”

And somehow, despite wanting sleep more than life itself, you were already laughing. Because it was impossible not to when he was like this—ridiculous and grinning and entirely too pleased with himself.

Ace as a boyfriend is the kind of idiot who performs a full comedy sketch at 6 a.m. just to hear you laugh before breakfast.

——

You were halfway through lunch when Ace stabbed the last piece of grilled fish off his plate. It was his favorite—the one Thatch made with extra spice, seared just right. He stared at it for a full second.

Then, silently, he slid it onto your plate.

You blinked. “…You’re giving that to me?”

He made a face like he was in deep spiritual agony. “Please appreciate the sacrifice.”

You snorted. “You sure?”

“No.” He shoved his chopsticks down dramatically. “But I love you, and this is how I prove it.”

“You could also say the words.”

“I just gave you my favorite food, what more do you want from me?!”

Ace as a boyfriend is the guy who eats like a wild animal—but still gives you the last bite like it’s the highest form of love. He won’t say it in big romantic speeches, but in the way he gives up his favorite things for you, you’ll always know where his heart is.

——

“So I was telling Haruta about your left hook,” Ace said, loud enough that the entire galley could hear. “Thing’s got range. Like a whole sea king’s tail!”

You groaned into your rice bowl. “Can you not brag about my punches to everyone?”

“Why not? It’s hot!”

Around you, crewmates started laughing. You heard Izo mutter, “Here he goes again,” while Jozu sighed into his drink.

Ace leaned across the table, grinning proudly. “You’re amazing. I just want people to know.”

“And if I want to lay low?”

“You started dating me. We passed ‘low-key’ like fifty ports ago.”

Ace as a boyfriend is someone who can’t shut up about you—and doesn’t want to. He’ll shout your name across the ocean if he thinks you did something cool. Even when it’s embarrassing, even when it’s loud, he’ll make sure the world knows he’s proud of you.

——

“You punched someone because they called me ‘dead weight’?!”

Ace looked totally unrepentant, knuckles scuffed and a grin spreading across his face. “They’re lucky I didn’t melt their boots to their ankles.”

“Ace, we’re not supposed to start fights over words!”

“Oh, right,” he said, throwing an arm around your shoulder as if nothing was wrong. “Next time, I’ll just accidentally sneeze and set their hair on fire.”

You glared at him.

“I love you,” he said simply, voice softening for just a second.

“And?”

“And no one gets to talk like that about the person who means everything to me.”

He paused, a flicker of something deeper flashing across his face. “I don’t like leaving people behind. Not when they matter. And you… you matter.” His eyes were fiery, but this time, the fire wasn’t about rage. It was about loyalty. “If someone tries to hurt you—if they try to put you down—I won’t back off. I won’t run away. You’re not alone in this, and I’m not gonna let anyone forget that.”

You tried to hold firm. You really did. But his arm tightened, heat rolling off his skin, and that stupid grin cracked your resolve right in two.

Ace as a boyfriend is the kind of man who defends your name like it’s the flag of his ship. He doesn’t just protect you—he honors you. Even your reputation is something sacred to him.

——

It was a quiet evening—rare. The sea was calm, the crew mellow, and Ace had convinced you to lie on the deck with him, watching the stars between drifting clouds.

You leaned into his chest, the slow thump of his heart grounding you.

“Y’know what I love about you?” he asked, voice surprisingly soft.

You smiled against his shirt. “My devastating charm?”

He chuckled. “That you’re just you. Doesn’t matter where you came from. Doesn’t matter who your family is or what you’ve done. You’re here. With me. That’s enough.”

You tilted your head to look up at him.

He met your eyes. No teasing. No grin. Just Ace—raw and honest.

“I’ve seen too many people judged for where they come from,” he said. “That’s never gonna be you. Not with me.”

Ace as a boyfriend is someone who loves you because of your soul, not your story. He doesn’t care who you were before, or what the world said about you—he sees who you are now.

——

That night, the sea turned colder. Not dangerous—but enough to make the whole crew bundle up. You curled tighter in your jacket, shivering despite yourself.

Then a warm hand slid into yours.

Ace tugged you close, resting your head against his chest as a soft wave of heat spilled from him—gentle, steady, safe.

He kissed the top of your head. “Better?”

“Mmm. You’re warm.”

He smirked. “That’s what I’m here for.”

You stayed like that, pressed to his heartbeat, the wind howling around you while his fire wrapped you up from the inside out.

Ace as a boyfriend is your shield against every cold night and every colder thought. When the world gets harsh, he wraps you in warmth—literal and emotional. With one touch, he melts away the chill.

——

The Moby Dick was quiet—rarest thing in the world. After a long battle and a long celebration, everyone had finally passed out. Ace had dragged you to the highest part of the deck, where the moon cut the sea into silver, and the stars looked close enough to catch.

He lay back with his arms behind his head. You curled into his side without needing to ask.

It was peaceful. And for once, Ace wasn’t running his mouth or teasing. He just watched the sky.

Then, out of nowhere, he said it. Low. Real.

“I never thought I’d get this.”

You glanced up. “Get what?”

He looked down at you like you were something sacred.

“This. You. Us. A crew that feels like home. A person who makes me want to stay.”

You opened your mouth, but he kept going—like if he didn’t say it now, it might burn a hole in his chest.

“I used to think I wasn’t supposed to be here. That the world didn’t want me in it. But you…” He swallowed. “You make me feel like I matter. Like I’m me—not Roger’s kid, not a Whitebeard commander. Just Ace. Just yours.”

You didn’t speak. You just held him, fingers tangling in his hair, while his arms pulled you in like he never planned to let go.

The ocean moved quietly around you, the stars above, the fire in his chest, and that look in his eyes like he’d found his place at last.

Ace as a boyfriend is the one who finds his home in you—and makes damn sure you feel like you’ve got one in him, too.

——

Law

You were humming again.

Not a real song—just something you made up, wandering around the Polar Tang with a broom in hand, sweeping while swaying slightly to your own rhythm. It had no melody. No structure. Just something light and stupid and undeniably you.

From behind, you heard it.

A low, familiar “Tch.”

You turned, grinning. “Something to say, Captain?”

Law stood at the door to the observation room, arms crossed, expression carefully flat.

“You’re off-key.”

“Rude.”

“You’re sweeping the same spot for ten minutes.”

“Multitasking,” you said cheerfully, spinning the broom.

He exhaled slowly, as if your entire existence was testing his patience.

But he didn’t walk away.

You cocked your head. “You don’t actually hate it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t say I liked it.”

“You haven’t moved.”

“…I was watching to make sure you didn’t fall on your face again.”

You grinned. “So you were watching.”

His lips twitched—barely—and he looked away, ears a little pink. “Tch.”

You stepped closer, broom tapping his foot. “You like my humming.”

He didn’t answer.

You bumped your shoulder into his. “You think it’s cute.”

He closed his eyes for a second, muttering something under his breath, then finally said, “It’s tolerable.”

You laughed. “That’s a huge compliment coming from you.”

He didn’t deny it. And when you resumed humming on your way down the hall, he stayed in the doorway a little longer—watching, listening, lips tugged in the faintest smile.

Law as a boyfriend is the kind of man who secretly enjoys the little things about you—your bad humming, your quirks, your mess. He’ll roll his eyes and pretend it’s a nuisance, but deep down, he loves it more than he’ll ever admit.

——

“You skipped breakfast.”

His voice was calm, but the sharpness in it told you this wasn’t a casual observation.

You looked up from the mess table, caught mid-bite of an energy bar. “It’s fine, I wasn’t really—”

“Hungry? That’s not the point.”

Law sat across from you, setting a small tray down in front of you—your favorite warm soup, and a few cuts of fruit you were sure he’d stolen from the kitchen himself.

“You need proper food,” he said, tapping the tray. “You haven’t been sleeping well either.”

You blinked. “Are you tracking my habits or something?”

He didn’t even blink. “Yes.”

You stared.

He stared back.

“…You’re serious.”

“I’m a doctor,” he said smoothly, then paused. “And your boyfriend. You think I wouldn’t notice?”

You lowered your gaze to the soup, feeling your face heat as you quietly picked up the spoon. You didn’t need to say thank you—he already knew. This was his version of care: watching, remembering, fixing.

Law as a boyfriend is the kind of man who will monitor your health better than any physician. He’ll prioritize your safety and well-being over anything else—even if you don’t realize you need it.

——

You were lounging in his office, legs up on the couch, half-dozing while he scribbled something at his desk. The scratching of his pen was the only sound—until it abruptly stopped.

“You know what’s insane?” Law said suddenly, eyes still on the page.

You blinked, looking up. “Hm?”

He didn’t even wait for you to answer. “That episode of Sora, Warrior of the Sea—the one where Germa 66 attacks the Vega Kingdom? Stealth Black phases through an entire wall of seastone-infused armor plating. It’s not physically possible, but they don’t explain it. Not once.”

You sat up a little, blinking. “…Wait, what?”

“And people always forget, but that was the first time Stealth Black used that mid-air cloak burst move. You can actually trace the evolution of it across three issues after that. See, the author was setting it up early, but everyone thinks it just came out of nowhere.”

He finally looked at you then—and froze.

You were just staring at him, mouth slightly open.

“What,” he said flatly, though his ears were already turning pink.

You blinked slowly. “Are you fanboying right now?”

Law narrowed his eyes. “It’s a narrative analysis.”

You grinned. “Law, you’re gushing.”

“I’m discussing the mechanics of a fictional battlefield maneuver,” he corrected, straightening his notes. “It has strategic value.”

“You just quoted a comic from memory.”

He muttered something under his breath and picked up his pen again, clearly trying to move on.

But you weren’t done.

“You like Stealth Black the most, don’t you?”

He didn’t look at you. “…No comment.”

“Is it because he’s broody and wears black?”

Still no eye contact. “Coincidence.”

“You’re blushing.”

He dropped his head into his hand with a groan. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

You scooted over, nudging his arm. “No, I like this side of you. The soft, nerdy one who thinks cloaking technology is cool.”

“…It is cool.”

You laughed, and he glanced at you from under his bangs, the faintest smile tugging at his lips despite himself.

Law as a boyfriend is the kind of man who’ll accidentally let you see the dorky fanboy underneath the surgeon’s coat—and once he does, he’ll let you in on every secret obsession, because your love makes it safe to be exactly who he is.

——

Law wasn’t the type to loudly declare his feelings, nor was he one to give extravagant displays of affection. Instead, it was in the smallest gestures that you could see how much he cared. It was the way he always made sure you had a spot beside him during the quieter moments on the ship, how he’d prepare your favorite tea if you were feeling down, or how he’d bring you the rarest fruits from islands the crew visited—those little things that made all the difference.

One evening, as you sat on the deck, lost in thought, Law approached with a plate of sliced fruit.

“You’ve been distracted all day,” he remarked, handing it to you without fanfare. “Eat something. It’ll help.”

You looked up at him, taken aback by the thoughtfulness. “How did you know I was hungry?”

“I didn’t,” he said with a small smirk. “But I know you tend to forget to eat when you’re deep in thought.”

You chuckled softly and took the fruit, finding the quiet care in his actions oddly comforting. It wasn’t over-the-top, but it was his way of showing affection.

Law as a boyfriend is the kind of person who shows his love through small, practical gestures. He’s not loud about it, but every action he takes is meant to make your life a little easier, a little happier.

——

You’d seen Law in battle. You’d seen him command a crew, outwit warlords, hold his own against legends. But now, he was sitting beside you in his quarters, the lamplight warm on his skin as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt.

He didn’t look at you—he rarely did when he was being vulnerable—but he moved carefully, letting the fabric fall away to reveal the tattoos you’d traced only in glimpses.

“Go ahead,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

You blinked. “What?”

His chest rose and fell with a deep breath. “Touch them. If you want.”

It felt sacred—like he was letting you in to a place no one else got to see. You reached out, fingers brushing the inky black letters spelling out DEATH, the swirl of symbols running down his arms. Your fingers traced the contours of old scars and fresh tension.

“These aren’t just marks,” he said, eyes closed. “They’re everything I’ve survived. Everything I carry.”

You leaned in, brushing a kiss to the side of his throat. “And you let me carry them too.”

He nodded.

Law as a boyfriend is the one who lets you see every part of him—not just his body, but the weight behind the ink, the past he rarely speaks of. He trusts you enough to let you close, even to the pieces that hurt.

——

It was one of those rare quiet nights—no battle, no storm, no urgent detours. Just you and Law curled up on the couch in his quarters, a thin blanket over your legs, and a book you weren’t really reading anymore resting on your chest.

You glanced at him as he scribbled notes in the margin of a medical journal, brow furrowed, concentration absolute. Even now, with ink on his fingers and the room barely lit, he was so composed it was unfair.

“Law.”

He hummed, not looking up.

“Why do you love me?”

He paused mid-sentence.

You watched him blink once, then close the book without marking his page. When he finally looked at you, his expression wasn’t confused—it was serious, almost pained. Like the question itself tugged something loose inside his chest.

“Is that something you’re doubting?” he asked.

You shook your head. “No. I just… wondered.”

He sat forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he was gathering his thoughts carefully.

“I don’t love you because of your strength, or because you’re clever, or kind, or good with people. All of those things are true,” he said quietly. “But if you lost them all tomorrow, I’d still feel the same.”

You felt your breath catch.

Law leaned back, watching your face like he was daring you to disagree. “I love you just because. No reason. No conditions. Just… you.”

You sat in stunned silence for a beat. Then, slowly, you reached for his hand.

He didn’t move away.

You rested your head against his shoulder, and he let out a breath, threading his fingers through yours.

Law as a boyfriend is the kind of man who doesn’t love you for what you give or do—he loves you just because. He doesn’t need a reason. You, in all your pieces, are more than enough.

——

You didn’t hear the door open at first—just the sound of his boots, slow and steady down the hall. The crew had said the mission might take days. Maybe weeks. You’d told yourself not to wait up.

But here you were anyway. Curled up on the couch in his quarters, half-asleep with a book pressed to your chest.

He stopped in the doorway, pausing like he always did when he first laid eyes on you after being gone too long.

“…I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Your head lifted immediately. “Law.”

He walked in without another word, coat sliding off his shoulders, footsteps silent. He looked exhausted—dark circles under his eyes, blood still staining the edge of his sleeve. But his gaze was only on you.

You stood. “You’re hurt.”

“Already stitched.”

“You should rest—”

“I needed to see you first.”

You blinked as he reached you. His hand came up, cupping the back of your head like he was grounding himself. Forehead to yours, breath soft against your skin.

“I thought about you every moment I was gone,” he said. “Not because I was afraid of dying. But because the thought of not coming back to you…” He trailed off, voice lower now. Rougher.

Your fingers slid into the hem of his shirt, feeling the warmth of him, alive and whole and here.

“I don’t care how far I go,” he murmured, “how much blood I shed. I’ll always come back.”

“You promise?”

He looked at you then—really looked. Not just with his eyes, but with everything he’d never been able to say out loud until now.

“I live for you.”

Law as a boyfriend is the kind of man who never forgets to come back home to you. He lives for you.

[sixxels]

babydoll

frat!gojo x shy!fem reader !!

part 1 ! part 2 ! part 3 ?

wc: 7.8k

disclaimer !! slight sukuna x reader, slow burn, fluff, angst/comfort, yearning satoru, whipped satoru, satoru is just so enamoured with reader omg. follows the ‘was i just a bet?’ premise!! eventual smut (most likely). reader is implied to wear very cutesy kinds of clothings and enjoys very girly and feminine things !!

the problem was that satoru gojo hadn’t stopped thinking about you since that stupid coffee date.

it wasn’t supposed to feel like this. he’d done this kind of thing before—charming girls, making them laugh, maybe spending the night if he was bored enough. but this? this wasn’t just flirting. it wasn’t a mission or a chase.

you were different.

and that terrified the hell out of him.

he sat on the balcony of the frat house the next night, legs kicked up on the railing, the bass from the party downstairs shaking the floorboards beneath his feet. a half-drunk beer dangled from his hand, and his phone sat untouched beside him—though he’d checked it three times in the past five minutes, half-hoping you’d text.

you hadn’t.

you weren’t the type to double text.

and for once, he kind of wished you were.

“you’re thinking about her, aren’t you?” suguru’s voice cut through the thick night air, lazy and smug.

gojo didn’t even glance over. “jesus, what are you? psychic?”

“nah,” suguru stepped outside, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, long black hair tied back messily. his black gauges caught the light as he leaned against the railing. “just watching you stare at your phone like a sad puppy.”

gojo sighed. “i’m not m—”

“moody?” suguru cut in. “bro, you’ve been pouting since you got back from that coffee date.”

gojo stayed quiet.

“so?” suguru asked, glancing sideways. “did you make any progress?”

gojo took a swig of his beer. “we talked. she laughed at my jokes, she's really, and i mean really cute. it was… nice.”

“that’s it?” suguru blinked. “you’ve got, like, four weeks left. you gonna kiss her or just make googly eyes until june?”

“it’s may 6th,” gojo muttered.

“and you’re behind schedule.”

gojo gave him a look. “you really think this is about the bet anymore?”

suguru raised an eyebrow, pausing. “…so you caught feelings?”

gojo scoffed, but the way he stared out into the night said more than his words did.

“fuck,” he murmured. “i think? man fuck this i've never done this kind of shit before!”

suguru let out a low whistle, dragging his tongue over his teeth. “you? satoru gojo? falling for some shy girl you haven’t even made out with yet? damn. the apocalypse really is coming.”

“shut up.”

“no, seriously,” suguru said. “you’re acting like you’ve never talked to a girl before. this is a whole new level of whipped.”

gojo set his beer down and ran a hand through his hair, messing it up more than it already was.

“she’s just… not like the others. she’s quiet, but when she talks, it’s like she actually means what she says. and she looked at me like she was really listening, like she cared. and she didn’t try to show off or flirt or get something from me. she was just… her.”

“adorable little coffee girl,” suguru teased, tilting his head. “you’re really falling hard.”

“yeah,” gojo admitted. “i think i am.”

suguru let the silence hang for a moment before pushing off the railing.

“well, that’s sweet and all,” he said casually, “but the bet still stands.”

gojo blinked. “what?”

“come on,” suguru grinned. “you said you could bang her by the end of may. that’s $2000 on the line. i’m not just gonna let you back out because you caught a case of the butterflies.”

gojo frowned. “you’re seriously holding me to that?”

“you’re the one who upped the stakes,” suguru reminded him. “you wanted to prove you could do it. don’t tell me you’re chickening out now.”

“it’s not about chickening out,” gojo said. “it just… it doesn’t feel right anymore.”

suguru shrugged, sliding his hands into his pockets. “then figure it out. either go all in or call it. but don’t string her along if you’re not sure what you want.”

gojo looked down at the ground below, jaw clenched.

“she’s not the kind of girl you mess with,” he said quietly. “she deserves better than that.”

suguru gave him a long look. “then maybe stop being the kind of guy who does.”

~

that night, gojo lay sprawled across his bed, one arm behind his head, your text thread glowing softly in the dark.

n/n 💗 : thank you for the coffee today :)

n/n 💗: i had fun !!

he stared at it for a long moment, heart thudding heavier than it should have.

he started typing.

gojo: me too ;)

gojo: wanna hang again soon? no coffee this time, i’ll try to impress you with my tragic lack of cooking skills 🤝

send.

he stared at the screen feeling slightly anxious. a reply came a minute later.

n/n 💗 : for sure :)

he smiled. god, you were even cute over text.

gojo : awesomeeee i can't wait! i'll pick you up outside the girl dormitories after your classes tomorrow!

he set the phone on his chest and stared up at the ceiling.

he hadn’t figured it out yet, what to do about the bet, how to tell you, how to stop feeling like the world’s most shittiest person for even agreeing to it in the first place.

but one thing was clear.

this wasn’t about the money anymore.

and if he wasn’t careful, you were going to be the one thing in his life he couldn’t charm, lie, or joke his way out of.

~

the sun was beginning to set when gojo pulled up to the dorms, low rays turning the pavement gold. he wore a gray hoodie over his alpha phi tee, sleeves rolled to his elbows, sunglasses pushed up into his white hair. he’d parked a little early, pretending it was just to get a good spot, but really—it was nerves. again.

and then you appeared.

you walked out of the dorm building like you’d fallen out of a dream: soft cardigan slipping off one shoulder, a pleated plaid skirt swishing gently as you moved, lace-trimmed socks just peeking out over black mary janes. you clutched your phone and blinked up when you spotted him, lips parting slightly in surprise.

god, you were pretty. almost too pretty.

you took in the sight of his very black, very expensive looking car, walking up to him shyly.

he leaned over and popped open the door. “hop in, angel.”

you slid in, offering a shy smile. “hello.”

“hey yourself,” he grinned, starting the engine.

you looked around his car, clearing your throat slightly. "you've got a really nice car, satoru."

he smirked, one of his favourite things in life was his car, so having you of all people complimenting it made him feel giddy.

"it's a Mclaren 570S spider, my baby."

you smiled at his obvious love for his car and looked at him through fluttered eyes. "it's very cool, gojo."

if he was a dog, his tail would be wagging insanely right now.

the drive to his frat was quick, and your eyes widened at how grand the front enterance looked.

"hope you like ramen, because that's all we got right now sweets."

his frat house wasn’t clean, but it had character. guys yelling over fifa downstairs, a wall of polaroids lining the staircase, beer cans stacked like a sad sculpture on the kitchen counter. you hesitated at the door of his room until he gestured for you to come in, flipping the light switch and kicking a basketball out of the way.

“welcome to my humble kingdom.”

you stepped inside, eyes wide as you took in the mess of it all—expensive sneakers piled haphazardly in the corner, basketball trophies scattered across his dresser, and posters of old anime's and old rock bands on the wall. somehow, it smelled faintly of expensive cologne and dryer sheets.

he scratched the back of his neck. “it’s, uh… not exactly pinterest material.”

“it’s very you,” you said with a giggle.

he blinked. “is that a good thing or?”

you turned to him, giving him a small, almost shy smile. “yeah. it's cool."

he looked at you then—really looked—and that tiny, pink, fluttering thing in his chest came back full force.

you wandered over to his desk while he started fiddling with the stovetop burner on the little kitchenette shoved into the corner of his room.

“so,” he said, voice casual. “i was thinking—gourmet instant ramen. maybe some fancy egg on top if we’re feeling wild.”

~

“so…” you said after a few minutes, propped on the edge of his bed while he stirred noodles, “what’s it like being frat president?”

he snorted. “exhausting, kinda. it’s basically babysitting drunk toddlers with big egos.”

you laughed and swung your legs back and forth over the edge of his bed. "i thought it was just about throwing parties.”

“eh, that too.” he leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching you. “but i have to keep the house from falling apart, break up fights, stop choso from lighting the grill with a flamethrower again…”

you blinked. “again?”

he smiled sheepishly. “yeah, we lost a picnic table last semester.” you giggled, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear.

then your smile faded just slightly.

“you okay?” satoru asked quietly, voice low as he stirred the ramen.

you nodded, but there was a pause that lingered too long, your eyes fixed on your lap. your fingers fidgeted in your lap.

“just… i used to date someone, who loved parties.” you murmured. “he was in beta tau.”

gojo’s movements stilled. beta tau was basically alpha phis rival frat. the quiet slosh of water and noodles was the only sound in the small kitchen now.

you didn’t look up when you said his name. “sukuna.”

a cold weight dropped into his stomach. his hand tightened around the ladle, knuckles going pale.

of course it was sukuna.

that smug, inked-up bastard with a mouth full of sharp teeth and a cruel grin to match. he strutted around campus like he owned it, dripping in designer clothes and superiority. gojo had always hated the way girls fell into his lap like it was gravity—like his name alone was enough to make people forget how rotten he was underneath. he wasn’t charming. he was dangerous, and not in the fun way.

and you… sweet perfect you... you were the last person he wanted to imagine tangled up in sukunas antics.

“he wasn’t very kind to me,” you continued, voice barely more than a whisper. “he’d always say the right things in public, always knew how to look like the perfect boyfriend. but when it was just us… he made me feel small. like a doll on a shelf.”

satoru slowly turned around to face you.

you still wouldn’t look at him, like you were ashamed, and for some reason, that hurt more than anything.

“did he hurt you?” he asked, his voice sharp with something unfamiliar—something cold and furious.

your eyes lifted, wide and startled.

“no. not-not like that. he never laid a hand on me. he just…” you exhaled shakily. “he liked having a girlfriend that looked good standing next to him. didn’t care what i wanted. what i liked. he wanted a prize. not a girlfriend.”

the silence that followed was heavy. satoru felt it in his teeth, in the pounding of his heart.

you looked up through your lashes, nervous.

gojo didn’t speak for a moment.

he couldn’t.

his thoughts were racing, hot and restless. the image of sukuna’s smug face flashed behind his eyes—tattoos curling around his temples like they meant something, all swagger and sharp edges. he remembered seeing him once, dragging some girl by the wrist through a party like she was furniture. wait... was that you?

his chest ached.

“he’s a fucking cunt,” gojo finally muttered, voice low and bitter. “a spoiled, narcissistic freak who doesn’t know how to care about anything that doesn’t worship the ground he walks on.”

you blinked at him. your expression was unreadable, unsure.

he rubbed the back of his neck, frustrated. “i just, i hate that he made you feel that way. like you weren’t… enough. you’re more than enough.”

a quiet beat passed.

your eyes were widened as you muttered out a quiet, “thank you."

he turned back to the stove, jaw clenched tight. his grip on the ladle loosened as he focused on the task again, but something simmered under his skin hotter than the water in the pot.

when the ramen was finally done, he ladled it gently into two mismatched bowls. he didn’t speak, didn’t push, didn’t dare reach for you, like touching you would break you.

he set yours down in front of you carefully.

and when you reached out, just the slightest brush of your fingers over his wrist, it was like the spark of something that had always been there, just waiting.

he swallowed.

he thought he’d known what this was. a bet. a game. something stupid between frat boys with too much ego.

but now, sitting across from you with your lips curled softly around the rim of a spoon and the warmth of your touch still ghosting over his skin, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

and he wasn’t sure he could survive the fallout when this all came crashing down.

you ended up staying for ramen, then a movie on his laptop, curled under one of his big blankets with your knees tucked under you. he let you pick the film, a cozy romcom he secretly kind of liked. and halfway through, your shoulder brushed his.

you didn’t pull away.

his heart beat out of rhythm.

he should’ve told you then, he knew he was too far gone to not tell you how this all started.

he could’ve said it was stupid—just a bet, just a frat-boy dare. that it was about the money until it wasn’t. that it wasn’t fair to you, and he knew that, and he was sorry.

but you were looking at him like he wasn’t the president of a frat house. like he was someone safe.

and so instead, he said nothing.

hours later, after walking you back and watching you disappear behind your dorm’s glass doors, gojo found himself back on the balcony. it was after midnight, the sky deep and dark above the rooftops, clouds moving slow like they had nowhere to be.

the door creaked behind him.

suguru.

he stepped out with two cans in one hand, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair tied low. “figured you’d be here.”

“figured you’d be asleep.”

suguru handed him a can. “couldn’t. my roommate’s snoring like a dying chainsaw.”

they sat in silence for a while. gojo sipped. the wind moved through the trees.

“so?” suguru asked finally. “you tap out yet?”

gojo’s head tipped back against the railing.

“no,” he muttered, replying reluctantly. “i’m still in.”

suguru’s eyebrows raised. “really? after all that poetic shit you were spewing the other night?”

“i know.”

“dude. she’s sweet. and i know you’re catching feelings.”

gojo’s voice was quiet. “i don’t know how to stop.”

“so why not just end it?” suguru asked, genuinely confused now. “i mean, yeah, i wanna win my $2k, but if she’s getting under your skin like this—”

“because if i quit the bet, it’s like admitting she was a target from the start.”

suguru was silent.

gojo exhaled, voice low. “and she doesn’t deserve that. she deserves to believe this started from something better than a fucking dare.”

“but it didn’t.”

“i know,” gojo snapped. “but it became something better.”

suguru took a slow sip of his beer.

“you’re in deep, man.”

“tell me something i don’t know.”

“okay,” suguru said lazily, “you’re also kind of a dumbass.”

gojo smiled humorlessly. “yeah.”

they sat a little longer, listening to the wind rattle the flags on the roof.

finally, suguru muttered, “just don’t hurt her.”

gojo looked out into the dark.

“that’s the one thing i’m trying not to do.”

the next morning came too quickly.

the sunlight was already pouring through the slats of gojo’s blinds when he finally gave up on pretending to sleep. the golden light did nothing to warm the chill lodged deep in his chest. he lay on his back, one arm flung over his eyes, the other resting on the rise and fall of his chest, which felt too shallow, too sharp. like his lungs had forgotten how to breathe without aching.

you haunted his thoughts.

he saw you when he closed his eyes—sitting on the edge of his bed in that oversized hoodie, hands cradling the ramen bowl he’d made like it was something precious. your knees tucked close, your fingers trembling just slightly when you lifted your chopsticks. he’d noticed. of course he had. noticed everything. how you hesitated before speaking, how you smiled with your mouth but not always with your eyes. how the word “sukuna” tasted like poison on your tongue, and how your whole body had tensed when you said his name.

it made something ugly twist in gojo’s stomach.

sukuna.

he hated even thinking the name now, though once upon a time they’d shared the same parties, the same reckless orbit of greek life. sukuna was one of those guys you couldn’t ignore—loud, magnetic, built like a devil with charm sharp enough to cut. everyone had stories about him. girls, mostly. none of them good.

gojo remembered one story in particular—barely even a memory now, just a flash of a scene. a party. loud music, dim lights. sukuna dragging a girl by the wrist through the crowd like she was some piece of luggage he couldn’t be bothered to carry. she’d looked shaken. small. he hadn’t gotten a good look at her face.

but now he couldn’t stop wondering—what if that girl had been you?

gojo sat up abruptly in bed, chest tight, the sheets a tangled mess around his legs. he raked a hand through his silver-white hair, breathing hard.

the worst part wasn’t that he hadn’t done anything that night. it was that he hadn’t noticed. not really. not in a way that mattered. back then, things like that just blurred into the background noise of frat parties. girls crying in bathrooms. couples fighting in corners. someone stumbling out with mascara running down her cheeks.

god. how many red flags had he ignored?

a knock sounded at his door.

he ignored it.

a beat passed, and then the door creaked open anyway. suguru never waited for permission, especially not when gojo was spiraling.

“jesus,” suguru muttered as he stepped in, two to-go cups of shitty black coffee in hand. “you look like a demon crawled into your mouth and died.”

gojo didn’t even blink. “you’re one to talk. you’ve worn that same hoodie all week.”

“five days,” suguru corrected. “and it’s called sustainable fashion.”

he crossed the room and dropped one of the cups on the nightstand before flopping down at the edge of gojo’s bed. the mattress dipped with his weight, but gojo still didn’t move. he was hunched over now, elbows on his knees, hands dangling between them, eyes locked on the floor like it had done something to offend him.

“you wanna talk about it?” suguru asked, taking a long sip of his coffee. “or are we just gonna sit here marinating in existential dread?”

gojo let out a slow breath.

“she told me about her ex, sukuna.”

suguru raised an eyebrow. “oh?”

“last night. while we were watching that dumb movie. she just… opened up. said he made her feel like a prop. like he only wanted her because she looked good on his arm. and when he didn’t need her, he’d just," gojo’s jaw clenched. “he’d drop her. ignore her. talk over her. like she was a fucking purse he forgot he was holding.”

suguru whistled low. “that tracks.”

gojo’s voice dropped, hoarse. “i didn’t know it was her.”

suguru frowned. “what do you mean?”

“i remembered this one party. he was dragging a girl out by the wrist, just yanking her through the crowd like she was nothing. i didn’t say anything. didn’t even think twice. but now—what if that was her? what if i saw that happening and i just… let it?”

he ran a hand down his face, the guilt pressing heavier now.

suguru didn’t answer for a long moment. then, slowly, he sat up straighter.

“satoru,” he said quietly. “you didn’t know.”

“that’s not an excuse.”

“no,” suguru agreed. “but it’s the truth.”

gojo shook his head. “i should’ve seen it. i should’ve noticed. i should’ve cared.”

“you care now.”

“i lied to her.”

suguru fell silent.

gojo stood up suddenly, the coffee still untouched on the nightstand. he began pacing, his bare feet whispering across the hardwood floor.

“she was so honest with me, man. sat there in my bed and told me about the worst parts of herself—about how she felt like she was broken after him. and i just sat there, playing the good guy, letting her think i was different. letting her believe in me. when the whole reason i even talked to her was because of a fucking bet.”

the word hit like a punch.

suguru leaned back on his hands, watching his friend come apart.

“you still haven’t told her.”

gojo let out a bitter laugh. “how the hell do i tell her that, suguru? ‘hey, remember when i bumped into you at the café? yeah, turns out i only asked you out because you were part of a game i was trying to win’? that won’t hurt her. that’ll ruin her.”

suguru didn’t argue.

gojo stopped pacing, facing the window now, watching students pass by on the sidewalk outside. people laughing, sipping iced coffees, dragging skateboards behind them. the world kept turning, oblivious to the storm in his chest.

“i think i’m in love with her.”

it came out quietly. like a confession. like a truth he hadn’t been ready to say until this exact moment.

suguru blinked. “you think?”

gojo smiled humorlessly. “i know.”

silence settled between them. suguru finally stood, grabbing the untouched coffee and offering it out to gojo like a peace offering.

“you’re in deep, huh?”

gojo took the cup without meeting his eyes. “drowning.”

~

meanwhile, in your dorm room, you sat curled up on your twin bed, your legs tucked under a fleece throw blanket, your favorite oversized mug cupped in both hands. the tea inside had gone cold a while ago, but you hadn’t noticed. you were staring at gojos contact reminiscing about what he had said to you before letting you go off to your dorm.

'thanks for trusting me with that. you’re not broken. you’re still here. that matters more than anything. sleep well, angel.'

you’d been thinking about that for almost ten minutes, trying not to cry.

the word angel shouldn’t have made your heart skip. but it did.

you didn’t know what this was, what you and gojo were becoming, but for the first time in months, maybe years, you felt like you could breathe. like someone actually saw you, the real you, not just the version that looked good in pictures or sounded impressive on paper.

and that terrified you.

because you’d believed sukuna, too. once.

you’d fallen for his smile, his confidence, the way he made you feel like you were the center of the universe, until you weren’t. until you were just another trophy. another girl to brag about. another reason for people to envy him.

you still remembered the way he’d spoken to you in public—possessive, controlling, sometimes mocking—and how quickly he could flip the script when you tried to call him out.

'you’re being too sensitive. don’t embarrass me like that. you should be grateful i even brought you.'

it had taken so long to untangle yourself from him. and longer still to stop blaming yourself for the way he’d treated you.

but last night, when gojo looked at you, really looked at you, it didn’t feel like pity or lust or even casual interest. it felt like something quiet. steady. real.

you didn’t know what to do with that.

your phone buzzed.

gojo: you awake?

you smiled before you could stop yourself, thumbing a reply with hesitant fingers.

n/n 💗 : barely. why?

gojo: sweet! i owe you another ramen night. but this time i’ll actually let you pick the movie.

your heart did a little backflip. you pulled the blanket tighter around you, cheeks warm.

n/n 💗 only if you promise not to fall asleep halfway through.

gojo: i can’t promise that. but i can promise snacks ! 😁

you laughed, the sound breaking the stillness of your room like sunlight through fog.

maybe this was real.

maybe, just maybe, gojo was exactly who he seemed.

and maybe that scared you even more than sukuna ever did.

~

the night went by fast, it always did with satoru. like the one previous you had spent it eating snacks and watching movies on his bed huddled infront of a laptop. now, most don't find watching random romcoms in a frat guys room very appealing, but to you it felt safe, like a home away from home.

he was your home away from home.

now, you were walking with satoru around campus as you had planned over text about an hour ago.

the midday sun hung lazily over campus, casting a hazy golden warmth across the walkways and tree-lined paths. students moved around like streams of color—some laughing in groups, others rushing to class, earbuds in, eyes down. but in the middle of it all, it felt like just the two of you.

you walked quietly beside gojo, your small hand brushing the edge of his hoodie now and then when your steps got too close. he didn’t mind. he never did. if anything, he leaned into it, like it soothed something in him just to be near you. he adjusted his stride to match yours without thinking, even though his legs were long enough to cross campus in five minutes flat.

but he didn’t want fast. he wanted this. you.

you were heading to your bio class, and he had no reason to be anywhere near the science building. but he still showed up at the café ten minutes before your lecture started, hands in his pockets, grinning like it was the best part of his day. because it was.

and god, you were so pretty when you looked surprised to see him. like you didn’t expect someone like him to show up for someone like you.

but that was the thing. he’d never met anyone like you.

“you really don’t have to walk me every time,” you murmured, eyes low, voice soft and unsure. like you didn’t want to seem like a burden.

and it killed him. how you always shrank yourself, always made yourself smaller—as if your presence was anything less than his favorite fucking thing.

“yeah, but then who’s gonna make sure you don’t trip over your own shadow?” he teased gently.

you let out a quiet laugh, tucking your hair behind your ear. your fingers were delicate, your smile bashful, and gojo felt the urge to say something completely insane like marry me.

he didn’t, obviously. but it lived in his throat.

he watched you with the kind of attention he never gave anything else. memorized the curve of your cheek, the soft press of your lips when you were thinking, the way you glanced at him like you were still trying to believe he was real. and when you looked away, flustered by your own laugh, he swore the sun hit you different.

you were always cute. painfully cute. but in that moment? he was dizzy with it.

“besides,” he added, smirking, “how else am i supposed to get my daily dose of cuteness?”

your steps slowed. “what?”

“you heard me,” he said, bumping your shoulder. “you’re good for my blood pressure or whatever.”

you shook your head, blushing so hard you could barely walk straight. and he could’ve died right there. from the way you smiled at your shoes, from how shy you looked just standing next to him. like he wasn’t completely, pathetically obsessed with you already.

he wanted to tell you you were beautiful.

not just hot, not the kind of thing he said to girls at parties, not anything casual. but soft. lovely. untouchable. yours is the kind of face you write songs about. you look like you belong in someone’s arms at sunset.

he wanted to tell you he dreamed about you.

he wanted to tell you he was in love with you, probably more than he should be.

but all he said was, “i think we should watch the kissing booth next time you come over.”

you smiled, small and bashful again, and it tugged something deep in his chest. something real.

and as you walked in companionable silence, gojo glanced down at you. at your long lashes, the curve of your mouth, the way you hugged your books to your chest like a shield. you were so soft. so careful. like you were afraid of taking up space.

but he saw everything.

he saw the way you tried to be brave, even when you were scared. he saw how you still smiled, still tried, even when the world had been cruel to you.

he wanted to wrap you up and protect you from everything. from the past, from shitty exes, from the version of himself that used to not care about anyone or anything.

you made him care.

and that terrified him. because there was still something he hadn’t told you.

“can i ask you something?” he said suddenly, voice quieter now.

“of course, satoru."

he swallowed. “would you… hate me if i wasn’t exactly who you thought i was?”

your wide eyes met his. soft. concerned. not an ounce of judgment.

“hmm? what do y' mean?”

he stopped walking. the sun filtered through the leaves above, casting shadows across your face like a painting.

“what if i told you i’ve made mistakes?” he said. “like, bad ones. the kind that make you want to erase yourself and start over.”

your fingers clutched your book tighter, but you didn’t flinch.

“i think we all have those kinds of mistakes,” you said gently. “but that doesn’t make you a bad person. just human.”

and gojo, god he felt like the ground had disappeared under him.

because you meant it. even without knowing the truth. even with your soft voice and your shy little glances and the way you stood so close, so trusting. you believed in him. still.

he never wanted to break that look in your eyes.

“i never want to hurt you,” he whispered.

you reached out, fingers trembling a little as they curled around his wrist. so delicate. so warm.

“if it’s something from before…” you said, barely above a whisper. “you can tell me. i won’t run away.”

you probably meant it, too. even though your heart was fragile, even though your past left you aching in ways you didn’t talk about, you were still reaching for him.

and that… god, that broke him. he stared at your hand. you were so small. so good. too good for him. and yet… here you were.

he should’ve told you right then. ripped it off like a band-aid.

but all he could think about was how beautiful you looked when you trusted him. how sweet your voice sounded when you called him satoru. how much it would hurt when that melted into betrayal.

so instead, he smiled.

“you’re dangerous when you talk like that,” he said, voice light again. “i’m two seconds from spilling my soul.”

you tilted your head, unconvinced. “satoru…”

he grinned. “i promise i’ll tell you. just not today.”

you hesitated, then nodded slowly. “okay. but i’m holding you to it.”

his chest twisted.

you shouldn’t be so kind to him.

but you were.

and it made him want to be worthy of you.

“deal,” he said. and as you started walking again, he let his hand brush yours. not quite holding it. but close.

close enough that maybe, just maybe you could still forgive him when the truth finally came out.

because he already knew:

he loved you.

he loved you more than anything else in this fucked up world.

and he’d do anything to keep that look in your eyes a little longer.

~

it started with suguru flopping onto the leather couch in the alpha phi common room, yawning like he hadn’t just come from class.

“so,” he said, cracking open a cold can of something carbonated and probably stolen from the communal fridge. “are you ever gonna introduce her to the rest of us, or are you just gonna keep hiding your little girlfriend away like a dragon hoarding treasure?”

gojo didn’t even look up from his phone. he was already typing out his good morning text to you.

“first of all,” he said, thumbs moving fast, “she’s not my girlfriend.”

“right,” suguru drawled. “you just text her twenty-four seven, walk her to class, and cancel beer pong night so you can rewatch spirited away on your couch with her.”

“it’s a good movie,” gojo muttered.

“you hate that movie.”

“i like it now.”

suguru snorted, propping his feet up on the table. “you’re gone, man.”

gojo leaned back in his seat, a lopsided grin creeping over his face despite himself. he didn’t bother denying it. what was the point?

movie nights had started casually. he’d invited you over under the pretense of “redeeming your taste in cinema.” you’d blushed and giggled, tugging your sleeves over your hands and asking, “does that mean you’re gonna make me watch transformers?”

“don’t tempt me,” he’d said, already queuing it up.

but instead, you’d picked soft, strange little films—quiet ones with too many close-ups and too little dialogue. and something about sitting on the worn-out alpha phi couch with you, shoulders just barely touching, watching the flicker of light dance over your face as you whispered, “this part always makes me cry,” had rewired his brain entirely.

you’d grown braver, little by little.

the first night, you’d sat on the far end of the bed, legs curled beneath you, body coiled tight like you expected to be mocked or judged at any moment. gojo had kept the mood light, cracking jokes, tossing popcorn at your head, playing the fool.

but by the third night, you’d fallen asleep with your cheek on his shoulder.

and he hadn’t moved. not for an hour. not even when his arm went numb. not even when suguru walked in, saw you, and mouthed simp before tiptoeing out.

by the fourth night, you were wearing one of his hoodies.

and by the fifth, you were stealing all his blankets and kicking him when he tried to take them back.

it was getting bad. it was getting real.

so when suguru pushed again, raising a brow over the rim of his can and saying, “i’m serious, you should bring her to the party this weekend. the guys are starting to think you made her up,” gojo didn’t roll his eyes this time.

gojo narrowed his eyes. “what do you think of her? isn't she in your ethics?"

“quiet. polite. smart. a little skittish.”

he meant it kindly, but gojo’s jaw tensed anyway. “she’s been through some shit.”

“i figured.”

“sukuna.”

suguru winced. “fuck.”

“yeah.”

there was a beat of silence. then suguru said, “you like her.”

gojo didn’t answer. he didn’t have to.

“bring her,” suguru said, softer now. “if you’re serious. let her see that not all frat guys are trash.”

gojo looked down at his phone again, at your name on the screen, at the little pink heart next to it. then he nodded, almost to himself.

“yeah,” he said. “okay.”

~

you met up on thursday afternoon, by the west quad fountain where the sun always hit just right and the flower beds looked like something out of a disney movie. gojo was already there when you arrived, leaning against the stone ledge, phone in hand.

“i was starting to think you stood me up,” he teased as you approached.

you tucked your chin down shyly, smiling. “you’re five minutes early.”

“and you’re three minutes late.”

you rolled your eyes, and he grinned. god, you were cute. the cute jeans you wore today captured your curved hips perfectly, and your lip gloss shimmered when the light caught it. your hair was tied back loosely with a ribbon that matched your cute sweater.

he wanted to bottle you up. keep you. never let anything hurt you again.

“so,” he said, hands in his hoodie pockets, “my frat’s throwing a party this weekend.”

you froze, just slightly.

“you… want me to come?” you asked.

he tilted his head. “only if you want to. no pressure. i just... my friends wanna meet you.”

you looked down at your shoes, worrying your bottom lip. he noticed. of course he did.

“you don’t have to wear anything crazy,” he added quickly. “it’s chill. no themes. just music and drinks and—”

“i want to,” you said quietly.

he blinked. “yeah?”

you nodded. “i just… don’t have anything to wear.”

you didn’t say it like a joke. you said it like a confession.

gojo softened. “wanna show me what you’ve got? we can pick something together.”

you hesitated, then nodded.

“okay.”

~

your dorm was adorable. pink. soft.

he took it all in the second he stepped inside. the plush pillows shaped like hearts, the lace curtains, the fuzzy white rug by your bed. shelves lined with figurines, pastel notebooks stacked in a corner, fairy lights framing your mirror.

it smelled like strawberries and vanilla and something floral he couldn’t name.

“holy shit,” he breathed. “this is the cutest room i've ever seen."

you laughed, cheeks warming. “sorry. it’s a lot, huh?”

“no,” he said, spinning in a slow circle. “it’s so you.”

he meant it. he loved it. he loved you.

you opened your closet and began sifting through hangers, pulling out a couple of outfits and holding them up for inspection.

“i don’t really wanna wear something… like this,” you said, voice softer now as you held up a tight, low-cut mini dress. “i used to wear stuff like this to sukuna’s parties. because he liked it.”

gojo’s jaw clenched.

“he used to pick what i wore,” you continued, almost like you were talking to yourself. “he said it made me look ‘fuckable.’”

gojo stepped forward, gentle but firm.

“you don’t ever have to wear something like that again,” he said. “not for me. not for anyone.”

you looked up at him, eyes glassy.

“wear what makes you feel good,” he added. “what makes you feel safe.”

you nodded slowly, turning back to your closet.

in the end, you chose what made you feel the most comfortable.

“i'll just wear this,” you said. "feels normal."

gojo beamed.

“then it’s perfect.”

~

you didn’t know it yet, but he’d already cleared it with suguru. made sure the music wouldn’t be too loud, that the crowd wouldn’t be too rowdy, that you’d have somewhere to sit if you got overwhelmed. he was thinking ten steps ahead.

because he didn’t want this to be like sukuna’s parties.

he wanted this one to be yours.

~

you heard the party before you saw it, music pulsing through the ground, the kind of bass-heavy beat that made your ribs vibrate and your bones feel hollow. the frat house loomed ahead like a palace of chaos: lights flashing from the second-story windows, silhouettes flitting past the curtains, laughter and shouting spilling out through the open door.

you paused just outside, nerves buzzing like static under your skin.

“whoa,” you breathed, fingers tightening around the sleeve of gojo’s hoodie. “it’s… a lot.”

he looked down at you with that soft, easy smile, his hand coming to rest between your shoulder blades. “it is a lot,” he agreed. “want to run? we can say we got kidnapped by squirrels.”

you laughed despite yourself, the sound shaky but genuine. “tempting.”

his palm made slow, reassuring circles against your back. “we’ll take it slow, yeah? you’re with me.”

you nodded, and with that, gojo led you up the steps.

the moment the two of you crossed the threshold, the temperature changed. warmth and sweat and alcohol thick in the air. bodies pressed together, shoulder to shoulder, a sea of red solo cups and hazy eyes. someone yelled gojo’s name, and the room shifted.

it was like time stopped for half a second.

then the crowd surged, boys calling out, heads turning, eyes locking on the tall, white-haired frat boy walking in with someone clinging gently to his sleeve. someone who wasn’t tall or loud or a blonde girl in a skin-tight mini dress. someone who didn’t fit the mold of “gojo satoru’s usual.”

someone who was you.

“no fucking way,” one guy barked, elbowing his friend. “is that—?”

“holy shit, gojo’s got a girlfriend?”

“what happened to the dumb cheerleader from gamma?”

the murmurs spread like wildfire. you felt them, even if you couldn’t catch every word. the stares burned hot, and suddenly your skin felt too tight.

but gojo just grinned like he didn’t notice, or didn’t care.

he dipped down, lips brushing your ear. “ignore them. they’ve never seen a real girl before.”

you flushed, gripping his arm tighter.

the house was bigger inside than it looked, sprawling with rooms that all bled into one another. the main floor was packed, but gojo expertly steered you through the chaos, guiding you toward a quieter alcove near the stairs. you could tell he was trying to give you a second to breathe.

“there he is!” a voice called, and suguru appeared from the crowd, hair tied back, black gauges catching the light. he was nursing a beer and wearing that same smirk he always had in class, cool, unbothered, like nothing could ever surprise him.

but when his eyes landed on you, they lit up with something close to recognition.

“hey,” he said, stepping forward. “ethics class, right?”

you blinked, this was the guy you used to have abit of a crush on before gojo... “yeah... geto?”

he nodded, and you relaxed just a little. suguru was quiet in class, but he always had a pen behind his ear and never made you feel stupid when you got nervous speaking up.

“i knew gojo was full of shit when he said he was just ‘casually seeing someone,’” suguru said, glancing at his friend with a teasing grin. “but damn, you’re even cuter in person.”

your cheeks flamed. gojo rolled his eyes and slung an arm around your shoulder, tugging you close like he could shield you from the world.

you and gojo never really established what you were, but now you at least knew he was telling people you two were 'seeing eachother.'

“back off,” he said with a mock growl. “she’s fragile. like a baby deer.”

“she’s not fragile,” suguru said mildly, giving you a wink. “but she does look like adorably clueless.”

you laughed at that, and suguru grinned, satisfied.

a few more of gojo’s frat brothers filtered over. nanami, with his blond hair and sharp eyes; toji, towering and terrifying until he said something about how “adorable” your shoes were; even shoko, the only girl in the group, who gave you a once-over and muttered, “thank god. i was starting to think gojo only liked girls who talked in hashtags.”

they were loud and teasing, but none of them made you feel the way sukuna’s crowd used to.

sukuna’s parties had been darker somehow. colder. always something bitter in the air. you remembered standing in corners alone while he disappeared, remembered the way he used to show you off like a new toy. like you were there to prove a point. he used to demand you wear short skirts, high heels, tops that made you feel naked. he’d touch your thigh too hard when you sat, whisper in your ear things that made you gross small.

you’d show up already tense, already braced.

but this? this was different.

you looked up at gojo now, laughing at something suguru said, and your chest ached.

he’d asked what you wanted to wear. had told you you looked beautiful even when you were wrapped in a cardigan. he’d helped you tie the ribbon in your hair and kissed your forehead like it was sacred.

you were still nervous, still out of your element—but you weren’t scared.

gojo nudged you gently. “want a drink? something mild?”

you nodded, and he guided you toward the kitchen, never letting his hand leave yours.

he poured you a soda himself, skipping the sketchy jungle juice, and brought you a paper straw because you’d mentioned once that plastic ones made your teeth feel weird. then he leaned against the counter, watching you sip like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

“you’re killin’ me, y’know,” he said casually.

you blinked. “what?”

“look at you.” his voice dropped, all affection. “walking in here like a dream in that little dress. making everyone fall in love with you. it’s rude, honestly.”

you ducked your head, overwhelmed. “stop…”

“can’t,” he said, and then leaned down, brushing his nose against your temple. “i’ve got it bad.”

you smiled into your drink, feeling warmth bloom in your chest.

the kitchen door swung open and more people spilled in, so gojo guided you out again, weaving through the house toward the back room. it was quieter there—a pool table, a few couches, ambient music humming from a speaker.

you sat together, close but not quite touching.

“you okay?” he asked, his voice lower now, meant only for you.

you nodded. “yeah. just… this is different.”

“different bad or different good?”

you looked at him. “good.”

he let out a breath like he’d been holding it all night. “you’re doing amazing, by the way.”

you smiled. “you always say that.”

“’cause it’s always true.”

the next few minutes passed in easy conversation. someone from gojo’s econ class came by and said something dumb, and you laughed, hiding your smile in his shoulder. he lit up like you’d just given him a trophy.

people drifted in and out of the room, some lingering to meet “gojo’s girl,” others sneaking glances like they were watching a myth unfold. he let them look. he kept his arm around you.

when you reached for your phone to check the time, he caught your hand and held it, threading his fingers through yours without hesitation.

“you wanna leave soon?” he asked softly.

you bit your lip. “can we stay a little longer? i’m… actually having fun.”

his smile cracked wide, full of boyish delight. “you got it.”

and in that moment, as he tugged you a little closer, as the music pulsed and the voices rose and fell, you realized something that made your heart squeeze.

you felt safe.

not because the party wasn’t wild. not because the stares had stopped. not because your dress was longer or your shoes more comfortable.

you felt safe because he was here.

because gojo satoru, life of the party, was looking at you like you were the only person in the room.

and somehow, that made all the difference.

[animeficsworld]

Reckless and Yours

Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

Summary: Bakugou never said your name, until the night he thought you were gone for good. Now, he can’t stop.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺

The mission briefing room was tense just always. 

Pro Hero Dynamight sat near the front, arms crossed, jaw set like he was already mid-argument. You leaned against the opposite wall, arms casually draped around yourself, twirling a drop of water between your fingers.

“Stop that,” Bakugou snapped without looking.

“What, this?” You shaped the water into a tiny sword, then let it collapse with a grin. “Gotta stay hydrated somehow.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue further. Typical. You were reckless. 

He was explosive. 

Somehow, you always worked well together, if not chaotically. 

You pushed boundaries. He tried to break them. It was never quiet between you, but it was something else. 

Electric.

Still, in all the years of fighting side by side, Katsuki Bakugou had never once said your name.

You’d noticed it. Everyone had. “Oi,” “You,” “Stupid Waterworks.” But never your actual name. 

You called him by his, casually, confidently, daringly.

He never said yours.

“Bet you don’t even remember my name,” you teased once while patching a cut on his jaw. The city still burned behind you while your fingers smelled like ice and smoke.

Bakugou stared ahead, refusing to answer. Then stood and walked away.

So you stopped asking.

The mission went sideways.

It was supposed to be simple, escort and defend. You’d gone ahead to scout the area, and Bakugou had stayed behind, forced to play defence. The explosion took you off your feet and buried you beneath rubble before your comms even crackled.

And when the dust cleared, no water. You couldn’t summon it. Couldn’t breathe.

Bakugou’s voice screamed through the line. Then silence.

Then chaos.

You woke up in the hospital, wrapped in warmth you didn’t recognize. Your vision was hazy, but you could hear it—shouting down the hallway.

"She’s alive. Let me in. I don’t give a damn about protocol, I’m not leaving!”

Then the door slammed open.

You blinked.

Bakugou looked like he’d crawled through hell. His arms were cut, shirt torn, ash streaked across his face. His crimson eyes locked onto yours with something unfamiliar in them.

He stepped forward slowly. Hesitantly.

“…Katsu?”

“Don’t,” he snapped, voice strained. “Don’t fucking say my name like that.”

You blinked. “Like what?”

“Like you didn’t almost die,” he growled. “Like I wouldn’t’ve burned the whole goddamn city down trying to get to you. Like it doesn’t matter.”

You were about to make a joke. Something light. Something stupid. But then...

He said it.

Your name.

Soft. Guttural. Breaking.

“…Y/N.”

You froze.

He sat at the edge of your bed and clenched his fists.

“I thought I’d never get to say it,” he muttered. “Didn’t realize how bad I needed to until it was almost too late.”

Recovery was slow. You spent weeks in rehab and physical therapy, relearning how to control your ice under stress. 

Bakugou visited every day. He never said much, but he used your name. Casually. Gently. Like he was practising. Like he needed the sound on his tongue to prove you were still here.

One night, sitting beside you with the hospital windows fogging from your quirk, he reached for your hand.

“If I say it again,” he asked, “you gonna stop me?”

You smirked, heart thudding.

“Say it,” you whispered.

He did.

And didn’t stop.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺

[ilguna]

☼ tender heart (Finnick Odair) ☼

summary; you grew to be close friends with peeta during the quell, so when he comes to district thirteen, you want to see how he's doing. not realizing that finnick is watching every move and hating every moment.

warnings; swearing, torture mention, death mention, talks of strangulation.

wc; 6.7k

--

The hospital is in complete disarray. There’s so much shouting and movement that you can’t focus on just one thing around you. You watch a doctor, a volunteer, a loved one, a nurse run from one side of the room to the other, scrambling to gather their bearings. 

An emaciated woman with shaved hair and scabs is pushed on a gurney, heading toward a private room. It’s Johanna, you recognize her immediately. She always has that scowl on her face, awake or sleeping. You warned her the expression would stick if she weren’t careful. You’d be gratified you’re right if she weren’t in such a bad condition.

Katniss starts to move away from the group of you, heading for a room with a young man sitting on a stool, stripped down to the waist. Gale Hawthorne, of course. He was the first person to volunteer when the rescue mission was finally approved. Katniss has been worrying herself sick over whether or not he would make it back. 

Well, they did, thankfully.

She makes it to the doorway before she’s blocked by a nurse who is shaking her head, pointing for her to back up. When Katniss makes no move, the door is slammed in her face, wood rattling against the frame. 

“(Y/n)!” A shrill voice shouts, causing you to turn quickly. You’re met with the sight of Annie, she’s barely gotten into District Thirteen’s jumpsuit. The doctor behind her is just finishing the top button when she pushes him out of the way. “Finnick!”

You go to her, a wide smile on her face, arms held out in her direction. “Annie!”

Finnick is right behind you, a hand on your lower back and he guides you to her. She jumps off the bed she’s sitting on, barreling down the open space until she slams into the both of you. You can almost feel the wind leave your lungs on impact, but you can’t help the laughter that escapes you.

You squeeze her tightly, rocking from side to side. The relief finally hits you, tears springing in your eyes. Annie’s your best friend, you knew her before she was reaped, and after you were brought closer together. There are moments when you’re not sure if she feels the same, but it’s times like now when you realize you’d be a fool to think otherwise.

“I’m so happy to see you!” You laugh, giving her a good squeeze before you back away. “How are you feeling?”

“Good.” She nods. “Good.”

“They can’t reach you here, Annie.” Finnick tells her. “You’re safe.”

She nods, looking behind her. Her doctor is standing nearby, a device in his hand. “We have just a few more tests to run, and then we’re done.”

“We’ll stay with her.” Finnick says, taking your hand to bring you with them. 

You follow, watching as Annie scoots herself onto the bed. The doctor goes back to doing a series of tests on her. Your eyes wander the hospital, which seems to slowly be collecting itself. Haymitch and Katniss are no longer by the door, so you’re guessing they found their way to Peeta.

He’ll be the one you visit next. The two of you grew to be pretty good friends prior to the Quarter Quell. It turns out you two have a lot more in common than it seems. You might’ve grown up in two different districts, but if you put your backgrounds on paper and ask someone to put it to a face—they’d never be able to. 

Everyone was devastated when you saw him on television for the first time. As the weeks grew on, you were sure you’d eventually watch him die. He was withering away, right before Panem’s eyes, and it made you sick knowing Snow was getting exactly what he wanted. 

He was killing morale.

Right as you turn back to look at Finnick, offering him a smile, a scream pierces the air. Annie slaps her hands over her ears, burying her head into her knees. You turn, holding on to Finnick as you look behind you. Chaos has erupted, several doctors and nurses run down a hallway and don’t return right away.

“We need help!” A voice shouts.

You let go of Finnick, hand falling to your side as you go to see what it is. You’re blocked off by a nurse just before you’re about to see what it is. She pushes you back by your shoulder.

“I’m here to help.” You tell her, going to push again. 

“We’re on strict orders to keep all victors away.” She says. “Please, take a step back.”

A bed driven by an assistant comes flying by, going straight to the commotion. You wait to see what’s happening for a moment, before you begin to back up, thinking they have it under control. That’s when Haymitch comes out from around the corner, eyes wide. 

“What is it?” You ask.

He turns to you with raised eyebrows, mouth open as he shakes his head. Finnick appears by your side, hand reaching for yours. You let his fingers intertwine, giving him a reassuring squeeze.

“Peeta—he just. One second he was fine and the next he was strangling her.”

“What?” You ask, the nurse scurries down the hallway at the news. You step forward to get a look for yourself, finding a medical group gathered together in front of a door.

You watch as Plutarch steps out of the room, shaking his head. His eyes lock on the three of you, motioning for you to go over to him.

“Come on.” Haymitch says, you follow behind him.

“This is one of their techniques.” Plutarch says, looking back into the room.

You’re finally able to get a glimpse, and it’s far from what you were picturing when Haymitch told you what happened. Peeta’s still on the ground, unconscious, while Boggs stands over him, giving orders to other soldiers beside him.

Katniss has been hoisted onto the bed that was being pushed. She’s got a collar around her neck to keep it in place from causing anymore damage. She seems to be awake, Primrose is right beside her, holding onto her hand tightly. Her lips are moving, so you’re guessing she’s telling her what’s happening.

“What did they do to him?” Haymitch asks.

“It’s called hijacking.” Plutarch tells you.

Katniss is wheeled out of the room, her eyes finding the four of you briefly before you’re taken from her line of sight. She’s being brought deeper into the hospital, where all the machines are.

“Hijacking?” Haymitch repeats.

“It’s when they use the tracker jacker venom to manipulate his memories.” Plutarch looks at the concrete floor. “This is what they must’ve been doing while he was in their captivity. The torture likely got worse after the warning he gave us.”

“So, what? Snow made Peeta hate us?”

“Likely just Katniss, but we won’t know for sure until the venom’s out of his system. It could take from hours to days, depending on how much had been pumped into him.” He says, shaking his head.

“What’s going to happen to Katniss?” You ask.

“She’s going to have her throat examined, to make sure that there wasn’t any real damage done.” Boggs says, coming out of the room. They have Peeta in handcuffs, dragging him by his arms down the same way Katniss was brought. “He had a tight grip on her.”

Haymitch shakes his head, “I didn’t know what to do.”

“I wouldn’t either.” Boggs says. “They’re going to take him to one of our isolation rooms. They’ll have a few doctors monitor him.”

“How long do you think until they’ll know for sure about Katniss?” Finnick asks.

Boggs shrugs. “They’re going to start the tests on her.”

“We’ll let you two know when they’re done.” Plutarch says.

You nod, “We’ll go and stay with Annie for a bit then.”

Haymitch nods, you split away. Finnick has this slightly absent look on his face, he must be worried about Katniss. The three of you have grown to be pretty close while Annie and Peeta were in the Capitol. You were all terrified of what would happen to them. 

While you’re grateful it seems Annie has come out unharmed, it doesn’t make you feel good about Johanna and Peeta’s torture. They knew rebel secrets, Snow was trying to get it out of them. They just took Annie because he knew it would drive you crazy since she’s innocent in all of this. How could she know about a rebel plan if she’s thousands of miles away?

You squeeze Finnick’s hand, reminding him you’re there. He gives you a half-smile, and then his attention turns to Annie. She seems to have dropped her knees, her hands no longer over her ears. The doctor must’ve coaxed her out of a spiral, although, they’re not nearly as bad as they used to be.

Annie seems to be pretty stable. They check her system, confirm she doesn’t have any of the tracker jacker venom in her. They go through her vitals, her respiratory. They bring her to a private room to do a body check to find any cuts, bruises or scabs. She comes out clean, and she’s immediately cleared to be brought to a regular hospital room.

You’re shut out of the room for a while in order to allow her to get some rest, so the two of you end up wandering. A familiar string of swear words brings you down the hall to where Johanna is. She’s livid, batting the doctors and nurses away with a pillow, screaming at them to leave her alone.

When she sees you stand in the doorway, she slams the pillow down on her lap. “Finally! Where the hell have you two been?”

“Annie.” You tell her, leaning against the doorway. “You know, if you let them do their job, they’re more likely to leave you alone.”

“This dumbass nurse has been poking me for the past ten minutes.” She glares at the girl in scrubs. “If you can’t find my veins, find someone who can!”

“If you’d stop moving—”

“Get out!” She shouts, throwing the pillow at her face.

The nurse, fed up with Johanna’s attitude, storms out of the room. She narrowly misses you and Finnick, mumbling something about gratitude. The doctor stands there, staring at Johanna, unsure of where to go next.

“Well?” She demands. “Do you know how to find a vein?”

He nods quietly, going over to her. He manages to find the vein in one go, sets up the machine to monitor her vitals, and then clears the room without a word. You enter after that, sitting in one of the chairs in the corner. You cross your arms over your chest.

“How’s Annie?” She asks, observing her inner elbow.

“She’s good, they wanted us to clear out to let her get some rest.” Finnick says.

“The poor thing’s tired.” She nods. “She was hysterical, you know. It was impossible not to hear her, she was almost as bad as Peeta and I.”

“I’m sorry, Johanna.” Finnick murmurs.

Johanna gives a shrug, putting on that brave face she normally does. On the outside, it seems like it doesn’t affect her, but you all know it’ll be haunting her for the rest of her life. The last thing she wants to be seen as is weak.

“He couldn’t kill me.” She says smoothly. “Even if he wanted to.”

You keep Johanna company for a while, bringing her up to speed on what’s been happening in Thirteen while she was gone. The people she can trust, the people she can’t. The food is mediocre at best, Katniss and Gale’s hunting has been the only reason why there’s been variety in the cafeteria. 

It’s a couple hours later when Haymitch sticks his head in the room. “Katniss has a private room, if you’d like to see her.”

“I do.” You say, getting to your feet. “We’ll come back and see you, Johanna.”

“Wish her my best.” Johanna says in that tone of hers, a sarcastic smile follows.

“We will.” Finnick says just to push her buttons.

You leave to follow Haymitch down a series of hallways, bringing you in much deeper than you thought. Katniss’s room is already occupied with quite a few people, so when you join, it feels cramped.

“Hey, Katniss.” You smile, eyes sliding over to her sister next. “And Primrose, of course.”

“Prim is fine.” She gives you a small smile.

Katniss has her lips pressed together, eyes darting around the room to each face. The bruising around her neck has already begun to show, it looks gnarly. If she shows up on camera, it’ll be pretty obvious to the Capitol on what happened. Someone got their hands around her neck. For Snow, it’ll be a sign that his plan worked, but not as well as he was hoping.

“Alright, we’d like a private moment with Katniss, if possible.” Plutarch says, motioning for the doctors to leave. “We’ll press a button if her condition changes.” They nod, not arguing with him, ducking out of the room. He looks at Prim expectantly. “You, too.”

“No. If you force me to leave, I’ll go directly to surgery and tell my mother everything that’s happened. And I warn you, she doesn’t think much of a Gamemaker calling the shots on Katniss’s life. Especially when you’ve taken such poor care of her.” Prim threatens.

Plutarch’s face twists, you suppress a smile, while Haymitch chuckles. “I’d let it go, Plutarch.”

“So, Katniss, Peeta’s condition has come as a shock to all of us.” Plutarch says. “We couldn’t help but notice his deterioration in the last two interviews. Obviously, he’s been abused, and we put his psychological state down to that. Now we believe something more was going on. That the Capitol has been subjecting him to a rather uncommon technique known as hijacking. Beetee?”

Your attention turns to Beetee, his hands are in his lap. “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you all the specifics of it, Katniss. The Capitol’s very secretive about this form of torture, and I believe the results are inconsistent. This we do know. It’s a type of fear conditioning. The term hijack comes from an old English word that means ‘to capture,’ or even better, ‘seize’. We believe it was chosen because the technique involves the use of tracker jacker venom, and the jack suggested hijack. You were stung in your first Hunger Games, so unlike most of us, you have firsthand knowledge of the effects of the venom.”

You squint at the ground, trying to catch up with what Beetee’s said. Sometimes you swear he could dumb down what he says, he just chooses not to. Why?—you’ll never know. He’s right though, Katniss did get stung when she dropped that nest on the group of Careers below the tree.

You watched your girl tribute die because she’d gotten stung too many times. She couldn’t flee in time, there was nothing she could do to stop her fate. And since she was your last tribute alive, you and Finnick were pulled out of the Betting Room, instructed to stay in the Tribute Center unless given instructions stating otherwise.

“I’m sure you remember how frightening it was. Did you also sugar mental confusion in the aftermath?” Beetee asks, Katniss closes her eyes and gives a very small nod, agreeing. “A sense of being unable to judge what was true and what was false? Most people who have been stung and lived to tell about it report something of the kind.”

He takes a breath. “Recall is made more difficult because memories can be changed.” Beetee taps his forehead. “Brought to the forefront of your mind, altered, and saved again in the revised form. Now imagine that I ask you to remember something—either with a verbal suggestion or by making you watch a tape of the event—and while that experience is refreshed, I give you a dose of tracker jacker venom. Not enough to induce a three-day blackout. Just enough to infuse the memory with fear and doubt. And that’s what your brain puts in long-term storage.”

Prim shakes her head. “Is that what they’ve done to Peeta? Taken his memories of Katniss and distorted them so they’re scary?”

Beetee nods. “So scary that he’d see her as life-threatening. That he might try to kill her. Yes, that’s our current theory.”

Katniss lifts her arms, burying her face in them. Prim rubs her shoulder, but doesn’t look away from Beetee. “But you can reverse it, right?”

“Um… very little data on that.” Plutarch admits. “None, really. If hijacking rehabilitation has been attempted before, we have no access to those records.”

“Well, you’re going to try, aren’t you?” Prim persists. “You’re not just going to lock him up in some padded room and leave him to suffer?”

“Of course, we’ll try, Prim.” Beetee says. “It’s just, we don’t know to what degree we’ll succeed. If any. My guess is that fearful events are the hardest to root out. They’re the ones we naturally remember best, after all.”

“And apart from his memories of Katniss, we don’t yet know what else has been tampered with.” Plutarch shakes his head. “We’re putting together a team of mental health and military professionals to come up with a counterattack. I, personally, feel optimistic that he’ll make a full recovery.”

“Do you?” Prim asks, tilting her head. “And what do you think, Haymitch?”

Katniss very cautiously moves her arms to allow a gap to see Haymitch. His shoulders have sunk. “I think Peeta might get somewhat better. But…I don’t think he’ll ever be the same.”

“At least he’s alive.” Plutarch is losing patience with pessimism. “Snow executed Peeta’s stylist and his prep team on live television tonight. We’ve no idea what happened to Effie Trinket. Peeta’s damaged, but he’s here. With us. And that’s a definite improvement over his situation twelve hours ago. Let’s keep that in mind, all right?”

Katniss chest begins to rise and fall drastically, until she’s gasping for air. Her arms have fallen from her face so she can grab onto the bed, beginning to panic. The news about Peeta’s team has caused this, there’s no question about it.

It’s a matter of seconds before a button is pressed, a team of doctors and nurses infiltrate the room, and Katniss is completely sedated. You’re all shut out of the room, with the exception of Prim, who grips onto the rails of the bed and watches the medical staff help Katniss.

You turn to Plutarch and Beetee. “Do you think your team will land on exposure therapy?”

Plutarch makes a face, weighing this. “Possibly. We can’t really take any risks right now, we don’t want to agitate him.”

“Are we able to see him?”

“(Y/n).” Finnick says, shaking his head. 

You place a hand on his arm. “I don’t want to see him face to face, I just—I assume you have him in a room where you can monitor him. I want to see him with my own eyes.”

“You can, but not for long.” Plutarch nods, beginning to start down the hallway. 

Beetee and Haymitch go first, you wait until they’ve passed before you go to follow. A tight grip on your upper arm keeps you from leaving. Finnick’s shaking his head.

“We should go see Annie, make sure she’ll be okay for the night.”

You shrug with one shoulder. “I’m sure she’s fine. It’s only been a few hours since we’d seen her last. She was sleeping, remember?”

“Yeah, but there’s not much to see right now with Peeta.”

“So? I want to help them come up with solutions when it comes to Peeta.”

“What solutions do you think you’ll be able to come up with that they haven’t thought of already?”

“Finnick, we’re taken care of Annie all these years, and we had to figure out how to do that. Who’s to say we can’t get a start on Peeta?”

“I’d really rather see Annie. Or go visit Johanna again.”

You pull your arm from him. “Then go see them, I’ll meet you there eventually.”

“Are you two coming?” Plutarch shouts down the hall, they’ve stopped at the turn to make sure you were behind him.

“I don’t want to split up.” Finnick says. “Not right now.”

“Well, I’m going this way.” You tell him, beginning to back away. “Make your choice.”

Finnick seems unhappy with your decision, but goes with you, anyway. Beetee and Plutarch make conversation about Peeta, theorizing if they’ve tried any of the tracker jacker venom on Johanna. It doesn’t seem like it, but they won’t know for sure until they come across something that triggers her.

When you get to see Peeta, it’s through a glass pane. He’s been strapped to a gurney by his wrists and ankles. They’ve changed him into a hospital gown. And if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was just a body. The life has been completely sucked out of him.

He continues to look like this for the next couple of days, and as they start to go easier on the sedation, he begins to ask questions. He’s only allowed to be seen by strangers, so they can evaluate his behavior and keep any dangerous memories from resurfacing. 

A team of specialists work constantly to plan out a recovery route for him. You go to see him from time to time when your schedule allows. Finnick keeps to Johanna, only going with you when it’s late at night. All he does is ask why you care so much about Peeta, you barely know each other. 

You don’t know how to explain to him that it’s like you’d been copy and pasted in District Twelve and the universe changed his gender. You come a tough-love household, where you were left to fend for yourself. In your first Games, your family had no hope you’d win. You have similar values when it comes to caring and kindness and a general outlook on life.

You’d grew especially close since you both had your partners with you in the Quarter Quell arena. Finnick was going in, that wasn’t up for debate. So, you’d gone with him, much to his opposition. The same thing went on for Peeta. It was almost shocking just how in sync your lives were.

At one point, you said it was like he was destined to be your twin. Your best friend.

You can’t explain this all to Finnick without him accusing you of being weird, you’re sure of it. That’s why you don’t bother. You’ve told him you consider Peeta to be one of your friends, the same way you do with Johanna and Annie. And while you’re concerned over their wellbeing, they seem to be operating just fine.

You don’t understand why it’s such a big deal who you choose to visit.

You cross your arms over your chest, listening as Plutarch explains the experiment they’ve decided to go through with. They took your suggestion about exposure therapy into consideration, and they’ve started to start off with a girl named Delly from District Twelve. 

So far, she’s been really friendly. She struck up conversation with you as soon as you came in the room, curious on where you’re from and what it’s like in District Four. She’s had all good things to say about Peeta and Katniss and Gale. You’re sure that even if she tried, she wouldn’t be able to say a bad thing about Haymitch, either.

“Katniss!” She suddenly calls out.

You turn to see Katniss coming your way. She looks a lot better than she did that first day. The bruises on her neck have started the process of fading, but it’ll be a long week before they’re gone completely. You’ve visited her a few times while she was bedbound, Prim was almost always there. On one of the stops, you told Katniss that Johanna’s just as much of a firecracker as she was before she left, maybe more, so she’d better be careful talking to her, when she’s allowed.

“Hey, Delly.” Katniss says. “How are you doing?”

“Oh, it’s been a lot of changes all at once.” Her eyes fill with tears immediately. “But everyone’s really nice here in Thirteen, don’t you think?”

“They’ve made an effort to make us feel welcome.” Katniss says, trying to be diplomatic on her opinion. “Are you the one they’ve picked to see Peeta?”

“I guess so. Poor Peeta. Poor you. I’ll never understand the Capitol.”

“Better not to, maybe.” Katniss suggests.

“Delly’s known Peeta for a long time.” Plutarch interjects.

“Oh, yes!” Delly’s face brightens. “We played together from when we were little. I used to tell people he was my brother.”

“What do you think?” Haymitch asks Katniss. “Anything that might trigger memories of you?”

“We were all in the same class. But we never overlapped much.” Katniss shrugs. 

“Katniss was always so amazing. I never dreamed she would notice me.” Delly says. “The way she could hunt and go in the Hob and everything. Everyone admired her so.”

There’s a pause as Haymitch and Katniss stare at Delly, maybe it’s something she’s said. That’s when Katniss tears her eyes away to look between you and Plutarch.

“Delly always thinks the best of everyone. I don’t think Peeta could have bad memories associated with her.” She pauses. “Wait. In the Captiol. When I lied about recognizing the Avox girl. Peeta covered for me and said she looked like Delly.”

Haymitch nods. “I remember. But I don’t know. It wasn’t true. Delly wasn’t actually there. I don’t think it can compete with years of childhood memories.”

“Especially with such a pleasant companion as Delly.” Plutarch says. “Let’s give it a shot.”

You all move into the next room, which is called the observation room. There, a ten member team stands ready with clipboards and pens, ready to jot down Peeta’s reaction. There’s a one-way glass and an audio set up to allow you to see and hear everything that will go on.

On the other side of the wall is Peeta, still strapped down on the bed. He seems awake, staring off at something, but he’s got an edge to his expression. He’s not the person he used to be. His fingers constantly move, waving, bending, balling. You can’t imagine how bored he must be.

Delly gets sent through the door, which causes his eyes to widen, and then his face twists, unsure. Delly takes her time crossing the room, not trying to move too fast or step too loud. Once she’s close, she breaks into that smile of hers. “Peeta? It’s Delly. From home.”

“Delly?” He asks. “Delly. It’s you.”

“Yes!” She says. “How do you feel?”

“Awful. WHere are we? What’s happened?”

“Here we go.” Haymitch says, covering his mouth.

“I told her to steer clear of any mention of Katniss or the Capitol.” Plutarch says. “Just see how much of home she could conjure up.”

“Well… we’re in District Thirteen. We live here now.

“That’s what those people have been saying. But it makes no sense. Why aren’t we home?”

Delly bites her lip. “There was… an accident. I miss home badly, too. I was only just thinking about those chalk drawings we used to do on the paving stones. Yours were so wonderful. Remember when you made each one a different animal?”

“Yeah. Pigs and cats and things.” Peeta says dismissively. “You said… about an accident?”

Delly purses her lips, trying to think of a way to work around the question. “It was bad. No one… could stay.” She stops.

“Hang in there, girl.” Haymitch mutters.

“But I know you’re going to like it here, Peeta. The people have been really nice to us. There’s always food and clean clothes, and school’s much more interesting.” She picks up.

“Why hasn’t my family come to see me?” Peeta asks.

“They can’t.” Delly’s tearing up. “A lot of people didn’t get out of Twelve. So we’ll need to make a new life herer. I’m sure they could use a good baker. Do you remember when your father used to let us make dough girls and boys?”

“There was a fire.” Peeta suddenly says, as if he’s known all along.

“Yes.” She whispers.

“Twelve burned down, didn’t it? Because of her.” His face has begun to turn red. “Because of Katniss!” He yanks on his restraints.

“Oh, no, Peeta. It wasn’t her fault.”

“Did she tell you that?” He hisses.

“Get her out of there.” Plutarch orders.

The door to the room slides open, Delly begins to back away to it. “She didn’t have to. I was—”

“Because she’s lying! She’s a liar! You can’t believe anything she says! She’s some kind of mutt the Capitol created to use against the rest of us!” Peeta shouts at her. 

“No, Peeta. She’s not a—” Delly tries again.

“Don’t trust her, Delly.” Peeta’s shaking his head, desperate. “I did, and she tried to kill me. She killed my friends. My family. Don’t even go near her! She’s a mutt!”

A hand reaches through, grabbing Delly, pulling her out. The door immediately swings shut, but Peeta’s still shouting. The recovery team is scribbling down notes, writing every word he’s said. You watch as Haymitch and Plutarch escort Katniss out of the room, you loosely follow. 

They stop in the empty hallway, where Katniss covers her face with her hands, taking deep breaths to calm herself. When she feels better, her hands drop. “I can’t stay here anymore.” She says. “If you want me to be the Mockingjay, you’ll have to send me away.”

“Where do you want to go?” Haymitch asks.

“The Capitol.” 

“Can’t do it.” Plutarch shakes his head. “Not until all the districts are secure. Good news is, the fighting’s almost over in all of them but Two. It’s a tough nut to crack, though.”

“Fine.” She says. “Send me to Two.”

They begin to walk away together, but Haymitch notices you keep your feet firmly planted where you are. He lets them go off, backtracking to come to you. “What are you thinking?”

You glance behind you, back to the room where Peeta is. Maybe they’re taking the wrong approach. You can’t avoid talking about Katniss and the Capitol forever. In fairness, he’s only been back for about a week now. But they haven’t allowed anyone else from Twelve to see him, much less any other victors that could help him.

“What do you think would happen if he saw me?”

Haymitch thinks this over for a moment, eyebrows slowly drawing in. You were sure he would outright reject the idea, but he shrugs. “You did have some things in common.”

“Do you think he’s too riled up?”

“They already administered a sedative. You’d probably have to wait before going in.”

“Then I’ll wait.” You tell him.

Haymitch keeps you company in the hallway, the two of you talk about Annie’s recovery and what that could mean for Peeta. If it’s even the same. Haymitch is afraid that Peeta will never be the same person as he was before, especially with the route the Capitol went with. They wanted to damage him, and they’ve pretty much succeeded. 

However, the same was thought for Annie. After she won, there was a period of time where she wouldn’t even come out of her house. She didn’t want to see you or Finnick or Mags—only her family. Except, her family wasn’t ready to be taking care of her like that. You had to step in, even though it was far from what Annie wanted, but it turned out for the better.

It could be the same for Peeta.

About an hour after they administered the sedative, Peeta’s slowly coming back to reality. Plutarch has made his way back, as well. He’s got Katniss set up with a hovercraft to leave in a couple hours. She’ll say goodbye to her family and spend a nice couple weeks in Two, where they’re having a hard time cracking down on loyalists.

When you re-enter the observation room, you’re met with a lot of pushback from the recovery team. They think it’s too early to try again, and you might end up causing more damage than you intend to. Once Haymitch tells them that you grew to be pretty close during the Quarter Quell, they back off, but they’re still doubting your ability to do any real good.

“Try to keep conversation about Katniss to a minimum.” Plutarch tells you.

“Sure.” You tell him, but you know you’ll go wherever the conversation allows. If Peeta wants to talk about Katniss, you’ll let him. 

You go in through the door, Peeta lifts his head to look in your direction. He’s not completely off of the drugs quite yet, they thought it would be easier if he was still drowsy. He squints at you, as if he’s trying to put a name to your face, but then he relaxes when you get closer.

“(Y/n).”

“Hey, Peeta.” You smile. “Long time, no see. I was sure we were going to have some big reunion when you got here.”

He scoffs, laying his head back. “You don’t have to lie to me, (Y/n).”

“Lie to you about what?” You ask him.

“I know you wanted me locked up after what I did to her.” He spits the word, but he’s not nearly as worked up as much.

“It’s a precaution for your safety.” You tell him, crossing your arms. “You know, I did try to see you as soon as you got here, but you weren’t ready for visitors.” You lift one hand to motion to his restraints. “You still aren’t.”

“I’m not crazy.” He accuses. “You’re just as brainwashed as they are.”

“I never said you were crazy.” You tell him. “And come on. Who just spent the last month and a half in the Capitol?” You tit your head down at him. “Have you seen yourself?”

“Yeah, right there.’ He justs his chin at the one-way glass. There are twelve eyes staring back at you that you can’t see. You wonder if he knows that. “Is she back there?”

“No, she left after you freaked poor Delly out.” You tell him. “You might want to try to apologize the next time you see her. She was really happy to see you.”

“How do you know Delly?” he asks.

“Who doesn’t know Delly?” You retort. “That girl has talked my ear off since I met her.”

There’s a hint of a smile on his face. “Right.”

“Listen, I hear you have a lot of trouble remembering the way things happened.”

The smile vanishes. “No, she just manipulated you all into thinking she’s the victim.”

“You’re both victims.” You correct him. “We’re all victims of the Capitol, of the war.”

Peeta takes time to think this over, letting it turn in his mind. This is what you want, for him to take his own feelings and compare it to what you’re saying. “How could she manipulate all of us when we watched every minute of what happened?” You challenge. “It doesn’t make sense. She hasn’t spoken to every single person in District Four, and we’re still right behind her.”

His voice is quiet when he speaks. “She tried to kill me in our Games. She—they are working together, against me.”

“Who?”

“Haymitch and the mutt.”

“How were they working against you, if you made it out alive?” You counter, leaning over the bed a little bit to get him to look at you. “Haymitch made a promise to you during the Quarter Quell. Don’t you remember what that was?”

“No.” He says bitterly. “I’m sure it was stupid of me.”

“You asked him to save Katniss over you. And he kept his word, didn’t he? Katniss is safe.”

“I never should have seen Haymitch that night.” Peeta’s shaking his head. “I never should’ve volunteered. They could’ve figured it out themselves.”

“Maybe so, but do you think you could’ve lived with it at the time?” You ask him.

There’s a pause. “No.”

“No.” You agree. “You loved Katniss so much before you went to the Capitol, that you were willing to risk your life for her. The Capitol has stolen that from you, and you’re just going to let it happen?”

“She doesn’t care.” His face twists.

“The night you were rescued, she went into the hospital looking for you.” You tell Peeta. “You, not anyone else. What does that say to you?”

Peeta’s eyes fall. “She wanted to kill me.”

“She wanted to see her fiance again. She wanted to hold him.” You shake your head. “I think while you’re here, you should take some time to think this through. Katniss loved you in her own cruel way. The two of you have been put into an impossible situation.”

“You don’t get it.” 

You take a step back. “Maybe I don’t. I’ll see you later, Peeta.”

“Wait—you’re leaving?” He pulls on the restraints, trying to sit up.

“I can’t be here all day. I have other people to visit.”

“Like who?”

“Like Annie. Like Johanna.” You shrug. “Think, Peeta. You have plenty of time to do it. There must be something that doesn’t make sense in the memories the Capitol has given you.”

You leave the room, finding Finnick in the next when you enter. His mouth is twisted, like it usually is when he’s angry. Your eyebrows twitch, trying to remember if you’ve given him a reason to feel this way, when Plutarch and Haymitch come toward you.

“He responded well, (Y/n).” Haymitch nods.

“How did you do that?” Plutarch asks.

“I think the sedative helped.” You admit. “I think if you bring Delly in here again, you should let him control the way the conversation goes. And he needs to be told about what happened in District Twelve. I don’t think it’s a good idea to withhold that from him.”

“Maybe we’ll try that tomorrow.” Plutarch says, looking at the recovery team. “He’s had an exciting day today, he needs time to wind down and think.”

“I think that’s a good idea.” You start toward Finnick. “I’ll catch you later, I think it’s about lunch time.”

Haymitch waves. “We’ll see you.”

As you step back into the hallway, you reach for Finnick’s hand, wanting to be close to him. Your fingers barely graze his skin before he pulls away, opting to cross his arms instead. 

You stare at him for a moment. “What’s the matter with you?”

“If you want to hold hands, maybe you should go see Peeta.”

“Are you serious?” You stop walking, hands on your hips. “Finnick, really?”

He turns, looking you over. “That’s what you did, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t even touch Peeta.” You motion back down the hallway. “I leaned over to get his attention.”

“That’s not what it looked like.” He waves you off, going back to walking.

“Quit it.” You snap, following behind him. You grab his sleeve, twisting him sharply to face you. “That’s not what happened.”

“You two seem pretty close.”

“We have the same background.”

“Uh huh.” Finnick tries to pull his arm away.

You yank him back, causing him to almost trip. He leans over just long enough to allow you to grab his face, planting a hard kiss to his lips. When you pull away, Finnick stares at you.

“How long have we been dating?” You ask him. “And you think I would just leave you for Peeta? What sense does that make, really?”

“(Y/n), you’ve been blowing me off to go see him, what else was I supposed to think?”

You pull him in close, wrapping your arms around him. “I love you and only you.” You tell him, he hugs you back. “I’m sorry I haven’t been with you.”

“No, I’m sorry.” He murmurs. “You’re just trying to help, it’s what you do best.”

You pull back. “You should come with me next time. We might be able to do some good.”

“Maybe.” Finnick says, taking your hand in his. “For now, I think we have a date aboveground.”

You stand up straight. “Really? You convinced them?”

Finnick gives you a cheeky smile. “Only the best for my lady.”

You laugh, pulling him in for another kiss. “I love you, Finnick.”

“I love you, honey.”

[cosmowgyral]

The Abstinent Beast Devours Love~

▪︎ Elbert Greetia

This is a fan translation so please don't expect it to be 100% accurate. Creative liberties have been taken. All content belongs to Cybird. Reblogs are appreciated. Hope you enjoy!

CW: Explicit sexual content/MDNI

(I need more of Elbert….)

Fighting back tears, I make my way to his room.

With me busy on missions and Elbert buried under a mountain of overdue estate paperwork, we hadn’t had any time together these past two weeks.

No moments to hold each other, not even a touch. And now, I was suffering from a serious lack of him.

(But that ends today.)

I knock on the door of his room.

Kate: Elbert, are you there?

As my heart fluttered with excitement at the thought of finally spending time together again starting today, I opened the door—

Kate: Huh?

For some reason, the room was filled with piles of sweets.

Elbert: …I was just about to come get you. Thank you for coming, Kate.

Elbert: Now everything’s finally in place…

Kate: What is all this, Elbert?

A wagon was laid out with delicious-looking dishes, but no matter how you looked at it, the portions were way too much.

Elbert: Come here, Kate.

After pouring the soup into a bowl, he pulled me onto his lap, scooped it up with a spoon, and brought it to my lips.

Kate: Mm, it’s delicious.

Smiling with satisfaction, Elbert set the bowl down on the bedside chest.

Kate: Mm

Without warning, he stole a kiss from my lips.

Elbert: Mmm... It’s been so hard, not being able to be with you for a while...

Between kisses, the words he uttered tightened my chest.

Kate: I feel the same way.

Elbert: That’s why I prepared three days’ worth of meals.

Kate:  Mmh?

I pulled away from the kiss and tilted my head.

Elbert tilted his head in the same way, with a puzzled expression on his face.

Elbert: I prepared the meals for the next three days... to make sure we stay connected the entire time.

Elbert: I want to be alone, just the two of us, without any disturbances…

I glance at the large amount of sweets and the meal that's far too much for just the two of us.

Elbert: ...If it runs out, I'll ask Al for more, so don't worry...

Elbert: Right now... I want to be one with you.

Kate:  E-Elbert... ah.

Elbert: Mm... hah, more...

Naked atop the bed, I straddle him, taking in all of his warmth.

As I narrowed my eyes at the long-awaited heat, he pulled me into a devouring kiss.

My relaxed body sank downward, and as his girth drove deep inside me, a numbing wave of pleasure surged through me.

Kate: Ha… nnngh…

Elbert: … more….

Kate:  Ahh, no…!

He didn’t even give me a moment to catch my breath before grabbing my waist and thrusting into me with force.

It feels so good, I’m losing my mind.

Our eyes met, blazing with raw hunger.

We gasped, losing ourselves completely as we devoured each other like wild beasts.

It's more intense than usual, and it's making my head spin.

My insides were deeply penetrated with relentless force, and the sheets became soaked with sweat.

Kate: Wait————!

As I clung to his neck, my body trembled, overwhelmed by the sensation of something breaking within me.

He cast a glance at me, still breathless from the experience, before grabbing a piece of chocolate nearby and pressing it against my lips.

Kate:  Mmm... ghh…

The moment I tasted the chocolate, my lips were stolen once more, and his tongue entered my mouth.

Elbert: Hah… mm..

A single piece of chocolate moves through my mouth, slowly melting into a warm, sweet sensation.

Elbert: The chocolate from your mouth... tastes so good...

Kate: Mm... Would you like another one?

While still connected, Elbert pushed me down onto the bed and grabbed something in his hand.

Kate: Ohh! ….Is that honey?

Golden liquid trickled from my breasts to my stomach, and I barely had time to be surprised before his tongue traced along my skin, licking up the honey as he began to move again.

But then, he let out a dissatisfied sigh.

Elbert: It's not fair... whatever you eat gets to become a part of your body.

The rhythm grew more intense, and waves of pleasure crashed over me—so overwhelming I felt like I might just burst apart.

Kate: Elbert… I-I can’t take it any more—

I begged him to stop, desperate for even a moment of relief, but my plea never reached his ears. Instead, his fingers slid down to where our bodies were joined—

Elbert: So devour me right here... and let me become a part of you, let me be one with you.

In this endless sea of pleasure, I feel like I'm the one being devoured by him.

[sweetpumpkinpieinwithcoffee]

Beginning, Middle and Everything Else (Part.1)

Gif is from Pinterest, if you own it please tell me so I can properly credit you.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: There is something wrong with Bucky's manners around you. Something really weird is at play and you can't yet put your finger on it. Unless...

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: humor, fluff, light language, idiot in love A/N: Hello, I've decided to try writing fanfic again and since I was watching CAWS I automatically thought about a little Bucky x Y/N fic. I think it will be in three part and nothing more since it is me going back to writing. Please, ignore the mispelling as English isn't my first language and I haven't wrote in it in a VERY long time. Enjoy 🥹

At first, it was really nothing. A brush of hand while bumping into the hallway. A glance that linger while giving you your cup of coffee in the morning. A door he was making a point to keep open just for you when arriving at the compound. Really, nothing very outrageously out of the ordinary. 

You had joined the Avengers a year ago and were still the newbie, even if Peter and Yelena were technically younger both in age and in training but to the team you were still the newbie. It was fine, you could make it work. Everyone in the team was friendly enough and, you being a social butterfly 

you could fit pretty much everywhere. 

Combat training in the morning with Natasha? Sure. Cooking lesson with Wanda and Vision? No problem. Taking Lucky out with Yelena and Kate? They would have never went without you. Even doing administrative work was fine as long as Steve was with you to crack some 50s jokes. 

And then, there was Bucky. 

While you were a social butterfly, Bucky was quite the opposite. At first, you even thought he straight forward hated you. He would act weird around you, staying on the side of everything, not answering to your message in the Avengers’s group chat. It went to a point where Steve had to said something to make things better. Sam was there too, to crack some jokes. You had felt like a teenager called in the principal’s office for doing something wrong. There you were, the four of you waiting for Steve to give a pep talk. You should have never been involved in this conversation. 

« Clearly, something happened and now we have a problem . »  Said the blond man while crossing his arms. « Care to give us an explanation? » 

You looked at him,  clearly surprised to be addressed. « I wasn’t talking to you Y/N. It was for Bucky.»

« Nothing happened. » 

« Yeah clearly. » You mumble.

« Y/N. » Warned Steve. « Let him speak. »

«  I just did. » Said the former Winter Soldier while scolding his lifelong friend. 

« What I hear is that you just decided to make the new one uncomfortable just for fun. » Joked Sam. 

« If I did I apologize, it wasn’t intuitional. »

« You forgot to pick my order on pizza night and almost shot me during our last session. » 

« I was distracted. » 

« I saw you shot right into the middle of a dummy while blindfolded Barnes. » 

« She got a point man. What’s happening? » Asked Steve. 

« Nothing. »

There was a long silence in the office. Bucky being stubborn wasn’t something new. Bucky being stubborn with Steve on the other hand was. 

« Alright, everybody out. » Finally said Captain. 

Bucky needed less to get the Hell out of it. Practically running. That made Sam laugh a little bit. 

« Don’t know what you did to him but I’m sure as Hell you need to tell me. Never saw this man this distraught. » 

« Shut up Wilson. » 

And everything went back to normal. Bucky being weird around you and the rest of the team treating it like it was the funniest joke ever. 

————————————————————————————

You weren’t sure when it happened but something went wrong during your mission and everything went to Hell. First, you got caught by a guard, then you got shot, right in your right shoulder. 

Impossible for you to continue on. And to be perfectly honest you were in such a bad position that you weren’t even able to stand up to get under cover. 

Luckily, you weren’t alone in the HYDRA facility. 

While laying on the ground, pretty sure death was the next thing you would welcome, a series of weird event happened. The lights were shut off, making you blind, a variety of mechanical sounds resonated around the room and finally multiple sounds of people falling followed. Your breath was ragged. First because of the pain, secondly because of the stress you were under. Were you the next one? What was happening? 

Then, you felt it. The lingering presence. It was his sent tho that informed you of him standing there. 

« If you find your joke funny Barnes I swear… » 

« Are you alright? » It was the tone of his voice that alarmed you. He seemed pained, worried. Nothing like his natural state. 

« I’ll live. Nothing Strange can’t arrange. Mean scar tho. »

« Can you walk? Or even stand? » You could now feel his presence all around you. He must have been close by the sound of his voice and of his combat boots. 

« Can’t do. Shoulder is pretty messed up. Got beaten in the legs. Wanna help … »

You couldn’t finish your sentence before being lifted up as if you weighed nothing. Gear included. 

« Fuck Barnes, you could have given me the warns up. » 

« Y/L/N is hurt. Bringing her back to the helicarrier. » Shot the man through is communicator. 

« You should finish the mission first. » 

« Can’t do. » He only answered while straightening his hold on you. « Need a medic asap. She is losing blood. Natasha’s style in Boston. » 

« If I remember correctly you were the one who made me bled in Boston. » Shoot the redhead through the earpiece. « Bring her in, we are sending the others after you. » 

You last saw Bucky Barnes when he gently put you on the medical bed. While half conscious after losing a lot of blood, you didn’t took the time to correctly thanked him. 

When you woke up, you were alone. But someone had left sunflowers next to your bed. And your traditional pizza order was in a container. 

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Being the injured one in the Avengers’s Tower really sucked. It meant being on watch duty for every mission. Meaning having to stay in back. You’d rather ripped your arm than accepted this fate. So instead, you decided to take a break and were just staying out of the missions completely. 

You went back to your old hobbies while the others were out. Mostly, you were watching old classic movies when Steve wasn’t on duty’s call (only to help him catch up with pop culture), jogging with Sam (who was more than happy to not have a super soldier to compete with) or cooking with Yelena.

You were trying to make cookies when you bumped with Bucky for the first time after the failed mission. 

The man was clearly out of sleep and beaten. He hadn’t shaved in quite some time and looked like he had been to Hell and back. 

« Hey man. Want some cookies? » Asked Yelena. 

« Are they gluten free? » He asked while dropping his duffle bag on the kitchen counter. He was clearly hoping they were not considering the last time they tried a gluten free recipe no one would even finish a bite. 

« No way. We only used the good stuff. Here catch. » 

The small biscuit flew through the air and was caught gently by a metallic hand. You were truly amazed and considering how the mechanical thing was working so it didn’t crush it. 

And then, it happened for the first time. Or rather, you caught it for the first time. The glance. The way Bucky was looking at you above the cookie. The way his eyes were following the line of your body resting against the fridge. Man, it was like if he was printing the picture in his mind. 

« Something wrong? » You asked while checking your clothes for any trace of flour or butter. 

« No. Sorry. Gotta go. » Without a glance back, the soldier took his bag and disappeared into the hallway deserving some of the bedrooms. 

« Have I done something wrong? » You asked Yelena who seemed as surprised as you were. 

« No… I think, I think it’s not that. » 

« Then what? » 

« Probably nothing. I can be wrong. Anyway. Time for batch number two. » 

And just like that, the subject was changed. 

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Bucky was fucked. Clearly and irrevocably fucked. He knew it, Sam knew it and Steve knew it. And if they already knew then it meant Nat wasn’t far knowing the truth. And if she knew, Yelena would soon know. And if that was the case then you would be the next to know and Bucky really didn’t want that to happen. 

« Shit. Shit. Shit »

« Language. » Said a voice from the couch in the living-room where Bucky had looked for some privacy. Except, looking for privacy in this tower was as easy as finding a specific needle in a pile of regular needles. « Y/N I presume? » 

« She baked cookies with Yelena. » 

« And ? » asked Steve from his sitting position. 

« She smelled like cookie. »

« I bet Yelena smelled like cookies too. » 

« It’s not the same. You know it. » 

« Ah. He said it’s not the same. » That time, it was Sam coming from the gym. « Dare I ask if we have drop the subject or is it the same one? » 

« Same one. » Answered Steve who made some place on the couch next to him to let Sam sit. 

« So she made cookies. Big deal. » 

« She is still injured. She should rest. » 

« She beat my ass the other day and I can assure you the girl is fine. » 

« What if she hadn’t cicatrize well enough? »

« And what if the Earth stopped turning suddenly? Strange is the best doctor. You know it Buck. » 

« The girl is fine and she is not made of glass Winter Princess. » 

« Don’t call me that. » 

« The point is, she is fine. Go talk to her. » 

« Does she knows about the flowers? » 

« Well she did get them. » 

« And you told her it was from you? » 

There was a silence. A tense and long one. 

« You didn’t tell her didn’t you? »

« No. » 

That got a bark of laughter from Sam. « Please do tell me how this man has been a menace for society for more than seventy years, is more than an hundred years old and still doesn’t know how to talk to his fucking crush. » 

« And to be honest he was really good at it back in the days. » 

« Or you were shit at it. » 

« Shut up old prick. » 

Bucky watch his two best friends bickering around for a few minutes before taking the last spot available on the couch. Taking his head in his hands he started to breathe slowly. 

He was so fucked. 

Truth is, he had never planned to develop a crush on you. But again, when did you really plan those kind of stuff? The first time he met you, he had just froze on the spot. Your bright eyes, bright smile and warm energy had just caught him off guard. Even more your kindness toward everyone. And him being so out of himself had just developed a weird habit of being a prick around you. When all he wanted was to be with you. 

That mission should never have gone the way it did. First of all, you weren’t supposed to be here. But Peter was sick and you had stepped in. But everything had been accounted for Peter’s ability and specific skills, not yours and when everything went to shit Bucky couldn’t move quickly enough to protect you. He had to watch you getting shot and beaten long enough before he was able to step in and finally put an end to your torture. He could see how distraught you were, how you were trying to hold your tears. Worst, he could sense how panicked you were to be found by him. HE had felt guilty for not having been quick enough. Guilty of scaring you. 

That was when he had to remember that stupid day in Steve’s office and the pizza offer. Truth be told, he hadn’t thought and just went straight to your favorite place and grabbed the same order you had placed months ago. Then he had picked the first flowers that had reminding him of you. Sunflowers. He had left everything for your awakening. Chickening too much to then reveal himself. 

Instead, he was now back in his original place. Watching you from afar, longing for you. 

He was fucked. 

[b1eedthefreak]

Hihi! <3 I hope this isn't overwhelming you with how many requests you might be getting, feel free to ignore, but a fic with softdom Daryl?? Like. Kinda fluff/smut where he's lowkey kinda scared of hurting you so he's real soft and careful. Thanks and have a great morning/afternoon/night <3

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. Gentle

⌇daryl dixon x reader

⌇summary: the group is away on a mission to woodbury, the prison feels quieter than usual. you and daryl stay behind to guard the inside of a near empty cell block, comfort turns to smut.

⌇warnings: softdom!daryl, smut, emotional intimacy, oral (f receiving), gentle pace, praise, light teasing

⌇word count: ~6.3k

a/n don’t worry your request doesn’t overwhelm me whatsoever!! every request i get is just motivation for me to keep writing :D i hope you enjoy this and i’m sorry for the long wait <3

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The prison always felt cold. The usual buzz of activity was replaced by an eerie stillness that seemed to seep into every corner of the building. The groan of the metal doors, the chatter of the group, it was all absent, replaced only by the occasional footstep, the murmur of distant voices outside the walls. Most of the group had gone on a supply run to Woodbury, leaving behind only a few to guard the grounds. When the pairs had been chosen, you and Daryl had volunteered to stay behind, to keep watch inside.

Not that you were complaining.

It wasn’t often that the two of you had the entire prison to yourselves, and, for once, the silence felt like a welcome break from the chaos of the outside world.

Now, hours into the shift, there was nothing urgent to tend to. No walkers at the gates, no kids running around causing a ruckus. There was just the faint sound of the wind outside, the occasional rustle of a loose paper in the hallway, and the distant echoes of your footsteps as you moved about.

You were settled into your cell, your back against the wall with your legs tucked beneath you, an old paperback novel resting in your hands. It wasn’t a good book, just some cheap pre apocalypse thriller that had seen better days, its cover peeling and pages yellowed, but it was enough to pass the time.

You were halfway through a chapter when a shadow loomed in the doorway.

“You’re readin’ again?” Daryl’s voice cut through the stillness, low, with that teasing drawl of his. He leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, his crossbow slung across his back and his sleeves rolled up, revealing the familiar muscles in his forearms.

You looked up, a soft smile curling at the corners of your lips. “Didn’t think you’d sneak up on me this time.”

“I ain’t sneakin’. I just walk quiet,” he muttered, his voice still rough, though there was an underlying fondness to it. “Didn’t know guard duty included romance novels.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “It’s not a romance novel. And it’s not even a good one.”

He raised an eyebrow at that, but you could tell he was intrigued. “You coulda asked for something better.”

“I didn’t think you’d have anything else on you,” you teased, patting the empty space next to you on the cot. “So, you gonna keep standin’ there or come keep me company?”

Daryl didn’t answer right away. Instead, he walked into the cell, his boots making soft thudding sounds against the concrete floor. He sat beside you with a quiet grunt, still a little stiff, but somehow relaxed in your presence. You leaned into him immediately, tucking your head into the crook of his shoulder, your body naturally folding into his.

The warmth of his skin seeped through his shirt, comforting and solid. The faint scent of leather, sweat, and outdoors—the unmistakable smell of Daryl, wrapped around you like a blanket. You could hear the slow, steady beat of his heart beneath his ribs, and it grounded you in a way that nothing else could.

The silence between you stretched comfortably, not awkward or heavy, but peaceful. He didn’t say anything at first, but you felt him relax next to you, his body sinking into the cot with you. One of his hands brushed against your waist, just resting there for a moment, like he wasn’t sure if he should touch you more.

You shifted slightly, feeling the soft weight of his hand on your side, and you moved just a little closer to him. His breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, you felt him lean his head against yours, his face softening into the motion as if he were savoring it. You let out a soft breath, content.

But as you shifted again, turning slightly to face him, the space between your bodies became charged with something new. His hand was still on your waist, but now his fingers twitched slightly, just a hint of hesitation in his touch.

“Daryl…” you whispered, your voice soft but filled with intent. You wanted him to hear the depth of the craving that had built in your chest for so long now. “I need you.”

He stiffened just slightly at the words, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your pulse race. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his voice barely audible when he answered. “You sure?” The concern in his tone was palpable. “Ain’t… ain’t tryna hurt you.”

You didn’t miss the tenderness in his words. It always came out like this with Daryl, like he feared even the slightest chance that he might break you, that he might do something wrong. You could feel the weight of it on him, that quiet vulnerability that he never showed to anyone else.

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his, and gently placed it over your chest, where your heart thudded steadily beneath your ribs. “I want you,” you said, your voice firm now. “All of you. Just like this.”

The words seemed to settle into him, and you could see the tension in his body start to ease. He nodded slowly, a small, almost shy smile curling on his lips. “Alright sweetheart.”

He moved carefully, like every action had been measured, every moment drawn out. He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours with a slow, deliberate kiss. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t desperate. It was just a kiss, a gentle press of his lips to yours, tasting you like you were a rare thing that needed to be savored.

His hands moved next, caressing your body like it was a treasure he was afraid of breaking. They trailed over your waist, your stomach, the curves of your ribs, and up your chest, pushing your shirt up slowly. His fingertips grazed your skin, causing goosebumps to rise in their wake.

“God,” he muttered against your lips, breaking the kiss for a moment to look at you, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “So fuckin’ soft…”

You closed your eyes, a shiver running through you at his words, at the heat in his voice. “Touch me more,” you whispered, your voice quiet but insistent. “I want to feel you.”

His hands obeyed, pulling your shirt over your head in one smooth motion, revealing the soft curve of your chest, the sensitive skin of your breasts. His eyes darkened as they traced the shape of you, and you could see the reverence in his gaze. He leaned down, placing a soft kiss over your collarbone, his mouth moving slowly down the path of your neck.

You felt the burn of his lips against your skin, and your breath hitched as his mouth moved lower, trailing kisses over your chest until he reached your breasts. He didn’t rush. There was no hurry in his movements, no desperate urgency, just a quiet, lingering tenderness.

When his mouth closed around your nipple, you gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair as he suckled gently, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bud. The sensation sent jolts of heat through your body, and you arched your back into his touch.

He groaned softly, pulling away to look up at you. “Feel good?” he asked, his voice rough, his breath shallow.

You nodded, your chest rising and falling with each breath. “So good, Daryl.”

He smiled softly, clearly pleased with your response. You reached for him, your hands trailing down his chest, feeling the roughness of his skin, the lean muscle beneath his shirt. As your fingers dipped under the waistband of his jeans, you felt the heat of him, the pulse of his desire.

Daryl’s breath caught in his throat as you touched him, but he didn’t rush you. He let you explore, guiding your hand slowly, patiently. When you finally slid your hand inside his pants, he sucked in a sharp breath, his hips bucking slightly at the contact.

“Easy baby..,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp.

But he didn’t pull away. Instead, he guided you back to the cot, gently lowering you onto it. His hands were slow, his motions careful, but his eyes… they were full of need, full of desire, and that vulnerability you so loved.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good,” he whispered, his voice filled with both tenderness and something darker, something possessive. “I won’t hurt ya. Promise.”

And as his lips met yours again, deeper this time, more desperate, you knew that he meant it. He would take his time. He would make every moment count. Because with Daryl, it was never just about the sex, no, it was about everything that came before and after, too. It was about the care, the attention, the worship.

And when he finally entered you, slow and deliberate, you gasped, your body stretching to accommodate him, filling you completely. Every inch of him was like fire, but he moved so gently, so cautiously, that the burn was pleasurable, a slow, intoxicating heat that spread through your body.

He kissed you through every inch of it, every soft, slow thrust, every whisper of praise that fell from his lips. “So fuckin’ tight,” he groaned. “You feel so good baby…”

You held onto him, your body shaking with each move, but you were anchored in him, in the tenderness that wrapped around you like a warm, safe embrace.

When you both reached your climax, it was a slow, overwhelming release. It wasn’t frantic or rushed. It was full of lingering touches, quiet whispers, and shared breaths.

Daryl held you through it, never pulling away, even when the waves of pleasure slowly ebbed. He kissed your forehead, your temple, your shoulder, and pulled the blanket around your bodies. Holding you close, as if he never wanted to let you go.

And as the night settled over the prison, you knew that it wasn’t just the walls that felt warmer. It was the love between you, the reverence he treated you with.

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[i-loved-silly]

Hii~ This is a bit specific so feel free to tweak around for your liking but, can I request a hurt/ comfort of Mud with a reader that also has the black blood?

Took a week break without writing and now I am SO back. So glad to see a bunch of Mud enjoyers in my inbox, keep them coming ❤️

Warnings maybe? Mentions of blood and injuries, Mud lowkeu yelling at you but he behaves at the end <3

MUD X READER | BLACK BLOOD!

He saw it on a mission.

Like Mel, it was your first time going out with the family. You’d been with Mud for a while now, close enough that Ken finally caved—more out of exhaustion than trust—and let you tag along. However, you were Mud’s responsibility. Not before you proved yourself, though. You handled your weapons well and seemed trustworthy enough. It was a one time thing, Ken threatened.

But fuck, you didn’t think Mud would see. He wasn’t supposed to.

He used to tease you about how careful you were. How your pretty little limbs stayed untouched while his were always knicked and scraped and skinned.

“C’mon, dollface, ain’t love if we ain’t got matching battle scars,” he’d snort. You always brushed it off and refused to bleed. Now he knew why.

The bullet didn’t hit you, just skimmed past your shoulder—but it was enough to slice the skin open. You clutched at it fast, hunching over like you were gonna throw up. Mud didn’t notice at first. He was too busy laughing, reloading his gun, blood still warm and purple on his coat.

“That’ll teach ‘em—fuckin’ amateurs,” he huffed, turning toward you with a smirk. “Y’get scratched up or what?”

You flinched. Just barely. But he caught it.

“Hey, relax,” he said, stepping forward. “That scar’s nothin’. It’ll heal up all pretty—”

“W-wait, Mud!” you cut in fast, hand out. He stopped dead in his tracks, eyes narrowing.

You were shaking.

He’s seen you kill with a clean shot, narrowed eyes, not even a breath out of place. But now you looked like your spine might give out. You looked damn horrified. He wiped his chin.

“What’s goin’ on…?” he asked, voice low.

And then he saw it.

The black blood.

Dripping down your wrist in thick, oily streaks. As dark as ink, something wasn’t right. Then his eyes averted to your bloody shoulder. Black blood.

“Jesus,” Mud muttered, eyes wide. “That’s… that’s not rotling blood.”

You froze, quickly hiding your bloody hand. Still trying to cover the gash, but the damage was done. He’d seen it.

“That’s what you were hidin’ from me,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Shit.” Your breath hitched as he took a step back.

You opened your mouth, closed it again. Useless.

“I’m so sorry,” you breathed.

What would he think of you now? A liar? Untrustworthy? He had more of a reason to kill you now, for fucks sake.

He glanced around. Nobody else was looking. The family was too busy celebrating their kills and making sure no one was left over. They had to get out of here, no one—especially Ken—could see you.

Mud took you by the elbow—surprisingly gentle—and steered you behind the car, shielding you from view. His nervousness was evident on his face, he almost hesitated staying with you in this spot. He kept looking back.

“Hey, dollface… we’re gonna talk about this later, alright? But I don’t want the rest of ‘em seein’ you like this.”

He gestured at the blood streaking your skin, your clothes. You nodded, still too shaken to speak.

He didn’t ask if you were cursed, or blessed. Didn’t start yelling, or ask if you were one of them. It was no use, you were one of them. He lit another cigarette, coming from who knows where. He chewed on it anxiously as he thought about what to do.

“Black blood,” he said, shaking his head. “I oughta be pissed you didn’t tell me… but mostly I’m just wonderin’ how the hell you’re still standin’.”

You looked at him. You weren’t sure what you expected—anger, rejection, fear—but what you got was a half-assed plan. He grabbed a handful of dried gore from the pavement and smeared it across your shirt, rough but deliberate. It was thick enough to cover the black stains. You ignored the burning sensation and instead just stared at him.

“There. Now you look like the rest of us,” he muttered, standing up. “Let’s get back to the shop.”

The ride back was stiff and heavy with silence in the back seat, Mud didn’t let you out of his sight. His thigh stayed pressed against yours in the backseat, lanky palm resting across your knee. He continued his commentary along the ride, bragging about how good his shots were, messing with his brother. He seemed a bit quiet, cold to you during the ride though, maybe you were making it up. Maybe not.

He had his arm around your shoulder by the time you got through the doors of The Whale Belly Butcher Shop, guiding you in. You could smell the iron of the place again, all cut meat and tile cleaner, sawdust thick underfoot, the faint scent of blood. The front was empty, the usual stink of raw fat hanging low over the meat counter. Someone must’ve distracted Ken in the back. You didn’t hear Breadhead either. Mel was already chatting up some customer.

“C’mon, c’mon, this way,” Mud muttered under his breath. You weren’t sure where he was taking you until he took you to the freezer, where he used to sleep before you two were together. You felt goosebumps along your skin as you entered, whether from the cold or your own fear.

He shut the door behind you and locked it.

“You wanna tell me what the fuck that was!?” he exclaimed, pacing once before stopping in front of you. His hands were fidgeting, twitchy, like he didn’t know whether to shake you or hug you.

You swallowed. Your voice cracked. “It’s not—it’s not what you think. I didn’t lie. I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

“That you’re a fuckin’ black blood? That you’re not even—not even a rotling? Ya haven’t died once? That you’re the damn reason that prophecy exis—“

“Mud,” you interrupted, barely a whisper. Your throat felt tight and you wanted to run away.

He stopped.

You took a shaky breath, glancing down at your shoulder. The purple blood still mixed in with your dried black blood.

“I’m not trying to hurt anyone. I didn’t even know what it meant until recently. I just—” your voice caught. That was an exaggeration, you had known you were doomed. “I just wanted to stay. With you. And them. I thought if I told you, you’d kick me out. Or worse! Someone would come after us. Fuck, I thought you’d kill me. You’d have every reason to but…I didn’t mean to lie to you. I promise.”

Mud stared at you for a long time, something unreadable passing over his face.

Then finally he stepped forward.

“You think I care about that black sludge in your veins?” he said, voice low and rough. “You think I truly give a shit if you’re human? I should, I really should.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He leaned in, roughly wrapping an arm around your shoulders, your side hitting his. His grip loosened once he had you close.

“You’re mine,” he said, so sure of himself. “I ain’t gonna leave ya because of what’s in your veins. I ain’t gonna tell anyone either. Just…tell me next time. Any secret of yours. Besides,” he leaned in, the smell of smoke hitting your face. “I like ya too much to let ol’ Kenny-boy cut you up into little meat slabs.”

That was supposed to be comforting.

He sat you down on a crate of sealed ice cubes, dropping to his knees in front of you. His hands moved gentle now—peeling away your gore-covered jacket, undoing the shredded sleeve beneath. You winced when the cold hit the wound. The blood had slowed, drying like crust.

Mud hissed softly. “Looks rough. Forgot what it’s like to not heal up instantly. Does it hurt?.”

You nodded. You hadn’t realized how much until now.

He looked up, eyes narrowed. “Let me fix it.”

His fingers were surprisingly careful, fumbling with a stained rag, dousing it in liquor from the flask in his coat pocket. You hissed when the rag touched your skin

“It burns?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Good,” he muttered. “Means yer’ not losing your arm.”

At this you snorted. “It was just a scrape, I didn’t even get shot.”

He said nothing as he wrapped another rag around your arm, but the corner or his mouth twitched. It was good to hear your laughter again. He stayed kneeling when it was done. And for a moment, neither of you spoke. You just watched him. His gaze looked uncharacteristically concerned as he eyes your arm.

“You scared the hell outta me,” he finally said.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

He reached up then, ruffling your hair as he stood up

“Don’t keep this shit to yourself, alright? You tell me, and me only. No one else.” He said it in a warning, gesturing a bony finger at you.

You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway. “Yeah yeah, I got it.” A moment of silence went by. You stood up, wrapping your arms tightly around his waist. You heard him groan above you as you smiled against his jacket.

“Thanks for not being an asshole.”

He grunted, but placed his arms around you as well.

“Whatever makes ya’ happy.”

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom. TW: suicidal thoughts.

Unprepared

It’s been going on for three months. John has felt like a robot. Everything he does is mechanical. Perhaps a zombie is a better description.

Slowly, he surfaces, an hour at a time. The day he fully wakes from his daze, multiple things happen, some of which he has control over, others - not so much.

Of course he’s aware that Mycroft watches him; he just hasn’t paid it much mind - if any at all. So, when John doesn’t go to work Mrs Hudson checks on him. He’d never thought she would collaborate with Sherlock’s brother. She couldn’t stand him - before. Apparently, a suicide does things to people and their relationships. He’s a testimony to that after all.

An hour after his landlady has left him in peace, a package is delivered by Anthea.

“You are to open it before you do anything stupid. He will come if you don’t,” is her message.

For a long time he just stares at the nondescript box. Then he closes his eyes and remembers Sherlock’s and his own last vow - “if you die, I can’t and won’t live.”

“Murder suicide, John,” Sherlock had whispered fiercely.

He’d clung to John and kissed his face and hands until John had started to cry.

***

“You cheated. The vow was to go together. But I’m coming after you now. When I’ve opened the damn box from your brother. He thinks he can stop me but I have the pills and Mycroft doesn’t know, or he would’ve taken them away by now. You would be proud of me if you knew, my love.”

John cries for fifteen minutes after that.

He is totally unprepared for the contents of the box, which likely was Mycroft’s intention.

On the top is a pair of safety glasses, and not any pair - they are Sherlock’s. The reason he knows this is because of the crack in the left glass. He has wondered where they’d gone.

A tiny box with a purple button is next. John had torn it off one night he couldn’t get Sherlock’s shirt off fast enough. They’d forgotten to look for it the next morning .

The familiar leather case containing Sherlock’s magnifying glass makes him want to shoot the walls.

A plastic zip bag with a lock of dark hair almost stops his heart.

At the bottom is a plane ticket to Romania and an envelope addressed to him. In Sherlock’s scrawl.

My darling John.

Please forgive me. I had no choice. Moriarty would have killed you if I didn’t jump. If he had any suspicions that I faked it and you didn’t grieve me, you’d be dead now. I thought I could dismantle his network alone, but I can’t. Without you by my side everything is pointless. I can’t sleep, much less focus on the mission, which sooner or later will be fatal. Will you come, John? I’m lost without you. I love you. So much.

SH

John’s anger is explosive but short lived. He packs his bag, finds his passport, and heads for Heathrow.

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[bleedingichorhearts]

I've been thinking of this smut imagine: A hot space marine husband who got Reader, his wifey sent him nudes while he's in a mission as a suprise for him and It's her boobs pics:

https://twitter.com/natrepellant/status/1900432992155451572?t=N4HXDBVOWj0G7ZTWUu5Sdg&s=19

Well it's just pics of her boobs covered by his favorite books and that is the hottest thing for him, he got horny and he's several planets away from wifey, so when he got back, wifey is looking at days of being bred for making him so hot and bothered while he was on his mission 🙂

"Ough, well ain’t you a bag of goodies? You’re definitely going in the sinners box." - Ichor

Summary - "You send a rather brave image of yourself to your marine with he’s doing his duty to the Emperor, and in turn? He vows he would breed you once he returns."

TW// Smut, Size Difference, Breeding.

|°𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕃𝕚𝕤𝕥°|

You didn’t think much of it when you sent the picture. Well, not until it took you a few moments to realize what you had did, and now you mentally cringe at yourself at the heresy that you have done. Heck, you’re not even sure he would like such pictures!

Does he like boob pictures? Booty pictures? Side profile? Top or bottom profile? Open? Closed? Showing more or less? Why were you more nervous about how you positioned and presented yourself rather than being worried about why you had sent it, not that you had any particular reason. You had just felt good that day but still missed your lover. Your lover that had responded with a promise.

“Little wife, I’m breed you into the bed once I’m back.” Is what he responded with, and you swear to the Emperor you had exploded into a puddle right then and there. He wasn’t supposed to respond like that! He was supposed be a… a loving warrior! Well, you guess that was a way of showing his love… but you are not used to responses like that, and you wouldn’t have figured he would send a reply like that either!

“Your picture plagues me.” Is the last vox that you get from him after a few weeks before it is silenced. A blush going to your cheeks at the simply thought of him… No! You need to focus on your duties! That is what your hubby is doing right now, and you shall do the same, and you do, but you also forget about sending him such a picture anyway after a while of nothing happing.

Well… until your hubby comes back and snatches you away and doing what he had promised.

“My little tease.” The space marine behind you groans, rutting up into your core like his life depended on it. His chest pressed up against the back of your head, showing you just how much bigger he is. His hands fisting at the sheets around you, not willing to squish you beneath his weight and break you. “Giving such a brave picture of your breed-able frame.”

He huffs, and you can feel how his chest inhales and exhales behind your head, hear it. Feel how his cock splits you into two, claiming what is his again and again, making sure that it was- is only him fucking you like a rabid dog in heat. His hands twisting and tearing at the sheets as his weight alone keeps you in place on his cock.

“You would like that? Would you, my little wife?” A low, frustrated growl leaves him that turns into a groan when he feels your walls squeeze around him. His body having to curl a little around your body to give a kiss to your forehead before resuming his pace. “To be bred by your husband whom you teased with a simple picture of your breasts, covered by some books.”

“Y-yes!” You moan out into the sheets, your heated breath making them a bit moist as you claw at the sheets yourself. Your body arching back into him while he hits the special spot inside of you. Your walls already trying to milk him of his worth. Not that your body could handle all of his seed.

“Oh? Did I hit the spot?” He teasingly coos, pausing for a brief second to lean back and trail his hands down the sides of your body, very pleased at the size difference as his cock inside of you gives a twitch. “Sweet little wife, taking me so well."

“You ah, r-remembered?” You breathe, nuzzling into the sheets, trying to calm yourself of being rutted into like an animal. Your body feeling like it was pulsing.

“Of course I do, little wife.” He responds softly, leaning back down to kiss the back of your bare neck and spine. Scarred lips making contact with your sensitive skin. “You’re a delicious little thing to look at, even if you’re with child.”

You hum, affected by his last comment. Your walls giving him a gentle squeeze as you imagine how he would work with you. Lifting you up into his arms so you won’t have to walk with a hefty belly… “Seems like you’re not against that idea. Shall I make it true?”

His weight presses gently into you one more. One of his arms hooking under your knees and slowly rising it up to put you in a more open, comfortable position, but still gets access to you. His thrusts coming in slow at first. Both of you getting used to the new position.

“You… you sure?” You ask, getting breathless over more while his pace increases. Hands dusting the sheets a lot harder considering he lifted your leg up for more access, and damn wasn’t he hitting everything inside of you just right. “We- ah! Should talk about it.”

“We already have, little wife.” He coos again, a bit more sweetly this time. Another huff and groan leaving him. Skin slapping against skin as a whine leaves your mouth, getting you to shut up and flutter your eyes closed for a moment. Feeling that familiar coil inside of you snap.

You had expected him to stop, to let you breathe again, but he fucks you through it. Having yet to climax himself. His huffs being the only thing heard as he puts more of his weight down on you. Effectively trapping you.

“Don’t worry, little wife.” He manages to huff a low chuckle, purring. Reminding you of what he had said in text. “I’m just going to stain those pretty thighs of yours a shaking white. Perhaps have a taste of those teasing breasts of yours.”

Fuck, he was just doing what he promised to do: breed you into the bed with some additional ungodly thoughts added. Perhaps, it would be best to send a nude picture when he more closer, but making him wait and want you was a bit more delicious than you would admit. You’ll be definitely trying it again.

That is if you can get out from underneath him from fucking you senseless of course.

“@kit-williams, @egrets-not-regrets, @bispecsual, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @sleepyfan-blog.”

“+@c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @marcela2000, @passionofthesith, @insanity6666, @ilovewolvezz.” - Tagged

[mandoalorian]

speak now [bucky barnes x f!reader]

horrified looks from everyone in the room but i’m only looking at you.

word count: 1,800

rating/warnings: 13+, angst, pre-established relationship with helmut zemo, hurt/comfort, happy ending (i imagined this with tfatws!bucky).

fic inspired by speak now by taylor swift ₊˚ෆ

: ̗̀➛ masterlist

The mirror felt cold beneath your fingertips.

“Are you okay?” one of your bridesmaids asked gently, fluffing the hem of your dress behind you.

You nodded, lips tugging upward into something that passed for a smile. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

But you weren’t thinking about vows or flower arrangements or the champagne toast.

You were thinking about Vienna.

It had rained that night. Not enough to soak the rooftop, just enough to leave the sky glistening and the air charged with the kind of electricity that makes people say things they normally wouldn’t.

It had been just the two of you — you and Bucky — standing at the edge of a building overlooking the Danube, your mission gear still clinging to your skin, both of you catching your breath from a close call in the shadows below.

He’d saved your life that night. Threw himself between you and a sniper’s bullet like it was instinct. Maybe it was.

“I told you not to run ahead,” he said, voice low, a smirk barely ghosting across his lips.

“And I told you I hate being told what to do,” you shot back, though your pulse hadn’t stopped racing.

You hadn’t thanked him.

Not with words.

Instead, you stepped closer to him, close enough to feel the heat coming off his chest, the way his shoulders tightened when you reached up to touch his jaw — a small scrape blooming red from the scuffle.

“You’re bleeding,” you said softly.

He didn’t move away.

“It’s fine,” he murmured. “You’ve seen me worse.”

Your thumb traced the edge of the wound, careful, lingering longer than necessary. “Doesn’t mean I like it.”

The city lights stretched out behind him, but all you saw were his eyes. Tired. Guarded. Like he was holding in a war he didn’t trust anyone else to fight.

“I’m not going to stop worrying about you, you know,” you whispered. “No matter how many walls you put up.”

He swallowed hard. You felt it, saw it in the way his throat bobbed.

“I don’t want you to,” he said. “That’s the problem.”

You didn’t understand. Not right away. But then his hand came up — hesitating — until it hovered near your waist. Not touching. Just there.

And that’s when you felt it.

That aching, fragile almost.

He was close enough to kiss you. Close enough to ruin everything.

Your breath hitched.

“Say something,” he murmured. “Before I do something stupid.”

You stared at him.

“I can’t,” you whispered.

And he nodded. Just once. Like it was exactly what he expected.

You both stood there, in the middle of a storm that never broke, hearts full of things neither of you dared say.

Eventually, he stepped back. And that was the end of it. Or so you thought.

You never meant for it to end this way.

Not with lace trailing behind you. Not with trembling hands wrapped around a bouquet that didn’t mean anything. Not with Bucky Barnes watching you walk down an aisle meant for someone else.

But then again, you and Bucky had never done anything the way people expected.

It started simple. Late nights at the compound, sitting shoulder to shoulder in silence that felt warmer than words. Missions that turned into inside jokes. Gloved fingers brushing yours when he passed you a cup of coffee. The way his gaze lingered when he thought you weren’t looking.

You should’ve said something.

You should’ve asked him what he meant, that night on the rooftop in Vienna when he’d leaned in like he might kiss you but didn’t.

Instead, you let him pull away. And eventually, so did you.

Enter Helmut Zemo — elegant, composed, intelligent in a way that made you feel like you could finally breathe. He listened. He gave you space. And he didn’t come with ghosts clinging to his back like chains.

It was easier with Zemo. Simple. Predictable.

Bucky never was.

You and Bucky never even kissed. But, you never had to. The love was there in the way he always stood slightly too close. In the way his voice softened when he said your name. In the way he always watched you like he wasn’t sure he deserved to.

But he never said it.

And when Zemo did — when he got down on one knee with a vintage ring and a calm certainty Bucky never gave you — you said yes.

Not because it felt like fate.

Because it felt like a life raft.

You didn’t invite Bucky to the wedding. You couldn’t. Not after the way he looked at you when he found out. He didn’t say anything — just nodded, smiled like it didn’t kill him, and said he was happy for you.

You should’ve known that was a lie.

Now, you’re here. The aisle stretches endlessly before you. Guests turn in their seats. The quartet plays something soft and elegant. And at the end of the aisle, Zemo waits, handsome and steady.

But it’s not his eyes you look for.

It’s the man in the last row, sitting alone, head down.

Bucky Barnes.

His hair is shorter now, especially compared to the last time you’d seen him. You remembered one night at the compound, your fingers tangled in his hair, casually making a comment about how he’d look so good if he cut it. Either way, he looked good, but he had been complaining about maintaining it. And you liked the idea of seeing his face more, instead of it being hidden by unkempt bangs.

In spite of the changes, Bucky still had that same stubble grazing his jaw. And those same ocean blue eyes and pink lips.

He shouldn’t be here. But he came anyway.

He doesn’t smile. Just watches you like you’re walking toward your own execution.

You try not to cry.

The ceremony begins.

Zemo says his vows first. They’re poetic. Controlled. Exactly what you expected. Then it’s your turn. You open your mouth, but your throat feels dry, feeling Bucky’s gaze burn into you. You say your vows distracted, your eyes glazed with unshed tears. Everything about this felt wrong. And yet here you were, standing in front of your family and friends, about to be trapped forever.

You forced yourself to change your train of thought. This wasn’t fair on the man who stood at the altar, beside you.

No, nothing about this was fair.

Zemo was nice enough. He was intelligent and passionate and a good lover. He worked hard and earned enough money to take care of the both of you, and he always fought for what was important to him. Those were traits you could value in anyone.

He was handsome too. He dressed well, albeit not to everyone’s taste. He wouldn’t have dared to be seen in tactical gear. And you supposed you could admire that.

If you were to really force yourself.

Zemo was nice, but he wasn’t Bucky.

Every instinct told him to stay away. To let you be happy, even if that happiness was in someone else’s arms. Even if it killed him.

But Bucky Barnes had never been good at doing what he should.

So here he was. In the back row of a wedding he didn’t belong at, fists clenched in his lap, jaw locked so tight it ached. Sam had begged him not to go. “Move on,” he had told his friend with convict and care. But Bucky couldn’t. He’d tried and he couldn’t, and now he was running out of chances.

You looked like a dream.

No — not a dream. A punishment. A walking reminder of everything he wanted but never dared to take.

He’d lost you a long time ago.

That night on the rooftop in Vienna had been the closest he’d ever come to telling you the truth. The air had been damp with rain, the mission barely behind you. The city was still burning beneath your feet, but all he could think about was the way you’d looked at him — like you saw something in him worth saving.

You left the rooftop that night thinking nothing had changed.

He left knowing everything had.

And still… he stayed silent.

He watched you fall for someone else. Watched you laugh at another man’s jokes. Watched you wear a ring that wasn’t his. He convinced himself he was doing the right thing — staying away, keeping his distance, letting you be happy.

But when the music swelled and you walked down that aisle, he realised something.

He wasn’t protecting you.

He was just scared.

Scared you wouldn’t choose him back.

Scared he’d never be enough.

Bucky’s chest burned. Because he was back on that rooftop, rain in the air, the heat of your hand on his skin, and the weight of almosts on his tongue. Not this time.

“If anyone objects to this union,” the officiant says, his voice cutting through the hush, “speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Your palms were clammy. Your ears were cold.

And then—

“I do.”

It’s like a grenade goes off in your chest.

You whip around. Guests gasp. Zemo goes rigid beside you.

Bucky rises from his seat, face unreadable, hands clenched at his sides. But there’s no mistaking the tremor in his voice.

“I object.”

The room falls into stunned silence.

And you can barely breathe.

What is this feeling? Anger? Confusion? Relief?

“I know this isn’t fair,” Bucky says, stepping into the aisle, his voice raw. “And I know I should’ve said something sooner. But I can’t let you marry him without hearing this. Without knowing that I—”

He falters, then meets your eyes with everything he’s got left.

“I love you. I always have. I was just too scared to ruin what we had. I thought… maybe if I stayed quiet, you’d be happier. Safer. He can give you a stable life, and God knows you deserve that. But if there’s even a part of you that still wonders—still feels something when I walk into a room—then don’t do this.”

You can feel every eye on you. Zemo doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t need to. His silence speaks volumes — he already knew.

Your throat tightens.

You’d convinced yourself you were over Bucky. That the softness in your chest whenever you heard his voice would fade with time. That marrying someone safe meant you were finally moving on.

But love was never supposed to feel safe.

It was supposed to feel like this.

Like heartbreak and hope, tangled into one.

You drop the bouquet and it hits the floor with a dull thud.

Then you run — past the flowers, past the altar, past everything that should’ve been enough but wasn’t. Bucky catches you like he always does, like he was built for it. You bury your face in his shoulder, breathing him in, shaking, laughing and crying at the same time.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispers.

“You never did.”

And that was the truth.

Zemo doesn’t chase you. He just watches. Dignified. Quiet. Maybe he was never meant to be the villain of your story.

Just the man who helped you realize who the hero was.

“Bucky, I’m so mad at you.” you sobbed into his chest, tears dampening the material of his black shirt. He cradled the back of your head.

“I know,” he replied softly, regretting the time he’d lost with you. “And I deserve that. But please—“

You cut him off with a kiss. Hard, passionate, in love. The kiss you had deserved since Vienna. The kiss Bucky had dreamed of. Your lips taste like heaven against his, and you know now, that this was exactly where you needed to be.

You don’t look back.

You don’t need to.

Because Bucky was never behind you.

He was always the one waiting to be chosen.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

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