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[custom-fic-studio]

Sanemi Shinazugawa x Female Reader

To Stand Beside You

Part 2

The courtyard was quiet, bathed in warm afternoon light filtered through the trees above. A soft breeze stirred the petals of blooming flowers, their delicate fragrance mixing with the faint scent of incense. It was serene—unsettlingly so, given what you’d been through. Yet somehow, the stillness calmed the nerves that had begun to tangle inside your chest the moment Sanemi mentioned you’d be meeting the leader of the Demon Slayer Corps.

You walked beside him, one step at a time, each movement still sore but bearable. Sanemi didn’t speak much, but when you stumbled slightly, he immediately reached out to steady you—calloused fingers brushing your elbow with a kind of restraint that felt more intimate than it should have. He didn’t let go until he was sure your balance was firm again.

Up ahead, the courtyard stretched out in clean, symmetrical lines—stone tiles carefully maintained, shaded by flowering branches. A few people in black uniforms bowed respectfully as they passed, and your breath caught when you finally saw him.

Kagaya Ubuyashiki—the Master—stood waiting at the edge of the open courtyard.

At the sight of him, Sanemi slowed. You did too. And then, without hesitation, he stepped forward and knelt on the ground—forehead low, posture disciplined and reverent. You watched him for a heartbeat, unsure of what to do.

“I should kneel too,” you thought, already beginning to lower yourself despite the protest in your still-healing muscles.

But Sanemi’s voice cut through the quiet—quiet, but firm. “It’s not necessary for you.”

You glanced down at him, surprised.

“You’re still recovering,” he added. “Don’t strain yourself trying to kneel. The Master won’t expect it.”

There was something in his eyes—gentler than before, laced with a kind of silent understanding. After a beat, you nodded. “Okay.”

The Master’s soft footsteps began to echo across the courtyard, light and deliberate. He moved with the grace of drifting petals, his presence subtle but undeniable. As he approached, his pale eyes landed on you with calm warmth. His face bore the marks of a lifetime of suffering, and yet, his expression radiated peace.

He stopped in front of you both, his pale eyes gentle as they landed on you.

“You are the one who protected the village,” he said, his voice as calm as a still lake. “And eliminated a powerful demon, all on your own.”

You nodded quietly, the weight of the memory still fresh in your chest. “Yes… I did what I had to.”

The Master’s expression softened further. “Then it is only right that we express our thanks.”

Slowly, to your shock, he began to bow. “On behalf of the Demon Slayer Corps, and the lives you saved… I offer you my deepest gratitude.”

Your heart jumped. “Please—please stand. You don’t need to bow to me.”

Sanemi also stirred, his head rising slightly. “Master, it’s not necessary. She’s not even—”

But Kagaya simply smiled. “The value of a soul’s courage is not measured by rank or title. Today, she has shown the strength of one who walks our path.”

You stood frozen, the sincerity in his words making your throat tighten.

“I believe,” the Master continued, “that you have the heart and will of a true warrior. And though you were not one of us when you faced those demons, I hope you’ll consider becoming one now.”

He turned to gesture toward Sanemi. “This is Shinazugawa Sanemi. He is one of our most respected Hashira.”

Sanemi gave the briefest nod. “Tch. I’m still not sure how you did it. Taking down a demon of that rank alone… that’s not something most slayers can manage, let alone someone who’s never trained with us.”

You glanced at him. His voice had its usual gruffness, but the doubt wasn’t cruel—it was curious. Almost admiring.

“I didn’t have a choice,” you answered softly. “They came for my village. There was no one else. I just… did what I could.”

“You did more than most could dream of,” the Master said. “That is why I ask—will you join us? Will you lend that strength to protecting not just your home, but others like it?”

You swallowed. The question weighed heavy, not because you doubted your answer, but because of how much it would change your life.

Still, there was no hesitation in your voice when you said, “If it means stopping more innocent people from dying… Yes. I’ll fight.”

A flicker of emotion passed through Sanemi’s face, but he said nothing.

“Then welcome,” Kagaya said, his smile as warm as sunlight. “May your strength bring hope to others. And may your heart remain as bright as it is today.”

You nodded, eyes stinging just slightly. “Thank you. I’ll do my best.”

Behind you, Sanemi finally stood. And though he said nothing, the way he looked at you made it clear: something about you had shifted something in him.

And it was only the beginning

[custom-fic-studio]

Trafalgar D. Water Law x female reader

Still Here

The room is too quiet.

The only sounds are the soft scrape of metal instruments against a tray, the gentle drip of antiseptic, and the faint hum of tension radiating off Law’s body like heat off a storm.

You’re seated on the edge of the med bay cot, legs dangling limply, shirt already peeled away to expose the bruises blooming across your ribs. There’s a gash across your thigh that refuses to stop weeping.

He hasn’t spoken since he started patching you up.

Not once.

His jaw is tight, eyes shadowed beneath dark lashes, and every movement is sharp. Controlled. The kind of restraint that only comes from someone trying not to feel something too big.

You flinch when he presses gauze to your side — not from the pain, but from the heat of his palm. You’re hyper-aware of him. Of everything.

He’s never looked at you like this before.

Like he’s terrified.

Like he’s furious.

“You’re mad,” you murmur softly, watching him work.

He doesn’t look up. “No.”

“You are.”

He ties the bandage a little too tight. “You took on a ship of Marine officers by yourself.”

“I had to—”

“You didn’t.” His tone is calm, but beneath it, his voice trembles with something sharp. “I could’ve handled it.”

“I know,” you say, breathing through the sting, “but you were protecting the crew. Someone had to draw their attention.”

He finally meets your eyes.

And it almost breaks you.

There’s so much in them. Fear. Rage. Relief. All tangled in a storm behind that golden stare.

“I could’ve lost you.”

You smile through the ache in your chest. “I’d do anything for my captain and my crew.”

His shoulders slump — a sharp exhale escaping him like he’s been holding his breath since the fight.

“You idiot,” he mutters, setting the last of the supplies aside with a clatter. “Don’t say shit like that.”

You reach for his hand, fingers brushing his gloved knuckles.

He flinches — just slightly.

But doesn’t pull away.

“I mean it,” you say gently.

He pulls his gloves off slowly, tosses them onto the tray, and takes your hand in his.

You expect him to scold you again.

He doesn’t.

He leans forward — slow, measured — and kisses you.

It’s not careful.

It’s not soft.

It’s desperate.

His mouth crashes into yours with heat and hunger that steals the air from your lungs. His fingers slide up to cradle the back of your head, careful to avoid your bandaged wound, while his other hand fists the edge of the cot beside your thigh.

You make a small, wounded noise — somewhere between surprise and desire — and his grip tightens.

“Tell me to stop,” he mutters against your lips, voice wrecked. “If you’re hurt—”

“I’m fine,” you whisper, breath shaky. “Don’t stop.”

That’s all it takes.

He lifts you — one arm under your knees, the other behind your back — and lays you down fully on the cot, lips never leaving yours. His coat hits the floor. His shirt is gone a moment later.

And then it’s just him.

Warm skin. Broad shoulders. Scars and ink and desperation.

He kisses you again — slower now, but deeper. Possessive. One hand cups your cheek while the other skims down your waist, fingertips ghosting over every bruise, every scrape.

“I hate seeing you like this,” he growls softly. “Bleeding. Broken. Because of me.”

You arch up slightly, gasping when his mouth dips to your collarbone, sucking gently where skin is still unmarked. “It wasn’t because of you. I made that choice.”

He doesn’t argue.

He just kisses you again — lower this time. Across your sternum. Down your ribs. His hand slips between your thighs, spreading them carefully, reverently, before trailing up the inside with torturously slow precision.

“Law—” you breathe, voice trembling.

He shushes you softly, fingers brushing against your center — finding you wet, swollen, already aching for him.

“You’re sure?” he asks again, voice low, raw.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

The way he groans at that word — please — it’s almost animal.

He sinks to his knees at the foot of the cot, dark eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, he just stays there — hands gripping your hips gently, breathing ragged, gaze drinking in every inch of you like he’s still convincing himself you’re alive, that you’re here.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of your knee — featherlight, reverent.

He pulls you forward with careful hands, guiding your thighs over his shoulders with a tenderness that makes your breath hitch. The feeling of his skin on yours, his fingers pressing into the softness of your hips, is enough to set every nerve in your body alight.

His breath ghosts over your inner thighs, warm and shaky — and when his mouth finally touches you, you jerk in surprise, a soft cry leaving your lips before you can stop it.

It starts slow.

His tongue moves in languid, exploratory strokes, savoring you. Not rushing. Not greedy — yet.

You clutch the sheets, gasping as he begins to map you out with growing focus, coaxing your body open with nothing but his mouth and an unrelenting devotion that leaves you trembling.

Your hips roll forward on instinct, chasing the rhythm he builds with each passing second, and he groans at the way you react to him — the way you open for him, the way your moans grow needier with every breath.

He doesn’t stop.

Not even when your voice breaks. Not even when your legs start to shake.

His hands hold you firm — possessive, grounding — and when your hand slides into his hair, tugging hard, he only grips you tighter and devours you deeper, like your pleasure is the only thing that matters.

By the time he pulls back, his lips are wet, his chest is rising fast, and his face — flushed and wrecked — looks like he just walked out of a battlefield and into heaven.

He presses a final kiss to the inside of your thigh, slow and lingering, before standing over you again — eyes blazing, jaw tight, hunger barely held in check.

And when he sees you looking up at him — lips parted, eyes glassy, still gasping for air — something in him snaps completely.

And this time, he doesn’t ask for permission.

He just gives you everything.

His belt hits the floor.

You reach for him, eyes glassy, lips parted — body aching, nerves still sparking from the way he worshipped you only moments before.

“Please,” you whisper again, voice trembling with need. “I need you.”

That breaks him.

There’s no teasing smirk. No clever remark. Just the sound of his breath catching, and the way his gaze darkens as he sheds the last of his restraint.

He doesn’t tease.

He doesn’t stall.

He just gives in.

With one long, deep stroke, he thrusts into you — and the both of you cry out at the contact. The stretch is overwhelming, your body already so sensitive, but the fullness of him, the slow grind of his hips against yours — it feels right. Like everything inside you was waiting for this, for him.

He groans — low and guttural — as he sinks all the way in, his forehead dropping against your shoulder as he exhales through clenched teeth. “Fuck…”

You wrap your arms around him instinctively, your legs trembling as they hook around his waist, anchoring him close. There’s no space left between you — just the heat of skin, the stick of sweat, the way your hearts pound against each other like drums in sync.

He starts slow — deep and heavy, each thrust measured and full, dragging against every sensitive place inside you until you can’t help but moan into the curve of his neck.

But it doesn’t stay slow for long.

“Don’t do that again,” he growls — each word marked by a hard, perfect thrust that knocks the air from your lungs. “Don’t ever fucking do that again.”

You gasp his name, voice cracking. “L-Law…”

Your nails dig into his back, clawing at him like you’ll fall apart if you don’t hold on. “I-I won’t,” you choke out, tears welling in your eyes from the intensity — from everything. “I promise. I swear—”

His thrusts grow more frantic, hips snapping harder, deeper, breath ragged.

“I need you here,” he pants, mouth brushing your ear. “Alive. With me. Don’t make me watch you almost die again.”

His voice breaks on the last word — and your heart shatters.

You hold him tighter, lips brushing his jaw, and he takes you even deeper, the angle brutal in its precision — hitting something inside you that leaves your whole body arching off the cot.

You come undone with a cry, back bowing, voice shattered as you scream his name — and Law follows, a curse torn from his throat as his hips lose rhythm, stuttering, buried deep as he spills inside you with a groan that sounds almost like relief.

But he doesn’t move. Not yet.

His hands are trembling as they cup your face, his forehead resting against yours, breath hot and uneven as he tries to slow the storm still raging inside him.

Your fingers thread through his damp hair, and you close your eyes, both of you still locked together, chest to chest, heart to heart.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but silence.

Then, softly — barely audible — you whisper, “I’m still here.”

And he holds you even tighter.

[custom-fic-studio]

Satoru Gojo x Female reader

Low-Grade, High Heat

The walk to the mission site is quiet, but not uncomfortable. Satoru beside you — long legs leisurely keeping pace with yours — hands tucked in his pockets like he’s got all the time in the world. The air between you hums with something gentle and giddy, like the leftover spark of laughter from a shared secret.

“Can you believe it?” he grins, tilting his head down to meet your gaze from behind those ridiculous sunglasses. “Out of all the missions, they paired us. Pure coincidence.”

You hum, shy smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Or maybe you pestered the higher-ups.”

He gasps, dramatic. “I would never, princess.”

You try not to laugh, but he sees it in your eyes anyway — the soft flicker of amusement, the affection that’s been quietly blooming since the day he cornered you after training. That day is still vivid in your memory.

“You keep running from me,” he’d said, chest rising with the aftermath of exertion — sweat glistening along his neck, his white hair tousled and clinging to his forehead.

You stood frozen, heart pounding, his shadow stretching long beside yours under the fading orange light of the training yard.

“Because you’re… overwhelming,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

Your gaze dropped as you turned your head to the side, a deep blush coloring your cheeks. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him — not when he stood there so effortlessly handsome, so sure of himself. He was too much. Too loud. Too bright.

Too good-looking for your poor heart to handle.

But then his expression shifted.

He smiled — softly, gently — a tenderness behind it that stole your breath and made something tight in your chest begin to unravel.

“I know I joke around a lot, but I’m serious about you,” he said, voice low, steady. “I want to be the kind of man who actually makes you feel safe, seen, and… loved. Not just someone who takes up space in your life — someone who adds to it.”

Your breath hitched.

That wasn’t flirtation. That wasn’t a passing whim or one of his dramatic one-liners.

That was real.

And maybe you were still confused. Still unsure of where this would go. But that part of him — the sweet, hidden part that no one else really saw — it wrapped around your heart like silk.

So you nodded.

And stayed

Even now, it still doesn’t feel real.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I keep waiting to wake up — like this is all just some fever dream I’m too afraid to believe in fully. Being with him… letting someone like Satoru that close? It feels like trying to hold sunlight in my hands.

He’s loud, impossible, larger than life… and yet, somehow, when it’s just us — he’s soft. Gentle. Real.

And he’s mine.

…

The mission site is quiet. Barely any cursed energy lingers — faint and flickering like candle smoke.

“I’ll grab us drinks,” Satoru announces, already turning toward a nearby vending machine. He waves lazily over his shoulder. “Don’t have too much fun without me.”

You smile faintly, the corners of your lips tugging up.

He’s so dramatic.

But you don’t answer — just lift a hand in a silent wave as you step forward. You’ve already slipped into work mode — focused, quiet, efficient. It’s how you operate best.

Let him flirt with the vending machine. You’ve got curses to handle.

…

And it’s over in ten minutes.

When Satoru strolls back in with two bottles — one water, one strawberry soda — he pauses in the doorway, blinking.

You’re flat on your back, arms spread, eyes closed with a tiny smile on your lips.

“…I was gonna help you,” he chuckles, walking over and kneeling beside you. “But it seems you’ve taken care of that.”

You open one eye, blinking up at him — and at the cold bottle he’s holding just inches from your face.

With a small huff, you push yourself up and accept the drink with a quiet “thanks,” twisting the cap off and taking a sip. The cool liquid is a relief, especially after moving nonstop.

“I’m not sure why they sent both of us,” you murmur between sips. “It was… really simple.”

“Low-grade,” he agrees, popping his drink open. “I’m not sure why they sent us either…” He leans closer, lips ghosting your ear, voice dropping into that dangerous, playful whisper. “But it’s not like I’m complaining.”

His smirk is lazy. Knowing. And when you turn your head toward him, your blush rising, he sees that flicker in your eyes — a spark of heat behind the shy exterior.

“What?” you ask softly, throat a little dry.

Satoru’s grin grows.

“You know what.”

Then, before you can respond again, he shifts forward — one hand bracing beside your thigh, then the other, palms pressing into the floor with quiet purpose. His knee brushes against yours as he moves, the warmth of him bleeding into your skin with every inch he closes.

Your breath catches.

And then he’s straddling your hips, smooth and unhurried — like this wasn’t a decision, but the most natural next step. Like his place was always right here, over you, close enough for his presence to eclipse everything else.

You gasp softly, your hand still clutching the bottle as his knees settle on either side of your thighs. His body is warm — overwhelmingly so — and he’s leaning in close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his chest, his scent a mix of faint cologne, sweat, and something that’s just him.

Your heart skips. He’s looking down at you now, head tilted, a sly smile playing at the corner of his lips like he already knows what you’re about to say — or what you want to say but won’t.

The weight of him isn’t heavy, but it’s enough to make you feel pinned — grounded. Claimed.

He gently plucks the drink from your fingers and sets it aside, his hands brushing against yours with deliberate slowness.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with amusement.

“Like what?” you manage, barely above a whisper.

He leans in, nose nearly brushing yours.

“Like you’re about to melt for me.”

“Gojo—”

“Mm-mm,” he hushes, his glasses slipping off and tossed gently to the side. His eyes — uncovered — are piercing, celestial, and locked only on you. “You know I like it when you call me Satoru.”

Your lips part, breath caught in your chest.

And then his mouth is on yours.

Hot. Desperate. Sweet at first, but quickly escalating.

His hands slide under your shirt, fingers cool and curious, tracing the curve of your waist and the softness of your inner thigh. You arch instinctively into his touch, your voice already shaky.

“Satoru…”

“That’s better,” he purrs against your lips. “So good when you listen.”

Your shirt’s off before you can blink, his jacket and blindfold discarded in a heartbeat. His hands are everywhere — firm but tender — worshipping you like you’re made of moonlight and sugar. When his mouth finds your collarbone, you whimper softly, and his grin returns, devilish and loving.

You don’t remember when your pants came off.

But you remember the way his hands guided your legs open.

The way he looked up at you, hair falling into his eyes, voice heavy with want.

“You okay?”

You nod.

“You sure?”

You swallow, then whisper, “Please…”

That word unravels him.

The floor is cool beneath your back, a stark contrast to the heat of his body hovering over you — all lean muscle and coiled tension. His breath fans across your skin before his mouth follows, lips brushing your jaw, your throat, the curve of your collarbone like he’s memorizing you one kiss at a time.

Each press is unhurried, deliberate — a silent promise spoken through touch. His fingers trail down your sides, leaving goosebumps in their wake, teasing the sensitive skin.

You shiver — not from the cold, but from the way he touches you like you’re something precious. Something his.

He groans softly against your neck, the sound low and reverent, and then—

His hands slide lower — no fabric in the way now, just warm skin beneath his palms. The contact is electric, and he moves like he already knows every inch of you — like he’s been waiting for this, memorizing the shape of you in dreams.

His fingers skim your thighs, then trace up the dip of your waist, following the soft curve of your body like a map he’s vowed to learn by heart. Every touch is deliberate — coaxing, reverent, almost worshipful.

Then his lips find a new place to claim — the slope of your chest, then lower, his mouth hot and open as he trails kisses across your bare skin, marking a path down your body. He lingers just long enough to make you writhe beneath him, sucking softly until he leaves a red marks behind — proof that he was there.

You gasp — sharp, desperate, your back arching instinctively as your hands clutch at his shoulders, nails dragging across flushed skin.

He groans at the sound, the feel of you under him — bare and trembling.

“There it is,” he murmurs against your skin, voice husky and reverent. “That sound. You have no idea what it does to me.”

Then he lifts his head, eyes meeting yours — clear, star-bright, intense.

And in that moment, with nothing between you but breath and heat, his gaze says it all:

You’re his.

…

He doesn’t rush. He savors.

And it’s almost unbearable — the way he takes his time, how his lips explore you like you’re fragile and sacred all at once.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he whispers against your skin, his voice thick with restraint and awe. “Completely mine.”

That word — mine — sends a ripple through you, tightening something low in your belly, pulling a breath from your lungs that’s more like a cry than a sigh.

Then he pushes deeper against you, chest to chest, skin to skin, and you can feel just how much he wants you — not just physically, but completely. Every touch says so. Every kiss confirms it.

And then—

You gasp — sharp and trembling — as he sinks into you, and your entire body arches like a live wire under his touch. One hand grips his shoulder desperately, nails digging into bare skin, while the other clutches the nape of his neck, pulling him impossibly closer.

Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a cry and a moan, and his own comes out ragged against your ear.

You’re so full — stretched, surrounded by him — and the sensation steals every coherent thought. All you know is him. The weight of his body over yours. The way he breathes your name like a prayer. The way your bodies fit like they were always meant to find each other here.

He moves slow at first. Deep. Deliberate. Every roll of his hips is unhurried, dragging against every sensitive place inside you, making your thighs tremble where they cradle his waist.

It’s worship. Plain and raw and overwhelming.

He keeps his eyes on your face — watching you fall apart for him, just for him.

But that restraint doesn’t last.

Because the moment your legs tighten around him — holding him there, gasping his name with a broken, pleading edge — he groans into your mouth, something primal ripping through his chest.

And then his hips snap forward harder. Deeper. Faster.

The rhythm becomes messy, desperate — his mouth crashing into yours between each thrust, swallowing the whimpers you can’t control.

Your hands claw at his back, nails dragging over sweat-slick skin, and he shudders with every scratch, every gasp.

“You’re so beautiful,” he pants, lips brushing your cheek, your temple, your throat. “So fucking sweet… the way you sound when I’m inside you—”

Another moan rips from your lips, and he curses under his breath.

“I love it,” he whispers. “I love when you fall apart for me like this.”

And you do.

Again. And again.

Every thrust pulls another cry from your throat, and every cry only makes him move harder — as if proving he knows your body, your rhythm, your breaking points. His name is the only thing you can say anymore, spilling from your lips like devotion.

And he takes it — takes all of you — like he was made for it.

Like you were made for him.

…

By the time the second round hits, you barely register how he got you to the wall.

One second, you were gasping his name through the aftershocks of the first high — trembling, lips swollen, legs weak.

The next, your bare back meets the cool surface with a soft thud, and Gojo is lifting you effortlessly, hands gripping beneath your thighs like you weigh nothing — like holding you up like this is second nature.

He’s already inside you again before you can fully catch your breath.

The angle is different — deeper, sharper — and the moment he thrusts up into you, your head snaps back against the wall with a cry you don’t even try to muffle. Your fingers tangle in his hair, clutching tight, while your legs lock around him in a desperate attempt to ground yourself.

You’re seeing stars behind your eyelids — breath catching in your throat as the rhythm builds fast, relentless, every motion sending sparks down your spine.

Your moans are shameless now, raw and ruined, echoing through the empty mission site like a confession neither of you can take back.

“You’re killing me,” he groans, forehead pressing against yours, his breath coming in short, burning gasps. “You feel too fucking good.”

You try to answer, but it’s impossible — your voice breaks around his name, a sob, a breathless curse tangled together into one sound that barely escapes your lips.

He groans again, deeper this time, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. He pulls you tighter against him — impossibly close — until there’s nothing between you but heat and hunger and the ache of wanting more even when you’re already drowning in it.

Your nails rake down his back as your head falls forward onto his shoulder, forehead resting against the crook of his neck. You’re whispering something — his name, maybe, or just please — you’re not sure. You’re not thinking anymore. Just feeling.

And he keeps giving.

Thrust after thrust, his grip bruising in the best way, his mouth open and panting against your skin. He’s unraveling too, you can feel it — every shaky breath, every faltering motion that grows more ragged, more desperate.

But even as he chases his own release, his voice stays near your ear.

“Let go for me again,” he rasps. “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

And when you do — broken and clinging to him like he’s all that’s holding you together — he curses low and presses his mouth to yours, swallowing your cries as he follows you over the edge.

…

The third time starts slower.

Not because either of you has calmed down — far from it — but because everything feels heavy now: the shared heat, the breathless confessions, the way your name trembles from his mouth like it’s something sacred.

Your back is on the floor again — flushed, sweaty skin sticking faintly to the cold surface — and he’s above you, chest heaving, silver lashes damp with exertion. His eyes flick over your face like he’s trying to memorize it all: the tear tracks on your cheeks, the dazed shine in your eyes, the parted lips still quivering from the last release.

He leans down, mouth brushing yours, and you lift your arms slowly — weak but willing — wrapping them around his neck, pulling him close until your foreheads touch. He slides back into you with a low, broken groan, the stretch so familiar now but still so overwhelming that your whole body tenses under his.

This time, he doesn’t slam into you like before.

He sinks.

Deep and slow — grinding with a rhythm so devastatingly steady, it forces every sound out of you in soft, wrecked gasps. You hold onto him like he’s the last thing keeping you tethered to the earth, fingernails grazing the nape of his neck, legs falling open for him again without hesitation.

Your tears return, unbidden — from pleasure, from exhaustion, from the sheer intensity of it all.

He notices.

His mouth finds your cheeks, kissing each wet trail gently. Reverently. Like it hurts him to see them but he cherishes the proof that you feel this deeply with him.

“You’re mine,” he breathes, voice rough and almost trembling. “You know that, right?”

You nod, too far gone to speak — too full, too overwhelmed, too wrecked by how good he feels and how loved you feel under his touch.

He cups your face as he moves inside you, rolling his hips in slow, devastating waves. “Say it.”

Your lips part — not to form words, just to breathe — but he kisses you before you can try. His lips are gentle. Soothing. But his hips never stop.

“Mine,” he says again, quieter this time, lips brushing your temple. “All of you.”

You cry out again, arching, arms trembling around his shoulders.

And when you fall apart for him — soft, breathless, clinging to him like salvation — he follows, groaning your name like a vow, burying his face into the curve of your neck as he comes undone.

Afterwards, you collapse onto him — or maybe he collapses with you — your limbs trembling, utterly boneless, your body too worn out to even shiver properly.

Neither of you speaks for a while. There’s only the sound of your combined breaths, erratic and shaky, slowly syncing as he holds you close.

“Can’t… move,” you whisper, voice barely audible, breath still shallow against his chest.

Every muscle in your body feels like melted sugar — soft, heavy, useless. Your legs are numb, your arms too tired to lift, and your skin is still tingling from the way he touched you like you were something sacred.

He laughs — low, warm, and smug — the sound vibrating softly against your cheek where your head rests.

“I’d apologize,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles gently down your spine, “but I’m not sorry. Not even a little.”

You manage a weak glare, though it lacks any bite, and smack his chest with the strength of a sleepy kitten. “You’re the worst…”

He catches your wrist easily, brings it to his lips, and presses a kiss to your knuckles before guiding your hand back to his chest, right over his heart.

“Maybe,” he says, grinning. “But you still let me ruin you.”

You huff, too tired to argue, and close your eyes again — only for them to flutter open when you feel his lips press against your forehead, soft and slow.

His voice is quieter now. Sincere.

“And you…” he breathes, “you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Your heart skips.

No teasing. No flirtation behind his words. Just that quiet truth, offered without expectation, dropped gently between your worn-out breaths like a gift.

You don’t answer — not with words. You just snuggle closer, let your fingers slip into his hair, and sigh against his skin like you belong there.

Because you do.

…

Later at Jujutsu High…

You should have known he’d carry you all the way back like this.

Bridal-style. Shirtless. Smirking.

His arms are steady beneath you, annoyingly gentle, and he walks through the main gates like he owns the whole damn school — which, in his head, he probably does. You’re pressed against his chest, warm skin to warm skin, legs completely dead, and wrapped in the only thing he left you to wear — his jacket, loosely thrown over your shoulders and barely zipped.

You, however?

Absolutely mortified.

Your face is tucked into the crook of his neck, burning hot as you try to pretend you’re invisible. But the moment the others spot you, you know it’s over.

Shoko’s the first to speak, leaning casually against the wall near the admin wing, coffee in hand and smirk already forming.

“Well, that took longer than it should’ve,” she drawls, taking a slow sip as her eyes scan your flushed face and the obvious love bite blooming across your collarbone. “Rough mission?”

“Low-grade curses,” Gojo replies far too cheerfully, like he wasn’t just bending you in half on a concrete floor an hour ago.

Nanami passes by without breaking stride, adjusting his tie with one glance at your state. “Low-grade my ass,” he mutters, under his breath but just loud enough for you to hear.

Utahime actually freezes in place when she notices the very clear pattern of bruises and teeth marks on your neck. Her face twists between horror and exasperation. “Oh my god, is that—?”

“Don’t ask,” you mumble into Gojo’s chest.

And then there’s Geto, strolling in like he’s been waiting for this moment all day.

He whistles low, smirking. “Well damn, I thought I was smooth.” His eyes flick to Gojo. “Guess that’s what ‘team bonding’ looks like, huh?”

You make a noise halfway between a groan and a whimper and bury your face deeper into Gojo’s shoulder, wishing the ground would swallow you whole.

“I hate you,” you whisper fiercely, voice muffled against his skin.

He laughs — loud and unbothered — then leans down to murmur in your ear, his lips brushing your temple.

“No you don’t.”

And the worst part?

He’s right.

You don’t.

Not even a little bit.

In fact, when you feel his arms tighten around you just a little — protective, proud — you smile faintly, cheeks still burning, but your heart aching in the sweetest way.

Because somewhere between the embarrassment, the teasing, and the chaos that is Gojo Satoru…

You realize you wouldn’t trade this for anything.

[custom-fic-studio]

Keigo Takami x female reader

Love Me, That’s All

The door clicked open with a sluggish push of his shoulder.

Keigo barely registered the sound of it shutting behind him. Every muscle in his body screamed, aching from the brutal mission that had dragged on for two days longer than planned. Cuts lined his arms and torso beneath the ripped hero suit. Dried blood caked some of them—nothing fatal, but enough to sting with every step. He hadn’t even gotten around to seeing a medic. Not yet.

He didn’t have the energy.

His wings dragged low behind him, heavier than they’d ever felt. The usual lightness in his stride had long since vanished, replaced with the quiet shuffle of someone barely holding himself together. The moment his eyes locked on the couch, his body decided for him.

Just get to the couch.

He collapsed face-down into the cushions with a groan, half on, half off, arms limp at his sides. He didn’t remove his boots. Didn’t bother with the straps of his gear. The morning message he sent you—short, apologetic, full of longing—was the last time you’d heard from him. He hadn’t even sent a “home safe.”

He meant to. He wanted to. He missed you so much it physically hurt.

You’d both had long days—you, probably still recovering from your own mission. He knew that. That was what stopped him from calling the second he stepped in. You deserved your rest too.

But Keigo Takami hadn’t made it ten seconds before sleep took him. Phone still in his hand. Draft message unsent. His final thought was of you.

I miss you.

…

The scent of something warm and familiar stirred him from sleep.

Keigo’s eyes fluttered open slowly, still hazy, still tired—but no longer cold. There was a blanket draped over him. His boots were off. His hero gear, which had clung to him like dead weight earlier, was nowhere in sight.

And the couch? It felt… comfortable. Like someone had shifted his position, made sure his limbs weren’t bent awkwardly, tucked him in with care.

He blinked toward the soft light pouring in from the kitchen. A figure stood by the stove, stirring a pot. The smell—rich, savory stew—wrapped around him like a second blanket.

His lips parted in a whisper. “… Y/N?”

You turned at the sound of your name, smiling the moment you saw him sitting up, dazed and blinking.

“Hi, honey,” you murmured with a tender smile, your voice warm and soothing. “How was your nap?”

He rubbed a hand over his face and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I didn’t even make it to the bed.”

“I noticed,” you teased, walking over to turn the flame down beneath the stew. “Now, would you like to eat first? Or take a bath—I can run one for you. Or… I should probably address your wounds before either.”

He blinked up at you, heart tugging in his chest. “You’re really here.”

You chuckled, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder and nudging him up. “Come on. Sit at the table. You’ll feel better upright.”

He let you guide him without resistance, limbs sluggish but obedient, settling into a chair with a grateful sigh. You padded back over to the stove and left the stew on low before turning back to him. On your way to the cabinet, you retrieved the small first aid kit you’d seen him use before, popping it open on the table with quiet familiarity. You began laying out gauze, antiseptic, and ointment, your touch gentle and practiced.

“How long have you been here?” he asked, voice raspier now but full of affection.

You dipped a cloth in warm water and carefully began cleaning the dried blood from a scrape along his arm, your motions slow and soothing. You worked in silence for a moment, focusing on the tender spots and carefully applying ointment to the worst of them.

You tucked a stray hair behind your ear. “Maybe thirty minutes after my shift ended. I knew you had a long day, and I thought it’d be nice to cook you something warm… the meal you’ve been wanting for a while.” You hesitated for a second.“You didn’t answer when I knocked or called, so I used my key. I hope that’s okay?”

Keigo looked at you with a quiet smile, like just seeing you made everything in his world feel lighter. “Of course it’s okay. That’s why I gave you the only other copy I had. I want you to use it.”

You blushed, eyes dipping away for a moment before clearing your throat. “Well… anyway. I came in and saw you completely knocked out on the couch. I figured it’d be better to let you rest. You looked… peaceful. Really peaceful.”

You glanced down at his arm, giving one last gentle press to the bandage before pulling your hands back. “I think that’s all the wounds on your arms—for now. We can take care of the rest after we’ve had a bit of dinner.”

He leaned back slightly, arms draped over the back of the chair, looking at you with something unreadable and tender in his eyes. “You didn’t have to do all that.”

You cut him off gently, leaning forward. “I wanted to,” you said. “Because I love you.”

His chest swelled with warmth—fierce, protective, soft all at once.

He stood up slowly and closed the space between you with two quiet steps, hands finding your waist as he pulled you in. His lips found yours—slow and grateful, full of the things he hadn’t been able to say over text or calls or through bloodied hands on the battlefield.

“Thank you,” he whispered against your lips.

But you pulled back just enough to smile, your thumb brushing under his eye.

“You don’t have to thank me for anything,” you said, grinning now, so full of light he could barely take it.

“You just have to love me.”

Keigo’s lips curled into a slow smirk as he leaned in, voice low and warm against your ear.

“Oh, I plan on doing a lot more than just loving you.”

He leaned in even closer, his breath brushing your skin as he whispered exactly what he intended to do to you.

Your breath hitched as your face lit up in a rush of heat, eyes wide. He chuckled softly at your reaction, pressing a kiss to your temple with all the affection in the world.

And oh—he did. With everything he had.

[custom-fic-studio]

Kento Nanami x Female reader

( following his “survival” of the Shibuya Incident and his quiet retirement.)

A Quiet Morning After

The room was still, with the sunlight spilling through the curtain cracks. The sheets were warm, cocooned in the breath of early morning. Nanami stirred before the alarm—before the birds even dared to sing—and as always, the first thing he saw was her.

You lay on your side, facing him, a few loose strands of hair fluttering with each exhale. Peaceful. Unaware. Perfect.

His hand instinctively rose to brush the hair from your face—until he saw it again.

Discolored. Twisted. Scars laced from palm to knuckle, fingers slightly misaligned from surgeries that couldn’t restore their former precision. His hand hovered mid-air, trembling faintly.

A beat passed.

He lowered it slowly and rolled away, careful not to disturb the bed’s weight.

She deserved better.

Nanami made his way to the kitchen, the worn floorboards creaking gently underfoot. He brewed his coffee silently—black, bitter, efficient. Just like he used to be.

The bathroom mirror didn’t lie. Tired eyes. Hollow cheekbones. A shell of the man who once dissected curses with cold calculation. Now, all gone.

Still… he cleaned up, shaved, combed back his hair. Some dignity, at least.

Back in the kitchen, he cracked eggs into a pan, lined toast in the broiler, and glanced at the door just as the soft patter of footsteps met his ears.

Then arms wrapped around him.

Warm. Gentle. Familiar.

Her.

You pressed your cheek between his shoulder blades, placing a delicate kiss to the ridge of his spine. “You weren’t there when I woke up,” you murmured, voice still sleepy.

His body tensed—just slightly—before exhaling. “Good morning, my love,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “I made breakfast for the both of us.”

You hummed in gratitude, pulling back just enough to press a kiss to his cheek. But you noticed it.

That flicker in his eye.

The sadness in his tone.

His silence.

You stepped around him, fingers grazing his wrist before lacing with his good hand. “Nanami… what’s wrong?”

He looked at you for a long moment.

“I don’t know what I did,” he said softly, “to deserve such a kind love.”

His voice wavered, eyes fixed on the hand you held with such care. He exhaled slowly, shoulders sinking under the weight of everything left unspoken.

“I’m not the man I used to be—not physically, not entirely.” His gaze dropped. “People see the way I move now, the scars I carry, and they flinch. They look away—not just out of pity, but fear. Like being near me is uncomfortable… like I’m something less than human. Something monstrous.”

His hand twitched slightly in yours. “And then I look at you… and I wonder what I could possibly offer someone like you now. You deserve more than a man who’s haunted, barely held together, and constantly second-guessing whether he’s still human.”

You didn’t flinch. Instead, you brought his hand to your chest, pressing it over your heart.

“You’re not broken,” you said gently. “And you aren’t a monster either.”

Your fingers brushed along his jaw, guiding his gaze back to you. “You’re healing. That doesn’t make you weak—it makes you human. You’re still the man who stood between innocent people and death without ever thinking twice. You risked your life for strangers, for friends, for students who looked up to you. You didn’t just fight—you protected. You made sure others got to go home. You gave people a future when they had none.”

You took his scarred hand in both of yours, pressing it to your chest. “You’ve always been steady. Honest. Brave, even when you were tired of the fight. You held yourself to a standard no one else could reach, not because you had to—but because it mattered to you. That’s the man I see when I look at you. The man I love.”

He looked at you, eyes searching. “But I can’t protect anyone anymore. I can’t even protect you.”

“You already have,” you whispered, brushing your fingers along his cheek. “In more ways than you know. And I never needed a protector. I needed you. I chose you.”

Nanami swallowed hard, emotion flickering in his gaze. “Even after everything?”

You nodded. “Especially after everything. I didn’t save you because of what you could do—I saved you because I love you. That was enough then. It’s enough now.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth, then the scar above his brow, then each knuckle of the hand he couldn’t bear to look at.

He let you.

The eggs were burning a little, but neither of you cared.

He closed his eyes, forehead pressing to yours, letting himself believe—if only for this quiet morning—that maybe he wasn’t a monster at all.

Just a man. A loved man.

And maybe, that was enough.

The scent of slightly overcooked eggs lingered in the air, but neither of you moved toward the stove.

Not yet.

Nanami’s forehead rested against yours, eyes closed as he breathed you in. Your presence. Your warmth. The grounding pull of your fingers on his arm, your thumb brushing the inside of his wrist.

He opened his eyes slowly.

And you were looking at him like he was whole.

It undid him.

He leaned in—hesitant at first—and pressed his lips to yours. Just once. Soft. Testing.

But you didn’t let him stop there.

You kissed him back.

Deeper this time.

A kiss that said I’m here. You’re mine. You’re loved.

Your hands moved to his jaw, feeling the faint scratch of stubble, and he shivered under your touch. His hand, the injured one, hovered by your waist like he wasn’t sure he had the right.

So you took it and placed it there yourself.

And that’s when he let go.

The kiss deepened—hungry now, desperate in its tenderness. His mouth opened against yours, slow and aching, like he was rediscovering the taste of something long denied. You guided him backward just enough to press him gently against the counter, your hands roaming up under the soft cotton of his sleep shirt.

His breath hitched, and he broke the kiss with a quiet hiss.

You pulled back instantly. “Did I hurt you?”

Nanami shook his head, smiling faintly through the tension in his jaw. “No. It’s not you. My shoulder still aches a little.”

You took a step back, a little embarrassed, but he caught your wrist.

“No. Please…” he said, voice low and husky, filled with something tender and raw. “Don’t stop.”

You stepped back in, easing your hands around his waist. “Then let me take care of you,” you whispered.

His eyes softened.

“I think,” he murmured, brushing his nose against your cheek, “that would be… nice.”

He allowed you to guide him to the bedroom, every step slow and careful. You sat him down at the edge of the bed, his injured hand resting gingerly on his knee. The sun had shifted, now casting golden stripes across his legs and torso as you helped him peel off the soft shirt.

The scars were all over. Faded. Ugly to him. But to you, they were sacred—proof that he was still here, still breathing, still yours. Every mark was a reminder that he survived when he easily could’ve been lost.

You pressed a kiss to one. Then another.

Nanami watched you, jaw tight, trying to hide the emotion in his face.

“You don’t have to…” he began.

“I want to,” you interrupted gently, your fingers tracing down his chest.

He let out a shaky breath, eyes fluttering closed. “Then… I’ll sit back. Just this once.”

His voice dropped. Rough. Vulnerable. Trusting.

“You lead, my love.”

You leaned down, lips ghosting over his ear as your fingers skimmed his chest, slow and teasing. “I intend to,” you whispered, letting your tongue trace a warm path down the column of his throat, earning a low groan from deep in his chest.

His hands—strong, though still marked by healing—slid beneath your shirt, palms reverent as they explored the lines of your back. You sat up just enough to peel your top over your head, letting it fall to the floor. His gaze followed every movement, eyes dark and hooded, lips parting slightly as if in awe.

“Beautiful…” he murmured, the word like a prayer.

You leaned forward again, and he met you halfway, his mouth brushing over the swell of your chest, kissing gently—almost cautiously—like he feared you’d disappear if he wasn’t tender enough. His lips moved lower, placing soft, deliberate kisses across your skin, the warmth of his breath making you shiver.

Your fingertips traced the scars along his chest with unspoken reverence, lingering over every line the world had carved into him. He watched you silently, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths, until he caught your hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your palm—soft, grateful, aching.

Then, with a quiet look of understanding, you shifted back slightly. His eyes followed every move as your hands drifted to the waistband of your sleep shorts, slipping them down with slow precision. You stood just long enough to rid yourself of the last barrier, watching his expression darken with need, reverence, and restraint.

He reached for his own, but you gently pushed his hands away. “Let me,” you whispered, sinking to your knees briefly as you eased his pants down, careful of the lingering tightness in his hip and thigh. His breath caught when your fingers brushed against him—teasing, unhurried.

Once bare, you climbed back into his lap, every movement slow, deliberate—cherishing him as he was now: wounded, healing, and still entirely yours. You straddled him gently, mindful of his injured side, and let your hands settle on his shoulders as you leaned in.

The kiss that followed was slow and hungry, full of unspoken longing, and the way he clutched your hips—firm but trembling—made your heart ache with love.

You felt the shudder ripple through him as your body settled against his, your core brushing just enough to make him hiss softly through his teeth. Even with the faint aches still lingering, you could feel the tension coiled beneath his skin—needful, restrained, aching to be unraveled.

His fingers dug into your hips—not to guide, not to take control—but to ground himself. To feel that this moment was real. And when you rolled your hips once, slow and deliberate, his breath stuttered against your lips.

You moved together, gentle at first, tender and exploratory. It wasn’t about wildness. It was about connection.

And gods, how you loved him.

You whispered it into his skin again and again as you held him close—his name like a vow, his body trembling under your touch, his soul slowly unclenching in your arms.

He came undone beneath you, not from pain—but from love. His release shuddered through him, a soft gasp escaping his lips as his head dropped against your shoulder. But even as his body trembled with aftershocks, he didn’t stop.

He wrapped one arm around your waist, pulling you closer, while the other hand slid between your bodies—touching you with the same reverence he always gave you. His fingers moved slowly, circling and exploring, determined to bring you with him into that same trembling ecstasy.

“You didn’t think I’d leave you like this, did you?” he murmured, voice hoarse, lips brushing your ear.

Every stroke of his fingers made your body arch, your breath catch, the tension spiraling tight inside you. He kissed along your neck, down your collarbone, whispering your name like a promise until you unraveled with a cry against his mouth.

When it was over, you lay together in the sunlit aftermath, his head tucked against your neck, arms holding you like a lifeline.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered again.

You smiled softly, brushing a hand through his damp hair.

“That’s not for you to decide,” you teased gently, kissing the crown of his head. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

And neither was he.

Not anymore.

[custom-fic-studio]

Sanemi Shinazugawa x Female Reader

To Stand Beside You

The stench of blood lingered in the night air, thick and iron-sweet.

Sanemi Shinazugawa stood at the edge of the ruined village, wind rustling his haori as he took in the sight that defied all expectations. He’d been dispatched here under urgent orders—demon activity, a raid brutal enough to call for a Hashira. But what he found was no battlefield in progress. It was a massacre.

Demons—Bodies littered the ground—some still twitching in death, others reduced to scorched ash. The wooden homes, once neat and tucked between rice fields, stood splintered and burned. Yet at the center of it all, one figure remained.

A young woman. Barefoot. Blood smeared across her face. A sickle clutched tight in her hand. Her eyes, wide and glassy with fatigue, met his just before her knees buckled.

Her gaze flicked to the blade in his hand—clean, sharp, and steady. Her shoulders sagged, not in fear, but in quiet, overwhelming relief. Help had come.

“Please,” she whispered, voice hoarse, “take care of the rest.”

Then, she fell.

His body moved before his mind could. He caught her easily, the blood from her arm seeping into his sleeve. She was light, too light. Her weapon clattered to the ground. He stared down at her face—smeared with grime and blood and still warm.

Sanemi’s brow furrowed.

Who the hell was she?

…

Four days later, you awoke in a room wrapped in stillness and wisteria.

The bed was firm. The linens, clean. A soft breeze filtered through the open screen, stirring the scent of healing herbs and the faintest note of incense.

You tried to sit up, but a dull ache in your shoulder pulled a sharp breath from your throat.

“Don’t strain.”

Your head whipped toward the voice. A man sat in the corner, arms crossed, gaze fixed.

Scarred. Muscular. And too intense for your comfort.

“Who—?”

“Sanemi Shinazugawa,” he said flatly. “Wind Hashira. Demon Slayer Corps.”

You blinked. “Demon Slayer… Corps?”

He narrowed his eyes, studying you. “So you really didn’t know.”

You eased back into the futon, frowning. “Where am I?”

“The Ubuyashiki Estate. You were unconscious for days.”

“Oh.” You exhaled slowly, struggling to piece the memories together. “The village…?”

A quiet breath escaped you—part disbelief, part relief. The village was safe. The people you’d fought for, bled for… they’d made it.

Your shoulders loosened, just a little.

“I… I did what I could.”

“You did more than that.” He shifted forward in his seat, tone still rough but a fraction less sharp. “That was a Lower Upper Moon you took down. Not even fully trained slayers can survive such a monster.”

You looked up at him, startled. “I… didn’t know. I just knew it needed to be stopped .”

Sanemi’s jaw tightened. “You weren’t trained. Then who helped you?”

“No one.”

“Bullshit.”

You met his stare head-on, voice steady now. “I’m telling the truth.”

He leaned forward, eyes narrowed in disbelief. “So what—you’re just some village girl who took out an Upper Moon with nothing but a sickle and instinct?”

You nodded once. “If I waited for help, we would’ve all perished.”

For a long moment, Sanemi said nothing. His gaze lingered—on the bandage at your side, the faint bruising along your temple, the way your hand trembled slightly under the blanket.

But before he could press further, a loud caw sliced through the silence.

A black crow swooped through the window, wings flapping frantically.

“Caw! Master Ubuyashiki summons Hashira Sanemi and the unknown fighter for immediate audience! Caw!”

Sanemi stood with a grunt. “Tch. Figures.”

He turned toward the window but hesitated—just briefly—before glancing back at you.

“Can you stand?”

You swallowed, then nodded.

“I think I can,” you murmured, shifting your legs to touch the floor. But before you could stand—

He stepped toward you, offering a hand. It was rough and calloused, but solid. Supportive.

“Take it slow. I’ll help you walk.”

You hesitated, then slipped your fingers into his. Warm. Steady.

He helped you to your feet, arm steady at your back. The moment your weight shifted to your legs, your knees threatened to give—but he caught you again. This time with a quiet curse under his breath and a hand at your waist.

“I’ve got you,” he muttered.

The words weren’t gentle. But they were sincere.

As he led you down the quiet hallway, your heart thudded louder than your steps.

You didn’t know what lay ahead. Who this “Master” was. Or what would come of the power that had surged through you that night.

But you were starting to think the stranger beside you might become something more than just your rescuer.

…

Part 2 Soon…

(possible multi- part story/ haven’t decided yet )

[custom-fic-studio]

One Night of Peace

Roronoa Zoro x Female Reader

Setting: Post-Wano Banquet

The music was loud. Laughter even louder.

You stood on the edge of the chaos, arms folded gently across your chest as the firelight flickered over the battlefield of empty sake cups and half-eaten platters. Another celebration. Another victory.

But this one felt different.

Wano wasn’t just another chapter in their journey—it had carved itself into the soul of everyone who fought through it. You could see it in the way Luffy’s laugh carried a touch more weight, how Sanji smiled with less force behind it.

And Zoro—Zoro hadn’t smiled at all.

He was here, at least. Sitting beneath a tree at the edge of the hill, just slightly outside the light. Alone. Cup in hand. One arm draped lazily across his knee.

You approached without a word. You always did.

He didn’t look at you, but he didn’t need to. His body relaxed the moment you stepped into his space. That small change told you more than his face ever would.

“You’re not drinking much,” you said gently, sliding to the ground beside him, legs tucked beneath you.

“Already did.”

“Didn’t look like it.”

Zoro glanced sideways at you, mouth curling at the corner. “Watching me?”

You blinked slowly, the firelight catching in your lashes. “Naturally.”

He looked away again, but his ears were pink. That counted for something.

“I heard from Chopper.”

You didn’t push further than that. Just let the words hang, like steam rising from a teacup.

“About what?” he muttered.

“The bandages. The broken ribs. The stitches you haven’t let heal yet because you won’t stop moving.”

He took a slow sip from the cup and didn’t answer.

“You act like you’re fine,” you said softly. “But you’re not.”

“I’m breathing, aren’t I?”

“You know that’s not the same.”

Your voice wasn’t angry. It was tender. Honest. Just like you.

Zoro didn’t say anything for a long moment. His jaw shifted. His fingers tightened around the cup.

“You didn’t come through untouched either,” he said at last. “You gonna tell me everything’s fine on your end?”

“I am fine,” you whispered. “Or I will be. I know how to be careful.”

He gave a dry little laugh. “That’s what I said to you before Onigashima.”

Your eyes lowered. “I know.”

The wind stirred your hair. Zoro watched you now, gaze dark and still.

“I hate it,” he said suddenly.

You looked up. “What?”

“Seeing you hurt. Knowing I wasn’t close enough to stop it.”

You reached out, fingers brushing lightly against his. “We all got hurt.”

“But not all of us matter the same way to me.”

That stopped you cold.

Your breath hitched, and you blinked once, twice, as if trying to process it before your heart could beat too fast.

“I’m not good at saying shit like this,” Zoro muttered, looking away again. “But I was thinking about you. At some point I thought I was going to die. And the only thing in my head was you—not knowing how I felt.”

You reached for him, fingers weaving into his carefully.

“You didn’t have to say anything,” you murmured. “I knew. I just… hoped you’d tell me one day.”

Zoro exhaled shakily. It wasn’t like him. He didn’t do fragile. Not for anyone. But now, just for you, he let himself be seen—really seen.

“Come with me,” he said.

You tilted your head. “Where?”

He rose, tugging you up with him, one hand still holding yours. His grip was firm, but not forceful. Protective.

“Just… somewhere quieter,” he murmured. “Just us.”

You nodded. Because for once, you weren’t the one worrying about him.

He was worrying about you too.

As you fell into step beside him, still hand in hand, neither of you spoke. But you both felt it—the warmth rising just beneath the surface. Not overwhelming. Just enough to make your palms sweat slightly where they touched.

He glanced at you once out of the corner of his eye. You looked away at the same time.

A quiet flush colored both your cheeks.

You kept walking anyway. Fingers still entwined. Hearts a little louder than before.

The noise of the celebration faded with each step, replaced by the hush of narrow streets and soft lantern light. He led you up a short flight of stairs, hand never leaving yours, until the two of you slipped into a quiet room tucked above a sake house—simple, wooden, and open to the breeze.

One wide window stretched across the back wall, framing the view of the glowing festival below.

From here, you could see everything. The fires. The lanterns. The silhouettes of dancers spinning through smoke and laughter.

You stepped inside first, releasing a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. It was quieter here. The pulse of the party still echoed from below, but it was dulled by distance.

You turned, your hand still held in his. “You reserved this ahead of time?”

“Told the owner I had a feeling I’d want some privacy tonight.”

He glanced at you then, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a small, knowing smirk. “Guess I was right.”

Your face warmed immediately, and you looked away with a quiet huff, but you didn’t let go of his hand.

“Don’t get cocky.”

His smirk deepened. “Too late.”

He walked past you, letting go of your hand only to uncork the bottle of sake on the small table set up near the window. There were two cups beside it—expecting company.

He poured slowly, then held one out toward you.

“I thought Chopper said you were supposed to cut back.”

Zoro tilted his head. “He did.”

You accepted the cup anyway, a quiet smile tugging at your lips. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”

He chuckled. “Didn’t think you would.”

You took a small sip, warmth spreading through your chest. The window breeze stirred your hair again. You looked out at the celebration below—how alive the streets were now, how the people moved with freedom in their steps, not fear.

“It’s beautiful,” you said softly.

Zoro nodded beside you, gaze fixed on the lanterns.

“It almost doesn’t feel real,” you continued. “After everything we’ve seen… all the people we lost.”

He was quiet again. But not cold. Not distant. He was letting you speak.

“I’m just grateful,” you said. “That we’re still here. That Wano has a future now. That we get to stand here and see it begin.”

Your voice trembled slightly. You didn’t mean for it to, but the ache hadn’t left—not fully.

“I hope the ones we lost are watching tonight,” you whispered. “I hope they’re smiling down at us. That it wasn’t all for nothing.”

Zoro looked at you—fully, deeply this time. His expression was unreadable for a second. Then it softened.

“I’m sure they are.”

You blinked, throat tight. “You think so?”

He stepped closer, his voice quieter than before. “I think they’d be proud. Of everyone. Of you.”

Your heart fluttered, and your lashes lowered. “I didn’t do anything special.”

“You made it through,” he said. “And you’re still you. Still kind. That’s not nothing, Y/N. Not in a world like this.”

The way he said your name made your stomach flip. He didn’t say it often. When he did, it always meant something.

You set your cup down gently and turned toward him. His gaze met yours—steady, quiet, reading you like a map.

“I know you’re in pain,” you whispered, fingers brushing carefully against the bandage at his side. “And it’s… it’s selfish of me to ask, but… is it possible if we can?”

Your cheeks flushed, heat crawling up your neck as your eyes searched his. Even with your voice trembling, you didn’t look away. And he saw it—everything you were trying to say without saying it.

Zoro’s expression softened, just barely.

“If it’s with you,” he said, voice low but sure, “I’d be more than happy to.”

He lifted a hand to your cheek, thumb brushing along your skin with a gentleness that surprised you both.

“We’ll take it slow. Just be here, with each other. That’s more than enough.”

You nodded softly, heart thudding in your chest as you leaned into his touch. Zoro didn’t hesitate this time—he leaned in too, and when your lips met, it was careful and warm, like something long overdue.

His kiss—slow and deliberate, like the world could wait. Like there was nothing else he wanted to be doing.

Your hands curled into the fabric of his shirt as he deepened the kiss just slightly, lips warm and steady. He tasted faintly of the sake, but more of quiet desperation.

He broke the kiss only to breathe against your skin. “Still okay?”

You nodded, breathless. “Yes.”

His hands moved gently, tracing over your sides where your wounds had barely begun to fade. You mirrored him, brushing fingertips across the bandages at his waist, careful not to press too hard.

There was no rush. No wild pull of urgency. Just reverence. The kind that came from having nearly lost the chance to touch each other at all.

When he kissed you again, it was slower—anchored in gratitude and need. One hand splayed across your lower back, holding you as close as your healing bodies would allow.

The world below partied on. Fireworks bloomed across the sky.

But in this room, it was just the two of you.

Careful. Alive.

And finally, finally—together.

The silence wrapped around you like a second skin, thick with everything unspoken, everything finally allowed.

Zoro’s kiss deepened, but never lost its softness. His hands explored you slowly—no rush, no demand—like you were something he wasn’t used to being allowed to have.

You let your fingers slide under his shirt, moving with care as you traced the unbruised parts of his skin. His stomach tensed beneath your palm—not from pain, but anticipation.

“Still okay?” he murmured, his voice low and rough against your lips.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just… slower, maybe.”

A flicker of something warm tugged at his mouth. “You really think I’d be anything but gentle with you right now?”

Your breath caught, but you managed a quiet smile. “I know you wouldn’t. It just feels nice… hearing it.”

He touched your cheek then, guiding your face toward him with a tenderness that made your heart stutter. His thumb brushed over your lips, steady and deliberate.

“You don’t have to be nervous ,” he said. “Not with me. Not tonight.”

You helped ease his shirt over his head, careful with the wrappings around his ribs. He winced, barely, but didn’t stop you. You kissed along the line of his collarbone, over the healing cuts, your lips trailing comfort wherever they touched.

He returned the favor, undoing the belt at your waist with a practiced flick, but his hands trembled slightly when they moved to undress you. Not from nerves—Zoro didn’t do nerves—but from restraint. You could feel it in the way he held back, as if trying not to break what he was barely allowed to touch.

His breath hitched as the fabric of your underwear slipped down your frame, revealing soft skin to the glow of lantern light. His eyes lingered, reverent and wanting, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you. When he finally touched—fingers trailing along your hips, then up your sides—it was with a kind of reverence that made your knees weaken.

The first time his hands skimmed over your bare waist, you exhaled softly into his shoulder.

You were both half-naked now, skin warming skin, and yet the tension between you wasn’t lust-fueled fire—it was reverent. Heavy. Beautiful.

Zoro kissed you again—deeper now. Hungrier. But still slow, still grounded in the quiet bond you shared. His hand found your thigh, drawing it over his hip as he guided you gently onto your back.

His mouth left yours only to trail down your throat, warm breath and soft scrapes of teeth lighting sparks across your skin. His hips pressed into yours with aching control, letting you feel just how much he wanted you—how long he’d been holding back.

You reached for him, pulling him over you with a soft gasp as your bodies aligned. The sensation of skin-to-skin after so much distance made your heart ache.

Zoro braced himself with one arm while the other traced your face, your collarbone, your chest. His mouth followed—slow kisses down the center of your body, lingering at every place you sighed. When he returned to your mouth, his hips pressed forward against yours, seeking closeness more than release.

“Let me take my time,” he murmured.

You nodded, voice caught in your throat. “You already are.”

His hand slid between your thighs, fingers finding the soft heat of you, stroking with a patience that made your breath stutter. You arched into him, every touch drawing you closer until your hips tilted in silent invitation—and he answered.

When he finally entered you, it wasn’t sharp or urgent. It was full. Warm. So deeply needed it hurt a little. Zoro’s forehead pressed to yours, his breath catching at the feeling of you around him.

Neither of you moved fast. The rhythm you found was slow and deliberate, filled with drawn-out kisses and tender whispers between gasps. He murmured your name against your lips like a promise, over and over, as if grounding himself to it.

And all you could do was hold him—arms around his shoulders, legs wrapped gently around his waist, anchoring him as your bodies moved together in the softest storm either of you had ever survived.

Your eyes welled unexpectedly—overwhelmed not just by the pleasure, but by the intimacy.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, voice rough. “I’ve got you. Come with me.”

You pulled him closer, trembling around him as your release came like a tide—deep and quiet and consuming. Zoro followed shortly after, head bowed, a low groan catching in his throat as he let himself fall with you.

When it was over, you stayed wrapped together, skin sticky with sweat, hearts slowing in time with each other. He didn’t move to leave. Didn’t pull away.

Instead, Zoro curled his arms around you protectively, forehead resting on your shoulder, body still humming with the weight of everything that just passed between you.

“You okay?” he asked again, barely above a whisper.

You nodded, brushing his damp hair back with your fingers. “More than okay.”

“Good.” He exhaled, warm against your skin. “Because I don’t want to wake up without you again.”

“You won’t,” you said. “I’ll be right here.”

Zoro didn’t answer—not with words.

Just with the way he kissed your shoulder before closing his eyes, finally letting himself rest in your arms, where nothing had to hurt anymore.

[custom-fic-studio]

Levi Ackerman x Reader | Comfort | Mission

A Place to Fall Apart

The gates slammed shut behind him with a hollow finality.

Levi didn’t speak. Didn’t look at the other scouts. He didn’t even remove his gear right away—just walked, stiff and silent, boots leaving muddy prints in the stone corridors. The kind of quiet he wore wasn’t the usual kind. It was heavier. Tighter.

He didn’t head for his office. Or the showers. Or the infirmary, even though you were certain he needed all three.

He came to your room.

You sat up the moment the door creaked open. “Levi—?”

“Close it.”

His voice was low, strained—but not harsh. You obeyed without hesitation, rising from your small cot, your heart already beginning to ache.

His cloak was torn near the hem. His gloves were still on, and his expression was carved in stone. But you didn’t need a report to know what had happened. You could see it in his eyes.

“Are you hurt?” you asked softly, stepping closer.

He shook his head once. “Not enough to matter.”

You hesitated, your eyes flicking down to the scuff on his shoulder, the dried blood on his forearm. Not his. Probably. You didn’t ask. Not yet.

“I made tea earlier,” you offered, just to fill the silence. “It’s probably cold by now, but—”

Levi sat on the edge of your bed before you could finish. He didn’t look at you. Just braced his elbows on his knees and stared at the floor.

You moved slowly, the way you always did around him when he came back like this—like a storm had just passed through his chest. You sat beside him, close but not touching, letting the silence stretch until it felt less sharp.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “Whatever happened… I’m sorry.”

He didn’t respond for a long time.

Then, quietly, like the words had to climb out of a place too deep to reach: “I made the wrong call.”

Your breath caught.

“I knew it didn’t feel right,” he went on. “The formation. The terrain. I saw it all… and I let it happen anyway. And now they’re dead.”

The weight of his words sank like stones in your stomach.

You reached out carefully, letting your hand rest on the edge of his. “Levi… you couldn’t have known.”

He didn’t move.

“I did know,” he said. “And I second-guessed it. I hesitated. I told myself we’d adapt like always. That they could handle it. I was wrong.”

He didn’t raise his voice. Levi never really needed to. His words were always precise, always sharp enough to cut clean through. But now they just sounded tired. Frayed.

“I’m not going to tell you it’s okay,” you said softly. “Because it’s not. It won’t be. But you don’t have to hold it alone.”

Finally, his eyes lifted to yours. They looked colder than usual—but not hard. Just… worn.

“You always say that,” he murmured. “You always offer.”

“Because I mean it.”

You slid your hand into his fully this time, threading your fingers through his slowly, carefully—giving him the chance to pull away.

He didn’t.

In fact, he gripped back—tightly, like he didn’t realize he needed it until just then.

“I can’t lose anyone else,” he said. “Not like that. Not again.”

“You won’t lose me,” you said, firmer now. “I’m here. I’ve always been here.”

A quiet beat passed. Then he shifted, shoulders turning toward you. His other hand came up, tentative, and brushed your jaw like he was checking to see if you were real.

“You’re the only part of this that doesn’t make me feel like I’m drowning.”

Your chest ached at the truth in his voice—the way it broke just slightly on the last word. You leaned forward, letting your forehead rest gently against his.

“I’ll stay as long as you’ll let me,” you whispered.

Another long silence. But this one felt different. Full. Steady. Like you were both standing at the edge of something, and neither of you planned to move.

When Levi spoke again, his voice was barely audible.

“I’m not good at this.”

“You don’t have to be,” you said. “You’re here. That’s enough.”

His hand was still holding yours when he closed his eyes. When his forehead pressed just a little harder against yours. When the tension finally began to ease out of his body.

He wasn’t fixed. He didn’t need to be. But in that moment, he let himself feel safe.

And that meant everything.

You stayed like that for a while—foreheads pressed, breath shared, his hand still gripping yours like you were the only solid thing in a collapsing world.

Then, without a word, he leaned in just a little more. His nose brushed yours. His breath was warm.

You barely whispered it: “You can kiss me if you want.”

His eyes flickered to yours, searching—asking for permission without saying a word. You nodded before he even had to.

The kiss was gentle—unexpectedly so. No fire, no urgency, just the quiet press of lips meant to say I’m still here. And I need this. His hand slipped to your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye as if grounding himself to something real.

When he pulled back, his forehead touched yours again. “You’re too good to me.”

You smiled, soft and honest. “You’d do the same for me.”

He didn’t argue. He just exhaled through his nose, tired down to his bones.

“You should shower,” you said gently, brushing your fingers over the dried dirt at his temple. “You’ll feel better.”

“I don’t want to move.”

“I’ll go with you.”

You took his hand, rising slowly, letting him follow at his own pace. The shower was quiet, steam curling around the two of you as you helped him out of his gear, careful with every buckle, every strap. You didn’t rush. You didn’t look away. You just were—present, steady, and patient as always.

He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to. It was in every glance, every touch, every moment he didn’t flinch away.

Afterward, you led him back to your bed, his hair still damp, his body clean but heavy with exhaustion. You pulled the blanket back and let him settle first, then slid in beside him.

He hesitated for a second before reaching for you—resting his head on your chest, one arm wrapping around your waist. He let himself be held, tucked into you like he’d never done with anyone else.

You ran your fingers through his hair, slow and steady, listening to the way his breathing began to even out.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered. “You can rest now.”

He didn’t reply.

He didn’t have to.

A few minutes later, Levi Ackerman—the man who never let his guard down—fell asleep in your arms.

And you held him until morning.

[custom-fic-studio]

Jason Todd x shy female!Reader ( fluff )

Something Warm Between Us

The rooftop was cold beneath your legs, but the quiet was worth it.

You curled your fingers around your thermos and stared out at Gotham’s skyline—lights flickering like stars trying to survive the smog. The wind tugged gently at your hair, carrying the distant hum of traffic below and the occasional siren. And above it all, you felt him before you heard him.

Jason didn’t make much noise when he landed. Just a soft thud and a shift in the air, like the city paused to acknowledge him.

You didn’t look at him right away. You weren’t sure you could.

“Didn’t think you’d be up here this late,” he said, voice low and a little rough from the cold.

“I… couldn’t sleep.” You fiddled with the lid of your thermos. “Too quiet.”

Jason let out a quiet chuckle and sat beside you. Not close enough to touch, but closer than most people would dare. You didn’t mind. You liked that about him—how he gave you space, but not distance. He never made you feel small.

“Coffee?” he asked, nodding toward your thermos.

You nodded, holding it a little closer. “I… made enough. If you want some.”

Jason didn’t answer right away. He just held out his hand, and you passed it to him without thinking.

He took a sip, then glanced down at the cup like he wasn’t expecting it to taste good. “Not bad. Just the right amount of sweet.”

You looked at him, surprised. “Really?”

He handed it back with a small smile. “Yeah. Kinda feels like it’s supposed to be raining or something.”

You gave a quiet laugh, eyes dropping to the thermos. “It’s my favorite thing to enjoy on cold nights.”

Jason leaned back on his hands, watching the skyline. “Yeah… I get that.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it made the city feel a little less heavy. You glanced at him, only to find him already watching you—his gaze soft, thoughtful in a way that made your chest tighten.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I’m always quiet.”

“You are,” he said with a little smirk. “But that’s not what I asked.”

You hesitated. “I guess I just like it better up here. With you. It’s quiet, but not lonely.”

He didn’t respond at first. Just looked at you like you’d said something important without realizing it.

“I like it too,” he said finally, his voice lower now, steadier. “I like you, Y/N.”

You blinked, breath catching in your throat. Your grip tightened around the thermos.

“Oh.”

Jason’s lip curved a little. “That all I get?”

“I—no—I mean—I like you too, I just—”

He chuckled, the sound soft, fond, almost amused. “You’re cute when you get like this.”

You turned your face away, trying to hide the heat rising in your cheeks.

He nudged your shoulder lightly with his own. “So… dinner next time instead of rooftop coffee?”

You nodded, still avoiding his gaze. “Okay.”

Jason tilted his head, watching you closely. “You’re not gonna run away the second I smile at you, are you?”

You glanced at him through your lashes, lips barely hiding a nervous smile. “Only if you start doing that flirty smirk again.”

Jason grinned, slow and deliberate. “Like this?”

You immediately covered your face with your hands. “Jason—!”

He laughed quietly, eyes crinkling. “Yeah. Definitely asking you out again.”

[custom-fic-studio]

Welcome to My Fanfic Den

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