#Anyway... Thank you very very much for reading...

[yuujispinkhair]

Imagine firefighterSukuna…..sigh….😵‍💫

I am losing my mind, Émilie 😵 Thank you for sending me this!

FIREFIGHTER!SUKUNA X READER (FEMALE) 2.5k words. 18+, fluff + smut, mentions of cigarettes. Sukuna is a bit of an asshole at first lol, but we change his ways, and now he will be a good boy only for us ;) Divider by lacedolliee + benkeibear. Minors don't interact.

Sukuna isn't the typical firefighter. He isn't like those heroic guys you see on TV or read about in sappy newspaper articles. Sukuna doesn't do this out of the goodness of his heart. He doesn't need to save random strangers out of a burning house to sleep better at night. If he's honest, he doesn't give a fuck!

But Sukuna is good at his job. He is strong, fearless, and insane enough to walk into the worst situations. He is here for the thrill of it. He loves the adrenaline rushing through his veins when he gets called to a fire. And the more dangerous it is, the more fun it brings Sukuna!

He doesn't hesitate before walking into your burning apartment complex a second time, even when everyone around him says it's too dangerous. Sukuna just gets a mad glint in his eyes, and a feral smirk lifts his lips when he says, "You think I'm scared of a little fire? One day, I'll burn in hell anyway, so fuck it!"

The Itadori twins are the only ones who enter the building a second time. Sukuna knows his brother does it because he has a little savior complex, always willing to sacrifice his own life to save someone else. Sukuna, on the other hand, does it for the challenge, for the thrill. He always wants to win, no matter who the opponent is, a guy he fistfights in a bar or a fucking fire. Nothing will defeat Sukuna!

Sukuna kicks down the door of your apartment when you thought all hope was lost. He carries you out of the burning house, smirking victoriously under his helmet when he feels your hands cling to his muscular biceps desperately.

He brings you to one of the ambulance cars, setting you down on a stretcher before he pulls off his helmet and his heavy jacket, revealing the white tanktop beneath it and a good portion of his broad chest and muscular, tattooed arms, sweaty and smeared with grime and ashes, and yes he finds the way you stare at him very amusing.

Your wide-eyed gaze slowly trails over his body until you finally look up at Sukuna's tattooed face with tearstains on your cheeks, your lips trembling, and your voice raspy from all the smoke when you ask him dazedly for his name.

And Sukuna flashes you a playful smirk while running a large hand through his pink hair as he fixes you with a smoldering gaze out of his eyes, which glow red right now from the flames of your burning apartment complex reflected in them.

He tells you his name in a low, seductive drawl and watches your face twist with emotions. A shaky sob escapes your lips, and fresh tears slip out of your eyes,

"Thank you so much, Sukuna! You saved my life! You are my hero!"

Sukuna laughs gruffly, shaking his head and smirking at you,

"Trust me, sweetheart, I am not a hero."

He really isn't. He isn't doing this because he is a good guy who wants to save people. He is only here because his brother dragged him along to his work after Sukuna got fired from another job, unable to stay employed because he simply doesn't do well with authority.

And then he went into a burning building for the first time and realized that fighting against the flames and the smoke and tearing down walls and kicking in doors, somehow was where he felt at home. So Sukuna stayed.

Well, and the nice side effect of this job is all the girls he gets to fuck because of it.

Sukuna watches you with a lazy, amused expression on his face, already knowing what will happen. You gulp hard, reaching out to touch his arm tentatively, eyes wide, full of admiration and a desperate plea swimming in them,

"Please, I want to thank you. I want to pay you back for saving my life. What can I do?"

Oh, Sukuna knows exactly how you can pay him back, but he just grins and shrugs his broad shoulders,

"It's no big deal. But you can check into my cousin's motel if you need a place to stay until you find a new apartment."

It's extremely convenient to have a cousin who owns a motel, and of course, you agree, thinking that way, you can at least do Sukuna a favor by giving money to his family.

"Come on, I can drive you, princess."

Sukuna wraps a strong arm around your shoulders, steadying you, taking care of you, making you all kinds of crazy for him. The big, strong, sexy firefighter who saved your life. You lean gratefully against his strong body, letting him lead you to his car, help you inside, and even buckle your seatbelt for you.

Sukuna can already see the little hearts dancing in your eyes. It makes him grin to himself as he starts the car.

It's a rather long drive from here, and you get stuck in traffic for a long time. And Sukuna learns that, as shy as you are, you seem to be uncomfortable with silence, and so you start to fill it with babbling about all kinds of things. Your apartment, your job, your family, how you like your coffee.

It's amusing how awkward you are, but somehow Sukuna's smirk softens into a smile one hour in, and he catches himself replying with a playful tone, asking more questions about you and your rather boring life, which, to his surprise, is kind of cute to him.

When he finally pulls up in front of the motel, Sukuna already knows what will happen. He accompanies you to your door, standing before you, tall and strong and with a sexy smirk, and you get on your tiptoes to kiss his tattooed cheek, letting your soft lips linger almost longingly on his skin as you whisper,

"Thank you again, Sukuna. I will never forget what you did for me."

And before you can pull away, Sukuna places a large hand on the small of your back, keeping you right there in front of him, so close that your body brushes lightly against his, and his other hand cups your chin and turns your face so he can claim your mouth in a playful kiss, his tongue licking teasingly over your lips, pushing inside to flick slowly against yours, making you gasp softly and twist your hands in the front of Sukuna's tanktop, pulling him closer.

Yeah, that's it, princess, Sukuna thinks to himself. If you want to thank him, this is exactly how he wants it. Thank him with your tongue in his mouth and your hands on his body.

Sukuna knows he is an asshole, but he doesn't care. All his coworkers are far too decent guys. They say it's wrong to sleep with the ones they saved. They say it would feel like taking advantage of them.

Sukuna can only laugh about that. The way he sees it, there is nothing wrong with getting rewarded with sex. And after all, it's not like you don't get something out of this, too. Sukuna will show you the night of your life. He will dick you down so good you will thank him again afterward.

He scoops you up into his strong arms for the second time today and carries you into the motel.

It's you who touches him first and yanks on his tank top. So needy for him and his dick, so desperate to get your hands on his naked skin. So why should Sukuna feel guilty?

He mounts you from behind, fucking you hard and fast in doggy with a hand around your throat before he pushes your face into the pillow and continues to take you in prone bone, pressing you down onto the bed, covering you completely with his heavy body, making you sob his name anytime he pushes his fat cock into you.

He was right, you really thank him as he feels your pussy becoming tighter and tighter around him right before he fucks you over the edge.

For the second round, you turn around and look up at Sukuna, and maybe that was a mistake because your eyes are so full of those damn little hearts, and your face is alight with total bliss and adoration and, yeah, love. Your arms are wrapped so tightly around Sukuna's body, your fingers tangled in his pink hair, caressing him, pulling him down, begging him with breathless whimpers,

"Closer... please come closer... please, I need you, Sukuna."

He kisses you just to shut you up and make you stop looking at him like that as if he is your world. But he still hears the way you moan his name, not Sukuna, but Kuna, when you squeeze around him, and it makes him cum harder than he has in years.

Sukuna slumps down on top of you, not thinking for a moment in his post-orgasm high, basking in the way you feel under him, so soft and warm, and your silky heat still pulsing so deliciously around his cock. He turns his head to lightly bite your neck as if he needs to leave his mark on you, when usually he never leaves anything behind.

Sukuna frowns, rolling off you and lying on his back next to you, staring up at the ceiling with a slightly uneasy feeling. Why is he acting like this? Maybe he inhaled too much smoke tonight. Maybe the heat was too much.

No matter what it is, Sukuna finds himself staying in your bed much longer than he usually does. Every other time he finds his way into someone's bed, he acts as if his alarm went off and he has to leave for another fire, finding the perfect excuse to leave while his dick is still wet.

But tonight, he doesn't bolt right after cumming. Maybe he really just needs some rest. And it's just very comfortable how your smaller body seems to fit perfectly into his side as you roll over and snuggle against him, like some housecat looking for cuddles.

Sukuna knows he should get up, but he is too comfy. He will just rest for a moment longer, just close his eyes for a few seconds, and enjoy the way it feels to get cuddled like this.

When he opens his eyes again, the lights are off, and only the soft glow of the streetlamps drifting in through the window casts some dim light into the small motel room.

"Oh fuck..."

Sukuna curses under his breath, the instinct to run kicking in, but he gets stopped by a pair of arms wrapped around him, and everything comes flooding back. The drive here, the sex, the way you looked at him, how nice it felt to let you cuddle him.

Sukuna freezes up. He knows he should leave. Knows he should untangle himself from you and sneak out while you are still fast asleep. Run away like he always does, never to see you again.

But somehow, the way you cling to him makes him hesitate. He must have turned onto his side in his sleep, and now you are behind him, playing the big spoon, which is ridiculous considering your size difference, but here you are, hugging Sukuna tightly from behind. Clinging to him, pressing your warm, naked body against him.

Your face is buried in Sukuna's broad back, breathing softly against his tattooed skin. And somehow, Sukuna doesn't know how to breathe anymore because the realization washes over him that he likes to get held like that.

But there is still a little fight in him left, and Sukuna growls softly, gritting his teeth and carefully plucking your small hands off his abs. He doesn't get far, though. He has barely moved when your arms wrap around him again. Of course, Sukuna could easily slip out of your grasp, but what really makes him stop is your soft whisper,

"Stay. Please... don't leave me alone. Not tonight."

You sound so small and scared, and Sukuna has no idea why his heart clenches at the sound of that. But what he knows is that he stops moving and mumbles something about just stretching his legs a bit because he is about to get a leg cramp.

And his large hand cups yours to give it a reassuring squeeze, something he only ever used to do when his brother and he were still kids, and Yuuji cried because of something. It makes him feel awkward and weird and so fucking weak.

But you let out a relieved sigh and snuggle against Sukuna's broad back again, hugging him and whispering, "Thank you."

Sukuna's mind is whirling because why the hell does it feel so fucking nice to be held by you like this? It's concerning.

But he doesn't try to run, just huffs softly and interlaces his fingers with yours where your hand is resting against his naked chest.

"Get back to sleep, princess. I won't leave."

And he means it. For the first time in his life, Sukuna stays.

He wakes up in the morning to the warmth of your body wrapped around his and the feeling of your lips trailing sweet little kisses over his broad shoulders, and your soft fingers caressing his tattooed biceps tenderly. You say his name all sleepy and sweet-sounding, and Sukuna asks himself if the fire last night fried his brain because everything about you makes him feel such weird things right now.

Maybe it's your sweet and slightly shy smile. Maybe it's the way you babble so cutely when you are nervous. Maybe it's how innocent you seem to be, how genuine with the affection you give him.

Sukuna fucks you again, but slower this time, with the sunlight pouring in through the window, and somehow he can't look away from your face. Somehow, he gets lost in your eyes when you whisper his name and dig your nails into his broad back. You cum so sweetly on his cock, so wet and hot, sucking him in even deeper, crying out his name and calling him your hero, and Sukuna's vision goes black for a moment when he cums with such a loud and feral moan, that he never heard coming out of his mouth ever before.

He stays an incredibly long time in your bed. Cuddling with you, kissing you, almost purring like a cat when you run your fingers through his pink hair while he rests his head on your tits.

When a real alarm tells Sukuna it's time to leave and do his job, he groans and only reluctantly gets up. His eyes never leave you while he gets dressed, watching as you wrap the blanket around you and smile dreamily at him.

And Sukuna catches himself stepping closer to the bed again, leaning down to grab your neck and capture your lips in another kiss, which is too long, too tender.

You ask him for his phone number, and Sukuna gives it to you, which is also something he usually never does.

He walks out of the motel with a casual wave of his hand, but the strange feeling in his chest isn't casual at all. He tries to ignore it, gets in his car, lights a cigarette, and takes a deep drag as he turns up the music and drives off. But even as he's driving away from you, he can't suppress the feeling that a part of him stays with you right there in the bed of that shabby motel.

Sukuna goes through his work day routinely while the ghost of your touch still stays on his skin, reminding him of last night and this morning, and not even the adrenaline of running into a burning building can chase the memories of those lingering touches away.

He rescues another girl from a burning house, and she smiles at him and thanks him profusely, lifting a hand to touch him, but Sukuna takes a step back and out of her reach. When she asks him how she can pay him back, he just shakes his head and says

"No need to pay me back, ma'am. That's my job."

Sukuna feels strange when he drives back home to his apartment. All alone, just his music and the cigarette smoke filling his senses. But he finds that he doesn't regret turning this girl down. Because there is something else he craves. Someone else.

At the next red light, Sukuna pulls out his phone and presses dial, and then your sweet voice fills his car.

"Sukuna? Heyyy, how are you? I am so happy you called!"

A grin lifts Sukuna's lips when he answers,

"Hey princess, I'm coming over. What kind of food do you want for dinner?"

Sukuna has no clue how or why this happened, but it feels right. It feels right to call you and to drive to your motel. It feels right to spend the whole night in your arms and the next one, too, and maybe all of his nights from now on.

Maybe it's because no matter how much Sukuna still denies being a hero, he really likes being your hero.

OH BABYYY. I really want him to be my hero, too 😵😵 I hope you enjoyed this short story about sexy firefighter Sukuna! Thank you so much to Émilie for putting him in my mind. I can't wait to see your drawing of him!! 💗😋

Thank you so much for reading! Comments and reblogs would be very sweet 💗

[buckyseternaldoll]

bad desire

this is the final story from my 707 followers' milestone event 💖

Pairing: WinterSoldier!Bucky x Civilian!Female!Reader

Summary: Hydra tried to turn you both into monsters. But even as the Winter Soldier, Bucky still chose you.

Disclaimers: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, p in v (standing & bed positions), oral (m giving), light dubcon (serum influence), winter soldier mode, overstimulation, soft dom!bucky, recovery sex, emotional aftercare, post-Hydra escape, angst with resolution, semi-public surveillance

Word Count: 8.5k

Author's Note: As much as I love Winter Soldier, writing his smut scene is very challenging 🥹😭

Bucky escaped Hydra with Steve’s help—though “escape” wasn’t quite right. It felt more like a release. A bleeding, uncertain kind of freedom.

He vanished into a quiet Eastern European village, tucked between cold hills and roads long forgotten. Somewhere small. A place where the language felt foreign in his mouth, and the people kept to themselves. No tourists. No curious eyes. Just cobblestones, an aging clocktower, and silence.

It was perfect for him.

He rented a room above a bakery. Kept his head down. Never let anyone walk behind him. The locals didn’t pry, and he didn’t offer anything back.

But you noticed him.

He was tall, broad, always in the same dark jacket. He moved like someone studying life from the outside—trying to memorize the rhythm of it. Watched more than spoke. At the bakery, he never haggled—just nodded, paid in full, and left. Over time, he started greeting the baker. Murmured a stiff “thank you” like he’d practiced it. You even caught him trying to smile once. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, but the attempt was there.

At the market, he lingered. Watched people barter. Mirrored how they tapped scales or leaned in to laugh. He looked like he was trying to relearn how to be human.

He often came to the café where you worked part-time. A small, tucked-away place across from a crooked bench and flickering lamp post. That bench became his perch. He’d sit, stiff-backed, notebook in hand—too small for his fingers, but he wrote in it anyway. Not often. Just a few lines, then he’d tuck it away like it mattered.

You watched him from behind the counter. Pretending not to. But he stood out—quietly. Like a story you couldn’t quite read.

Once, you saw him flinch—actually flinch—at a fat green caterpillar crawling over a daisy by the café door. He took a full step back like it had hissed at him. You barely kept your laughter in. He took a full step back, like it had hissed. You barely kept your laughter in.

Another time, a stray cat jumped onto his bench. He just blinked at it, then scratched behind its ear like he wasn’t sure how. Two more joined. That evening, he walked in covered in cat fur.

You handed him his usual—black coffee. No sugar. No milk. But this time, you added a glazed donut beside it.

“On me,” you said softly. “You’re a regular now.”

He stilled. Shoulders tense, gaze sharp. Like he hadn’t planned for kindness.

You raised your hands gently. “No pressure. Just sugar.”

He hesitated, then gave a slow, reluctant nod.

And he ate the donut.

—

The next day, he was back on the bench again—early afternoon, sunlight brushing through the thinning trees. You brought his coffee out and hovered a little longer.

“Do you like cats?” you asked.

He didn’t answer. Just gave a tiny nod, almost imperceptible.

Your grin grew. You pulled out your phone. “Wanna see mine?”

You held up your phone—a photo of a chonky black cat sprawled across your kitchen table like a lazy prince, belly up, legs akimbo, mid-yawn. “That’s Noa,” you said, grinning. “I found him at night, back in Romania. So—Noa. From noapte (night). He only answers when he feels like it. Fat chonk gremlin thinks he’s royalty. Loves pumpkin purée more than tuna, for some reason.”

You chuckled softly to yourself, expecting silence again.

But then came his voice—quiet, deep.

“Noa. Suits him.”

You blinked. It caught you off guard—not just that he spoke, but the way his voice wrapped around the name. Calm. Unhurried.

You tilted your head, smirking. “You can actually talk?”

He huffed through his nose. A breathy, reluctant sound. But it was amused. The closest thing to a laugh you’d seen from him yet.

You’d take it.

—

A week later, he tapped the edge of the table when you brought his drink.

You raised a brow. “Want me to sit?”

He nodded, eyes still on his cup.

So you did.

You didn’t talk that first time. Just sat, close enough that your knees brushed beneath the table whenever one of you shifted. He didn’t flinch. That felt… like something.

It became a habit. Not always. But often enough that the seat across from him started feeling like yours.

One quiet day, after closing early, he was still there—scribbling in that little notebook. You sat down with your tea, watching him.

“I’ve seen the way you move through the village,” you said. “Like you’re learning. Studying how people work.”

He stilled, pen pausing mid-stroke.

“I think you’re trying to be more human. Or trying to remember how. If you ever need help… I’m good at pretending to be human.”

Still no reply. But he didn’t leave.

You leaned in slightly. “I swear on Noa, I’m a solid secret keeper. He’s the only one I tell things to. And unless he starts speaking, your secrets are safe with the cats.”

That did it.

A low chuckle escaped him. He shook his head, eyes down—and smiled.

It wasn’t wide. Not perfect.

But it was real.

Something pulled tight and warm in your chest. You smiled back, trying to play it cool while your heart scrambled.

—

You’d started seeing him outside the café more often.

Not exactly planned meetings—but they became frequent enough to feel like a habit. You’d catch him on your way home. Sometimes, he’d be waiting at the park bench with his notebook. Other times, you’d spot him loitering near the market until you finally walked up and dragged him into conversation.

You were the one insisting on it—on helping. And to his quiet credit, he let you.

“I mean,” you said one afternoon as the two of you strolled down a quiet lane just past the edge of the village, “you’ve gotten pretty damn good at talking, considering how you used to communicate in grunts and side-eye.”

He gave you a sharp glance, but there was warmth tucked into it. “Didn’t grunt.”

You snorted. “You did. I have witnesses.”

He shook his head, but you caught the curve of his mouth. He wasn’t quite smiling, but it was there, that pull—like he was getting used to the idea of letting something reach him.

“I’m serious, though,” you said, more gently now. “You’ve picked up on social cues really well. You don’t stare at people like they’re puzzles anymore. You even laugh sometimes.”

“I don’t laugh.”

“You chuckled when I told you Noa tried to eat my eyebrow pencil. That counts.”

He sighed. It wasn’t irritated. Just resigned.

You looked at him, eyes soft. “Anything else you want to work on? Anything you need practice with?”

That made him pause.

You both stopped walking, the dusty road quiet around you. The breeze shifted, carrying the smell of firewood and something herbal from a nearby window.

Then he said it—low and measured.

“Human touch.”

You turned to face him. “Touch?”

There was a silence between you, and in that moment, it held weight. Like a breath held too long.

“I forgot,” he said slowly, eyes not quite meeting yours. “What normal touches feel like.”

You felt something stutter in your chest. You wanted to ask more—about what he meant, about what kind of touches he did remember—but something in his voice told you not to. There was a darker layer beneath that calm tone, a history stitched into his skin, and you knew better than to tug at those seams without invitation.

Your gaze dropped for a second—to the gloved hand at his side. The right one.

That other arm—his left—was usually hidden, but sometimes you’d catch it glinting beneath his sleeve. Sleek metal, darker than silver, and forged with faint grooves along the knuckles. You’d never asked about it. Even though you were curious as hell.

Even now, it caught the light—a quiet shimmer beneath the worn fabric.

You took a slow breath. “Do you want to try?”

He blinked. “Try what?”

You lifted your hand, palm up. Open. Gentle.

“I mean… my hand’s not exactly groundbreaking,” you said with a light smile, trying to ease the sudden weight of the moment, “but if you want to… I dunno. Start small. No pressure.”

He stared at your hand.

For a second, you weren’t sure he’d move.

But then—without a word—he reached up and tugged the glove from his right hand. His flesh hand. The one that looked weathered but strong, broad-knuckled with veins that caught just beneath the skin. His fingers flexed once in the air, almost uncertainly, like they were trying to remember how to approach something.

He didn’t grab you. Didn’t squeeze.

Instead, he touched the center of your palm first. Just with the tips of two fingers. A featherlight stroke.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.

He traced slowly. His forefinger curling against your skin, drawing a slow, shaky line toward the base of your thumb. His touch wasn’t smooth—it trembled, faintly. Like he was afraid he’d do it wrong. As if even this small contact required permission.

Then, after a pause, his entire hand lowered into yours—deliberate, careful. He fit his fingers into the spaces between yours, but not all the way. Just hovered there. Testing.

You let your fingers curl softly around his. Closed the gap.

His breath caught.

For a long, quiet moment, you stood like that. His hand warming against yours, every inch of skin-to-skin charged with something unspoken. And when he finally wrapped his hand fully around yours—gently, so gently—it felt like a tether. Like he was anchoring himself to something he couldn’t name.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t tease. You just let him hold you, because it felt like he needed it.

And when he looked down at your joined hands, eyes blinking slow, the smallest crease formed between his brows—confused, maybe. Or overwhelmed. Like he wasn’t sure what to do with softness that didn’t come with strings.

You squeezed lightly. Just once.

He didn’t let go.

And something about that… moved in you.

You weren’t sure what it was exactly—only that it lit something behind your ribs. Like an invisible string tugged its way from your palm to somewhere along your spine, curling low and quiet and warm. It didn’t hurt. It wasn’t wrong. But it made you feel… squirmy. Restless. Like there was something else happening beneath your skin that hadn’t been there a second ago.

You stayed still anyway. Let the moment stretch.

But he must have felt it—something shifting, or maybe just the timing of it all—because after a few more seconds, he slowly unhooked his fingers from yours and pulled his hand back. Carefully. Like he didn’t want to break something.

You didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

But from that day on, the “touch training” became a regular part of your meetings.

It started innocently enough. A brush of shoulders while walking. The occasional graze of his knuckles when he passed you something. You let him explore the idea of safe contact—real, present, unprogrammed. And in turn, he let you see how deeply lonely he must have been to crave it in silence all this time.

Today, you told him you were ready for the next step. “We’ve done hands,” you said with a teasing smile, standing beneath the low branches of a pine tree that shaded your usual path. “Now let’s try hugs.”

He didn’t move at first.

Then—slowly—he nodded.

You took a breath. Arms out. Waiting.

He stepped forward, movements uncertain but controlled. His arms wrapped around you not like someone who had done it a thousand times, but like someone trying to replicate something from memory. Not tightly at first. Just enough to encircle you.

You stood there, letting the contact settle in. His chest was warm. Firm beneath your cheek. His breath slow against your hair. But then…

Something inside you curled.

It was that feeling again—that tight, electric buzz in your stomach. That low twist of pressure that felt… weird. Not in a bad way. Just… complicated. Your insides knotted, not from fear or nerves, but something else. Something unnamed.

He smelled like cedar soap and wood smoke. His heart beat slow. Heavy. Constant.

And then his arms shifted—pulling you in closer. Just slightly. But closer.

The hug deepened. Changed.

You weren’t sure how, but the second his body pressed more fully against yours, you felt it again: that same shiver in your chest, sliding low through your belly like something melting. Your breath caught. You didn’t understand it, not really. You didn’t even have a name for the feeling.

You didn’t know that was what want felt like.

You swallowed hard and buried it. Ignored it. Because he didn’t seem to notice anything strange.

At least, you didn’t think he did.

—

The last thing you remembered was the sound of his breath near your ear. His hand between your shoulder blades, steady and warm.

The next time you opened your eyes—he was gone.

You were no longer in his arms.

You were strapped to a chair.

Metal. Ice-cold. The kind that bit through your clothes and dug into your spine. Thick cuffs pressed around your wrists, holding you in place. Your ankles were bound, too—tight and immovable. The room around you was dark, echoing. Empty, except for the faint buzz of electricity overhead.

A single bulb swung slowly above you, the only source of light. It flickered once. Twice.

Your vision was still blurry. Mind fogged, sluggish. But your body knew something was wrong before your brain could catch up. Your head pulsed with pressure. And your arm—your right arm—ached.

You blinked downward, slow and heavy, catching the faint pinprick of dried blood at your inner elbow. A needle mark.

You’d been injected.

The panic didn’t hit all at once—it crept in slowly, like ice cracking beneath your skin. Your breath came shallow. You tried to move, to speak, to scream, but nothing useful came out. Just a hoarse breath. Dry. Weak.

And then you heard it.

Voices. Low and sharp. Coming from beyond the door.

Russian.

At least three men, maybe four, talking quickly—too quickly for your foggy brain to translate. The hinges of a metal door groaned. Then footsteps. Heavy boots. Closer. Echoing.

You tried to brace yourself.

But you couldn’t even remember how you got here.

All you knew was that a moment ago, you were in his arms.

And now… you were alone.

—

The door creaked open with a loud metallic groan, and four men stepped into the cell.

All in black. Boots heavy. Faces unreadable under buzzcuts and shadows. One of them—broad, smug, older—stepped forward like he owned the ground he walked on. The others fanned out like guards, or wolves waiting to be told when to bite.

He tilted his head. Eyes gleamed as he looked you over like you were inventory.

“Well, well,” he drawled. “Feeling better?”

You barely lifted your head. Everything ached—your skull, your arm, your gut. You tried to speak, but the words clung to your tongue like glue.

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“Got what we needed, thanks to you.”

You blinked at him, dazed and confused.

He grinned like a jackal. “Soft little village girl walks into his life, and boom—he forgets what he is.”

He crouched a little, closer to your face now. His breath reeked of blood and smoke.

“Our asset went soft,” he spat. “You made him soft.”

The word dripped with disgust.

You stared at him, blinking through the fog in your brain.

“Where is he?” you rasped. “What did you—where’s the man I was with?”

His grin widened. “Man?”

He laughed. Sharp and cruel. One of the others snorted behind him.

“That wasn’t a man, darling. That was a weapon. And now he’s exactly where he belongs.”

He rose to full height again. “Different cell. Alone. Like he should be. We’re reprogramming his brain.”

The blood in your veins turned to ice.

Hydra.

You didn’t even have to ask.

You knew exactly what they were—what that name meant, what it carried.

The older man smirked, noticing your change in expression. “Ah. Now it clicks.”

You felt sick. Your stomach turned. But still—you shook your head.

“No,” you said. “You’re wrong. He’s not like that anymore. He’s—”

“James Buchanan Barnes,” the man interrupted, lips curling with glee. “Winter Soldier. Ring any bells?”

You went still.

James.

The name slammed into your chest like a blunt weapon.

“And you,” he sneered, “got in the way. Made him weak. Turned him into a fucking puppy.”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

“We should’ve killed you,” he added, almost casually. “Collateral damage. But lucky you—we had something better.”

He gestured to your arm. “You’ve been injected.”

You glanced down, breath catching at the sting on your inner elbow. The tiny welt. The bruising.

“A gift,” he said, all false cheer. “We call it a mirror. Brings out the dark stuff. Whatever’s locked deep inside. Instinct. Want. Urge.”

He leaned down one last time, lips close to your ear.

“You’ll be placed in his cell when it’s time. Once he’s been… tuned.”

He straightened, already walking away.

“Let’s see what happens when we give the monster exactly what he wants.”

The men laughed—cold, barking sounds that echoed as they stepped out.

The door slammed shut behind them with a brutal, final thud.

—

[BUCKY POV]

The sting in his neck came first.

Then the cold.

Then nothing.

Just flashes.

Boots dragging him across concrete. Metal floors. Voices scraping through static—low, clipped, familiar.

Russian.

Fucking Hydra.

He came to strapped into a chair.

No. The chair.

The one they used when they wanted to rip you out of yourself and leave the bones behind.

Thick leather cuffs bit into his wrists. Ankles locked. Wires pressed cold and sharp against his chest. A band wrapped tight around his head, wired into the humming machine behind him. He didn’t have to turn to see it.

He knew it. Every screw. Every sound.

He could feel the current buzzing in the wires before it even touched him.

His jaw tensed. Shoulders squared.

Don’t show it. Don’t move. Don’t give them anything.

Then the door creaked open.

Three of them stepped in—uniformed, smug, smiling like they were about to unwrap a weapon, not a man.

“Back where you belong,” one sneered. “Didn’t take much, huh?”

The second laughed. “Too easy. Poor thing really thought he was human.”

The third passed by, tapping a syringe. “Relax. We’re not wasting the asset. Just giving him a little… reminder.”

Bucky stayed silent.

They didn’t expect a response. Not yet.

“We already dosed the girl,” one of them said, voice curling with amusement. “Desire-enhancer. She’ll be begging for him before the hour’s out.”

“And yours?” the last one smirked, fingers hovering over a switch. “We upgraded it. Stronger. With a twist.”

He flipped it.

The current hit like fire.

Bucky’s spine arched against the restraints. A choked sound tore from his throat as electricity ripped through him—nerve to nerve, bone to bone. Sparks blurred his vision. Static roared in his skull.

His name vanished.

His mind split.

But somewhere, buried in the white-hot haze—you.

Your laugh. Your voice. The softness of your hand in his. The way your eyes never flinched when they met his.

Hold onto that. Don’t lose her.

He tried. God, he tried.

But the machine clawed deeper. Pulling him apart from the inside. Ripping softness from his bones, kindness from his memory. Replacing it with silence. Precision. Directives etched where memory used to be.

When it finally stopped, his body sagged forward, gasping. Muscles trembling. Jaw clenched so tight he tasted blood.

But something was off.

He wasn’t gone.

Not all the way.

Not the Soldier. Not Bucky.

Something in between. Something worse.

The serum already pulsed in his blood, coiling around every raw edge. Every flicker of need. It sank claws into the parts of him that still felt.

And what he felt now—

Was you.

But not with love.

With hunger.

Every memory of your skin, your voice, your scent—it all shifted. No longer comfort.

Triggers.

He needed to hear your breath catch. Feel your body tense under his. Mark you until you knew he was there, even after he was gone.

To take.

To claim.

To never stop.

[END OF POV]

—

The door to your cell groaned open, flooding your ears with the shriek of rusted hinges.

You blinked against the sudden light, but it barely helped. Everything around you was still dark—your vision tunneled, your limbs heavy, your skin burning.

You barely registered the two guards entering.

Thick fingers undid the straps around your wrists and ankles. Cold hands hauled you up before you could find your own footing.

Your legs buckled once.

“Move,” one of them growled, dragging you out into the hall.

You stumbled forward, caught between their grips. The corridor was dim and narrow, stone underfoot, cold air brushing your fevered skin. You could hardly see—just outlines and flickers of shadows along the walls.

But none of it mattered.

Because you felt him.

Somewhere ahead. Close.

Your whole body throbbed with it. Like your nerves were no longer your own. All you could think—feel—was the need for him. Not the gentle kind. Not the kind with whispered touches and stolen glances.

You wanted him inside you.

You wanted him to tear you apart and put you back together with his hands, his mouth, his body.

It was a hunger that crawled under your skin and made you feel like you’d melt if you didn’t touch him soon.

The guards reached a door at the end of the hallway—wider, steel-reinforced. One of them punched in a code. The other turned the handle.

You shivered, your skin hypersensitive under the thin fabric of the knee-length dress you still wore—soft and light, now clinging slightly with sweat. It felt out of place here. Too exposed. Too easy to pull up. A whisper of softness in a place built to break you.

And then they shoved you in.

You stumbled again, caught your balance on instinct, heart hammering.

The room was bright.

Too bright. Walls blinding white. Sanitized. Cold and clean in a way that made your skin crawl.

There was a bed, bolted to the floor. A single chair in the corner. No windows. No shadows.

Cameras. You knew there were cameras. Probably hidden in the corners, blinking silently as they watched you unravel.

Your eyes adjusted—and then you saw him.

Bucky.

Only—he wasn’t quite Bucky anymore.

He stood near the back of the room, facing the opposite wall. Shoulders tense, spine straight, chest heaving beneath the thin black shirt that clung to every ridge of muscle. His metal arm gleamed under the overhead lights—exposed now, the red star dark against the metal.

He turned toward you.

And your breath caught in your throat.

His eyes.

Not soft. Not tired. Not like before.

They were darker. Sharper. Focused.

Predatory.

He looked at you like he already knew what you were feeling—because he felt it, too. Because he wanted it. Wanted you.

But not gently.

Not sweetly.

There was no careful Bucky here.

This was the Winter Soldier.

And he wanted to ruin you.

—

Your breath caught in your throat, your pulse thundering in your ears as you took one slow, trembling step forward.

“James…”

The name slipped out—quiet. Barely above a whisper.

His head tilted slightly at the sound of it. His eyes flicked toward you, nostrils flaring like a wild animal scenting prey. His shoulders rose with a slow inhale.

But he didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

You swallowed hard, body tense, skin prickling as the serum’s grip twisted deeper in your belly. The heat was unbearable. Your thighs pressed together instinctively, trying to stop the ache, but it only pulsed harder. Your cunt throbbed, needy and swollen, aching for him—only him.

Still, you tried to stay in control.

“I want you,” you rasped, your voice hoarse with restraint. “God, I want you so bad it hurts—inside, everywhere—but I know it’s the serum. I know Hydra did this.”

He didn’t move. His jaw flexed.

“I don’t want to take advantage of you,” you continued, your voice cracking. “I never wanted this to happen like this. Not with you like this. I wanted—I wanted you—but not like this.”

He was still silent.

But something flickered in his eyes.

A shadow of the man you’d held before. The man who’d brushed his fingertips across your palm like it meant something. Who smiled when you talked about your cat. Who let you into his world one inch at a time.

That man was still there.

Barely.

And he was fighting.

But the desire was eating you alive.

“I’m trying to fight it,” you whispered, stepping back until your shoulders hit the wall. Your hands flattened behind you, bracing against cold white. “But I—fuck—I can’t. I’m so wet it hurts. I’ve been clenching around nothing thinking about you, and I hate it. I hate how badly I want you right now. I want you inside me. Filling me. Stretching me. Ruining me.”

His eyes darkened.

A crack formed in his stillness.

Then he growled something low under his breath—in Russian.

“Хватит говорить.”

Stop talking.

The words barely left his lips before he moved.

He lunged.

In less than a breath, his body crashed into yours, pinning you against the wall. The impact stole the air from your lungs. You gasped, but he was already on you—his metal hand seizing your wrist and slamming it above your head, hard and cold and unrelenting.

The other hand gripped your waist, lifting you slightly off the ground as his mouth crushed into yours.

It wasn’t a kiss.

It was a claim.

Teeth. Heat. Pressure. Desperation.

You tried to push him away—tried to gather what little control you had left—but it was useless. Your hands, your mouth, your body all betrayed you. Your hips rolled up against him like they had a mind of their own, your thighs shaking.

You moaned into his mouth, unable to stop yourself.

There was no softness in the way he kissed you.

It was all teeth and heat and panting breaths, mouths crashing over and over, no rhythm—just hunger. Every movement from him was brutal, precise, urgent. Like he was trying to rip the need out of himself and shove it into you.

Your body burned.

Your cunt clenched around nothing, soaking through your underwear.

The sound of your whimper made his grip tighten.

His metal arm held you like steel, unrelenting, fingertips bruising where they curled around your skin. You were pinned in place, completely at his mercy—and yet, all you could think about was how badly you wanted more.

Your free hand curled in his shirt, yanking him closer. Your legs lifted, wrapping around his hips as he held you pinned.

Your back hit the wall again with a thud as he ground against you—rough, hard, hot. His cock was already stiff beneath his pants, pressing against the curve of your cunt, and it made you cry out—the contact was too much, not enough, everything and nothing at once.

His mouth tore away from yours, lips red and wet, breath ragged.

You barely heard the static click of the camera in the corner behind you.

Hydra was watching.

And they were delighted.

The serum wasn’t meant to end in one round.

It was designed to feed itself.

To keep you both burning.

To keep you needing until you were hollowed out.

Even if it killed you.

And right now, with Bucky’s mouth on your throat, his hand tearing at your clothes, and your body already grinding down against him—

You weren’t sure you’d live through it.

But God—you wanted to.

—

His mouth dragged lower, tongue hot against your collarbone, and then suddenly—

RIP.

Your dress split down the middle with one brutal yank—his metal arm tearing through the fabric like paper. The sound cracked through the room, echoing against the white walls.

You gasped, trembling, suddenly half-naked—left only in your soaked underwear and a thin, non-padded bra. The cold air met your feverish skin, and your nipples peaked instantly, painfully hard under the sudden exposure.

He saw them.

And groaned.

A low, guttural sound. Not desperate. Not hungry in the way a man would be. But programmed. Like a predator recognizing its target.

His mouth closed over your left nipple through the thin fabric—biting, sucking, dragging his teeth over it like he wanted to bruise you there. The stimulation made your knees buckle, but he didn’t let you fall.

His arm still held your wrist tight above your head, unrelenting, while his free hand gripped your waist to keep you still.

He was in control. Utterly. Entirely.

You squirmed, hips rolling forward, grinding against the solid length of his cock through his pants, your wet panties dragging along the ridge of it with every movement.

“Fuck,” you whimpered. “James.”

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t pant.

Didn’t tremble.

Not like you.

He was still—his eyes sharp, his mouth ruthless, his body composed like he wasn’t even breathing hard.

Because he wasn’t.

He was in Winter Soldier mode now.

And Winter Soldiers didn’t pant.

With a quick shift, his flesh hand reached behind you, unclasped your bra with a practiced jerk. The clasp snapped open, and he yanked it down your arms, tossing it to the floor without ever loosening his grip.

Then his hands—both of them—were on your breasts.

He squeezed hard.

Too hard.

You cried out at the pressure, but your cunt clenched in response. Slick coated the inside of your thighs, your underwear already soaked through, sticking to you like a second skin.

“James—James, please,” you gasped. “I need—I need you inside me, I need it, I can’t—”

Still no response.

Just that single flash of his eyes before his metal hand dropped down, hooking into the waistband of your underwear. He didn’t pull it down.

He tore it off.

The fabric snapped apart in his grip, and your gasp turned into a full moan.

Your thighs parted without thinking. Your hips bucked.

You were so fucking wet.

The air hit your pussy and made it worse—the heat, the slick, the hollow ache deep inside. You were clenching around nothing, sobbing through your teeth, begging like it was the only language left in your body.

“Please, please, please—James—fuck me—”

You barely had time to breathe.

You felt the heat of him between your legs—thick, hot, pulsing. Then came the sound of a zipper—fabric shifting just enough for him to free himself.

He didn’t undress. Just shoved his pants low enough to free his cock.

Thick. Veined. Angry-red and leaking.

You gasped. “Wait—”

But he wasn’t built to wait.

His metal hand gripped your hip, cold and unrelenting. His flesh hand slid under your thigh, hoisting your leg up and pinning it to his side.

Just one leg.

Just enough to open you.

And then—he drove forward.

No warning. No teasing. No care.

Just a brutal thrust that knocked the breath from your lungs and slammed your back into the wall.

You screamed.

The stretch lit your nerves on fire, forced your body to open around him—thick and hard and so deep it hurt. But the pain was nothing compared to the ache that came before it.

Now that he was inside you, your body clenched like it never wanted him to leave.

He pulled back, barely.

Then thrust in again.

Harder.

Faster.

He fucked you like he was trying to purge something from his bloodstream—his hips snapping forward with unrelenting force, again and again, every motion slamming you into the cold wall behind.

You weren’t just holding on—you were unraveling.

Your hands scrabbled at his shoulders, fingers digging in wherever they could find purchase. One leg hooked up high on his waist, the other shaking, barely able to hold you upright, but he didn’t falter.

The wet slap of skin echoed in the sterile white cell. Your moans cracked open and feral, your body shaking with every punishing stroke—and he?

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t groan. Didn’t pant.

He just fucked.

Mechanical. Precise. Feral.

The Winter Soldier wasn’t built to feel.

He was built to finish.

And that’s exactly what he intended to do.

—

He didn’t stop.

Not even when your spine slammed against the wall again, the shock rattling through your ribs.

Not when your lifted leg started to tremble, slipping a little against his side.

Not when your moans broke into gasps—ragged, breathless, barely hanging on.

He only growled—low and wordless—and wrapped his arms around you, metal and flesh, lifting you clean off the ground with a brutal grip.

You cried out as your back arched involuntarily, still so full of him.

He carried you—still inside you—across the room in a few fast, purposeful strides. His cock didn’t slip once. The stretch remained deep, unforgiving, dragging across every nerve inside you like it belonged there.

Then you hit the mattress.

Hard.

The springs squealed beneath your weight as he slammed into you again. No rhythm now—just sheer force. He was fucking like a machine with one directive: use. release. repeat.

Your eyes rolled back. You couldn’t breathe.

You didn’t even want to.

You were burning alive from the inside out and still you needed more.

But then—he stopped.

Pulled out.

You gasped from the loss, legs trembling, your cunt clenching around nothing.

“Flip,” he barked. The only word he’d said since entering you.

Your dazed mind barely registered the command, but your body obeyed—rolling over, knees digging into the mattress, arms braced, still shaking from the first onslaught.

You didn’t even get the chance to settle before he grabbed your hips—his metal hand gripping tight enough to bruise—and slammed into you again.

No warning. No patience.

You screamed into the mattress, forehead dropping forward, hands clawing at the sheets for something to hold onto.

He pounded into you from behind with no rhythm, just relentless depth—every thrust jarring your body forward, dragging a fresh moan from your throat.

It hurt.

It burned.

But God, you were so close.

So close you were choking on it, dizzy with it. Your body betrayed you completely, clenching, spiraling, seconds away—

But he didn’t let you come like that.

Not from behind.

Because the Winter Soldier wasn’t done with you yet.

He pulled out suddenly, flipping you over like a ragdoll—no tenderness, just force—and shoved himself back in with a violent thrust that made your hips lift off the bed.

Your mouth fell open in a silent scream as he slammed into you, now facing him.

His face was blank. Eyes wild. Breath controlled.

You, on the other hand—were falling apart.

He fucked you violently, brutally, each thrust harder than the last, hips crashing into yours like you were built to take it.

And you did.

You came hard.

So hard your body spasmed, your nails digging into his shoulders, your voice breaking apart on his name—“James—oh fuck—James—”—as you shattered beneath him.

You shook.

Convulsed.

Almost blacked out.

But he didn’t stop.

You tried to breathe, to beg for a pause, but your lungs wouldn’t cooperate and neither would he.

His thrusts grew even rougher—inhuman—and then with a sharp, guttural exhale, he came too.

You felt it.

Hot and thick, pumping inside you in waves.

But he didn’t stop moving.

He kept going.

His cock still hard, still twitching inside you, still thrusting, like his brain didn’t register release as a signal to stop.

You gasped, overwhelmed. Your hands scrambled for his chest—“wait, wait—”

But he didn’t hear you.

Didn’t want to hear you.

Your body convulsed again, overstimulated, throat hoarse from moaning and screaming and gasping for air like you were drowning beneath him.

It almost felt like you could die from it.

And only then—finally—he pulled out.

Leaving you empty, ruined, soaking in your own slick and his cum, your legs still spread, your chest heaving like you’d run for miles and your heart might never slow down again.

—

He wasn’t done.

Even after spilling inside you—after wringing you dry and watching you break—he still wasn’t done.

The Winter Soldier moved with a single, controlled motion, shifting downward along the bed, his metal hand still gripping your thigh, prying it open wider. You tried to close your legs, weak and trembling, but it was useless. He forced them apart like it was protocol. Like this was routine.

He dove between your legs without a word.

Not hungry.

Not greedy.

But driven.

Programmed.

His tongue dragged along your folds—slow, deliberate. Gathering everything. Your slick. His cum. All of it. He wanted it. Wanted to taste it. To keep stimulating you until you broke again. Until your body couldn’t take it anymore.

He licked deeper.

Sucked on your swollen clit until your legs kicked out on reflex, your throat catching on a sound you couldn’t even shape into a word.

Your hips bucked weakly. You tried to push at his shoulders, but he didn’t move.

He was a machine.

And you were his task.

He kept going—precise licks, tight suction, his tongue fucking into you like he had been ordered to memorize your body and extract your climax as efficiently as possible.

You were already so sensitive. So raw. You couldn’t even process the pleasure anymore—it felt like pain. Like lightning.

You sobbed out his name again. “James—please—”

Still nothing.

No reaction.

And then—

You came again.

Your body convulsed violently, back arching off the mattress, vision tunneling. Your voice cracked open around the moan, and this time, it wasn’t lust.

It was a cry for help.

“B-Bucky—!”

His name tore from your throat like a sob—like a plea from somewhere deeper than instinct.

And it stopped him cold.

His mouth froze. His grip loosened. The relentless pace, the way his tongue had been driving you toward the edge—all of it stopped in an instant.

You couldn’t breathe right. Your chest was heaving, every sob catching sharp under your ribs. One arm had gone slack beside you on the sheets. Your thighs trembled where they draped over his shoulders—still open, still shaking. Your back arched off the bed in aftershock, your cheek damp with tears you hadn’t realized were falling.

And then—he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

His head tilted slightly, like something wasn’t computing—like your voice had hit a frequency he couldn’t filter out. His eyes, still dark and storming, moved over you slowly. The marks on your hips. The red prints around your wrists. Your swollen lips. The way your body shook in his arms.

His gaze landed on your face last.

The tears.

The way you whispered his name again, softer this time.

“Bucky…”

A breath caught in his throat—different from the harsh, mechanical rhythm he’d been running on. This one was shallow. Fragile. Human.

And then—

Something cracked.

You saw it.

Like a wire snapped behind his eyes. His brows drew in sharply, lips parting, shoulders falling—not with discipline but with shock. The kind of shock that came with recognition.

The Soldier had no use for guilt.

But Bucky Barnes did.

He stepped back.

Stumbled.

Like his legs suddenly remembered how to give out.

“No—” he rasped, voice frayed and hoarse and unmistakably his. “No, no, shit—fuck—I didn’t—”

He looked down at his hands like they didn’t belong to him. One metal, one trembling. Covered in sweat, in your slick, in proof of everything he’d just done.

His breath hitched. “I’m sorry,” he whispered—raw and cracked open.

And when he reached for you this time—

It wasn’t to hold you down.

It was to hold you up.

—

He eased you up—gentle now. Hands soft under your arms, cradling your head as he slowly pulled you into a seated position. You gasped for air, your body shaking like a leaf, lungs still catching up to the storm he’d left in you.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, his voice shredded. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—I lost control. I didn’t know how to stop.”

Your head dropped into his chest. You were still trembling. Still clenching around nothing. Still throbbing for him.

But now… it was different.

Now it was safe.

Now it was him.

You felt his heartbeat under your cheek—fast, uneven, not cold or programmed, but human. Real.

“Bucky,” you rasped, barely a breath.

“I’m here,” he whispered, his fingers trembling as they tucked your hair behind your ear. “I’ve got you. I’m so fucking sorry—I’d never hurt you. I swear I’d never—” His voice broke. His mouth pressed into your temple, like he was trying to will the shame out of his body. “I’d rather die than touch you like that by choice.”

You exhaled shakily. Your palms pressed to his chest—warm, solid, familiar.

You nodded.

You believed him.

Because you were just… you.

Just a civilian.

And even with that serum still curling in your veins, you were never built to keep up with the machine he’d been forced to become. Not with the brutal rhythm. Not with the stamina. Not with the feral need he had been hijacked by.

You were still aching—still wrecked, still wanting—but now, what you needed more than anything…

Was a breath.

A pause.

A moment to live.

And for the first time in hours…

You had one.

—

Bucky sat at the edge of the bed—his dark shirt clinging to him, damp with sweat. His breath had evened out, but his shoulders stayed tense, like something inside him still hadn’t fully unclenched. He hadn’t stopped watching you—not since you said his name. Not since the Winter Soldier slipped back into the dark, and something human took its place.

He reached out, slow and unsure, brushing a knuckle along your jaw.

“Do you… need to stop?” he asked, voice low. Careful. Not cold. Not commanding.

Just a man trying to make sense of what was left.

You didn’t answer right away.

Your body was still shaking, legs drawn in now, curled close to your chest. You’d pulled the sheet around your hips at some point, but the sweat, the slick, the after of everything still clung to your skin.

And the ache between your legs hadn’t faded.

If anything—it pulsed deeper. Slower. But steady.

“Hydra’s watching,” he said, quieter now. “They’ll see I broke protocol. They’ll know I’m not… him.”

He swallowed hard. Shame flickered behind his eyes like a faultline.

“I shouldn’t have let it go that far. I shouldn’t have touched you like that—not with them watching. Not like I was still—” He cut himself off.

He reached for the shredded fabric of your dress, trying to drape it over you again.

“I’ll get us out,” he muttered, jaw tight. “I’ll rip through every one of them if I have to. I’ll make them pay for using you. For using me.”

But before he could stand, your fingers wrapped gently around his wrist.

Not to stop him.

Just… to hold him there.

“No,” you whispered, voice raw and dry. “I still need you.”

His brow furrowed, uncertain.

Your hand slid down—hesitant at first—then wrapped around him directly, where his cock rested heavy between his thighs.

He was half-hard. Already twitching back to life.

You stroked once.

Then again.

“I’m still aching,” you murmured. “Still burning from that serum. It hurts, Bucky.”

He flinched at the sound of his name.

“I know it’s wrong,” you continued, your palm moving slow and steady. “But it’s still inside me. It hasn’t worn off. You can help. You can stop the burn.”

His hand came down to catch yours—trying to still it, but not really pulling away. Just… pausing.

“Not like before,” you added, your voice quieter. More certain. “I don’t want the Winter Soldier.”

You shifted your knees apart, just enough to make the invitation unmistakable.

“I want you.”

His jaw locked.

He was still for a long second—then his hand eased around yours, guiding the stroke. His shoulders dropped, tension melting like ice under sunlight.

You were still looking up at him when he bent forward and pressed his lips to your forehead.

It was brief.

But it was him.

He didn’t move at first. Just sat there beside you—silent, tense. Like he was waiting for you to change your mind. Like he wouldn’t touch you unless you asked.

You reached out first.

Fingers curling gently around his wrist. Not to drag him close.

Just to let him know you hadn’t pulled away.

That you still wanted this.

Bucky looked at you—longer this time. Eyes searching. Then he gave a small nod, like he understood. Like he’d follow your pace, whatever it was.

He leaned in slowly, like every inch forward was a question.

Then his mouth met yours.

Not rough. Not rushed.

Just heat. Just lips. Just a man trying to ground himself in something real.

The kiss was soft, tentative. Testing the shape of trust between you. His tongue brushed yours carefully, tasting—not claiming. His hand slid to your side, fingertips brushing sweat-damp skin. He paused at your hip, his touch feather-light, almost unsure.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” he murmured against your lips, voice strained. “I need to know.”

You nodded, breath shaky.

“I will.”

He drew back just enough to look down at you—then shifted, lowering one hand from your side. His flesh palm found your breast, cupping it gently. You gasped as his thumb circled your nipple—slow, delicate, like he was memorizing the way your breath hitched for him.

Then he moved, steady and deliberate—propping himself up slightly on his metal arm while his other hand slipped between your bodies.

He wrapped his fingers around his cock—still slick, still heavy—and stroked it once, twice. Just enough to guide himself to your entrance.

You parted your legs.

Not in surrender.

In choice.

He hovered there, the head of his cock barely pressing into your folds. The heat between your bodies simmered. But he didn’t move. Not yet.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his voice low and tight. “Do you still want this?”

You met his eyes.

“Yes.”

That was all he needed.

He pressed in—carefully, inch by inch. Your breath hitched at the stretch, your body still tender and sore, but it wasn’t pain that bloomed in your chest now.

It was fullness.

Connection.

He exhaled through his nose, brow furrowing as your body clenched around him.

You whimpered when he hit too deep, too fast.

He stopped instantly. Eyes wide.

“Did I—?”

“No,” you whispered. “Just… slow.”

So he did.

He eased in fully, hips flush to yours, both of you stilling—your foreheads brushing, your breaths shaky. Letting the moment settle.

Letting it be real.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he whispered. “I didn’t want it to be like before.”

You shook your head, touching his shoulder.

“Just… stay with me.”

He rocked his hips—slow and deliberate. Nothing like before. Nothing like a weapon. Just heat and care. The rhythm built gently, each thrust a quiet apology, each movement asking instead of taking.

Your legs drew around his hips, locking him deeper.

The stretch no longer burned. It warmed. It ached in a way that felt right.

He adjusted his grip, bracing his legs before slowly sitting up—keeping you wrapped around him, keeping himself buried deep. You moved with him, your thighs tightening around his waist until you were straddling his lap, chest pressed to his. His hands slid up your back, steadying you as the new position settled in.

The new position made you gasp.

“Still okay?” he asked, voice barely holding steady.

You nodded, hips beginning to move on your own.

He let you take control.

You rode him slowly, finding a rhythm that made both your mouths fall open. Your hands flattened to his chest, your eyes fluttering shut as your body pulsed around him.

And when you came—it was soft, drawn out. A slow unraveling that started low in your spine and rippled outward, your breath catching, your voice shaking as you gasped his name.

“Bucky—Bucky—”

That was what broke him.

He came with a guttural sound, arms locking around your waist, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, groaning through clenched teeth as he emptied into you.

Then silence.

Just the sound of breath and heartbeat and the sharp edge of being alive.

Not owned.

Not broken.

Just alive.

—

Hydra didn’t miss it.

The climax. The soft moan of his name. The tenderness.

The serum was meant to create hunger that burned until it destroyed you.

Not… this.

Not love.

Not care.

Not healing.

Alarms didn’t blare, but you felt the tension in the air shift.

Somewhere behind those walls, someone flipped a switch. Surveillance feeds caught tenderness where violence was expected. And Hydra? They didn’t like malfunctions.

You barely had time to breathe before Bucky’s body tensed beneath you.

“They’re coming,” he said, voice low. Calm. Steady.

Different.

No longer cold. No longer detached.

Just… Bucky.

He adjusted his hold, lifting you gently off his lap. His hands moved with purpose now—grounded, clear. He peeled off his shirt and pulled it over your head, helping guide your arms through the sleeves. It wasn’t oversized, but it covered what needed to be hidden. Then he grabbed the torn remains of your dress from the floor, wrapping it like a makeshift skirt around your waist.

“You okay to move?” he asked, gaze locked to yours.

You nodded, heart pounding.

He stood, turned to the metal door—and with a single kick, it crashed open with a screech.

You flinched at the sound. He didn’t.

Hydra guards rushed in, shouting orders in Russian. Too late.

Bucky was faster than them all. Brutal, efficient. He didn’t kill them—but he made sure none of them would walk straight for a while. Every strike was calculated. No wasted motion. All precision.

And then he grabbed your hand.

“Stay close to me,” he said, glancing back. “Don’t stop running.”

You nodded again, breath shallow, legs unsteady but moving.

Together, you sprinted through the narrow corridors of the Hydra base. Red lights pulsed on the walls. Somewhere behind you, someone shouted his name—the wrong one.

“Soldat!”

But Bucky didn’t turn.

He didn’t flinch.

He ran.

You ran after him.

The metal halls gave way to concrete. Concrete to dirt. Dirt to pine needles and open sky.

When you both finally burst into the night, the forest swallowed you whole. The air was cold. Clean. Real.

You stumbled, and Bucky caught you before your knees hit the ground. Without a word, he swept you into his arms and ran deeper into the woods—his chest steady, breath even, grip unshakable.

And you?

You weren’t aching anymore.

You weren’t burning.

You were… full.

Filled with him. With air. With a strange new peace.

He wasn’t just a weapon.

Not anymore.

He was a man. A human being. One that had been taken apart and rebuilt—but still capable of love, tenderness, control.

He just needed someone to help him remember.

And maybe—just maybe—that someone was you.

[witchthewriter]

𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐬𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐝 𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

𝑪𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆 ✧˖°.

・The fire danced from the fireplace, lighting up the room with soft warmth and light

・You were both reading a book, when the idea came to your mind. So, you closed your eyes and let your book fall to the floor.

・Slowly you leant on John, letting out an 'mmmm' before fulling committing. You closed your eyes, nuzzled into him and ... waited.

John smiled.

"Sweetheart-" he murmured, stroking your hair. Leaning down to press a kiss to your head.

・You didn't say anything, just let your body relax against his.

"I think it's time for bed," John grumbled, slipping the book mark you made him into his book and slowly stroked your head.

・You didn't move.

・He called out your name, gave you a little nudge and then decided, "I'll just carry you then-"

・You tried not to move a muscle, and when he picked you up, you panicked slightly. How rigid was a body supposed to be while asleep??

・John knew you were faking but played along anyway. You usually snored a little while asleep.

・Yet he still played along and held you bridal style; even walking up the stairs.

"You are very lucky," he whispered against your forehead while he lay you down, "incredibly lucky, how much I love you."

𝑺𝒊𝒎𝒐𝒏 𝑹𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒚 ✧˖°.

・You had already done this twice this week and it was only Wednesday

・Half of you was worried he was catching on

・The other half of you ... knew he'd call you out if you were faking

・It was well into the night when the next commercial came on (yes you have streaming services but you were watching on Prime so...still ads)

・You were ontop of Simon, head against his chest, breathing in his smell when he started to shift

"Love, you awake?"

・He moves his large hand from your back to your cheek, gently rubbing his thumb against your warm skin.

"You want to be carried again then?"

・You cannot help your reaction

・Eyes shooting open, warmth floods your cheeks, your neck, and you smile, sheepishly.

"When did you figure it out?" You ask, shifting to look him in the eyes

"You talk in your sleep."

"Ah..."

"Mmm, still want me to carry you to bed?"

"...yes please."

𝑲𝒚𝒍𝒆 𝑮𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒌 ✧˖°.

・You had fallen 'asleep' in his lap right when the movie was about to finish

・Literally, ten minutes before the credits were about to roll, you had laid your head in his lap and let yourself settle.

"Babe, you awake?"

・Kyle was met with nothing but silence.

・With a raised eyebrow, he gave you a little nudge but ... nothing.

・He saw that you were breathing, yet breathing lightly... but he played along

"God, you must have been so sleepy. Poor baby, no ice cream. Just straight to bed-"

"No!" You sat up instantly, not even groggy, "I didn't know we had ice cream-"

"Oh! You little faker!" Kyle said between laughs.

"Wait. Do we even have ice cream..." You said with a frown.

"Nope!"

𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏𝒏𝒚 𝑴𝒂𝒄𝑻𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒉 ✧˖°.

"Bonnie! Ready for another movie?"Johnny exclaimed, giving your leg a squeeze.

・You had watched three already; it was your weekly movie marathon - one you never missed.

・But the time was late, or early; depending on who you asked. And you just couldn't say no to him.

・So you laid your head on his shoulder and closed your eyes.

・It took about five minutes for Johnny to realise you weren't watching.

"Ah, sleep got the best of ye," he yawned, and you had to do your best not to smile.

・Turning off the tv, Johnny held you against his chest and walked you to bed.

・He was completely focused on getting you to bed, that he didn't notice the small smile that had crawled its' way onto your face

𝑲𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒈 ✧˖°.

・Large hands stroke along your back, slowly moving from the top of your spine to the bottom

・It tasks everything in you not to make a noise

・Already feeling sleepy, and knowing he would carry you even if you asked, there was something a little funny in pretending

・You felt Konig lean down and kiss your head twice. Then again.

・Contentment vibrated through your bones; you felt safe, felt happy, felt ... in love

"Oh schatz, must have been a big day for you," he cooed.

・The very essence of his voice was dipped in adoration

・Looking at the clock, Konig decided to put you to bed.

"Come schatzi, let me take you to bed, ja?"

・His strong arms enveloped you, and when your face was turned upward, he kissed your brow and hummed.

𝑪𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝑴𝒂𝒄𝑻𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒉 (𝒐𝒈) ✧˖°.

・You heard him coming from the shed.

・John had been working on something for a few weeks and he spent most of his nights there.

・You didn't mind, but you had felt a tad touch starved lately.

・The idea popped into your head. It made you giggle to think of him carrying you while you fake-slept.

・So, you dashed to the couch and put your head at one end, while throwing a blanket on your legs.

・Shutting the door behind him, he walked into the living room and called out your name.

・His gruff, Scottish voice still sent shivers down your spine.

・Goosebumps erupted on your skin as he called out again, as his voice got lower...deeper.

・It wasn't long before he found you. He wrapped a hand around your ankle and squeezed lightly.

"bonnie's asleep then," he said and slid his hands underneath yours to hoist you up.

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 I'LL TAKE A QUIET LIFE

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: you didn't mean for things to turn out the way they did—you swear you really didn't. but when a certain someone decides to provoke you when you're trying to do the right thing… well. things take a turn for the worse. all you wanted was to peacefully borrow dazai for his birthday, whisking him away for a one-week getaway from the city and work, but you know how dazai is, and you couldn't risk any of his coworkers letting something slip. so, now, instead of a nice peaceful surprise and maintaining relations with the agency, you've had to resort to kidnapping. again. you'll make the most of it anyway.

(word count: 13.2k, fem!reader, port mafia executive!reader, dazai-typical suicide mentions, past suicide attempts referenced, oral (male receiving), a bit of face fucking, unprotected sex, a little overstimulation, minor implied ptsd episode/grieving (reader))

AUTHOR'S NOTES: HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAYYYY TO THE CUTEST BOY IN THE WHOLEEE WORLD WAHHHHHHH take a cute little post-canon fic for the big day<33 i am so proud of how this fic came out. before you read, i do want you guys to take note that there's a bit of a time jump—i have this fic set around 5-6 months after the ada-pm swap fic. i have a lot to say about this fic so maybeee come back up here at the end to read this because there are some spoilers for it ... this is ur last warning ....... ANYWAY, so as you all know (even though you have no faith in me) pmreader universe DOES have a happy ending. to get to that happy ending, the biggest hurdle that needs to be crossed is what was addressed in one of the more recent pmreader fics (i think i've seen this love before): dazai struggles to find a reason to live. i can't really see him marrying pmreader when he still feels so hopeless about himself/living, for HER sake more than his mind you, because he knows he's very fickle with life and doesn't want to marry her and then leave her behind. so i do think that this is a necessary step to the happy ending: dazai needs to acknowledge that he does see himself having a future with her & their relationship gives him a reason to wake up in the morning. now, this of course doesn't take away from his depression—i dont want any of you to misunderstand and i dont think you will, but i just want to make it clear that him acknowledging this doesn't take away from his depression. it's something that i headcanon dazai struggles with his whole life, but i think this is a necessary step to the happy ending. also on another note, pmreader !!! i hope her whole thing doesn't feel like it comes out of the blue. once they get together again at age 22, i hc that the first few months of their relationship are so chaotic that neither of them can fully come to terms with their situation, and once she does, she really does begin to doubt things. because of course she loves him, and she wants him to feel like he's fulfilled odasaku's last request so he can feel better about himself, but she starts to feel like her presence in his life might be holding him back. so those lingering doubts + her doing something that reminds her of a past she can't remember puts her in a rlly vulnerable space. AND I THINK I CONVEYED IT WELL, but i just like explaining. ANYWAY if you guys got this far, i love you, thank u for entertaining my rambly thoughts

Dazai is over three hours late to work, but in his defense, it’s his birthday, and not even Kunikida is cruel enough to scold Dazai on his birthday. Still, he very much expects dirty looks from the man, and maybe a few loud comments about his terrible work ethic, but that’s just Kunikida. If he wasn’t giving Dazai dirty looks and making loud comments, Dazai would be concerned.

Which is why when he steps into the office at half past twelve and is met with dead silence, Dazai knows something is wrong. He shuts the door quietly behind him and looks around warily, trying to figure out what’s going on. There’s no sign of forced entry or any fighting—there’s an untouched stack of papers in the waiting area that he assumes are from a new client, and a hot coffee still steaming next to it. 

It’s all so unassuming, it’s what he expects coming into work, but it’s too quiet. He can’t hear Naomi bothering Tanizaki, he can’t hear Yosano complaining about the stick up Kunikida’s ass or Kunikida promptly scolding her for her language, he can’t hear Kyouka, Kenji, and Atsushi chatting away whenever Kunikida is pulled away by something. There’s no furious typing from the clerks as they fix all of the mistakes in the reports being filed, and there’s no sighing when they think they finish, only to realize that there’s another report, likely one of Dazai’s, waiting for them to edit.

It’s too quiet, and that’s how Dazai knows something is seriously wrong.

When he steps into the office, he almost expects nobody to be there—maybe they were all called out to some emergency mission, and Dazai is going to have to race to catch up with them. 

What he doesn’t expect is finding his coworkers all sitting stiffly and silently in their seats, and a heavy Port Mafia presence all over the room. Hirotsu is leaning against the far back wall, a cigarette dangling between his lips, Gin is hanging over Haruno, carelessly playing with one of her knives, and Tachihara is trying to convince Atsushi to play a game of cards with him as if Akutagawa isn’t looming right behind him. 

If it were just the Black Lizards, Dazai thinks that they’d probably fight back, but naturally, the red-headed slug is here too, leaning up against the wall with Hirotsu, arms crossed and a bored expression on his face. Dazai’s eyes narrow when Chuuya gives him a smirk that’s far too smug, but the insult on his lips dies when his eyes land on the last person in the room.

You’re sitting on top of his desk, a pretty smile on your lips and a glitter in your eyes that promises no good. You look beautiful, and Dazai’s chest feels all warm and fuzzy—he hasn’t seen you in a few weeks now because you’ve been abroad dealing with pressure from some foreign organizations, and he didn’t think you’d be back for his birthday. He’s so enamored by the sight of you that he almost doesn’t catch the glint of metal on your lap or the way Kunikida is sitting tense at his desk next to where you’re lounging.

“Hey,” you say easily, like there isn’t a gun in your lap pointed at his coworker, safety off, finger firm on the trigger, ready to pull it at a moment’s notice. “Happy birthday.”

“What-” Dazai starts to say, baffled, but flinches when he feels something prick his neck, head snapping to the side to focus on a vaguely familiar figure now standing at his side—your new subordinate, Dazai can’t remember his name. 

Whatever he injected Dazai with works fast, because he’s instantly dizzy, his gaze blurring, and his head all woozy. Just as his knees start to give out, he feels the kid grab under his arms to make sure he doesn’t hit the ground, and he hears you say proudly: “This is a kidnapping.”

---------

In your defense, you really did try to talk things out peacefully with the Armed Detective Agency before resorting to this. 

You weren’t planning on kidnapping Dazai, but you knew he probably didn’t call out of work, and the last thing you needed was to be scolded by Mori for causing any more tension between the Armed Detective Agency and the Port Mafia if they realized that you were the reason Dazai didn’t show up to work. 

Things have been rocky on both sides since the failed transfer—the Agency because the Port Mafia dared to take one of their own, and the Port Mafia because the Agency reneged on their deal and took their member back—but you can’t afford for things to be rocky when things are still incredibly unstable. So instead of just picking up Dazai and leaving for a few days and possibly pissing off the Agency for not giving them any forewarning, you decided to do the right thing and tell them before disappearing with one of their detectives.

Except the President of the Agency isn’t in town. So, you were stuck dealing with that bullheaded blonde who clearly still holds a grudge over the incident with Pushkin and he decided to act on his grudge by making your life as difficult as possible. 

All too smugly, he refused to give Dazai leave for the week because they have an emergency case that needs all hands on deck, and when you offered up Klaus to replace him, much to the boy’s abject horror, he refused. Then you offered up Klaus and Akutagawa, and he still refused. You even proposed giving them Chuuya for the week, and that wasn’t enough, so that’s when you realized he was just being difficult to be petty.

And you doubt the man actually would’ve forced Dazai to miss out on time with you on his birthday, Dazai is his friend and he’s not that much of an asshole. He probably would've okay'd it as soon as Dazai showed up to the office, but he was clearly just trying to be a pain in your ass. And well, you didn’t take that kindly, obviously, so all thoughts of preserving the fragile peace went out the window as you quite promptly demanded all hands on deck for a possible conflict because you were not going to let Kunikida Doppo keep that smug expression on his face for a second longer.

Was Chuuya happy about it? No, you could tell when he gave you a side eye after he showed up, but you knew he wasn’t going to sit by and let the Agency get one over you. So, he was content to stand there as a looming threat, because you were pretty sure that the Black Lizards weren’t going to be enough to scare the Agency into backing down, but the threat of Nakahara Chuuya splattering one of their own against the wall so that there was nothing left for their doctor to revive was more than enough to keep them down.

The Black Lizards and Akutagawa didn’t have the authority to question your orders, and Klaus was more than willing to spill blood at any given moment, so the only thing you have left to worry about is Mori, and you’ll deal with that once you get back from your getaway with Dazai. If Chuuya’s feeling nice, he’ll probably handle it for you, but you don’t think he’s pleased with how you offered him up like a bargaining chip to the Agency.

Your lips curve up into a smile when Klaus tosses Dazai over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Was drugging him unnecessary? Probably, but you didn’t want to deal with his smug ass making comments about the lengths you go to so that you can steal him away for the week the whole way up to the house you and Chuuya bought on the coastline of Hokkaido. It wasn’t just for Dazai—it was your own pride on the line too, it was the principle.

As you motion for Klaus to bring Dazai out to the car, you rise to your feet and look down at Kunikida. You place your gun under his chin to tilt his head up so that he’s looking up at you; he swallows thickly as he glances down at where your finger is still resting on the trigger, throat bobbing before he glowers at you. You give him a too-sweet smile.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” you say, very pleased with yourself. You look back at Chuuya, signalling him to come with you as you put your gun away and start to make your way out of the Agency. You lift your hand in a lazy wave before saying, “I’ll bring him back in a few days.” 

It’s only when the door to the Agency shuts behind you that he finally speaks to you, hands shoved in his pockets as he says dryly, “Mori specifically told us not to antagonize the Agency over the next few weeks.”

“The Agency antagonized me,” you reply airily. “It would’ve been a terrible look for us if we let them walk all over us and come out unscathed. There are already too many rumors circulating in the East about us being weak after the Guild Incident, and now, Dostoevsky, the failed transfer, and the Clocktower—preserving our reputation is more important than relations with the Agency.”

Chuuya barks out a laugh. “You can twist anything to fit your narrative, can't you? If you weren’t an executive, you’d make a great lawyer.”

You raise your eyebrows, unfazed. “It’s not twisting if it’s the truth.”

He scoffs, muttering something under his breath before shaking his head as he holds the door to the cafe open for you. “Right. Next time you decide to ‘preserve our reputation’ through a diplomatic disaster, at least give me a damn warning first.”

“There’s no fun in that,” you say with an easy smile. “Will you deal with Mori while I’m gone?” 

“You’re shameless,” Chuuya tells you flatly. “No, I’m not dealing with Mori. You just tried to pawn me off to the Agency like a fucking mule. You can deal with him.”

“Please.” You flutter your eyelashes at him, pushing your lip out in a pout that has him rolling his eyes. You scowl and then offer, “I’ll take over your mission in Sapporo when I get back.”

“Deal,” Chuuya agrees immediately, reaching out to open the car door for you. You slide inside, and he shuts the door behind you; you immediately roll the window down. He gives you a sharp smile, resting his arms on the car door and leaning in. “I would’ve dealt with him either way.”

“I know because you’re a sucker,” you reply, raising your eyebrows and giving him an equally sharp smile. “I just thought I’d be nice and offer you something in return.”

Chuuya clicks his tongue sharply as he leans back. He stands up straight and gives you a side eye. “Bitch,” he mutters, but there’s a fond smile on his lips. “Enjoy your week with that bastard, you’re gonna be in for hell with Mori once you get back.”

“You don’t need to remind me,” you say dryly, turning to the side as Klaus opens the door to toss Dazai into the car. Literally. “Jesus, Klaus, be a bit more careful with him.”

“No.” Klaus says and then sneers down at Dazai before slamming the door shut behind him.

You shake your head and adjust Dazai into a more comfortable position. He should be out for at least two or three hours—you aren’t quite sure, he’s always had a freaky metabolism, but you don’t know if it’s gotten faster or slower in the four years he was gone. You rest his head in your lap, brushing his hair out of his face. You’ve missed him a lot; you’ve barely been able to see him at all the past few weeks because you’ve been so busy, and your chest aches just at the sight of him in your lap. You turn your gaze back up to the window to find Chuuya staring at you in disgust. Klaus is there too, scowling.

“What is your problem with him?” you ask the boy, giving him a weird look. “You’ve hardly even met him before now.”

“I don’t like him,” Klaus replies, raising his chin.

You stare at him in disbelief, but Klaus only huffs and stalks off, likely to cause chaos elsewhere. Chuuya snorts in amusement, trying to muffle a laugh as he turns his face away. You roll your eyes and fling your hand up dismissively. Klaus has always had something up his ass about Dazai, you never understood why. You’ve learned better than to question what runs through that boy’s head.

“You should get going,” Chuuya says, stepping back from the window. “The jet’s waiting for you.”

“Right,” you agree, stretching your arms and then resting your hand on Dazai’s forehead, fingers carding absently through his hair. “Thanks, Chuuya.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he replies dryly, turning his back to the car to walk over to where he’d parked his motorcycle. He lifts his hand up in a lazy wave. “See you next week.”

“See you next week.”

---------

Dazai wakes up to the whole world shaking. His heart rate spikes as he shoots up, disoriented and confused. His hand flies to his head, blinking hard to try to clear his blurry vision. He doesn’t even really remember what happened. He remembers waking up late for work and feeling smug because Kunikida couldn’t scold him because it’s his birthday, and he remembers…

Oh.

You.

Dazai glances around, trying to figure out where the hell he is. He’s laying on a white couch in a small room… or, this isn’t a room, is it? There’s a window next to him. Dazai squints at the sudden bright light that blinds him, but he shifts closer to the window so he can look out of it.

He is in the air.

Dazai blanches when he realizes that he’s in a plane. It must be close to landing because the ground is much closer than he expected. He doesn’t recognize the area—there doesn’t seem to be any big cities nearby, only forests and the ocean, so he’s not really sure where you’re bringing him.

He pushes himself out of his seat, stumbling a bit before he catches himself. Whatever you injected him with was strong, but at least now he has something he can whine and complain about. Maybe he’ll be able to convince you to make him the sweet buns you tried baking a few times back when you two were teenagers. You never liked the way they came out, but Dazai had been obsessed with them and was thoroughly upset when you refused to make them every time he asked. 

He salivates a bit at the thought and decides to get a head start on his guilt tripping, making his way over to where you’re sitting. A smile unconsciously pulls at his lips when he sees you sitting a few seats away. Your back is facing him, but he can see you’re focused on your computer, typing furiously with earbuds plugged in your ears. He stumbles once more before kneeling on the seat behind yours, draping himself lazily over the back of it to rest his chin on the top of your head.

His lips part to make a complaint when he pauses, gaze focusing on what exactly it is that you’re doing on your laptop.

Are you on a… video call?

Dazai stares at the screen blankly, recognizing the several faces staring right back at him. Leo Tolstoy looks unbearably amused when he sees Dazai in the frame of the camera, hiding a smile with his hand. An older man who Dazai realizes is Carlo Goldoni raises his eyebrows, lips twitching. Mishima Yukio casually rubs at his lips, pretending he’s not smiling. There are three others, two men and a woman who Dazai doesn’t recognize—they must be new allies of the Port Mafia.

Well, Dazai thinks awkwardly, staring at the screen as he realizes that he just interrupted a meeting between you and several mob bosses. He doesn’t bother moving now, they’ve already seen him, and you don’t seem bothered, considering you don’t immediately shove his face out of view of the camera.

“I’ll contact you all when I’m available again to speak next week,” you say after a moment. “Thank you for meeting.”

You exit the call without waiting for them to answer, taking out the earbuds from your ears. Dazai lifts his chin when he feels you turning your head to look up at him. He gives you a sheepish smile. 

“Did I interrupt?” he asks quietly. 

“No,” you reply. “We’re almost here anyway.”

Dazai shuffles around to sit across from you, resting his arms on the table and his head on top of them. He looks up at you, eyes still a bit droopy from whatever you drugged him with. Your lips curl up into a soft smile, and warmth spreads through Dazai’s chest at the sight of it. His cheeks heat up, so he hides them in his arms and peeks up at you. The smile on your lips becomes a bit fonder, you place your arms on the table, mimicking him, and then rest your head down like he did, peeking up at him the same way as he is at you.

It’s a simple action. A nothing action, really. You’re just mimicking him. Teasing him for being flustered. He doesn’t know why his chest suddenly feels like it's about to cave in. He doesn’t know why he suddenly wants to cry. He doesn’t know why he’s so suddenly and violently reminded of how much he loves you. 

Maybe it’s just because he’s missed you these past few weeks.

“Happy birthday,” you whisper. 

A lump that’s shaped suspiciously like his heart forms in his throat as he looks up at you. He hides his smile behind his arms and says quietly, “You kidnapped me.” Then adds belatedly, “Again.”

“I did,” you agree, eyes glittering with amusement. “It’s a bit of a tradition now, don’t you think?”

“Where are we going?” he asks curiously, hand creeping forward to try to grab yours. He pokes your arm twice; you raise your eyebrows before realizing what he wants and putting your hand in his. Dazai’s fingers slide to your wrist to press against your pulse, feeling the familiar, even thrums and matching his own heartrate to to them.

“To a foreign countryside so I can kill you and dump your body,” you say without pause.

Dazai snorts, lifting your hand to his lips so he can kiss your palm, lashes fluttering shut when your fingers brush over his cheekbone. He says dreamily, “A woman after my own heart.” 

“You’re such a freak,” you say fondly.

“Your freak,” he corrects with a flirty smile before setting your joined hands back down on the table. “I can’t believe you kidnapped me again. And drugged me. I still feel a bit woozy, y’know? How are you going to make it up to me?” 

“A one week escape from work isn’t enough?” you ask dryly.

“Nope,” he agrees, popping the ‘p’. “How about you make me those sweet buns you used to make this week? I haven’t had them in ages, I miss them.”

You squint at him, leaning back in your seat but leaving your hand in his. “Maritozzi?” you ask, and Dazai faintly recognizes the name from back then, so he nods. “What flavor?” 

Dazai pauses and then asks, “Strawberry? Or lemon?” 

“Both?” you offer.

His eyes widen slightly. He didn’t expect you to give in so quickly. Back when you guys were teenagers, he’d whine and ask you to make them and it would turn into a six hour argument of him insisting that he deserves them and you refusing him. 

“That was easier than I expected,” he admits sheepishly. 

“It’s your birthday,” you say like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Again, Dazai’s heart flutters, and he squeezes your hand gently. “The first one we’ve celebrated together in four years. We can stop to get the ingredients on the way to the house.”

The house. Where is it that you’re taking him? Dazai’s mind bounces around with potential answers—far enough that you had to take him on a plane, but not so far that he’s just woken up and its already begun its descent. Dazai has a quick metabolism and a high tolerance for most drugs. You know this and probably would’ve accounted for it, but there’s a large margin of error. You don’t know if his metabolism has gotten quicker or slower over the years apart, and you don’t know if his tolerance has weakened, so you probably didn’t want to risk pushing the dosage anymore than you would’ve four years ago.

Which probably puts the time at… four hours after you injected him? Which would make sense from the position of the sun in the sky. Probably took forty minutes from injection to take off between getting him here and getting everything settled. So a three hour flight? About? Where would that leave you guys? Seoul? No, it couldn’t be—there were no cities anywhere in sight. One of the northern islands then?

“You didn’t answer my question,” he whines. “Where are we going?” 

You hesitate for a moment like you don’t want to tell him, but he pouts and widens his eyes in the way that always makes you give in. You roll your eyes at him exagerratedly, and he gives you a sweet smile in response.

“A property up in Hokkaido,” you finally say. Dazai is smug, realizing his deductions were right, until you continue speaking. “It’s near a small village. Pretty. Me and Chuuya scoped it out and bought it a couple of months ago just to have.”

What. Dazai stares at you blankly, and you tilt your head to the side in confusion, unsure why he suddenly closed off. He narrows his eyes at you, willing away the bitterness that suddenly swells in his chest. It’s sharp and sour, and he definitely doesn’t like it, but when he tries to push it away, it only intensifies. 

“You bought property with Chuuya,” he asks flatly. “You’re taking me to a property that you bought with the slug.”

You roll your eyes. “Stop that,” you say immediately. “I’m taking you to a property that I scoped out because I wanted to bring you here. Chuuya jumped on and offered to pay for half because he wanted a place to escape to outside the city.”

Dazai squints at you, and you raise your eyebrows challengingly. He immediately huffs and looks away, stomach lurching when the plane begins the final part of the descent to the ground. He decides to change the subject instead of pressing, maybe he’ll whine about it some more later.

“So,” he says slowly, voice dropping just enough to catch your attention from the way you tilt your head to the side. “You’ve kidnapped me away from the Agency… to bring me to a house in the middle of nowhere… and decided not to tell me about it until now…”

You hum in response, eyes narrowing, and Dazai leans closer over the table separating the two of you, lips curling up into a lecherous smirk that has you rolling your eyes. You already know what’s coming, but you must let him have his fun on his birthday.

“And we’ll be there for… how long again?”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, seemingly intent on staring out the window. “A week.”

Dazai whistles, leaning back in his seat again. His eyes rove over you—it's been a hot minute since the two of you have been able to do anything intimate. He hasn’t even seen you in a few weeks. And before that, most days, you’re either too exhausted or he’s too in his own head about things to get in the mood. But this… Seven days. No work. No people interrupting. No reason to spiral in his own head. His lips unconsciously pull into another small smile, teeth scraping his tongue as his gaze lingers on the top few buttons of your dress shirt—they’re undone, just low enough for him to see a hint of…

You clear your throat. Dazai’s gaze snaps back up to your face. He gives you an innocent smile that makes you roll your eyes at him again. 

“Pervert,” you accuse.

“Yeah,” Dazai breaths out, voice a bit raspy as he lifts your hand back to his lips. He kisses your knuckles and then the inside of your wrist, gaze flickering back up to your eyes. “I’m going to take advantage of this week.”

The corner of your mouth twitches like you’re fighting off a smile. “Oh, I counted on it.”

Dazai lets go of your wrist when the plane lands. He watches you tuck your hand back into your lap, pulling your phone out to shoot a text to someone before sliding it back into your pocket. His eyes stay on you as the plane rolls to a stop, watching the way the sunlight dances across your cheekbones. You look beautiful—always do—but you’ll look more beautiful tonight when he has you underneath him.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you tell him flatly as you rise to your feet. Dazai follows after you, standing too close, and when he leans down to ghost his lips to your neck, you swat at his head, but he immediately dodges and then drapes himself over your shoulders obnoxiously. “Osamu.”

Dazai lets his full body weight rest on you. You stumble forward, trying to walk toward the exit of the plane, but fail miserably because you’re dragging his dead weight with you. His lips curl up into a smile when he hears your frustrated groan, arms tightening around you.

“Get off of me, you freak,” you complain. “Walk on your own.”

“But I’m still so woozy,” he sighs dramatically. “You drugged me, take accountability and carry me to the car before I pass out and hit my head and die on my birthday. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

He pouts against your skin, nipping your neck for a second before resting his forehead in the crook of it, right next to the small mark he just left. Vision obscured, he misses the way you motion for the pilot, who had come out to lower the steps to the ground, to grab him until he feels two hands around his waist lifting him off the ground. Dazai yelps and flails, trying to figure out what exactly just happened, and blanches when he realizes he’s being held princess style by a grown man.

“Watanabe-san, please make sure Osamu makes it down the steps safely. We wouldn’t want him to pass out and hit his head and die on his birthday, would we?” you say with a sweet smile.

“Of course not, hime,” the man replies gruffly. 

Mortified, Dazai tries to worm out of the man’s arms, but his grip is too tight. He looks at you, betrayed, but you’re only fighting giggles as you make your way over to the car waiting on the tarmac, leaving him in the arms of this man.

By the time he makes it to the sleek black car waiting for the two of you, Dazai’s face is flaming red. The moment he’s placed on the ground, he throws himself into the car and turns his back to you. You laugh and climb in after him, pressing your lips to his shoulder.

“I hate you,” he whines. 

“I love you too.”

---------

Dazai naps once the two of you get to the house, so you focus on getting everything together to make the maritozzi in the morning. You don’t really like making it—the pastries make you upset. Or, well, it’s not the pastries that make you upset, but the fact that every time you make them, you get this strange, aching feeling in your chest—a sense of deja vu so strong that it nearly brings you to your knees.

Your hands always remember what to do, even when your mind doesn’t. You knead the dough with a practiced ease that doesn’t feel like it belongs to you. You know exactly how much flour to dust on the board, how warm the milk should be, how to press your thumb into the dough to check if it’s ready. 

It’s muscle memory, maybe.

You sigh as you rest your hands on the kitchen counter. You plan to start baking in the morning, but you already feel that… odd feeling spreading through you, both sharp and tender at the same time. A homesickness for a place you can’t name. Grief for people you don’t remember.  It happens every time: a flicker of something just out of reach. A child’s gleeful laugh, a pair of warm hands guiding yours, a whispered promise that isn’t kept.

You lay your head in your arms for a moment, eyes sliding shut. You can never get the maritozzi right, regardless of how hard you try. You don’t know what you’re doing wrong, or even what’s wrong with them at all, but you know it’s not right. You hate making them. Each time, you can’t help the hope that swells in your chest that maybe this time will be different. Maybe you’ll get it right. 

Each time you’re disappointed. 

And yet, here you are again trying.

The things you do for love.

You feel a familiar pair of arms wrap around your waist from behind, hands slipping beneath your shirt. Dazai drapes himself over your back, pinning you to the counter. He sighs softly as he kisses the nape of your neck and your shoulder before burying his face in the crook of your neck. 

“Good morning, sleepy head,” you whisper softly, a smile pulling on your lips as you lift a hand to rest it on the top of his head. You feel his heartbeat thrumming against your back, and his fingers tracing absent patterns on your stomach. “You were tired.”

“You’ve been away for a few weeks,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your neck. You feel him yawn before nuzzling his face against your skin, eyes sliding shut. “I wasn’t sleeping well.”

“My apologies,” you say with faux remorse. “How dare I go away for work and mess up your sleeping schedule.”

He hums in agreement. “A crime worthy of capital punishment, honestly,” he says, and you feel him smile softly, kissing your neck again. You let out a breathy sigh and instinctively tilt your head to the side to give him more room. “I had to sleep without my favorite pillow. You know, the soft, warm, breathing one that makes cute little noises when I kiss her neck.”

“Oh, shut up,” you scowl, but the expression quickly fades when you feel him trailing slow kisses up your neck, deliberately lingering just below your ear.

“How are you ever going to make it up to me?” he whispers playfully before he nips your skin. 

You ignore his noise of complaint when you shift in his arms so that you can face him, resting your hands on his hips as you look up at him through your lashes. You give him a sweet smile before saying, “I can think of a few ways.”

“Oh yeah,” Dazai drawls, lips curling up into a lazy smirk as his fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt again. “Is this the part where you beg for forgiveness?”

“Oh?” you hum, leaning in to ghost your lips against his jaw, kissing slowly to his ear as you murmur, “You want me to beg?”

He lets out a soft groan when you nip his skin. “I want you to convince me you’re sorry for leaving me to suffer all alone,” he corrects, breathing a little heavier when you start to kiss down the column of his throat. His voice catches over his words as you slide down the sweatpants he changed into and lower yourself to your knees in front of him. “Oh, fuck.”

“You poor thing,” you say softly, leaning in to press a kiss to his hip bone. “All alone for weeks. I bet you were just aching without me.”

“I—” His voice breaks into a groan as your mouth trails lower down the line of his ‘v’, lashes fluttering as he rests his hands back onto the counter and glances up at the ceiling before looking back down at you. His pupils are blown wide, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them before. “You have no idea.”

“I think I have an idea,” you say more to yourself than to him, a teasing smile playing at your lips as you finally lift your hand to stroke his leaky cock. His hips jerk instinctively, he twitches in your hand like he’s already on the verge of finishing, and you lift your gaze. His chest is heaving, pink lips swollen and parted, head tilted back as he looks up at the ceiling again, desperately trying to gain control of himself.

God, you love him. You’ve loved him for years, since you were sixteen, even if you only started acknowledging the depths of your feelings for him when you were eighteen. He was always so flighty and unpredictable, you never expected one day he’d be yours the way he is now. You’ll never let him go now. You’ve missed him these past few weeks apart much more than you realized. 

“I would do terrible things for you, Osamu,” you tell him softly, running your thumb over his tip just so you can hear the way he keens. “You’re mine.”

“Yours,” he pants. You’re not even sure if he fully hears what you say, already lost in the haze of pleasure, and you don’t really care. “Please.”

You don’t look away from him for a second as you take his tip into your mouth, flattening your tongue against his slit to lap up all of the precum that had beaded there. He lets out a ragged groan, but you can’t see his face, so you lift your hand to grab one of his and tug to get his attention.

His head falls forward, bangs falling in his eyes as he looks down at you. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he breathes heavily, gaze entirely unfocused as need quickly fogs and dismantles the cogs of his quick brain. Having gotten what you wanted, you try to slip your hand free to hold his hips again, but his grip on your hand tightens, refusing to let go.

You hum softly, entwining your fingers with his instead as you slowly take him deeper into your mouth. His eyes half-roll back when his tip hits the back of your throat and your tongue presses against the vein on the underside of his cock. He almost lets his head fall back again, but your grip on his hand keeps him grounded to you. Even as fucked out as he is with his cock deep down your throat and your nails tracing patterns on his inner thighs, he manages to keep his gaze mostly locked to yours.

“I—haaah, fuck—you feel s’good,” he slurs, free hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. He lets you set the pace, and you pick a slow and steady one that you know kills him. You want to see how long he can last before he snaps. “I—so many nights…”

His sentences are garbled and mostly unintelligible. It makes you happy—you’re glad he lets his brain shut off when he’s with you like this. He used to try so hard to maintain control that you could tell it was stressing him out when he was supposed to be feeling good, but he doesn’t bother with the pretenses anymore, letting everything crumble away the moment he has you in bed with him. Or, in this case, in the middle of the kitchen. 

You can’t respond, so you resign to letting out a soft hum of acknowledgment; the vibrations make him whimper, cock twitching in your mouth as he gnaws on his bottom lip, desperately trying not to cum so quickly. You can feel his thighs tense beneath your touch as holds himself back from fucking your face.

Your gaze traces his face, catching sight of the red flush of his cheeks, his wet lips, the way his expression is all twisted—he’s so pretty, so you decide to have a bit of mercy on him. 

Plus, it is still his birthday after all.

You lift your hand to tap his hip twice, signaling to him that he can take control if he wants, and the effect is immediate. His eyes snap open fully, glassy and wild with need, and then he moves. 

His grip on your hand tightens just a bit, and the hand on the back of your head slips down to cup your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your lips, tracing how they’re stretched around his cock. He rocks his hips forward once—slowly, like he’s testing the waters, worried that you might change your mind, but you stay still and pliant, looking up at him through your lashes imploringly.

“Fuck,” he breathes out again. “Love you. So good to me. Always been so good to me.”

He thrusts again, this time deeper, more sure of himself, and you relax your throat for him, letting him set the rhythm. It's not rough or frantic—not yet—just a slow, needy grind of someone who���s waited for this too long. His hand slides back to cup the back of your head as he starts to pick up the pace; you gag a little on his cock, eyes tearing up, but you squeeze his hand encouragingly, telling him silently to continue. To give you more. 

He does.

He rolls his hips forward sharply, cock thrusting deeper, harder, and you take it, eyes fluttering shut for just a second as your throat stretches around him. His thighs tremble under your hands, breath ragged as he fucks your throat. The noises in the kitchen—his low groans, the way you’re choking on his cock, each wet, sloppy thrust into your mouth—it makes your head all foggy, heat pooling in your lower stomach. 

His free hand comes back to your jaw, thumb swiping at the drool spilling from the corner of your mouth before he squeezes your cheeks gently to feel his cock sliding in and out of your mouth. Your jaw aches, your throat burns, and still, you stay there, tears spilling freely down your cheeks, because he’s close. You can feel it. His thigh tenses under your palm, his fingers tighten around yours, his rhythm stutters and takes a more erratic turn, and his voice breaks on your name, groans shifting into pitched moans.

“Haah,” he gasps, hips jerking. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, please, please, baby, I—I’m gonna—”

Your nose is flush to his pubic hair as he cums deep down your throat—his cum tastes so familiar, too salty, after all of these years, he still hasn’t taken your advice of a better diet. Hazily, you remind yourself to scold him about it later, but right now, you’re too focused on trying not to choke over him, swallowing the copious amounts of cum he spilled into your mouth as he trembles above you violently, still feeling the aftershocks of the intense orgasm.

When he finally pulls out, he drops to his knees in front of you, hands cupping your cheeks as he leans in, kissing you deeply. He kisses you like he’s trying to devour you—claim you, even, like he hasn’t already, like you haven’t been his since the moment the two of you met. His breath is uneven, chest heaving, and there’s a flicker of something wild in his eyes as he pulls back to look at you, eyes roving over you. His eyes slide shut again as he rests his forehead against yours.

“You’re everything,” he whispers, hands sliding down to your sides as he ghosts his lips against yours. “God, you’re everything. You have no idea what you do to me.” 

You lift your hands to cup his cheeks, pressing your lips to his again. You toy with the tips of his hair as your lips slide messily against his, letting out a soft moan when his hand slides to the small of your back, pulling your body flush to his. His hands dip lower, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your cotton shorts, and you smile against his lips. 

“I’m not fucking you on the kitchen floor,” you say, leaning back slightly. He chases your lips to kiss you again, a hazy smile on his lips as he gives you a half-lidded look.

“It would be hot though,” he murmurs, nipping at your bottom lip before letting out a low groan against your skin, dragging his lips from your jaw to your ear. You let out a shaky breath when his fingers slide down to your panties, pressing his finger down on your clit through thin silk and moaning again. “Have you face down, nails clawing against the tile, pinned between me and the floor—nowhere to go, can only take it.”

“Jesus, Osamu,” you say shakily, eyes sliding shut as his fingers curl into your hair, pulling your head back so he can kiss down your neck, kisses wet and lingering as he sucks at your skin. He traces slow circles around your clit, and your grip on his shoulders tightens as you try to ground yourself. “Not the kitchen floor.”

“Such a bore,” he complains. “Ruining my fun. It’s still my birthday, y’know?”

Before you can retort, Dazai’s hands drop to your thighs, and you yelp as he rises to his feet, bringing you with him. Sometimes you forget how strong Dazai is—it’s easy when he constantly acts like he’s helpless and drowns himself in long jackets and loose clothes. He used to be able to go blow-for-blow with Chuuya in combat, and although you know damn well he hasn’t kept up his training, you can feel the lean muscles of his biceps beneath his sweatshirt.

Your grip tightens on them; he’s still mouthing at your neck as he carries you into the back bedroom. You whisper softly, “You are so…”

When you don’t finish, Dazai nips your neck playfully and finishes, “Handsome? Charming? The image of your deepest, darkest desires?” 

Usually, you would roll your eyes at him, but this time, you gasp, “Yeah. Yeah, you are.”

He nudges the door open with his foot before kicking it shut. He sets you down gently on the bed, pushing you back until your back is flat and hovering above you to steal another kiss. This one is slow and lazy as he settles above you on his elbows, tongue running along your bottom lip, and fingers dragging over your ribs reverently. You think you could kiss him forever and never get sick of it.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only by an inch, his eyes are half-lidded, and his breath is warm against your lips as he looks down at you. 

“Still with me?” he murmurs, thumb circling your hip bone.

“Always,” you answer quietly.

His eyes soften as he looks down at you, lifting his hand from your hip so he can cup the side of your face. You lean into his touch, lashes fluttering shut momentarily as you bask in the familiar warmth of his skin. 

“Thank you,” he whispers.

You give him a hazy smile as you look back up at him. “For what?” you ask, voice teasing, but Dazai’s smile only softens even more. He runs his thumb over your bottom lip, and you nip at it playfully.

“Everything.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to question him, leaning down to press his lips to yours again. This kiss is chaster than the last, like he just wants to savor in the taste of you rather than outright devour you. His thumb traces soft circles over your cheek, and his other hand slides down your body to your thigh, hiking your leg over his waist so he can slot his hips between your legs.

He kisses you and holds you so gently that you forget to breathe until your lungs start burning. When you push at his shoulder to get some air, he immediately leans down to keep kissing your neck, sliding your shirt up, and tapping you to beckon you to lift your shoulders so he can pull it off. 

Once he has it off and flings it to the side, he leans back to let his eyes roam your body. His pupils are blown wide, and his fingers are a bit shaky; he slides them down your body, tracing your figure like he’s worshiping it. 

“You are so beautiful,” he whispers more to himself than to you. “Divine. The kind of beauty that drives saints to sin and kings to kneel. You make the stars look dim, and the heavens seem dull. I still can’t believe you’re mine. There’s nothing that I wouldn’t do for you.”

“My god, Dazai,” you laugh, face heating up at his words. “A bit over the top with the poetry tonight, aren’t you?”

“Not nearly,” he says, voice low and serious as his gaze lifts back to your face. He repeats softly, “No, not nearly.”

Your throat swells as you look up at him, and he runs his knuckles across your cheek before trailing his fingers down your face. His thumb presses heavily against your bottom lip, and you give him a kittish smile before taking it into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the digit as you look up at him through your lashes.

His breath catches, and you hum around his finger when he presses down slightly on your tongue, rolling your hips up to grind against his clothed cock. He murmurs, voice strained, “You drive me insane.”

“Oh yeah?” you press, voice breathy. “Prove it?” 

He kisses slowly to your collarbone, making sure to leave marks on his way down. “Gladly,” he rasps, swiping his tongue along your collarbone before biting over the bone lightly. 

“You’re going to leave so many marks,” you complain, breath hitching when he slowly rocks his hips against yours. He’s already hard again; you can feel him through the thin material of your panties, and you want him desperately. Your walls clench around nothing, and the heat pooling in your stomach has your thighs trembling. “Shit, Osamu, will you just—”

“Good thing I have you to myself all week,” he croons, a smug smirk on his lips as he kisses down your chest to the swell of your breasts. He lets out a shaky puff of air as he pulls back just a bit to get an eyeful of your tits before his lips wrap around your nipple. He moans against you as he rolls it between his teeth, lifting his free hand to grope your other breast. Your back arches up as you press yourself into his touch, a keen escaping your lips. “Gonna mark you up all over, you won’t even have to hide them.”

“Please,” you gasp, head falling back against the pillows. “Please, Osamu, I—”

You choke over your words when you feel him slide your panties down your legs. He pulls his lips off your nipple with a pop before trailing wet kisses back up your chest until his face is hovering above yours. His thumb slips from your mouth so that he can pinch your chin between his fingers, forcing you to look him in the eye.

“Please, what?” he hums insufferably. “C’mon, baby, use your words.”

“You’re so—” You start to reply irritably, only to whimper when he rolls his hips again.

“So what?” he presses, giving you a cocky smile as he taps your cheek twice to get your attention again. “What am I? You’re so cute, I’ve barely done anything, and you’re already so close to finishing.”

“I hate you. I—haaaah, shit—” you moan, but your lashes flutter shut as Dazai slides his fingers between your wet folds. “Osamu—”

He lets out a ragged breath, hot against your skin. “Shit, baby, you’re drenched,” he groans. “All this just from letting me fuck your face? Fuck, I love you. Tell me what you need. Tell me. I want to hear you say it. It’s my birthday.”

“Fuck me,” you gasp, lifting trembling hands to cup his cheeks. “Please, fuck me, Osamu.”

“God, I love hearing you beg,” he breathes out, nipping at your jaw before his lips drag hot and slow up to your ear. “Love seeing you all worked up for me. Only I get to see you like this, yeah?”

His teeth graze your ear lobe, and you exhale shakily, shivering under his touch. He laughs softly, infuriatingly pleased with himself, and you can’t even hit him with a snide comment like you usually would, because your whole body shudders when you feel his cock slide between your folds.

“You don’t even know how good you look right now,” he goes on, voice low and smooth as he traces his fingers down your body again. 

The noise you let out is embarrassing, something caught between a whine and a gasp of his name when he presses the tip of his cock to your entrance. Your hips jerk up, desperate for him to sink inside you again, but he holds your hips down. It’s been weeks since the two of you have done anything together, and your body is falling apart just at the idea of having him deep inside you again. 

“Please,” you whisper again, voice coming out more of a whine than anything else. “Osamu, it’s been so long, I—”

Dazai doesn’t let you finish your sentence. The words are knocked from your lungs when he snaps his hips forward, thrusting deep inside you. Your hands slide underneath his sweatshirt, nails raking down his back as you writhe beneath him. His eyes are half-lidded as he looks down at you, and you’re pleased to realize he’s just as much of a mess as you. His lips are pink and swollen, his face is flushed, hair matted to his forehead, and dark eyes unfocused. He looks beautiful.

You love him. You’ve always loved him, but it hits you so suddenly that it makes your chest ache. You surge upwards to press your lips against his, and Dazai moans into your mouth, rocking his hips against yours suddenly as he presses you back down into the mattress, tongues sliding together messily. Each thrust is deep and even, less like he’s trying to chase release and more like he’s just savoring in the feeling of being with you like this again. 

“Osamu,” you beg, and you don’t really know what you’re begging for, but your lashes suddenly feel wet, and he’s lifting one hand to wipe tears you didn’t realize were falling over your cheeks. “Osamu, I—”

Your words break into a moan when Dazai thrusts just a little harder, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision go white at the edges. Dazai ghosts his lips against yours, laughing breathlessly. 

“Aw, baby, you missed me, didn’t you?” His voice is teasing as he brushes kisses across your face, deceptively gentle when compared to the way he’s fucking the air right out of your lungs with every thrust. “I missed you too, we’ve both been so busy lately… Didn’t even know if you’d have time today with everything going on.”

Even with your brain fogged with pleasure, you can hear the brief waver of insecurity in his tone. You lift your hands up to cup his cheeks between your hands, forcing him to look you in the eye.

“Always have time for you,” you tell him softly. “Especially today.”

Dazai’s throat bobs at your words, and instead of responding, he buries his face in the crook of your neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin as he picks up the pace of his thrusts. The room is filled with the lewd sounds of skin-on-skin, breathless moans, and his cock driving in and out of your cunt. You gasp his name, hips bucking up to meet his, both of you now chasing release. 

You’re so close that it hurts, abdomen coiled tight and thighs so tense that they’re shaking around his waist. When he slips his hand between you to rub tight circles on your clit, you finally fall apart. His name spills from your lips and your vision whitens at the edges, you let out a ragged sob that he swallows with a kiss as he fucks you through your high, gasping your name like a prayer over and over again. He’s close, too—you can feel it in the way his rhythm falters and how his breath hitches over every chant of your name.

Your walls spasm around him as he chases your high, pleasure shifting into overstimulation as he uses your body for himself now. You hiccup over a sob as your whole body squirms beneath him, but he holds you down, fucking you so hard that your body jolts further up the bed with each thrust. Your vision darkens at the edges a bit, your head feels woozy, and it’s when you really feel the pinpricks of numbness spreading from your fingertips up to your arms, that he finally finishes, burying himself deep inside you as he cums with a low, broken moan of your name. 

He doesn’t move for a long moment, just breathing hard against your shoulder, body trembling above yours. He finally lifts his head, and with a lazy, sated grin, he says, “What a birthday gift.”

You roll your eyes at him, but the smile that curls at your lips is fond.

“I love you,” you whisper, reaching up to caress his face, thumb running along his cheekbone. “Happy birthday.”

“I love you,” he replies softly, eyes sliding shut as he kisses your palm. “Thank you.”

---------

You wake up early the next morning to make the maritozzi for Dazai. He’s still fast asleep in bed next to you by the time you wake up, tangled in the sheets and curled into your warmth. Slipping out of bed without waking him is no easy feat—he’s always clingy in the mornings, even more so when he’s exhausted. You know he hasn’t been sleeping well these past few weeks you’ve been away, and the last thing you want is to disturb the rare peace he’s found.

So, for a while, you stay. You hum softly under your breath, fingers trailing gently through his hair in slow, soothing strokes. It takes nearly half an hour before his grip on you slackens enough for you to ease out of his arms and tiptoe into the kitchen.

You’ve been up for a few hours now. Dazai is still sleeping, surprisingly; you underestimated just how tired he was. Usually, you can slip out of bed, but he’ll come wandering in, looking for you within the hour. His sleep rarely lasts when you’re not in bed with him. 

The pastries are almost done now; though, you just took them out to cool, and you've put together a little basket for when they’re done. You think maybe you’ll drag him outside to eat. He needs to get some sun; all he’s been doing the past few months is rotting away in your apartment or his. 

You hum softly to yourself as you grab a blanket out of the closet, folding it before placing it next to the basket. You need to clean still, too, but—

You jump slightly when you feel a pair of arms wrap around your waist. Dazai’s familiar weight settles on your back as he leans on you, burying his face in the crook of your neck to kiss your skin gently before resting his chin on your shoulder.

“Cheater,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “Making my favorite, so I can’t be mad at you for sneaking out of bed. So unfair.”

You smile to yourself, looking to the side so you can see him. He still looks sleepy—his eyes are drooping shut and his breathing is heavy, but the bags beneath his eyes are lighter, if only a little. You lift up your hand so you can cup the side of his face before leaning in to press your lips against his cheek.

“Good morning,” you say quietly. “You slept for a while.”

His eyes slide shut when your lips brush his skin. “Come back to bed,” he whispers. “Lay with me a little longer.”

“I need to finish cleaning,” you tell him, ignoring the way he pushes his bottom lip out dramatically; he looks stupid pouting so hard with his eyes closed. Your chest bubbles with warmth. “It’ll be annoying to clean the cream after it hardens in the bowl.”

His eyes fly open at that, gaze suddenly sharp as he scans the counter. He lights up when he sees the two bowls on the counter in front of you, giving you imploring eyes and a sweet smile. You roll your eyes at him.

“You’re such a child,” you insult fondly, but you do reach forward to scoop up some of the leftover cream onto your finger, lifting it to his lips. Dazai immediately wraps his lips around the digit, sucking the thick cream right off your finger and moaning obnoxiously. 

“Strawberry,” he says approvingly after he pulls his lips off your finger with a loud pop. He gives you a sharp smile before saying, “You taste better though. My favorite type of c—”

“Stop,” you interrupt before he can finish the sentence. He pouts again, but then presses a slow kiss to the back of your neck. You sigh, leaning into his touch despite yourself, and he hums softly as he rocks the two of you back and forth slowly, resting his forehead on the top of your head. You rest your hand over one of his, eye sliding shut and then admit, “I’ve missed you a lot.”

“It’s been a long three weeks,” he agrees softly. “I wish Mori would start sending someone else to handle business abroad.”

“I wish you could come with me,” you say with a frown. “The only time you’ve ever left the country, you were thrown in prison. There’s so many places I want to bring you.”

“You don’t know that,” he says petulantly. “I could’ve left during the two years I was underground.”

“Did you?”

“... No.”

“Do you like arguing for the sake of arguing?” you ask dryly, but you find yourself smiling fondly. 

“Where do you want to take me?” he asks instead of answering the question, arms tightening around you. “Hmm? Tell me.”

Your lips part to list off all of your favorite travel destinations. Paris, the City of Love—Dazai would be horrendously obnoxious there with you, but he would love it, so it would probably be one of the first places you brought him. The Yucatán Peninsula too, you think, and maybe Egypt—he had a whole phase back when the two of you were teenagers where he would spend hours a day researching ancient civilizations, watching people explore old ruins with a pout and complaining incessantly about being stuck in Yokohama. You want to bring him to Zhuhai one day to show him the Chimelong Ocean Kingdom, but Qu Yuan and Cao Xueqin have been fighting for territory there for almost two years now so it won’t be any time soon.

But you don’t say anything, because your gaze draws back to the mess of bowls on the counter and then to where the maritozzi are cooling. More than anything, you want to bring him to a home that no longer exists. A home you don’t even remember. You don’t know why you’ve been yearning so badly for it lately; you went years without thinking of your past before you met Mori, not even once had it crossed your mind in that time, but over the last few months, it's crossed your mind frequently. You swear that you can feel familiar arms wrapping around you, a laugh that makes your chest ache that you can’t quite place; you find yourself looking up at the stars, and you can almost hear whispers of a voice you should know laying next to you, telling you all the stories of the constellations.

Dazai seems to recognize something is wrong, because he lifts his hand to your chin to tilt your face up and to the side so that your gaze lands on his. He frowns slightly, running his thumb over your skin before he says, “Dance with me?” 

“Dance?” you ask, trying to laugh but it comes out too forced. Dazai only gives you a sweet smile in return before he spins you around to face him, one hand resting on your waist while the other reaches for yours, entwining his fingers with yours as he starts spinning to a song only he can hear, dragging you along with him as he dances the two of you around the island in the kitchen. “You’re so cheesy.”

“I prefer romantic,” he disagrees as he spins you beneath his arm, dipping you down slightly and holding you there for a moment so he can lean in and place an obnoxiously loud kiss right on your nose. “Isn’t this romantic?” 

You laugh again, and this one is more genuine as you look up at him. His dark eyes are a warm golden color beneath the morning light, sickeningly soft as he looks down at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters to him. Your throat suddenly feels too tight, and his lips curl up into a soft smile as he places another kiss on your face, this time on your lips.

He lifts you from the dip, and you slip your hand from his so you can hook both of your arms loosely around his neck. His hands settle on your hips as the two of you continue to sway slowly to an imaginary song. 

“Why don’t you like baking them?” he asks quietly. It’s a question you know he’s been dying to know the answer to for years; you’re surprised it took him this long to ask.

Your gaze lowers. “I think… my mother was the one who taught me how to bake them,” you say softly. “I can never get them right. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

Dazai doesn’t say anything right away. His hold on you tightens just the slightest bit as he rests his forehead against yours. Your lips press together and your eyes sting with sudden tears. You think about how your hands move automatically through the steps, how your heart always sinks when they come out just a little too dense or the cream doesn’t taste quite right. It’s like there’s a version of the pastry that lives in your memory—light, sweet, perfect—and no matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to recreate it. 

Like it belonged to another life. Another version of you. One that was pure, sweet, gentle, and this one doesn’t deserve it.

This version of you has seen too much, done too much. You carry too many shadows in your heart and have too much blood under your fingernails. You were softer then—before the Great War, before Mori, before the Port Mafia.  Every time you make them, you’re reminded that you’ll never be that girl again. The one that exists now… you don’t even know if she can be considered human by most people. The pastries don’t come out right because they’re not meant to. You no longer know how to make something so sweet. You don’t deserve something so gentle.

You suddenly understand why you’ve been thinking so much of your past.

Your gaze flickers up to Dazai as he lifts his hands to cradle your face between his hands. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, catching the tear before it can fall. He gives you a small, sad smile before he asks quietly, “This isn’t about the pastries, is it?”

You try to look away but he doesn’t let you. Your voice is barely a rasp as you say, “They’re not right. They don’t—”

I’m not right. I don’t know if I deserve this.

“They’re yours,” he murmurs, cutting you off before you can finish what you’re about to say. He leans in to press his lips against your temple. “They’re perfect to me.”

You’re you. You’re perfect to me.

“It’s not what I want to give you,” you insist. Your voice cracks, much to your horror. You turn your face into his shoulder, not wanting him to see the tears that threaten to spill. “I feel like I’m holding you back, Osamu. That you’ll never be able separate yourself from your past as long as you’re with me, and you’ll never believe in your own goodness when you come home to me every night. I don’t want to be the reason you can never accept that you’ve fulfilled Oda’s last request.”

Dazai’s smile is unbearably soft as he gently pulls your face from his shoulder and forces you to look at him again. His gaze darts up to the basket you started putting together on the table and he asks quietly, “Did you want to eat breakfast outside?” 

You nod, swallowing thickly.

“C’mon,” he nudges you. “Let’s finish getting it all together and go eat. We can talk out there.”

---------

Dazai has never had a reason to live.

The first time he tried to kill himself, he was eleven. It was when his grandfather had started pitting his siblings and cousins against each other, and Dazai first started questioning why he was even alive. He had no ambition for power like his siblings, he had no passion for any hobbies like his mother, and he had no friends, not even his own family liked him. His mother found him slumped over in the bathroom and rushed him to the hospital—she made him swear to never do something like this again. He agreed, but his promise to her died when she did when he was fourteen. 

The second time he tried to kill himself, he was fourteen. His mother got caught trying to smuggle Dazai and his siblings out of his grandfather’s estate. Two of his siblings had already been killed by his cousins, and she was desperate to not lose anymore of her children. She got caught trying to escape with them, and his grandfather ordered his father to kill her. Dazai jumped from the rooftop that very night—that’s how he ended up in Mori’s clutches. 

He’s not sure how many times he tried to die from fourteen to fifteen. More than he can count, and they got progressively more violent and desperate over time. When he met Chuuya and then Odasaku, he found his first friends—although at the time, he’d never been able to fully bring himself to believe that they viewed him that way. Dazai slowed down on his attempts after meeting them; he didn’t fully stop, he just became more… passive with it. Attempts to blow himself up shifted into recklessness during missions; instead of drinking various poisons, he would drink copious amounts of alcohol until his skin was gray and clammy and the room started spinning. 

And then, he met you. 

And then, he met you.

Dazai’s lips curl up into a soft smile as he watches you set up all the stuff you’d prepared for breakfast. He keeps trying to sneak one of the maritozzi buns, but you catch him every time, slapping his hand away and giving him an accusing look. You’re still upset, but you’re a bit calmer now as you focus on something else.

You drove him mad. You drive him mad. You didn’t flinch at his barbed humor or the way he suddenly and irrationally tried to push you away after worming his way into your life. You never gave up when he deflected conversation with a smile or silence. You didn’t recoil from the mess that he was; you just acknowledged it like it was something as simple as the weather, accepting it, him, into your life so easily. You saw through the cocky facade and self-destruction, and you stayed anyway.

It terrified him. He couldn’t fathom it for years—you didn’t lecture him over his self-destructive tendencies, and you never pulled the whole ‘please, stop for me’ shit that he hated so much. You just sat with him. On the nights when his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and he couldn’t remember how many bottles he’d emptied, you were there. You didn’t touch him unless he asked, didn’t talk unless he initiated it, and over time, Dazai found himself relying on you in a way that scared him. 

After meeting you, for the first time in maybe his whole life, he started to want things again—small, stupid things, but things nonetheless. He wanted a morning that didn’t start with a hangover so he could wake up early and have coffee with you before you left for your meetings. He wanted to come back from a mission in one piece so he could watch a movie with you before laying down. He wanted to be able to sit beside you and not feel like a grenade with the pin halfway out, ready to take you out with him. Dazai has never believed that he deserved you, and a part of him almost wants to laugh when he realizes that you feel the same about him. 

He thinks back to the conversation he had with you a few months ago when you came back from Rome early to be with him, and he feels so silly.

“What are you thinking?” you ask quietly as you set the basket to the side, finally looking up at him, but only briefly. 

“Do you remember the conversation we had a few months ago? When you came back early from Rome?” 

You raise your eyebrows at him, and Dazai wiggles across the blanket so that he can sit beside you. He nudges your shoulder with his, beckoning you to look at him again. You turn your head to the side, gaze focusing on him. 

“Yeah,” you answer after a moment. “Of course.”

“It’s us,” he whispers. “It’s always been us.”

You look at him, tilting your head to the side. You press your lips together tightly, an expression on your face like you understand what he’s saying, but you think maybe you’re misunderstanding and don’t want to get your hopes up. You set the napkins in your hands down, and Dazai continues, voice low.

“I didn’t understand it then,” he admits quietly. “I think maybe I haven’t understood it until right now, but it’s us. My reason to live—it’s you and me, has been for years. Since we were sixteen. I—”

“Osamu,” you start to say, and your voice wavers. You want to believe him, but you’re scared of being disappointed, like maybe he’s just saying this in the spur of the moment to make you feel better.

He shifts to sit on his knees, grabbing your hands and pulling them into his lap, squeezing them tightly. He can feel your fingers shaking ever so slightly. 

“It’s true,” he insists. “Being with you… it gives me something to look forward to every day. You make me want things I didn’t think I could want. You make me feel things I didn’t think I was capable of feeling.”

He lifts one of your hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles and then your palm. His voice is shaking a bit now, but he continues. “You make me want to live. Not just survive. Not just keep breathing because I haven't figured out how to stop. Live. Really live. I want a future with you, I want—”

Dazai’s voice breaks, his grip tightens on your hand. Your eyes are wet with tears, and your lips are trembling, and Dazai loves you. He loves you so much that it makes him sick sometimes.

“I want to marry you,” he rasps. “I want to wake up every morning your husband. I want you to be my wife.”

He watches as you inhale deeply. He can feel your nails digging into his hands and it stings, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t realize just how much he means the words until he says them. And he realizes, a bit belatedly, that he doesn’t have a ring and this isn’t the proposal you deserve, but there’s so much hope in your eyes that he can’t take it back now.

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it, Osamu,” you whisper. “Please, don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

“I mean it.” He lets go of your hands to cup your cheeks. He lets out a broken laugh, blinking hard. “I’ve never been more certain of anything. You’re the only thing in my life that’s ever made sense. I want to live, and I want to live with you. As your husband. And I—I don’t have a ring. I didn’t plan this, I didn’t, uh, I didn’t think I was capable of ever asking anyone—of ever wanting this.”

He leans in to press his forehead to yours. He can taste the mint on your breath, and he can’t help himself from stealing a kiss, a brief brush of his lips against yours that makes his chest ache. 

“But I want it with you. I want to be yours in every way a person can belong to someone. And I want you to be mine,” he says softly, hands sliding down from your face to cradle your neck instead. “This—it isn’t me asking, okay? I want to get a ring, I want to do it right, make it special, but I want you to know, because there is no world where you’re ever holding me back. You’re what keeps me going, so whatever silly thoughts you have going on in that pretty head of yours, they need to stop, okay?”

You take in a ragged breath and lean forward, pressing your face into the crook of his neck, and Dazai pulls you into his lap, holding you close, one hand wrapped rightly around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head. He kisses the top of your head and lets out a long breath, a weight lifting from his chest. Your body fits against his like it always has, like you’re made to be here, curled in his arms with the early afternoon light painting you in gold. He shuts his eyes and buries his face in your hair, breathing in the familiar scent of your shampoo.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he finally murmurs, pressing his lips to your temple in a lingering kiss. “I don’t even fully understand it, but I know that I want you. I need you. You don’t have to change for me; you don’t have to be someone else for my sake. You as you are—it’s enough. You’re enough. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted; it doesn’t matter that you’re still with the Mafia and I’m with the Agency. None of that matters to me. What Odasaku asked of me… you being in my life doesn’t change anything. He’d never have wanted me to chase after his last request if it meant coming at the cost of you. Do you even know how many years he spent trying to get me to pull my head out of my ass and make a move on you? I think he was more relieved than either of us were when we finally got together.”

You let out a watery laugh, or maybe it’s a sob, Dazai can’t really tell, but he holds you a bit tighter, savoring in the feeling of having you in his arms. He thinks he could stay here forever if given the chance. Live a quiet life away from everything, just you, him and the rest of your lives together.

Maybe one day.

“I love you,” you whisper, brushing your lips against his throat before settling against him. The tension in your shoulders slowly dissipates, and you let out a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what got into me.”

He kisses the top of your head again. “Don’t apologize,” he says. “I love you too.”

The two of you bask in each others arms, relaxing beneath the early afternoon sun. He toys with your hair absently, running soothing circles on your upper back. After a few moments, he glances back on the maritozzi you’d pulled out of the basket.

“... Can I have one now?” he asks, giving you an imploring look when you pull back to give him a deadpan one. “Please. It’s literally been five years, do you know how much self control I’ve had the past hour?” 

Your lips curl up into a fond smile. “Fine.”

Dazai’s hand snatches out immediately before you can change your mind, shovelling the sweet bun into his mouth all at once. Your eyes shoot open in shock.

“Jesus Christ, Osamu,” you say, scrambling for a water bottle when he chokes over it. “What is wrong with you? My god, could you eat it normally?”

His eyes sting with tears, but he manages to give you a thumbs-up between coughs and wheezes. “So worth it,” he gasps, mouth-half-full, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk.

You hand him the water, watching with a mixture of horror and amusement as he gulps it down. You shake your head when he finally manages to swallow, muttering, “You’re insane.”

Dazai leans back with a dramatic groan, collapsing onto the blanket like he’s completed a Herculean task. He reaches out for your hand, entwining your fingers again and tugging you to lay on top of him. 

“So perfect,” he sighs dreamily, voice still a bit hoarse. He winks at you and gives you a flirty smile and then coos, “Just like the baker.”

“You’re so corny,” you complain, but you’re smiling when you look away from him.

“I’m so yours,” he corrects teasingly, kissing your knuckles.

Your smile softens. 

“You are,” you agree quietly, “and I’m yours.”

Yeah, Dazai thinks, an adoring expression on his face as you lean in to brush some of the cream at the corner of his mouth away with your thumb. Yeah, this is definitely all he ever needs.

[thetrasha]

Hi! I'm the one who asked for the Straw Hats' ideal types. I'm here to ask the same for other characters: Law, Ace, Sabo, Shanks, and anyone else you want; honestly, I'd read about anyone. Thanks for feeding me <3

Hello anon, thank you so much for your continous interest (●ˇ∀ˇ●) 💕 Glad you like my writing so much and shower me with compliments LOL And I'm so sorry for not replying sooner. I've been sick since Monday morning 🤡I'm still kind of feverish, but I'm recovering

Anyway, this was a lot of fun!!

Ideal Types

feat. LAW, ACE, SABO, SHANKS, BUGGY

Straw Hat crew's version here

LAW

Law needs someone who…

is honest, intelligent and kind

puts more weight behind their actions rather than their words

has a nerdy or geeky quirk

is willing to let him have his space and demands some independence of their own

Law can help you cope with these character flaws:

self-doubt

feelings of inadequacy

seeming cold-hearted (to others)

An absolute dealbreaker would be…

clinginess and being too emotional

Law sees you and knows, because you resemble him so much, that you’re misunderstood. You aren’t cold or arrogant, you’re just a little too… reserved. You naturally distrust people who haven’t proven themselves and he finds comfort in that, eager to do just that. And just like that, the image you’ve wrongfully earned yourself just melts away. Like him, you’re a deep thinker, introspective and self-critical without even trying but nonetheless very much skilled and a valuable addition to any crew. Law feels lucky to have you because it’s validating to have someone around who gets him, who understands every precarious situation and who’s able to see the bigger picture. You trust in his ability to make the right call, assisting him in every step of the way. You watch over him without expecting anything in return, you’re just loyal to a fault and want to show your gratitude. Your actions make him do a double take and he starts talking to you more often. And once your walls crumble, he realises that you’re actually… incredibly cute and kind of… what he’s been waiting for.

ACE

Ace needs someone who…

values family a lot; they need to love the Whitebeard Pirates and Luffy (and Sabo) unconditionally

lives in the moment, but regularly thinks about the past and the “what ifs” of life

wants to prove themselves or others wrong/ wants to achieve great things

is self-aware, caring and compassionate

Ace can help you cope with these character flaws:

self-loathing

impulsivity

people pleasing

An absolute dealbreaker would be…

arrogance and dismissiveness

Ace sees you and, at first, views you as a threat. Deep down, he still cannot come to terms with who he is, and thus believes that you’re the upgrade. You don’t carry the same baggage he does, which means being around you is actually pretty great – and Whitebeard thinks so, too, that’s why you’re on the Moby Dick and not just some random member aboard the grand fleet. Yet… once Ace digs deep and tries getting to know you, he feels terrible for treating you so horribly; you’re unlike anything he’s ever seen. Your hardships are a part of you, but you don’t let the past define who you are, you use it as a tool to improve the present. On top of everything, you don’t push him away after he’s opened up. If anything, you pull him even closer. He’s so, so grateful to have found you. Maybe – just maybe – he’ll learn to like himself… after all, if someone like you can love him so dearly, he cannot be so bad, right?

SABO

Sabo needs someone who…

lives freely without constraints, doesn’t care what other people think about them

pursues a deeply humanitarian dream

is just, hard-working and unique

thinks rather than feels

Sabo can help you cope with these character flaws:

being too idealistic

sorrow

perfectionist tendencies

An absolute dealbreaker would be…

different political ideology and laziness

Sabo sees you and knows you have what it takes. You’re unafraid of tension and you’re quite abrasive when it comes to the intolerable… and your track record is just as impressive. You’re a rare gem who doesn’t sell their principles to get ahead in life – you chose this path out of conviction, not due to a lack of options. Maybe that’s why he recommends you for a position much higher up the ladder where your potential would be seen, where your voice would be heard and matter… Eventually, Sabo would notice a dangerous flutter in his chest every time you worked together. He would linger around you longer than necessary and try to get you to talk about your personal life just to get closer to you. Your story is fascinating, he cannot help but be angry at the world for throwing you away. Well, kind of – you’ve landed right in his arms, so it’s not that bad now, is it?

SHANKS

Shanks needs someone who…

wants to go about life at their own pace

is outgoing, emotionally intelligent and warm

has the street-smarts and strength to defend themselves if it came down to it

hopes for peace and believes in equality

Shanks can help you cope with these character flaws:

procrastination

bottling up negative feelings

stubbornness

An absolute dealbreaker would be…

being too fragile and selfishness

Shanks sees you and doesn’t know why he’s suddenly so eager to be taken care of – you just sniff him out like a hound dog and nag at him about his terrible habits constantly. He thinks it’s sweet that there’s someone amongst his loyal crew members who still believes he would change his ways. They all let go of it at some point.

…Until you don’t let go of it at all. You shadow him and relentlessly pursue his heath and happiness. At first, Shanks wrongfully assumes that you’re trying to be the captain’s favourite, but he could only watch in astonishment as you pull the same stunt on all the others. “Benn, you smoke too much. Roux, why in the world are you lifting that crate by yourself, let me help. Yasopp, you will cook these beans before eating them or so God help us all.” – he hears your voice in his head echoing his own sentiments towards his friends. It suddenly feels too real. You’re just… like this. It’s in your nature to be warm. And you offer the same warmth to… Shanks. Larger-than-life, mythical, legendary Shanks. He’s just another man in your eyes… It makes him nervous.

BUGGY

Buggy needs someone who…

feels rather than thinks

engages in creative activities and has something that fulfils them

is loving, direct/ straightforward and clingy

reassures him and would be his anchor in life, an unshakeable constant

Buggycan help you cope with these character flaws:

deep insecurity/ self-pity

abandonment issues

competitiveness

An absolute dealbreaker would be…

being distant and indifference

Buggy sees you and knows that you’re different from the rest. Not unlike him, to be honest, but that might be wishful thinking. He just feels inexplicably drawn to you; he revels in your proud smile whenever he praises you for a job well done. Sometimes he thinks that you crave his approval just as much as he craves yours… once you tore down his walls, you’re all up in Buggy’s business. Worst thing is that he doesn’t mind at all. He likes having you around, you’re not half as much of an idiot as all the other troglodytes he keeps around. The thing that he doesn’t get is, though… you actually don’t think quite as highly of yourself. It’s not humility, you’re plenty humble, but it reeks of insecurity… and believe him when he says that he knows that stench all too well. Well, you might just need a proper hype man to tell you that you’re the most amazing person to ever walk this wretched Earth, darling! One day you’ll wear that title with pride.

[d1xonss]

hiii i’m a new reader of urs but let me just say i loveeeee ur work anyway i have a request if you’re taking any.. i neeeed a lil angsty fluffy moment of daryl x reader finding each other again after everything that happened with terminus and the whole prison debacle. just a lil idea i got while reading one of your works!! thank you!!

Finding You

✧ Pairing : Daryl Dixon x Reader

✧ Era : Season 4

✧ Pronouns : she/her

✧ Genre : Angst

✧ Word Count : 1.5k

AN ~ @kcundercover4 Hi angel, thank you for the request and the very kind words. I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get to writing this, I've been in a bit of a funk when it came to creating new ideas. But rest assured, I'm slowly but surely getting back into the swing of things. I hope you enjoy! xoxox

When the prison fell, there was nothing left. Nothing but crumbling cement, dented fences, and whatever rotting bodies the dead decided to leave behind. The fire that was set took care of the rest, burning down the place you had once felt comfortable enough to call home. In an instant, everything was gone. And the ones from the community who made it out alive, had nearly nothing left to show for it.

Daryl felt nothing. No sadness, no hint of anger, just…nothing. It was a strange feeling that settled in his chest, a kind of emptiness he hadn’t felt in a very long time. A feeling that couldn’t be described. The best way he himself could picture it was like he was on some kind of drug, one that could numb his limbs and his mind, leaving him feeling oddly tired. Like he didn’t have the energy to get up and keep moving. Although he managed to escape with Beth who wanted nothing more than to get up and go, to try and find their people that she was certain were out there, he couldn’t.

He didn’t see much of a point in caring anymore. Whether everyone else really had managed to escape the brutal chaos, or they bit the bullet, it didn’t matter. Neither of them would catch a glimpse of their family ever again. And he’d much rather swallow down the tough pill now rather than hold out hope, only to be even more devastated in the end. He wouldn’t find Rick, or Carol, or…you.

That was a whole other pill he had yet to get down.

Daryl wasn’t one for openly expressing how he felt, but those who knew him well, knew his feelings ran deep. And the things he felt for you…he could hardly put them into words. It was like his whole life he had never known love until you suddenly walked into it, always looking at him in a way that made him feel truly seen. He didn’t have to say much for you to know what he was thinking. He didn’t have to hide his eyes behind his hair in fear you would see a flicker of vulnerability. He didn’t have to put up a front that he was fine…because deep down he knew that you could see when he wasn’t. He loved you. But now as he sat here alone and clueless, not knowing what had happened to you, it was slowly tearing him apart.

Throughout the following days, Daryl wasn’t too keen on talking. He wasn’t much for eating either. Just a dead man walking. The only thing going through his mind was surviving to see another day and to protect the only person he seemed to have left. But the most painful part of it all was every time he looked at Beth, he saw you. Her kindness resembled your own, along with the light she held behind her eyes that could only be described as hope. The same kind of hope you always possessed. It was somewhat of a bittersweet feeling that was for certain, finding himself to be pathetic that he missed you so terribly, he was starting to pick apart someone else in hopes it would somehow bring him back to you. It wasn’t fair; none of it was.

Though just when Beth began to find a crack in Daryl’s armor, getting him to finally begin to bring down his walls…he lost her too. He wasn’t even sure how it happened. One minute they were escaping the small herd of walkers that had somehow gotten into the funeral home, and the next he was watching some car speed down the road with her inside. Driving further and further away with no kind of indication of where they were going or what they planned to do with her. The familiar feeling of grief wasn’t lost on him, but that didn’t make it any less painful. The only way he was able to see it, was that he failed to save someone else. And when he attempted to find her, he only ran into more trouble.

There were the claimers, a group of men that turned out to not be men at all. Instead they were disgusting monsters that just preyed on fear. Then there was Terminus, a seemingly bright light at the end of the tunnel that led him back to his family, only to be revealed they were cannibals. Leading them like lambs to the slaughter. 

By the end of it all the group was exhausted and defeated, having to literally fight for their lives to make it out of there and now watching it burn to the ground as an end result. Carol’s unexpected arrival had saved them all. But what came next, no one could’ve predicted. The woman led them back to a small cabin hidden within the trees, only for the door to open to reveal Tyreese holding Judith securely in his arms. Both Rick and Sasha took off in a sprint when they recognized their loved ones, reuniting with them in hugs and tears whilst the rest stood back and watched.

But the wind was suddenly knocked out of Daryl when he caught sight of who stepped out of the cabin next, the harsh blow was enough to nearly bring him down to his knees. It was you.

Your eyes widened greatly when you spotted him from across the way, seeing him safe and unharmed despite the horrible things you heard about the community they walked into. You had been worried to the point of feeling nauseous ever since Carol had left to save them, but now seeing that he was alive, the relief that washed over you was unimaginable.

With a breath you immediately began to rush over to where he stood, watching as he stayed frozen in place and just stared. As if he were scared to move, or even attempt to touch you in fear that you would vanish into thin air the moment he accepted this moment was real. He couldn’t deny the sudden racing of his heart as you got closer and closer, the anticipation almost beginning to be too much for him to handle. And then you touched him, tentatively brushing the hair away from his forehead as you had done a thousand times before. The familiar need to see his eyes.

That’s what ultimately caused him to crumble.

His body all but melted at the feel of your soft fingertips dancing against his rough skin, a shuttering and emotional breath leaving his lips as he leaned his head down to bury his face into the crook of your neck. Making himself smaller. Your hand instantly moved up to cradle the back of his head, keeping him steady while he practically leaned his whole body weight onto you. His legs suddenly felt like jelly, like he could no longer support himself and needed you to help with the heavy burden he carried. Every emotion he had kept buried deep down was now unleashed all at once.

You felt his hands come up to hesitantly hold onto your waist, his fingers curling around the fabric of your clothes in a way to somehow keep him grounded. His breathing grew more ragged as he kept his face tucked away and hidden from view, his nose brushing along your pulse to feel you were alive, to breathe you in. The emptiness he felt was unexpectedly being replaced with a sudden ache, but it wasn’t unwelcomed. It was a reminder of the longing and sadness he had felt all those weeks you were apart, the utter heartbreak he wouldn’t dare let anyone see.

His lips pressed a kiss against your skin, the action being so soft and delicate like he feared of leaving even the tiniest mark on you. He couldn’t even imagine what you must’ve gone through on your own, and he wanted to make it known that he wasn’t planning on letting anything hurt you again. A silent vow only you would be able to receive. 

After a few moments of holding him you gently pulled back ever so slightly to really look at him, your heart sinking when you noticed the black eye and scrapes along his face. But those hardly mattered to him, not really. Not when the only pain he could focus on was losing you.

“Are you okay?” you asked quietly, your tone no louder than a whisper.

When he heard you speak he could hardly find the strength to respond. Your soft spoken voice that he was convinced he would only hear in his dreams, now seemed to echo throughout his mind. Soothed his weary soul. His eyes glistened with tears as he simply looked at you, his lip quivering as he desperately tried to hold back the intense emotions he was feeling. As for your question, all he could do was nod his head. His real answer being far too complicated for even him to process. 

He saw the sadness etched on your face before you wrapped your arms tightly around him again, not willing to let go so easily this time. And it was clear the both of you found what you had been desperately missing.

~ Thanks for reading!

[seraphinitegames]

Hi! I hope you're doing well.

I wanted to thank you for sharing the Wayhaven series with us-- I started reading it in high school, after getting my mom to buy the first book as a birthday gift, and even though I've only been able to buy the other two books recently (pros of having regular income now!), I've been obsessed with the series ever since that birthday night. I actually recently recommended the series to a coworker, and I have a feeling she'll love the M route lol

Anyway, I did have a silly question to ask about UB and the MC but I still wanted to thank you-- especially as someone whose native tongue is not English; I could speak English at the time my mom bought Book 1, but the game (and other CoG I played after that) really helped me build a better vocabulary, and learn how to write better.

Anyway. :>

I had a silly question about UB and the MC: basically, I tend to have MCs who are very curious and eager to learn about the supernatural world, especially the Echo world-- they're also usually well-versed in languages.

When I read the Book 4 demo (still positively insane about it, btw), I saw a few Echolian words were mentioned, and imagined a funny moment with my MCs trying real hard to pronounce the words correctly, and even use them in sentences. Kinda like this (book 4 demo spoilers!):

MC: Ostin released the-- Ee-yooh-lees-aid-- You-leesed-- Y'oolees'aid-- Y'ulis'ed... :)

(Cue MC looking to N and F with a "Did I pronounce it correctly" smile lol Clearly the whole case isn't as important as linguistics to MC 😭)

Anyway!! I was just wondering how UB (and Rebecca lol) would react to an MC like that, lol? And I'm so sorry for the length of this ask, as you can see I can't not ramble. 😭😭

Thanks again for the books!!

Aah, what an amazing message! I'm so happy to know that you're enjoying the series! I can't wait until Book 4 is out so I can chat about all the major dramatic and exciting stuff to come (I do love my melodrama, hehe!)

As for your ask, I think N would definitely be helping the MC with pronunciation. Though, interestingly, even N might not be quite so…accurate with it either all the time.

For example, I actually wrote a moment like this in Chapter Five when F and N are discussing something Li-Sar said in Echolian (a moment that will be coming up in the demo the end of this month!)

-

"The direct translation for it would be something such as…." Nate/Nat waves a hand as though attempting to summon the translation from thin air. "'My want', or possibly, 'my need'."

IF ROMANCE NATE/NAT Farah/Felix places a hand on her/his hip with an unusually serious expression tightening her/his features. "Or you could tell them what it actually means without being too worried to admit because you're swept up by[Name]."

Nate/Nat's brows pinch together before he/she spins away.

-

IF NOT ROMANCE NATE/NAT Farah/Felix places a hand on her/his hip with an unusually serious expression tightening her/his features. "Don't sugarcoat what it really means, Natey/Natkins."

Nate/Nat rolls his/her shoulders back before turning away.

---

"Nate/Nat not necessarily wrong. It does directly translate into that, but when in actual use in the actual language, the meaning is closer to 'my possession' or 'my obsession'," Farah/Felix explains with a shake of her/his head. "The creep is basically saying he/she wants to own you."

--

I kind of went off on a tangent for that ask, but I hope this is an ok answer anyway, hehe! :D

Thank you so, so much again for the amazing message! <3

[orellazalonia]

Heyy! Your Bucky hurt/comfort is so well written I loveeee

Could I request Bucky with an established relationship with Reader where she has a panic attack and he holds her because he knows that pressure helps her?

Very specific ik lol, but thought I’d ask!

Have a lovely week❤️

Hello, dear! Thank you for the kind words! Don’t worry at all, the more specific, the easier it is to write. Thank you for the request and I hope you enjoy. Happy reading!!!

Hold Me Still

Summary: You spend the day convincing yourself you're fine, pushing through crowded spaces and overstimulation until the quiet of home cracks you open. A panic attack hits hard and fast, but Bucky comes home just in time, grounding you with his steady presence and firm, familiar embrace. 

Disclaimer: Depiction of a panic attack. Some angst. Hurt/Comfort.

Word Count: 1.7k+

Main Masterlist

You told yourself you were fine.

You had gotten out of bed. That had to count for something. The sheets had felt a little too heavy that morning, but you pushed them back anyway and forced your feet onto the floor.

The mirror didn’t lie either, you looked tired. But you still managed to get dressed, brush your hair, and even offer a smile to Bucky when he left early for a mission check-in with Steve. You promised to see him tonight. You even meant it.

That morning, the sun was out and the city was loud. It was just another day.

You checked your to-do list over coffee and convinced yourself that staying busy meant staying okay. First, groceries. Then a check-in at HQ with Sam and Nat, followed by a late lunch with an old friend who wouldn’t stop texting. You nodded through conversations, forced laughter at the right beats, added a “mhmm” every few seconds just to pass as normal. The sound of someone slamming a car door too hard made your shoulders jump, but you covered it quickly. Smiled again and told yourself no one noticed.

By the time lunch ended, your heart was fluttering just under your ribs in a way that didn’t feel right. But you blamed the coffee, too much caffeine. Not enough water. Not enough sleep. And still, you didn’t say anything. Not to your friend, not to yourself. You simply kept moving.

The elevator at the compound felt a little too small. The fluorescent lights felt a little too bright. The city’s noise felt a little too sharp. But you kept going. You had one more errand, just one. A trip to the store to grab something Bucky liked, something simple. It was supposed to be a surprise for him and a way to prove to yourself that you were still present, grounded, and good.

You stood in the aisle staring at a row of things you couldn’t name for too long. A kid dropped something nearby and it shattered causing you to flinch. With the loud speakers above, squeaky carts, and the crowded aisles, that was all it took. You ended up leaving without buying anything.

Your skin felt too tight by the time you got home.

The door clicked shut behind you, the sound far too loud for such a quiet space. You didn’t turn on the light, didn’t take off your shoes. You dropped your bag beside the door like it suddenly weighed more than your shoulders could hold.

You kept your coat on as you wandered into the hallway without really thinking, like your body was on autopilot. Like some part of you was trying to find a corner, a wall, something solid.

You told yourself you were fine, but your chest was starting to ache. The pressure behind your eyes and in your throat was building quietly and steadily. Your hands were clammy. Your thoughts had started looping, spiraling into themselves like a whirlpool with no center.

So, you sat down on the floor and pulled your knees to your chest. Just to catch your breath. Just for a second. Just until you felt okay again or until it stopped.

The longer you sat there though, the worse you felt. You don’t know when the shift happens.

Maybe it’s the silence. Maybe it’s the way your thoughts keep circling, tangled like wires you can’t unknot. Maybe it’s how your heartbeat starts thudding faster and faster, not from fear, but from nothing. From everything. From too much.

Your fingers start to twitch. Your legs pull in tighter. Your head is down, but the pressure in your chest keeps climbing like something’s pressing on you from the inside. Breathing becomes a challenge, work. Not a rhythm, more like a stutter. In, half-out, not enough.

You grab at the sleeves of your coat, gripping them and twisting the fabric in your fists. You want something to hold you down, to press you flat until the chaos stops rattling inside you. But there’s nothing. Your vision blurs a little. You’re not crying, but your eyes burn. Your skin feels too thin, too sharp. Every second stretches into something unbearable.

You bite down hard on your lip. You don’t know if it’s to stop the sob crawling up your throat or to keep from screaming. The walls feel like they’re moving. Like they’re watching you.

You want it to stop.

And then you hear it.

The soft sound of the front door opening. A key turning then shoes stepping in. A jacket is shrugged off and dropped by the entry. The sounds are quiet yet familiar. Safe.

You still can’t move. Still frozen with your fists clenched in fabric and shoulders shaking as your breath rasps in panicked little gasps. You don’t call his name. You couldn’t if you tried.

But he knows.

“Sweetheart?”

His voice is gentle and low, somewhere between cautious and worried. Then his footsteps quicken. He rounds the corner and stops when he sees you. No questions. No startled gasp. Just a flash of concern in those blue eyes as he moves straight to you.

“Hey. I got you,” He murmurs as he kneels down in front of you.

Your eyes are wide, body trembling as your chest fluttering so fast it hurts. You hate being seen like this; tangled and messy and too much, but he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t panic, doesn’t say “You’re okay,” like you’re not unraveling in front of him.

“I’m gonna hold you, okay?” He says quietly, voice like a tether in a storm. “Just like before.”

You nod barely but it’s enough. And then his arms are around you.

Strong. Solid. Steady. He pulls you into his lap with a strength that never feels rough, never feels forced. Just certain and sure. His metal arm wraps behind your back, the other around your legs, drawing you in until you’re curled completely against his chest.

The moment you feel that pressure. Real, heavy, and grounding, your body collapses into it. Not limp. Just… released. Like your body has finally found somewhere safe to land.

His chin rests on your head, voice low as his breath brushes your hair.

“You’re safe. I’m here. Breathe with me, baby. Just match me, yeah?”

You try. God, you try.

Your breath shudders, breaks and catches. But he doesn’t let go. Doesn’t even shift. Just rocks you gently, his hand running slow, calming circles over your back.

You focus on his heartbeat. The feel of his chest moving. The way his grip tightens slightly each time your breath hitches, like he’s holding the fear in place so it won’t swallow you whole.

“Right here,” He whispers again. “Just keep breathing. You’re not alone.”

Minutes pass. Maybe more.

And slowly, the pressure eases. Your chest loosens just enough to let air in without gasping. The shake in your hands dulls. The edges of panic pull back like a tide, leaving you wrung out and quiet in his arms.

You don’t say anything yet. You don’t have to. He just keeps holding you, like he’ll stay right there until the storm is long gone. And he will. He always does.

Your breathing has evened out mostly. Not deep yet. Not calm. But steady enough.

You shift slightly, your hand fisting lightly in the fabric of his shirt. Not particularly needing anything, just… holding. Grounding.

Bucky looks down at you, brushing a few strands of hair from your face. His fingers trail along your temple, slow and reassuring. There’s no pressure to speak, no push for you to explain. He knows the words come later, if they come at all. He’s learned not to ask for them when the ache is still fresh.

Instead, he asks softly, “Better?” Not as a demand, just a check-in.

You nod.

It’s small, barely a movement. But he catches it, and his thumb brushes over your cheek once, a quiet kind of praise. Like “I’m proud of you.” Like “You made it back.”

“I’m sorry,” You whisper, voice raw.

He doesn’t let you finish.

“Don’t,” He says, pressing a kiss to your hair. “No sorries, remember?”

You want to argue. Tell him how heavy you must feel to hold. How exhausting you must be to carry. How hard it is to exist like this some days, quietly broken in ways that only show up when no one’s watching.

But Bucky knows. He feels the tension creep back in your shoulders before the words leave your mouth, and he answers them anyway.

“You don’t need to be fine all the time,” He murmurs. “Not with me.”

The words make something in you sting, ache, and heal all at the same time.

You exhale, a shudder of air that’s more surrender than breath. You nestle closer, pressing closer into the warmth of his shirt.

“I didn’t mean to–” You try again, but he hushes you gently.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” He says. “You panicked, but that’s not a failure, that’s a response. You made it through.”

You swallow hard, eyes closing as the warmth of his hold finally starts to chase away the leftover chill beneath your skin.

Bucky adjusts his position just slightly, leaning his back against the wall now, still cradling you. His voice drops, like he’s talking to a scared version of you he met long before today. The version he promised wordlessly and fiercely to take care of.

“You never have to carry this alone. Not when I’m here.”

The weight of those words sinks into you, deeper than the fear ever did. You don’t say anything, but you think he feels your grip tighten on his shirt. Just a little.

Eventually, your body begins to let go though even if it’s not all at once, relaxing muscle by muscle. The adrenaline crash comes soft and quiet, and Bucky stays perfectly still as you start to drift in his arms.

He watches you as your eyelids flutter, as your body finally finds rest. Too tired to be anything but still. And before you fall asleep completely, you hear him say it soft and steady, like a vow.

“I’ve got you. Always.”

And you believe him. Because he always has.

[smutmind]

I'd really love to see more minnie and shuhua for when it doesnt fit, if you'd be so kind of course.

Thank you very much!!!!!

When it Doesn't Fit ft. Minnie (ANOTHER FLUFF)

I don't know why Minnie fits these fluffy ideas. HAHA

The bell above the café door chimed at exactly 7:02 a.m., just like it did every weekday.

Minnie glanced up from behind the espresso machine, already smiling. She recognized the stride before the man even reached the counter—sharp, measured, always in sync with the ticking wall clock. Marcus. Dark coat, darker expression. A tall drink of don’t-talk-to-me.

“Morning,” she chirped, slipping a fresh post-it onto the side of a to-go cup. The ink was still drying.

Marcus eyed the cup like it had personally offended him. The sticky note read: "Even strong coffee envies your focus."

His jaw ticked. He took the cup without a word. No tip, no smile. Just the same quiet nod and a turn on his heel.

Minnie’s lips pursed as she watched him disappear into the rain-slicked street. “Someone’s allergic to serotonin,” she muttered, half to the steamer wand.

Over the next week, the post-its got bolder. "Your suit called. It wants a day off." "You look like you wrestled stress—and won." "Smile. No one’s watching. Except me."

Marcus never said anything. But he never stopped coming, either.

It was Thursday night when the weather turned. Wind pressed wet leaves against the glass. The café lights glowed honey-gold in the gloom. It was Minnie’s closing shift—slow, quiet. She was wiping down tables when the door creaked open.

He was soaked.

“Didn’t expect you this late,” she said, tugging her oversized cardigan tighter. “The coffee machine’s still hot, if you want.”

Marcus nodded once, brushing water off his coat. “Black. Usual.”

She fixed it, fast. No post-it this time—just a curious glance as she handed him the cup. He didn’t leave. Instead, he leaned against the counter, his fingers curled tight around the paper warmth.

“You never smile,” she said softly.

He looked at her. Really looked. “I don’t have time to smile.”

She blinked. “Why not?”

“I’m working to prove something.” He paused. Rain lashed harder against the windows. “That I belong where I am. That I’m not just some lucky hire. That I’m better.”

Minnie studied him. His stiff posture. The faint crease between his brows. She wanted to smooth it with her thumb. “That’s a lot to carry,” she murmured. “No wonder your shoulders are always tense.”

The lights flickered once.

She jumped. “Ugh, I hate power outages. Please don’t let it go out.”

“You afraid of the dark?”

“Only when it’s storming and I’m alone in here.” She tugged the sleeves of her sweater over her hands. “Don’t suppose you’d… stay?”

Marcus hesitated. The rain thundered like a hundred tiny fists against the glass.

“I can’t leave anyway,” he said finally, glancing at the flooded sidewalk. “Storm’s too heavy.”

“Then it’s settled.” She padded to the back room and returned with a spare blanket and a couple of overstuffed floor cushions. “Welcome to your first café sleepover.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is this standard protocol?”

“No. But I figure if I’m stuck here, I’d rather not be scared and alone.”

Marcus sat, stiff at first. Then a little less. They sipped lukewarm coffee and listened to the storm. She talked. He listened. And somewhere between lightning strikes, the silence between them softened.

Rain threaded like silver needles across the café windows, blurring the world outside.

Minnie curled her legs beneath her on the cushion, clutching her lukewarm mug. The space felt smaller now. Not because it was tight, but because Marcus stayed. Still. Present.

She’d never seen him still.

“So,” she said, voice lilting, “what’s the deal, Marcus? You’re always suited up. Always tense. What do you actually do when you’re not glowering at espresso?”

He looked sideways at her, lips twitching faintly. “Real estate. Commercial, mostly. Downtown properties. Warehouses, corporate spaces.”

“Figures.” Minnie smirked. “You’ve got the energy of a man who sells buildings like chess pieces.”

He gave a soft, tired huff. “It’s more paperwork than people. Lots of big egos in small rooms.”

“You ever like it?” she asked, chin resting on her knee.

“I like being good at it.”

The rain thickened. She could feel the air growing damp, cold curling around her toes.

“What about love?” she asked softly, without teasing this time. “You ever like that?”

The shift in him was instant. His shoulders locked. The silence that followed felt like something sharp, stretched between them.

“I don’t mix well with...that,” he said flatly. “Too many expectations. Too many cracks to fall through.”

Minnie blinked, her smile dimming. “Sorry. That was—too personal.”

He exhaled, slow and hard. “No. I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair to you.” His voice softened. “It’s just… hard to explain things that didn’t end well.”

A heavy pause hung between them. Neither knew what to do with the sudden chill in the air.

Minnie rubbed her arms, shivering a little. “This place gets freezing after nine. Never noticed it until I wasn’t moving.”

Marcus glanced at her, then at her thin cardigan. His jaw worked, conflicted. “Do you want...?”

She hesitated, then gave a sheepish nod. “Yeah. If you’re okay with it. Just a little warmth wouldn’t hurt.”

He shifted closer, slow and careful. His arm draped over her shoulders—awkward at first, then less so when she leaned in instinctively. His body radiated heat like a furnace.

They said nothing. The thunder softened. Her head rested gently against his chest.

And for the first time since either could remember, the quiet didn’t feel empty.

The wind howled like it had bones to rattle.

Marcus’s arm around her helped, but Minnie was still shivering. Her knees knocked gently against his thigh.

“You’re cold,” he said quietly.

“I’ll live,” she muttered, teeth nearly chattering.

He gave her a look. Then stood, pulled off his tailored coat, and held it open. “Come on.”

She hesitated. “That’s like... a thousand-dollar coat.”

“Only eight-fifty.”

She squinted up at him. “You’re really gonna argue luxury while I’m about to freeze to death?”

He sighed and moved to wrap it around her himself, muttering something about stubborn baristas. But as he pulled it over her shoulders and adjusted the lapel, his hand slipped—just slightly—brushing the soft curve of her chest.

She yelped.

He froze, hand mid-air. “Shit—I didn’t—oh my God—I’m not—”

Her eyes widened. “Wait, did you just—?”

“I was adjusting the—coat,” Marcus stammered, face already flaming. “I didn’t know you weren’t wearing—uh—something more.”

She looked down, then up again, biting her lip. “It’s just nipple patches. I hate bras on night shift.”

He blinked, hard. “That’s—information I didn’t expect to have at this hour.”

A long beat. She held the coat closed with a grin curling at her lips. “Marcus,” she said sweetly, “you’re sweating.”

He wiped his palms on his slacks. “I’m just trying to not get arrested.”

She tilted her head. Her voice dipped lower. “What if I want you to act like a pervert around me?”

He stared at her, genuinely stunned.

Minnie didn’t flinch—just smiled, a slow, dangerous thing.

Marcus swallowed, visibly. “That’s... not helping.”

She laughed, warm and full, curling into the coat like it was her armor and his doom.

“I’m teasing,” she said, finally. “Kind of.”

Marcus wasn’t breathing.

Outside, the storm began to lighten, but inside the café, tension flickered—half humor, half heat—across every inch of shared space.

Minnie blinked up at the ceiling. “Well, look who decided to rejoin society.”

Marcus stood, brushing off his slacks. “Lights are back. Rain’s dying down. Guess we’re free to return to capitalism.”

She stretched, the borrowed coat still draped around her like a cape. “We should close up, then. You sure you want to help? Wouldn’t want to steal you from your very serious, life-saving spreadsheets.”

He grabbed the mop leaning against the counter. “I’m just making sure you don’t frame me for anything.”

She arched a brow. “Frame you?”

“I was alone with a woman, in the dark, after hours. I touched something I wasn’t supposed to. That’s at least a misdemeanor.”

Minnie cackled, nearly dropping a stack of chairs. “Touched something? You brushed my boob like a panicked librarian reaching for a banned book.”

He paused, jaw twitching. “That is... uncomfortably accurate.”

They finished in record time—laughing, bumping elbows, trading glances that lingered a little longer each time.

By the time they stepped outside, the rain had softened to a mist. Marcus offered his umbrella, holding it just high enough to cover both their heads.

The sidewalk gleamed wet under streetlights, and their steps fell into an easy rhythm.

“You didn’t have to walk me home,” Minnie said softly, the city quiet around them.

“I’m still just trying to keep myself out of prison,” he replied, deadpan. “Imagine the courtroom sketch: barista claims emotional damage after unsolicited warmth.”

She bumped his arm. “You’re not nearly as scary when you make jokes.”

“Don’t tell my clients,” he said. “They pay extra for the scowl.”

They stopped at her building. The entry light buzzed faintly, illuminating the curve of her cheek as she turned to face him.

Minnie stood on her toes and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek—just warm enough to make him forget what words were.

“Thanks,” she murmured. “For staying. For not being... well, who I thought you were.”

Marcus blinked. “Who’d you think I was?”

“A suit with legs and no soul.”

His laugh came out surprised, almost boyish. “Ouch.”

She smiled. “You proved me wrong. A little.”

He cleared his throat, unsure what to do with his hands. “Guess I’ll see you at 7:02 tomorrow?”

“I might start opening at 7:01,” she teased.

“Rebel,” he said, eyes crinkling.

She slipped inside, the door clicking shut behind her—leaving Marcus outside, still warm from her kiss, still smiling like an idiot under his umbrella.

The bell above the café door stayed quiet.

Minnie checked the wall clock. 7:01. Then 7:03. Then 7:07.

The cup with the next post-it stayed untouched on the counter. "You made silence louder than coffee. That’s a skill."

She sighed and peeled it off. Stuck it to her apron instead.

Marcus didn’t come that day.

Nor the next.

By Thursday, she’d stopped prepping his order. The cups felt lighter somehow. The café too bright. Too yellow. Like a stage light waiting for the actor who missed their cue.

“Miss your boyfriend?” her coworker Teela asked, elbow-deep in croissants.

Minnie blinked. “He’s not—he’s just a customer.”

“Uh-huh. Who you let spend the night in your shop, gave your blanket, and kissed.”

“It was on the cheek.”

“That’s a gateway cheek.”

Minnie smiled faintly but didn’t argue. Instead, she stared out the rain-speckled window, her breath fogging the glass.

She didn’t know his number. Didn’t know where he lived. Didn’t even know his middle name. But every morning, 7:02 came and went without Marcus. And that… hurt more than she’d expected.

The weird part? It wasn’t just missing his face or the way he stood like his suit was military-issued. It was missing the version of herself that came alive around him—sharper, braver, louder.

And now, the mornings just… felt beige.

She wiped the counter one extra time and tucked the latest post-it in her pocket.

Just in case he ever came back for it.

The rain came down like a verdict.

Minnie locked the front door early, her nerves coiled tight as the sky growled. Thunder rolled deep and mean, rattling the glass. The café lights flickered—again.

“Not tonight,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to the cool glass. “Please not again.”

The storm had a way of peeling her open—too many memories, too much silence, too much dark.

She gathered the cushions from the back, her cardigan already wrapped twice around her. The idea of another night alone in the dim cafe made her chest feel tight.

Then the bell rang.

The door—still unlocked from her forgetful hands—squeaked open, and there he was.

Dripping, coat clinging, hair damp against his forehead.

Marcus.

Minnie froze mid-step, heart thudding like it wanted out.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at her like he wasn’t sure she was real.

“I didn’t know if you’d still be here,” he said softly.

Her voice caught. “You—you disappeared.”

“I got pulled into a deal. Huge project. Took everything.” He stepped in, the storm closing behind him. “I worked from home. Couldn’t break the rhythm. But tonight… I remembered the rain. The power. You in my coat.”

Minnie blinked, heat rushing to her face. “So you came back?”

He nodded. “I needed to know if the café still glowed like I remembered. If you were still here.”

Her breath hitched. She smoothed her sleeves down her arms to hide the tremble. “And?”

“It’s brighter now,” he said. “Because you didn’t forget me.”

Minnie exhaled a shaky laugh. “I couldn’t if I tried.”

Another rumble of thunder.

She glanced at the windows, then at him. “I still hate storms,” she whispered.

Marcus stepped closer, close enough to smell rain and cologne. “Do you want me to stay?”

She looked up, eyes wide, vulnerable. “Only if you can keep me warm.”

A smile ghosted across his face. Not the smug one. The soft, slow kind—the one he didn’t know how to wear until her.

He reached for her gently this time, fingers brushing the hem of her sleeve before pulling her in, coat and all.

The storm outside was still angry. But inside, she found warmth in the quiet rise and fall of his breath.

This time, she wasn’t alone.

The backroom door clicked shut behind them, and the storm outside vanished into a muffled pulse.

Marcus turned to face her. Minnie stood barefoot on the worn tile, cardigan falling off one shoulder, cheeks warm and eyes dark.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low, edged with restraint.

She smiled, slow and wicked. “I’ve had a month to think about it.”

With one fluid motion, she peeled off the cardigan and pulled up her shirt—revealing two circular nude patches barely covering her nipples. “You left me cold, Marcus,” she whispered. “You owe me warmth.”

He stepped closer. “Yeah?”

“Start here,” she said, pointing at her left breast, “and use your mouth.”

He didn’t ask twice.

His tongue hooked beneath the patch, teasing her skin as he peeled it off, slow enough to make her gasp. The other followed, sucked between his lips until her knees trembled.

Minnie laughed breathlessly, gripping his shoulders to stay grounded. “You’ve got a mouth built for sin, agent man.”

“Show me yours,” he murmured, fingers brushing her waistband.

She stepped back, tugged down her pants—and let her cock spring free, thick, flushed, already twitching with anticipation. She wrapped her fingers around the shaft and stroked once, her eyes locked to his. “I get so wet watching men like you grind themselves into the ground.”

Marcus exhaled sharply. “Busy bees turn you on?”

“Stupidly hard,” she grinned. “Something about men who forget they have bodies until someone reminds them.”

He cupped her jaw. “Then prove it. With your tongue.”

She dropped to her knees like she was born for it, licking up the length of him before taking him deep, slow, deliberate. Marcus’s head hit the wall. One hand fisted in her hair, the other gripping the edge of the counter for dear life.

“Minnie—fuck—”

She hummed around him, lips slick and wet, the rhythm torturously steady. When she pulled off, saliva stringing between her mouth and his tip, his legs nearly gave.

“I want you inside me,” she said, voice husky, climbing onto his lap.

He was already thick and ready. She guided him to her entrance and sank down, inch by glorious inch, her mouth parting in a moan.

They didn’t move at first—just held each other, eyes locked, breath shared.

Then she started to roll her hips.

Slow. Deep. Fucking luxurious.

“God,” he groaned. “You feel—unreal.”

Her grin was all teeth. “And I haven’t even started yet.”

Minnie braced herself against his chest, her thighs trembling as she sank another inch onto him.

“God,” she panted, forehead pressed to his. “You’re so fucking big—I can’t… I can’t take all of you.”

Marcus groaned low in his throat, his hands gripping her hips. “Yes you can,” he murmured. “You’ve got it in you. Let me help.”

He shifted beneath her, tilting just right, guiding her hips until she slid deeper. Minnie gasped, nails digging into his shoulders.

Her voice cracked on a moan. “Holy shit, Marcus.”

He kissed her—rough and wet, stealing the air from her lungs. Then he pulled back and whispered, “Suck my tongue.”

She did—mouth open, tongue curling around his, riding him slow and deep as the kiss turned filthy. Each bounce stretched her wide and full. His cock rubbed her just right, grinding up into her until she was cursing against his mouth.

“I missed this,” he growled, lips brushing her jaw. “Missed your mouth. Your sounds. The way you move.”

“You didn’t even text,” she teased breathlessly. “Just vanished like some kind of overworked ghost.”

“Maybe I needed another storm to wake me up.”

She laughed, bouncing harder now, sweat dotting her temple. “You’re lucky I’m weak for workaholics with stupid pretty mouths.”

He grabbed her ass, thrusting up to meet her strokes. “And you’re lucky I’m a man who respects a woman who knows how to ruin my sanity.”

Their bodies clapped in rhythm. Wet, messy, perfect.

Minnie cried out as she came, her cock twitching between them. The pleasure rolled through her like thunder, hot and deep and shaking. She sagged against him, gasping into his neck.

Marcus wasn’t far behind.

“Where?” he asked, voice strained, desperate.

She looked up, eyes burning with mischief. “I want it like my favorite order.”

He blinked. “What?”

She grinned. “Hot. Strong. And in my mouth.”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, pulling out fast.

She dropped to her knees again with a practiced hunger, lips parted and waiting as he stroked himself, groaning hard—

—and spilled across her tongue in thick, salty bursts, his name half a gasp in her throat.

Minnie swallowed, then licked her lips. “Mmm. Better than espresso.”

He collapsed back against the wall, chest heaving.

“Rainy nights really are your thing,” she added with a wink.

He reached down, cupped her jaw, and laughed.

“You’re gonna kill me.”

“Maybe,” she said, rising up to kiss him, “but you’ll die warm.”

---

Sunlight bled through the café windows, golden and unmerciful.

Minnie stirred first—blanket tangled, skin warm against Marcus’s chest, limbs still draped over him like he was furniture. Her back ached. Her thighs... ached more.

She blinked up at the ceiling, then to the clock.

“Oh no,” she whispered, slapping his chest. “Marcus. Wake up. We’re so screwed.”

He groaned. “You said I could die warm, not early.”

“It’s eight-forty-seven. I was supposed to open at seven-thirty.”

As if on cue, a knock rattled the backroom door. “Minnie?” came her boss’s voice, laced with suspicion and half-amusement. “You alive back there?”

Minnie froze. Marcus sat up fast enough to nearly knock over a box of stirrers. “Shit. Shitshitshit.”

They scrambled. She pulled her pants on inside-out. He yanked on his wrinkled dress shirt and tried to fix his tie, only to realize it was Minnie’s. She tossed it back with a snort.

“We’re walking out there like adults,” she whispered.

“We just had backroom sex loud enough to steam the espresso machine.”

“Then we’re walking out there like actors.”

She paused, snatched two sticky notes off the counter, and stuck one across her forehead, the other across his.

“What are you doing?” he hissed.

“Costume drama. Just roll with it.”

The door creaked open.

The owner, a petite woman with an immaculate apron and a dry sense of humor, stood with one eyebrow raised.

Minnie walked out first—barefoot, hair wild, post-it on her forehead that read: "I regret nothing."

Marcus followed, post-it on his chest: "Just here for coffee (and poor decisions)."

The owner clapped once. “Well. I was wondering when this would happen.”

Minnie blinked. “Wait—what?”

“You’ve been leaving those thirsty post-its for months, sweetheart. You think I can’t read?”

Marcus flushed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not fired, am I?”

“You don’t even work here.”

“Still. Good to know.”

She waved them toward the counter. “You’re lucky the regulars haven’t arrived yet. Fix yourselves. Then fix some coffee.”

Minnie turned to Marcus as they moved behind the counter, faces red, grins helpless.

“That was the worst walk of shame in history,” she said.

“Best I’ve ever had,” he replied.

They bumped hips. Made two coffees. Shared one kiss over steaming mugs and silent promises.

Sometimes, love didn’t arrive with fireworks or fanfare.

Sometimes, it walked in late, soaked in rain, wearing a frown.

And sometimes, it left a post-it that said everything without needing to explain a thing.

[prettiestmini]

Whipped

A Drabble ִ ࣪𖤐⋆

Stephen glass x Reader !

Warnings: fluff! Stephen spoiling you, him being dorky and in love with you. Flustered Stephen

Pictures from Pinterest ! Dividers from @cafekitsune & @anitalenia <3 thank you for reading, proofread and feedback appreciated! This one comes out a day after lazy but happy birthday Evie ! Love you @speaknow-sw

Stephen wouldn’t call himself a pro when it came to girls, but he knew what they liked. But it had been six months since the both of you started dating, so he knew so much about you already.

The sun was peaking in through the curtains, casting a warm contour over your soft features. Soon enough the smell of breakfast wafted into your nose, stirring you from a peaceful sleep.

You stretched languidly, eyes adjusting to the bright sun. Walking out of the room and into the kitchen with nothing but a shirt and panties on, feet pattering before you saw Stephen making your plate. ‘ Good mornin Stevie’ you smiled.

He turned with a smile ‘ good morning sweethear-‘ his words died in his throat when he saw your attire.. well lack of. Clearing his throat, he spoke up with a flustered expression. ‘ Happy birthday baby, I made you breakfast’ he held up your plate with a dorky smile.

Your heart fluttered at the gesture, taking the plate of bacon and eggs from him. A golden piece of toast with jelly smeared on it perfectly. ‘ Thank you’ smiling up at him, pecking his lips softly.

Sitting down at the table with his own breakfast, he surprisingly had the day all planned out. It’s not like you had many plans for your birthday anyways. You quietly listened as he explained what he wanted to do with you.

After breakfast he planned on taking you to the mall and letting you get whatever, and afterwards you would pick lunch of your choice. Which frankly, sounded pretty good. You wanted to spend the day with him anyways.

‘ I really wanna make this day special for you.. even if I can’t give you sex. I’m still pretty nervous about the whole thing, but—‘ you shushed him, finger on his soft lips. Taking a sip of your apple juice, ‘ As long as I’m spending the day with you okay?’

Hours later you two had been wandering the mall for a while, bags in both of Stephen’s hands. He just followed you around happily like a puppy dog, just eager to get you anything you wanted. Trailing behind as you strolled into the jewelry store.

Browsing a few things he picked up a a pretty necklace, holding it up to you. ‘ hey uhm.. do you like this? I think it’s pretty.. it’d suit you’ you looked down at it with a smile, letting him place it against your neck. ‘ oh it’s nice.. but I couldn’t— you already bought me so much stuff today.’

He smiled widely, ‘ oh no it’s okay I promise, I wanted to spoil you today.. let me buy it please?’ He pleaded you, big blue eyes looking into yours. And it got you every time.. you couldn’t bring yourself to say no.

‘ okay okay fine.. but this is my very last present okay?’ You yielded, watching his face brighten with a grin. He walked over to the counter and you sighed as he paid for the necklace, but it warmed your heart to know he wanted to treat you so nicely.

‘ Here sweetheart let me put it on you..’ he stood behind you, both of you facing the in-store mirror. And he gently draped it around your neck, sealing the clasp. The necklace was gorgeous against your skin, enhancing your features. You smiled and lightly touched it, ‘ thank you Stevie.. I love it’ leaning over to kiss his cheek.

After all of that walking, ultimately you decided you wanted pizza. Sitting across from Stephen sharing a half n half pizza, your side was plain pepperoni and his side had pepperoni and pineapple. Which was okay but not necessarily your cup of tea. Smiling at him while he ate his pizza, glasses sliding down his nose.

‘ Stephen, I really really appreciate this.. you taking me out today, I had a lot of fun.’ Grinning at him, pure adoration in your eyes. Shifting on your stool, leaning forward to watch his face.

Stephen beamed back at you, ‘ I wanted to make you feel special today that’s all… I’ve really enjoyed the past six months. I knew you didn’t have anything planned so...’

His hand reached across the table to gingerly interlace with yours. Finger rubbing the back of your hand. ‘ Can you spend the night again please? We’ll get a movie and some takeout, I don’t want the day to end..’ you pleaded, everything had been perfect.

‘ Of course sweetness..’ he felt his cheeks warm up, ‘ Anything for you’ ,, he kissed the back of your hand softly, he was falling for you. And falling for you hard.. before he knew it, Stephen was already whipped.

Taglist: @speaknow-sw @ysrjune @moonlightkb @hearts4sammonroe @amiratheangel @madsluvsdilfs @alealuvshayden @loliskywalker @haydenchristensenisbae @blckberrie

Thank you guys for reading ! This felt sort of rushed? But you guys know I have a bad habit of turning drabbles into oneshots, so I kind of crammed it in there.

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist ! I love you and thanks for reading, comment !

[latenighttalkinqwp]

kk x reader, reader tells kk they need to talk and just starts off and mumbles the rest of the way through…idk if that made sense but I tried

pranking kk!

kk arnold x fem!gf

based off of this tiktok trend!

“kamorea.” you walk into the bedroom, crossing your arms. she looks up from her phone, eyes wide. “yes?” you move over to the desk chair, and sit down. “i think that we need to talk..” her eyes widen, and she immediately sits up and looks at you. “is this about not bringing you home a coffee after practice yesterday? baby- i’ll literally run and get you one right now i prom-”

“what- no. i used your card to get me one today. anyways. i just feel like youdontchangeyourclothesbeforegettingonthebedanditsbotheringme.” you mumble, trying not to laugh at her face. “okay- what did you just say?” she rubs her hands over her face, clearly trying to make any sense of what you just said. “kk. i said that fordinnertonightireallywanttogotomaggiesdiner.” you look down at the floor, pinching your thigh so you wouldn’t laugh. “girl. i think your playing with me right now or something because i don’t know a word your saying.”

“kk. i’m being so serious right now.” you groan, standing up and moving to sit by her on the bed. “ma- im trying to understand you but it’s like… a different language or something. talk slower.” she grabs your hand, messing with your fingers. “babe. i was literally saying nothing.” you laugh, wrapping your arms around her shoulders. “what?” she smiles whenever you kiss her cheek, still very confused. “i was just mumbling the whole time. it was a tiktok i saw earlier and i wanted to test it on you!” she rolls her eyes. “girl boo. you had me stressing for no reason.”

- thank you so much for reading all the way through! find more like this on my masterlist! likes and reblogs are appreciated 💘

- this request was so cute ugggg i hope i executed it well ( i lowkey hate my writing on this )

[fleetingsonghurricane]

Suuuper late to the party (in fact I don't know if it's still happening), but I'd like to add, does anyone remember how she kinda mumbles before Mary's wedding, that she doesn't remember hers?

While one could argue that it's been over two decades and one forgets. I'd like to point out that it fits perfectly to the comment that she didn't fall in love blindly. She knew exactly what she was getting into. It has always been a transaction, something she's probably been prepared for her whole life or most of her teenage years. The fairytale wedding hadn't been important. Something she might wish for later on, after she realised that a wedding and this relationship could be more for her and Robert.

I think that she loved Robert only meant she chose him, instead of a baron or someone else. She was very much aware that her feelings didn't matter in the sense of she didn't have to marry an English man, if she didn't love him. She wasn't given a choice, but she took the little power she had and tried to find someone who wouldn't make her life miserable.

And while I'm rambling, if anyone still cares, I also think it makes a lot of sense that words aren't her love language. After all, when you've been shipped off to a new country for a transaction and are alone there, constantly criticised and doubted by your mother in law and probably the whole society, does it really matter if your mother says she loves you in a letter that arrives when what you've written about probably isn't the most important thing anymore?

But you know what does one make feel loved? A hug. a stolen glance. Robert smiling at her, before he was able to identify his feelings as love. Physical reminders of being seen and loved and needed and not just a burden and a bank.

I think it's really easy to romanticise their relationship, because it is romantic and the backbone of the show. But before it became romantic, before there was love, there was a lot of trauma for a young woman, who was nothing more than a pawn in some weird power games no one included her in. Who in S1 realises her oldest daughter is facing the chance of being caught up in something similar. Is a quickly said I love you really meaningful or is it protecting her, dragging a dead body across the whole house or your husband coming to your bed, even though it's not proper? (I know not the same situations, but I hope you get what I mean.)

Anyway if you made it till here, thanks for reading my ramblings about Cora and thanks for giving me inspiration to write about her!

i just read ur post about the cora/robert scene in a new era and i’m literally begging you to talk more about your thoughts on how cora is bad at expressing sincere emotions !! that didn’t really click for me until i read ur post but now it makes PERFECT sense and i need to hear more 😩

~hears the distant echo of Robert’s line “Sometimes, Cora, you can be curiously unfeeling” from S2 & nods sagely~

Yes. Julian’s had this aspect of her character pegged from nearly the very beginning. Perhaps even S1E1.

*sips tea & clears throat*

Oh boy, where to begin? First by calling upon @randomabiling , @modernamericangirl , and @thedowntonhistorian who are all so much more eloquent than I am, and whose ideas are so intermingled with my own at this point that I’m not sure whose is whose anymore.

First of all, this isn’t to say that we don’t think Cora feels emotions. She does. But we’ve analyzed again and again how totally inept she is at expressing them, in particular sincere emotions of love, though it isn’t limited there. This is something we noticed, gosh, probably seasons and seasons ago (years, as we are some of the grandmothers of this fandom ha!)

We notice how, when there is any sort of real heaviness to any sort of emotion, she tends to lighten it or sometimes downright change the subject.

This has to come from her station, yes, and her upbringing, and I’m sure the sort of quiet trauma of essentially giving up her entire world at a very fundamental age for adult development (18-20 depending on Julian’s mood) for a man she knew did not love her the way she was in love with him.

But, think of every Cora scene you can. She never really tells anyone she loves them. It’s obvious, of course, but to verbalize that sort of vulnerable emotion is difficult for her. The other upstairs characters do. Even Violet. She outright says she loves Mary. Robert tells Cora and his daughters. Matthew and Mary, yep. Edith? Yeah, she tells Bertie. But Cora does not. She smiles, she holds people’s hands and touches at their wrists, but the only time she ever says she loves someone is when she tells Mary in S1 when Mary is having a bit of a meltdown. That’s it.

In fact, she actively tries to neutralize the moments where saying ‘I love you’ happens or should happen.

This doesn’t at ALL mean she doesn’t feel it, but that she’s so in love and feels so deeply that it’s hard for her to say it without losing composure. And she has to maintain some feeling of control? Maybe? (Lots to conjecture on that note.)

Examples of teasing/unable to be sincere:

1. Robert gives that really sweet anniversary speech at dinner to which Lord Gillingham is all “awww that was really nice” and she responds “if only it were true.” Self-deprecating, yeah. But she could’ve answered ANY other way. Even a “Yes.”

2. When Robert is panting after rolling around his bedroom floor with a man who was literally trying to go to bed with her, Cora’s response to his VERY apparent anger (which, okay, he can be a Donk, but let’s cut him a little slack on that one), is “Golly, what a night!” Honey, what? Are you that bad at reading the room? No. You can’t just brush off strong emotions!

3. Or like when her husband is, y’know, bleeding out onto the dining room floor and he thinks he’s dying and he wants his last words to be that he’s “loved [her] very, very much” she doesn’t even say she loves him back! She is SO shaken that she barely manages “this isn’t it. We won’t let this be it.” She snaps at Violet over Marigold, totally unnecessarily in the next scene, and even Violet is like, “what the hell? Can we just focus on Robert?” When they’re pulling away after the ambulance, Cora is turned almost entirely towards the window of the car, not next to her daughters. Too much feeling. Too much. (Also my headcanon that her go-to strong emotion is nearly always anger because it makes her feel a sense of control in a situation she has no control over.)

4. When Isis goes, and Robert is sad and says AGAIN to her that he loves her, pretty plainly, “two people who love her, and each other, very much on either side,” she could’ve totally responded with a “yes; very much” or even a nod, but she barely manages to look up at him and says some weird thing about how she hopes when she dies she’ll be surrounded by loved ones. Robert is visibly NOT okay with that response (lol). But what she does manage to do is take his hand. (That’s her little I love you signal to EVERYONE, by the way.)

5. I’ve already discussed in length the Bricker scene where she chokes up in admitting that no one could take Robert’s place (though in not even those words), and Robert is so moved by this that he physically shrinks back and you can see the anger leave him. But does she edge into “I love you” next? No. Oh no, no. She pushes out a tired “very well!” and instigates anger time because feelings of deep love are Too Much!

6. Lastly, the DA2 scene sums it all up, too. “We aren’t sad people.”

Honey, you just told your husband that you’re probably dying of cancer and he’s sobbing because life is really screwing him over from every direction, and your response is “We aren’t sad people” as he’s crying???

But, the thing is, it isn’t to Robert, that line. It’s for herself. She’s not a sad person. She doesn’t let emotion get in her way, get the better of her. Is it because it caused her nearly a year of deep unhappiness when her husband did not return her love? Maybe. Is it because she was trained up by her ambitious mother to be totally and completely scheming to get ahead? Perhaps. Is she really just a realist and Robert is the romantic out of the two. Yeah, it does seem that way. But the fact remains that for her to even use the word ‘love’ about someone specifically (or at all, with various exceptions of generality) is unusual in the entirety of the series. In the garden scene, when she says “I loved you from the start,” Robert’s expression is one of shock, really. Like he’s realizing the enormity of the moment. Like an, “oh my god, she really is dying.” And then she trips into teasing and smiling again, though it NOT a smiling sort of life event.

You also see the moment the dam breaks for her, the most raw emotion we’ve ever seen of her (outside of Sybil) when she says “and then love came.” And then after he kisses her, and he tells her she’s been everything to him, her expression is so full of love and joy, then ZOOP “hope we can get tickets on the blue train!” Or is it the fact that she’s said ‘love’ three separate times in the space of two minutes and cannot keep going or she won’t be able to take it?

I think this may all be because her loving him is NOT what they say, or what they have to say. It’s a given. It’s something unsaid and established from years and years ago and to broach the subject is uncomfortable and creates feelings of shame in Robert. But Robert needs to pour out his expressions of love because he felt he owes that to her. As a sort of way to erase his shame, his penance of sorts for pursuing her dishonestly is to remind her that he does love her now. And Cora lets him because she loves him. She comes across as this passive recipient of his love, the vessel for it, but she isn’t really. She’s really the more physical of the two of them. Anyway, I’ve drifted into an enormous tangent.

I’ll sum this mess up by inviting my ladies who I tagged to pipe up, or anyone else for that matter. I’d love to hear your thoughts, too, anon. Over-analyzing characters is my favorite pastime. Sincerely.

[ohlawdthevoices]

PLS PLS PLS MAKE A MEETING SHOTOS FAMILY FIC I NEVER SEE ANY OF THEM 🙏

I literally love the way u write Shoto

him ->🧍

Meeting Shoto’s family | prohero!shoto x gn!reader

tags : pro hero shoto x gn!reader, mostly fuyumi and natsuo, fluff, shoto is very aloof but we love that, new years dinner, not proof read

word count : 1.8k

a.n : i had fun with this one lol so thank you so much for your request !!

shoto didn’t want to make his relationship public, so except his closest of friends, no one really knew you or even knew he had a partner.

that was sure annoying at times since shoto doesn’t get a hint when someone is flirting with him and usually doesn’t end the conversation, but you knew he did that for your own safety from all the medias.

so it was only when he took a very awkward selfie of the two of you— an almost constipated expression on his face, holding his phone with both hands like a father taking a picture, and sent it to his sister asking if you could join on their new year’s celebration— that his family finally learned about your existence.

shoto’s phone was blowing up the next 40 minutes or so, mostly his sister asking about you, your favorite food and dessert… you were nervous, sure, but fuyumi’s enthusiasm was definitely helping, you knew the rest of his family wasn’t like that but you still hoped somehow endeavor would be secretly chill.

still, when the day finally came and you were standing in front of the todoroki household—gift bag in hand, dressed in something that screamed “respectable but please still like me”—you couldn’t help the nerves climbing up your spine.

“last chance to pretend you forgot me at home,” you whispered. shoto glanced down at you, completely unfazed. “too late. fuyumi’s watching from the window.”

he wasn’t wrong. the door opened before either of you could even knock.

“YOU MUST BE Y/N!!” fuyumi beamed, launching forward to engulf you in a hug so sudden it nearly knocked the gift bag out of your hands. “i’m so glad you came! oh my god. you’re real. you know for a second a thought shoto photoshopped you in the picture.”

“why would i do that” he furrowed his brows,stepping into his home and taking his shoes off. you followed his actions a bit overwhelmed but still trying to keep up the polite and respectful act.

te house smelled like grilled meat and expensive furniture. it was quiet, warm, and intimidating in a subtle, rich-people way.

you barely had time to take your shoes off before someone else appeared around the corner—tall, broad-shouldered, and immediately recognizable.

endeavor.

your body tensed involuntarily, like your survival instincts kicked in. he nodded stiffly.

“welcome.” shoto didn’t say anything, just stepped a little closer behind you, like his presence would shield you from any lingering tension in the room.

“hi… thank you for having me,” you managed politely, though you weren’t totally sure your voice came out.

endeavor nodded again. the silence that followed was suffocating. you could feel Shoto regretting everything.

“anyway!” fuyumi saved the moment with a clapping gesture. “dinner’s almost ready, you can go sit in the dining room !”

dinner was… surprisingly normal. since his father left due to a work related emergency, the discussion seemed to be much more open.

at one point, fuyumi leaned over with a warm smile and asked how you two met. you blinked and said, “oh, at a coffee shop actually.”

“she yelled at me,” shoto added, like he was just stating the weather. “i did not yell at you,” you said immediately, glaring at him with no real heat.

natsuo raised an eyebrow. “this sounds promising.”

“she cut the line,” shoto continued, between two bites. you turned to him, raising your eyebrows “okay, wow. no that wasn’t it” he looked at you, calm as ever.

“there was a clear order. you broke it.”

“i was literally just going to grab a straw.”

“you had intent in your posture.” natsuo laughed while his sister clapped her hands like this was the best dinner she’d ever seen.

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “anyway, he accused me of cutting, i told him to mind his business, and then five minutes later he offered to pay for my drink because he ‘felt bad about the misunderstanding.’”

“i did,” shoto said, already sipping his tea like none of this was unusual. “you were wearing a shirt that said ‘caffeine and violence.’”

“…and?”

“i was scared.” he went back to eating as if he didn’t just admit that.

after dinner, you all insisted everyone help clean up, which turned into shoto getting kicked out of the kitchen for trying to load the dishwasher wrong.

“how do you even mess it up that bad?” natsuo muttered, yanking a plate out. “you put a bowl in the plate rack.”

“It fit,” shoto replied simply, as if that were the only criteria.

you were drying dishes nearby, biting your lip to stop yourself from laughing. honestly, it was endearing. shoto could calculate the trajectory of an ice attack down to the centimeter but apparently couldn’t grasp modern appliances.

eventually, you were shooed into the living room with a mug of tea, tucked beside shoto on the couch while fuyumi and natsuo bickered over whether or not anyone wanted dessert.

the tv was on in the background playing some new year’s countdown show, all loud music and glittery stage lights. you leaned into Shoto a little, warm and full and weirdly at peace for being in the house of japan’s most emotionally complex family.

“they like you,” he whispered, you turned to him. “yeah?”he nodded “i can tell. fuyumi didn’t start stress-cleaning, and natsuo only insulted me twice.”

you laughed and leaned your head on his shoulder. “I like them too, they’re nice.”

there was a pause.

“…did you really tell fuyumi my favorite food?”

shoto didn’t answer right away. then: “i made a powerpoint.” you blinked. “you what?”

“for her,” he added casually,his eyes on the tv. “so she’d be prepared. she asked for a list of things you like, so I made one. it had slides.”

you stared at him. “you powerpointed me.” he nodded, entirely calm. “It had transitions.”

youwould’ve teased him, but honestly, your chest just swelled with affection so fast it kind of short-circuited your brain.

the countdown on the tv hit ten. fuyumi ran back into the room, waving sparkling cider and glasses, while natsuo complained about missing the remote.

everyone gathered around for the final countdown, and when it hit midnight, the room filled with cheers, clinks of glass, and confetti from god knows where (you suspected fuyumi).

shoto turned to you, eyes soft, and asked—completely monotone—“would it be appropriate to kiss now?”

“let’s not do that here yeah ?” you smiled at him as he nodded not really trying to understand why but he accepted it.

[contamination-zone]

AUGGHHH I love your Fresh SO SO SO SO SO SO SO MUCH!!! It's incredibly hard to find in-character Fresh. HE IS COOL BECAUSE OF HIS LORE!!! And, I also love your art so much. I giggle very much every time it comes up on my feed. Also, I started reading one of your fanfics. CAN I JUST SAY YOUR WRITING IS JUST AS SCRUPTIOUS AS YOUR ART?!?!?! it's SO HARD to find well-written utmv fanfics (IMOP). and I love seeing your progress on the little fresh desktop friend thing you have going on. Anyway I just wanted to gush about your art and how you interpret Fresh. Have a wonderful and lovely day :>

Yayyy!

Thank you for the other words, and especially thank you for liking my writing :-]. I think my writing is a bit worse than my visual art [if only because I've only recently started writing while spent years on art] but I care about it much more, so it makes me feel happy when people enjoy it and tell me so.

[604to647]

Awww babe, this broke my heart - though it was softly being patched up by the end 🥹🥹

I think that even if it wasn't romantic love, Reader's husband is right - Javi's heart was broken when she left. The way you wrote their partnership, there was so much openness and trust between them - having someone, a woman, with whom he could be so unguarded with all of himself, and know that not only did she not judge him, but still trusted him, respected him, depended on him? That's a connection that a man like Javi would treasure, surely he loved her.

His hurt, anger, embarrassment at how deeply he had felt her loss, and maybe even his lost chance, all so evident in his over the top reaction when she returned. Poor baby, lashing out like that 😫

And sweet reader! Rightfully hurt and confused! She did nothing wrong but of course that wouldn't have made a difference anyway. For some of us, connections once forged, can remain strong and unchanged even when circumstances change - and when they don't? That can be so upsetting 😔 I'm glad this fic helped you through a tough situation - it did feel very cathartic, even to me just reading it! Thank you for sharing, lovie 😘🫂🫂

don't come around here no more

javier peña x f!reader | wc: 1.8k

summary: On a visit to Colombia, you're reunited with old work friends.. Javi is the only one who doesn't come to say hi...

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Mature. Angst. Hurt/comfort. Work relationship. Hidden feelings. Mentions of sex work and office hookups/infidelity. Brief mention of smut. A tiny bit of emotional infidelity. Reader is not described apart from having worn skirts on occasion in the workplace. No use of y/n. Not beta'd.

a/n 1: this is a personal one, based on an experience I had a couple months ago when I dropped by an old workplace. Not gonna lie, it stung when an old friend (and work husband) of mine didn't want to see me. But I'm okay with not knowing. Writing this has been therapeutic 🤍

dividers by @strangergraphics 👑

JAVIER PEÑA MASTERLIST | FULL MASTERLIST

You haven't been to the embassy in almost five years.

You'd spent over a decade of your life in service to the government, tracking down the bad guys until worse guys came along and then you'd work on catching them too, and on and on it went, cyclical. You never thought you'd dream of something more until you were offered a better chance back in the States.

Atlanta wasn't your hometown, but it was American soil and it offered more pay. You wouldn't have to worry about guerrillas and crooked cops there. They called and said they needed you. You answered that call, and left your post at the embassy.

Perhaps the hardest thing was leaving Javier Peña behind.

He'd been a friend from the start, showing you the ropes, offering a cigarette when you stepped out to take a break. You grew closer with each case you worked on, the leads growing stronger, the job riskier.

You heard all the rumors about him - he often went against orders, he had a knack for pissing off authority no matter how good of an agent he was - but the biggest rumor about him was that he had a tendency to fuck every willing female in his path.

You didn't give it too much credence. He was an American just like you, a Texan by birth, and just trying to do his job. He was single, like you, and in a foreign country. You couldn't blame the man for having some fun. It certainly didn't affect you.

Then the rumors grew worse. You heard about certain CIs of his, women who walked the streets, spent time in the beds of powerful drug lords.. they had information that he needed. Not uncommon for agents to strike deals with these women. Cops and agents all over did the same. Only thing was, Javi had a penchant for sleeping with them too.

You never asked him about his apparent conquests. He was your friend, your partner. But he told you anyway, giving you all the dirty details over bottom-shelf whiskey at the nearest bar in the embassy district. You got the sense he wasn't gloating, nor even confessing. Just spilling his secret:. Blanca had the inside dirt on private parties held by wealthy politicians, which often included visits from men of high rank within the cartels. And Jennifer, one of the secretaries at the embassy, met with him three times a week for a quickie in the filing room, and even after her honeymoon she came right back to work, staying late at the office, under Javi's desk with his dick in her mouth.

There wasn't a thing you didn't know about Javier Peña. And while you yourself harbored an innocent crush on him, you merely shook your head at hearing of his antics. Every Friday you found yourselves talking, laughing, even gossiping over your drinks as the evening gave way to night. And when the bar closed he'd walk you home,

And now you're back in Colombia, the air the same as you remember, the sky and even the buildings the same hues, pinks and purples and yellows to entertain the eye. It's as if time stopped the moment you left on your flight to Georgia.

You're welcomed back after being given clearance to the building, your former fellow civil servants greeting you with wide smiles, asking how your new posting is, what it's like in your new town, what your new husband is like. You answer them, taking a look around and noting the tiny changes in personnel. Wendy is on maternity leave, Felipe is retiring, and there's some leftover cake in the fridge which you're invited to have. You're trying to catch up with everyone, recollecting kids' and grandkids' names, when you catch a glimpse of him across the way, coming out of the elevator.

Javi's in a suit now, so different from the days of his barely-buttoned short sleeve shirts and tight jeans. His hair is a little longer, combed to the side, the little curls at the nape of his neck gone, the ones you used to tease him about and call him a baby duck.

As if he can feel your eyes on him, he looks your way, and it looks like his eyes widen as he stops in his tracks, nearly fumbling in his steps. You manage a meager wave, giving a smile, but he doesn't do anything in response. Not even a curt nod. He turns his gaze from you and walks on, into a corridor where you can no longer see him.

Rita, one of the clerks you'd worked closely with during your time at the embassy and who'd been like a mother to you, finds you and embraces you with a warm hug. She still smells like Giorgio Beverly Hills. "How have you been, my dear? We've all missed you so much," she says, pulling you away from her so she can admire the casualness of your look. She'd only ever seen you in pantsuits and the occasional skirt, and now she likes the new you: jeans and a relaxed button down blouse, at ease with life, albeit still chasing criminals.

"I'm well," you answer her, eyes still darting around for Javi. Where did he go? He'd surely seen you. "I've missed you all. The states are so different after being away so long."

Rita's eyes widen in realization. "I have to tell Javi that you're here!" she whispers conspiratorially, as if somehow she's reading your mind. "I'll go get him." She pats your arm and hurries away in the direction you saw him go earlier.

Everyone else gets back to work as you wait, feeling out of place. Your fingers itch to comb through files, to answer the ringing phones with hopes of a hot tip. The clacking of computer keys has you imagining typing up a report, the way you used to after a big raid or breakthrough, Javi at the desk in front of yours. pouring some tequila in a couple glasses for you to celebrate, loosening his tie.

No matter what, he never touched you. Not like that. Ever.

And a part of you always wanted him to. The closest you got was a side-armed hug as he walked you to your car the very last day of your work here.

Your eyes wander to your old office, the blinds open, and through the slats you see Javi turning in his chair as Rita raps at his door. You can barely make out the gruff "come in" from his lips. Rita approaches him a bit timidly, all smiles, hands clasped at her waist.

She's explaining that you're here, that this is probably a once in a lifetime chance because retired agents don't typically come back. They become too invested in their new lives, new cases, or worse.. they retire for good, put into the earth when a bullet finds its way to its target or a bomb goes off.

You're still here, looking right at Javi as his eyes find you, the harshness in them softens a little, perhaps at Rita's soft pleading. You ignore the crazy skip of your heart's beat as he keeps his gaze on you, his chest expanding as he takes in a deep gulp of air.

In an instant it's gone, the stony glare from before now in its place. He says some curt words to Rita, who pauses, a baffled look on her bespectacled face. Javi replies, his face growing red, obviously not changing his mind. Rita goes for the door but turns around, saying one more thing to him, looking rather high and mighty about it.

She meets you where she's left you, a sad sort of smile on her face. "He's busy," she says quickly. "He sends his regrets, dear."

You look back into Javi's office and find him already staring at you. He swiftly drops his gaze, pretending to read a file as he casually closes the office blinds.

"Rita, what's going on?" you ask her, disheartened because this is now how you'd hoped this reunion would go.

She only shakes her head, pursing her lips. "I don't know, honey.. I really don't know."

At the hotel, your husband is relaxing on the bed watching an old Colombian telenovela. He turns down the volume, patting the space next to him as you come in. "How'd it go?" he asks, watching you shed your jacket and hook your purse around a chair. "I'm guessing you didn't get the welcome you hoped for." His brows creases with worry as he strokes your hair. You lean into his touch, wishing you could dislodge the heavy stone of disappointment now resting in your belly. He's always so attentive towards you, so thoughtful. He knows all about Javi and your time with the embassy. Tears prick at the edge of your eyes and you do your best to blink them away, but he's there already with a tissue as his arm goes around you.

"I wish I knew why he didn't want to see me. What did I do wrong? We were partners for years.. friends too. And after all these years he treats me like it all meant nothing.."

"It's okay," your husband soothes you. "Can I tell you something you might not want to hear?"

"Right now I'd love for anyone to be honest with me," you sniffle.

"I think you broke his heart when you left."

That thought had never occurred to you. It's a strange, foreign concept. Javi had treated you differently, but you supposed he just didn't need to get involved emotionally, physically, sexually with someone he'd work with personally every day. He slept with almost everyone in the workplace except you, and you'd considered yourself safe from his charms.

"It makes sense," your husband continues. "From everything you've told me, Javi's had the hots for you since day one."

You scoff at this idea at first. Then, thinking more deeply on it, the pieces start to come together. What if Javi had harbored these feelings for you and never told you, just let them sour in his heart until it turned bitter against you after all these years? "He never told me. The way he dismissed me you'd think we were strangers all this time.."

“Do you feel like you missed out? Would you have given him that chance when you were partners?”

It’s not an odd question, just one that takes you by surprise. Any adulterous thoughts are usually played off as jokes between you. You’re that comfortable with each other. But to give an honest answer requires more strength than you possess at the moment.

“No.. I wouldn’t have risked our friendship or our working relationship like that.”

Your husband kisses your cheek, still soothing you as he strokes your hair. "Baby, sometimes the best way to show our love for someone is to let them go."

Let him go.

a/n 2: adding some music inspo. Of course the title is from Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers:

and secondly, after my real life non-encounter with my former friend, I heard this song in a restaurant while I was still in a daze. It's such a sad and beautiful melody. (They Will Destroy You is always good when you're moody)

tagging those interested: @regularjoel @stevie75 @tateypots

@titabel @milla-frenchy @mystickittytaco @thesassyteacher91

@dilfsw @ghoulzlovez @axshadows @selinakpe

@inept-the-magnificent

[wistericaine]

writing advice ii | theodore nott

serial killer!theo x writer!reader | fluff but in a dark way | wc: 636

summary: writer!reader asks serial killer!theo for writing advice

tw: mentions/references to death

Theodore was working in the butcher shop today.

He loved the feeling of the shop. The knife in his hand as he slowly and methodically cut through the cuts. Or the cold burn that the walk-in freezer gave. He loved it almost as much as he loved killing.

He was focusing on the loin of the cow currently, slowly trimming off the New York strip steaks and cleaning off the tri-trip.

Then there was a buzz. And then another. And then a third.

He had to take off his gloves for a moment, washing his hands before checking why his phone was vibrating so much inside of his pocket.

He unlocked the phone and went to his messages with a soft chuckle, rolling his eyes at the way you blew up his phone.

YOU: i don’t know if this scene works out  YOU: it’s kind of annoying me, tbh  YOU: like why is writing torture so hard?

Theodore chuckled quietly at your messages—looking around to make sure nobody needed service before deciding to call you. “You doing okay?”

“I hate torturing my characters.” you said into the microphone. “Why is it so hard?”

Theo smiled softly at the sound of your voice, having fallen more and more in love with it over the months. He had asked you to date him almost six months ago—yes, he already had an anniversary present—and it had been the best time of his life. Your novel was coming along nicely, almost completely done except for a couple of scenes and the ending.

“Is your research not working?” he asked you teasingly, leaning on the front counter as he talked to you. 

You sighed and began to grumble about your work. “Everything’s behind a stupid paywall, I tell you.” you complained to him. “And I can’t just murder someone to test if this would work!”

He bit back a smirk at that. “What’re you trying to do?”

“Well, he’s gonna stab this guy.” you said—nails tapping against your keyboard. “A lot. I think he’s going to do a bit of, like, fileting I guess? I figure that’s how a butcher would put it.” 

“Why don’t you text me about it, and I’ll see what I can find in the library before I come home?” he asked you with a chuckle. “I’ll find something, love.”

You giggled quietly. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he murmured quietly into the phone. “Try working on another scene, okay? Maybe something more upbeat to change your mood.”

“Or I could make dinner!” you gasped out excitedly. “I have this new recipe I want to try.”

“That sounds delicious,” he said to you.

“It works.” he called out into the house, sighing contentedly at the smell of food radiating from the kitchen. “And your dinner smells delicious, my love.”

He could feel his body sag into himself from the warmth, almost as if it couldn’t take it anymore.

“Thank you!” you called out, walking over to him and kissing his nose before grimacing. “You smell funky.”

Theodore scoffed quietly. “How dare you.”

“You do!” you chuckled quietly. “Why do you smell so weird anyways?”

“Kirk dropped a cow cut that hadn’t been frozen yet, so blood spilt over the uniforms.” he explained to you. “I gotta wash it before I eat.”

“Oh, you can try the bubbly soap that I bought you now!” you smiled brightly at that—buying the excuse almost as soon as he spoke it and kissing his cheek lovingly. “Stew’s on the counter. I’ll probably still be writing —you said it works, right?”

“Like a charm,” he said. “Found a study for it.”

“Perfect!” you giggled before walking off. “I love you!”

Theodore sighed dreamily at you, watching you walk off and he walked over to the bathroom. “Love you too.”

hello everyone, i hope you guys enjoyed! just another small drabble here thanks so much for reading!

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