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[custom-fic-studio]

Toji Fushiguro x Female Reader

This Isn’t How Coffee Dates Go

The morning had started slow with the sunlight cutting through the clouds warming your skin as you sat at a quaint outdoor café nestled on a quiet side street. You were going to dress casually, but Toji had insisted you wear the soft lavender sundress he liked—the one that clung just right and low enough to tease but still left to the imagination.

He had said it was his treat today, his idea to finally take you out on a proper date. It’s been a long while…You’d both been swamped with sorcery work, missions, and that cursed scroll that nearly blew up the last apartment you stayed in. But today? Just coffee. A little peace.

Toji had gone inside to get your drinks, muttering about grabbing that chocolate croissant you always looked at but pretended not to want.

That man knew you too well.

You waited outside, arms crossed, legs curled slightly beneath your chair, wedding ring gleaming in the sun. Everything felt… right.

Too bad it was short-lived.

You were scrolling absently through your phone, the sun warming your bare shoulders as you waited for Toji to return. From the corner of your eye, you noticed them—three men hovering just beyond the patio’s edge. You hoped they’d ignore you, just pass by like any normal group of strangers.

But you were sadly mistaken.

All in their early twenties maybe, loud, cocky, with a swagger that screamed insecurity wrapped in discount cologne. One of them spotted you, nudged the others, and walked up with a sleazy smile.

“Hey there, beautiful,” one purred, leaning against the table like he belonged. “You waiting on someone—or are we lucky today?”

You didn’t even blink. “I’m married.”

He gave your ring a cursory glance and laughed, low and dismissive. “Yeah? I don’t see him here.”

Another leaned closer, eyes shamelessly roaming. “You’re too fine to be sitting all alone. That dress… mm, you were asking for attention.”

You gritted your teeth. The burn in your gut wasn’t from embarrassment—it was rage. You could level them. Bend their knees backward, shatter a jaw or two. But you didn’t. Not in front of civilians. You couldn’t risk such a lovely day by going overboard, even if these bastards were practically begging for it.

“I said,” you said calmly, fingers twitching, “I’m married. You should leave.”

They didn’t. They laughed. One even tried to reach for your hand—

“I suggest you move that hand unless you want to lose it,” came the low, grating growl behind them.

You didn’t even have to look.

Toji had returned, iced coffee in one hand, black cold brew in the other, his muscles stretching beneath his dark shirt. His emerald eyes were shadowed and calm but his mouth was strained, pulled tight in a forced grin that didn’t reach his eyes—he was furious, barely holding it back.

One guy looked back and froze. The second guy dropped his smirk. The third? He took a cautious step back, like he could feel something shift—something primal and dangerous coiling in the air.

The weight in his stare was bone-deep. Menacing in that quiet, I-could-end-you-without-blinking kind of way.

“You creeps deaf?” Toji hissed, his voice low and lethal. “That’s my wife you’re hovering over.”

One of them scoffed, clearly too idiotic to catch on. “Relax, man. We were just talking. It’s not like she was saying no.”

Toji’s smile was slow and cruel, the kind that made your skin crawl if it wasn’t meant for you.

“She did,” he said, voice calm as a blade unsheathing. “You just didn’t listen.”

The guy bristled. “Tch. You’re gonna fight me over a girl?”

Toji stepped forward, just once. One slow, deliberate step. The power behind it was all controlled, but his energy shifted like a predator switching gears.

“Fight you?” he echoed, tilting his head with mock curiosity. “Nah. I don’t waste effort on worms. But you really want to test me over my wife?”

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. Each word sank in like venom, slicing through the cocky persona that held them upright.

“She didn’t want your attention. She said she was married. And you still acted like she was free game.” He leaned closer, eyes dark. “See, that’s not confidence. That’s desperation. And I don’t like desperate men hovering over what’s mine.”

The third guy—who’d taken a step back earlier—finally cracked. “Let’s go, man. He’s… he’s not worth it.”

“You’re right,” Toji replied flatly, still watching them like a bored apex predator. “I’m not.”

That was all it took. They turned fast—one muttering something under his breath, another tripping over the leg of a patio chair, and the last bolting like he’d seen a damn monster looming behind him.

Only after they were gone did Toji move, finally walking to your table and setting the drinks down with a heavy clink. His jaw was still tight, his gaze lingering in the direction they fled.

You didn’t speak right away. Just reached for your cup and exhaled slowly, the tension in your chest easing. You hadn’t needed to act—Toji had handled it without lifting a hand, and that alone was enough to settle the storm beneath your skin. Relief anchored you now.

“Thanks,” you muttered, your voice barely above a breath.

Toji didn’t answer right away. He grabbed the empty chair next to you and dragged it close, the scrape of metal against pavement sharp in the quiet. He sat down with his body angled toward you, knee pressed against yours in a silent, grounding touch. Without a word, he reached out and took your hand, his calloused fingers curling around it firmly.

His thumb traced over your wedding ring—slow, deliberate, possessive. Like he was reminding both of you that it meant something, even if those bastards had ignored it.

“They didn’t even care about the ring,” he said, voice dark and low like distant thunder. “Disrespectful little shits.”

His grip on your hand tightened just slightly, not to hurt—but enough to let you feel it. That quiet fury. That promise: they wouldn’t have gotten any further. The air around him still crackled with residual heat, but beneath it was something steadier—protective, unwavering. He wasn’t angry at you. He was angry for you.

You met his gaze, his eyes still sharp but softer now that they were on you. “I didn’t want to cause a scene,” you murmured, your voice calm, but laced with the tension you hadn’t quite shaken off.

Toji’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smirk as he brushed his thumb once more over your ring. “Good thing I don’t mind causing one.”

Without warning, his hand rose from your thigh and gently tilted your chin toward him, his touch deceptively tender—until his mouth descended, hot and possessive, pressing firmly against the soft skin just beneath your jawline. His lips were warm, but it was the deliberate way his teeth grazed you—followed by a slow, unrelenting suck—that made your breath catch.

Heat bloomed under your skin as his mouth lingered, claiming you in a way that was far from subtle. Your eyes darted around—across the café patio, the nearby tables, the passing strangers. You could feel stares even if they weren’t there. Or maybe they were. That only made the flush racing up your neck burn hotter.

“Toji!” you hissed, voice sharp and breathless.

He didn’t stop. If anything, he smirked against your skin, his tongue flicking over the fresh mark before finally pulling back—slow, almost lazy. “Hmm?” he hummed, the vibration of his voice still echoing in your throat. “Problem, sweetheart?”

“We’re outside! People can see!”

Toji leaned back just enough to look at his work, his hand still resting on your cheek like he was holding something delicate. The hickey he’d left behind was unmistakable—dark, deep, blooming like a bruise kissed into existence. Right where no one could miss it.

His grin widened into something feral, satisfied.

“Good,” he murmured, brushing his thumb along your jaw. “Now no one will believe you’re single after this.”

You were burning, your whole face ablaze, torn between swatting him away and curling closer into his touch. The PDA was bold, reckless, embarrassing—but the way he looked at you? Like you were his whole damn world?

It made your heart race for an entirely different reason.

Cheeks on fire, you tried to hide behind your hand, shooting him a flustered glare as your other hand swatted lightly at his arm. Toji only laughed under his breath, reaching up to trail a knuckle across your lower lip, eyes gleaming with amusement.

“Shit, I missed that look. You’re cute when you’re mad.”

You pouted, sipping your drink in flustered silence. He watched you the whole time, practically vibrating with the urge to touch you more. You knew that look—the way his eyes lingered on your thighs, the curve of your neck, the rise and fall of your chest.

“Toji…” you said cautiously.

He tilted his head. “Yeah?”

“You’re looking at me again.”

“I’ve been looking at you all day, baby.” He leaned closer, voice dipping dark and hungry. “And I’ve been thinking about everything I’m gonna do to you once we get home.”

That was your warning.

Except… you didn’t even make it that far.

Toji waited just long enough for you to finish your drink, watching you with that telltale glint in his eyes—the one that always spelled trouble. The moment you set the empty cup down, he stood abruptly, grabbed your hand, and tugged you up with a quiet, firm, “Come on.”

You barely had time to blink. “Wait, what? Where are we—”

He didn’t answer you. Just kept walking with that purposeful stride, his grip on your hand unwavering. You stumbled a bit to keep up, eyes wide as he turned sharply into a quiet side street—then ducked into a narrow alley between two buildings, hidden from the main road by shadows and a half-cracked maintenance gate.

Before you could ask another question, he stopped, backed you against the cool brick wall, and braced one arm beside your head, the other settling low on your waist. His body caged you in, so close you could feel the heat rolling off him, his breath brushing against your cheek.

“Here?!” you gasped, heart racing, glancing toward the mouth of the alley. “You’re seriously—”

Toji leaned in, his lips grazing the shell of your ear as he murmured, voice all gravel and heat, “Can’t wait.”

Your breath hitched, spine straightening as your palms pressed lightly to his chest. “Toji—people—what if someone—”

He turned your chin with two fingers, forcing your gaze back to his. His eyes were heavy-lidded, dark with intent, and that wicked smirk curled at the edge of his mouth.

“Then be quiet, sweetheart,” he said, low and firm, his tone sending a shiver straight through you.

There was no reasoning with this man. Not when he was like this. Not when his entire focus had narrowed to you and the way your body already trembled with anticipation.

Your breath hitched, caught between shock and desire. Your hands pressed against his chest unsure whether you were trying to push him away or silently begging him to come closer.

“I can’t believe you… we’re in public!” you hissed, cheeks burning hotter than the sun overhead.

Toji didn’t even flinch. He leaned in, lips brushing the corner of your mouth like he had all the time in the world, like the risk of being caught only made it sweeter.

You clenched your thighs involuntarily, heat pooling deep in your core. Your voice came out in a strangled whisper, helplessly breathy. “Then make it quick.”

He let out a low, hungry chuckle, the sound vibrating through his chest and against your fingertips. “Good Choice.”

Before you could even catch your breath, his hand was beneath your dress—rough and warm against your skin, sliding along your inner thigh with purpose. The contrast made your entire body jolt.

You gasped, fingers instinctively tightening on his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt. The alley spun around you, your senses tunneling down to the feel of him, the heat of him.

“Toji!” you whispered harshly, voice caught between reprimand and need. “You’re insane—”

He grinned against your jaw, the stubble on his cheek scraping just enough to make you shiver.

“And you love it,” he growled, fingers finally brushing over your already aching core. “Don’t lie to me now, sweetheart.”

You hated how right he was. Hated how good it felt. And yet—you wouldn’t stop him for anything.

His lips crashed against yours again—dominant, hungry, claiming you like he’d been starved for this exact moment. He swallowed every soft gasp, every breathy whimper you tried to stifle, his tongue parting your lips to taste the heat you couldn’t hide.

His hand slid beneath your dress without hesitation, fingers hooking your panties and pushing them aside with practiced ease. Fingers sliding between your folds, slow and deliberate. You were soaked, throbbing with need, already too far gone to feel shame.

“Fuck, baby…” he hissed against your mouth, his breath ragged. “You’re dripping. What, that hickey got you this worked up?”

You couldn’t answer. Not when his fingers curled inside you, his thumb pressing gently against your clit in slow, torturous circles that made your thighs shake.

“Toji…” you choked out, hips bucking against his hand, needing more.

He chuckled darkly, voice thick with lust as he pumped his fingers deeper, slower. “Such a good little wife. So fuckin’ ready for me.”

You clung to his shoulders, nails digging into his shirt, your mouth falling open against his neck as heat bloomed beneath your skin. He knew every nerve, every reaction, every breathless moan you’d try to hide. You felt like you were unraveling in his hands.

“Toji—ah—someone might see—” you whispered, panic and pleasure woven together.

He pulled your leg up around his hip, gripping your thigh tight as he pressed you harder against the wall. You barely heard the zip of his jeans over the sound of your beating heart.

“Then let ‘em,” he growled. “Let ‘em fuckin’ see who you belong to.”

Your eyes widened. “Toji, wait…”

But there was no waiting.

With one sharp thrust, he buried himself inside you—deep, thick, hard. The sudden fullness knocked the air from your lungs, your gasp swallowed instantly by his mouth as he kissed you through it, keeping you pinned between his body and the brick.

He didn’t ease you in. He took you. And you let him.

His rhythm was fast, brutal, almost punishing—but your body welcomed every thrust. Your back arched against the wall, dress hiked up around your hips, his hips slamming into yours with a need that bordered on feral. His grip on your ass was possessive, fingers digging in so hard you knew there’d be bruises later. His mouth trailed down your neck, biting and kissing, leaving more marks, staking his claim with every inch of you.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned against your skin. “So fuckin’ tight. You’re made for me… made to take me like this.”

Your moans came out soft, desperate—muffled by the way he kept your lips occupied or pressed you into his shoulder. The stretch, the pressure, the intensity—it all had your body trembling around him. Your walls clamped down, clenching, drawing him deeper.

“Toji… please…” you breathed, voice trembling. You didn’t even know what you were begging for—release, mercy, more.

Maybe all of it.

He growled low, primal. “That’s it, sweetheart. Come for me.”

His pace hit that perfect rhythm, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit with every hard thrust, his free hand gripping your thigh tighter around his waist. You couldn’t hold back anymore—not with the way he was filling you, breaking you open, loving you in the only way Toji knew how: completely, unapologetically, and utterly possessive.

Your climax tore through you—all-consuming. You shook in his arms, your body clenching down around him as he fucked you through every pulsing wave of it. Desperate to stifle your moans, you bit down on his shoulder, muffling the cry that threatened to spill out into the alleyway.

Toji froze for a beat—his jaw flexed, his breath hitching sharply—and when he looked at you, his eyes were dark and blown wide, mouth twitching into a crooked, feral grin.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice low and wrecked. “You just bit me.”

You whimpered against the skin of his neck, too breathless to speak.

He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he loved it. The heat in his gaze deepened, and he drove into you even harder, as if your bite had only fueled him further.

“You’re lucky that felt so damn good,” he growled, lips brushing your temple. “Do it again, and I might lose my fuckin’ mind.”

His fingers dug into your thigh as he held you there, gaze locked on your face—your lashes fluttering, your lips bruised from his kisses, your whole body still trembling from the aftermath. The way you bit him, clung to him, moaned his name into his skin pushed him right to the edge.

He shifted his grip, hand sliding to the back of your neck, foreheads nearly touching as his pace grew rougher, deeper, chasing his own release with single-minded hunger.

“Such a good girl,” he growled, voice raw and strained. “Fuck—you feel so damn good.”

With one final, punishing thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and came with a deep, guttural grunt, his hips shuddering against yours. Your name spilled from his lips like a prayer, wrecked and reverent. He ground into you as he emptied himself, thick and warm, his breath ragged in your ear.

The alley was silent but for your shared panting breaths, bodies still pressed tight, your chest rising and falling against his. He stayed there, forehead pressed gently to yours, as if grounding both of you back into reality.

“…Well,” you finally mumbled, voice shaky, your face still flushed. “… there goes our cafe date.”

Toji chuckled, low and smug, brushing a hand through your hair before tucking a few strands behind your ear. His thumb brushed your lower lip with the same tenderness that contradicted everything filthy he’d just done to you.

“Nah,” he said, eyes still dark with satisfaction. “This was way better.”

Then, with all the smugness in the world, he added:

“You’re lucky I let you finish your drink first.”

You smacked his chest, breathless and embarrassed.

“Shut up,” you mumbled, face still flushed, lips kiss-bitten and trembling.

Toji chuckled, then gently eased you down from where he had you pinned, his strong hands steadying your waist before reaching down to adjust the hem of your dress—fingers brushing over your thighs with a little too much fondness to be innocent.

He straightened up and zipped his jeans without a hint of shame, still grinning like the devil. “What? I’m just sayin’—you married a menace, sweetheart.”

Your knees wobbled slightly when you took a step, and without missing a beat, he offered you his arm. You took it, silently grateful, letting him pull you close into his side.

Together, you stepped out of the alley—your hand in his, your heart still racing—as if nothing had happened, except for the mark he’d left on your neck and the undeniable warmth still leaking between your legs.

…

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[custom-fic-studio]

Sabo x Female Reader

Don’t Hide From Me

…

The warm wooden scent of the inn was the first thing that greeted you. It was small, cozy, and clearly run by someone who had no interest in asking questions; perfect for revolutionary soldiers.

The innkeeper, a round-faced woman with laugh lines and mischief in her eyes, looked between the two of you and smiled like she was planning something special.

“Oh, honeymooners, aren’t you?” she said brightly, already reaching for a key. “You’ve got that look. Young love. Ahh to be young again… I’ll give you something private—one bed, thick walls. Plenty of blankets” she said with a sly wink.

You blinked once.

Then again.

Honeymoo—?!

Your mouth opened but no sound came out. Heat shot straight up your spine and bloomed across your cheeks, rising so fast you thought you might faint.

“I—uh—n-no, we—!” you stammered, voice pitching up as you stepped forward, nearly fumbling your bag. “We’re not—”

But Sabo’s hand slid smoothly to the small of your back.

And he chuckled.

Low. Confident. That soft laugh that always wrapped around your ears.

“Thank you,” he said to the woman, his voice smooth as velvet. “We appreciate it.”

You whipped your head toward him, eyes wide. He didn’t correct her?!

Not even a twitch of protest. Just that easy, charming smile.

The innkeeper winked at him with conspiratorial approval. “Newlyweds, always so shy. Don’t worry, dear. You’re in good hands.”

You barely managed a squeak of protest before she handed him the key and turned away.

You stood frozen, the room warm and your blood burning in your cheeks.

Sabo slung his arm around your shoulders like he’d done it a thousand times and leaned in just close enough that his breath tickled your ear.

“You—you just let her think that we are—!” you hissed once she was out of earshot.

He didn’t stop smiling.

“I sure did.”

Your jaw dropped, eyes scanning his face for any sign of discomfort, guilt…anything!

He just grinned wider.

“What’s the harm in pretending, sweetheart?” he murmured, voice dropping low and husky. “Besides…”

He leaned in, lips brushing your temple.

“I kinda like the sound of Mrs. Y/N.”

Your brain short-circuited.

Completely.

There was no witty comeback. No indignant denial. Just stunned silence as your cheeks went scarlet, and your breath caught halfway in your chest.

“Ngh—you—!”

He took your bag out of your hand like a gentleman, clearly enjoying every single flustered reaction you gave him.

“Come on,” he said cheerfully. “Let’s get some rest, My Wife.”

You sputtered.

But he was already walking away, humming as he climbed the stairs.

You trailed after him in a daze, heart hammering, pulse in your ears.

…

The door to your room clicked shut behind you.

Silence fell.

You stared at the bed.

One bed. Modest but soft-looking. Clean sheets, fluffed pillows, thick blankets… too intimate for two people who were not, in fact, married.

You blinked at it like you were having a standoff. To see who breaks first.

However…

Behind you, Sabo exhaled—a slow, satisfied sound—as he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over the back of a worn chair. His shirt clung just slightly to the line of his back. Muscles moved beneath smooth skin with every stretch of his shoulders.

He rolled his neck with a sigh, then turned toward you, looking far too relaxed.

You hadn’t said a word.

“Still thinking about what the innkeeper said?” he asked, strolling toward you, that telltale mischief dancing behind his eyes.

You could only nod, cheeks still burning, fingers nervously picking at the hem of your sleeve.

“Well all I can say is … you didn’t correct her either,” he said, tilting his head.

Your eyes snapped up. “I—I was too embarrassed! And you—you didn’t even hesitate!”

He laughed. Laughed.

“Why would I?” he said easily. “Watching you turn that shade of red is easily the highlight of my day.”

Your mouth opened to protest, but you didn’t even get the chance.

Because Sabo was already closing the distance.

Slow. Certain.

His hands slid around your waist, warm and sure, pulling you gently but firmly against him.

“You hide that sweet little flustered face behind mission reports all day,” he whispered, lips ghosting the shell of your ear. “But I know how you truly feel.”

You swallowed hard. “You don’t—”

“I do.”

He kissed you.

Hot.

Deep.

Possessive.

His lips crashed against yours, stealing the air from your lungs and the thoughts from your head. His mouth coaxed yours open, tongue slipping past your lips with skillful ease, tasting you, claiming you.

You whimpered before you could stop yourself, fingers curling into his shirt.

He grinned against your mouth.

“There it is,” he whispered, voice like smoke curling along your skin.

And then he walked you backward—step by step—until the backs of your knees hit the bed.

He pushed you down, slow and deliberate, never breaking the kiss.

You didn’t even care that your face was burning.

Because the moment his body covered yours, all you could think about was how much you wanted him.

And how much he wants you.

…

By the time Sabo laid you out on the bed, your body was trembling—not from fear, but from the heat that had been steadily building between your legs since the moment the innkeeper called you his wife.

And he didn’t correct her.

That alone had sent your mind reeling. And now you were here—naked beneath him, everything exposed, every breath shallow.

His fingertips ran slowly across your chest, barely grazing, then lower… circling your belly, brushing your hip bones. He wasn’t touching you to tease—he was exploring.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his eyes raking across your flushed form. “And I haven’t even tasted you yet.”

His mouth descended—warm lips brushing up your sternum, dragging over the soft swell of your breast before he latched on to a nipple. You gasped, arching slightly, and he hummed against your skin like he was savoring the sound.

But when your hand came up to your face—reflexive, instinctual—trying to shield yourself from his gaze, he froze.

“No,” he said firmly. “Don’t you dare hide from me.”

His eyes locked with yours.

“You’re gonna let me see everything, sweetheart.”

He reached up, gently but firmly grabbing both your wrists—and pinned them above your head in one smooth move. His grip was firm, but his thumb stroked your skin. It was protective. Claiming.

Your lips parted, heart slamming in your chest.

“Sabo…” you breathed.

He smiled. “There’s my voice. Let’s hear more of it.”

He shifted downward, positioning himself between your thighs, and you felt it—the heavy weight of his cock dragging through your slick folds, gliding slow and deliberate. Every pass over your clit made your hips jump.

“Already soaked for me,” he murmured, voice dropping. “You’re practically begging and I haven’t even pushed in yet.”

You whimpered and instinctively tried to pull your hands free—but he tightened his grip and gave you a wicked grin.

“Trying to hide that voice again? Hm?” he said. “That won’t do.”

He aligned himself with your entrance and leaned down, nose brushing yours, breath hot.

“If you really want to be quiet…” he whispered, “…then let me shut you up.”

And he kissed you.

Hard.

His tongue plunged into your mouth the moment his cock sank inside you—deep and slow and thick—and the moan you let out got swallowed by his kiss. His chest pressed against yours, hips rolling forward with practiced control as he buried himself to the hilt.

Your eyes rolled back.

The stretch. The fullness. The heat.

He didn’t give you time to adjust. He knew you could take it. Knew your body had wanted this since the moment he teased you in front of that innkeeper. And now, with your wrists trapped and your cries muffled against his lips, he thrust.

Hard.

Slow.

Again.

And again.

Each thrust was perfectly placed. Deep enough to make your legs shake, timed just slow enough to feel like torture.

“You’re clenching,” he breathed against your mouth, not releasing your wrists. “Like you don’t wanna let me go.”

You moaned again, trying to turn your face—overwhelmed—but he kissed you harder this time, lips bruising, tongue curling with yours as his thrusts grew sharper.

“You gonna come for me like this?” he whispered between kisses, cock slamming into that sweet spot deep inside you. “Pinned down… stuffed… making all these messy little sounds just for me?”

You were already unraveling—your thighs trembling, toes curling, breath stuttering with every deep stroke.

And then—

“You gonna be my good girl and come while I’m still inside you?”

That was the last straw.

Your climax hit hard and fast—tight and pulsing around him, a soft cry escaping your throat before it was sealed in his mouth again.

Your body locked under him, shaking uncontrollably as your orgasm rushed through you. He let you ride it out—thrusting through the tight clench of your walls, panting.

“Fuck—fuck—you feel too good—”

He lost rhythm for only a second before grinding deep, burying himself inside you, and coming hard with a guttural moan against your neck, his hips jerking as he emptied into you.

Warmth filled you. His arms didn’t let go. His lips didn’t leave you.

Even as you trembled beneath him, breathless and boneless, he kissed your temple, your jaw, your throat.

And finally—released your wrists.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Just melted into the sheets while he hovered over you, brushing sweaty hair back from your face.

“You okay?” he asked softly, voice now gentler.

You nodded slowly, blinking dazedly up at him.

His thumb brushed your bottom lip, which was still red and kissed raw.

“You made the prettiest sounds,” he whispered, and smiled, smug and tender at once.

He pressed a final kiss to your temple before settling beside you, pulling you close with a satisfied sigh.

…

The air in the room had cooled slightly, but your body still buzzed with heat—skin flushed, muscles sore. You lay limp in Sabo’s arms, your head on his chest, barely able to keep your eyes open.

His fingers moved lazily over your back, soothing and slow. His other hand stroked your hair, humming something low under his breath as he kissed your temple.

You felt safe. Completely undone.

That’s why the whisper caught you off guard.

“Mm. Don’t fall asleep just yet.”

You blinked, drowsy. “You’re not… done?”

Sabo’s lips curved against your shoulder, soft and warm.

“Not even close,” he murmured, voice low and edged with mischief. “But this time…”

He gently rolled you over, pressing kisses to your neck. Then he laid back and looked up at you with half-lidded eyes.

“This time,” he said, “I want you on top. I want to see your face while you ride me.”

Your eyes widened. “I-I can’t— I mean, I’ve never—!”

“You can,” he said, reaching up to brush your cheek with the backs of his fingers. “And I’m going to watch you the entire time.”

You swallowed hard, thighs tightening instinctively as heat curled through your belly again.

His eyes flicked down—and you knew he saw it.

“See?” he said, voice almost a purr. “Your body agrees before your mind does.”

You shivered and slowly swung your leg over him, straddling his waist with trembling thighs. Sabo didn’t rush. Just watched you—completely open, hungry, hands behind his head, muscles flexed as he let you take in the full view of him.

His cock stood hard and thick, flushed at the tip, a bead of precum glistening.

Your breath caught.

“Go slow,” he said gently. “Take your time.”

With trembling fingers, you reached between you, lining him up with your entrance.

He watched your every movement—his breath shallow, gaze reverent—as you sank down onto him. Slowly. Inch by inch.

“Ohhh, fuck,” Sabo groaned, head tipping back, eyes fluttering closed. “You feel… incredible.”

You gasped softly at the stretch—it still felt big, but slower. More manageable. More deep. He filled you fully, perfectly.

Your hands landed on his chest, and you stayed there for a moment—just breathing—trying to gather yourself.

Sabo opened his eyes again, chest rising and falling under your touch. “You okay?”

You nodded, flushed. “You’re… deeper this way.”

“I know,” he murmured, voice dark with approval. “And you’re tighter when you’re on top. It’s so fucking good, baby.”

You rolled your hips experimentally, and he let out a shaky moan, hands twitching but still behind his head.

“You’re in control,” he said through clenched teeth. “Just… don’t stop.”

You began to move slowly—gentle rocking, up and down, riding him with soft moans escaping your lips. He never looked away from you. His eyes drank in every twitch, every blush, every vulnerable look that passed across your face.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered. “So sweet and messy on top of me. That face you make when you’re trying to hold it in…”

You bit your lip, hips rolling smoother now, and the friction sent sparks shooting through your core.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Just like that. Take what you need.”

Your hands splayed on his chest, nails lightly dragging over his skin as you bounced a little faster now. The wet sounds of your slick meeting his body filled the room.

He growled softly, finally breaking his restraint—his hands came up to grab your hips, guiding your rhythm, pulling you down deeper.

“Come on, baby,” he groaned. “Ride me. Let me feel you. Let me watch you break.”

You whimpered, thighs trembling, your body heating again fast—faster than you expected.

“I—I’m close…”

He sat up without warning, arms circling your waist as he pulled you flush against his chest. You were still moving, still grinding against him—but now you were eye to eye, nose to nose.

“Then look at me,” he murmured. “I want to see it. I want to feel you come around me while you’re wrapped in my arms.”

You cried out, legs locking around his waist as your climax hit making you sob his name into his shoulder as your body pulsed around him.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned. “That’s my girl.”

He held you tight, never letting you go as he fucked up into you from below, chasing his own high. His lips found yours again—kissing you hard… claiming—before he slammed in one final time and came with a low, desperate moan.

You collapsed over him, your sweat-slick skin sticking to his, both of you catching your breath.

Sabo laid you down gently beside him and pulled the covers over you both.

“I still can’t believe how shy you get when I talk dirty,” he teased, his thumb brushing your swollen lips. “But the second you’re on top of me, that all goes out the window.”

You groaned, hiding your face in the pillow. “I was dying the entire time.”

“You looked divine the entire time.”

You peeked at him shyly. “Do you… always talk like that?”

He smirked, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw. “Only when I’m in love.”

Your heart stopped. The world quieted.

“Sabo…”

“I mean it,” he whispered, forehead resting against yours. “I’ve loved you since the moment you first blushed at me. I love you.”

You wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in his neck. “…I love you too.”

He pulled you tighter against him and exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for years.

…

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[custom-fic-studio]

Dominant!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

NSFW / 18+ EXPLICIT CONTENT WARNING

Convenient Love

Smut | Angst | Toxic Love

…

It was late. Too late for anyone decent to be knocking.

But of course, it was him.

The knock didn’t even last. You heard it — sharp, purposeful — and then a click, and the door creaked open on its own.

You turned from the kitchen just in time to see Bucky Barnes stepping through the threshold like he still lived here. Like it hadn’t been a couple of months since he’d disappeared without a word.

You should’ve yelled.

Should’ve told him to get the fuck out.

But you didn’t.

You just… watched. Watched as he closed the door behind him, slow and deliberate, then looked at you like no time had passed at all.

“You didn’t lock it,” he murmured, voice low.

A lie. You always locked it now. But you didn’t argue.

You stared at him. “You shouldn’t be here.”

He shrugged off his jacket. Didn’t stop walking until he was just a few feet away. “I know.”

You hated how he could just appear — step back into your life like he never left — and make your mind crumble without even trying.

You didn’t say anything else. You just turned, walking stiffly back into the living room.

He followed.

The room was dim. Quiet. Too intimate.

You sat on the edge of the couch, arms crossed tightly over your chest, body stiff like stone. He stood in front of you — looming still soaked with rain and regret.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, even though he already knew the answer.

You kept your gaze locked on the coffee table.

“I’ve been trying to move on.”

“That so?”

He crouched down in front of you, his gloved hand resting on your knee.

“You don’t sound so sure.”

You flinched but didn’t pull away. “Don’t do this.”

He leaned in.

You turned your face sharply.

And then — his hand caught your jaw, rough but careful, forcing you to face him.

“Don’t turn away from me,” he growled.

You hated how fast your breath caught. How your thighs instinctively pressed together.

Even now — even after everything — your body remembered him.

“I can’t do this.” you whispered.

“You said that last time.”

“I … — “

His fingers tightened on your jaw — not cruelly, but with authority. Then his lips crashed into yours.

You resisted.

But he kissed like a man who knew exactly what buttons to push, what pieces to take. When you turned your head to breathe — just for a second — he used the moment to his advantage, tilting your chin and slipping his tongue into your mouth, claiming it without hesitation.

His tongue slid against yours — hot, wet, demanding. You whimpered, the sound betraying you. And he swallowed it greedily, pressing in closer, like he could fuse your bodies together and never let go.

That sound.

He heard it. Felt it.

And his whole demeanor changed.

“That wasn’t a no,” he murmured, breaking the kiss to drag his lips down your neck. “You still want this. Still want me.”

“Stop—”

He pushed you back onto the couch, lips never leaving your skin, body pinning you down.

“You gonna pretend again?” he growled into your throat. “Gonna hold back your voice, think that’ll stop me?”

You bit your lip.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he chuckled darkly. “You know I love that shit.”

His hands were everywhere. Ripping at your shirt. Pulling off your pants. Touching like he had every right to — like he was still yours.

“You don’t get to do this,” you gasped, already breathless.

He shoved his pants down, not bothering to fully undress. His cock sprung free, thick and leaking, brushing against your inner thigh.

“Watch me.”

Then he was inside you. In one, hard thrust.

You screamed into his shoulder — not from pain, but from the brutal, overwhelming stretch of being filled too fast.

“You’re soaking for me,” he grunted. “You missed this just as much as I did.”

You shook your head, but your body betrayed you. You clenched around him, legs trembling as he began to thrust.

He fucked you like he owned you.

One hand gripped your throat. The other held your hip in place as he pounded into you, deep and rough and deliberate.

You tried to stay silent.

You tried to be strong.

But Bucky knew your body.

And when his thumb rubbed fast, tight circles over your clit, you broke.

A sob escaped your lips.

Then a moan.

Then a desperate, helpless whimper.

He smirked down at you. “There’s my good girl.”

You cried out, biting your lip, tears slipping down your cheeks as the pleasure burned through your core. You hated it — hated how perfect it felt, how easily he could reduce you to this.

“Say it,” he demanded. “Say you still want me.”

“No—”

He snapped his hips into you, so hard the couch creaked.

You moaned louder.

“Say it, or I won’t stop until you can’t speak.”

You were already unraveling. Your walls spasmed around him. Your legs shook violently. You came with a scream, body writhing beneath him.

And he didn’t stop.

He kept going.

“Too much—Bucky—please—!”

“No,” he hissed, fucking you through your orgasm. “You don’t get to walk away without remembering who you belong to.”

You whimpered, broken and overstimulated, tears soaking the cushion under your head. But your body kept responding. Another orgasm built — sharper, crueler than the last — and he pushed you right into it.

You came again — violently, sobbing, full of him.

Then he growled in your ear, “Gonna fill you up. You want that?”

“No—”

“You’ll take it anyway.”

And then he came.

Hot and deep, his hips buried to the hilt, cock pulsing as he flooded your cunt with every drop.

The room fell silent except for your shared panting.

Your chest rose and fell, soaked in sweat and shame.

His breath hitched as he pulled out slowly, watching his load leak from between your thighs.

You turned your face away.

“I can’t be this for you anymore,” you whispered.

Bucky stilled.

“I can’t be your convenience. Your comfort. Your f—fuck toy when your life gets too heavy.”

He reached for you.

You shoved his hand away. “Don’t. Don’t touch me!”

“Sweetheart—”

“No.” Your voice cracked. “You only come here when you’re lonely. When the world’s too much. But when I need you, you’re always gone.”

“I’m trying—”

“You’re too late.”

You sat up, pulling a blanket around your shoulders.

“I don’t want to do this again. Not even for the memory.”

He opened his mouth — to fight, to beg — but saw your face.

Tears still on your cheeks. Pain in your eyes.

And for once… he said nothing.

He pulled his clothes and dressed silently.

Looked back at you one last time.

And left.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And you finally let yourself fall apart.

Alone.

Like always.

…

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[custom-fic-studio]

SHANKS X FEMALE READER

Last Call

(Your bar tucked into a port town — the kind of place pirates swing by between journeys. You’ve known Shanks for years now. He always stops here. Always talks sweet. Always flirts. You always pretend it doesn’t fluster you. But tonight… something shifts.)

…

The bar was empty, except for the soft flicker of oil lamps and the scent of alcohol in the air. You were wiping down the counter — the sound of his boots echoed across the wooden floor, slow and familiar. You didn’t need to lift your head to know it was him.

“Still working this late?” he teased, leaning on the bar with his usual smirk — that glint in his eye you always blamed on the booze.

You huffed a laugh. “Still here?” you asked, voice light, glancing up from behind the bar.

He smirked, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “You know I’m always the last to leave.”

“Yeah,” you muttered, cheeks flushing slightly, “but I figured you’d have somewhere better to be.”

Shanks tilted his head. “Better than here? With you? Doubt it.”

He chuckled. “What can I say? Your place has better company than most of the Grand Line.”

There it was again — that voice. The way he said your name, the way his gaze lingered just a little too long. But you brushed it off like always. He probably said the same thing to bartenders in every damn town.

Your heart ached a little every time. But you hid it behind a smile.

You turned away to stack glasses, trying to will the warmth off your face. His eyes were still on you. You felt them — hot and heavy — trailing over your back.

“Y/N,” he said, more serious now. “Can I ask you something?”

You glanced over your shoulder. “Sure.”

“Why do you always brush me off?”

You froze. “What?”

He stood slowly, boots echoing in the quiet bar as he stepped around the counter. “You never take me seriously. Not once. I flirt, I tease, I make it obvious I’m crazy about you — and you act like it means nothing.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

You swallowed thickly. “Because I figured… you were like that with everyone.”

“I’m not.”

Silence.

He was in front of you now, so close. One hand lifted to gently tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

You lifted your head to meet his eyes. “Are you saying… you’re not seeing anyone else?”

“I’m saying I never was. Not since I met you.”

Your breath caught. You gripped the edge of the bar. “That’s not funny, Shanks.”

“I’m not joking, Y/N. I only ever wanted you.”

You stared at him — heart in your throat, stomach tightening.

He leaned in, whispering just for you:

“You thought I was seeing other women? Haven’t touched a single one since I met you.”

Your breath caught.

“That can’t be true,” you whispered, blushing hot. “I thought you had someone—”

He stepped closer. One hand — his only hand — rested lightly on your hip, pulling you gently into him.

“I don’t have ‘someone,’” he murmured. “I have you. That’s it. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

You stared up at him, wide-eyed. “Me?”

He nodded. “You. All these years, Y/N… It’s only ever been you.”

Your heart swelled, choked your throat. It was too much — and somehow, not enough.

He didn’t give you time to think — just stepped in close and kissed you like a man long starved. His lips crashed into yours, searing and breathless, his only hand gripping your waist like he never meant to let go.

Years of want surged between you — hot, reckless, and impossible to contain.

…

You gasped as his hand trailed down — slow, rough fingers grazing the line of your throat, down to your chest. He paused at the first button of your blouse, thumb brushing over it.

“Can I?” he asked, voice lower now, eyes dark and locked on yours.

You swallowed, heat blooming across your cheeks. “I… I can do it,” you whispered, eyes darting away. “Since you… you know. I didn’t want you to have to—”

You trailed off, hating how awkward it sounded.

But Shanks just stared at you for a heartbeat — then smiled. Not cocky, not teasing. Just warm. Disarming.

“Hey,” he said gently, tilting his head. “You don’t have to be shy about it. I’m not made of glass.”

You still couldn’t meet his gaze. “I know, I just… didn’t want to make it harder for you.”

He reached up, his one hand cupping your jaw — not forceful, just grounding.

“You’re not making anything harder for me,” he said softly, thumb brushing your cheek. “But if you wanna undress for me… well, that’s one hell of a gift.”

You gave a quiet, embarrassed laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re beautiful,” he murmured. “Go on, sweetheart. Take your time.”

Your fingers fumbled at the first button. You could feel his eyes on you — not with judgment, but hunger held in patience. With each undone button, more skin appeared, and with it, more silence, thick with want.

By the time you reached the last one, your hands were shaking.

You shrugged the blouse off your shoulders, heart pounding.

Shanks whistled under his breath. “Worth the wait.”

Then he stepped in close again — his only hand sliding up your bare waist to rest beneath your ribs, thumb brushing the edge of your bra.

“You nervous?” he asked softly.

You nodded.

“You want me to stop?”

You shook your head.

“Good,” he whispered, mouth brushing your cheek. “Because I plan to worship every inch of you.”

Shanks exhaled slowly, eyes raking over you. “Goddamn,” he murmured. “You really were hiding all this under your clothes?”

You rolled your eyes, flustered. “Don’t make me regret this.”

He leaned in, his lips brushing your collarbone. “You won’t.”

You stood there — bare from the waist up except for the thin bra clinging to your skin, nipples visibly pebbled beneath the fabric. You swallowed hard, your arms twitching like you might cover yourself, but you didn’t.

Shanks was quiet — too quiet. His gaze ran over your chest like it was something sacred.

“You’re… stunning,” he said lowly. “Every time I thought about this, I told myself I was exaggerating you in my head. But I wasn’t.”

Your face burned hotter. “Shanks—”

He leaned in, placing a slow kiss over your sternum, lips soft but firm. Then another, lower this time, just above the line of your bra. His stubble rasped against your skin, making you shiver.

“You okay if I take this off?” he murmured, fingers tracing the strap over your shoulder.

You nodded, breath shaky. “Yeah.”

His hand slipped behind your back and unhooked the clasp. The bra loosened and slid down your arms, and you let it fall away.

The moment your breasts were bared, his breath caught. His fingers traced along the curve of one slowly, thumb brushing your nipple until it stiffened under his touch.

“Fuck…” he whispered. “Look at you.”

He ducked down, mouth closing over one nipple — sucking, licking, teasing it with slow drags of his tongue. Your head fell back with a moan as his hand kneaded the other, rough palm making your skin burn.

“You’re so soft,” he murmured against you. “So fucking responsive.”

You gasped as he bit lightly, then soothed the sting with a kiss. His lips worshipped every inch — down your chest, over your ribs, even your stomach — and when he looked up at you again, his pupils were blown wide, his lips pink and swollen.

“Now,” he rasped, licking his lips, “your turn.”

You blinked. “My turn?”

He grinned. “Help me out, sweetheart. One hand makes it a bit tricky.”

You flushed — but stepped forward, fingers trembling as you reached for the buttons of his shirt. You worked slowly, aware of his eyes on your face the entire time. The fabric opened to reveal his chest — scarred, firm, skin kissed deep gold by the sun.

Your hands hesitated. He leaned down, catching your chin with his knuckles.

“Take your time,” he murmured. “Touch me however you want. I’ve wanted your hands on me for years.”

Your breath hitched.

You slid his shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. He stood there — shirtless, powerful, every line of him carved by battle and sea — and yet the way he looked at you made you feel like the dangerous one.

You stepped closer, hands smoothing over his chest — tracing the old scar that ran over his ribs. He twitched slightly under your touch.

“That one?” he said, a little breathless. “Got it from a pissed-off cook in Water 7.”

You laughed quietly, leaning up to kiss the scar, then his collarbone, then his neck.

And he shuddered.

His hand slid down your hip, gripping it with urgency. “You kiss me like that again and I’m bending you over this fucking table.”

“Maybe that’s what I want,” you whispered against his throat.

His growl was soft, dangerous. “Then I hope you’re ready, sweetheart. Because I’m not stopping until I’ve got you shaking under me.”

You didn’t realize how fast your heart was beating until he sank to his knees in front of you.

Shanks. On his knees — shirtless, hair a little wild, eyes dark and ravenous — gazing up at you like a man who’d found his religion.

He hooked his hand behind your thigh and pulled your leg over his shoulder with ease, guiding your back to rest against the edge of the bar. You let him position you, skin burning where his fingers touched.

“You good?” he asked, eyes scanning your face, checking for hesitation.

You nodded, breath shallow. “Yeah.”

He smirked, lips brushing the inside of your thigh. “Better hold onto something, sweetheart.”

Then he dipped in — and everything else vanished.

His mouth sealed over your soaked core with devastating precision. The first stroke of his tongue was slow, broad, and hot — dragging from your entrance all the way up to your clit. You gasped, thighs tensing against his head as your fingers scrabbled for the edge of the counter behind you.

“Fuck—Shanks—”

He groaned low against you, the sound vibrating through your core.

“I knew you’d taste sweet,” he muttered, licking into you again, slower this time — letting his tongue part your folds and savor every bit of slick you gave him. “But this? You’re addictive.”

He focused in, licking and sucking with maddening rhythm — tongue swirling around your clit before flattening against it, lips closing over it just to drag another moan from your throat.

You were soaked. Dripping. And he ate it all up like he couldn’t get enough.

“Relax for me,” he murmured between licks. “Let me have it. Let me ruin you.”

His hand — the only one he had — shifted to press against your lower stomach, grounding you while his mouth kept working. He circled your clit with the tip of his tongue, flicking just right, and your hips bucked without your permission.

“Shit—Shanks—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he said, voice dark and thick. “You’re gonna cum for me. Right here. On my tongue.”

You were already close — too close. He pushed two fingers inside you without warning, and your body clenched tight, wet and fluttering around him as he curved them just right — brushing over that devastating spot inside you again and again.

You fell apart — hard.

Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave, legs trembling, a loud, helpless moan spilling from your lips. He groaned as you clenched around his fingers, his mouth still latched to your clit, tongue dragging you through every second of it.

But he didn’t stop.

Your hips twitched. Your legs quivered. “S-Shanks—wait—sensitive—”

“Mm-mm,” he hummed, licking you even harder now, sloppy and wet and merciless. “You’re not done.”

Your hands shot down to grab at his hair, trying to push him away, but he just gripped your thigh tighter.

“You’re gonna cum again,” he growled, voice muffled between your thighs. “I want you shaking for me. I want you so fucked out you forget your name.”

And then he sucked your clit hard — and you screamed.

Another orgasm hit you like lightning — shorter but sharper, white-hot and twitching. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Your vision blurred as you soaked his mouth, thighs clamping around his head, sobbing his name.

He kept going. He didn’t stop.

Tongue working relentlessly, lips swollen and wet, humming against your skin like he was drunk off you. The third climax hit before you could brace yourself — all sparks and overstimulation — your thighs trembling, voice breaking.

“Too much—Shanks—please—!”

Finally, finally, he pulled back.

You collapsed against the bar, gasping, legs trembling so hard you thought they might give out.

Shanks stood slowly, licking your slick off his lips like sin, eyes half-lidded and flushed.

You could barely breathe.

Your legs were shaking, soaked and dripping, skin flushed and tingling from back-to-back orgasms. You were trembling against the bar — spent, dazed, your mind somewhere between the stars and his name.

And still, somehow, you wanted more.

Shanks stood over you now — flushed, chest rising with every breath, the hand that had wrecked you resting firm against your hip. His mouth was still wet with your slick, chin glistening, eyes dark and hungry as he looked you over like you were a feast.

“You’re incredible,” he said softly — not mocking, not teasing. Just reverent. “And I’m not fucking done with you yet.”

You whimpered as he pressed in close, his cock hard and heavy against your thigh, twitching with need.

You blinked up at him, lips parted. “Then take me.”

His jaw flexed, restraint shattering.

“Turn around,” he growled, voice thick with arousal.

Your knees nearly buckled. You obeyed, barely managing to steady yourself as you turned to face the bar, bracing your hands against it, legs wobbling beneath you. You felt the heat of his body as he stepped in close behind you, one hand sliding along your waist — steadying, anchoring.

He lined himself up, dragging the tip of his cock through your slick folds — slow, deliberate.

“Still so fucking wet for me,” he murmured. “You’re gonna take me so well.”

You cried out when he pushed in — the head thick, stretching you open again even though you were already sore, already wrecked.

And then — in one deep, brutal stroke — he filled you.

You gasped — loud, broken — your back arching as his cock stretched you wide and deep, every inch pressing into oversensitive, swollen heat. You clenched around him instantly, your body reacting before your mind could catch up.

“F-Fuck—Shanks—” you whimpered.

“That’s it,” he groaned, jaw clenched tight. “Tight little pussy just sucks me in.”

He gave you no time to adjust — no softness now. He drew back and slammed into you again — hard, precise, hitting that sweet, bruised spot inside you like he was aiming for it.

You sobbed his name, knuckles white against the bar as he set a relentless pace — hips snapping into yours, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing through the room.

Your body jolted forward with every thrust, and he just followed you — hand gripping your hip, pulling you back to meet every stroke.

“You feel that?” he growled against your ear, bending over you now, his chest slick against your back. “That’s me buried so fucking deep inside you. Right where I belong.”

You whimpered, tears prickling your lashes from the intensity. “Too much—too deep—”

“No,” he snarled, teeth brushing your neck. “You can take it. You’re made for this. You’re mine.”

His fingers slipped around and rubbed your clit — fast and rough and unrelenting — and you screamed.

Your orgasm hit like a wave crashing into jagged rock — raw, hard, endless. Your legs gave out, but he held you up, thrusting through your spasms, grunting as your walls fluttered and squeezed around him.

“I’m close,” he gasped, voice wrecked. “Gonna fill you up, sweetheart. Gonna mark you from the inside—fuck—”

You moaned helplessly as he slammed into you one last time and came — hips jerking, cock twitching deep inside you as he spilled hot, thick ropes of cum into your oversensitive cunt.

You were shaking.

Wrecked.

Overflowing.

And you could feel it — his release dripping out of you, sliding down your thighs as he stayed buried deep, panting against your shoulder.

…

Your legs were still shaking when he pulled out — slow and deliberate, his cum slipping out of you and trailing down your thighs in thick, hot drips. You collapsed against the bar, chest heaving, skin flushed and slick with sweat.

But Shanks didn’t move away.

He stood behind you, hand on your ass, gaze fixed between your legs like he was debating something.

You groaned. “What?”

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear, voice low and sinful. “I want another round.”

Your eyes widened. “Shanks—”

“I’m not finished with you,” he said, biting gently at your neck. “That pretty little cunt’s still clenching like it misses me already.”

You whimpered.

He grabbed your hips, turning you to face him. Before you could process it, he lifted you by your thighs and hoisted you up onto the bar’s edge, your bare ass landing against the cool wood.

“You’re still shaking,” he smirked, looking you over like he was starving. “But you’re not saying no.”

You bit your lip, already breathless again. “You’re insatiable.”

“Only when it comes to you.”

He leaned in to kiss you — filthy, hungry, tongue sliding over yours — as his cock, still hard again far too quickly, rubbed through your folds. You gasped into his mouth, your body reacting instantly, even with your mind still spinning from the last climax.

He was just about to push inside again when it happened.

The door creaked open.

“Oh fu—” a voice yelped. Then footsteps scrambled backward. “I DIDN’T SEE ANYTHING!”

SLAM.

Silence.

Your entire body went stiff. “No.”

Shanks froze.

Then started laughing.

Loudly.

Shoulders shaking, head tossed back — the sound booming through the bar like he’d just witnessed the funniest shit he’d ever seen.

“Shanks!” you whisper-shrieked, face on fire, trying to squirm away. “Oh my god—what if it was a customer ?! Or someone from the docks?! Or the town guard?!”

He grinned, still pressed between your thighs. “Then they got a good show”

You covered your face. “I’m never showing my face outside again.”

He nipped at your collarbone. “You won’t need to. I’ll keep you here. On this table. Where you belong.”

You looked up at him, dazed, mortified — but heat already pooling again between your thighs.

“You’re still hard,” you muttered, voice weak.

“Sweetheart,” he said, eyes dark, cock pressing against your entrance again, “I told you.”

He thrust in.

“I’m not. Fucking. Done.”

You cried out — already too sensitive, already soaked — as he filled you again in one long, deep stroke.

The table creaked beneath you as he began to move, slow but firm. The door was locked now — but the windows? Still uncovered. Anyone could walk past. Anyone could hear.

And Shanks didn’t care.

“You’re mine,” he growled, thrusting deep enough to make your breath catch. “Let ‘em look. Let ‘em hear. I want the whole damn town to know who’s fucking you like this.”

You moaned, thighs shaking again, arms gripping his shoulders.

“I don’t like you,” you gasped, barely coherent.

He grinned wickedly. “Nah. You love me.”And then he fucked you like he needed to prove it — deep, slow, relentless — until your body gave out beneath him, trembling and soaked with everything he’d poured into you.

…

You tried to sit up, but your muscles had other plans. You winced, shaky and sore, and immediately fell back. Shanks pulled away just enough to take in the sight of you — legs spread, lips swollen, utterly spent and flushed beneath him — and his eyes darkened.

“Fuck, look at you…” His tone dropped, raw and reverent.

You blinked up at him, dizzy.

Something in his expression softened. Then sharpened. Possessive.

“I’m taking you to bed before someone else walks in and gets an even better view.”

Before you could protest, he slipped his arm behind your knees — or rather, tried.

“…Wait,” you said, blinking. “You can’t carry me like that—”

He grinned. “Watch me.”

And with a quick movement, he hooked his only arm around your waist, gripping you firm and tight — and hauled you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing.

You yelped. “SHANKS!”

Your bare thighs bounced against his chest, your ass exposed to the world behind him, your face already buried in your hands as he casually strode toward the back room.

“I am never recovering from this,” you mumbled into your palms.

He laughed, his tone thick with pride. “Sure you will. Right after maybe a few more rounds”

“You’re not even embarrassed!”

“I’d be more embarrassed if I hadn’t made you cum so hard you screamed my name loud enough for the street outside to hear.”

You smacked his back, weakly.

“That’s not helping!”

He chuckled again, ducking through the curtain into the backroom and kicking it shut behind him.

Once inside, he set you down carefully — one knee lifting to help lower you to the small cot in the corner. You landed with a soft bounce, blinking up at him in a breathless daze.

He was grinning down at you — shirt half-undone, red hair wild, chest flushed, and cocky as ever.

“You good?” he asked, brushing your hair off your sweaty forehead with calloused fingers.

You exhaled, eyes fluttering closed. “Yeah… just a little… exhausted.”

His thumb stroked your cheek. “I’ll let you rest.”

“…Then what?”

His eyes burned into you, lips curving.

“Then I’m going to ruin you again.”

It’s going to be a long night.

…

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[custom-fic-studio]

Jason Todd x Female Reader

NSFW / 18+ ONLY

Mine, Even in Sleep

You told him he could have you anytime. And tonight, Jason takes your word.

…

Gotham was quiet for once. A rare pocket of calm.

The bedroom was lit only by the amber flicker of the candle burning low on the windowsill. Rain painted shadows across the hardwood floor, and your body was sunk deep into the mattress, face turned into Jason’s pillow, legs soft and slightly spread from hours ago.

You were already asleep.

Jason wasn’t.

He was watching you—bare-chested, lying on his side, arm slung lazily across your back. You’d passed out on top of him earlier, after he’d taken you once already with his shirt on. His shirt.

And you had the nerve to sleep so soundly. So trusting. So soft and messy and perfect in his bed—still damp with sweat and his cum from earlier, legs parted just enough to tease him without trying.

It should’ve been innocent.

But Jason was aching. Hard and heavy beneath the sheets, jaw clenched as he tried to resist what every part of his body was screaming for.

You’d told him once—quietly, breathless, half-asleep after a particularly rough night:

“You don’t have to ask if I’m asleep. You can wake me… I trust you. I want you to.”

He had never forgotten those words.

Not once.

And now, staring down at the faint bruises on your thighs, the dried bite marks on your shoulder, the faint tremble of your breath…

Jason let out a low, broken groan.

“Fuck.”

He moved slow, careful, hovering over your body like a predator trying not to scare its prey. One hand slipped beneath your stomach to gently lift your hips. The other dragged the pillow down the bed and tucked it underneath you—tilting your ass up until you were perfectly presented for him.

The sight made him growl.

Your shirt was bunched at your waist. No panties. Still glistening between the thighs.

“You’re killing me, sweetheart,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to the small of your back. “You can’t lie here like this and expect me to behave.”

Your only response was a quiet sigh. Still asleep. Still soft.

He kissed his way lower—down your spine, over the curve of your ass. Then his hands parted your thighs gently, reverently, exposing your swollen folds. His breath hitched.

You were still wet. And not just from him.

Jason dipped his head and licked a slow, deep stripe through your folds, groaning when your hips twitched.

You whimpered.

Still asleep.

He smirked.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispered against your cunt, tongue dragging slow and filthy over your clit. “C’mon. Wake up for me.”

You stirred with a soft moan, hips jerking against his mouth. He held you down with one strong forearm, mouthing at your clit again—sucking now, gently but with purpose. His tongue flicked faster, sloppier. His stubble scraped your thighs.

Your breath caught. Eyes fluttered open.

“J—Jay?” you rasped, dazed, trying to lift your head. Your voice was wrecked. “Wha—?”

“Shh,” he murmured into your cunt. “You told me I could.”

Your thighs shook at the vibration in his voice.

“I missed you,” he groaned. “Missed this sweet little pussy. Couldn’t help myself.”

Then he dove in again.

No mercy.

No hesitation.

Tongue relentless. Lapping at your clit, pushing into your dripping hole, groaning like a man starved as your slick coated his chin. He was drunk on you—obsessed. He mouthed at you like it was the last thing he’d ever do.

You gasped, twisting in his grip, thighs trembling violently.

“I—I’m gonna—!”

Your warning was cut off by your own scream.

You came hard.

Your whole body seized up. Jason moaned against your clit, sucking harder through it as you writhed and sobbed into the sheets.

And then he kept going.

“Jas—Jason—wait—wait—” you cried, voice high and panicked.

“Nope,” he said, voice low and feral. “You’re not done.”

He spit on your cunt again—obscene, wet—and rubbed it in with two thick fingers before thrusting them inside. Your pussy clenched around him violently.

“You’re shaking,” he growled. “Look at you—fucking soaked. And it’s all for me.”

He curled his fingers just right—brushing your G-spot—then pumped them deep and fast, watching your slick leak over his knuckles. Your hips jerked, your cries cracking into helpless sobs.

And still, he didn’t stop.

Another orgasm crashed over you before you could catch your breath. Your legs kicked, toes curling, body twitching uncontrollably.

Jason’s voice was breathless now, wild with lust. “You look so fucking pretty like this—crying on my fingers. You can take one more, can’t you?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

So he made the decision for you.

He pulled his fingers out, lined up behind you, and slid his cock inside in one brutal, perfectly aimed thrust. You screamed—truly screamed—as he filled you to the hilt, his hips flush against your ass.

“Fuck,” he snarled, head falling back. “You’re so goddamn tight. Gonna ruin you.”

And he did.

Jason fucked you rough, deep, possessive. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise. Every thrust knocked the air from your lungs, driving you up the bed, into the pillows, into submission.

You were crying—tears rolling down your cheeks from the intensity, body overstimulated beyond what you thought was possible.

Jason leaned down, chest against your back, breath hot against your ear.

“You told me I could have you,” he whispered, voice ragged. “Any time. Remember that?”

You nodded weakly.

“Then take it,” he growled, biting down on your shoulder. “Take all of it.”

And you did.

You came again—violently, your body convulsing, vision going white as your pussy clamped down around him. Jason let out a strangled moan and shoved himself as deep as possible, hips grinding as he spilled himself inside you—hot, thick, endless.

He didn’t pull out.

He stayed like that. Buried. Possessive.

Panting into your neck.

…

You were gone.

Barely conscious, body twitching in his arms, tears still leaking from the corners of your eyes. He kissed them away.

“Hey,” he whispered, brushing sweaty hair from your forehead. “You okay?”

You whimpered a broken, “Mhm…”

He smiled and kissed your temple.

“Come on, baby. Let’s clean you up.”

He carried you to the bathroom—arms cradling you and ran a warm bath, easing you into the water with slow hands. You curled into his chest, dazed and boneless, and let him wash every inch of you.

Your thighs. Your hair. The bite marks. The dried tears.

He took his time. As rough as he’d been, he never stopped loving you.

When he carried you back to bed, he dressed you in a fresh shirt—his, again—and climbed in beside you. His arms wrapped around your waist. You were exhausted, but peaceful now.

Jason kissed your shoulder and murmured, “I’ll always take care of you.”

And this time—finally—he let you sleep.

…

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[custom-fic-studio]

Sanemi Shinazugawa x Female Reader

To Stand Beside You

Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glanced down at him, surprised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it was only the beginning

…

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[custom-fic-studio]

Trafalgar D. Water Law x female reader

Still Here

The room is too quiet.

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

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

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

Not once.

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

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

He’s never looked at you like this before.

Like he’s terrified.

Like he’s furious.

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

He doesn’t look up. “No.”

“You are.”

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

“I had to—”

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

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

He finally meets your eyes.

And it almost breaks you.

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

“I could’ve lost you.”

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

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

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

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

He flinches — just slightly.

But doesn’t pull away.

“I mean it,” you say gently.

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

You expect him to scold you again.

He doesn’t.

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

It’s not careful.

It’s not soft.

It’s desperate.

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

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

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

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

That’s all it takes.

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

And then it’s just him.

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t argue.

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

“Law—” you breathe, voice trembling.

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

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

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

It starts slow.

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

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

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

He doesn’t stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just gives you everything.

His belt hits the floor.

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

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

That breaks him.

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

He doesn’t tease.

He doesn’t stall.

He just gives in.

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

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

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

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

But it doesn’t stay slow for long.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he doesn’t move. Not yet.

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

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

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

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

And he holds you even tighter.

…

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[custom-fic-studio]

Satoru Gojo x Female reader

Low-Grade, High Heat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too good-looking for your poor heart to handle.

But then his expression shifted.

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

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

Your breath hitched.

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

That was real.

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

So you nodded.

And stayed

Even now, it still doesn’t feel real.

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

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

And he’s mine.

…

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

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

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

He’s so dramatic.

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

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

…

And it’s over in ten minutes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Satoru’s grin grows.

“You know what.”

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

Your breath catches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He leans in, nose nearly brushing yours.

“Like you’re about to melt for me.”

“Gojo—”

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

Your lips part, breath caught in your chest.

And then his mouth is on yours.

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

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

“Satoru…”

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

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

You don’t remember when your pants came off.

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

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

“You okay?”

You nod.

“You sure?”

You swallow, then whisper, “Please…”

That word unravels him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re his.

…

He doesn’t rush. He savors.

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

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

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

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

And then—

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

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

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

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

It’s worship. Plain and raw and overwhelming.

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

But that restraint doesn’t last.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you do.

Again. And again.

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

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

Like you were made for him.

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he keeps giving.

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

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

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

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

…

The third time starts slower.

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

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

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

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

He sinks.

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

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

He notices.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His voice is quieter now. Sincere.

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

Your heart skips.

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

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

Because you do.

…

Later at Jujutsu High…

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

Bridal-style. Shirtless. Smirking.

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

You, however?

Absolutely mortified.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No you don’t.”

And the worst part?

He’s right.

You don’t.

Not even a little bit.

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

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

You realize you wouldn’t trade this for anything.

…

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[custom-fic-studio]

Keigo Takami x female reader

Love Me, That’s All

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

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

He didn’t have the energy.

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

Just get to the couch.

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

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

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

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

I miss you.

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” he whispered against your lips.

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

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

“You just have to love me.”

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

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

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

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

And oh—he did. With everything he had.

…

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[custom-fic-studio]

Kento Nanami x Female reader

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

A Quiet Morning After

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

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

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

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

A beat passed.

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

She deserved better.

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

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

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

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

Then arms wrapped around him.

Warm. Gentle. Familiar.

Her.

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

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

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

That flicker in his eye.

The sadness in his tone.

His silence.

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

He looked at you for a long moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He let you.

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

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

Just a man. A loved man.

And maybe, that was enough.

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

Not yet.

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

He opened his eyes slowly.

And you were looking at him like he was whole.

It undid him.

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

But you didn’t let him stop there.

You kissed him back.

Deeper this time.

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

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

So you took it and placed it there yourself.

And that’s when he let go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes softened.

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

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

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

You pressed a kiss to one. Then another.

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

“You don’t have to…” he began.

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

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

His voice dropped. Rough. Vulnerable. Trusting.

“You lead, my love.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And gods, how you loved him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And neither was he.

Not anymore.

…

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[custom-fic-studio]

Sanemi Shinazugawa x Female Reader

To Stand Beside You

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, she fell.

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

Sanemi’s brow furrowed.

Who the hell was she?

…

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

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

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

“Don’t strain.”

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

Scarred. Muscular. And too intense for your comfort.

“Who—?”

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

You blinked. “Demon Slayer… Corps?”

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

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

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

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

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

Your shoulders loosened, just a little.

“I… I did what I could.”

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

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

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

“No one.”

“Bullshit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you stand?”

You swallowed, then nodded.

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

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

“Take it slow. I’ll help you walk.”

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

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

“I’ve got you,” he muttered.

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

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

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

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

…

Part 2 Soon…

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

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One Night of Peace

Roronoa Zoro x Female Reader

Setting: Post-Wano Banquet

The music was loud. Laughter even louder.

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

But this one felt different.

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

And Zoro—Zoro hadn’t smiled at all.

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

You approached without a word. You always did.

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

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

“Already did.”

“Didn’t look like it.”

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

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

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

“I heard from Chopper.”

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

“About what?” he muttered.

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

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

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

“I’m breathing, aren’t I?”

“You know that’s not the same.”

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes lowered. “I know.”

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

“I hate it,” he said suddenly.

You looked up. “What?”

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

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

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

That stopped you cold.

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

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

You reached for him, fingers weaving into his carefully.

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

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

“Come with me,” he said.

You tilted your head. “Where?”

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

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

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

He was worrying about you too.

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

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

A quiet flush colored both your cheeks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t get cocky.”

His smirk deepened. “Too late.”

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

He poured slowly, then held one out toward you.

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

Zoro tilted his head. “He did.”

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

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

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

“It’s beautiful,” you said softly.

Zoro nodded beside you, gaze fixed on the lanterns.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sure they are.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zoro’s expression softened, just barely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded, breathless. “Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

Careful. Alive.

And finally, finally—together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me take my time,” he murmured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zoro didn’t answer—not with words.

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

…

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[custom-fic-studio]

Levi Ackerman x Reader | Comfort | Mission

A Place to Fall Apart

The gates slammed shut behind him with a hollow finality.

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

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

He came to your room.

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

“Close it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t respond for a long time.

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

Your breath caught.

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

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

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

He didn’t move.

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

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

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

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

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

“Because I mean it.”

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

He didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When Levi spoke again, his voice was barely audible.

“I’m not good at this.”

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

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

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

And that meant everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t want to move.”

“I’ll go with you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t reply.

He didn’t have to.

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

And you held him until morning.

…

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[custom-fic-studio]

Jason Todd x shy female!Reader ( fluff )

Something Warm Between Us

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You looked at him, surprised. “Really?”

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

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

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

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

“You okay?” he asked.

“I’m always quiet.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.”

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

“I—no—I mean—I like you too, I just—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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[custom-fic-studio]

Welcome to My Fanfic Den

Hi! I’m here to write fanfics—fluffy, angsty, spicy, or just plain chaotic.

This blog is where I scream about fictional people, rewrite the scenes I needed, and sometimes give your favorite characters the soft moments they deserve

I love writing:

• Slow burns

• Found family

• Hurt/comfort

• Alternate endings / fix-it fics

• Slice-of-life / emotional depth

• Spicy fics (my favorite tropes/shows)

If you like my writing and want something made just for you—I do commissions! Just shoot me a message

(Please be respectful and clear about what you’re requesting!)