We really needs to talk about how the popularization of fanfiction thanks to Tik Tok has brought into fandoms a kind of "fanfic police" that constantly shames people for reading other things than character x character fanfics. Because why is it suddenly cool to read fanfiction but the moment it’s an x reader or an x oc it automatically becomes cringe?! Let people read x reader or x oc in peace!
Trope: Second Chances, Hurt/Comfort, I Can’t Lose You Again
Fandom: The Umbrella Academy
📝 Word Count: ~1,060 words
Summary: After disappearing from your life without warning, Five shows up again — bruised, broken, and convinced you’re better off without him. But neither of you can ignore the truth: some scars only heal when you stop running.
___
The first time you saw him again, he was bleeding.
Not the metaphorical kind — though you knew there was plenty of that — but real, dark stains blooming across the sleeve of his shirt. He was leaning against your doorframe, looking like he’d walked through hell to get there.
“Five?” you whispered, every nerve in your body going tense.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he said, voice rough. “Can I… come in?”
⸻
You wanted to slam the door. You wanted to drag him inside and fix him. You wanted to scream until the walls cracked.
“You left,” you said instead.
His jaw tightened. “I had to.”
“No explanation? No goodbye?”
“If I explained, you would’ve followed me. And if you followed me, you’d be dead.”
You hated that you couldn’t argue with that.
“I thought you were dead,” you said, the words breaking halfway out of you.
Five’s gaze softened, and for a second, you saw it — guilt. The real kind. The kind that doesn’t fade.
⸻
You patched him up in the kitchen, your hands steadier than your breathing. He didn’t complain, just watched you like he was memorizing the shape of your face.
“I missed you,” he murmured.
You looked up at him. “Liar.”
“Not even close,” he said, lips twitching in the smallest smile. “I thought about you every day. Every. Day.”
You swallowed hard. “You’re still a jerk.”
He smirked. “Your jerk.”
⸻
It didn’t last.
Two days later, he was packing again. Not a suitcase — Five never packed like a normal person — just a coat and a gun and that look in his eyes.
“You can’t keep doing this,” you said, blocking the door.
“There’s someone I need to find.”
“What about me?” you snapped. “Do I get a warning this time? Or do I just wake up and you’re gone again?”
He looked at you, pain heavy in his voice.
“If I don’t go, someone’s going to hurt you.”
“And if you do go, you’ll hurt me anyway.”
For a second, it was silent except for the sound of your breathing. Then he stepped forward, pressed his forehead to yours.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. And he left.
⸻
It took him three weeks to come back.
This time, you didn’t yell. You didn’t patch him up. You just stared at him from the couch, a blanket wrapped around you, trying to decide if you were allowed to forgive him.
“Why are you here?” you asked.
Five walked over, dropped onto the couch beside you.
“Because I realized I’m not scared of dying,” he said quietly. “I’m scared of losing you.”
You bit your lip, the truth sitting heavy in your chest. “You already did. Twice.”
“Then let me make it the last time.”
He took your hand. His fingers were cold, but they fit around yours like they belonged there.
You didn’t say yes. You didn’t say no. You just leaned into him, feeling the steady thump of his heart against your side.
For the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe him.
• Summary: You meet Five after taking down the same hitman in a Dallas back alley. Neither of you trust each other, but one bullet wound later, you’re in his care.
You don’t meet Five Hargreeves in a cozy café or a sunlit library. No, the first time is a Dallas alleyway, rain hammering down like the sky wants to drown the world, neon signs flickering and bleeding into puddles, and the smell of smoke and blood thick in the air.
You stumble, clutching your side where a bullet’s found purchase. You don’t have time to curse your luck. Not when footsteps echo behind you — fast, deliberate.
Then he’s there.
Five, looking like he fell out of some noir nightmare — dark coat soaked, eyes sharper than the knives strapped to his belt, and that look, like he’s already calculated exactly how many seconds you have left.
You barely manage to croak, “Help…”
He’s crouching beside you in a heartbeat, fingers cool and steady on your wound. “You’re lucky,” he says, voice low and clipped. “Not many get away from Raymond’s men alive.”
You blink at him, surprised by the name — your pursuer — and even more surprised by how calm he is. Like this is normal. Like this happens every day.
“It’s not luck,” you snap, trying to push yourself up. The world tilts. “It’s skill.”
He lets out a short laugh — dry, almost fond. “Yeah? We’ll see.”
The rain masks the sounds of approaching footsteps. He grabs your wrist, yanks you to your feet. “We’re leaving. Now.”
You don’t ask why. You don’t ask what. You just follow because it feels like the only choice.
⸻
Inside a crumbling warehouse — the kind of place that smells like forgotten promises and broken deals — Five applies pressure to your side, eyes scanning the shadows.
“Talk,” he commands.
You snort. “You think I’m going to tell you anything?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Don’t make me put you out.”
There’s a pause. Then you grin, because this guy — this impossibly sharp, unflinching guy — is the first person who’s made you feel safe in hours.
You tell him what you know — who hired you, who’s after you, what you’re running from. He listens like he’s memorizing a map that leads to salvation.
When you’re done, he nods. “We have a problem. You and I have the same enemy.”
You stare at him. “What, you mean Raymond?”
He smirks, “No. I mean Raymond’s boss. And if we don’t stop him, no one’s getting out of this city alive.”
You want to argue, but you don’t. Because you’re tired. Because maybe — just maybe — this dangerous man is the ally you didn’t know you needed.
⸻
Over the next few hours, you and Five become a seamless unit of danger and resolve. You cover each other’s blind spots, trade whispered insults, and sometimes, in the briefest moments of stillness, catch each other’s eyes and hold the unspoken promise: we survive, together.
When the last bullet is fired and the city’s heartbeat slows, he pulls you close, a shadow of a smile ghosting his lips.
“Partners?” he asks.
You nod. “Partners.”
And in the neon haze of a city that never sleeps, you realize maybe this is the start of something fierce — something that might just be worth the risk.
🔪 Fluffy August Preferences: “Kill of the Night” (five hargreeves x fem!reader)
FLUFF❣️ + slight SMUT❤️🔥 FLUFFY AUGUST🖇️
Masterlist☀️
🎶 Inspired by “Kill of the Night” – Gin Wigmore
Trope: Partners in Crime, Vigilante Romance, Dangerous Flirtation
Fandom: The Umbrella Academy
📝 Word Count: ~3,050 words
Summary: In which being with Five means running headfirst into danger and somehow coming out laughing — and maybe with blood on your hands.
BONUS DRABBLES FOR EACH - CHECK MASTERLIST
1. How Five would react if someone threatened you
Five never wastes words when he’s angry — he just tilts his head like he’s deciding how to dismantle the person in front of him, piece by piece. The moment someone so much as breathes a threat in your direction, there’s a shift in his body language — sharp, still, predatory.
You’d try to step in, to de-escalate.
He’d just glance at you and say, “Close your eyes for a minute, sweetheart.”
By the time you open them, the threat is gone — literally. The air feels heavier, the room quieter, and he’s back at your side, brushing imaginary dust off your shoulder.
“Let’s go,” he says. “I hate wasting time.”
⸻
2. How Five would act on a mission with you
He’s precise, methodical… until you’re involved. Then, it’s like his plans adapt in real time to your chaos. You leap over a bar counter to escape gunfire, he’s there in an instant, teleporting beside you with a muttered, “Reckless maniac,” even though you catch the edge of a grin.
You cover each other’s blind spots like it’s muscle memory. Your adrenaline is high, your banter sharper than the blades you both carry.
“Did you have to set that on fire?” he shouts over the noise.
“Yes!”
“God, I love you,” he mutters — like he doesn’t even realize he said it.
⸻
3. How Five would flirt during danger
Some people flirt over drinks. Five flirts over chaos.
Bullets are flying, enemies are shouting, and he leans toward you, voice low enough to curl heat into your stomach:
“If we make it out of here alive, I’m kissing you like you just saved the world.”
You grin mid-fight. “What if I don’t make it?”
He catches your wrist, spins you out of harm’s way. “Then I’m kissing you now.”
⸻
4. How Five would protect you without admitting it
Five isn’t the type to say “be careful”. He just quietly changes the variables so you don’t get hurt. You’ll notice the way he teleports slightly ahead of you every time you turn a blind corner. Or how he insists on walking on the side closest to the road.
When you confront him about it, he scoffs.
“You think I’m protecting you? No, I just know you’re accident-prone and I’d rather not scrape you off the pavement.”
But you’ve seen the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. It’s not annoyance. It’s relief.
⸻
5. How Five would act after a close call
He’s furious. Not at you — but at himself for letting the situation get that far.
You’d be sitting on the edge of some grimy safehouse bed, adrenaline fading into exhaustion, and he’d drop to his knees in front of you, checking for injuries. His hands aren’t gentle — they’re desperate.
“Next time, I’m not letting you leave my sight,” he growls.
“That’s a little possessive,” you tease, trying to lighten the air.
He doesn’t smile. “It’s survival.”
⸻
6. How Five would handle your enemies
Swiftly. Permanently. No questions asked.
If someone crosses you, they’ve crossed him — and Five’s list of grudges is long and merciless. You might never know the details, but you’ll notice the way those people stop showing up in your life.
When you catch him once, wiping blood from his hands, he just says, “Don’t ask. You’ll sleep better.”
But later, when you’re curled in bed, he tucks a blanket tighter around you and kisses the top of your head.
“You’re safe now,” he whispers, like a vow.
⸻
7. How Five would calm you after the chaos
Adrenaline makes your hands shake. Five notices immediately — you don’t even have to tell him. He’ll drag you into a quiet corner, press a coffee into your hands (even if he had to steal it), and stand in front of you, blocking the world out.
“You’re alright,” he says, voice firm.
“I don’t feel alright,” you admit.
“That’s okay. I’ll hold it together for both of us.”
And he does. Every damn time.
⸻
8. How Five would react if you got hurt
He goes silent — which is somehow worse than shouting. You’ve never seen someone look so cold and so on fire at the same time. He deals with the threat first — fast, brutal, efficient — then he’s kneeling beside you, teleporting you somewhere safe before you can argue.
“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” he says, voice breaking on the last word. His forehead rests against yours, and you can feel how badly he’s shaking.
“Five…”
“I mean it. You’re all I’ve got.”
⸻
9. How Five would act in victory
When a mission goes flawlessly (or as close as possible), his mood shifts. He’s smug, sharper with his wit, and maybe even a little reckless himself. You catch him stealing glances at you like he’s memorizing the sight of you alive and whole.
Back at whatever passes for “home,” he’ll pour you a drink and sit close enough that your knees touch.
“See? I told you we’d make it.”
You roll your eyes. “Barely.”
He smirks. “Barely still counts.”
⸻
10. How Five would confess (in his own way)
Five doesn’t do grand speeches. His version of a confession is quieter, more deliberate. You’d be patching him up after a fight, and he’d catch your hand mid-motion.
“You know you’re stuck with me, right?” he says.
You laugh. “Is that a threat or a promise?”
“A promise. And maybe a threat, depending on how you look at it.”
⸻
By the time you finish cleaning him up, he pulls you into his lap, arms wrapped tight around you.
Trope: Grumpy x Sunshine, Secret Pining, You’re Not Just a Dream
Fandom: The Umbrella Academy
Summary: Five has spent years convincing himself you’re just a figment of his mind — a relic from a past he never had time to protect. But when you show up again, very real and very alive, he’s forced to confront the possibility that some dreams are worth chasing — especially if they dream back.
You always had a strange effect on him.
Back when the apocalypse was still a ticking clock in his brain and blood on his hands, you were the only softness that didn’t fade. Always in color. Always smiling, even when the world around you was crumbling. A girl who offered him tea in the middle of chaos, who kissed him between war zones and grocery store aisles, who didn’t care about timelines or physics or fate.
You were his dream girl — but only in the cruelest way. A hallucination. A possibility. A whisper from the version of life he never got to live.
Until now.
⸻
“Are you going to say something,” you ask, crossing your arms, “or just keep staring at me like I crawled out of one of your regrets?”
Five’s heart stutters.
You look the same. Not exactly — older, sure, wiser maybe. But the smile is the same. And he hasn’t seen that smile in years.
“I thought you were gone,” he finally says.
You tilt your head. “You didn’t even look for me.”
He flinches at that. “That’s not true.”
“Then why did you disappear?”
His voice cracks, barely audible. “Because I thought you weren’t real.”
You step forward, closer. Close enough for him to smell your perfume — the same one, god, how was it the same?
“I’m not a ghost, Five.”
“I know.”
“I bleed. I cry. I waited.”
“I know,” he breathes again. “I’m sorry.”
⸻
He’d imagined this moment so many times. What he’d say. What you’d do. How you’d slap him, or walk away, or laugh in his face and say he was a fool.
But you don’t.
You just sigh, and step even closer. He tenses.
“Do I feel like a dream now?”
You take his hand and bring it to your cheek. He swears time stops. The apocalypse could happen again and he wouldn’t blink.
“No,” he says. “You feel like a miracle.”
⸻
He walks you back to your place. It’s quiet. His coat brushes against your shoulder, and he lets it. Neither of you rush.
“Was I really that good in your memories?” you ask suddenly, teasing.
He doesn’t even hesitate. “You were the only good thing in them.”
You stop walking.
He thinks he went too far. But you look at him like you’re about to cry and laugh at the same time.
“So what now?” you whisper. “You’re just… here again? Do we try to start over?”
“No,” Five says, stepping into your space, brushing a thumb along your jaw. “We pick up exactly where we left off. You kiss me again, and I promise not to disappear this time.”
You look up at him, eyes searching, and then — just like that — your lips are on his, warm and soft and not a dream.
Summary: You and Klaus were inseparable in your youth — rebels with no cause, hearts stitched together by impulsive decisions and whispered secrets in the dark. Years later, Klaus shows up at your door again, barefoot and bleeding and smiling like nothing’s changed.
The rain had started again — soft, slow, like it didn’t want to disturb anyone. The kind of rain that made your apartment feel like a postcard. Faded neon from the corner store bled into your windows. You were sitting on the couch, one leg tucked under the other, a half-finished mug of tea on the table, and a lifetime of silence in your hands.
Then: three knocks.
Not loud. Just… familiar.
You opened the door and there he was — Klaus Hargreeves, exactly as you remembered him and also entirely wrecked. Barefoot, bleeding slightly from the knuckles, eyeliner smudged, hair clinging to his face like a wet promise.
“Klaus?” you breathed.
“Hi, love,” he said, like no time had passed. “You still make that mint tea that tastes like summer, or did I dream that?”
You didn’t ask what happened. You never did. That was always your curse with him — you let Klaus Hargreeves in like gravity, like you didn’t know better, like being young and dumb still lived in your bloodstream.
He dropped onto your couch with the same familiarity as he used to drop acid: casual, careless, and with both eyes closed.
“You shouldn’t have come,” you whispered, handing him a towel.
“Yeah,” he said, accepting it with a grin. “But I did. Like always.”
⸻
You remember the nights you ran away together — not from anyone, really, just from the tight ache of being too much in a world that asked for less. You remember his hand in yours at 2am, your laughter bouncing off alley walls like fireworks. He used to kiss you like he was drowning and you were the only air he trusted.
“I missed you,” he says now, drying off his fingers, your towel now stained with little flecks of blood and eyeliner.
You should tell him to go. You should remind him of the last time — the words thrown, the promises broken, the long drives in opposite directions.
But instead, you say:
“Wanna stay the night?”
He blinks at you, lashes still damp. “I always wanna stay, sweetheart. I just never know if I’m allowed to.”
You sit beside him, legs touching.
“You never needed permission. That was the problem.”
He laughs quietly.
“You’re still so beautiful. That also… kinda the problem.”
⸻
It’s past midnight when you end up in your old T-shirt, the one he used to steal. He finds it on the corner of your bed and holds it like it’s proof that none of it was a dream.
Lying there, you speak into the dark.
“Do you ever think… maybe we were just young and dumb?”
Klaus turns to you, eyes heavy but honest.
“Maybe. But I’d rather be young and dumb with you than old and wise without you.”
You smile — soft, broken, real. And then he’s kissing you like the years didn’t happen. Like neon lights and rainy nights and bad decisions were still poetry in your veins.
And for the first time in a long time, you let him stay.
Drabble: Mouthful of Worship (Diego Hargreeves x fem!reader)
SMUT ❤️🔥
Summary: Diego loving your boobs
———-
It always started the same way.
Not with some wild, heated desperation.
Not anymore.
These days, it began slow.
Quiet.
You’d be sitting on the bed in nothing but one of his worn tank tops, nipples brushing lightly under the fabric, barely there. And Diego? Diego would just stare.
From across the room, arms crossed, pretending not to care.
But you’d catch the twitch of his jaw. The shift in his stance. That one beat where his cock stirred in his sweatpants just from a glimpse of the outline of your breasts moving when you adjusted your posture.
“You’re staring,” you teased once, stretching your arms up over your head, the hem of the tank rising just enough to tease skin beneath.
He didn’t deny it.
Didn’t even blink.
“Of course I’m fuckin’ staring.”
He stalked over to you like a man possessed. Dropped to his knees. Hands sliding up the back of your thighs, palms rough, firm, grounding. Then he buried his face straight into your chest with a deep groan that sounded like he’d been holding back days of need.
“Diego—”
“Just let me,” he murmured into the soft swell of you, nuzzling through the fabric like a starved animal before slipping the tank aside. One breast freed. Then both. His breath caught in his throat like he could cry over them.
“You’re obsessed,” you whispered, breath hitching as his tongue dragged slowly across your nipple.
“Fucking yeah, I am.”
There was no finesse to it, not at first. Just his mouth latching around your soft skin, sucking like he needed it to breathe. His hand cradled the weight of your breast like it was delicate and sacred and his. The other slipped down your inner thigh with maddening slowness.
And yet—even in the heat of it, when he was tongue-deep and you were moaning into his hair—there was softness too.
The kind of worship that wasn’t just lust.
The way he pressed slow kisses between each suck. The quiet murmurs against your skin: “So fucking beautiful… this is all mine… I could stay right here forever.”
The way he cradled you in bed after, once the rush had passed, curled around you with your chest still pressed to his face like a human pillow.
The way his fingertips ghosted reverently under the curve of your breast, slow, sleepy, worshipful.
“You don’t know what you do to me,” he mumbled.
“Yeah?” you smiled, half-lidded, stroking his curls as his cheek rested against your bare skin.
“Yeah. You make me feel like… not just a man. Like I’m—home.”
You kissed the top of his head. He kissed between your breasts, then nuzzled again, arms tightening around your waist.
“I’m never letting go of these,” he murmured, almost childishly possessive.
And you didn’t mind.
Because that kind of love—the worship, the clinginess, the way he made love to you with his mouth and heart at once—
Drabble: Where His Mind Wanders (Diego Hargreeves x fem!reader) Bonus part 3 of “Only me, right?”
ANGST ❤️🩹 + slight smut ❤️🔥
Setting: Your shared bedroom at the Academy, post-mission. The moonlight filters in silver over tangled sheets, and Diego’s sleep doesn’t come easily—not when his past jealousy bleeds into his dreams.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
⸻
He hadn’t meant to think about it again.
But that’s the thing about jealousy. It doesn’t ask for permission.
You were asleep beside him—back to his chest, soft breaths, skin warm against his arms as they held you protectively under the blanket. You always ran a little hot, but he loved it. Loved how the heat clung to you. How it clung to him, too, when he pressed his mouth into the curve of your neck.
But that night, his mind wouldn’t quiet.
It drifted, slow at first.
To Luther.
To that first time you’d hugged him too long after a mission.
To the way Luther’s arm had looped around your shoulder in that lazy, almost possessive way when you were laughing at something he had said.
To the time you’d leaned over to touch Luther’s chest, joking about “all that mass” and how he was built like a mountain—and Luther had grinned, blushed, touched your hand.
Diego hadn’t said anything then.
Hadn’t said a word.
But God, how he’d burned inside.
And now, it bled into his dreams—
uninvited.
⸻
In the dream, it was night.
You were in the hallway, low light slashing across your bare legs. Laughing, too breathless. Lips wet and red. Wearing nothing but Diego’s shirt—except it wasn’t Diego you were walking toward.
It was Luther.
Towering. Shirtless. Eyes heavy with something primal.
Your fingers curled around the front of his waistband. His head dipped low toward yours. Your lips just—just barely—brushed his. And then you giggled.
“Think he’ll hear us?” you whispered against Luther’s mouth.
Luther laughed softly. “Does it matter?”
And just like that, he swept you into his arms. Pressed your back to the wall. Lifted your leg around his hip. Your head tilted. Mouth parted. And Diego—watching—was frozen.
Helpless.
Paralyzed by it.
And just before Luther could thrust forward into you, your body arching in dreamlike surrender—
Diego shot awake.
⸻
He sat up, chest heaving, soaked in sweat. The moon cut harsh lines across the bed, but the only sound was your breathing. Peaceful. Innocent. So real beside him.
He turned slowly—shaking, throat dry, stomach twisted in guilt.
You were on your side, curled into the pillow. Soft and warm. The real you. Not the dream. Not the betrayal. Just his.
And God, he loved you so much it hurt.
“Diego…?” you mumbled, half-asleep, voice rasped from dreams.
He exhaled, long and trembling. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.”
You blinked up at him, slowly turning to lie on your back. “Nightmare?”
He nodded, rubbing his face. “About you. And Luther. And—” his voice broke off, ashamed.
You reached for him, sleepy but loving. “C’mere.”
And he came.
Laid against your chest, head nestled between your collarbones, arms wrapped around your waist like a lifeline. He wasn’t crying, but he was breathing hard—and you felt it in him. The tightness. The tremble. The fear of losing.
You stroked his hair with slow, loving fingers.
“None of it was real,” you whispered. “I’ve only ever wanted you. Only ever.”
“I know,” he said softly. But it came out like a confession. “It just… it felt so real. Like I could feel your skin under his hands.”
You kissed the top of his head. “You’re the only one who gets that. All of me. Always.”
He lifted his face then, eyes shining in the dim light, and leaned in—not rushed, not hungry, just slow. Like kissing you could undo the ache.
Your lips moved against his, sleepy but sure. Arms tangled. Hands exploring soft skin under fabric, not to take but to reassure. His touch was reverent tonight—thumbs stroking the inside of your thigh, the dip of your waist, the ridge of your hip bone as if memorizing what was his.
Your hand traced along his jaw, fingers curling at the back of his neck, grounding him. He kissed you again—longer now. Deeper. You sighed against his lips like he was the only air you wanted.
Eventually, the kisses slowed. The need gave way to warmth. He curled around you like a storm finally breaking—quiet, safe.
“I love you,” he murmured against your shoulder.
“I know,” you whispered.
And when he finally slept again, your fingers were in his hair and your leg hooked over his, and the dream was long gone.
Oneshot: Mine, always (Diego Hargreeves x pregnant!reader)
Summary: A quiet afternoon at the Academy turns anything but. You’ve started to show—just barely—but your glow is unmistakable, and so is the way Luther dotes on you. Too much, maybe. Especially in Diego’s eyes. He’s trying to play nice. Really. But you’ve always had a soft spot for pushing his buttons—and right now, you’re in the mood to see how possessive your lover can really get.
⸻
The mission was over. No one was bleeding. No walls were destroyed. Vanya hadn’t accidentally created another apocalypse.
So, for once, you all stayed in the lounge—casual, calm, laughing over leftovers. Klaus had opened a bottle of wine and was dramatically narrating your baby’s astrological birth chart (“With a Capricorn rising, obviously they’ll be a criminal mastermind—”), and even Five looked slightly less murderous than usual.
You were barefoot, belly just starting to round under your loose shirt. You’d stopped hiding it a week ago, and now you wore it like armor—your proof of love, of chaos, of creation.
And Luther?
Well. He was hovering.
“Are you drinking enough water?” he asked, gently nudging a glass toward you. “You said you were dizzy yesterday, remember?”
“I’m fine, Luther,” you chuckled, sipping it anyway. “It was just the heat.”
He nodded solemnly, still crouched beside the couch where you sat. One massive hand hovered close to your belly—not touching, but tempted.
“May I?” he asked softly.
You blinked, surprised, but nodded. “Sure.”
He placed his hand gently over the fabric. Big, warm, still a little awkward—but you knew it came from a genuine place. He smiled, eyes soft.
“I can’t believe there’s a tiny person in there,” he murmured. “Feels like just yesterday we were all running from time cops.”
You laughed. “I know. Wild, huh?”
Across the room, Diego watched.
At first, he leaned against the wall with that usual half-scowl, arms crossed—but then Luther lingered. Too close. Too soft. Talking to the baby now. And you—you were laughing. Glowing.
And Diego?
Boiling.
It started with a twitch in his jaw. Then his grip on his knife—why did he even have that right now?—tightened. The room buzzed with laughter, but he was locked on you and Luther like a hawk.
“Diego,” Allison said, nudging him gently, “You good?”
His eyes didn’t leave you. “Peachy.”
But when Luther leaned closer, muttered something that made you giggle and rest a hand on his shoulder for balance, that was it.
He pushed off the wall.
“Get your hand off her.”
The room stilled.
Luther blinked. “What?”
“You heard me.”
You turned around. “Diego—”
“I let this go once. I watched you flirt around like some clueless puppy, and I held it in,” Diego said, storming across the room, voice low but sharp. “But you don’t get to put your hands on her now. Not when she’s mine.”
You raised an eyebrow, half amused, half exasperated. “Diego—he was just—”
“I don’t care,” Diego snapped, not taking his eyes off Luther. “There are six billion people on this planet. Pick someone else’s pregnant girlfriend to play daddy to.”
“Woah, woah,” Luther held up his hands, standing now. “I wasn’t trying anything. I’ve known her longer than you have.”
“And that somehow makes it okay to drool over her bump?”
“I wasn’t drooling!”
“You want me to show you what drooling looks like, big guy?”
Your hand shot out. “Diego. Sit down. Now.”
And because it was you, he did.
But his glare could’ve lit fire.
You walked over slowly, all sway and calm and glowing smugness, and planted yourself in his lap. His hands were on you instantly—possessive, firm, one on your thigh, the other cradling your bump like staking a claim.
“You done?” you whispered against his ear, nipping at his lobe.
“No,” he gritted, jaw tight. “He was flirting.”
“He was being nice. There’s a difference.”
“Not to men like him.”
You cupped his jaw and turned him to face you fully. His eyes—still stormy. His fingers? Digging into your hips like you might slip away if he didn’t hold you close enough.
“You’re jealous.”
“I’m furious.”
You kissed him slow—just enough tongue to fluster him in front of the others. He groaned softly, lips chasing yours as you pulled back.
“I’m showing, Diego,” you whispered in his ear, teasing. “They’re all going to look. Especially now.”
He growled. “They can look. But they’re not going to touch.”
“You want to make sure they know?”
His eyes flashed dark. “Oh, baby. Don’t tempt me.”
But you already had.
⸻
Ten minutes later, the team was pretending not to notice you straddling Diego on the couch, his hand under your shirt—palm warm against your skin, barely moving, claiming. He kissed your neck like he didn’t care who watched.
And Luther?
Very, very quiet.
“You’re such a caveman,” you murmured into Diego’s hair.
Oneshot: Everything to Lose (Diego Hargreeves x pregnant!reader)
ANGST ❤️🩹 + fluff ❣️
Summary: You weren’t supposed to be on the mission. Not like this. Not with a baby growing inside you. But things don’t always go as planned. When Diego sees you fall—bleeding, breathless—something in him breaks. Rage, terror, love, and guilt collide in him as he brings you home. This isn’t about control anymore. It’s about keeping you alive. And this time, he’s the one who holds you together.
⸻
The blood wasn’t supposed to be yours.
It never was.
But when Diego turned in the warehouse—seconds too late, breaths too slow—and saw you drop to your knees, hands clutching your side, something primal snapped in his chest.
The sound that left him was inhuman.
You tried to speak, lips parting—but no sound came. Just air. Pain.
You’d taken a hit. Shrapnel. Small enough to miss, deep enough to matter. Your vest had shielded most of it, but your expression said everything: the baby.
Diego didn’t remember how he got to you. Only that he did.
And suddenly, you were in his arms—weightless and shaking.
“Don’t move,” he said, voice low and dangerous, but his hands were trembling. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, cariño.”
You tried to focus on his face. “I—I’m okay—”
“Don’t,” he said sharply. “Don’t lie to me right now. You don’t get to lie to me.”
But even then, even furious, his thumb brushed your cheek. Wiped sweat from your hairline. Held you like glass.
You could feel his panic in the way he carried you—fast, furious, like every second the universe could take you away.
⸻
Back at the safehouse, the light was dim. His hands were red. So was the towel. So was the floor.
You were barely conscious when he laid you on the bed, stripped your vest, ripped your shirt gently open, muttering to himself.
“Shh. Don’t move. I’ll fix it, I’ll fix it.”
He cleaned the wound, fingers precise but delicate. Every wince from you was a blade through him. He kept whispering things like “I’ve got you,” and “You’re safe now,” even if it sounded like he was trying to convince himself.
When he pressed gauze to your side, you whimpered—sharp and small.
That broke him.
He leaned down, forehead to yours.
“I told you to stay behind. You said you would.”
Your hand found his wrist, weak but firm. “You know I had to.”
He pulled away just enough to look at you. Eyes wet. Jaw clenched.
“You’re not just mine anymore,” he whispered. “You’re… both of you are. You think I can breathe if something happens to you?”
You closed your eyes, but a tear slipped out anyway.
“I’m scared,” you admitted. “But not of the pain.”
“Then what?”
You opened your eyes again. Met his. “Of what it’ll do to you.”
His chest rose, shuddered. He took a moment. Then reached out—fingers threading gently through your hair.
“Then let me take care of you. Really care for you. Not just patch you up and throw you back in the fire.”
You nodded. Too tired to argue. Too in love to keep pretending you didn’t need him like this.
⸻
Hours later, you woke to soft breathing. The room was dim. Rain again. You were propped against pillows, wrapped in warm sheets, side taped and stitched.
And Diego?
Sitting beside you, shirtless, eyes wide open, hand resting on your belly like it was his anchor. His other hand was holding yours—firm, but not too tight. Never too tight.
“Did you sleep?” you asked, voice hoarse.
He shook his head. “Didn’t want to.”
“You need to rest.”
He shook his head again. This time slower.
“I watched you bleed today,” he said. “And I could feel something I’ve never felt before. Helpless.”
“You weren’t. You saved me.”
He swallowed. Jaw working. Eyes lowering to your stomach. His hand didn’t move from it.
“I couldn’t stop thinking—what if I lose her? What if I lose both of them? And I—I didn’t want this,” he whispered. “Not at first. You know that. I didn’t think I was capable of… love like this.”
You lifted his hand to your lips. Kissed the center of his palm.
“You are.”
He looked at you like that might be true for the first time.
Then slowly, gently, he crawled into bed beside you—pulling you carefully into his chest. Like you might break. Like he might, if you weren’t touching.
His lips brushed your forehead. Your temple. Your jaw.
One kiss after another. No rush. Just reverence.
His hand stayed on your belly.
“You scared me,” he whispered. “I didn’t know I could be this scared.”
You curled into him. “Me neither.”
He tucked your head under his chin.
“You’re everything to me, cariño. Both of you. So from now on, we do this together. No more lies. No more reckless missions.”
You let yourself exhale fully, letting the comfort of his warmth replace the cold that had been in your bones all day.
Oneshot: Soft spot (Diego Hargreeves x fem!reader)
FLUFF ❣️
Summary: After a long, violent day on the field, you bring Diego back to the safehouse—bruised, irritated, and pretending he’s fine. But once the adrenaline fades, he lets you in. You take care of him—gently, lovingly, patiently—and for once, he doesn’t fight it. This time, Diego doesn’t need to be the tough one. Not with you. And deep down, part of him finally starts to believe: maybe he is worth being loved like this.
The safehouse was quiet. For once.
You slipped the door shut behind you, locking all three bolts with muscle memory. Rain pattered softly against the cracked window. Your boots left a muddy trail across the floor, but you didn’t care.
You were too focused on the man in front of you.
Diego dropped his weapons on the table with a hard clunk. His jacket followed. Then his body hit the couch like it had carried too much for too long.
You watched his shoulders roll, stiff and uneven. The right one had taken a hit. Probably a deep bruise beneath the suit. Maybe a fracture.
“You’re not fine,” you said softly.
He didn’t answer. Just closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the cushion. The exhaustion was etched deep into his face. Anger too, but not at you—at himself. At the world. At whoever landed a blow near your ribs in the middle of that warehouse brawl.
You kicked off your boots and walked over slowly.
He cracked an eye open. “You’re limping.”
“So are you.”
“Wanna compare scars?”
“Only if we’re shirtless,” you smirked.
He huffed a low, reluctant laugh, but it faded fast.
You knelt in front of him, reaching gently for his hand—his knuckles were scraped, raw and swollen.
“Let me take care of you,” you said.
His brows drew together, like the words confused him. He didn’t pull away. But he didn’t reach for you either.
“Diego?”
He looked at you then. Really looked.
And you saw it, flickering behind his tough shell—the little boy still curled up under layers of anger and abandonment. The one who never really got held when he was scared. The one who learned to stitch his own wounds, swallow his hurt, weaponize his softness before anyone else could.
You squeezed his hand.
“Please.”
That was what cracked him.
He leaned forward suddenly, forehead resting against your shoulder, arms hesitating before slowly curling around your waist. He clung to you like gravity shifted and you were the only thing holding him down.
“…I’m so tired,” he whispered. Not just physically. All of it.
You stroked the back of his hair, fingers threading through damp curls.
“I know, baby. I know.”
You pulled back just enough to lift his shirt over his head, careful around the sore spots. His torso was littered with bruises, purple blooming near his ribs and shoulder.
You didn’t comment. You just kissed his temple, grabbed the first aid kit, and started cleaning his wounds. Soft cloth, warm water, no rush. Every touch was patient. Quiet. Like you were saying you’re safe without needing words.
When you started wrapping the gauze around his shoulder, he surprised you by resting his cheek on your thigh, one arm lazily draped around your knee.
You looked down. His eyes were closed. His breathing slow.
“You’re not allowed to fall asleep on me yet.”
“M’not sleeping,” he murmured.
“You’re cuddling me like a koala.”
“You’re warm.”
You bit back a smile. “You’re heavy.”
“You love it.”
You did.
⸻
Eventually, you coaxed him into the shower—helped him wash his hair, cleaned off the blood and sweat. He let you. Let you lather shampoo through his curls, trace soap over his back, kiss each bruise like it didn’t make him weaker, but human.
When he stepped out and you wrapped a towel around his shoulders, he stood there for a second, dripping and barefoot, and just stared at you.
“What?” you asked, tilting your head.
He blinked slowly. “…You’re the first person who’s ever done this for me.”
The words knocked something loose in your chest.
“Done what?”
He swallowed. “Not expected me to fix myself.”
You reached up and cupped his cheek, thumb brushing just under his eye.
“I don’t expect you to be okay all the time, Diego. I just expect you to let me be there. Even if it’s messy.”
He leaned into your hand like it hurt not to.
Then he kissed you—slow, almost shy, like he wasn’t sure he deserved it.
⸻
That night, in bed, he curled up behind you. No sex. Just heat and softness and tangled limbs. His hand rested on your hip. His breath warmed the back of your neck. You laced your fingers with his under the blanket.
“Hey,” he whispered.
“Yeah?”
“I used to think people only wanted me for the damage. For the edge.”
You stayed quiet. Let him keep going.
“But you… you want me when I’m soft, too.”
You turned slightly, enough to meet his eyes.
“I love you soft, Diego.”
He blinked fast. Like maybe no one had ever said that before.
“…Can I stay like this for a while?”
“As long as you want.”
He buried his face in your hair. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not letting go.”
Oneshot: Enemies to Mine (Diego Hargreeves x fem!reader)
FLUFF ❣️ + Slight smut ❤️🔥
Summary: Now that you and Diego Hargreeves are official (or at least, publicly undeniable), the shift in dynamic during missions—and even off-duty—is intense. Possessive, protective, and still cocky as hell, Diego isn’t afraid to show the world you’re his. Especially now that everyone knows. And he’s never been more reckless in showing it… or more addicted to you.
The mission was meant to be a simple extraction. In and out. Nothing messy. Nothing that would require Diego’s knife skills or your ability to defuse literal and emotional bombs.
But then one of the cartel guards reached for your wrist.
And Diego saw it.
You only saw the man’s eyes widen, split-second fear overtaking his tough expression. A glint of metal. Then, suddenly, Diego was on him like a storm. Fists, sharp elbows, knuckles cracking. That guard would never touch another woman again.
“Diego—” You had to tug at his jacket, grounding him, “He’s down. He’s down.”
Chest heaving, blood dripping from his knuckles, Diego didn’t look at the man. He looked at you. Only you.
“You okay?” His voice was gravel. Tense. Too tense.
“I’m fine. I’m armed, remember?”
His jaw flexed. “Yeah. But he didn’t care. And that’s enough reason for me to gut him.”
⸻
It wasn’t just on missions.
Since that night—the one where Luther accidentally walked in on you cooking breakfast half-naked in Diego’s shirt, since the whispered fights and the whispered moans and the fact that Diego had you against the sink before Luther could ask what kind of milk you had—everything shifted.
You were no longer just two people tangled up in heat and bad timing. You were tangled in everything now. Everyone knew.
Which meant Diego had more to prove.
And he took every opportunity to do so.
⸻
In the briefing room, Five talked. Klaus paced. Ben judged. You leaned casually against the wall, chewing on a pen.
Diego sat across from you, slouched in a chair, one arm propped lazily on the table. Everyone thought he wasn’t paying attention. He was. Just not to Five’s mission breakdown.
His eyes tracked every shift of your body. The way your leg crossed over the other. The way the oversized black hoodie slid just slightly off your shoulder.
His hoodie.
You could feel the weight of his stare. The ownership in it. The threat that pulsed beneath the surface of his calm.
“You need something?” you asked him, just loud enough for only him to hear.
His lips curved into a smug, unbothered smirk. “You know I do.”
“Not here.”
His foot pressed against yours under the table. “Didn’t say I’d take it here.”
You rolled your eyes—but your thighs clenched.
⸻
It got worse at night.
It was almost like going public with whatever twisted, chaotic thing you and Diego had finally validated something primal in him. You weren’t just some secret, now. You were his. And he was making damn sure everyone knew.
That night, after a heated mission in a rain-soaked alley, you stumbled into your shared safehouse. The fight hadn’t been your cleanest. You had blood on your lip and dirt streaked on your ribs. Diego looked worse—bruised and soaked—but it didn’t stop him from cornering you against the wall.
“You wanna tell me why you went in alone?” he muttered, voice sharp against your neck.
“I had to move. I saw the angle, D. I was the only one—”
His hand slapped the wall beside your head. “No. You don’t have to be reckless just because you can.”
You raised your brow. “This coming from the guy who threw a knife past my shoulder at a moving car?”
“That was precision.” His mouth dragged hot over your jaw, angry and wanting. “This is desperation.”
“You like desperate.”
“I like alive.”
There it was again. That thing behind his words. Fear, hidden under attitude. Care, masked with anger. Love, leaking into lust.
And then he kissed you.
Not sweetly.
Like he was mad. Like he was staking a claim.
It made you melt and burn at the same time.
⸻
The PDA didn’t stop.
He held your hand at HQ. Thumb brushed over your knuckles like he was always checking you were real.
He grabbed your waist in public, leaned against you in bars, kissed your temple before disappearing into alleys to cool off the violence in his chest.
And when it came to other men…
Even a look directed at you made him visibly twitch.
⸻
One night, at a dive bar after another successful mission, some guy—a local informant, technically an ally—tried to flirt.
“You really Diego’s girl?” the guy smirked. “Didn’t think he was the sharing type.”
You had opened your mouth to speak, when Diego appeared behind you like a shadow.
“She’s not,” he said smoothly, dragging you back against his chest. “She’s not my girl.”
The man blinked. “Oh—”
“She’s mine.”
You barely had time to process the possessive bite of his voice before he was kissing your neck. Openly. Hot breath and soft lips under your ear, fingers splayed across your stomach, holding you still.
The informant backed off. But you didn’t.
“Really?” you whispered once the man left. “Not your girl?”
Diego smirked against your skin. “Just my everything.”
⸻
Later that night, he wouldn’t let you leave the bed.
“You’re mine,” he kept murmuring, dragging kisses along your spine.
“Everyone already knows that, Diego.”
“Good. I want it tattooed on the sky.”
⸻
The next morning
You woke up with his arm heavy across your waist, his leg tangled with yours. His nose was buried in your hair, breath warm on the back of your neck.
“Mmm,” he groaned sleepily. “Can we cancel the world today?”
You smiled. “Tempting.”
“Stay. I’ll even make you eggs.”
“You hate cooking.”
“I hate you flirting with anyone that isn’t me, too, but I’m still here.”
You laughed softly, shifting to face him. “You jealous again already?”
He opened one eye. “Still. Always.”
You kissed the side of his neck. “I’m not going anywhere, Diego.”
His arms pulled you closer. “Damn right you’re not.”
Don’t Wear That Unless You’re Mine (Diego Hargreeves x Fem!Reader)
Word Count: ~1.8k
SMUT ❤️🔥 + slight angst ❤️🩹
Summary: ongoing enemies-to-lovers fic, following the narrative you’ve been building: possessiveness, flirty cockiness, heart-softening vulnerability, the “unofficial” yet very emotionally tangled relationship — and that constant underlying tension of desire and care.
Jealousy, Unspoken Feelings, “Only I can touch you” energy, Bedroom Tension, Post-Mission Care.
⸻
The mission had been a mess.
Blood, smoke, and chaos — your body buzzed with adrenaline, bruises blossoming along your ribs, your hair wild and your lip split from a close call.
But all you could think about was Diego.
Diego, who hadn’t looked at you since the fight ended. Diego, who’d caught you crashing into the wall, narrowly missing a punch meant for Luther, and instead of helping you up, had thrown a knife so fast into the enemy’s hand that your ears rang.
And then walked away.
You were so tired of being the thing he wanted and the thing he denied.
⸻
It was late now, the city winding down, soft shadows curling under the windows of his apartment.
You hadn’t even knocked. You knew the door code.
You’d showered before coming, slipping into your smallest shorts and a ratty black tank top that may or may not have been cropped on purpose. Just for this.
If he was going to ignore you, he was going to have to work for it.
Diego was shirtless, sprawled on the couch, tossing a blade up in the air and catching it by the handle like he had nothing else in the world to care about.
“Nice to see you alive,” you said, soft and dry.
He didn’t look at you at first.
Then: “That stunt today was stupid.”
You leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed. “You’re welcome for saving your ass.”
“Didn’t ask you to.”
There it was. The wall. Cold, clipped, distant. He only did this when he wanted to push you away, usually after wanting to pull you too close.
“So this is it?” You ask, stepping forward, voice low. “You glare all night, make me feel like shit for doing my job, and then act like it’s nothing?”
“Because it is nothing,” Diego said, standing, the knife thudding on the counter. “You do what you want. You always do.”
Your stomach clenched.
“This is about Luther,” you said finally, voice a quiet accusation.
His jaw clenched so tight it ticked.
You tilted your head, stepped closer. “You knew. All this time.”
His eyes met yours — dark and hard, but under that, something cracked.
“I didn’t know,” he said, voice rough, almost low enough to pass as regret. “I felt it. Difference in how you looked at me. The way he touched your arm and you didn’t pull away. The way I used to look at you.”
“Used to?” you echoed, stepping right into his space.
“I don’t share,” he growled.
“You don’t own me.”
His hand gripped your waist, hard. “You wore my shirt the next morning. And you expect me to be okay with that?”
You hated how good that sounded — his shirt, his bed, his scent clinging to your skin like a silent claim. But you were angry too. At how he disappeared into himself the second things got complicated.
“You pushed me away,” you whispered, suddenly quieter. “I needed you, and you closed off. Luther didn’t feel like a choice — he felt like someone who showed up.”
Diego flinched.
And then he kissed you.
Not soft, not apologetic. A kiss that punished and begged at once. Teeth, tongue, hand fisting your tank and pulling it up so your skin touched his. You moaned into it, tugging on his hair, the taste of adrenaline still in both your mouths.
He picked you up — just like that — and your back hit the kitchen counter.
“You gonna run again?” you gasped, legs wrapping around his waist.
“No,” he growled, lips trailing fire down your jaw, “but you better not call anyone else’s name tonight.”
⸻
Later, you were tangled in his sheets, the warm glow of the city peeking through the blinds. Your breath had steadied, and so had his. But neither of you moved.
His hand ran lazy circles on your thigh.
You broke the silence.
“You can’t say things like that if you don’t mean them.”
His voice was hoarse, tired, real. “I mean it more than I know how to say.”
You blinked. “Then why do you pretend you don’t care?”
He turned on his side, eyes searching yours.
“Because if I care, I’m weak. And if I’m weak, I lose you. And if I lose you, I don’t come back from it.”
You almost cried.
Instead, you curled into him.
“Say it again.”
He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “I mean it. All of it.”
You smiled, just a little. “You’re not weak. Not for feeling.”
His hand slid over your stomach. Paused.
Then:
“You ever think about having a kid?”
Your eyes widened. “What?”
He laughed, quiet, almost embarrassed. “Not now. Just— sometimes. I see you like this. In my bed. And I think… I want to see you bigger. Rounder. With something we made.”
Your breath hitched.
You turned to face him fully. “You want to knock me up?”
“I wanna own it,” he said with a smirk. “You. Us. This. Not just ‘sneaking around after missions’ anymore. I want people to know you’re mine.”
You blinked at him.
Then laughed, too shocked to do anything else.
“Oh my god. You’re serious.”
He bit your collarbone, just enough to sting. “Don’t laugh.”
“You’re so—cocky.”
“I’m always cocky. It’s part of the appeal.”
You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, and part of the problem.”
He pulled you closer. “Doesn’t stop you from coming back.”
You nuzzled into him. “You’re exhausting.”
“You’re addicted.”
“Maybe.”
He smiled, cocky and soft all at once.
“Let’s wait a little before the baby,” you whispered against his chest. “But you can practice all you want.”
He groaned. “Don’t tease me like that.”
“I’m serious,” you said, lips brushing his ear. “Every time you get jealous, you turn into an animal. It’s kind of hot.”
His breath hitched.
You smirked. “Still think I’m yours?”
“I know you are,” he growled.
⸻
The next morning:
You padded barefoot into the kitchen wearing only one of Diego’s black t-shirts — oversized, hitting just below your thighs.
Diego stayed in the doorway, watching you with half-lidded eyes, muscles relaxed for once. Soft light spilled across your face as you reached for a mug.
Then came the knock.
You frowned. Opened the door.
“Luther?”
He was in a hoodie and joggers, sheepish smile on his face. “Didn’t mean to drop in early. Just wanted to go over that logistics plan for tonight’s recon.”
You smiled. “Sure, come in. I just woke up, but—”
“You want coffee?” Diego’s voice cut in, low and territorial.
Luther blinked, surprised. “Uh… sure.”
You glanced between them.
Luther, sweet and awkward.
Diego, in sweatpants, shirtless, biting the inside of his cheek while watching Luther’s eyes flick to your bare legs.
He handed Luther a mug without saying a word.
You leaned against the counter, sipping yours.
Luther cleared his throat. “Didn’t know you two were, uh…”
“We’re not,” you said at the same time Diego said, “We are.”
You turned slowly.
Diego raised an eyebrow.
You smiled. A bit smug. A bit caught.
“Well,” Luther said, awkward again, “I’ll, uh, keep it short.”
You walked him to the door, Diego’s gaze burning into your spine.
As soon as the door shut, you turned.
“What?”
He walked toward you, grabbed your chin.
“Don’t ever answer that again like it’s a question.”
You blinked, lips parting. “Why? You want to make it official?”
“I want to make you mine. Official, tattooed, written in blood— however you want it. But don’t play coy when I just spent the night inside you.”
You laughed, breathless. “You are—so dramatic.”
He kissed you, hard. “And you’re gonna be late.”
You grinned. “Worried about me?”
He stepped back, smirking. “Only because I need you alive to keep practicing for that baby.”
“Diego!”
He was already walking away, voice smug as ever: “Hey, you brought it up.”
She Makes Me Want Things (Diego Hargreeves x Fem!Reader)
Word Count: ~2,000
FLUFF ❣️ + slight smut ❤️🔥
Summary: • baby fever from Diego masked behind cocky flirting and low, teasing threats,
• more of that “enemies to lovers” edge that others underestimate,
• other men trying to get your attention, pushing Diego’s jealous streak,
• his classic cold, deadpan vibe around everyone else vs. how soft he becomes with you,
• a little “mommy issues” vulnerability hinted beneath all his arrogance,
• and the ongoing effort to get in your pants. Obviously.
He’s behind you again—barefoot, shirtless, warm breath ghosting against your neck as his hands creep up your waist, palms firm on your stomach.
“What,” he murmurs, half-groaning against your skin, “I can’t touch what’s mine now?”
You roll your eyes. “It’s 9 a.m.”
“And your point?”
“I’m trying to make breakfast.”
“You could be trying to make something better.”
You glance over your shoulder. “Did you just imply we should be making a baby?”
He pauses. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
Then: “You’d look hot pregnant.”
You choke on air.
“Jesus, Diego—”
“I’m just saying.” His voice drops lower. “You, full of me? Fuck. That’d ruin me.”
You spin in his arms, eyes wide, but he’s grinning now—that grin, full of swagger and sin and the kind of half-joke you know he’s not really joking about.
“You’d lose your mind,” you murmur, arms crossing. “You can barely share my attention as it is.”
“I don’t want to share it,” he says, stepping in closer. “Not with Luther. Not with those losers at the bar last night.”
“Oh, so we’re bringing them up again.”
He leans against the counter like he’s not already in your space, like he didn’t kiss you breathless in that same spot two hours ago.
“They looked at you like you were free game.”
“You made it very clear I wasn’t,” you remind him, tilting your head. “Was the hand-on-my-thigh-under-the-table move really necessary?”
“Absolutely.”
He straightens, walking past you like he’s letting it go—until he circles back around, slow, deliberate.
“You smiled at one of them,” he says casually. Too casually.
“I smiled at everyone.”
“Not like that.”
You stare him down. “You jealous?”
He shrugs. “No.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“Okay, maybe a little.”
You smirk and turn back to the stove. “Maybe a lot.”
“Whatever,” he mutters. “You’re still coming home with me. You always do.”
And he’s right. You always do.
⸻
The problem is—no one really gets what you and Diego are.
To the others, it’s just tension and knives and snark. A glorified situationship wrapped in unresolved bickering. You roast each other at mission briefings, call each other names in the hallway, argue about coffee orders like you’re in a sitcom.
And then he wraps your hair around his fingers at 2 a.m. and whispers, “Mine.”
No one sees that part.
Which is exactly how he likes it.
But the downside?
No one takes it seriously. Which means every other guy thinks you’re fair game.
⸻
You’re at the compound later that day, sitting on the table while Klaus reads someone’s aura or whatever mystical nonsense he’s doing. Diego leans against the wall nearby, arms crossed, glaring at everyone.
You’re half-listening when someone new joins the group—someone very new.
He’s clean-cut. Tall. Not Hargreeves-level weird. Clearly unaware of the landmine he’s about to step on.
“Hey,” he says to you with a charming smile. “You’re Y/N, right?”
You nod politely.
“I’ve heard about you. You’re, uh… kind of a legend here.”
Diego’s eyes narrow.
“Oh?” you smile sweetly. “What kind of legend?”
“Fast,” Diego mutters from across the room.
You shoot him a look.
The guy chuckles. “Tactical. Smart. Beautiful. Kind of the whole package.”
“Thanks,” you say, ignoring the heat of Diego’s stare on your back.
The guy leans in a little. “Would you wanna grab a drink sometime?”
Before you can answer, Diego steps forward.
“She doesn’t drink.”
You glance at him. “I drink sometimes.”
“No, you don’t,” he says. “Not with strangers.”
The guy blinks. “I’m… not a stranger?”
Diego smiles then—but it’s the dangerous smile. The smile he uses before a fight.
“Then you should know better.”
The guy backs off. Quickly.
You watch him leave before turning back to Diego with a sigh. “Seriously?”
“What?” he shrugs. “I saved you from a very boring date.”
“I can save myself.”
“You’re already saved.”
He steps in close, crowding your space in that deliciously infuriating way of his.
“You’ve got a hero with unresolved rage, mommy issues, and a killer six-pack. What more could you want?”
You try not to smile. “You forgot ‘clingy.’”
He kisses your neck. “I’ll wear the title proudly.”
⸻
That night, he’s quiet.
You’re curled on his bed, legs tangled in his sheets, wearing nothing but one of his old training tank tops. He’s sitting on the edge, back to you, shirtless, elbows on his knees.
“Hey,” you say softly, brushing your foot against his thigh. “What’s going on in that oversized brain of yours?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Then: “You’d be a good mom.”
Your breath catches.
“I think about it sometimes,” he admits, voice low. “What that’d be like. You. Me. Little feet running around this place.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “And I hate that I want that. ’Cause I shouldn’t.”
You sit up, pressing your chest to his back, arms wrapping around his torso.
“You think wanting a family is weak?”
“No.” He sighs. “I think I’d mess it up.”
You rest your chin on his shoulder. “You wouldn’t.”
“I had one parent who ditched me, and another who turned me into a weapon.”
“You’re not them.”
“You say that now,” he mutters. “Wait ‘til the kid starts throwing knives.”
You laugh, and he finally smiles.
“You’d teach them to be brave,” you say. “To be smart. You’d carry them on your back like a goddamn superhero.”
He turns, slowly. Eyes soft.
“And you’d be the one they run to when they’re scared.”
“I already am for you.”
His hand cups your cheek. “Yeah. You are.”
You kiss him, slow and sure, and climb into his lap, knees on either side of his thighs. His hands settle on your hips, holding you like you’re the only steady thing in the world.
“You still want to try?” you whisper, breath tickling his lips.
He nods once. “Even if it takes forever.”
You press your forehead to his. “We’ve got time.”
⸻
He pulls you under the covers, arms wrapped around your waist, legs tangled with yours. No more jokes, no more teasing. Just the warmth of two broken people trying to dream about something whole.
You stroke his hair back and whisper, “You’re not cold, you know.”
He hums.
“Everyone thinks you are,” you add. “That you don’t feel. But you do.”
“Only with you.”
You press a kiss to his chest, just over his heart. “I know.”
Then, half asleep, he whispers:
“If someone else tries to touch you again, I’ll kill them.”
You laugh into his skin.
“I’m serious.”
“I know, baby.”
And he is.
Because you’re his soft spot. His disaster. His only safe place.
And he’ll spend the rest of his life trying to get in your pants.
His Shirt, His Girl (Jealous!Diego Hargreeves x Fem!Reader) Part 2 of “Only Me, Right?”
Word Count: ~1,950
SMUT ❤️🔥 + FLUFF ❣️
Summary: • the tension of Diego finding out about Luther,
• you reminiscing what happened with Luther (without being overly graphic, but emotionally charged),
• a warm, post-jealousy morning with Diego’s possessiveness surfacing again when Luther shows up unexpectedly,
• and all the sensual, emotionally fraught energy you asked for.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
You weren’t planning to fall asleep tangled in Diego’s arms—but there you were, half buried beneath the sheets, his chest warm under your cheek, one calloused hand resting low on your hip like it was his claim to the whole damn world.
It still smelled like sweat, sex, and something tender in the dark. Not rushed or messy, but real.
You trace a lazy line across his skin with your finger. A scar curves under his collarbone, faded now but still a memory. He shifts slightly in his sleep, pulling you closer with a sleepy grunt.
You should be content. Satisfied. Settled.
But your mind drifts.
Not out of longing. Out of guilt.
Luther.
You hadn’t meant for it to happen. You and Diego weren’t exclusive—weren’t anything, really, except stolen nights and shared tension and that look he gave you sometimes like you were his only anchor to the present.
But Luther had been there after a particularly bad mission. Big, quiet, kind. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t push. He sat beside you on the couch and offered warmth when your skin felt ice cold.
It had been a one-time thing. Clumsy. Quick. More loneliness than lust. No kisses, no real intimacy. You hadn’t thought about it again—until Diego brought it up last night.
You remember the exact moment he found out.
⸻
He’d come over to your place unannounced. No knives, no suit. Just sweatpants and a scowl.
You’d been folding laundry.
“I saw Luther this morning,” he’d said, voice deceptively casual.
“Oh?” you replied, not looking up.
“He asked if we were still a thing.”
That made your hands pause. “Still a thing?”
“Yeah. I asked why. He said, ‘Well, I figured she told you.’”
You’d stared at him then. The shift in his jaw. The way he crossed his arms so tightly it looked like a self-made cage.
And he just said it:
“You slept with him.”
Not a question.
Just the end of the world.
You hadn’t denied it. Couldn’t.
His voice had dropped. “Was it while we were still—?”
“No. It was before.” You’d stepped closer. “Before you started staying the night. Before any of this felt like it meant anything.”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment.
Then: “It meant something to me the first night.”
You’d never seen his eyes like that. Hurt and proud and furious all at once.
It had taken you hours to talk him down. More hours to kiss it better. A full night to remind him who you really wanted.
⸻
Now it’s morning.
You blink against the early light cutting through Diego’s window. His grip on you tightens reflexively as you shift. He’s still asleep—but just barely, you can tell. His breathing is slower now, more measured, like he’s pretending.
“Are you awake?” you whisper.
“No,” he mumbles, voice gravel and honey.
You laugh softly and press a kiss to his jaw. “Liar.”
He rolls onto his back, dragging you with him until you’re half on top of him, your thigh draped over his waist.
“You keep kissing me like that and we’re not leaving this bed,” he mutters, brushing your bare back with his fingertips.
“Mmm, sounds like a threat.”
“It’s a promise,” he murmurs, turning your face gently to meet his lips. The kiss is slow. Lazy. Possessive in the way he takes his time, like he owns every second of your morning and he knows it.
“I should make coffee,” you breathe against his mouth.
“Nope.”
“Diego—”
“Fine. Go.” He groans. “But you’re wearing my shirt.”
You grin. “Already am.”
⸻
You pad into the kitchen barefoot, swimming in Diego’s black Umbrella Academy tee. It smells like him. You tug it down over your thighs and start rummaging for coffee.
You don’t hear the knock.
But you do hear the voice.
“Hey, Y/N?”
You freeze.
Luther.
You spin on your heel. He’s standing in the doorway, sheepish and oversized as ever.
“Oh—uh—hey,” you say, pulling the shirt lower instinctively. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to drop off some files for Diego,” he says. “Didn’t think you’d be—uh—here.”
“Yeah, I stayed over,” you say casually, though your pulse jumps.
Luther shifts awkwardly. “I didn’t know you two were…”
You clear your throat. “We are.”
Before anything else can be said, you hear heavy footsteps behind you.
“Luther.”
Diego.
He appears in the hallway shirtless, sweatpants hanging low, hair messy from sleep and still looking like a warning sign with legs.
He takes one look at you—bare legs, his shirt—and then at Luther, standing three feet away from you with wide eyes.
Something inside him snaps into place.
He steps forward and slides his arm around your waist, fingers deliberately gripping your hip, his thumb brushing the sliver of skin peeking beneath the hem of his shirt.
Luther coughs. “I, uh, just came to drop these—”
“Thanks,” Diego says, flat. “You can go now.”
Luther nods awkwardly and sets the folder on the counter.
As he turns to leave, he glances at you—just a flicker—and Diego notices.
His jaw tightens.
“Luther,” he calls out before the door shuts.
Luther pauses.
“She’s mine.”
You stiffen slightly in Diego’s grip, not from discomfort, but from the weight of it. Of him. Claiming you out loud.
Luther hesitates, then nods once. “I get it.”
The door clicks shut behind him.
Silence.
You turn in Diego’s arms, arms folding loosely around his bare chest.
“That was a little much,” you say quietly.
“I don’t care.”
His hand slides to the small of your back. “He doesn’t get to look at you like that. Not in my shirt.”
“You really hate sharing, huh?”
“With you?” He leans down, nose brushing yours. “Not a fucking chance.”
You smile, lips brushing his. “Diego?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t want anyone else.”
He exhales slowly, forehead resting against yours. “Say it again.”
You press a kiss to his cheek. “I don’t want anyone else.”
He closes his eyes like it physically settles something in him.
Then he lifts you up onto the counter, standing between your legs, his hands gripping your thighs like he needs to feel that truth on his skin.
“You’re mine,” he says softly.
“I’m yours.”
“No more almosts. No more guessing.”
You nod, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Just us?”
“Just us.”
He kisses you again, slower this time. Sweeter. Like the edge of all that jealousy finally burned itself out, leaving just the part of him that aches to be close.
And that’s where you stay—on the counter, in his arms, in the sunlight, wearing his shirt, with his name in your mouth like it belongs there.
