Febre de mar Eu devo ir para o mar novamente, para o mar e o céu solitário, E tudo que peço é um pequeno navio e uma estrela para me guiar por ela, E o golpe do volante e música do vento e a vela branca a tremer, E uma névoa cinza sobre o mar e uma onda cinza quebrando. Eu devo ir para o mar novamente, para encontrar a maré correndo cheia de vida É um convite selvagem e um apelo claro que não pode ser negado; E tudo que eu peço é um dia de vento, com nuvens brancas voando, E um fluxo de espuma se espalhando, e os gritos das gaivotas. Eu devo ir para o mar novamente, para a cigana vida errante, Para o caminho da gaivota e da baleia, onde o vento é como um corte de faca aguçada; E tudo que peço é um riso alegre e a risada de um companheiro vagabundo, E o sono tranquilo e o doce sonho, quando o caminho for muito longo. - John Masefield Brasil.20 /Fem
You open the door to find Zeno awkwardly standing in the hallway. His presence alone rouses a wave of irritation to course through your veins as you give him a deadpan expression.
“What are you doing here?” you ask, tone dry and a bit tired.
It’s past midnight. You just came back from work, barely had the energy to make a quick meal and you sacrificed the relaxing bath time you were planning to have just to go to sleep as soon as possible. But apparently, this night couldn’t get any worse, because this man decided to randomly show up at your door at such a late hour of the night like it’s normal.
Zeno ignores your question, casually sliding past you and making his way inside your apartment. Noisily, his eyes scan the surroundings through his darkened glasses, almost acting as if it’s the first time he’s ever come here. With how tall he is, the sight of him standing in the middle of such a small space is kind of ridiculous and comical, yet endearing when you think back of your shared moments in this very apartment. Now your heart aches.
“I went to the penthouse I got for you.” Zeno turns around, fully facing you now. “But you weren’t there, why?”
Unbelievable. A scoff leaves you as you cross your arms over your chest, rolling your eyes at the usual attitude of his.
“Why would I be there? There’s no reason for me to stay in that empty, soulless house after we ended things.” You respond nonetheless, exasperated.
Zeno stays quiet for a moment, trying to process the meaning of your words. “Why? Was it not enough?” He asks once again and takes a step forward, you take a step back. “If it wasn’t to your liking, you should have told me. What would you like instead? A bigger penthouse? A villa? I’ll get it for you. I’ll buy you all the villas you want. Would that be enough to have you back in my life again?”
Speechless, you can’t help but stare up at him in pure incredulity. Though, after a few seconds you manage to reply with a furious, hurtful tone of voice. “What? You think I left you because of some penthouse or villa or whatever the fuck property you think will buy my forgiveness?” This time, you’re taking a step forward and the sudden scent of cigarette smoke evades your senses.
Zeno sighs. “What is it then? What do you want? A new car? Sports car? Jewellery? A new job? Designer clothes? Although, I already bought those but you didn’t seem to take a liking to them.”
Blood boiling, frustration takes over you inadvertently as you clench your fists, glaring at him in a feeble effort to not tear up. “Fuck you, Zeno. All I ever wanted was your presence and affection, yet I still dealt with your constant absence and whatever fragments of love and care you’d throw at me when you had the time. I would spend days sitting alone in that stuffy penthouse as if I were some kind of luxurious decoration for you to visit once in a while. All my friends mocked me for putting up with you but I thought maybe if I kept being patient and careful, you’ll eventually take our relationship seriously. Guess I was foolish.” You take a deep breath, steadying yourself as you point to the door. “So, if you only came here to talk nonsense, get out.”
The space grows quiet. The distant sound of traffic coming from the window fills the heavy air. Even in the dim light of your living room, his glowing eyes are nothing short of mesmerizing. They’re softer now, gazing at your angry scowl with a rather calmer look. Another step closer and he’s got you crowded against the wall.
“I can’t sleep.” Zeno admits, voice dropping to a mere whisper. Your confused expression doesn’t faze him in the slightest. “Because of you, I can’t sleep, I can’t concentrate on work, I can’t do anything right ever since you left. You plague my mind day and night. It’s all your fault. Do something about it.”
Eehhh i don't know if it's good enough but it is what it isss lol
Summary: Zeno is stressed and needs some comfort. You are happy to give.
Warnings: None. Fluff.
Word Count: 1,148
I am getting the hang of writing in Second POVs now, and I hope you guys are enjoying them too. This is my first attempt at writing Zeno so forgive me if it's crappy.
Please reblog and comment, feedback is highly appreciated!
Please enjoy,
These nights were not as uncommon as many would believe but were cherished all the time. The sun had dipped down, sinking below the horizon, casting the world in its dying light of gold, yellows and oranges. From this view of the penthouse, you could see the source itself sink beyond the edge and vanish entirely. Zeno never thought much of it but you often found yourself standing at the balcony to watch the sun set when you could. Something about it brought a sense of peace and stillness that you found hard to ignore. The way the shadows grew as the sun would set, growing bolder in the absence of light. Thick clusters of trees lined along both sides of the penthouse, branching a little towards the tall hills.
The air was clear and crisp, the kind that lightly prickled your lungs if you inhaled deeply enough. You remained leaning there until that air brought down a chill that nipped your skin, a sign to retreat back inside for the night. The balcony door slid shut before you locked it then set yourself down on one of the three couches that stood surrounding the polished, marble coffee table. Zeno didn’t spare any expense for his own enjoyment, even if the man was rarely here. A part of you believed it was more for show than actual comfort.
Appearances and imagery did matter, you guessed. Which was why you wondered why Zeno kept you around. You weren’t the most luxurious person in the world yet Zeno would shower you in whatever you wanted. Zeno’s way of expressing his admiration, a reminder that he listened to you. He knew your favourite drink. Your favourite food. Your favourite smells, books, music, movies; Zeno accumulated this information like it was valuable information because it was to him.
Flopping down on the second couch, you sunk into the comfortable furniture as you flicked on the ridiculously big TV screen and began cycling through the channels. Nothing good on, as usual. You closed your eyes, held the ‘Channel Down’ button and counted to three before letting go and opening your eyes.
A bloody antique show.
An annoyed groan slipped your lips before tossing the remote on the coffee table and decided to watch. An old man rambling on about a pure white, ceramic vase he had stored in the attic since he was “but a wee lad”. The door to the penthouse creaked open and your head craned up as far as your neck would allow without actually moving off the couch, not ready to give up the comfy position. Standing in front of the closed door, Zeno stood there. His leather coat hung heavily over his shoulders like a cloak, his silver hair slicked back with those dark tinted glasses sitting on his face to conceal those beautiful eyes of his. That beautiful shade of gold that rivaled the sunset. You smiled at the sight of him,
“Over here, Zeno.” You called out, drawing his attention towards the centre of the living room. He shed his thick coat off, hanging it up beside the door before making his way over to you. You noticed that little bit of tension that set his shoulders, the way his lips seemed to press together just a little tighter than usual. Little things many would miss but not you. “Stressful day?” He shifted over to allow him room to sit.
“You have no idea.” His voice slipped his lips like honey, a sound that you could listen to without complaint. The man sat down, his head tilting back a little as he finally let out a low sigh that radiated exhaustion. Not just physically,Zeno couldn’t stress more about his modified genetics and stamina, how someone like him didn’t get close to exhaustion. Regardless, you moved closer to him, deciding to prop yourself upright to sit.
“Gideon is beginning to wear my patience thin. His research demands more funds while his results are yet to prove a single development.” Even if you were suddenly robbed of your eyesight, you would be able to tell that tiny vein that hid just out of his hairline pulse with irritation. The man prided himself of perfection, an unmovable monolith that commanded authority and control. You got to see the tiny chips and cracks in the stone. You saw what he wished to hide from the outside world.
A small smile tugged your lips as you shifted on the couch. Your legs brought up and laid across Zeno’s lap, drawing his gaze to you. Your arms outstretched in a silent invitation. Zeno took in your invitation and decided to accept. Though, he gave a small huff as if he was doing you a favour rather than vice versa. Somethings, he never said aloud but he didn’t need to when he had you who could read him like a book.
“Couches are for sitting, you know?” He muttered but didn’t waste time settling in your arms. His body resting atop of your with your legs slightly parted and his head resting on your chest. He felt your arms wrap around so your fingers could gently comb through his hair, a gesture that made something inside him feel calm. Comforted, even. In this penthouse, the outside world remained outside. He allowed his shoulders to slump a little, the tension slowly melting from them as he felt your fingers brush through his silver hair while your other hand rubbed circles between his shoulder blades, easing the muscle a little.
The smell of you pulling him into a space he never wished to leave. The steady rhythm of your heartbeat is a soothing melody for him to drown himself into. Everything about you brought a calmness that settled to his very cells. Some days, he found himself seeking out your mere presence if he was stressed enough. Just the feeling of you in his arms made the next day that little more tolerable.
Your fingers moved from his hair down to the black veins that marred the side of his face. A gentle warmth danced over them as he felt you trace each one as if it was something to admire, and not a reminder of one of the many failures he accounted for. He wondered what you saw of him. A relic of the past that seemed to lack small pieces of the greater whole? Or a man who was more important to you than anything in the world?
Zeno silently prayed for it to be the latter.
“I’ve got you, darling.” You spoke softly as you went back to combing his hair, your gaze on the TV screen again as the old man seemed to be complaining over fifty dollars for the vase. “Is there nothing else on other than this pathetic drab?” Zeno enquired and you shook your head,
Hey if your requests are open would it be okay if you could do some age gap smut with corazon x reader and the reader is in her 20s and Cora is late 30's with a size kink and little bit of a breeding kink
Goodness am I horny for this man
Full of You
Warnings: nsfw, smut, fluff, size kink (reader's pov), light breeding kink, age gap (readers in her 20s), soft and emotional intimacy, consent-focused, mention of plan b
Word Count: 1572
Pairing: Corazon x AFAB!Reader
crossposted on AO3
You could barely breathe, pinned under the warm, heavy weight of Rosinante’s body.
He hovered over you, eyes blown wide, cheeks pink, a little bit of drool shining at the corner of his mouth. His blond hair, messy and sweat-damp, framed his face like a halo.
And God, he was big.
Everywhere. His hands cradled your waist so easily, palms almost overlapping around your sides. His legs bracketed you like thick pillars. Even just the way he loomed when he leaned down to kiss you — it lit every spark of your size kink on fire.
Cora wasn’t rough, not even a little. If anything, he was nervous.
"Y-you’re sure?" he asked again, voice low and rough, like the words scraped up from the bottom of his throat. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing just under your eye. "I can... go slow. As slow as you need."
You nodded frantically, heart hammering against your ribs. "I want it," you whispered. "I want you, Cora."
His throat bobbed in a thick swallow. His hand trembled a little when he slid it down your side, settling just above your hip. "...'M a lot bigger than you," he mumbled, almost guilty, as if he was apologizing for it.
You let out a shaky breath, feeling heat lick up your spine. "I know," you breathed, sliding your hands up his arms, feeling the strong muscles flexing under your touch. "I like it."
He blinked down at you, like he couldn’t quite process the words. "You like that I'm...?" He gestured vaguely to himself — massive, broad-shouldered, sprawled over your much smaller body.
You nodded, cheeks burning. "It's—it's hot," you mumbled, embarrassed, but the way his eyes darkened slightly made your stomach twist deliciously. "I like feeling... full. Like you’re too big for me."
A strangled sound caught in his throat. His face flushed a deeper red, and he dropped his forehead to your shoulder with a soft thump. "You're gonna kill me," he muttered, voice muffled against your skin.
You laughed breathlessly, squirming a little under him — and immediately gasped when you felt the thick weight of his cock press between your legs, hot and heavy even through the thin barrier of your underwear.
Cora groaned, hips twitching. "Shit," he hissed, struggling to control himself. "Baby, don't move like that, I-I-"
You whimpered, grinding your hips up slightly. "Please," you whispered, clutching at his broad back. "Please, Cora, I want you so bad—"
He pulled back enough to look at you, cupping your face again in his big, calloused hands. "You tell me if it’s too much," he said, deadly serious, his golden eyes locked on yours. "I mean it. One word, and I stop. No questions."
"I know," you whispered, heart aching with how good he was to you. "I trust you."
The look he gave you in that moment — so raw, so open — almost made you cry. He kissed you then, deep and tender, slow enough to steal your breath. And when he finally slid the head of his cock against your entrance, your whole body tensed with anticipation.
He was thick. You could feel the way he stretched you even before he pushed in properly, nudging against your trembling walls. He cursed under his breath, almost inaudible, pressing his forehead to yours.
"Relax for me, sweetheart," he whispered, voice shaking. "I’ve got you."
You nodded, digging your fingers into his arms.
Cora moved carefully — so carefully — rocking his hips forward just enough to ease inside you by small increments. You sobbed at the stretch, overwhelmed but desperate for more.
"You’re so tight," he gasped, biting down on his bottom lip. "Fuck—you’re doing so good, baby. So good for me."
You whimpered, clenching around him instinctively, and he let out a wrecked, strangled sound. It felt like it took forever for him to bottom out, inch by thick inch, until he was buried to the hilt, and you were gasping, nails dragging down his back.
You could feel him — deep in your belly, pressing into places no one else ever reached.
You were full. Stuffed. Like your body barely had room for him.
It was perfect.
Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, but not from pain — from the sheer overwhelming fullness of it, the intimacy of being so completely his.
"You okay?" Cora whispered urgently, kissing your cheeks, your eyelids, your nose. "Too much? I can stop—"
You shook your head frantically, wrapping your legs around his waist to keep him pressed deep. "Feels so good," you sobbed. "Want all of you. Want you to fill me up, Cora—"
He groaned, deep and broken, and pressed his hips tighter to yours. "You’re already full, sweetheart," he panted, kissing you like he was trying to breathe through you. "Stuffed full of me."
The words slipped out without thinking: "Wanna keep it," you whispered.
He froze, staring down at you, eyes wide.
You blinked up at him, heart pounding in your throat. "I-" You flushed scarlet. "I just... I like the idea. You know. You—inside me. Staying there. L-leaving something behind."
Cora made a sound somewhere between a sob and a whimper, squeezing his eyes shut like the force of his feelings physically hurt him. "Jesus, sweetheart," he rasped, voice wrecked. "You can’t say shit like that to me."
You smiled through your blush, reaching up to brush his hair out of his eyes. "I mean it," you whispered. "Want you to fill me so much it stays. So everyone knows I'm yours."
He let out a broken laugh, his hands tightening on your hips. "You already are," he said, voice shaking. "You're already mine."
And then he started to move — slow, grinding thrusts, dragging his cock against your trembling walls, every stroke making you feel every thick, impossible inch of him. You clung to him helplessly, gasping, whimpering, letting him rock you open with all his weight and warmth. He kissed you through it all — soft, worshipful kisses, like he couldn’t believe you were real.
"Mine," he whispered into your mouth. "All mine."
You came with a sob, clenching tight around him, and he followed you a heartbeat later, pushing deep one last time and spilling inside you with a broken, desperate groan.
You felt him fill you — hot and heavy and endless — and you whimpered, clinging to him.
Even after he collapsed on top of you, breathing hard, he didn’t pull out — just stayed there, keeping everything deep inside, like he could seal it into your body just by holding you close enough.
"You’re gonna be the death of me," Cora mumbled into your neck, voice thick with sleepiness and bliss.
You laughed breathlessly, stroking his hair. "Good," you whispered.
And you both fell asleep like that — tangled together, full of each other, and more whole than you'd ever been.
Extra Post-Scene:
You woke up slowly, feeling hazy and warm. The first thing you noticed was the heavy arm draped across your waist — warm and protective — and the soft, steady sound of breathing near your ear. You smiled sleepily, nuzzling closer against the broad chest pressed to your back.
"Mm... Cora..." you mumbled, not fully awake yet.
He made a low, sleepy hum, squeezing you gently. For a long moment, you both just lay there, tangled together under the covers, the early morning sunlight filtering through the thin curtains. And then—
A sharp little gasp.
You blinked your eyes open, confused, and turned your head slightly to see Rosinante staring down at you with the most horrified expression you’d ever seen. He looked like he’d just realized he'd set a building on fire.
"Oh my god," he whispered. "Oh my GOD."
You frowned, reaching up to brush his messy blond hair out of his eyes. "Cora? What's wrong?"
He visibly struggled for words, mouth opening and closing uselessly for a few seconds before he blurted out: "I—I didn’t pull out."
You blinked at him.
"I didn’t pull out!" he repeated, like maybe you hadn't heard him the first time, his voice cracking in panic. "I just— I stayed inside, and—and you said you wanted—and I—"
You pressed a hand to his chest, laughing softly. "I know," you said, grinning.
He stared at you, utterly shell-shocked. "You— you’re not—angry?!" he asked, voice shooting up almost an octave.
You shook your head, pulling him down for a soft kiss. "I wanted it, remember?" you whispered. "You didn’t do anything wrong, Cora."
He exhaled a shaky breath, forehead dropping to your shoulder in relief. "Thank god," he mumbled, arms tightening around you. "I thought— I mean, you’re young, and I’m—I'm almost forty, and you’re so small, and I got carried away, and you were crying, and I thought—"
You laughed, stroking your fingers through his hair. "They were good tears, Cora," you said gently. "I’ve never felt that close to anyone before."
He let out a broken little laugh, kissing your bare shoulder. "I love you," he whispered fiercely.
Your heart squeezed painfully. "I love you too," you whispered back.
For a few moments, he just held you — his big arms wrapped around you like you were the most precious thing in the world. And then, in a much smaller voice, he mumbled against your skin:
"...still probably gonna buy you a Plan B, just in case."
You burst out laughing, and he groaned, burying his face deeper into your shoulder.
- ❝request; You're shorter than your man, too short to reach for a kiss unless you tiptoe, tug on his collar and have him lean down for you, that is.❞
˚₊‧꒰ა Tags ໒꒱ ‧₊˚: Suggestive themes, fluff, teasing, short!reader; SFW. Reader is she/her. 𓂃۶ৎ wc: 300 for each seperate fic, roughly.
₊˚ʚ Characters/status: Rob Lucci, Sir Crocodile, Trafalgar D. Water Law, Donquixote Doflamingo, Roronoa Zoro (established relationship ˖ ໒꒱)
❝ ᝰ.ᐟ note: Oda make Mlem and Lucci canon already, thanks! >ᴗ<❞
Rob Lucci 𓏲 ࣪˖♡𓂃
He gave you a brow. Hands in his pocket, wearing a dark suit and watching you with darker eyes.
“Have you no dignity?” His voice is flat, cold but you don’t care.
You keep tiptoeing, lips still pouting and hands fisting his shirt. Pulling him. “Robbie… please, just one kiss.”
His brow line creases. Half-offended. “Don’t… call me that.”
You hum, going back to your feet. Pouting.
He’s not indulging you. Not moving one inch to kiss your lips.
Fine then.
It’s war.
You’ll nag him till he gives in.
“Luuuuci, pleaseee,” you whine out and he sighs through his nose as you keep tiptoeing up.
No answer. Just condescension seeping through his gaze.
You keep tugging, whining and only when you hear Kaku’s voice calling you both from a distance do you stop. Glancing to the source of his echo. And when you let go of Rob’s collar, eyes drifting away to the distance and heels padded fully on the floor—does he place a hand on your jaw, sliding your face to meet his gaze.
And you blink.
long, dark hair trail down your face. Tickling your shoulders, as one smooth motion of his hand slide down your hips to the small of your back, bringing you up to meet his lips.
Rob’s calloused fingers digs into your flesh, forcing a whine to leave your mouth, which he seals with a kiss. muffling you.
And the kiss is not soft but raw—pushing, claiming, forcing you to lean back so to retain footing but his hand on your jaw has made its way to the back of your hair. Forcing you deeper into his kiss.
And when Kaku’s footsteps trudge closer, only then does Rob part from you—lips clicking, strings of saliva between your tongue as he straightens himself, and your cheeks burn at the sight of his face.
Smug, cocky and entirely pleased with himself.
Jerk.
Sir Crocodile 𓏲 ࣪˖♡𓂃
Sir Crocodile was giving you a look… quite similar from what he gives that tardy clown except there is a hint of amusement in it. But only a hint.
You were pulling on his vest, frowning.
It’s been ten whole minutes and he’s not budging.
Meanie.
“Sir… please.”
He gives you a brow, a corner of his grin going up.
“Please, what?”
Your cheeks burn flushed. “You know what.”
He tilts his head to the side, ash falling off his cigar. “No, I don’t. Indulge me.”
Your knuckles clenches, tugging at the fabric of his shirt.
He’s taunting you! What a rude little….
“You look like you’re about to explode, need a hand with anything?”
“You—…” You bite your tongue, trying to tiptoe even higher, pull his shirt even harder.
You start growing frustrated and embarrassed, but he’s been so handsome the whole day, you can’t imagine yourself leaving without kissing him—but it’s been a whole ten minutes, and still! He’s not budging.
The frustration starts to make you teary, hands clutching the fabric of his shirt so hard you feel like you’re going to tear it off of him and only then—when your eyes start glaze with tears, and your breathing starts growing hot with fury, does he lean in.
Arms unfolding. One last smoke taken before the cigar is dropped to the ground. Hook landing around your waist, tugging you closer as he grabs your ass, ringed fingers digging into the soft of your flesh as he lifts you up by the back.
Meeting his lips.
The kiss is soft, faint—until you press deeper, further, growing desperate enough that his tongue skims over your lips. Your heart starts beating out of your chest, hard and erratic as the kiss grows hotter, heavier, wet sounds escaping you both.
And when he parts? Setting you down by the ground?
It’s all smugness and adoration.
His larger hand making it to the side of your face.
“Be a good girl and fetch a new cigar in my jacket for me.” his voice rasps, thumb rubbing your lower lip.
And that’s all he has to offer for you to pad across the room. Face completely burnt.
Trafalgar D. Water Law 𓏲 ࣪˖♡𓂃
“What are you doing.”
“What does it look like, Law!?” You huff out, toes starting to ache as you try and tiptoe further up. And Law looks at you like he should take pity on you or mock you completely.
“Law, please, just—”
“Just what?” He muses, smirk coming into place and your cheeks burn.
“Please. Just, one kiss,” your voice comes out soft, too soft and it makes him want to tease you harder.
“Why should I? Last time I checked, you called me a jerk.”
“That was two days ago!”
“And still no apology.”
You clutch onto his collar with both of your hands, trying to tug him down but he’s not budging, and the smug grin of his isn’t either.
“please Law…”
“go on, please what?”
Your brows pull, face turning into fire, “Please, I'm sorry… Can you kiss me?”
Law tilts his head, the expression he wears on his face is untelling—the grin hasn’t dropped, the cockiness as prevalent as ever and your heart beats into a storm at the sight of it. Knuckles clenching, cheeks sizzling and brows pulled hard enough to form a vein. And just when you think he’ll mock you once more, do you feel his hands land on your shoulders, sliding down your ribs, slow and streaming—landing under your butt, lifting you off your feet.
the gap closes and the friction of clothes grinding between one another makes you arch, as he lands his mouth on yours.
Pushing, claiming, and you feel his tongue skimming over yours—and on instinct—you suck.
The kiss grows hot, wet; saliva and groans exchanging between you two, parting only to breathe.
For a moment, Law only looks at you.
Taking in your features.
Breath hot on your face, and something soft settles in his gaze.
His voice low, almost a mumble under his breath and you barely catch it.
“Pretty.”
You blink. “What—?”
He kisses you again. Pushing your ass even further up, and you whine into it.
Yeah.
You two are going to be kissing for a good while.
Donquixote Doflamingo 𓏲 ࣪˖♡𓂃
He was being a mean, rude, cocky, snobby and a barbarous little shitbird about your situation.
And it makes you seethe, hands tugging onto the pink feather of his coat.
Pulling, yanking, face fuming with frustration as you stare up his stupid handsome face.
“Doffy… please, just lean down.”
He has the audacity to snort out loud and you scoff, offended.
Your cheeks burn into fire, swallowing your pride—you’re not giving up, not yet.
“You’re mean.” You huff and he takes a strand of your hair between his fingers, twirling it.
“Yeah? If I’m so mean, the why are you beggin’ for a kiss, hmm?”
You pull out the trump card. “Because I love you.”
And he freezes.
You decide to go in for the kill — you give him that doe eyed look, the coquettish, begging one. “Please Doffy.” Your voice is soft, pleading, “Just one, it’s all I want.”
Doflamingo flicks your hair from his fingers, hand grabbing your jaw, as he leans down—slamming his mouth into yours.
And the taste of wine, cocktails, pineapple juice and corruption seeps all into you; his tongue sloshes over yours. Wet, hot and messy as he forces you deeper into it, possessive hands travelling down your waist and latching onto your hips. Hoisting you up.
The kiss starts growing sloppy; clicking sounds and moans slipping every time you tilt into a new angle.
And when you part, its only to breathe, huff and ground yourself. Head dizzy. Doflamingo’s forehead nudging yours.
“You love me, huh? Then you have no one to blame but yourself.” He grins, and it’s not sweet or adoring, no—it’s got wickedness written all over it; but you know what’s worse?
He is right. This is no one’s fault, but your own.
Roronoa Zoro 𓏲 ࣪˖♡𓂃
You were practically doing mini jumps to get to this man.
Tiptoeing. Neck arching. Hands tugging his collar as he gives you a long, long stare.
Arms crossed.
“Zoro.”
“No.”
You tug his shirt. “Zoro!”
“No.”
“Please!”
“Still; no.”
This is how it has been between you two for ten minutes.
You’ve been trying to steal a kiss, he’s been watching your failed attempts with the most aloof, most unbothered, most ‘this-gotta-be-a-joke-but-I-also-dont-want-it-to-end-just-yet’ face ever.
You were leaning forward, he was leaning back.
“You’re not giving me a chance!”
“So?” He gives you a brow and your face pulls into a frown. Cheeks starting to burn.
“Lean down. Please.”
Zoro blinks, slowly, before eventually tilting his head to the side, a cocky smirk coming into place.
“Sure.”
You regain some hope, tiptoeing further up, straining yourself even.
“Really!?”
“Yeah. if you beg.”
At that, your face sullen once more.
“I’ve been begging.”
“Yeah? Well, I guess you don’t want to kiss me that badly then—” He unfolds his arms, moving away and you panic. Latching harder onto him.
“Please!” You tug him towards you, ignoring the widening grin on his face.
“Please, please kiss me, please it’s all I want. Just one.”
“You want it that bad huh?”
You swallow your pride, and nod.
And at that, he scoffs. Hands going to your ass, groping, squeezing as he lifts you off the ground, his crotch grind against yours, fabric causing friction between one another as he hoists you further up—meeting his lips.
Soft. Sweet.
Lips clicking when he parts.
And he gives you a smaller smile, “Happy?”
“As if.” You lock your arms over his shoulders, bringing you two into a kiss once more.
And this time, it’s deeper, longer and messier. you have decided to reap your reward to the fullest.
Featured characters: //Primary Set// Shanks - Ace - Smoker - Law - Vivi - Luffy - Zoro - Nami - Sanji - Usopp - Robin - Franky - Corazon - Marco - Sabo - Aokiji Kuzan x gn reader
Description: Tracing scars and tattoos, overcoming insecurities, vague self consciousness they help you with / fuck out of you~ Luffy’s might just fix you. Also this is definitely the best thing I’ve ever made.
Rating: 18+
Word count: 2600 / ~160 per character
WARNINGS: | gender neutral reader | all the sex | minor allusions to body image issues, scars, canon trauma |
//Villain Set// //Secondary Set//
Shanks
With the world in his hands as much as against him, it can be a heavy load. For all that he keeps that easy smile, always looking to encourage you, sometimes he needs it too. Topping him slow and sensually, letting go of the emotional burdens as you spoil him. But this is only after persuading him to not be the one spoiling. He loves nothing more after a long day - good or bad - to strip you in his quarters and roll you around on his bed until the moon is high and all you can think about is him. Whatever your doubts, insecurities, pains, or fears, you have an Emperor of the sea at your side who’s convinced you hang the stars in the sky. And he’ll kiss you until you believe him.
Ace
Sunshine incarnate is his typical way of being, but the pain of his past - the world always saying he shouldn’t even exist - it gets to him more often than he lets on. Telling him he deserves to live, that he’s the best thing in your life, that he’s worthy and wonderful - while he’s deep inside you? Yeah, that might fix him. And he’s more than happy to return the favour whenever you’re down, infusing you with all of his warmth, in every way. You loved him into loving himself. And he’ll be damned if he doesn’t do the same for you. If some of that is showing you how much he loves every part of your body, showing you how proud of you he is while pinning you down and rolling against you, nice and slow? All the better. Kiss his freckles and let him stay buried inside you until he passes out, and you’ll both be feeling better by morning.
Smoker
He loves a good rough fuck, no question. But part of caring so damn much is having a soft side that needs attention - needs bandaging and healing as much as his body. He’s gone so long on his missions that if you can’t be beside him, he’s half a wreck by the time he gets back. It never used to be that way until he found you - someone strong enough to wait for him. He loves your strength, but he chose you for your softness too. Holding you tight, someplace safe and quiet, letting you trace his scars, kissing any of yours while losing yourselves in slow, deep thrusts. Having you tell him he’s perfect, that he’s your hero, that you believe in him. He needs it as much as you do. He’ll hold you open and come up with every compliment he’s ever thought about you in between making you come in his mouth and his honest tongue.
Law
On top of all his other stresses, he needs you at your best so you can stay by his side. Massages (that you tempt him into making more of), analytically breaking down your insecurities and self doubt while tangled in the sheets together. If you’re down, persuading him that just having his attention lifts you will buy you time with your busy captain. Reluctant as he is to accept being taken care of himself, you can always make him relent. Tracing his tattoos as you lie in bed, helping him relax. And then making him hard. Showing him stress relief that’s slow and lazy, turning everything he does to you back on him. He deserves sloppy kisses, a good massage, and to have his hair played with until he falls asleep. Teaching him to be honest with you and himself, finding the words while keeping him trapped beneath you, buried deep inside you.
Vivi
She needs relief - in every way - from the stress and confinement of her public position. She loves making you feel good in formal wear fit for a desert land, making you more bold in showing a little more skin than usual. And then taking it off in her chambers when you return. For all the privileges she has, the only way she really wants to be spoiled is by you in bed. As her happily ever after, she is more than happy to return the favour in any way you want. If you have scars or stretch marks, or she is feeling insecure about her own, she’ll paint them in gold. She’ll praise you for your every success, by her side or otherwise, and gladly make it up to you every time she vents. She longs to be in your arms and rock against your body until you’ve both come multiple times, lazy and comfortable, safe and loved.
Luffy
He just wants you to be happy, and he’ll do whatever it takes - treating you to silliness or tooth rotting sweetness, drowning your sorrows and worries in his sunshine. He’s never really understood insecurity, and he’ll do anything to help you overcome yours - especially if it involves your body. It’s your vessel for exploring life, made for adventuring, enjoying good food, and feeling good. Besides, he’s going to be King of the Pirates, he wouldn’t keep you around unless you were the best. And you are. And he’ll spend hours under the covers, between your legs, in hot springs, or anywhere else proving how perfect you are and making you share his joy in your existence. He’ll wrap you up tight and lazily fuck you for hours if you let him, laughing into your mouth and chest between groans of bliss.
Zoro
He may struggle to really understand your emotions, but he loves you and if you need him, he’ll be there. You can teach him how to love softly, hold you the ways you need. He’ll practically bully you into accepting yourself, body and mind. And while his efforts are often clumsy as hell or maybe too exclusively revolving around sex, it comes from his heart. As for taking care of him, reminding him to heal between workouts requires intervention every time, and often dragging him to bed and immediately stripping is the path of least resistance. He loves groping you, whether your body is carefully toned or not. Holding you tightly to his chest while he burns the last of his energy thrusting into you, lingering there while you catch your breath and listen to the ambient sounds of the ship - there’s nothing better.
Nami
She gets overwhelmed with her responsibility as navigator sometimes, not to mention the captain’s insane antics. So helping her unwind is crucial. Shopping trips are the first step, burning berri on lingerie and sexy clothes. Sometimes it’s for her, and she loves having you take them off of her. And when she buys something for you, she makes you wear in it front of a mirror, praising and seducing you until you give in and fuck her in front of it. Being held in your arms after long stressful days, stroking your hair when your own emotions are strained, luxurious baths with fine oils. She believes in you and trusts you with her life. She wouldn’t bother with someone not worth her time, her trust, her heart, and her body. And you’d better not forget it. Though she does make it difficult to, always dragging you to her bunk whenever she needs the comfort of wrapping her legs around you your touch.
Sanji
This man is so sweet and soft and scared he cant be good enough for you. Every time will be comfort sex to him. Especially when you can convince him he doesn’t need to perform, just love and feel and trust. He protects his hands so he can soothe and heal, and loves nothing more than to worship your body - just as much as he worships your heart and mind - so thoroughly you’ll never be satisfied with anyone else. All he wants is to get lost in erasing your insecurities and unhappiness, which helps undo his own. He is physically incapable of refusing your requests, especially in bed. Literally anything you do for him is a gift from heaven. He’ll praise you endlessly. He’ll praise anything you wear and thank you on his knees if you let him take it off of you. He’ll cry if you praise him, coming way too fast over and over, making sure you release just as many times no matter what.
Usopp
For all his bluster, he’s also scared of not being enough. He’ll tell you stories - some real and some not - while you cuddle. Sex is slow then frantic, experimenting then going back to familiar comfort. You’re his best friend, his confidant, his rock that grounds him to what’s real. He’s always supportive but honest with his compliments and praise, for once. He worships you - you’re just so damn cool, and hell, it’s him you’ve chosen. In bed especially, he can’t believe that you’re his - and it makes him crazy. Sometimes you both need a good massage after a hard training session or a fight, and he always wants to turn it into spending more time touching your body. He’ll do anything to make sure that for all his lies, you know his love and devotion aren’t among them.
Robin
Old shadows haunt her sometimes, so she understands if you have shadows of your own. She’s a perfect sounding board, always willing to listen or help patch up your injuries. Often you notice all the bruises she has from using her power. Sure she’s chosen to live, but she ought to care more for herself. She always drags you to bed and spends the rest of the night telling you how glad she is to be alive, and even more so, glad that you’re alive. From day to day, she loves slow sensual times with you. She reads to you in dead languages while lazily fucking. Always, her hands and tongues bloom until you can’t remember any name but hers. If you get insecure as the lover of the most beautiful woman in the world, she tells you that your appearance is perfect to her in the way that YOU are perfect to her. You, in all your fascinating, endearing, charming imperfections, are hers. And she, in all her renewed hope and passion, is yours.
Franky
Being a cyborg is pretty damn cool, but sometimes he gets to feeling disconnected from his humanity. He loves having you remind him. He’s so gentle and kind and big and loves lazy, senseless laughter with you. Almost as much as he loves lazy sex with you. He conditions you into feeling no shame with your body, using his own absurd confidence to build yours. He’ll hold you so gently as you rant and vent and cry to him, offering off brand advice and unconditional love. His whole body is customisable - including his dick, obviously. He loves slow nights of experimenting with you, having you try new attachments, new toys, pushing your imagination and desires. But he doesn’t mind simple either. He’s a guy - let him suck your nipples and grope your ass for a bit and he’s happy. And he’s excited to do anything at all that you need. There’s nothing he loves more than sharing his joy, after all.
Corazon
For someone with such deep seated anger, he is so kind and gentle, and attuned to your mind. He loves so deeply, and loves to make you happy, so whenever you’re in a bad place, he’s working overtime to help you out of it. For someone sworn to silence, suddenly he’s drowning you in copious compliments about your body and heart and mind. He’s proud of you, he finds you irresistible. Sometimes his efforts are as clumsy as he is, but there’s no doubt the heart behind it. His power is very convenient for when he wants to make you scream. But despite his size and the quiet fire deep down, he knows how to be gentle. It takes some practice, initially urging him that you can handle more. He loves holding you gently in his arms afterwards, his big hands touching anywhere and everywhere to ground himself and show you just how loved and needed and cherished you are.
Marco
The laid back doctor is eager to be kind and heal and protect despite all his loss - and he would love for someone to hold him and offer him the same healing. Let him rest and heal and build anew together. Maybe get a cottage in the valley and treat it like a honeymoon home. Let him get lost in your arms day and night to keep him grounded and remind him what he needs for fight for next - he’ll love you into making it his purpose. Whenever you get the tiniest scratch, his warm blue fire fixes you instantly - and if your wounds go deeper, he’ll help you heal those too. He refuses to let you think badly of your body, worshipping it until you believe him. His experience lets him learn you easily, every soft spot and even your hidden desires. He’ll hold your gaze until you can hardly stand it, playing with your hair until you fall asleep, never more at home than in each other’s arms.
Aokiji Kuzan
Once an unbeaten Admiral, now lost and unsure, he finds safe harbour with you. He finds himself growing out of a shell he never knew he was in - learning real trust, turning old lies to truth, letting his slow nature start to heal both him and you. Kiss the scars on his neck and tell him that a kinder world is worth fighting for - and suddenly you’re the center of it. If you’re broken too, he’ll drop everything to focus that calm intensity on you. Having the chance to lay about in your bed, indulging his laziness is the best therapy. Slow sex morning to night, walking around the house nearly naked. He loves putting his hand up your shirt, quickly leaning into his teasing side with you. He’ll worship you any shape or size, getting worked up over anything you wear. He loves breaking down every insecurity you have - physical or psychological. You are his new world, and he’s never been happier to have gotten lost so he could discover it.
Sabo
The eternal rebel would burn down the world to save you. You’re the only one who can harness his fire, and his anger and grief. If you let his fire burn to ash and hold him, kiss his scars, remind him of happy memories and make new ones - he’s yours forever. And he won’t stop telling you so for hours on end as he worships you in every position. He’ll tell you you’re enough - every single reason why he chose you. Even when his breath nearly eclipses his voice, he won’t stop until you’re both collapsed on the bed, cuddling each other to sleep. In the frantic, high stakes world of the Revolution, he’s torn between loving watching you fuck shit up and being overprotective. Brace for hours of endless spoiling after tough training or dangerous missions. You’re the best thing in his life and he’s not about to lose you for anything - including not being attentive enough.
Thank you for reading! I hope you liked this half as much as I do 😈🥹
Bully me into hurrying up on the next set for the comfort sex theme - the secondary set, with other favourites and rare characters!
❝ ᝰ.ᐟ note: requested part 3 with Buggy and Cora is finally here, sorry for the wait >.<' ❞
Sabo 𓏲 ࣪˖♡𓂃
Sabo was training alone, just some simple combat moves — shirtless and sweaty. Blonde hair sticking to his face as he moves across the field.
He was heaving at the end of it, wiping his chin, and just when his little break was over, he spots you from the corner of his eye.
Sabo instantly brightens up at the sight of you, grinning and hand going up to wave you over but before he knew it—you were already half way closer, and when he blinks—you’re plunging into his chest.
Arms slung over his shoulders, as you practically anchor him into an embrace.
He didn’t even have the chance to comprehend the gesture before he feels your lips on his neck.
Making him flinch, grabbing onto your shoulders and just stares at you dumbfounded.
“Woah now, what’s all this? You okay—”
You blink. Then you tiptoe up and kiss his cheek.
Sabo doesn’t move. He just shuts up as you grab his face, kiss the corner of his lip, chin, jaw, his brows and eyelids—everywhere and anywhere, you attack him with your kisses.
Lipstick marks all over his face.
And he just stares like an idiot when you finish.
Your face all shy and grinning, grabbing his hands into yours, bringing them to your chest.
“Sabo.”
“Y-yeah..?”
He just keeps staring, neck going red.
“Don’t you want to kiss me back?”
Sabo blinks. Lips parting. “I—”
What is going? Did someone take over your body? And why are you extra pretty today? Something isn’t right here, but that spare second of assessment, that delay in an answer makes you frown. Letting go of his hands, moving away.
“Too late. I’m out. Have fun training alone, buddy—”
He catches your wrist, and hauls you right back in.
Hands going on the small of your back, bringing you closer to him.
Your legs all intertwined, your chests pressed into one another as he makes you look at him.
He leans in, just enough to catch the warmth of his breath on your face, his forehead grazing yours. And your cheeks burn at the sight of him.
He’s grinning sly and mean—and when Sabo gets like that—you can’t help but go completely dumb in the head.
“Want me to kiss you? Yeah? If you want it so badly then tell me why you’re all clingy today.” His lips inches near yours, but they never land—and you feel how he squeezes you up into him by the ass.
You tiptoe in for the kiss but Sabo keeps moving away, not fully, but just enough to tease.
“Sabo—”
“Tell me.”
And you hitch your breath when you feel his crotch.
What a mean jerk.
You pout. “Cause’ I missed you, that’s all.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Really.”
And he smiles, all boyish and teasing.
“I missed’ you too.” And he’ll show you that, by pressing his mouth onto yours, lips mushing into one another and you smile into it.
He has one hand on your back, the other in your hair. Tilting you deeper into kiss.
Congrats. You’re not leaving the training grounds any time soon.
Donquixote Rosinante "Corazon" 𓏲 ࣪˖♡𓂃
Corazon was sizzling some veggies by the stove. Pink apron tied around his waist as he fixes today’s dinner for both of you.
And he hears the kitchen door creak open.
“Soon love, I’ll just sauté these and then dinner will be—”
You wrap your arms around his waist, lean your face against his spine.
And he halts.
Breath caught in his ribs as he watches the vegetables turn toast.
“Er…” Corazon looks over his shoulder, where he’ll find you rubbing your cheek against his back. Small and little compared to him.
“Is everythin’ okay? Did something happen—”
You press your face harder against him and he turns rigid. Back arching.
He turns the stove off.
Slowly, awkwardly, he goes to face you and you just leech right back onto him. Face buried into his abs, taking in the scent of him.
You look up, face all mushed into him and he turns bright pink at the sight of your face.
Damn. Okay. You’re pretty, too pretty.
It’s turning him stupid.
“Cora…” You mumble out, fisting his shirt.
“Y-yeah? What is it gorgeous?”
“Why aren’t you touching me?”
And he blinks. He didn’t even notice it but his hands are hovering above your hips.
Too flustered to know where to place them.
“Y-you want me too—?”
You frown. And he presses his lips, swallowing.
What a stupid question.
Of course you want him to touch you.
Corazon places his large hands on your hips, and you press yourself closer to him.
His thigh going inbetween yours and you hear him hold in a whine when you kiss chest, lean your cheek against his ribs.
“Is it okay if we eat later? I want to feel you just a bit longer.”
At that, his shoulders slumps.
Chuckling just a little, before easing into you.
“Yes. Anything you want, my gorgeous, gorgeous girl.”
Buggy the Clown 𓏲 ࣪˖♡𓂃
The so called Genius Jester is slumped over his sofa, circling his wine goblet as he grumbles, “Stupid-crocodile-smug-looking-bastard” (or something to that affect) and that’s how you’ll find him.
He doesn’t shift his head, just from your footsteps alone he knows it’s his gorgeous, majestic, piece of honeycakes walking in.
And he thinks you’re here to scold him too, his chin sinking.
“If you’re here to to call me dumb and lazy and annoying as well, then I—”
Your steps are fast, hard—plunging against the floor boards as you cast yourself over his shoulders. Face pressed into his spine and Buggy, freezes.
You snuggle your face in between his shoulder blades.
Rubbing. Pressing.
Taking in his scent… he smells like cake. And sprinkles. And just a little bit of canon fodder.
You want more of it, more of him.
And Buggy blinks. Twice. Before glancing to you.
“Er… did I…. uh… Is this a test?… Are you mad—”
“Buggy.” You hum, your voice hot against his spine, and just when he’s about to answer, do you kiss his back. Trailing kisses all over him and you feel a shiver running down his skin before you make it to the nape of his neck.
Your breath warm, turning him flushed. “I missed you Bug’, I missed you so much.”
He flinches. Breath caught.
Is this a seduction tactic? Or a trap? Whatever it is, it’s making him go stupidly red, face steaming even.
You lean in from behind, your lips skimming over his earlobe.
“Do you miss me, Buggy?”
“I…Uh…. I— yeah! I mean, of course I do!” He stammers out, shifting his head to you, his red nose grazing yours, meeting your smile. And he combusts.
Melting like an ice cone in desert heat.
“B-but where is this coming from, gem? You’re suddenly all over me—WHICH I LOVE—but erm… y’know.”
You only hum in response, manoeuvring into the sofa, and in between his legs. Nestling yourself right above his lap, face into his neck.
“I just want to be near you, just this once, please?”
His throat is flaring fire against your cheek, you even hear his heart drum from underneath.
And you resist not teasing him for it.
Instead you grab onto his chest, fisting his clothes and relax into his warmth.
And slowly, carefully, his hands makes it to your back, pressing you closer to him.
Placing his chin above your head.
“Sure….I wouldn’t mind if you missed me more often gem.” He mumbles, and you kiss his neck. Just a little.
Yeah, this is going to be a loooong night for both of you.
Eustass "Captain" Kid 𓏲 ࣪˖♡𓂃
Kid was polishing up some gear — adjusting, fixing, and screwdriver in hand.
That’s how you will find him, cross legged and posture bent.
He doesn’t even turn to face you when he hears you trudge inside.
“Tch, better not be here to nag about snacks, cause I ain’t budgin’ till I got this fixed—” he freezes, screwdriver screeching against metal when he feels your chest slumped over his enormous back. He’s rigid beneath you. Hard. Stiff. As if unable to breathe.
And you lean your cheek against his shoulder blade, hands travelling up his chest—feeling him, touching and caressing him. His warmth radiating into your chest, and you cling onto him harder.
“Oi.”
You nestle your face into his back.
“Oi.”
You rub your cheek against him.
“Oi…”
You place a kiss on the back of his biceps and he flinches, snapping his gaze onto you.
Face burning, cheeks all pink and flustered and you try not to laugh.
“What’s gotten into ya!?” He practically yells out, “You think you’re going to get snacks by actin’ like a little kitten; you’re wrong—”
You lean in, and shut him up with a kiss on the cheek.
And that’s what you do.
You kiss, kiss, kiss and kiss him all over the face until you’ve stunned the vocab out of him.
Your hands are still pressed on his pecs, breasts still pushed against his spine and he goes completely steam red.
“Baby,” you hum and your voice is low, almost pleading, and it makes him tense. Warmth forming up his chest. “I missed you. I missed you so much today.” You bury your cheek against his sturdy shoulder, eyes closing. “I want to be near you, is that okay?” You look up, “Or are you too busy?”
And your angry oversized tomato just stares, teeth gritted and cheeks all flushed. His ears too.
Kid clicks his tongue, “Whatever. Do as you please.”
He says that, but his posture eases, shoulders slumps and his heart beating a little bit too fast for his liking.
He won’t admit it, but he wouldn’t mind it if you missed him a little bit more often.
Aokiji Kuzan 𓏲 ࣪˖♡𓂃
Kuzan was napping.
Snoring on the sofa to be exact.
It was dead in the night when you tiptoed in. Blanket wrapped around you like a warm fuzzy burrito, in search for cuddles.
“Kuzan?”
No response. Just a snore. And you inch near.
He has a sleep mask on, and his hands are folded over his chest. Chest going up… then down.
You press your lips, manoeuvring above him. Placing your ear where his heart sits, and when you sink your weight into him, only then do you hear the snoot bubble pop.
Hand going to his sleep mask, making a small gap with his thumb to take a peek and when he sees you? He blinks himself awake.
“Oh?” Kuzan tries to sit himself up but when you lock your thigh around his waist, tight, firm—does he freeze. “This is a first.”
you hum. “Go back to sleep.” And you rub your face into his chest. “I like this spot.”
A sweat droplets makes it to his cheek, a corner of his lip turning up. His large hand placing it above your hair. Slow, faint, as if careful to not provoke your change of mind.
“Everythin’ alright? Nothing’s buggin you?”
You shake your head, looking up to him.
Face all shy and mischievous, making him tense.
And when you lean in, crawling up his abdomen, the grinding of each others bodies forces him still, hands hovering above your ribs as you come closer. Placing a kiss on his cheek.
“Just for tonight, Kuzan’, just for tonight—so enjoy it.” There is a giggle in your tone, a tease almost, and you sink back down. Head nested in the crook of his neck and Kuzan lets out a scoff.
Easing back into the sofa, larger hands landing on your back.
Bringing you close.
“Since you insist then,” he cups your head. His finger drawing slow, faint caresses over your back. Kissing the top of your head. “don’t mind me.”
You two lay like that till morning comes, calm, safe — lousing. And maybe, just maybe, when his most lonesome hours hits—he’ll think of this moment, of you, and the warmth of your chest.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈ ❝a perverted list of petnames and drabbles of dirty talk our One Piece Men would use,,,,❞
˚₊‧꒰ა Tags ໒꒱ ‧₊˚: NSFW!!! MDNI! petnames, vaginal fingering, degradation and praise, sub/dom, vaginal penetration, dirty talk, size difference, smut drabbles; afab!reader. There will be more specific tags beneath each One Piece Men, I can't include them all here. Please note that I envision the reader shorter than our men.
₊˚ʚ Characters/status: Rob Lucci, Sir Crocodile, Trafalgar D. Water Law, Donquixote Doflamingo, Roronoa Zoro (established relationship ˖ ໒꒱)
❝ ᝰ.ᐟ note: if you can’t handle petnames, even as something simple like “baby” this post is not for you; I will be using corny ones, nasty and degrading nicknames shamelessly. so be warned!❞
⁃ my dear broody, indifferent leopard. He’s intense. Outside and within the bedroom. He doesn’t do flings, situationships or anything other but “his”.
⁃ His pet names have hints of all his beloving traits. Possessive, controlled, measured and extremely professional. He wouldn’t throw out the words sweetheart or darling or doll out casually! That wouldn’t be professional at all,,,
⁃ ,,,But if he marked you? Made you his by scent alone?
⁃ He’ll tie a cute pretty ribbon around your neck, white and satin, and you’ll hitch your breath when he secures it. And it’ll be tight with purpose. So to leave a trace, a dent, a small faint mark to let others know, he was there first.
⁃ By then, Lucci would lean in slow and measured, your jaw grabbed, voice hot and heavy as his breath skims over your earlobe, whispering; “Mine.” and then nibble, latch his mouth on your neck.
⁃ Sucking, kissing, biting and licking. And if you try to push him for being too flustered, he’ll bury himself deeper, growing annoyed with your squirming; you both know its useless.
⁃ and if you insist he calls you by a pet name, it’ll always be done with the undertone of possession, control and claim.
⁃ “My wife” “my girl” “my pet” it’s always “my” with him. As if the hickeys on your neck or the matching dress to his suit isn’t enough of an indicator of who you belong to.
⁃ “But what about in bed Mlem!?” Look here pretty, Rob Lucci, for the man he is — is extremely territorial. Maybe it’s the animal in him, but when he fucks he does it to scent, to rut, and to leave a mark of himself in there. It’s instinct — animal.
⁃ Eye contact during it. 100%.
Not because its endearing: but it’s about domination. That he has control, power and isn’t willing to let you go from his sight. It’s all about making you feel small, vulnerable and terribly weak under in him — and it’s working. His gaze is focused, dark and narrowed but as you grow more hot; breath gone and huffing? Turning flushed and sensitive? Something soft settles in his gaze. It’s faint, almost unnoticeable but it’s there (as he thrusts into your harder)
⁃ he likes how small you look under him.
a sense of vulnerability perhaps; how you allow a killer like him to grab, bite and pull you despite knowing his truer nature. That unspoken trust? It does something to him, something warm, stuttering; a human feeling. It’s unbecoming and he can’t get enough of it, can't get enough of you.
- Rob Lucci is a biter. He bites. Neck, nipples, thighs and all over your chest, he’ll bite and nibble and kiss as he fucks you through it. And if you’re just a little bit too loud, he grips your throat, or shove a finger down your mouth. “Shhh,” his voice slathers across your neck, hot and heavy, as he thursts into you. Hands gripping your wirsts hard enough to bruise. “so tight—”
⁃ He’ll degrade you, just enough to make you teary, call you pathetic, mock your tears, and have you beg for more.
⁃ You’re wet from just a bit of kissing and core rubbing over his thigh? “Tch, pathetic.”
⁃ You moan just a little bit too loud? Back arching a little too high? “How needy.”
⁃ You tug at him, pleading with him to stop teasing? All he offers is: “Beg.”
⁃ And when he fingers you — his fingers long and precise, hitting each spot as you make a mess on his thigh? “Look at you, all stupid from just my fingers,,, it’s almost humiliating.” And he says it with a small, faint chuckle.
⁃ And if you want more? You’ll have to beg with him, tug and plead with him as he keeps circling your clit, kissing and nibbling your neck. Hands clutching onto his long, dark hair to ground yourself.
⁃ Truly, Rob has his ways of making you feel impossibly needy.
⁃ and then, for taking it without a fuss or a cry—he’ll offer smaller praises, the pace of his thrusts slowing down, turning heavy, hard and entirely controlled.
⁃ And as he leans in with a faint curve of a smirk on his lips. His voice laced with a small dark undertone of condescension; “good pet” or maybe when he feels gentle, his voice drops lower and the words that leave his mouth sounds more like a secret than praise; “you’re too good for me,,, too good,” or his favourite “you’re mine. Only mine.”
Summary: His dirty talk is possessive, curt. He let’s you know how stupid you look, how small and cute you sound beneath him — and he talks to you like you’re prey, something that’s within his mercy, and his alone.
It’s not meant to be teasing or degrading; it’s meant to be dominating. Possessive. You’re his, and he’ll let you know about it for each thrust and fuck.
Sir Crocodile 𓏲 ࣪˖♡𓂃
- sub/dom dynamic, pseudo incest, Daddy kink, size kink,,,, and corruption kink if you squint your eyes. shy- and cute!reader
- outside the bedroom the petnames drip with class, finery and everything rich in this world; Sir Crocodile is scum but scum made of gold, gems and the finest burgundy silks. The same goes with his petnames.
- “Darling” “My lady” “My wife” or when he feels especially fancy, “My pearl”. It all drips with luxury, wealth and better manners made of opulence. You’re not just his girl; you’re his lady, and she doesn’t come cheap.
- That’s how he would refer to you in front of others but behind closed doors? The fine edge of expenses doesn’t drop but it grows soft, domestic. Depending on your personality; shy, younger, smaller? I can see him refer to you as “doll” or even something casual like “bunny”. It rolls of his tongue like rough gravel with just a touch of possession as he gropes your waist.
- “We want the dirty talk mlemiie!” Ok fine, NSFW related; Crocodile is a man of luxuries, don’t expect him to just fuck you through it because you’re needy. You’ll have to earn your pleasure. The same goes for his dirty talk.
- you want him to be more gentle with his tone? Kinder? Softer? You have to deserve it, after all you’re the one who got needy, desperate and utterly wet for him — and when you start crying at his words, all teary eyes and begging; he’ll crease his brows at you, chuckle a little to himself when you start to pathetically rub his hand against your panties. You’re so desperate it’s laughable.
- He’s mean. Not in a “bohoo, poor you!” but in a “you want me to stop? No? Then behave.” And he says this whilst relentlessly teasing you, fingers skimming over your lace, one finger plunging into you, sliding over your folds as he watches you with that smug, proud grin of his. Cigar stuck to his handsome face.
- Look… in bed… the pet names are to showcase you’re his little babydoll, okay? He likes you when you’re beneath him; small, vulnerable and ready to be ruined. It’s all about who is in power here and between you two? It’s him. It’s always him.
- If you’re into it, he refers to himself as “daddy”, taaaaalk to the wall.
- And the nicknames comes off mostly for praise unless of course,,,
“you’re my good girl aren’t you?” He says, hook around your waist to dig you deeper onto his cock.
And if when you’re on your knees? Sucking him off? “You can take it, you’re daddy’s little girl after all—” he hums, hand gripping your hair, pushing you deeper and deeper. And he won’t pity you for gagging.
“Look at you, you’ll sit still and be good f’me, won’t you?” His breath hot on your ear as his hand makes it up your thigh, skimming just under your skirt—his lips grazing your jaw when he feels you’re all soaked through. “Wet? Already? From a bit of kissing? Maybe you’re dirtier than I thought, maybe you’re not my good girl anymore, maybe you're just a slut,” he says that, withdrawing and you panic, clinging onto him, begging and pleading not to stop and he loves seeing how pathetic you can get.
- He’s rough, firm—he grips you during it. Hard enough to leave bruises, dents and marks of his choking. At first, especially if you’re inexperienced, he’ll start off gentle, not soft, not faint but slow, careful not to break you — but as the night progresses, when your walls clench and flutter onto his cock, practically swallowing him whole, he can’t hold onto his restrain. He’ll fuck you hard, rough, the little moans you give off as he breaks you in half only fuels his lust for you.
- At that point, Sir Crocodile is far from being in control, all he wants is to feel you—wet, squelching and hot.
Summary: In public? On everyday occasion? The petnames are classy, adoring, with just a tinge of something domestic. But behind closed doors? He’s sweeter; gentler. You’re his doll, his cuter, smaller wife and his treasure alone to spoil. And further into your little home, when it’s just you, him, sweat and sex? Rough but not mean enough to make you cry unless you beg for it—sweet but not enough to not put you in your place; which is beneath him, legs clenched around his torso as he takes you for himself.
Trafalgar D. Water Law 𓏲 ࣪˖♡𓂃
- degradation kink, dacryphilia, sexual overstimulation, breath play
- Look, this skinny emo plans, asserts, and calculates. And yes, he is grumpy but have you seen the amount of time this man gets flustered? He doesn’t do intimacy well, not as well as he would like to. In other words: Trafalgar D. Water Law, Surgeon of Death and youngest Warlord of the Sea — gets shy.
Like, really shy.
He’s a dork.
A loser.
A geek.
And I freaking love it.
- Mostly he’ll call you by your name but when it’s just the two of you? Or when you’re crying or in pain? That controlled demeanour of his turns soft, brows easing as he comes close to you; “Baby” “Love” or even as something cheesy as “Pretty girl”.
- Law is surprisingly soft with his wording, tone low and gentle, a tone reserved for you and you alone. But not in public, not ever, he has a reputation to uphold, alright?
- He’s a tease. He likes teasing you, grinning all sly and mocking when your hand is latched over his collar, pouting and tiptoeing, trying to earn a kiss — and he’ll just watch in pure, unfiltered amusement at your try reaching for a kiss. and when he finally leans in, head tilting, ready to kiss you—he’ll swipe out of reach once more. And he loves that you get all flustered and sulky over it, tugging and pulling at him.
- But in bed? During sexy time? That cute, dorky, shy demeanour vanishes the further the night goes on.
At first, he’d be hesitant; his tatted hand landing above yours is faint, eyes not meeting when you inch closer, his ears slightly red.
- “You sure about this babe?… I mean, I want to, I just…” he rubs his neck and you decide to tease him. “Just what, Law? You shy?” You say the last part with a hint of a giggle and he’ll look to you then, that cute, dorky loser expression he wore? Gone. Something sharper settles in his gaze, something close like provocation. The rest of the night? Don't expect him to be shy about it anymore because the next minute, you’re pushed down your back, his hands bracing between your head and you’ll stare dumbly into his face. A switch has been flipped. The dork you were teasing? Gone.
- “Shy? You wanna see how shy I get?” His hands travel beneath your skirt, fingers skimming over your lace, his lips going beneath your jaw—”What’s the matter? Don’t wanna talk back no more’?” And whenever you’re ready to retort, he’ll plunge a finger into your folds, thumb circling your clit, pushing, pulling and fingering you till you’re nothing but a wet, moaning mess. That’s the kind of man he is in bed; his fingers skilled, precise and controlled—each curl inside your walls are done to make you flinch, arch and clutch onto him.
- Degrading nicknames. Definitely.
- He likes it when he gets to mock at the state you’re in—”Slut” “whore” and even associate you as “cock dumb”, and which you are. You are dumb for him, especially when he fingers you, pull your clit, and bite your neck as you cum for the third time—tears streaming down your face when he curls his fingers deeper into you, pulling, plunging and squeezing your clit. Law is mean when he fingers, and you love it enough to become a sobbing, whining mess.
- “hah, look at you, fuckin’ slut, takin’ my cock—fuck—just like that you stupid whore” he says that, whilst pushing you into a mating press, legs curled and aching as he stretches you deeper—his hands on your wrists, gripping you hard enough to leave them bruised and marked. And you’ll whine as he moves harder, rougher, not once showing mercy because you’re a whiny mess beneath him.
- And if you tug at him, still begging for more? He’d chuckle, the one that has a hint of cynical mockery in it—”Oh yeah?” His hand glides up from your chest to your chin, tilting it up, thumb on your lower lip. Nudging, rubbing. “Open” and you can’t help but to obey, tongue lolling out, eyes teary as he spits in your mouth and you swallow on instinct. “Hah, what a whore.” and he’ll fuck you harder for it, pushing you deeper into your mating press and rutting into like you’re nothing but a whiny, dirty cum rag.
- Law indulges in breath play. (Source? Me) You’ll wear a choker, one that he meticulously tighten and releases, observing your reactions, asserting when to punish and reward you as he grips your hips hard enough to bruise, forcing you to swallow more of his length, making you choke on your spit; breath hitching, chest filling with air before forces another thrust, releasing the choker just enough to let you sob a moan. Tears streaming down your face for how mean he is during it—turning you into a blabbering, begging mess of cum and sweat.
- For praise; it’s a mix of both degradation and sweetness.
“Who’s the prettiest slut, huh?” He says, bending you over his desk, hand on your throat as he raw dogs you into your cunt, tight and wet for him. Walls squelching around his cock. You won’t be able to answer, as he chokes you, his tatted hand gripping you hard enough to make you drool out spit. “You is it? Yeah—shit—you’re the only whore f’me”
- the tone he carries is possessive, cynical and a dark underlying infatuation he can’t get rid of no matter how much he pounds into you, your pussy swallowing and sucking his length—not once wishing for him to stop.
Summary: Law is a soft lover who hides behind grumpy scowls and nonchalance but underneath it? He holds a special tenderness for you, even if he’s mean in bed—you’re his baby, his love, his most prettiest girl. And if you actually start sobbing, crying and tell him how he’s legit hurting your feelings during sex? He’ll stop mid thrust, eyes widening and brows going up as he lifts you up into his chest. Voice low, dark as he kisses the side of your hair. “shhh, I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry… don’t cry.”
That’s just the kind of softness he has for you, and you alone.
Donquixote Doflamingo 𓏲 ࣪˖♡𓂃
- bondage, degradation and size kink, power difference and toxic relationship dynamics
- My manipulative, blonde birdie. Everything about Doflamingo screams arrogance, wealth and pride — he’s flashy, but not gaudy. He’s got taste, even if it is over the top flamboyant, enough to out-sparkle a gyaru’s own decoden collection, but despite this, there is a hint of elegance. Classic, rich and everything unfair in this world.
- His petnames for his lover would be “Sweetheart” in either the most condescending, patronising tone or a gentle softness so unbecoming of him it makes you flinch.
- He’d wave you over, pat a hand on his lap, let you rest your head on his chest as he tells you about this beautiful fine satin that you would love for your room’s bedsheets, but unfortunately they were stained with blood so he couldn’t fix it for you. And he’d say all of that in the most kind, slow tone he could ever recreate—caressing your hair, stroking your cheek, soft motions lulling you to sleep.
- Doflamingo’s petnames ranges from there. “Dove” “darling” and when he feels especially casual, “baby” on a few occasion, and the way it leaves his mouth, it makes your ear twitch, feet already padding his way. When he calls for you, it puts you into a trance; pulling you towards him like strings around your neck begging for your name to leave his mouth again and again and again.
- His attention is a drug, and his affection becomes a need; a dark delving desire that cannot be anything but the most sweetest taste of codependency and worship.
- He’s possessive. And so is his love. He doesn’t merely want you, but own you.
- Unlike Lucci, there is a darker twist in his desire for his lover, one that strips you off choice and autonomy—you’re his. Everything about you is his — your name, your smile, even your blood running beneath your veins is tied to that man and he’ll make sure you know it. Brand you in his clothing, his jewellery, his money, wealth and power—and if he gets lovesick enough, he might even mark you with an innocent string across your wrist carved with his name. He’ll call it a bracelet, a gift, but you see it for what it truly is: cuffs. So you won’t go, leave and betray.
- each petname is done to show you and everyone else that you’re his—”my darling” “my sweetheart” and “my pretty girl”; each and everything that rolls of his tongue is ‘his, his, his’.
- In bed? Doflamingo is a freak. He mocks, he humiliates, he dumbs you down into something small, stupid, weak and pretty — one that he adores to push and pull at. Strings fastening across your joints as he calls you all the dirty things you can imagine.
- “puppet” “pet” “doll”; petnames to accentuate your place in his world: strung and made by him. “slut” “whore” “slave”, all three to emphasize your use in his bed—to please, bend and be fucked with—it’s not about mere domination but ownership; you’re his and he gets to use you however he wish.
- The nicknames grows more and more cruel as the night goes on—”cumrag” “dirty cumsock” “sextoy” it all drips with degradation, dominance and mockery, and maybe when he feels gentle, he’ll lean down your ear, fingers trailing your jaw as you take a third of his finger into your wet little pussy, “That’s right, be louder with your cute moans, let them know who you belong to baby,” his voice hot against your ear, neck arching as he rewards you with a circle on your clit.
- Whether you two do it in private, in the pool or in the back alley where anyone can walk in—the strings are at play. Squeezing your wrist together so tight you think they’ll saw your hands off, or wrapped across your thigh to spread your legs at an obscene angle—it does not matter. Choking or holding you, they’re present. Always.
- “Hah? What’s the matter little pet? Can’t take no more?” He’d laugh at that, yanking your hair as he forces you swallow more of him—lips swollen, tears running down your cheek and he’ll do nothing but push you hard enough to make you gag. “You’re the one who begged to be my little toy, so get to work.”
- And when you’re curled into a mating press, legs anchored into the air with strings strung across your ankles; calf aching, thighs burning as he digs himself deeper into you, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise—he’ll mock at the state he has you in. “Doffy! Doffy! Doffy! Is that all you can say now?” He’ll grin, forcing a finger down your mouth and on instinct you’ll suck, lick, the taste of salt sticking to your tongue as you swirl around his finger for more—giving him no choice but to push even deeper. “Hah, you dirty cumrag.”
- He’ll humiliate you, make you use your words.
You’re needy, tugging his sleeve for attention but all he gives you is one innocent tilt of his head, grin playing on his lips. “Hmm? You want me to do what?” He says, leaning down knowing exactly what you want but plays oblivious just to see you flustered. “Huh? You want this?” His hand trails beneath your waist band, slithering along your lace, one finger going over your panties, “Go on then, tell me what to do.”
The way your cheeks burn, how you chew your lower lip in frustration as you try and force him to just finger you — It’s humiliating, adorable, and he fucking loves it.
Summary: Doffy is meanie, but he won’t break you, no. You’re his pet, his girl, and favourite person in all one package; he’ll love you in the most wicked and twisted way there is. Affection draped in possession, attention marked with control, and nicknames spewed out to keep you tethering for more and more. Never once looking out your birdcage when your eyes are solely set on him. And he’ll ensure that with strings and chains alone.
Roronoa Zoro 𓏲 ࣪˖♡𓂃
- brat/dom dynamic, praise
- Lazy, sleepy but disciplined and righteous. This man doesn’t play regarding you. You’re his girl.
- Zoro isn’t the type of guy to show you off but he won’t mind it if you cling onto his arm in public for the world to see, or turn him into your personal body guard. No. He’ll protect, shield and nudge you to the side—yes he will grumble, yes he will scowl but he wouldn’t let you out of his sight for a second. Not because you aren’t capable, but because he’s protective, observant and always ready to get you out of harms way. Lousy, but loyal. Fiercely so.
- With that established, petnames under his guise are casual, aloof. “Babe” “woman” or when he grumbles under his breath after you nag to him about how he forgot your snacks; “must you be so damn bossy, lady.” and then he’ll go and get your snacks without further complaint.
- He says it with a tone like it’s a drag, a pain in his butt and yet, there will be a hand on your waist, a shoulder to always lean on and eyes always glazing over your shape. Low, watching and yearning.
- “Mlem, where is the NSFW???” Look here pretty, petnames in bed remain rather civil — the “babe” elevates to “baby”, and it's either in the most lousy tone or as if to mock you. He’d call you "pretty", maybe “beautiful” when he feels especially soft but other than that; he's aloof.
- sure, Zoro’s lazy even in bed but if you’re a brat? The kind that talks back? tease with petty comments and attitude testing his every turn? He's a brat tamer. Talk to the wall. Zoro is a prideful man but he likes a good fight, and when you’re being all difficult and bratty? It turns him on like no other, knowing he can get you screaming his name in private quarters, saying the most nastiest things in your ear, voice low and husky as he talks you through it.
- and if that attitude is still up; best know he’s going to bite back, rough, mocking; the softer petnames become taunting, mean. “Hah? What’s the matter baby? You were talkin’ a bunch of shit just a second ago, what happened?” Zoro says with a cocky smile on his face, knowing damn well you can’t talk back with your lips around his dick, his tip hitting the roof of your walls as he forces you further down by the back of your head.
- Zoro is a tease. He edges, taunts and mocks at the state you’re in whilst relentlessly thrusting into you, and every time you’re about to reach your high—he slows, withdraws and forces you into a lewder position against the wall. “I know baby, I know—you can take it—fuck, yeah,” Zoro’s voice vibrates across your neck, hot and flaring as he fucks you through it, hands on your thighs to press you deeper onto his cock. “spread your legs for me, you can do that can’t you, pretty girl?” your walls squeezes at that nickname, and you can feel his lips curving into a smile at that reaction. His voice is husky, a tone of condescension hidden beneath the breaths as he thrust into you. “You like that? You like being called pretty?”
- Zoro manhandles; toss you across the bed, slam you against the wall, arch your limbs in such way it makes you strain and all he’ll offer as comfort is a kiss below your neck—”shhh, I’ll help your stretchin’ routine later, ‘kay baby?” he says, gripping you harder, rougher, not once seeming to let you go.
- His strength is a force; no matter how much you squirm against him he'll keep you pinned down; hand pushing down your head against the sheets, or an arm locked around your neck as he pounds into you from behind. And he loves, how utterly useless, small and vulnerable you are against his grip.
Summary: Zoro is the type of boyfriend that rolls with anything you roll with. You openly tell him you like being called “angel”? Next morning it’ll rolls off his tongue as if he’s called you it a a thousand times already; natural and casual. And in bed, there is no difference. You want to be called degrading nicknames? He’ll comply, and maybe it’ll leave his mouth a little bit too good
Hi, how are you? 👋 I saw that you write for Thunderbolts and I was wondering if you could write some stories for Bob, please. Reader is a lonely heroine who always works alone because of her powers, where she can control the elements (earth, fire, water, and air). But it's not these powers that attract unwanted attention and push everyone away, but rather her angel wings, which attract greedy and self-serving people. But she knows that the Thunderbolts aren't like that, much less Bob. That's what attracts her to him—not only her beauty but also her sweetness and shy nature. She loves him very much, but they're still at that level of friendship where neither of them has confessed yet, haha. Regarding her personality, I thought she'd be tough when she needs to be, but sweet to those she wants to protect. But I still like the setting of DomBob and SubReader.
Thank you! And take care.
I'm love 🇧🇷
Angel - Bob Reynolds x fem!reader
Summary: Bob finds an angel… And he decides to protect her. From everything.
Warnings: angst with fluff. The reader is a mutant with wings and the ability to control the elements; the text implies that she suffered torture, but nothing explicit. People go crazy for anything that seems miraculous… Bob is adorable. There will possibly be a part 2.
A/N: PART 2!
The sky above Avengers Tower had a peculiar color that afternoon. It wasn't the usual New York blue, nor the polluted gray that often settled over the city. It was a deep, almost liquid blue, as if someone had spilled paint on the firmament and it was still dripping.
Bob observed this blue from a perspective that few humans would experience. He floated. Something he had learned to master a few weeks ago, and he quickly took a liking to it. There, one hundred and forty meters high, sitting in the air as if it were a sofa, he had peace.
"Shhhh… " he closed his eyes and felt the cold wind ruffling his hair in the air.
This was his routine. Bob discovered that floating was the only thing that calmed the storm inside his head. The Void, that dark and hungry thing that lived in the corners of his mind, seemed to sleep when he was high up.
He opened one eye. And then the other.
And there, against the setting sun that painted the horizon a burnt orange, he saw something that wasn't a bird, nor a plane, and definitely wasn't Sam flying around.
It was a woman.
With wings.
Not mechanical wings. No. They were real wings. Large, immense, white as cotton snow, with tips that shone with a golden hue when the light hit them. They moved with a grace that defied logic; Each gentle beat produced a sound reminiscent of pages in an old book being turned, or perhaps the rustling of sheets on a clothesline in the wind.
She flew in lazy circles around a white cloud. Her hands moved, and the cloud seemed to respond to her movements, becoming an even fluffier figure, shaped like a rabbit.
He blinked. Twice. Three times.
"Am I hallucinating…?"
As if she had heard his voice (which was unlikely, given the distance), the winged woman turned her head toward him.
For a second, their eyes met. Bob could see, despite being far away, her eyes. Her beautiful eyes. A vivid color, unique in its form.
Then, fear gripped her face.
It wasn't the fear of an imminent threat. It was something more primal. More like the look of a deer caught in headlights, or the reaction of a wildcat upon realizing it has been seen. Her wings spread in a swift, powerful motion, and she shot eastward with such speed that Bob's hair flew back.
"Wait!" Bob shouted, but it was too late. In three wingbeats, she had vanished into the clouds, leaving her trail across the sky. "Was it an angel?"
The Tower was in its usual state of controlled chaos when Bob returned. Yelena was in the kitchen, preparing something that smelled burnt and raw, while wearing headphones and singing an off-key Russian pop song. John should have been at the gym. Ava was on the sofa, with noise-canceling headphones and the phone in her hands. Bucky was on the sofa near Ava, but was quietly reading a hardcover book. And Alexei should have been in another marketing meeting.
Bob entered through the balcony, where he had first exited.
"I saw an angel," he announced.
Silence.
Yelena took out an earphone.
"What?"
"An angel," Bob repeated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "White wings, moving the clouds… She… She ran away when she saw me."
“Bob, did you take your medicine?” Bucky asked without taking his eyes off the book. Ava didn’t even hear what was happening.
“Yes! I took it this morning,” he huffed. “But that doesn’t matter! I saw an angel!”
“Wasn’t it Sam?” the older man asked, finally putting the book down.
“It was an angel,” Bob insisted. Yelena rolled her eyes.
“Angels don’t exist,” Yelena declared, crossing her arms. Her expression was that of a woman who had seen too much of life to believe in fairy tales. “Gods, monsters, aliens, witches… I’ve seen all that. But angels? That’s church book stuff, Bob. Next step is you telling me you saw Santa Claus flying in his sleigh.”
“It was a woman with wings,” Bob repeated patiently. “And I’ll prove it.”
“Bob, do you want me to call Dr. Ana?” Bucky asked. Dr. Ana was the psychologist who was treating Bob.
Bob didn't answer, he just went to his own room.
The image of that frightened face, those beautiful eyes widening before the escape, was etched in his mind.
The following weeks were an exercise in persistence that John described as "worrying obsession" and Yelena classified as "Bob needs more medication."
Bob flew every night and day.
He traversed the Manhattan skies in ever-widening patterns, soaring to the tops of the tallest buildings, circling parks and reservoirs, observing every suspicious cloud. And when he wasn't flying, he was at the Tower's computer, typing absurd combinations into search engines.
"Angel New York sighting" — results: conspiracy theories and grainy photos of pigeons.
"Woman with wings Manhattan" — results: Comic Con cosplayers and an amateur video of a fantasy-themed nightclub.
"Cloud Shapes" — Results: Meteorological Coincidences and Cloud Patterns and How to Identify Upcoming Storms.
But then, on a third night of fruitless searches, Bob found something.
It was an obscure forum, one of those that live in the darkest corners of the internet, where people discussed sightings of unexplained phenomena. The thread was called "The Angel of Hell's Kitchen" and had over three thousand replies.
Bob clicked, and his heart raced.
There were photos. Dozens of them. Some blurry, taken from bad angles with shaky cell phones. Others surprisingly clear, captured by security cameras or lucky amateur photographers.
In all of them, she was flying.
One photo showed her catching a child who had fallen from a balcony in Brooklyn; her wings outstretched in all their glory, the child's face pressed against her shoulder in despair. Another image captured her dodging a car aimed at a distracted pedestrian in the middle of the street, her wings spread like white shields against the metal. There were a dozen images of her hovering over Central Park, seemingly observing the movement of the trees. In one video, she manipulated the water in a fountain before spotting the camera and flying off into the sky.
In all of them, she looked tired. Not exhausted, but carrying an invisible weight that her wings couldn't lighten.
Bob saved each image in a folder he called "Work Folder" (lying to himself about his true motives) and went to find Yelena.
She was at the gym, practicing her fighting moves against a hologram; she looked bored.
"Yelena," Bob called, floating down to land beside her. "Look here!"
"If it's another cat picture, Bob, I swear…"
"No! It's the angel! The woman I saw!"
Yelena sighed, took off her fighting gloves, and picked up the tablet Bob was holding. She scrolled through the images in silence, her face alternating between professional skepticism and something approaching genuine surprise.
"Bob," she finally said, "is that an angel?"
"I told you!"
"Angels don't exist," she said, but her voice had lost its previous certainty. She enlarged a photo where the woman's wings caught the sunlight in such a way that they looked like they were actually made of feathers. "This is… very realistic. But it's impossible."
"What?"
"Angels don't exist, Bob." He took back his tablet, looking at the photos as if they couldn't lie.
Bob looked at the last photo in the folder—one where you could see the woman's face, even if it was blurry and out of focus. There was something in her eyes, an emptiness that Bob recognized very well. It was the look of someone who had stopped expecting the world to be kind.
"She ran away out of fear," Bob said. "Not out of malice. And I know fear, Yelena. I know the difference between someone who wants to be alone and someone who is alone because they don't know how not to be…"
Yelena was silent for a long moment. Then, with a dramatic sigh, she patted his shoulder.
"If she really exists, if you think she's real and that she… is alone." "Go after her." Bob smiled, locking the tablet screen and leaving the gym.
The encounter happened on a Thursday night, when Bob was already beginning to lose hope.
He was floating above the city, his feet dangling in the air, when a peripheral movement caught his attention. At the top of the building, not on the observation deck but right at the highest point where no one in their right mind would venture, there was a silhouette against the stars.
She was sitting on the edge, her wings folded against her back, her legs dangling over the abyss of the skyscraper. She wasn't flying. She just… existed there, like a forgotten statue on the roof of the world.
Bob held his breath. This time, he wouldn't attract her attention from afar. This time, he would be cautious.
He moved slowly, using that floating skill he had learned. He approached from behind, maintaining a respectful distance, letting the wind carry away any sound that might alert her.
But she already knew.
“You’re the man who saw me last week,” she said, without turning around. Her voice was soft, so soft it was almost lost in the wind. But there was a tremor in it, as if speaking were a superhuman effort. “You’ve been flying around looking for me.”
It wasn’t a question.
Bob stopped a few feet away.
“Yes…” he admitted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you again. I just…” he hesitated. How could he explain that he recognized the loneliness in her eyes in just a second? “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Silence. The wind howled between the buildings below.
“I’m always okay,” she said. But her voice broke at the end, and Bob knew it was a lie.
“May I sit down?” he asked hesitantly.
She finally turned her head to look at him. In the dim light of the stars and neon signs below, her face looked like an oil painting, full of shadows and halftones. Her eyes were red at the corners, as if she had been crying recently. Or perhaps just tired. Maybe both.
"Why do you want to sit here?" she asked, genuinely confused. "You don't know me. You know nothing about me."
"I know you saved a child in Brooklyn last week…" Bob said calmly. "I know you swerved a car to prevent it from hurting someone. I know you fly as if the air were your best friend, but land as if the ground were your worst enemy…" he took another step. "And I know you're alone. Very alone. And I understand that."
Her eyes widened slightly. Her wings twitched, but not in fear, Bob realized, but in something more like vulnerability. As if he had touched a wound she had kept hidden.
"You don't know me," she repeated, but more quietly now.
"No…" Bob agreed. "But I'd like to know you. If you let me."
The silence stretched so long that Bob began to prepare to see her fly again. But she didn't fly. Instead, she gave a small movement of her head, an almost imperceptible nod.
"You can sit," she whispered. "But not close."
Bob sat down. About three meters away, as promised. The wind blew between them, carrying the scent of vanilla and night sky.
"I'm Bob," he said. "Bob… Just Bob."
"Bob," she repeated, testing the name on her tongue as if it were a foreign word. "Bob," she repeated with a small smile. "I like it."
"You have a name?" he asked cautiously.
"No," she answered too quickly. Her wings curled around her as if protecting her.
"What can I call you?" he asked, not wanting to sound rude.
She thought. The wind ruffled her feathers. A loose feather flew from her right wing and spun in the air before disappearing into the darkness.
"You can call me… I don't know. I never thought about it. People call me 'angel' when they see me, but that's not my name. It's just… what they see."
"But you're not an angel."
It was a statement, not a question. Bob already knew. Angels didn't have dark circles under their eyes. Angels didn't tremble when they talked about loneliness.
She looked at him for a long moment, and something in her face softened. Just a little. But enough.
"No. " she confirmed. "I'm not. I just have wings. And problems. Lots of problems."
"Welcome to the club" Bob said, extending his hand across the distance between them. "We're all troubled here."
She didn't take his hand. But for the first time, the first time that entire night, her lips curved into something that wasn't a straight line of weariness.
It was almost a smile.
They met on rooftops for the next two weeks.
Always at night. Always in the silence between the end of the traffic and the beginning of the garbage trucks. Bob always kept a respectful distance of at least two meters, because she still flinched when he got too close.
They talked about small things. Bob told stories about the Thunderbolts, the missions that went right, the ones that went terribly wrong, the time John Walker tried to cook and almost blew up the whole Tower. She laughed. Not a loud, unrestrained laugh, but something more restrained, as if the sound was trying to escape and she was holding it back tightly.
"John seems… intense…" she said one night, watching Bob float a few inches above the concrete roof.
"John is a golden retriever disguised as a soldier," Bob explained. "He barks a lot, but deep down he just wants everyone to like him."
"And Yelena?"
"Yelena is… Yelena," Bob smiled. "She seems tough, and she is, but she keeps pictures of puppies on her phone. I've seen them. She threatened to kill me if I told anyone. I'm telling you... Please don't tell her."
She laughed (that restrained laugh again) and Bob felt something warm spread in his chest. It wasn't the Void. It was something else. Something he barely recognized anymore.
"You talk about them like they're family…" she observed.
"They are," Bob said simply. "The family I chose. The one that didn't abandon me when things got weird…" He looked at her. "You have family?"
She hesitated. Her wings closed slightly.
I did. A long time ago. They… didn't know what to do with me. When the wings grew, when I started to fly… - she shrugged. - They were afraid. Not of me. For me. They said the world isn't kind to those who are different…
They were right. - Bob said calmly. - The world isn't kind. But there are pockets of kindness. Places where strange people meet other strange people and decide to be strange together. - She looked at him. Her eyes were shining in the dark.
And you're offering me one of those places?
I'm offering a beginning… - Bob said. - The rest is up to you.
It took another three weeks for her to agree to visit the Tower.
Bob didn't pressure her. He knew what it was like to be afraid of new places, of new people, of walls that could become cages. So he just kept meeting her at night, bringing food that Bucky made and stories about the chaotic daily life of the team.
Gradually, the distance between them decreased. From two meters to one and a half. From one and a half to one. Until, one night when she was especially tired after rescuing a cat stuck in a tree (Bob thought it was cute; she insisted it was "aerial precision training"), she let him sit beside her, shoulder to shoulder, her wings lightly brushing against his arm.
Bob said nothing. He just stood there, feeling the strange warmth emanating from her feathers, and smiled at the horizon.
"I'm going to visit your Tower…" she said suddenly, as if forcing herself to speak before her courage ran out. "Tomorrow. But only for an hour. And you can't let anyone touch me. And I want an escape route. And if I say 'vanilla,' you get me out of there immediately, flying or floating or whatever you do."
"Agreed," Bob said immediately. "Vanilla is the safe word. Nobody touches you without permission." Escape route through the kitchen window… It's always open because John broke the lock last week. One hour. Not a minute more… - she looked at him as if expecting a trick.
"Is that all? Aren't you going to say 'good, finally' or 'you're being dramatic'?"
"You are being dramatic." Bob said, "but it's justified drama. I'd be dramatic too if I had wings and a bunch of strangers wanted to pluck my feathers."
She laughed. This time, the laugh escaped a little further. Bob stored the sound in a mental drawer called "things that make life worth living".
The visit was a wonderful disaster.
She flew to the living room window at the agreed time: noon sharp, because Bob had suggested that the daylight would make everything less frightening (she disagreed, but came anyway). She landed on the windowsill with a grace that defied physics, folded her wings against her back and went inside.
Inside the Tower, chaos awaited her.
Yelena was in the middle of the room, wearing a T-shirt with a print of a kitten wearing sunglasses, eating cereal straight from the box. John Walker was dressed as if he were going to meet the president. Alexei was the complete opposite, in pajamas smelling of product labels stuck to them. Bucky was on the sofa, casually dressed and uninterested. Ava continued on her cell phone, not taking what was about to happen seriously.
"Guys," Bob announced, entering through the window. "This is… my friend. The one I told you about."
Deafening silence.
Yelena stopped chewing her cereal. John stood up from the sofa. Bucky finally looked up.
"She's real…" John said, stunned.
"What did you think she was?" Bob asked. "A collective hallucination?"
"With this group? Yes." Yelena stood up, still holding the cereal box. She examined the winged woman with a professional spy's gaze—assessing, calculating, but not hostile. "So. You're Bob's angel."
"I'm not an angel…" the woman said, her voice so low it was almost inaudible. She stood near the window, her wings slightly open, as if ready to leap at any moment. "I just have wings."
"Angels have wings," John observed. He extended his hand. "John Walker. Former Captain America. Currently… working on it."
She stared at his outstretched hand for a long second. Then, with painful hesitation, she squeezed it briefly, a quick touch, like touching very hot water.
"Nice to meet you," she lied politely.
Bucky didn't stand up. He just nodded in her direction.
Yelena approached, but kept a respectful distance. Bob noticed, gratefully. She didn't offer a handshake, just a nod.
"Bob said you save people. Children. Cats. That's good. People who save cats can't be bad." She paused. "Unless it's a money laundering scheme. Cats are great for money laundering. A lot of people love cats."
"I…" the winged woman blinked. "I… I'm not laundering money."
"Good. That's a shame. It's a good opportunity." Yelena returned to the sofa, throwing herself onto it with the grace of a lazy cat. "Want some cereal?"
The one-hour visit turned into two. Then three. The woman didn't talk much—she preferred to listen, observe, and chuckle softly when John told some embarrassing story about himself (and he told many, seemingly incapable of realizing when he was being ridiculous). But gradually, her wings relaxed. Her shoulders, once tense like violin strings, began to fall into a more natural position.
When she finally left, promising to return, Bob accompanied her to the window.
"See?" he said softly. "It wasn't terrible."
"It was…" she corrected. "But not in the way I expected." She hesitated, then added, almost inaudibly, "Thank you, Bob."
"You're welcome."
She flew into the sky, and Bob stayed at the window watching until she became just another star among the others.
Behind him, Yelena appeared like a ghost.
"You like her," she said. It wasn't a question.
"She's my friend," Bob replied.
"Friends don't look at friends the way you looked at her a moment ago." Yelena crossed her arms. "John's taking bets. I bet two hundred that you two will be together by the end of the year. Don't disappoint me, Bob. My knife collection won't pay for itself…"
Bob laughed, but didn't deny it.
Because, deep down, he knew Yelena was right.
The following months were the best Bob could remember.
She began visiting the Tower regularly, always through the window, always with a cautious look, but increasingly at ease. She found her favorite spot: an armchair near the fireplace where she could curl up with a book while her wings spread across the floor like a white cloak.
Yelena taught her to play Uno. It was a mistake. It turned out that the winged woman was ruthless at Uno, a cold strategist who guarded +4 cards like a dragon guards its treasure.
"You're a monster." Yelena declared after losing for the fifth time in a row. "A monster with pretty wings."
"Thank you" she replied, and Bob could swear there was a mischievous glint in her eyes.
John tried to teach her to fight. It didn't work. Not because she lacked skill; her wings were incredibly strong, capable of creating wind currents that could knock down a grown man, not to mention that she could manipulate wind, water, earth, and fire. But she refused to hit someone "who didn't deserve it."
Poor John spent an entire afternoon trying to prove he deserved it, making faces and provoking her in increasingly childish ways. In the end, she simply flew to the ceiling and stayed there until he got tired.
Bucky was the most surprising. The man, over a hundred years old, was reserved by nature, but something in the calm presence of the winged woman disarmed him. He began to put his book aside to talk to her. About nothing in particular, about the weather, about the best brand of coffee, about how the world had changed since he was young.
"You seem like someone who's seen a lot of bad things," Bucky said one afternoon. They were both on the balcony, watching the sunset. "But you haven't become bad. How did you manage that?"
"I think…" she thought for a long time. "I think it's because flying reminds me that the world is bigger than the people who try to hurt me," she finally answered. "When you're up there, the little evils seem… small… I think that helps me. And the fact that I can make them burn with a snap of my fingers."
Bucky laughed.
Bob, who was listening from the living room, felt a pang in his chest. It was the realization that she was exactly the kind of person he wanted to protect, not because she was weak, but because the world was too cruel for someone like her.
She didn't like crowds. Bob learned that quickly.
Not that she said it directly. Instead, she simply avoided talking about herself when the subject was public. Bob's questions about why she didn't reveal herself to the world; why she continued to fly in the shadows; saving people anonymously; were met with long silences and wings that closed slightly.
It was Yelena who finally explained, after a night when the woman left earlier than usual, visibly shaken by something no one had seen.
"Bob…" Yelena said, pulling him aside from the kitchen while she made tea. "I did some research. About people with… angelic features. Isn't it pretty…"
"What do you mean?"
Yelena placed a mug of tea in front of him with a snap.
"I mean, when you look like an angel, people don't treat you like a person. They treat you like an object. A relic. Something to be possessed." She took a sip of her own tea. "There are accounts of people with wings, not many, but some throughout history who were captured, imprisoned, studied. They plucked their feathers as souvenirs. They tried… to use their wings for things I won't say out loud because I just ate."
"Do you think…" Bob felt his stomach churn. "…that she went through that?"
"I don't know. But she's scared. And it's not a small fear. It's the kind of fear that comes from seeing something horrible, not from imagining it could happen." Yelena looked at him with a rare, almost gentle expression. "If you care about her, and we both know you do, you need to understand that protecting her isn't just about fighting villains. It's about protecting her from ordinary people too. From those who want a picture. Of those who want to touch her. Of those who think she's a miracle that belongs to them…"
Bob was silent for a long time. Then he picked up the tea he didn't want and took a sip. It was hot. Bitter. Perfect.
"I understand," he said.
"Well…" Yelena patted him on the shoulder. "Now go. She's on the roof. Waiting for you."
Bob went.
That day seemed completely normal… Until a runaway truck started driving through New York.
Bob was in the Tower, trying to learn chess with Bucky. Yelena was on the couch, scrolling through her phone and laughing at cat videos. John was in the kitchen, preparing his famous (and only) dish: spaghetti and butter.
And then, the scream.
It wasn't an ordinary scream. It was a sound that came from far away, traversing miles of city, concrete and glass and metal, and yet Bob heard it as if it were right beside her. It was one of the strange things his powers granted him. Heightened senses. Increased perception. The ability to hear the despair of a woman on the other side of town.
She screamed. Not her name. Just a sound of pure fear.
Bob jumped up so quickly the chair flew backward.
"She's in danger."
"Who?" John asked, confused.
"My angel." Bob was already floating, rising towards the ceiling.
And then he flew—not floated, not glided. He flew. He crashed through the living room window like a rocket, shattering the glass into shards that glittered in the sun like diamonds.
On the other side of town, in Brooklyn, hell had broken loose during rush hour.
A delivery truck had lost its brakes descending an avenue, an eight-wheeled monster loaded to the brim with cargo, gaining speed every second as it sped down the slope toward a crowded intersection. The driver, a middle-aged man named Frank, had jumped after the brakes failed, leaving the vehicle out of control like a metal cannonball.
Worse still, the truck wasn't following a straight line. It swayed, zigzagged, changing lanes unpredictably as the front wheels lost alignment. People on the sidewalk screamed. Drivers honked, many abandoning their cars in the middle of the street to run for safety.
She saw it from above.
She was flying over the neighborhood, as she did every afternoon: a silent habit of checking that everyone was alright before meeting Bob for dinner. She saw the truck. She saw the crowd at the intersection. She saw a school across the street, children leaving in a line.
She didn't think. She just acted.
Her wings spread wide: each feather stretched to its limit, and she dove.
The wind howled in her ears. The city became a blur of gray and glass. She ignored everything. Focused on the truck. Focused on the people.
The first woman stood in the middle of the crosswalk, frozen with fear, a baby carriage in front of her. She grabbed her by the shoulders a second before the truck passed, flying upwards with such force that she felt the vehicle's air displacement scraping against her boots.
"ARE YOU OKAY?" she shouted, dropping the woman and baby onto a safe awning.
She didn't wait for an answer. She was already flying back.
The truck was thirty meters from the main intersection. Twenty. Ten.
She flew in front of it, but not to stop it—she wasn't strong enough for that—but to get people out of the way. She grabbed a man in a suit and dropped him against a lamppost. She grabbed a young woman with headphones who hadn't seen anything and threw her over a safety fence. She grabbed an elderly couple, one in each arm, their wings flapping so hard that the resulting wind lifted papers and dust into the air.
The truck passed, missing by centimeters each person she saved.
But it wasn't over.
Behind the intersection, a school van was parked on the side, waiting for the children to go home. The out-of-control truck swerved to the right, directly towards the van.
She saw the children's faces behind the glass. She saw the driver scream, in slow motion, her hands raised in a gesture of pure horror.
She flew.
Not to rescue the children one by one—there wasn't time. Instead, she flew in front of the van. She braced her wings against the vehicle like anchors and planted her hands in front of her body. Everything around her seemed to obey her. The air pushed against the runaway truck. The water from the drainpipes followed her command and crashed against the truck. Even the asphalt buckled beneath her feet. And all together, it made the truck stop, finally.
Silence.
And then, the sound of dozens of people applauding.
She landed in the middle of the street, breathless. Her wings trembled uncontrollably, several loose feathers falling around her like summer snow. Her legs threatened to give way. Her heart was beating so fast she could barely see.
But the people were alive. All of them.
"It's an angel!" someone shouted.
"A miracle!"
"It's her! The Angel of Hell's Kitchen!
Her eyes widened. No. No, no, no.
The crowd surged forward.
Not with hostility. Worse. With devotion. With hunger. With that desperate need to touch something sacred, to possess a piece of the miracle.
"Thank you so much, angel, you saved my son!"
"Can I take a picture?"
"God bless you, I knew you were real!"
"Mom, look at her wings, they're beautiful!"
A hand touched her right wing. She shuddered, a groan escaping her lips. Her wings were sensitive, more sensitive than any other part of her body, and that rough, clumsy touch stung like a needle.
"No," she whispered. "Please, don't touch."
But they didn't listen. Or they listened and didn't care. More hands. More fingers grabbing her feathers, pulling, tearing. She felt three, four, five feathers being ripped from her left wing. The pain was sharp, white, unbearable.
"Stop!!!" she tried to say, but her voice was weak, very weak. "Please, no!"
A gray-haired woman appeared before her, her eyes glistening with tears and something else—something that felt like possession.
"You saved us…" the woman said, gripping her arm tightly. "I just want a feather… To remember the angel!"
"No…" Her voice broke with the sharp pain of another feather being ripped away.
Panic rose in her throat like jellyfish. She tried to spread her wings, tried to fly, but her wings were trapped, not by ropes or shackles, but by hands. Too many hands. Pulling her down, pinning her to the ground.
"LEAVE HER ALONE!"
The voice came from above, deep, powerful, reverberating off the walls of the buildings like thunder.
Bob fell from the sky like a meteor.
"Back of" he ordered, and his voice carried an authority that made the crowd instinctively recoil. "Now."
People hesitated. A braver (or more foolish) man stepped forward.
"Who do you think you are? She saved our lives, we have the right to…"
Bob floated until he was face to face with him.
"You have the right to thank her and leave. What you don't have is the right to touch her without permission. To pluck feathers from her body. To treat her like a thing." His voice lowered, dangerous. "Step back. Now." This is the only chance you'll have.
Perhaps it was the strange glint in his eyes. Perhaps it was the fact that he was floating, serious, as if he could explode at any moment. Perhaps it was just the weariness of the near-disaster they had experienced.
The crowd recoiled. First one step. Then two. Then it dispersed, some still looking back with longing in their eyes, but none brave enough to challenge the floating man.
Bob turned to her.
She was on the ground, curled up, her wings folded against her body. Her shoulders trembled. Loose feathers were scattered around her, plucked, broken, some stained with blood where the follicle had been injured.
"Look at me." “Bob said softly, landing. He knelt in front of her, keeping his hands visible where she could see them. “Hey. Look at me.”
She lifted her face. Her eyes were red from crying, her face pale as chalk. There were scratches on her arms where nails had dug in.
“They… just wanted to touch…” she whispered. “They didn’t mean to hurt…”
“But they did,” Bob said. “And you asked them to stop. I heard you. On the other side of town.” He extended his hand slowly, giving her time to recoil. She didn’t recoil. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll take you to the Tower.”
“I can’t fly,” she said, her voice breaking. “My wings… it hurts too much…”
“I’ll carry you.”
Bob slid his arms under her, carefully, as carefully as if he were catching a bird with a broken wing. One of her feathers fell as he lifted her, and he whispered "sorry" before floating away with her in his arms.
She buried her face in his neck and cried silently as he flew toward the Tower.
The Tower was in a state of silent emergency when they arrived.
Yelena had prepared the guest room: clean sheets, pillows, towels… John had provided a first-aid kit which he left in the room.
Bob placed her on the bed with the care of someone handling glass. She groaned as her wings touched the mattress, and Bob felt his own heart clench.
"What do you need?" he asked.
"I…" she blinked, dizzy, still trembling. "I don't know. Usually, when this happens, I'm alone until I get better."
"You're not alone now." Bob pulled a chair to the side of the bed. "So tell me. What do you need?"
She looked at him for a long time. His eyes wandered over her face: her disheveled hair, her tense jaw, her hands trembling slightly with the adrenaline that still coursed through her veins.
"Stay with me," she finally whispered.
Bob nodded. He sat on the bed beside her, carefully dodging her wings, and just looked at her for a long time.
Bob thought about trying to clean some of her wounds, but before he could reach for the first-aid kit, her skin began to heal on its own.
It took her an hour to fully open her eyes. When she did, she focused first on the ceiling, then the window, then Bob.
"You're still here," she said. Her voice was hoarse.
"You asked me to stay. I stay."
She tried to sit up, but her wings protested. A spasm caused several feathers to bristle. She groaned softly, and Bob immediately stood up.
"What do you need? Water? Food? A painkiller?"
"Calm down…" she said, and there was a hint of humor in her voice, weak but present. "You're as nervous as I am…"
"Your wings…" he said, looking at the spots where the feathers had been plucked. Small patches of dried blood marked the skin. "Will they heal?"
"Yes. The feathers grow back. It takes time…" She touched one of the sensitive areas, shuddering. "But it hurts. It always hurts. Like pulling out hair, but worse. Much worse."
Bob wanted to ask how many times this had happened. How many crowds had turned against her with love that turned to violence. How many feathers had been plucked. But he didn't ask. It wasn't the time.
"You were amazing today," he said instead. "You saved so many people. I saw it from afar. You moved like… like fire. Like wind. It was incredible…" she blushed. "You are incredible."
Silence settled between them. Not the uncomfortable silence of the first weeks on the rooftops. Another kind. A charged, electric silence, like the air before a storm.
He moved one of his hands as if to try to touch the rest of her, but stopped in mid-air. He thought that perhaps she didn't want to be touched. That perhaps… Perhaps he shouldn't get closer. However, she caught his hand in mid-air and pressed it against her face. Bob gently caressed her skin, careful not to overdo it.
But she did the improbable, moving closer and closer to him.
When Bob realized it, she was lying on top of him, forcing his hands to embrace her tenderly.
He thought about saying something. He thought about following Yelena's advice… But he couldn't.
Not for lack of courage, but because he knew that wasn't the time for it. She was still scared, distressed, and in pain in her wings. She didn't need to worry about anything other than recovering.
thinkin abt 𝓑ob jerking off to u while ur asleep next to him. he feels soso bad about it but at the same time you kept rubbing up against him, makin’ him all hard and needy. so now he has his sleep shirt pulled between his teeth trying to silence every sound he makes, while his hand is wrapped around his cock, eagerly pumping himself begging to finally hit his release every time he glances over your sleeping body.
janainaart
snowghoul
blakekathryn
baratheonpilled
kaledo-art
vaporwave
kianamaiart
jbbartram-illu
turnnoffyourmind
