You randomly met Mina Ashido and Toru Hagakure at a club and ever since then, it was history. You guys did everything together on your free days, shop, hangout and eventually, you met their friends, mostly male and ALSO pro hero’s.
Minas boyfriend, Eijirou and then Denki, Katsuki. Whenever you all hung out ‘Katsuki’ was always staring. Never spoke to you, but always staring. It was so so weird. If he wanted a bitch he could just say it??
You weren’t complaining tho, cause he was fineee. Ash blonde hair, silver brow piercing, plump lips and crimson eyes? ouweee he was nice to look at.
A few months later, you’d figure out why he was always looking at you. one stupid night you decided to get drunk with them and let him drive you home. Him pulling over in an empty parking lot so you could ride him was “definitely” by accident. And holy shit his dick was big, you could see why he always acting like a piece of shit. That dick hit allll the right spots. Pale, veiny, long, thick flushed tip with precum seeping out of it, long. and the best part was definitely him talking you through it. Groaning in your ear and mumbling about how he’s been waiting so long to fuck you—and his hand placement? He could not keep his hands off your ass. squishing. kneading, slapping and rubbing it, each cheek in each palm as he guided you up and down his thick cock. Of course you cried. Who wouldn’t? getting stuffed with such a big dick and hearing such dirty words just puts you in that mood.
and this became a habit. Him coming over to your place after a long day of hero work to ruin your shit, pumping loads of his hot, frothy cum into you before cleaning you up and taking care of you.
𑣲 18+ older!boyfriend tojis loves to mess with his younger girlfriend.
find more of my older toji x fem!reader series here!!
nsfw, smut, breeding, kissing, ass grabbing, established relationship, chubby/curvy!reader, fem!reader, fluff, older man, toji being a little shit.
your boyfriends older.
built like a goddamn tank. his arms big and scarred. broad shoulders carrying the weight of the world. he's got the hands of a killer, heavy and calloused, rough against your soft skin.
there's a scar that runs across the corner of his lip, curling just the right amount whenever he finds something the slightest bit amusing.
he smells of something discreetly masculine. something heavy and strong, like a mix of cologne and smoke.
his hands are big on you, either planted on your waist or palming over the curve of your back, always sliding closer to the nice fat of your ass. grabbing and kneading the flesh with the type of greed only a man like him could possess.
the mans love language is physical touch.
he likes to sink his teeth into the curve of your cheek, soft and playful as he leans back with a huff of laughter. he squeezes your cheeks together just to press a wet kiss right on top of your glossy lips. he loves the way you glare at him, cute face scrunched up as you huff and shove at him.
he walks around the place half naked, barefoot and shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips most the time. lazy and comfortable in the comfort of his own home.
and hes real nasty.
he'll show up behind you, burying his face into the curve of your neck. Inhaling the smell of your skin right into his lungs.
his hand'll move, snaking over your waist to palm at the softness of your stomach. even if you're in the middle of something, he doesnt scare. his hands are always on you, hes a man obsessed with his pretty lady.
he doesnt quit until you whine and shove him away for licking a stripe up the length of your cheek, pressing a wet, sloppy kiss right on your ear.
and he carries everything for you.
he's confident enough in his masculinity to be able to hold your bag for you, even if the whole thing is a star contrast to how he looks. when you're out together, his favourite thing is to walk behind you, eyes fixed on the way your hips sway from the back.
and he manspreads. thats a known fact.
his muscular thighs take up half the space on the couch, his arms sprawled over the back of the couch like he has every right to do so. even though he knows you hate it.
but the truth is that its just a way for him to get you to press up against him.
and if he falls asleep? hes snoring loud enough to shake the walls, head tipped back, mouth wide open.
thats usually the time when you think you're able to mess with him.
but if you wake him up? hes glaring down at you, his big hands finding a way to manhandle you into his lap. now forcing you to sleep with him, head tucked into your neck because no one messes with his naps. (he takes like five a day)
its always a win win for him.
and the thing that ticks you off the most? him taking advantage of the fact that hes so much larger than you. when you playfight, you know he's already won.
he yanks you back to him, his grip heavy on your waist as he slides his cold hands under your top, tickling you everywhere because hes such an arrogant asshole.
you're in the bathtub together, hes behind you, broad frame taking up most the space as he leans back, his arms resting on each side of the porcelain tub.
you're sat between his legs, eyes shut, head resting back on his shoulder. its so nice and peaceful.
but tojis a little shit who can't stay still for a second, so it doesn't take long before he lands a firm slap into the water in front of you, making it jolt and splash all over your face.
"toji-!" you squeak, huffing as you sit up and turn to smack him on his chest, essentially meaning that you're now pissed off at him.
he snorts, his forearm flexing when he brings it up to hold you still around your shoulders, head tilting while his lips kiss at your soft cheeks.
he laughs, low and gruff, continuing his assault on your face, holding you tight against him, he loves the way you squirm against him in the bath.
he loves you.
he's never been so attracted to a woman before in his life, something about your attitude just turns him on.
your thighs, those full, round breasts, the curve of your ass, the pouch of flesh on your tummy, it drives him insane, it all makes him real hot and bothered. you see it in the way his eyes drag over your body, half-lidded and hazy, his growing bulge already prominent against his trousers.
if hes feeling sweet, he'll fuck you slow and deep, cock plunging into your gummy walls, brushing and dragging over each soft spot inside you, pulling sweet sounds out of your mouth.
he'll hold you, murmur sweet nothings into your ear while he gets his fill, hands brushing over your sides, hips rocking against yours.
and when he cums, its sweet and pleasurable, his seed filling you so deep as you moan, begging him to keep going, to fill you up until you're full with his kid.
but if hes feeling mean?
hes rough, pelvis slapping against your ass as he pounds into your pussy like theres no tomorrow, his grip on you is tight, mouth sucking marks into your skin. his skin slaps against yours, sweaty and hot as he fills you up with his cock.
you can feel every ridge, every vein inside of you as he slams harder and deeper. god, hes so dirty, pounding up against your poor cervix. he grunts and groans, his eyes fixed on where you both meet, his cock lathered in your juices.
and when he cums? he's groaning, pumping you up oh so full until his cum leaks out of you. Its thick, and theres so much of it everywhere.
thats how it usually goes.
you think your boyfriend has some sort of cuteness aggression towards you.
he loves to bite you, sink his teeth into your plushy flesh. he loves to hold you, squeeze you close enough that you swear you both might merge into one.
he adores that cute face of yours, his eyes always roving over your pretty features.
he holds you close and murmurs cute things into your ears. his fingers digging deep into the flesh of your thighs.
your cheek is squished against his bicep, sitting pressed closed to him as he speaks.
"you're gon' be the mama to my kids,"
"my angel,"
"so cute n' round, like a lil peach."
"m'baby. m'sweet girl" he murmurs, his big hand brushing over your hair, pressing a kiss to you ear.
he says it, and its true.
he presses kisses everywhere on you. your cheeks, your breasts, your stomach, your arms, your nose, your brows, your lips.
under all that rough, male bravado, and that playful nature of his, he loves you so deeply, so much that his heart aches.
when he's not with you, he feels useless. like theres nothing to do if it doesn't mean he can hold his woman.
when he's with shiu, he spends half the time sprawled onto his seat, lazy and half-paying attention to shius words.
he'll have his beat up phone in one hand, flicking through pretty pictures of you, occasionally zooming into something, a lil smirk pulling at the corner of his lip.
he hums in response to shiu, not even paying attention.
thats all he uses his phone for, really. to talk to you, talk to people like shiu, and keep photos of you to go through when he's not with you.
Note: This is my first shot of a BLOODHOUNDS character, I finished watching it yesterday and it was quite good that I couldn't resist doing a gunwoo one.
The coffee shop lights are already dimmed when you hear the door chime one last time. You’re behind the delivery bar, wiping down the espresso machine for the final round of closing duties. The place smells like fresh-ground coffee and warm pastries that have been sitting under the heat lamps too long. Gunwoo’s mother usually handles the money drop-off herself, but she had to leave early tonight for something. She left you in charge of locking up.
You glance up as he steps inside. Gunwoo. Tall, broad-shouldered, still wearing that black hoodie with the faint smell of sweat. His knuckles are wrapped in white tape, a few spots already turning red. His hair is damp, sticking to his forehead, and there’s a fresh bruise blooming along his jaw. But his eyes, those dark, steady eyes, light up a little when they land on you.
He walks straight to the counter, pulling a thick envelope from his pocket. “Mom’s share from the fight tonight,” he says, voice low and a bit rough, like he’s been shouting or taking hits to the ribs. “She wasn’t here, so…”
You take the envelope, fingers brushing his. His skin is warm, almost hot. “She mentioned you might stop by. Congrats on the win, I guess.”
He gives a small nod, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wants to smile but is too tired for it. The shop is empty now. Chairs are up on tables. The sign on the door says Closed. You’re both alone under the soft glow of the remaining overhead lights.
Gunwoo doesn’t leave. He leans on the delivery bar, watching you finish wiping the counter. “You closing alone?”
“Yeah. Last bit of cleaning and then I’m out.” You rinse the cloth in the small sink, feeling his gaze on your back. There’s always been this tension between you two, quiet glances when he comes to drop money, the way he lingers a second longer than necessary. Tonight it feels thicker, heavier, like the adrenaline from his fight hasn’t worn off yet.
He shifts, coming around the side of the bar instead of staying on the customer side. The space back here is narrow. Your hip bumps the edge of the counter as he stops close. Too close. You can see the rise and fall of his chest, the way his hoodie clings to his shoulders.
“You look tired,” you say, trying to keep it light.
“I won,” he answers simply. Then his hand comes up, calloused fingers brushing a stray hair from your cheek. “But I kept thinking about coming here after.”
Your breath catches. The air between you crackles. Before you can say anything else, he leans in and kisses you. It’s not soft. It’s hard, urgent, like all that pent-up energy from the ring is pouring out now.
His lips press firm against yours, moving with a hunger that makes your knees feel weak. You taste salt on him, sweat, maybe a little blood from a split lip.
“Ah—” you gasp into his mouth as his hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against him. He’s solid, all muscle and heat. Your back hits the delivery bar counter, the edge digging into your lower back, but you don’t care. You kiss him back, fingers threading into his damp hair, tugging lightly.
Gunwoo groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips. “Umh… fuck,” he mutters, breaking the kiss just enough to speak.
His voice is gravelly, breathless. He kisses you again, deeper this time, tongue sliding against yours in a wet, messy slide that makes heat pool low in your belly.
His hands roam. One slides under your shirt, palm hot against your skin, fingers splaying over your ribs. The other cups the back of your neck, holding you in place as he tilts his head and kisses harder.
The sounds are loud in the quiet café, the wet smack of lips, the soft click of teeth when you both get eager, your shared heavy breathing.
You moan into it, “Ahg… Gunwoo…” Your body arches toward him instinctively. He responds by pressing his hips forward, letting you feel how hard he already is through his sweatpants. The thick length rubs against your thigh and you whimper, the sensation sending sparks up your spine.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and pupils blown wide. “Been wanting this,” he says, not poetic, just honest and rough. “Every time I come in here… seeing you behind the counter.”
You don’t answer with words. You pull him back down, kissing him again, tongues tangling. Your hands push at his hoodie. He helps, yanking it off in one quick motion along with the shirt underneath. His chest is bare now broad, defined pecs, abs tight from all the training, a few fresh red marks from the fight. You run your palms over him, feeling the heat of his skin, the way his muscles twitch under your touch.
“Umh… yeah,” he breathes out as your fingers trace lower, brushing the waistband of his pants. He kisses your neck, open-mouthed and wet, sucking lightly at the skin until you gasp,
“Ah—!” The mark he leaves throbs pleasantly.
You fumble with his pants. He helps, shoving them down along with his boxers. His cock springs free, thick, heavy, already leaking at the tip. It slaps against his stomach once before he presses it against you again, grinding slowly. The friction through your clothes makes you both groan.
“Take these off,” he says against your ear, voice low. His fingers work your pants open, pushing them down your hips along with your underwear. Cool air hits your skin, but his body heat chases it away as he lifts you onto the delivery bar counter. The surface is smooth and cool under your bare ass. Your legs spread naturally as he steps between them.
Gunwoo kisses you again, hard, passionate, lots of tongue. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider. One finger slides through your folds, finding you already wet. “Ahg… so wet for me,” he mutters, almost to himself. He circles your clit once, twice, making your hips jerk. “Umh…”
You moan loudly, the sound echoing a little in the empty café. “Ah—Gunwoo, please…”
He doesn’t make you beg long. He lines himself up, the thick head of his cock nudging your entrance. Then he pushes in, slow at first, but steady, stretching you open. The burn is good, intense. You both groan at the same time.
“Fuck… tight,” he hisses through gritted teeth. His hips move forward until he’s buried to the hilt, balls pressed against you. The sensation is full, deep, making your walls clench around him.
He stays there a moment, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. Then he starts to move.
Not gentle.
Hard thrusts that rock the counter, the slap of skin on skin loud and rhythmic. Each push makes your breasts bounce under your shirt. He yanks the fabric up, exposing you, and leans down to kiss and suck at your nipples while he fucks you.
“Ah! Ahg—yes!” you cry out, head falling back. Pleasure shoots through you with every deep stroke. His cock drags against that spot inside that makes your toes curl.
Gunwoo’s pace is relentless but passionate. He kisses your mouth, your jaw, your neck, messy, open-mouthed kisses full of tongue and teeth.
“Umh… you feel so good,” he groans, voice breaking on the words. His hips snap forward harder, the wet squelch of your bodies joining obscene in the quiet space.
You wrap your legs around his waist, shoes digging into his lower back, urging him deeper. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in. He hisses at the sting but thrusts even harder, the bar creaking under you.
“Harder—ah—please,” you pant.
He gives it to you.
Deep, powerful strokes that make your vision blur. Sweat slicks both your skins. The sounds are everywhere, your moans mixing with his grunts, the wet slap of his hips meeting yours, the faint creak of the counter.
Gunwoo kisses you again, swallowing your next “Ahg!” as he angles his hips just right. Pleasure builds fast, coiling tight in your core. You clench around him, thighs trembling.
“I’m close—umh—Gunwoo!” you gasp against his lips.
“Me too,” he growls. One hand slides between you, thumb rubbing your clit in firm circles. “Come on… let me feel it.”
The added stimulation sends you over. Your orgasm crashes through you hard. “Ah—ahg—ahhhhh!” Your back arches, walls pulsing around his cock, milking him. Pleasure floods every nerve, making your legs shake.
Gunwoo fucks you through it, thrusts getting erratic. “Fuck—umh—yes—” He buries himself deep one last time, groaning loud and low as he comes. You feel the hot pulses inside you, his cock twitching with each spurt.
He keeps moving slowly for a few more seconds, drawing out the sensations, both of you panting. Then he stills, forehead against yours again. Soft kisses now, on your lips, your cheek, your temple. Passionate but gentler, like he’s coming down from the high.
You stay like that for a moment, connected, breathing each other in. The café is silent except for your slowing breaths and the faint hum of the fridge in the back.
Finally he pulls out carefully. A trickle of his release leaks down your thigh. He grabs some napkins from the counter, cleaning you both up with surprisingly gentle hands.
“You okay?” he asks, voice still rough but softer now.
You nod, smiling a little. “Yeah. Better than okay.”
He helps you down from the counter, steadying you when your legs wobble. Then he pulls you into another kiss, slow, deep. His hands cup your face this time, thumbs brushing your cheeks.
After a while he pulls back, resting his forehead on yours. “Next time… maybe not right after a fight. But I’m not complaining.”
You laugh softly, still catching your breath. “You better bring the money again soon.”
He smirks, just a small one, and kisses you once more before helping you finish closing.
The storm outside thrashes against the walls. The Wheeler house groans.
Mike flips on a lamp — weak, orange light.
Mike:
“Still smells like dust and… whatever that old candle was Mom used to light in here.”
Will lingers in the doorway. Doesn’t sit. Just watches Mike fidget with a drawer.
Will:
“Lilac and linen.”
(beat)
“Holly hated it. Said it smelled like ‘dead Barbie clothes.’”
Mike snorts a soft laugh. It catches in his throat.
Mike:
“She drew this thing earlier. Dustin said it looked like the Mind Flayer, but… I think it was supposed to be me.”
He turns toward Will. “It had my hair.”
Will finally steps inside. Eyes flicking around the room like it’s a crime scene.
Will:
“She drew me with my mouth sewn shut once.”
Mike pauses. Grimaces.
Mike:
“She’s not wrong.”
That makes Will smile. Barely.
Thunder cracks. A deep, guttural sound. The whole room shivers with it.
Mike pulls open another drawer, crouching near the floor. Muttering to himself, rifling through old junk — tangled cords, torn notebook paper, a cracked cassette case.
Mike:
“God, what was I even looking for again?”
Will:
“Comfort?”
Mike chuckles. And then stops. Blinks at something under the bed.
Mike doesn’t move fast enough.
Will steps forward — drawn in by something just visible beneath the bed.
A folded piece of paper. Edges worn. As if touched too many times.
He reaches down. Pulls it out.
Turns it over.
His name.
Scrawled in Mike’s handwriting. Sharp. Hesitant.
Will.
Mike straightens sharply. Blood draining from his face.
Mike:
(voice breaking)
“Don’t—”
But Will’s already opening it.
His eyes scan the words. Once. Then again. Slower.
Each line like a blow to the chest.
He exhales — a sharp, pained sound.
And drops it.
The paper flutters to the ground between them.
Quiet. Final.
Will doesn’t look at Mike. Doesn’t say a word.
He turns. Walks out of the room like he’s trying not to run.
But he is.
He’s running.
————————————
To Will,
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I shouldn’t be writing this.
You’re not supposed to know.
But I miss you. And it’s worse when I see you. It’s like everything I’ve tried to forget just gets louder.
I thought it would go away. It hasn’t.
I don’t even know what this is. I just needed to say something, even if it’s only here.
Sorry.
—M
_____________________
Mike doesn’t follow.
Not right away.
He just stands there, frozen. The air feels too thick. His lungs don’t work right. The letter lies where it fell—open, exposed, like a wound.
He hadn’t meant for this. Not like this.
He moves on instinct. Out the door. Down the hall.
And stops.
Will is there. In the doorway.
Backlit by the storm outside. Rain streaking the windows. His chest rises and falls in shallow bursts—like breathing hurts.
Their eyes meet.
And everything shifts.
Mike’s voice is low. Rough. Like it scrapes its way out of him.
Mike:
“You… You weren’t supposed to—”
He doesn’t finish.
Silence crashes in around them.
Tighter than before.
Louder, somehow.
They’re staring at each other like strangers. Or like they’ve only just now started seeing clearly.
Will:
(quietly)
“When?”
His voice is barely a thread. But Mike hears it.
Mike:
(voice catching)
“When you left. For… for California.”
Will looks down. Not at Mike. At the letter. Still lying there like a secret finally pulled into the light.
Will:
(soft, stunned)
“Lenora.”
It lands between them. Not a question. Just a name. A memory.
Mike takes one step forward. Hesitant.
His voice breaks again.
Mike:
“You weren’t supposed to see it.”
Will doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. His eyes stay locked on the letter.
Mike:
“I was gonna get rid of it. I swear. I—I couldn’t…”
Will:
(finishing, barely above a whisper)
“But you couldn’t.”
That’s when he looks up.
And their eyes meet again—this time searching, scanning. Not for answers. For each other. For truth.
Mike’s gaze is desperate. Like he’s waiting for a verdict. Like he’s already preparing to lose.
Will’s is unreadable.
But wide. Open.
Mike steps forward hesitantly.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters—barely louder than the storm still pounding against the windows. “I tried to kill it. I did. But when I saw you in California… it killed me first.”
His voice splinters there, like it costs something just to admit it.
Will doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. His breathing is sharp, shallow. But he’s still standing there. Still listening.
And Mike—Mike is wrecked.
His hair is damp and curling, pressed against his forehead in messy, soaked strands. There’s a smudge of dirt on his cheek, and his clothes hang heavy from the rain. He looks like he’s been dragged through the end of the world and didn’t stop running. But still—he’s beautiful. Not in some perfect, polished way. But in the realness of him. Raw and aching and alive.
“I hated what it made me,” Mike says, quieter now. “Wanting you. Needing you. I thought if I ignored it long enough, it would just stop.”
Will’s lip twitches—but it’s not quite a smile. It’s something bitterer. Sharper. His gaze drops to the floor. The letter still lies there between them like a crack in the foundation.
“And it didn’t,” Will says flatly.
Mike swallows. “No. It didn’t.”
The silence stretches again. But this one is different. Not cold. Just… full. Charged.
Like a wire pulled taut.
Mike shifts, just barely closer. And now he’s within arm’s reach, and Will’s shoulders are tense like a bowstring.
The air is hot with something unspoken—frustration, fear, desire all tangled together like a thread they can’t stop pulling.
Mike looks at him, really looks. At the tight set of his jaw. The way his hands keep clenching and unclenching at his sides. The way his throat works when he swallows.
He takes another breath, chest trembling.
“I didn’t want to ruin what we had,” he whispers. “But I think I ruined it anyway.”
Will looks up at that.
And Mike sees it—everything in his face. The hurt. The longing. The rage. The hope. All at once.
“You didn’t,” Will breathes, and something catches in Mike’s chest.
Their eyes lock. And suddenly the room is too small for whatever is burning between them.
Mike shifts forward again. Slower now. A tremor in his hand as he reaches up, tentative.
He’s staring at Will like he’s afraid to blink.
His fingertips graze Will’s jaw, feather-light.
And then, softer than breath:
“Can I?”
Will doesn’t answer with words.
He just leans in.
And then Mike surges forward—and it’s everything.
It’s teeth and heat and years of silence finally breaking. It’s Mike grabbing Will’s face like he can’t bear to lose it again, like he’s afraid this isn’t real. Will’s hands bunch in the front of Mike’s soaked shirt, dragging him impossibly closer.
The kiss is desperate. Messy. Earned.
Mike backs him up—step by step—until Will’s back hits the wall with a soft thud, and still, still, they can’t stop.
Will’s breath hitches as Mike kisses down once, barely a break, their foreheads knocking together between gasps.
They hold each other like they’re trying to make up for lost time. Like the world is ending outside this room and they don’t care.
Daryl only agreed to go to one of Rick's parties because he knew you'd be there. A little too much whiskey later, he's saying everything he's spent months keeping to himself, and suddenly, the feelings you both thought were one-sided aren't so one-sided after all.
He’s drunk as hell on Rick’s porch, and regretting even showing up. He only came for you, and god, you looked beautiful. He figured hell would freeze over before you considered thinking about him the way he thought about you.
He took another sip of whiskey and leaned against the banister, head turning as he heard the door open.
Oh god it’s her.
“Hey, ‘s you.” He slurred, tilting his head to the side with a lopsided grin.
You shake your head, lolling against the railing next to him. “Are you drunk? I didn’t think that was possible.”
He chuckled, swaying slightly as he looked at you with dazed eyes. “Mhm, real drunk. Been workin’ on it for hours.” He gestures with the bottle, the amber liquid sloshing against the lip of the pitcher. He moves to grip the bottle with both hands, knuckles white, but the liquid still slides down the side, dripping once, twice. “How’re ya doin’ tonight, sweetheart?”
You reach over and take the bottle from his hand, capping it as he pouts. “Jesus, why are you drinking so much anyway?” You question, holding the alcohol out of reach as he shakily reaches for it.
“Aint none o’ your business, ‘m jus’ havin’ fun’.” He wines before muttering under his breath. “‘S lonely without ya around.”
With brows furrowed deep, jaw locked, and lips in a thin, white line, you narrow your eyes to slits, lowering your voice. “Daryl, tell me and I’ll give you your drink back.” It was a lie, but not one that he could pick out from the drunken stupor he was in.
Daryl huffs, crossing his arms like a child. “Fine. Miss you, alright? Miss talkin' t'ya... miss everythin'. Been thinkin' 'bout ya all damn night. Didn't think ya'd wanna see me outside o' work." His cheeks flush deeper than the alcohol’s doing, embarrassment mixing with honesty as your eyes widen.
“W-well, I wasn’t going to give you the drink back…” You admit, cheeks flushing a deep crimson shade. “But.. that’s really sweet.”
Daryl’s eyes widen at your blush, and for a fleeting moment, a genuine smile pierces through his drunken scowl.
“Yeah? Ya miss me too?”
He steps closer, stumbling slightly across the wooden floorboards, but quickly catching himself. Putting the drink aside you hold him by his shoulders and he lets out a shaky breath, his hands finding your waist instinctively. You stared at him, searching his face for some sign that he was teasing you. Instead, all you found was a man far too honest for his own good.
"Daryl..." you murmured. “You know that you can just… ask me to hang out.”
He frowned immediately, eyes dropping to the porch floor. “Thought you had better things to do. Always busy.” His words tangled together as he spoke, the whiskey making every sentence slower than the last, but the warmth in your chest grew impossible to ignore. The tips of his fingers curled slightly, bunching up your shirt as if afraid you’ll disappear.
“I think we all are, a zombie apocalypse isn’t a piece of cake.” You tease, wrapping your own arms his waist as he buries his face in your neck, inhaling deeply. You sigh and slowly run your fingers through his scalp, his locks of hair curling around your fingers. “...time’s been there… always has.”
A soft whimper escaped Daryl’s mouth as he shifted his weight forward, the scent of him wrapping around you like a blanket. “Then why ain’t ya takin’ it? Usin’ it? Usin’ me? Cause everytime I see ya… I start thinking stupid things.”
“Like?” You tilt your head slightly, but he looked absolutely horrified that you asked.
"...Like holdin' your hand." He murmured, his ears turning bright red. "...Or sittin' next t'ya. ...Maybe kissin' ya someday."
The last sentence barely came out above a whisper, but before either of you could say another word, the porch door flew open.
"Daryl!" Rick called, grinning far too widely himself. "There you are! We've been lookin' all over—"
Rick stopped mid-sentence, taking in the scene: you holding Daryl steady by his shoulders, Daryl's hands still resting gently around your waist, and the unmistakable blush on both your faces.
"...Am I interrupting something?"
Daryl groaned.
"'Course ya are."
Rick lifted both hands in surrender, trying, (and failing), not to laugh.
"Okay, okay. I'll leave."
He disappeared back inside, the door clicking shut behind him. Silence settled over the porch again as Daryl buried his face in one hand with a groan. "'M never hearin' the end o' that."
Smiling, you gently pulled his hand away from his face. "Probably not."
He peeked at you through messy strands of hair. "...You mad?"
"No."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure."
His shoulders visibly relaxed, leaning into you until his forehead bumped lightly against yours. "'Kay..."
"Daryl?" you murmured.
"Hm?"
"I think..." Heat crept into your cheeks. "I think we've both been really stupid."
His brows furrowed. "...Huh?"
You laughed under your breath. "You keep saying you thought I didn't want to spend time with you, but... I thought you didn't want to spend time with me."
His head jerked up. "What?"
"You always seemed busy. Hunting, helping Rick, talking to Carol..." You shrugged. "I figured I'd just be bothering you."
"Botherin' me?" he echoed, genuinely baffled.
"I'd talk myself out of coming over every time." You fiddled with the sleeve of your shirt before quietly adding, "...There was another reason."
"...Another one?"
You nodded. "I... kind of panic around you."
His eyebrows shot up. "...Me?"
"I know it sounds ridiculous."
"'Sounds a little ridiculous."
You nudged his shoulder with a laugh. "Thanks."
"'M bein' honest."
Taking a slow breath, you admitted, "I never know what to say..."
"Why?"
The words escaped before you could lose your nerve.
"...Because I think you're really attractive."
Daryl's mouth fell open, his cheeks flushing an even darker shade beneath the porch light. "'Ya... ya think I'm hot?" He stared at you like you'd spoken another language. "Sweetheart... 'm just some redneck with a crossbow."
You sigh and cup his face, making him freeze as his breath hitches. “I’ve just had a crush on you for the longest time and… I’ve never been good with those.”
Daryl’s heart raced, his pulse visible in his neck as silence seemed to choke him up. "Ya... ya did?" His mouth hung open. "Why didn't ya say nothin'? Been pinin' after ya for months."
You laugh, going to ruffle his hair when he catches your wrist, not letting you pull away. “Guess we’re a couple of idiots in love.” You tease but his eyes search yours intensely, a mix of wonder and lingering drunkenness.
“Love? Your love? Shit… Yer gonna regret sayin’ that when I kiss ya, sweetheart.”
Frozen in place, your face becomes as red as a tomato and you stumble back “I think we should get you sobered up first.” You swallow before lugging him to your apartment, your heart racing.
He just stumbles along, leaning heavily on you but grinning. “Ain’t gonna make me wait forever, right? Once I’m sober?”
° ✩ °
Your apartment is small but cozy, and as soon as you two walk in Daryl collapses onto your couch. “Yer place is nice. Cozy, like you.”
“Alright hold your horses.” You chide, bringing him a glass of water and pressing it against his lips. “Here, drink.”
Effortlessly he takes the glass and downs it like a shot, placing it aside. “Mm. Thanks. Still want that kiss though.” He murmurs, patting the spot next to him on the couch, eyes slightly clearer but still glazed over with desire.
“You’ll feel better, but I’m still not kissing you till you’re sober.” You remind him, curling up and pulling a blanket around the two of you. Even nuzzling into the crook of his neck now feels like the most natural thing in the world.
He grumbles but accepts, wrapping an arm around you under the blanket. “Fine. But tomorrow morning, yer mine.” Soon you feel his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm, his body warm against yours. “Yer so damn soft… how’re ya so soft in this world?”
“I still don’t understand how you can be so handsome either, I just look at you and my heart races. You muse, massaging his scalp from the comforting warmth of his embrace. Daryl just shivers at your touch, his eyes half-lidded.
“Keep doin’ that and I’ll forget ‘bout bein’ sober.” He remarks, his voice dropping lower, husky with sleepiness and want as he watches you with darkening eyes, his breathing becoming uneven. “Yer playin’ with fire, darlin’ been dreamin’ ‘bout havin’ ya like this. Yer quiet now. Thinkin’ bout what ya wanna do to me?”
His hand slides to your hip, thumb stroking gently. “Or what ya want me to do to you?”
You just snort and lightly smack his forehead and reply. “You’re way too bold for someone drunk on your girlfriend’s couch.”
Daryl winces playfully at the smack, then freezes. “Girlfriend? We official now? Cause I’m holdin’ ya like a boyfriend should.” A smirk forms and his grip tightens possessively. “And I ain’t that drunk, still know what I want.”
And that line was all it took. All it was before you could snap.
You cupped his face and pulled him close, kissing him as he groans deeply, immediately responding with hungry passion. His hands move to grip your waist firmly, pulling you onto his lap without braking contact.
I'm writing like I'm Hamilton here, I know, BUT I did just write a second fanfiction. In one day. I know. My grades are at stake but byler is more important
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
"Mike's life is nothing if not satisfactory. It's not particularly exciting or something unexpected, but it's satisfactory. Really, his father would be proud of him. He is married to Kate, a very nice, very... proper woman, and he has a 15 year old daughter with her, Jane (and yes, Kate knows where the name comes from. Kate knows everything about his past, actually. Almost everything)
[...]
About an hour in, a new song starts playing. Mike almost mistakes it for an 80s song, actually, but only for a moment. It is intriguing, though. He looks at the title - Good Luck, Babe, it says."
Or: Married with a child 53 year old Mike listens to Good Luck Babe and something snaps in him, something he never wanted to snap
This isn't a request or anything, I just want to know what Lawyer! reader think of Batman or Batman/ Bruce Wayne thought about them? Does lawyer reader know Batman secret identity?
(The scarecrow fic is awesome, I love reader moral ambiguity and Jonathan wanting to figured them out)
Omg, I've been thinking about this because I think it could be so funny to see batman dealing with lawyer reader. (I'm going to do a set of headcannons for Bruce and another one for batman)
What does Batman/Bruce Wayne think about Lawyer reader and vice versa.
(Tw: (female coded reader, mentions of alcohol problems, sassy reader, sarcastic reader, reader is older 30's, morally ambiguous reader).
Bruce Wayne:
At first, reader would think of Bruce as this himbo snobby rich guy who just came into the city after almost being declared death. She didn't really mind him that much at first.
When you first started getting famous because of your cases focusing solely on criminals, he thought you were just as corrupt as others in Gotham, but after investigating and realising you actually didn't need to slip money to buy the judge he was certainly surprised.
(of course, he didn't knew your blackmail technique).
He didn't really mind you. Your actions were obviously reprimendable but you are not committing actual crimes. Even though he is a bit annoyed that you are defending this kind of people.
At some point, you started working for the higher ups of the mob or just high end criminals. Right there was when Bruce started attending the trials in which you were working on to try and understand how you worked.
Admittedly, your performance was impecable but he still tried to find cracks so he could stop you from defending criminals
Reader, on the other hand found Bruce Wayne interesting at first. The billionaire heir of Wayne industries just came back to town after almost 8 years without appearing in public.
And all of this was coincidentally the same time that Batman started appearing as local vigilante. The logical first step was investigation.
I mean, it made sense. Who else could afford the gadgets batman used apart from a billionaire.
So reader basically investigated Bruce Wayne as much as possible, going as far as following him around. But knowing he could see you, you would look at him through buildings instead of directly.
One night, you catched the batmovil escaping the police so you followed the marks that the car left on the grass once it got out of the highway.
At some point you reached a waterfall that seemed to led to a cave that was suspiciously close to the Wayne manor.
That's how you deduced that Bruce Wayne had to be Batman. But even though everyone would pay a lot of money for that information, you decided to kept quiet. Until one night you confronted Wayne himself.
------------------------------
You had been (miraculously) invited to one of Bruce Wayne's famous parties. On this sort of parties ,politicians, businessman and every other person with influence in Gotham was invited,which meant that you were going to be with the elite of Gotham.
You put on the best dress you had, a sleeveless black dress with a beautiful diamond necklace you owned.
You decided to use the opportunity to acquaintance yourself with Gotham's elite and to find potential new clients (everyone there is corrupt, let's face it).
You spent the night cautiously observing Bruce Wayne and making small talk with all of the other guests. At the same time, you tried to remember as much of the manor as you could.
At some point of the night, you saw how Bruce Wayne went out of the mansion to his extensive garden. You followed after him.
He sat down in one of his stone benches and thats when you decided to make yourself known..
"Mr Wayne? I think he haven't officially met I'm (Y/N) (Y/L/N) and I would like to see if you could answer me to certain questions I have." You extended you hand and he accepted it, giving you a firm handshake. A polite smile forming in his lips
"Yes, (Y/L/N) you've been getting quite popular lately. Your interpretation of the law is certainly interesting." He signaled the place right next to him for you to sit there. You did so. "So, what did you want to ask me, tell me"
"You know Mr Wayne, since the arrival of this new vigilante we have now, my interest has peaked but I cannot help but wonder... Who's is really the man behind the mask?" Bruce felt the closest thing to a chill running up his back, his facade almost faltering.
Your gaze on him was so intense, almost as if you were studying him. You couldn't have figured it out, could you? He again recomposed himself and answered
"What a great question, if you ever get to the answer I would love to hear who is this mysterious masked man" He adjusted his tie "Unfortunately, Batman is sneaky, I don't think you are going to catch him soon." He laughed. His laughter being a little more tense than it should.
You smirked at him, actually finding humourous his reaction " No, I think you haven't understood me Mr Wayne" You paused and with your hand you covered most of his face without really touching it. That way, the only the part that was under his nose and jaw was uncovered . You kept looking at him for a few second.
"What I'm asking is... Who is the man behind the mask" You put away your hand, the message clear.
Bruce Wayne's expression was unreadable. He was dead serious now. He could see your smirk as if you just solved a hard puzzle before a rival and at that moment he knew.
He knew you knew.
He didn't really say anything, still a little bit shocked by how you presented yourself to him.
"Don't worry Mr Wayne. I'm a discreet woman. I can keep a secret... But bear in mind, information is power and I wouldn't want to abuse it." Bruce's gaze followed you while you stood up and straightened your dress. "Good night" You ended with a mischievous smile.
He stood there, paralysed for a few minutes until he finally recomposed himself and went back to the party.
He tried to find you again but Alfred informed him you had already gone home.
That night Bruce Wayne couldn't sleep, not knowing what to expect from your volatile characters.
------------------------------
After that, Bruce started to keep and eye on you either by city cameras or by causally being in the same court house as you were in.
He wanted to have you on sight. You were constantly dealing with criminals or even ill people from Arkham. But somehow you managed to avoid him most of the times.
Reader would become extremely insufferable now that she has this information confirmed. Every time that Bruce Wayne was in a public event that you were in as well you would give him this shit-eating smile and probably raise your glass at him.
Basically now he has to look not only after the main Gotham villains and mafias but also he had to be careful about you.
(Would probably start inviting you to more of his parties to have a chance either at negotiation or at least to have you on sight).
From someone on the outside, it seems almost as if you were friends. Little did they know that you were only invited so he could try to find your next client and that you only accepted this invitation to search for said clients (and the expensive food).
At the end of the night, Alfred would tell him how you would not stop taking wineglasses throughout the night and that he would need to buy some more if your being invited to his parties.
At some point, he would just tell Alfred to try and avoid you so you could not take one of the glasses in the tray
BATMAN:
(Im treating them different since Bruce Wayne has a different personality than Batman)
I think reader doesn't really like batman all that. She sees him as someone who does whatever he pleases while judging others for doing the same.
She's not really against him because he doesn't follow the law, (let's be honest, very few people in Gotham follow it) but she's more angry by the fact that he can do whatever he wants but others don't.
Batman has caused several material damages while defeating villains and in some cases he has physically affected several criminals. Reader thinks that Batman has absolutely no boundaries and that if he ever goes crazy (somehow) he could cause as much damage as any other villain.
Batman, would be way more direct compared to Bruce Wayne in his vigilance. For example, from time to time, you would see the dark siluette of the bat outside your apartment.
Also, if you are walking through an alley at night (horrible decision btw) he would randomly appear from God knows where and start trying to interrogate you.
Of course you would just smile and play around, talking to him with all the confidence in the world knowing that he knows you know.
Since you know who his counterpart is, you are able to embarrass him both as Bruce Wayne and as Batman.
Like, we all know that Bruce Wayne has to act a little bit like a stupid rich kid. Well, when you casually bump on batman while going back home from a meeting, you are very quick to remind him (whispering) how he made a fool of himself and how ridiculous he must have felt.
This is why he acts in the first place, if someone else found out about his secret identity no one would take him seriously.
He gets sick pretty quickly from your mocking so he eventually leaves you alone but one thing you will never tell him is that you have became a little bit paranoid about him, some how, entering your apartment and hiding in the shadows (all your lights are now turned on at night)
Gordon, Alfred and other police officers get really surprised when they see the almost familiar treatment you give to the superhero, as if you were friends (You publicly admitted on hating him, calling the batman a 'probably unemployed dude who's playing superhero' on the news and Alfred cannot stop listening to Bruce complain about you managing to keep free another criminal).
------------------------------
You just got to the police department to defend you newest client. A woman who had killed her husband after escaping and cooked his corpse, later donating the stew to several homeless shelters.
After an argument with Gordon, you managed to stay with her while the batman himself interrogated her. (They were trying to know which shelters were affected)
Batman was already grabbing her by the shirt and was ready to give her the joker treatment until you intervened.
"This whole interrogation is being recorder mister Batman, and I have access to said records so if you were to hit or threaten my client another time, I might need to take you to court." You told him while getting closer to both him and the woman.
"Tell your client to give us the names of the shelters or stay out of this!" He said in a raspy and violent tone " Oh I'm afraid I cannot do so, the only name I remember at this moment is yours, It would be such a shame if it escaped my mouth somehow." Your whispering voice sounded in the room
At this point, Batman had already started to put down the woman "Let's negotiate" You reasoned with him. His fist were tight as a vice. He couldn't just let you spill his secret infront of the police.
"She gives you the names of the shelters and she only gets time in Arkham and a fine" You started "She's a criminal and she's going to jail" He responded as firm as a stone wall.
"So are you and I don't see you being bars" You were really set on testing his patience. "She killed a man and people are eating his corpse at the moment." Batman shouted while getting closer as if trying to intimidate you
"Precisely, you think someone like that is mentally ok? You should know since you literally dress as a bat and patrol the streets at night. That's psycho behaviour" Before he could start arguing with you, Gordon called for a break, already used to dealing with your antics and your passion for rage bating the hero. "Time in Arkham, I will not accept other prison" That was your final statement.
------------------------------
To sum it all up, Bruce and Reader are seemingly friendly on the outside but both of them are annoyed by the other on the inside.
Bruce thinks reader is someone that only cares about money and that's willing to see the whole city burn to ashes by liberating a terrorist from prison.
Even if the opinion isn't positive, he can acknowledge that she's the best at her job but doesn't like her much since she's directly contributing to Gotham's corruption.
Reader thinks of him as a rich guy who cries and becomes a vigilante for something most people in Gotham have gone through, losing someone important. She ven considers him a brat
Thought she's impressed and somehow respects the dedication put into hiding his identity. Not everyone is willing to humiliate themselves just so they're unsuspecting.
Batman thinks of reader as a legal villain. (He doesn't know about your illegal activities yet)
You're fully legal at the eyes of the law but you cause just as much damage as other criminals or mobs in the city.
Is eternally annoyed that he can't really retaliate against her because: 1 he has a moral code; 2 she's technically not doing anything illegal and 3 she knows who he is and she has a very changing behaviour and positioning.
Reader thinks of Batman as a hypocrite. A rich guy who thinks he can do whatever he wants while punishing others for doing the same as him.
She feels kind of intimidated by him. I mean, he's a big ass man dressed as a bat.
You check every corner to see if he's there hiding on the dark spots. She once returned home from a meeting with Jonathan Crane after he escaped Arkham and she found the Batman standing still in a corner of her living room.🕴️ ( She nearly had a heart attack).
Who are the real victims of this mess? Gordon and Alfred.
Gordon has to stand you both and all of your quirks and antics and Alfred, well, he already deals with enough.
Other lawyer reader:
💬 0 🔁 1 ❤️ 8 · Scarecrow x lawyer reader · Hey Can you maybe if you can write Cillian Murphy scarecrow with Lawyer! reader? I'm curious ho
Buenaaaas. I've been thinking of some one shots or other dynamics I could work on with this reader. Like, imagine if she's actually good friends with Gordon and outside work they go for coffee and he has to tell her off about defending criminals.
Any other requests of any kind, please ask without any shame. I would love to practice more writing.
