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slytherinslut0 · 3 months ago

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tom riddle. | everyone has their vices

summary: tom riddle tells you he jerks off (and more) to relieve stress. just….in typical tom fashion.

word count: 2k

tags: 18+, suggestive content, so much tension you’ll choke on it, frustrating subliminal tom riddle (though reader is just as stubborn), flirting, masturbation insinuation, make out sesh.

"But how?”

Tom inhaled sharply, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he prepared to reexplain for what felt like the hundredth time. "Because, the slightest distraction or doubt can result in consequence—as I said previous. A momentary lapse in any of the areas we covered will result in splinching."

You blinked, staring at him like he'd spoken an alternate language. The late night and the relentless focus on Tom's face for the past four hours had blurred everything into a haze and dulled his voice into a monotonous hum, blending with the soft rustle of parchment and the distant lapping of the lake against the window. He could see it—your disconnection, the way his words slipped past you like water through fingers.

He exhaled, slumping back in his chair, a hand raking through his dark hair in frustration. "Should we call it a night?"

"Probably," you muttered, your gaze drifting to the window behind him, the surface of the Black Lake rippling under the moonlight. "You've overloaded my brain. I stopped comprehending two hours ago."

You felt Tom's eyes narrow slightly as he studied you—you must have looked a mess. Strands of hair had fallen out of your ponytail, your uniform shirt was half undone, and there was a dullness in your eyes that spoke of more than just exhaustion. A week bedridden with the flu had set you back, and now, despite Tom's best efforts, you felt like you were drowning.

He knew you were stressed beyond measure—you were normally not like this.

"You need to relax," he said, the words landing with the flatness of an undisputed fact. "You won't retain anything in the state you're in."

"How can I relax when I'm two weeks behind? And exams are next week?" Your voice cracked with the weight of your frustration as you leaned your elbows on his desk, burying your face in your hands. "I'm helpless, Tom. I know you know it."

"Would I be sitting here wasting my time if I thought you were helpless?" He watched you, almost clinical in his intensity as he spoke—tone matter-of-factly, devoid of any false comfort. It cut through your despair with ease. Tom Riddle never did anything without purpose; if he was here, it meant he believed you were worth the effort. "My suggestion is that you reset your brain," he continued, his voice steady like his fingers as he shut the textbook between you. "Take a walk. Have a cold shower. Jump in the lake. Whatever you need to do to decompress."

The simplicity of his suggestions almost made you laugh, but it was the kind of laughter that would easily turn into tears if you let it. Tom had a way of stripping everything down to its most basic form—of cutting through your stress and chaos and presenting you with a simple, unvarnished answer.

You were a mess, and he was telling you to fix it—no coddling, no pity, just a clear-eyed assessment of the situation. And somehow, that was exactly what you needed to hear. You appreciated him for it.

"Decompress, huh. I don't believe I've ever done such a thing." You leaned back in your chair with a lopsided grin, arms crossed. "Is that what you do? Jump in the lake?"

Tom let out a huff, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in what was almost—almost—a smile.

"Something like that."

Interesting—Tom Riddle, always so composed, every inch of him meticulously put together, as if the mere idea of stress was a foreign concept. You couldn't imagine him spiralling, not the way you did—frankly, you couldn't imagine him ever feeling overwhelmed at all.

The curiosity gnawed at you, wondering what he did to unwind—what rituals or habits did the untouchable Tom Riddle indulge in when no one was watching?

"Something else, then?" You pushed it further, gently, your eyebrow arching just slightly.

For a moment, his gaze flickered, something dark and inscrutable passing behind his eyes. You knew he was considering your words, debating whether to indulge your curiosity or keep you at arm's length. Such a fascinating creature he was—all brick walls and boarded windows—you had a feeling he was going to shut this down.

Until, he leaned forward.

"If you're asking if I have habits—I suppose I do," he said, your eyes drawn to the way his lips moved, the way his voice curled around each syllable. "Habitual things I do to—relax, let's say."

You hummed and pulled your lower lip between your teeth as you considered him—fighting to hide your amusement. That was the biggest personal moment you've had out of Tom Riddle since the day you met him in first year where he told you his name.

"Well, isn't that a revelation," you teased, toying with the edge of your skirt. "Just the mere insinuation that Tom Riddle has to do something to relax—as though he's not always cool, calm, and collected like he lets on."

His lips curled slightly at your words, his gaze dipping briefly from your eyes to your mouth, trailing lower in a slow, deliberate sweep that brushed over your chest before landing back on the desk.

Your brain buffered, tingles in the wake of his wrath. He picked up his quill, spinning it idly between his fingers.

"Everyone has their vices—if they don't, they end up like you," he said, his tone laced with an ambiguity that made you wonder just how deep his ran. "Perhaps it's time you found some."

You scoffed, leaning further back in your chair, the fabric of your shirt pulling tighter across your chest. You forced yourself to ignore the visceral reaction your body had as you caught the brief flicker in Tom’s gaze—the way his eyes darted up to the movement before he quickly masked his expression.

For a moment, you thought you might be imagining things, but the tensing of your thighs betrayed a reaction you couldn't quite shake.

"And what are yours?" You asked after a moment, your voice softer now. Tom Riddle was many things, but he was not a conversationalist—and yet here he was, indulging your curiosity instead of shutting it down. He was humouring you, and you intended to make the most of it. "Decompressing with bland tea and ancient tomes? Sneaking into the Restricted Section when no one's looking?"

“Mm, no.” Tom let out a snort, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips— "I’d say my vices are less...pedestrian, than all that."

The quill in his fingers stilled—the change in his demeanour was subtle, though you felt it in the air—electric, making your pulse quicken. He traced the edge of the feather with the tip of his thumb, the motion slow and deliberate, and you found yourself inexplicably distracted, fighting the urge to shift in your seat.

Why in Merlin's name was that so damn captivating?

"Less pedestrian?" You echoed, curiosity at an all-time-high. "What do you do, then, Tom? Dance naked by the light of the full moon?"

"I should hope not," he laughed—a low, rumbling sound that resonated in the pit of your stomach as you giggled alongside him. The quill twirled again in his fingers, the motion languid, almost hypnotic. "No, I'd say my vices are more...private. Less suited to polite company. Perhaps I should let you guess since the mystery of it seems to fascinate you so."

The look he gave you made you stiffen, a challenge—no, a dare—clear in his deep, dark eyes. Your thighs involuntarily reacted again—less suited to polite company?

"I believe I've already made several guesses," you tried to compose yourself with a shallow inhale. "I'm quite at a loss."

He shook his head, stifling his grin. "Clearly, you lack imagination."

"Clearly, you enjoy being cryptic." You shot back, unable to stifle yours.

At that, he hummed—it was obvious your stubbornness was as entertaining to him as it was aggravating. Perhaps you could say the same. He set the quill down, his eyes on yours as the fingers of his free hand began to tap idly on the desk—and then his gaze dipped again, tracing the curve of your lips before drifting lower, a slow, deliberate path that made you tense.

For a moment, you wondered if the tension in the air was all in your head. Was he always this adventurous with his eyes?

"When the mind is under strain," he began, his voice smooth, clinical, "it's a result of an excessive influx of neural signals. Synapses misfire, disrupting cognitive function. A basic physiological response." He watched your reaction closely, as though gauging the impact of his words. "To address such a state, one must reestablish control over these neural pathways. To be direct, I find the most efficacious methods involve tasks that stimulate the senses without being emotionally or physically taxing. A simple, repetitive action can suffice—something arbitrary enough to encourage the subconscious to lose focus."

You fought the urge to scowl at his change in speech—Tom knew damn-well just how overwhelmed your brain was—and then continued to recite scientific jargon as if it were his full-time occupation.

You’d almost be mad if it weren’t for the fucking words that stuck to the inside of your ears—stimulate, repetitive, lose focus—

"You're a walking textbook, aren't you?" You continued to play it off—you didn't want to make assumptions—you hated the way he danced around the edges of things, never quite saying what he meant. "Be specific."

Tom's grin grew as he leaned in slightly, his fingers stilling on the desk between you. "I find tasks that involve the hands particularly useful. Something that can be repeated in a smooth, steady rhythm, with little conscious thought required. The ability to lose oneself in the pattern is key."

Merlin help you—the atmosphere in his dorm had changed with those words; the air turned viscous, cloying, each breath sticking in your throat like syrup—hands, steady rhythm, lose oneself—the words pulsed with implication, even if it was buried under layers of his typical, infuriating ambiguity.

He was absolutely referring to—no—no assumptions—

You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry. "So...knitting?"

The words tumbled out, a weak attempt at humour to cut through the tension, but they hung lifeless in the air—as hollow as the chuckle that rumbled from Tom's chest.

His eyes traced over you, lingering in a way that made your skin prickle. "Not exactly."

"Hm. A different kind of needlecraft, perhaps." You shifted in your seat, trying to inject a semblance of nonchalance into your posture.

But you weren't fooling him—you never had—

"How much longer are you going to play coy?" He murmured, the amusement clear from light-years away.

Heat surged up your neck, the flush burning across your cheeks, betraying you—"how much longer are you going to continue holding your tongue?"

Your voice came out sharper than intended, laced with a challenge you barely felt capable of meeting. You and Tom had always been cordial, the slight suggestive comment here and there, mostly from your end. But this—oh, this was different—this was uncharted territory.

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. "Would you prefer I do something else with it?"

Oh, fuck yes you would—

"You're being obtuse," you practically choked out, though the words lacked the bite you intended. "Entirely vague."

"I'm being clear," he countered, his gaze never wavering. "But you're being obstinate—willfully ignorant to my meaning because you refuse to acknowledge it without me saying it outright."

The air between you dissipated—you tried to grasp for a coherent thought, something to regain your footing, but your mind faltered, stumbling over the implications of what he was saying. His eyes never left yours—and you watched them deepen in colour, black pupils eating away the rich brown of his irises, darkening with something that made the room feel unbearably small.

You could feel the heat rising in your body, pooling low in your belly. How did he do this to you? How did he turn you inside out with nothing more than words and that infuriating, knowing smile?

"Tell me," you breathed, hating how desperate the words sounded, "what do you do with your hands, Tom?...how do you use them to relieve...stress?"

The second those words left your lips you realized what was truly happening here—Tom Riddle never did anything without intent—every word, every pause, every smirk, was a thread in a web he was weaving, intricate and inescapable. He'd led you here, gently, subtly, with the barest hint of force, and now that you were caught, you realized that you wanted this.

Needed it.

And it was clear he did too. Otherwise you'd never have gotten to this point—he wanted you to push, to dig deeper—your stomach twisting as you watched Tom wet his lips, but there was no smirk on them this time.

Only something intense—jaw set, eyes focused—

"I think we both know what I do with my hands," he whispered, the double entendre clear in every syllable— "you knew exactly what I was insinuating the moment this started."

Your breath snagged in your throat, a tremor running through your entire body as the warmth pooling in your belly began to spread, sinking lower, threading through every nerve. Your vision narrowed, centering entirely on him—his eyes, the curve of his lips, the way his presence seemed to devour the room, leaving no space for anything else.

And then, you nodded, the movement barely there—a subtle acknowledgment of your understanding.

"Do you touch yourself, Tom?..." the words escaped you, a soft, breathy whisper that you could hardly believe were your own. "Or do you touch someone else?"

For a heartbeat, everything seemed to freeze, suspended in the intensity of those questions.

The world narrowed to the point of his gaze, the sharp line of his jaw—the reality of where you were, what you were doing, almost seemed to blur—trapping you both in a moment that felt surreal, like a scene caught in the still frame of a film. Never—never—had you imagined a conversation like this with Tom Riddle, hardly your acquaintance, the untouchable genius of the school.

And yet here you were, heart pounding, every nerve on fire, and Merlin help you, you were going to wring every drop of this out for as long as you could.

He swallowed, and you watched the movement, entranced. "Depends on my level of stress."

Tom's expression was unreadable—except for the subtle tension in his shoulders as he leaned back, spreading his legs a fraction wider, the fabric of his dress shirt straining against the flex of his biceps—

"...and how stressed are you right now?" You whispered, reckless, without a trace of restraint.

Tom's throat bobbed with another swallow, a gesture so simple yet so charged that it sent your pulse roaring in your ears.

"Quite," he murmured, his voice taut, stretched thin. "The past four hours have been rather taxing—wouldn't you agree?”

A nervous laugh bubbled up, escaping before you could stop it. You tried to steady yourself, drawing in a slow, shaky breath. You had never felt so intensely aroused and frustrated in your life, and you knew, without a bloody doubt, that he was perfectly aware of it.

"Are you trying to imply l'm the cause of your stress?"

"On the contrary," he said, his gaze raking over you, his eyes dark and hungry, as if you were something to be consumed, devoured whole. "I'm saying you've exacerbated it. Though I'll concede a fair share of the responsibility—as it is mine, after all."

"How kind of you," you whispered, voice trembling with the effort to maintain composure. "To admit your own fault in the matter."

"I'm a kind man." His voice was a low purr, the kind that seeped into your bones, making your blood thrum with anticipation. "I like to take responsibility for my shortcomings."

Yes, yes—so very kind—

"Then take it."

The words left your mouth before you could second-guess them, a challenge thrown into the thick, suffocating air between you. The tension was a living thing now, colled tight, ready to snap, turning your insides into a churning mess of want and need.

Tom arched an eyebrow.

"Take it?" He echoed. "And what exactly do you want me to take, sweetheart?"

Sweetheart.

The pet name rolled off his tongue with a casual ease that sent a flush of heat straight to your core— the simple word wielded like a weapon, striking you down with its intimacy. There was no denying the power that name held over you, especially when coming from his lips.

"The responsibility..." you whispered, the words trembling as they left you, barely more than a breath. "…for your..." you hesitated, your eyes locked onto his as you finally said, "…shortcomings."

For a moment, everything hung in the balance—until, oxygen extinct, Tom leaned forward, closing the space between you until he was so close you could feel the heat radiating off him, mingling with your own.

Curse this fucking desk between you.

"My shortcomings," he repeated, his eyes flicking to your lips. "Is that all I should take responsibility for?"

"Are you suggesting..." you leaned in as well, the distance between you shrinking to a breath—your gaze drawn to his own mouth—the plush of it, how bad you wanted to feel it against yours, "...there's something else you wish to take responsibility for?"

Said mouth curled into the faintest hint of a smile and witnessing the shift this close felt dangerously religious—as though you'd experienced something sacred not many have before—part of you knew you did.

"Many things," he whispered, the sound soft as velvet, dangerous as a blade. "The list is long and varied..."

The heat in your body was painful—you had never been this close to him, never felt the full weight of his presence bearing down on you like this. His cologne—faint, rich, and so distinctly Tom—overwhelmed you, the same scent he'd worn since you first met him.

It was infuriating, how everything he did was so subtle, simple—yet so fucking intoxicating, so irresistible.

"...I'm not quite sure where to start." His eyes flicked back to yours.

Every word that fell from his lips was a new form of torture, his dark eyes pinning you in place, searing into you. The heat radiating from his body made you want to retreat, to find air, to find space—but the thought of putting any distance between you was unbearable, the need to be near him overriding everything else.

You'd rather lose consciousness than pull back.

"Why don't you start..." you whispered, tilting your head, your teeth grazing your bottom lip. "By fixing the insatiable ache in my curiosity...the one you created when you mentioned how you use your hands...to relieve stress..."

He exhaled, the sound rumbling from his chest like a growl and you could almost imagine that if he parted his lips, you'd glimpse fangs behind them right now—you'd never seen him like this—his gaze predatory, fucking ravenous, and it was as though he could devour you whole if he so chose to.

But you knew better. Tom Riddle would never be so crude. His methods of torment were deliberate—Methodical. A slow depletion of your senses until you're gasping for something only he can give you.

Then, in a voice that was all gravel and silk, he whispered, "is that all that's aching...your...curiosity?"

"Gods no—"

But you never finished that thought—because in an instant, his hand was tangled in your hair, pulling you forward with a force that sent you careening over the desk and into him—Tom Riddles lips crashed against yours, and it was like drowning, his tongue invading your mouth, stealing your breath and dragging all ounces of your cognitive ability along with it.

You were half out of your chair, caught in the gravity of him, unsure if your legs were even working, or if it was his grip alone that held you upright. His free hand found your wrist, pinning it to the desk as his mouth worked you with a fervour that made your head spin. The kiss was incendiary, a wildfire scorching its way through every nerve in your body, leaving nothing but ashes in its wake—the intensity of it, the sheer, unrelenting pressure of his lips on yours, made you wonder how you survived this long without it.

All the heat in your blood pooled low, deep between your thighs, an ache so profound it threatened to consume you. Tom Riddle was about to show you precisely how he used his hands to relieve stress, and Gods, if that wasn’t the only thing you’d ever needed right now.

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thebibliosphere · 1 year ago

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There are a lot of things I'm sad about in my life. You don't get to go through the kind of medical trauma I've been through and come out unscathed on the other side.

But one thing I'm really bitter about is that I can't remember my wedding anymore. The pernicious anemia took it from me and wiped my brain clean. Except it's not clean, not really. I remember it in patches. Like red wine stains on a white rug that have never quite lifted out no matter how hard you try.

I look at the pictures on my bookcase, and they feel like remembering a story someone else has told me. There's a young woman in a white dress wearing my face, and she looks happy. I'm happy for her. But you can see the strain around her eyes, too. The pain she's hiding because no one with authority believes her when she says her body doesn't feel right. That something is Wrong.

They won't believe her for another decade. They won't believe her until it's almost too late, and it's that lateness that will rob her of her memories and turn them into a wavering rainbow suspended in the fine haze of watery sunlight that occasionally surfaces through the blanks.

There's one memory that's real, though. Solid. It's not my vows. It's not my father walking me down the aisle. (Though those are there, just hazy and dream-like). It's our first dance.

It's the lights dimming around the room as the staff cleared the floor, causing the fishbowls full of white roses and LED lights on the tables to wobble like pools of moonlight against dark paneled walls.

It's the band inviting us out onto the floor and us giggling because we know what's coming next, and no one else does. It's the twang of a banjo reverberating around the room through the speakers, followed by the dulcet tones of Kermit the Frog wondering why there are so many songs about rainbows.

It's us waltzing around the enclosed circle of light, singing to each other out of tune and grinning like idiots as everyone around us starts to laugh.

It's everyone joining in on the song because it's the Muppets, and everyone knows the words. It's 100+ people singing the Rainbow Connection, some laughing, some a bit tearful, because it's bringing back memories. Because it's making a new one.

It's looking up at my new husband through the brain fog and all the pain in my body and thinking, "I want to remember this moment forever."

I don't know what entity was out there listening to me at that moment and chose to grant that wish. I don't know why this is the one memory that stuck while everything else in my brain got decimated into scattered, fragmented snapshots. But I'm so, so thankful it is.

#chronic health tag #trauma and recovery #memory loss #happy memories #note to self: do not forget

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djarincore · 7 months ago

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TAGS: incubus!ghost, smut, dubcon, somnophilia, fingering, PIV

A/N: i had a hard time falling asleep the other night and between that weird state of feeling awake but also asleep i felt this weird sensation of someone touching me sooo... INCUBUS!GHOST banner: @/cafekitsune

this version is definitely sexier than unsettling lol

Slipping between the realm of reality and dream, you lay on your stomach in a half-awake state of grogginess and confusion.

There's a hand on your leg—and, it's slipping further and further up your thigh.

It's heavy against your skin. You feel the individual fingers curve around the meat of your thigh. Then another trails your waist and down your hip.

For a moment you feel like there are hands all over you, touching you, caressing you. A light, unrestrained moan slips past your lips.

The part of your brain that typically jumps into action, demanding for you to kick or scream, remains dormant. You’re too tired to care enough to open your eyes and face what will ultimately be nothing.

In its exhaustion, your brain is conjuring up phantom touches. That's all this is. It will go away and you'll finally be able to slip back into unconsciousness. Or maybe you were already asleep and dreaming.

You bury your face into your pillow and ignore the tricks your brain is playing on you.

But the hands remain persistent, slipping between your thighs, cupping your cunt. You tense as the hand slides your panties to the side, a thick finger drags down the seam of your slit.

“You awake?”

A gruff voice jolts you out of your daze. You turn yourself onto your back and come face to face with a phantom.

A large figure looms over you. His body hides the sliver of moonlight shining through your window, shrouding you and him in darkness. Though his body is that of a man, he isn't entirely human. His face, if you can even call it that, resembles a skull, hollow eyes stare down at you.

Your lips part, only to realize your mouth is dry, a scream barely forms. You attempt to scramble away from his hands, pushing yourself against the headboard.

“Ah, not so fast,” he grunts, gripping your hands and pulling you back flat against the bed. He pins your hands against your chest, squeezing when you wiggle against his grip. “I’m not nearly finished with you.”

Your tongue darts out to swipe across your lower lip. “What do you want?”

The entity doesn't respond right away. He's distracted by the bobbing of your throat as you try to swallow your fear. A hand reaches out to skim the skin along your neck, tracing up the column of your throat with his knuckles.

You hate that his touch is so gentle—so gentle it makes your legs clench. Your brows furrow as you try to push away the desire pooling in your belly as he touches you.

“Same as you,” he says. His hand moves to cradle your cheek, but you turn your head, making him grab your jaw and face him once more.

He leans in close. You see nothing but darkness beyond the holes in his skull mask; the lower half of his face is simply shadow. “Need a good fuckin’. So, lay still and let me work.”

As you breathe him in, smoke and musk, your eyes feel heavy. It's almost pleasant to be stuck in this state, just on the edge of unconsciousness. Your thoughts are a haze, limbs relaxed and limp, pliant beneath him.

“That's right, just give in to it,” he coos, releasing your jaw and wrists. He slides your T-shirt up to reveal your breasts, running his thumb over your pert nipples. “I’ll make you feel good.”

Your mouth falls open when he grinds his hard cock against you. Your chest heaves, but you can't do much against him besides lay vulnerable as he touches you.

He slips a hand back into your underwear, rubbing slow circles against your clit, chuckling when your hips twitch. A finger pets your slit, gathering your wetness along the tip and guiding it back to your clit. He works you up until your legs tremble around him and then pushes two thick fingers into your tight hole. He moves slowly, fingers working inside of you like a caress.

You're a whimpering mess and awfully tired. The more he builds your climax the heavier your eyes get. “I- ‘m gonna-” you muster, weakly clawing at your sheets.

He lowers himself to your cunt, letting his tongue join his fingers, lapping at your juices and moaning. He hums, something low and lulling, “Good girl, let go for me.”

You do as he commands, tightening around his fingers and coming on his hand. The rest of the world begins to fall away as you come down from your orgasm.

You wake to the wet sounds of him fucking you. His cock slides out of your dripping, sore cunt only to thrust back in, fitting snug in your tight walls. Your legs are pushed up, spread and open for him to fit between.

You don't know how long he's been in you or how long you’ve been passed out. “S-Stop,” you whine, hoping to get a break. Even though you assume you slept, you're still exhausted. You fear whatever this entity wants from you, once he has it, you'll never wake up again.

“No,” he grunts. His voice now takes on a heavy rasp, grating and no longer soothing. “Fuckin’ take it.”

“Please,” you whimper. It's pathetic, breathless but all you can seem to muster. “Don't kill me.”

He laughs and the sound echoes through you. He rubs your puffy clit, making you flinch from the sensitivity and clench around him.

“Oh, ‘m not killin’ you; I'm keepin’ you.”

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley smut #cod smut #cod x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley smut #ghost smut #mw2 #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost fanfiction #simon riley x you #my works

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chosok-amo · 3 months ago

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MY BOY SUCH A PRETTY CRIER : GOJO SATORU

my boyfriend has the prettiest eyes,” . . . you love your boyfriend— gojo satoru's eyes, you always have, until you see him crying for the first time, and you can't help but need to see those eyes, glisten with tears, every chance you get.

warning. obsessive! gojo satoru, established relationship, mentioned of suicide, blood mention, obsessive reader, slight dark, toxic! reader.

wc. 6,6k ( art belong to the artist, devider belong to cafekitsune )

it's glisten...

gojo satoru's blue, azure irises glisten under the moonlight like little twinkling stars, silking with his tears. you were mesmerized and for a moment your erotic movement stammered, slower, slower, slower . . . and stopped. it hurt your chest, your lung, like the air just got reap by fingers with pointed nails, or razor-sharped teeth, you named it.

you gasp for air, holding them down inside your reaped lungs. it's suffocating, how his eyes make you feel. and suddenly, you can feel everything, your senses sharpen— the way his heart is beating like thunder underneath your palms, cocoon by his ribcage, the way his girth, his throbbing girth twitching inside you.

“baby...” he breathlessly calls you.

gojo's nail digging is dullest to your chubby rear, silently begging you to move and get back to work, but no.. you stay silent for a moment, drowning in his blue eyes you never realize as blue as the ocean, as deep as one before. you always knew it was pretty, but never as this pretty, it's breathtaking, it's soul-sucking, it's. . . gut wrenching, pain, because you will never have eyes like his, you will never, ever, find eyes like his with other men, other person.

“beautiful..” you whisper.

your trembling hand gently makes its way to kiss his cheek, thumb dancing across the skin to push away the tears selfishly. only you, it's only you who can get this close to his eyes, it is you.

“you are so beautiful,” soft, breathless whisper kissing your lips before you lean closer, skin to skin with his forehead. it was crystal clear, his eyes. . . so celar you can read his mind through it, see his soul laid bare, feel his blood and his heart beating faster each second- looking straight at you like its ready to burst his ribcage open nad run to you with all the blood, the flesh, even the bone.

one blink, two blink, and three blink it takes gojo to clear the glisten effect on his eyes, letting the last tears fall freely down to his cheeks. a small frown makes its way to your forehead, so you found your hips moving slowly, your glisten clit grinding against gojo's skin, his cock twitching and soft moan leaving his pink, swollen lips.

soft mean tear from your throat, past your lips the moment tears flooded in gojo's eyes. “don't close your eyes, baby,” you whisper, like a witch chanted a mantra. gojo nod eagerly, bewitched by you. it was sinister, your smile, drowning in love and something more. the look on your beautiful face, the one where gojo never saw. he was mesmerize with the way you look at him. how your eyes practically sparkling, your cheeks blushing madly, your eyes glue to him like he is the center of your world, and gojo was doomed.

after that unforgettable night, you find yourself completely immersed in the depth of gojo’s eyes, as if drawn into a boundless ocean of their beauty. every nuance of their color becomes an intricate tapestry that you cannot help but unravel. imagine, if you will, the way his eyes might transform under the tender embrace of a sunset, their natural brilliance kissed by hues of molten gold and soft amber, weaving a breathtaking symphony of warmth and light.

“hey, baby,” his voice drifts softly, like a breeze stirring you from the quiet of your thoughts, his words threading through the haze that clouds your mind.

you blink once, then twice, and a third time, as if awakening from a dream spun of shadows and whispers, until your gaze finds his—those eyes, blue as a restless sea, now roiling with a tempest of fury. it’s a sight that steals the breath from your lungs, a depthless anger that crashes like waves against the shores of his calm, threatening to sweep you away. his stare is fierce, wild. . . cannibalism lookalike even, and you feel something shift within you, a fullness that blooms in your chest, heavy and warm. his palm, cold against your flushed skin, cradles your cheek, and you lean into his touch, drawn like a moth to flame, craving the chill that soothes the heat of your racing heart.

his knuckles, adorned in the brutal artistry of bruises, are stained with the blood of those who dared to lay hands upon you, each mark a testament to the violence he’s wrought in your name. once again, his knuckles, oh, they are a map of violence—a testament to the ruin he hath wrought upon those foolish enough to lay a hand upon what he cherishes most: you, oh you. . . the love of his life.. bruises bloom like dark violets upon his skin, and the crimson of blood lingers, a stark reminder of his ferocity, his unrelenting need to protect, to possess, to guard you as fiercely as the lion doth its pride.

they bear the story of his wrath, of a love so vehement it spills over into rage, uncontained and ferocious. he stands as a fortress, unyielding and unbreakable, a sentinel who guards not with words but with fists and fury, and in his eyes, you see a promise—a vow that none shall harm you and live to see the sun again. his touch, a chilled caress upon your cheek, pulls you closer still, and you lean into it, seeking solace in the coolness of his palm, a balm against the heat of his wrath.

“baby, are you alright?” he asks, his voice a deep, soft rumble that vibrates through your very bones, soothing and stirring all at once. it washes over you, a tide that pulls you under, and suddenly your legs betray you, trembling beneath the weight of it all, the sheer intensity of his presence. you feel yourself melt, your knees weak, the world spinning as if gravity has turned traitor, and you begin to sink. but he is there, always there, swift and sure, catching you in the safety of his embrace, his strong arms wrapping around your trembling form, pulling you flush against the solid heat of his chest.

“please, hold me,” you whisper, voice barely a breath, still lost in the storm that rages within his gaze. there’s a desperation in your plea, a need to be held, to be anchored amidst the chaos that threatens to drown you both. his hold tightens, as if he could fuse you to him, make you one with his own flesh and bone, and you feel the world steady under the weight of his arms. his scent, warm and familiar, envelops you, a heady mix of comfort and danger that sends a shiver racing down your spine.

there is an obsession in the way he looks at you now, an all-consuming need that borders on madness, a love that knows no bounds, no reason, no restraint. for in that gaze, you are not merely seen—you are worshipped, adored, the very center of his universe, hell, you are a god to gojo satoru. his eyes, burning with the light of a thousand suns, speak not of mere affection but of a devotion so profound that it eclipses all else. every breath you take, every beat of your heart, is caught up in the maelstrom of his love, swirling endlessly in the vortex of his gaze.

he holds you so close, close enough that you can feel the rhythm of his heartbeat, a fierce, steady drum that matches the frantic cadence of your own. your hands find their way around his neck, fingers threading through the silken strands of his hair, pulling him closer, closer, until there is no space left between you. your lips meet his in a fervent kiss, a clash of need and hunger, tongues dancing in a tangled, breathless frenzy. it is a kiss that speaks of survival, of gratitude, of a love that is both a sanctuary and a storm.

he tastes like fury and devotion, a bitter-sweetness that lingers on your tongue, and you drink him in, greedy for more. his grip on you is unrelenting, as if letting go would mean losing you to the abyss of his own making, and you cling to him with equal fervor, your bodies a tangled mess of limbs and longing. in that moment, there is no past, no future—only the now, the heady rush of his breath mingling with yours, the feel of his hands on your skin, the unspoken promises that pass between you with every stolen breath.

he holds you as if you are the very air he breathes- well, indeed you are, as if he could will you into his soul and keep you there, keeping warm and alive unthe the flesh of his ribcage, close to his heart, safe and cherished, forevermore. his eyes, still brimming with that furious fire, soften at the edges as he kisses you back with a reverence that makes your heart ache. it’s a kiss that binds, that claims, that seals you to him in a way that words never could, and as you pull away, breathless and dazed, you know that this is where you belong—wrapped in his arms, lost in the depths of his gaze, loved with a passion that burns brighter than the stars.

when he pulls away, a thin, glistening thread of desire still lingers, stretching between your parted lips over the tongue—a tether that binds you in this shared breath, this dangerous dance. his gaze meets yours, those blue eyes still ablaze with a furious tempest, but within their storm, there flickers a flame of love, fierce and unyielding. he looks down at you, a twisted smile curling at his lips, a grin that speaks of chaos and carnage, of a madness that holds the world at bay. “i'm sorry those fools dared to lay hands upon you, but they will trouble you no more, my love,” he murmurs, voice low and threaded with menace, a vow spoken with a lover’s gentleness yet edged in steel. his hands, calloused and sure, cup your cheeks, cradling you as though you are the most precious, fragile thing in all the realms.

together, you both cast your gaze down upon the bodies sprawled upon the cold, unforgiving ground, their forms marred by bruises and the remnants of his wrath. they lie there, wet and lifeless as fallen leaves, scattered by the tempest of his fury, no longer a threat but mere echoes of their own folly. and yet, even amidst the wreckage of his rage, there is a strange beauty in the chaos he has wrought—a dark symphony of love and violence, a tribute to his devotion, twisted and true.

“come, let me take you home, my love,” he murmurs once more, the words a soft caress against your skin, as his lips find yours in a kiss that seals the promise of his protection. you are stunned, breathless, and your eyes glisten with a fervor that matches his own—a wild, consuming adoration for the man before you, this maniacal figure who stands between you and the world. to love him is to dance on the edge of a blade, a perilous waltz that thrills and terrifies in equal measure.

you look up at him, smiling so, so, so sweetly, mirror the same menace, at satoru gojo, your beautiful, dangerous obsession, and your heart swells with a love so potent it feels as if it might burst from your chest. it is sick, this mutual madness that binds you, a passion laced with peril and an affection born of fury. he is a storm wrapped in human form, a threat to all that dares to stand in his path, yet to you, he is a haven, a divine madness that sets your soul alight.

his eyes—ah, those orbs of azure fire! they are the boundless seas wherein your soul doth drown a thousand times. in calmer tides you have known them—playful, serene, a gentle mirth that sparkles like sunlight upon the morn’s dew. yet now, behold, they blaze with tempest’s fury, aflame with wrath as the heavens in their ire. 'tis as though the very stars have kindled rage within those depths, a storm that seethes and seizes all that dare to meet its gaze. and in that wild and furious tempest, you, undone, do find your heart ensnared anew, aflutter as a wanton moth to flame.

for every glance he grants, each furious flicker of those eyes, doth pull you deeper still, till all the world is but a distant whisper, and you are lost—utterly, wholly—in the unfathomable blue of his gaze. to see him thus, to feel his ire burn not at you but for you, sets your blood to riotous fervor, and lo, your cheeks do bloom with that sweet crimson of youth’s first fond blush. oh, what madness is this! to love so fiercely, to find in rage a tender, quiet adoration that makes you very breath catch, your heart sing out its foolish tune of love renewed.

his eyes are not mere mirrors of his soul; they are the very tempest that doth rage within his breast, a tumult of love and wrath entwined. 'tis a sight both fearsome and fair, for in his fury lies the pledge of his protection, a devotion that doth border upon the divine. how can i resist? his gaze is your sun, your moon, your guiding star, and you, poor wretch, are but a humble worshipper at the altar of his gaze. to see him thus, to know his anger burns for you, not against you, is to be wrapped in the warm embrace of his fiercest love.

aye, 'tis true—each time those eyes, so fierce, so wild, do meet your own, your heart doth flutter as a captive bird newly freed. in those depths, you see not just the fury of the storm, but the quiet promise of a love that will not fade, that will not falter. it is obsession, a fire that consumes and yet does not destroy, but rather, sanctifies. and so you fall, endlessly, hopelessly, into that blue abyss, where anger and love are but two sides of the same coin, where you are his, and he is yours, and the world may be damned, so long as his eyes remain your haven, your undoing, your everlasting delight.

in his arms, you are both prisoner and queen, worshipped in the sanctuary of his embrace, held aloft by the sheer force of his adoration. it is a love that defies reason, a devotion that flirts with destruction, and yet, it is the most beautiful thing you have ever known. for in his fury, you find a devotion unbroken, and in his danger, a divinity that shines brighter than the stars. it is wild, it is reckless, it is divine—and you would have it no other way.

you open the door, and there he stands, drenched from head to toe, rain pouring down like a curtain of sorrow, clinging to him as if the heavens themselves weep for his misfortune. gojo satoru, usually so untouchable, now a figure cut from despair, shivers in the chill of the storm, his white hair plastered to his forehead, rivulets of water tracing the sharp lines of his face. his eyes, usually alight with mischief and boundless confidence, are now dimmed, clouded with a sadness so deep it seems to swallow the very light that once defined him.

“go home, satoru,” you say, your voice firm, though your heart clenches at the sight of him.

he doesn’t move, just stands there on your doorstep, trembling from the cold, every shiver of his body a silent plea for your warmth, your forgiveness, oh, your love. his gaze locks onto yours, and in those azure depths, you see a man unraveled, a soul laid bare. he looks so lost, as if every ounce of the bravado that once shielded him has been stripped away, leaving only raw, aching need. he is like a stray pup, kicked and abandoned in the dead of night, caught in a relentless downpour with nowhere to turn but to you.

“please,” his eyes seem to say, though his lips do not move, as if the very act of speaking would shatter what little remains of his pride. the sadness in his gaze is a weight, heavy and suffocating, pressing down on your chest until it hurts to breathe. he stands there, drenched and desperate, the rain mingling with what you can’t tell are tears or the relentless downpour, and you can’t help but feel your resolve waver.

he’s begging you without words, a silent supplication for the love he once held so carelessly, now desperate to grasp it again as if it were the last tether to his fading light. and in that moment, you see him not as the invincible person, not as the man who commands respect and fear, but as someone who is utterly, devastatingly human—broken and yearning, with eyes that plead for a mercy only you can grant.

his body trembles, not just from the cold, but from the unbearable burden of your absence, his breath hitching in the back of his throat as he stands before you, stripped of all bravado. his eyes, usually so filled with boundless confidence, are now heavy with the weight of his own despair, looking up at you with a sadness so profound it seems to echo through the storm. he caught in the relentless fury of the night, shivering and soaked, eyes pleading for the warmth and solace of your embrace—a creature lost in the dark, cast adrift without the guiding light of your love.

“just go home, i don't want to be with you,” you say, voice cutting through the rain like a cruel, deliberate blade.

and just like that, the dam breaks. the tears well up in his eyes, those brilliant blue pools now shimmering with unshed sorrow, glistening in the dim light like shards of broken glass. it’s a sight you’ve longed to see, a vulnerability that he so rarely shows, and for a fleeting moment, you feel a sick satisfaction bloom within you. his pain, raw and unfiltered, stirs something deep, something dark, as you watch the strongest sorcerer reduced to nothing more than a man undone by the weight of his own emotions.

his eyes, usually so full of power and certainty, now shimmer with a desperate plea, tears spilling over as he chokes back a sob. you've never seen anything more beautiful, and in this twisted, fevered moment, you’ve never felt more alive, never fallen harder for him than right now, with his pride in ruins at your feet.

“please, baby,” he whispers, voice cracking under the strain, “i’ll be less annoying, i'll lest of anything that driving you away from me, i’ll do whatever you want—just, please.” the words tumble out, desperate and frantic, as he promises to change, to bend, to be whatever version of himself you demand. he stands before you, a king stripped of his crown, reduced to nothing but a man begging at your mercy, and the sight of it sends a shiver of dark delight down your spine.

it’s sick, the way you revel in this power over him, the way his tears make your heart race and your lips curl into the faintest of smiles. you are obsessed with this dance, this twisted game where his suffering is your satisfaction, where his pleading eyes are the sweetest of victories. he is yours, wholly and completely, and you know that he would break a thousand times over just to keep you from walking away. you will be the death of him, and once, you whisper and spitting on his grave, everyone will watch him crawling back from the death, and once again, he will be lying on your feet for your mercy, for you to love him, all bones and flesh.

and yet, you find yourself pushing further, testing the limits of his devotion, just to see how far he will go. it is a cruel, intoxicating power, to have someone like satoru gojo reduced to tears, and you drink it in like a forbidden elixir, sweet and heady. he is beautiful in his despair, and as he stands there, drenched and pleading, you can’t help but fall for him all over again, tangled in the twisted love that binds you both in this endless, obsessive dance.

gojo falls to his knees, the mighty sorcerer brought low, his arms winding around your legs with a grip that trembles like a leaf caught in a tempest. his body shakes with the cold and the weight of his despair, his once towering presence now reduced to a man clinging to the last threads of hope. he presses his forehead against your knees, rain-soaked and broken, as if your touch alone could redeem him, could stitch together the fragments of his shattered pride.

he looks up at you, eyes glistening with unshed tears, a kaleidoscope of heartbreak and desperation painted across his face—a portrait of a man undone. there is something so exquisitely pathetic in his gaze, a rawness that strips away the veneer of invincibility, leaving only the bare, trembling truth of his need for you. his eyes, those brilliant blue oceans, are now brimming with tears that spill over, tracing a path down his cheeks like the first rains of spring breaking the drought, each drop glistening like a jewel in the pale light.

and you, standing above him, feel a dark, intoxicating thrill twist within you. it is the beauty of his suffering that ensnares your heart, the way his tears catch the light like shattered stars, casting shadows of sorrow and longing. you are captivated by the sight of him, the strongest man you know brought to his knees, eyes pleading, voice breaking as he begs for the one thing he cannot command—your love.

“please,” he murmurs, the word a fragile whisper, his breath warm against your skin, “love me again.” his voice cracks, a jagged sound that splinters the air, and his tears fall faster, the dam of his restraint collapsing in the face of his need. he is beautiful in his anguish, a vision of tragic grace, and you cannot help but fall in love all over again, lost in the raw, unguarded emotion that spills from him like a river bursting its banks.

to see him like this, vulnerable and pleading, is to witness the unraveling of a myth—a god brought to earth, stripped of all but his humanity. and in this moment, he is more magnificent than ever, his sorrow a canvas on which your love paints itself anew. his tears are a symphony of the heart, each drop a note that sings to your darkest desires, pulling you deeper into the depths of this obsessive, all-consuming devotion.

his eyes, those eyes that have seen worlds beyond, now reflect only you, and in their tear-streaked depths, you find a love so fierce, so fervent, that it threatens to consume you whole. it is a love that does not ask, but demands; a love that kneels at your feet and begs for mercy, not for itself, but for the man who weeps before you. and as you look down at him, his tear-stained face so achingly beautiful, you know that you are lost to him—lost to this love that is as twisted and fragile as the threads of his tears, a love that binds you both in a dance of pain and passion that neither of you can bear to end.

as he stumbles forward, falling to his knees with a shudder that ripples through his entire body, the rain pouring down on him like the heavens themselves are weeping for his plight. his hands grasp at your legs, fingers clinging to you with a desperate strength, as though you are the only thing keeping him tethered to this world. his head bows low, forehead pressing against your knees, and his breath comes in ragged, frantic gasps, each one a struggle against the sobs that threaten to tear him apart.

“please,” he begs, voice fractured and raw, as if the words themselves are tearing through him, leaving him gasping for air. “please don’t turn me away. i can’t—i can’t do this without you. i’m dying, i swear, i’m dying without you,” his voice breaks on the last word, shattering into a desperate wail that pierces through the rain, his body convulsing with the force of his sobs.

“i’ll be anything, anyone you need me to be,” he continues, his eyes wild with a terror that’s almost primal, like a man staring into the abyss. “i’ll change, i’ll never be too much again, just… just don’t leave me here, not like this. i can’t breathe, i can’t even think without you. please, i’m begging you—don’t let go of me.” his words come out in a rush, frantic and broken, his voice thick with tears that he no longer bothers to hide.

the world seeming to tilt on its axis, his pride scattered like the raindrops that pool around him. his fingers find your hand, clutching with a desperation that makes your heart stutter, his grip fierce as though you are the last tether to a life he can no longer navigate without you. his head bows low, forehead pressing against your knees, and the sound of his breath is a ragged, broken thing, a symphony of despair that rises with the rhythm of the rain.

“i'm sorry,” he rasps, his voice a mere whisper against the howl of the storm, but there is a rawness in it that slices through the night, a vulnerability that lays him bare. “please, don’t do this. i am undone without you. every breath is agony, every beat of my heart a hollow echo. i am nothing—nothing without your love to guide me.” his words are a litany of longing, each syllable soaked in the salt of unshed tears, his gaze lifting to meet yours with the fragile hope of a man on the brink of ruin.

he looks up at you, eyes wide and shining with tears, the blue of them dull and hollow without the spark of your love. they are the eyes of a man on the brink, staring down the barrel of a life without the only thing that has ever truly mattered. his breath stutters, each exhale a choked, desperate plea, and his fingers dig into the fabric of your clothes, clinging to you as if the very act of holding on is the only thing keeping his heart beating.

his eyes, those brilliant blue depths that once held the light of a thousand stars, now brim with the bleakness of a sky stripped bare, his tears mingling with the rain that slides down his cheeks. he is a man unmade, all bravado stripped away, leaving only the raw ache of his need, the sheer, unrelenting force of his devotion that coils around your heart like ivy.

“please,” he whispers again, his voice so faint it’s almost lost to the sound of the rain. “i need you. more than air, more than anything. without you, there’s nothing. there’s no me, no us, no world i want to live in. i’m dying here, right in front of you, and the only thing that can save me is you. i fucking swear to god, baby, i will kill you and then kill myself if you don't love me again.”

his head drops, forehead pressing into the cold, wet ground as his body shakes with the force of his sobs, each one wrenching through him like a violent storm. he clutches at you with a desperation that borders on madness, his entire being consumed by the need to feel your arms around him, to hear you say that everything will be okay. he is a man unraveling, a soul laid bare in the rain, and all he has left is this—this pitiful, desperate plea for the one thing that could mend his shattered heart.

“i love you,” he chokes out, his voice breaking, his hands trembling against your legs. “i love you so much it hurts. please… i can’t—i can’t do this without you. i’d rather die right here, right now, than spend another second without you in my arms.” and as he kneels there, drenched and broken, begging for a mercy only you can grant, you see the truth etched in every tear-streaked line of his face: without you, he is nothing but a man lost to the storm, drowning in a sea of his own despair.

he bows his head lower, his sobs blending with the symphony of the rain, each drop a soft requiem for the love he fears he has lost. he clings to you as if you are his salvation, his lifeline, the only thing standing between him and the abyss. and in the depth of his gaze, you see it—the unspoken truth that without you, satoru gojo is not the invincible, untouchable force the world sees, but a man who is willing to lay down everything, even his pride, for just one more chance to be held in the light of your love.

your fingers weave through the silver strands of his hair, gripping tightly as if tethering yourself to the very essence of him. the tension draws a soft, desperate whine from his lips, a sound so sweet it echoes through your veins, setting your blood aflame. your bodies, bared to the night's whisper, tangle together in a dance of unspoken need, your breath hitching in rhythm with his as you find solace in the storm of each other's presence.

perched upon his lap, you feel the solid strength of him beneath you, his muscles taut and trembling, his arms wrapped around your waist with a fervor that speaks of a desperate, consuming devotion. you lean closer, your breaths mingling in the scant space between, and capture his lips in a fervent kiss, tongues entwining like vines that have waited lifetimes to grow together. it’s a collision of hunger and longing, a silent plea wrapped in the taste of him that floods your senses and drowns you in the depths of his presence.

“oh, baby— fuck, ’miss you,” he grunt, his cock twitching inside you— losing his mind how divine your gummy walls hugging him.

his grip tightens as though the very essence of his existence hinges on holding you close, as if the mere thought of losing you again would shatter him beyond repair. his eyes, half-lidded and hazy with longing, mirror the fervor that burns in your own, each glance a shared promise that defies the world's attempts to pull you apart. your breaths mingle in the space between, warm and uneven, and the quiet sounds of pleasure that escape your lips mingle with his, a symphony of yearning that drowns out the rain still drumming against the windowpanes.

his hair, still wet from the downpour, clings to his forehead in unruly strands, a testament to the chaos of moments past and your fingers trace the delicate line of his jaw, committing every inch of him to memory as if to carve him into the very fabric of your soul. yet even in the wild disarray, there is a beauty to him that makes your heart stutter—a raw, vulnerable magnificence that only you are privy to in these stolen moments.

his lips part, tremble against yours, a soft gasp escaping as your bodies move in tandem, meet, a slow and deliberate rhythm that leaves no room for anything but the two of you, a slow and deliberate mingling of desire and desperation, each motion a silent plea that neither of you will ever let go. you feel his pulse beneath your fingertips, wild and unsteady, beating in time with the pounding of your own heart—a symphony of obsession that neither of you could ever hope to silence.

“s— ‘toru,” you whimper in his lips, leaving his breath hitches, and you feel the tremor of it against your skin, a shiver that ripples through the both of you, binding you even tighter together. his eyes, glistening and fervent, drink you in as if you are the only thing that can quench his unending thirst. and your own gaze, locked onto his, speaks volumes of the quiet, relentless obsession that ties your souls in knots too intricate to ever untangle.

every sigh, every gasp is a testament to the fervent reunion of souls that cannot be torn asunder, no matter how the world may try. your cheeks are flushed, mirroring the heat in his own, and there’s a delirious pleasure in knowing that he is yours again, has always been yours, will always be yours. in this moment, tangled and breathless, you both become a living prayer, a hymn to the unbreakable, unyielding force of a love that borders on madness.

his hands, desperate and sure, press into the small of your back, fingers splayed as though marking you, branding you as his own. and in the low, heady hum of your shared breaths, the world outside ceases to exist. here, there is only the two of you—obsessed, entwined, and utterly consumed by the fire that refuses to burn out. you are his sanctuary, his obsession, and as he holds you close, he knows with a fierce, undeniable certainty that he is yours in every possible way, now and always.

your fingers thread through his silver locks, tugging them with a possessive fervor that draws a breathless whine from his lips, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. you lean closer, your breath mingling with his, and capture his mouth in a searing kiss once again, tongues tangling in a desperate dance of need and familiarity. the taste of him is intoxicating, like the first sip of a forbidden wine, and you drink him in as though he were the very air you need to survive.

your other hand traces down, fingers curling into the tender flesh of his thigh, nails digging crescents into his skin with a fervor that borders on reverence and possession. each mark you leave is a silent declaration—he is yours to hold, yours to break, yours to ruin, yours to love in this raw, unfettered way. his breath stutters— his body responding to the sting of your touch, every nerve alight with the electric thrill of your shared desire, a sharp intake that lingers in the air, mingling with the rhythm of your heartbeats that drum like a battle cry in the quiet room. his eyes, a storm of love and desperation, gaze up at you as if you are the moon and the sun, his salvation and his undoing. his arms tighten around your waist, holding you as if you are the center of his universe, the axis upon which his world spins.

you rock your hips slowly, a deliberate and torturous rhythm that pulls soft gasps from his parted lips, each sound a sweet symphony that fills the space between your bodies— a slow, deliberate rocking that pulls soft moans from the both of you, the sound mingling like a hymn of devotion sung only for the night to hear. his eyes, half-lidded and burning with a mix of love and lust, meet yours, and in that gaze, you see the depths of his devotion laid bare. he is yours—utterly, entirely, irrevocably—and there is a heady power in knowing that he would lay the world at your feet if you only asked.

his hands grip your waist, fingers pressing into your skin with the intensity of a man holding on to his last breath, as if releasing you would be akin to the world losing its light. the way his body arches into yours, meeting each movement with a silent vow, speaks of a love that teeters on the edge of madness—a need so profound it eclipses reason.

“i love you,” you whisper against his lips, the words a soft, fervent prayer, slipping free like a sacred vow, a quiet affirmation of the bond that binds you both, unbreakable and infinite. his breath shudders as he pulls you even closer, his response a muffled moan as your movements grow more insistent, the heat between you building like a slow-burning flame that refuses to be quenched.

his eyes flutter shut at your confession, as if savoring the weight of it, letting it sink into his bones. he trembles beneath your touch, his body singing with the quiet, desperate need for more—more of your touch, your love, your presence that he clings to like a drowning man reaching for the surface. every breath you share feels like a stolen promise, each kiss a sacred bond that reaffirms the feverish connection that neither of you can ever escape.

your hands, one still tangled in his hair, the other gripping his thigh, hold him to you as if to anchor him in place, to remind him that this, here and now, is all that matters. his lips curve into a breathless smile against yours, his body arching into every touch, every caress, his own whispered confessions of love mingling with the soft, reverent sounds of your shared longing.

in this moment, every touch, every kiss, every whispered word is a testament to the fierce, unrelenting need that pulls you back to him time and time again. you are tangled in each other’s orbit, bound by an obsession that runs deeper than blood, stronger than any force that might try to tear you apart. and as you lose yourselves in the slow, deliberate rhythm of your of your bodies.

and as his hands tighten around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, you realize that this—this wild, chaotic, all-consuming love—is the very marrow of your existence. in his embrace, you find the echoes of every past longing, every unspoken promise, and the undeniable truth that he is yours, irrevocably and eternally. and as you move together, lost in the poetry of each other’s touch, you know that no force in this world or the next could be sever the bond that holds you— two souls bound by the beautiful relentless obsession of love.

as you move slowly on his lap, the friction and intensity make gojo’s breath hitch. a guttural, involuntary grunt escapes him, the sound a raw, visceral expression of the pleasure and need surging through him. his grip tightens around your waist, each movement of yours driving him further into a state of blissful surrender.

his eyes, clouded with a potent mix of passion and adoration, lock onto yours. “fuck,” he groans, the word slipping from his lips in a low, reverent murmur. the sound is both a plea and a confession, his body trembling with the weight of his overwhelming emotions.

he stutters, his voice faltering as he tries to articulate the depth of his feelings amidst the relentless pleasure. “i… i love you too,” he finally breathes out, the words trembling on his lips, laden with both desperation and devotion. his gaze is unwavering, filled with an intense, unspoken promise. “you are everything to me… every touch, every whisper… it’s all I’ve ever wanted, all I’ll ever need.”

his breath comes in ragged bursts, each one a testament to the consuming nature of his love and desire. he pulls you closer, his entire being attuned to the rhythm of your movements, the declaration of his love etched into every shudder, every gasp, as he loses himself in the exquisite intensity of the moment.

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ragingbookdragon · 10 months ago

Text

She blinked in her drunken haze at the bartender who nudged a glass of water towards her; her brows drew in confusion, and he said, “Look if you want to keep paying, I’ll keep serving, but you look like you need a ride home rather than more drinks. Drink some water and find a ride.”

Throwing a poor thumbs up, she watched as he walked off and she pulled out her phone, thumbing her password in so she could go to her contacts; his was one of the first and she managed to press call, laying the phone down on the bar, her head laying atop it. They picked up on the second ring.

What.

“Lt,” she slurred. “Will you come get me?”

You’re drunk, aren’t you?

It was rhetorical, she knew that, but she responded anyway. “Yeah, drank too much.” She closed her eyes. “Will you please come get me?” she smiled when she heard the annoyed sigh come across the line. “Pleeeeeeeeeeease,” she whined.

Pay your tab and I’ll be there in a few minutes.

“You’re not going to pay it for me?”

You’re pushing your luck much farther than how much you think I actually tolerate you.

“You tolerate me more than most.”

Whatever.

The line went dead, and she fished around in her pocket for a few bills, laying them on the counter as she lifted herself up and headed for the door. As she stepped out into the night, she drifted to an enclosed corner and sat down on one of the paved bricks that extended from the outside wall, shutting her eyes as she rested her head on the cold stone. She listened as people walked past her, taking in the laughter, the random bits of conversation, sometimes arguments, and breathed deeply as her brain rolled around in her skull.

It wasn’t until she felt the shift of the moonlight from her face to shadow that she cracked an eye open and gazed up at the masked man glaring back at her. “Hi, Lt,” she murmured, and he didn’t even blink.

“C’mon.”

He turned and started walking towards the parking lot when she whined and said, “You aren’t even going to help me up?”

His feet stopped on the pavement, shoulders lifting up and down before he spun around and walked back over, holding out his hand.

“Thank you,” she chirped and took it, letting him pull her up; she didn’t let go of his hand as they walked and at one point in her drunken stumbling, he stopped and let out a tired sigh, bending his knees to kneel beside her. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“Get on,” he retorted, and she looked between his face and his back.

“You mean on your—”

“Get. On.” He growled and she hurriedly draped herself on his back, letting out a startled noise as he stood up suddenly, large hands clasped on the bottoms of her thighs as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

She blinked as she rested her head on his shoulder and murmured, “Wow, the air is so clear up here.” She heard it, the slight snort and she couldn’t help but smile as he carried her. “Lt?”

“What.”

“Thank you for coming to get me. I know I’m a pain in the ass.”

“At least you’re self-aware of how much a major pain in my arse you are. Bigger than Soap is on his worst days.”

“Now that’s just plain mean,” she mumbled, sniffling slightly. “I’m sorry.”

He stopped again and turned his head, looking at her. “I’d rather you be a pain in my arse than be nothing to me at all.”

She gazed at him with wide eyes, unable to stop her mouth from flopping open and he looked down then back to her eyes. “Really?” she asked in disbelief.

“You might be the biggest pain I’ve ever had the displeasure of having, but you’re my pain and I intend for it to stay that way.”

Her mouth shut and she melted against his back as he continued walking, gingerly snuggling closer to him, knees hugging his hips, arms tighter around him as she joked, “I love you too, Lt.”

“Nope, we’re not there yet.”

She paused, then wondered aloud, “You think we’ll ever be there one day?”

It was a long moment before he finally murmured back, “…yeah, maybe one day, pet.”

3K notes · View notes

aquaticmercy · 14 days ago

Text

My Own Soul’s Warning

Summary : You, an immortal being, falls in love with the very mortal Bucky Barnes. You would do anything for him, even if it meant you had to strike a deal with Death herself.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Violence, death, trauma, mentions of sex (not graphic), cursing. Rio Vidal makes an appearance. Angst with a happy ending. Fluff!!!!

Word count : 6.3k

Note : This fic was inspired by Agatha and Rio, though this has a much happier ending. Reader is the Spirit of Suffering, an immortal entity who shows herself to people in extreme physical and emotional suffering to help ease the pain. The title is inspired by the Killers song of the same name. The fic started in the 1940s and ends after FATWS. Enjoy!

The sequel to this story is out now!

Bucky x Spirit of Suffering!reader masterlist

The first time Bucky saw you, it was 1942. He was in the trenches, under the dim moonlight of Germany.

He was supposed to be Sergeant James Barnes, fighting to defend his country. But then? He was only selfishly fighting for his own life.

The air was thick with the stench of mud, sweat, and blood. The world around him felt like a prison of haze and darkness— machine guns firing in the distance, the rumble of explosions shaking the ground underneath him.

He knew it only took one mistake, one slip up, and this is how he would die.

He was tired beyond anything he’d ever felt before, his body crumbling after days without sleep. His body ached from wounds he hadn’t couldn’t treat— the infirmary was crowded, too crowded to even see the ‘small’ gushing cut on his forearm that didn’t feel so small right now.

But he could take the physical pain. It was the gnawing fear that was the hardest to bear, creeping over him, curling around his ribs like a rope, tightening until it hurt to breathe.

Then, through the smoke and shadows, he saw you.

You were just a figure at first, standing a few yards away. You were cloaked in the same darkness that had swallowed up his world. As his eyes adjusted, he noticed that you didn’t quite belong.

You were almost radiant, the flickering light from the fire catching on something otherworldly in your gaze. Bullets flew past you, going through your being as if you were only made of smoke.

You were watching him, silent and still. Your expression was carefully neutral, a warmth in your eyes that cut through the cold surrounding him.

He blinked, half-believing you were just a figment of his exhaustion.

When he opened his eyes again, you were still there, a steady presence in the middle of the chaos. Bucky felt a strange sense of peace swallow him, like the world had gone silent in the space between his heartbeat and your gaze.

You didn’t say a word, but you didn’t need to. Just being there, in a place where everything was twisted and brutal and so fucking wrong, you felt like a sliver of peace in this nightmare that was wartime.

Something deep in his gut told him that he wasn’t meant to understand who, or rather what, you were. And yet, he felt safer at the mere presence of you. Before he could reach out to test if you were real, you were gone— slipping away into the dark like a ghost.

—

The next time he saw you was when he was half-dead, bleeding out in the snow after the fall from the train. The pain was more than unbearable, raw and sharp and insufferable. His nerves burned, radiating from every shattered bone, every freezing inch of his numb skin.

His vision blurred, the sky above flickering in and out of view as his mind faded in and out of consciousness. He wondered if this was going to be his death, a slow and dramatic fade to black he only ever saw in the movies Steve dragged him to.

Then he saw you again, standing in the snow.

The sight of you jolted him back to consciousness, just enough to cling to the edge of the living world. This time, there was no mistaking the look on your face— a look of concern.

For a moment, he thought you must be an angel coming to collect him.

You must be.

There you were, silently watching him with that same expression of warmth he’d seen in the trenches.

He struggled to sit up to get a better look at you, every little movement sent pain shooting through him. Finally, he slumped back to the snow in defeat, breathing hard.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was hoarse, nearly swallowed up by the howling wind.

The cold, harsh winter wasn’t a place for someone who looked as fragile as you, he thought.

You carefully took a step closer, as if unwilling to disturb him. There was a slight curve to your lips, something that could have been a smile but wasn’t quite, as you looked down at him. “I’m looking out for someone.”

He swallowed a strange lump in his throat, the sharp tang of fear and curiosity contrasting the cold bite of the freezing air. “Who?” His voice cracked, barely audible.

“You,” you said, your voice as quiet as a prayer.

It was such a simple answer, but it hit him like a wave. In the midst of all the pain, he suddenly felt relief.

The hurt eased, the cold stung a little less.

He didn’t know if you were a dream, a ghost, or something beyond his understanding. But at that moment, he didn’t care. All that mattered was that you were there, that you had come for him. That he wasn’t alone.

As his vision started to fade again and the darkness crept back, he realised you didn't leave any footprints in the snow.

—

Bucky didn’t know why you kept showing up.

Over the years, he felt your presence like his own shadow, drifting through the Hydra bases, the laboratories, the dark corners of the cell they kept him in between missions. The world around him was cold and sterile, a cage of steel where hope had no place, no right to exist.

Still, he saw you, quiet and watchful, a silhouette in the dim light.

He would catch glimpses of you while the scientists strapped him to machines, the hum of needles piercing his flesh. You were there, watching over him, as they shocked cold electricity through his veins. Each time, his eyes would land on you, and you’d watch him from the far corner of the room, with that same calm, steady gaze.

Everytime his eyes locked on yours, the pain eased, even if only a little.

It became easier to take the torture.

It became easier to find rest.

Over time, Hydra erased his memories.

Soon, he forgot his life. He forgot the people who used to love him, who grieved for him when he was lost.

But he had never forgotten you.

Maybe it was the first sign that you weren’t quite human.

One night, after a particularly brutal round of reprogramming, he saw you again, this time closer than ever before.

You stood by his bedside, where he lay in the dark, barely clinging to sanity. He blinked, pain searing in his throat. He tried to reach for you, fingers trembling, and felt nothing.

“Where did you come from?” he whispered, his voice rough and broken, as he felt that comfort once again.

The comfort he only had with you.

A soft smile touched your lips, something gentle and knowing. You were a light in the darkness of his fractured mind. “Far, far away from here.”

He closed his eyes, trying to etch your face to his memory, certain that if he did, he could take some small fragment of comfort back into the waking nightmare that was his brutal reality.

You knew, by the way his life was going, that you were going to see Bucky more and more.

It was the nature of your job, to look out for people like him.

After the next couple of visits, he started talking to you more and more— whenever he was left alone with his thoughts, whenever the pain or the hollow emptiness crept too close, he would search for you.

And you’d be there, listening to the murmured secrets he’d never told another soul.

He told himself you weren’t real, that he was just losing his grip on sanity, conjuring a kind face to stave off the horror. But that didn’t stop him from craving your presence.

—

Years later, he’d managed to break free of Hydra’s grip. He had carved out a life hiding in the far reaches of the world when he saw you again, as if you’d followed him through every corner of hell he’d tried to escape.

Romania was quiet, the kind of place where he could keep to himself. He had a run down studio apartment where the days blurred by and the silence was almost peaceful.

Yet in that solitude, you appeared again, lingering in the shadow of an alleyway, or standing just beyond his view on quiet, empty streets. He’d catch your gaze through crowds when he was most alone, and he’d feel an overwhelming sense of calm, an unexplainable rush he could only have with you.

It was on one of those quiet evenings, when he was washing dishes, that he saw you again, watching him from across the room. He stared, wiping his hands absently on the dish towel, still unsure if he was simply dreaming.

He called out in that soft voice of his, almost a whisper.

“Thank you for being here.” It was a simple admission, but it was true.

You tilted your head, that familiar gentleness in your eyes. “Always.” He replied.

The suffering he had recently was different— it wasnt physical as it usually was. It was an isolated sense of longing that broke the deepest parts of his heart, one that he couldn't quite heal himself.

Your warm and steady voice anchored him to the present. For the first time, he didn’t try to tell himself that you were a figment of his imagination. For just a moment, he let himself believe that you were standing there, real and alive, not just an invention of his lonely mind.

And even as you disappeared, slipping away into the shadows, the feeling of your presence lingered, filling the emptiness around him.

—

The last rays of Wakanda’s sun slipped over the treetops, bathing everything in a warm, honeyed light that somehow reached even into the white-walled lab where Bucky was preparing himself for a long, cold sleep.

He looked around, his gaze fixing on the distant horizon, the soft sounds of Shuri and the lab assistants moving in the background.

He could feel his heart pounding. He was terrified, the horror clawing into him, even though he knew that this was the right decision. He knew that it was the safest thing for him to do— to go back in the ice until his trigger words could be removed.

It didn't stop the instinctive dread of being shut away again, though.

And then he saw you, standing behind a desk. He didn’t know how you’d gotten there, or if anyone else could even see you.

But there you were, just as you’d been so many times before, giving him a piece of calm he didn't quite understand.

For a long moment, he said nothing. He only looked at you.

Somehow, you looked more real in this light, more human than he’d ever seen you before. Still, you had that hint of almost supernatural haze. He took a deep breath, feeling safer by the second, now that you were here.

“Will you be here when I wake up?” he asked, the words coming out like a whispered plea. He didn’t expect you to answer, not really.

His heart beat quicker as he waited, hoping you wouldn’t vanish as quickly this time.

You just smiled, that same soft, knowing smile you’d given him in the darkest hours of his life.

You nodded, “Only if you need me.”

The warmth of your words lingered in his mind as he took one last look at you. He felt the tension in his chest loosen, just enough to let him breathe again. He laid down, a feeling of peace settling over him.

He closed his eyes, holding the memory of you close, feeling the faint impression of your smile stay with him as he drifted into the dark.

—

The next time he saw you, it was in the middle of another waking nightmare—the battlefield of Wakanda, chaos erupting in every direction as the forces of Thanos closed in. Bucky was fighting on pure instinct, his body moving with an instinct he’d learned in war. He drew on more and more on his Hydra training and sheer luck.

After Thanos snapped, he saw you again. You were standing behind Steve, amongst the trees.

For the first time, your expression was not calm. You looked terrified. Your eyes, usually so steady, were wide, your face pale as you looked at him with a horror he’d never seen from you before.

Something inside him understood. He knew, even before the feeling swept over him—a strange tingling, a disintegration at the frayed edges of his body—that he was about to be turned to dust.

He tried to reach out, to touch you, to ask if he’d see you on the other side, but before he could say a word, he felt himself fade, slipping into nothingness, his best friend’s name the last thing he uttered.

—

When he returned—when the world pieced itself back together after five long years—he felt the dread of loneliness again.

You came, though it felt like you carried a deeper sadness in your gaze than before. It was as if you had… missed him.

When Steve left, when Bucky watched his best friend walk away, disappearing into a life they’d both only dreamed of, he felt the emptiness he had left in his wake.

He stood there, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, feeling a hollow emptiness settle inside him, knowing he’d lost something irreplaceable, something that could never be returned when Steve decided to live a life he always wanted.

Then he saw you again, just a few steps next to him. He almost didn’t dare to look, afraid that you’d vanish if he did. When he finally turned, there you were, as calm as you’d always been, watching him with that familiar warmth and understanding.

“You’re not alone,” you murmured, your voice so gentle it felt like a medicine to the sickness of his soul.

He swallowed hard, nodding as he looked down. He tried to keep his composure, though he failed.

He couldn’t bring himself to ask you who you truly were, if you truly knew the depth of what he’d lost, if you understood the kind of grief that was now carved so deeply inside him.

And you did. Grief was a human suffering, after all.

You stayed there, silent, a quiet witness to his pain as you offered a supernatural solace.

—

Over the years that followed, you'd show up when the loneliness clawed too deep, when the nightmares took hold or when the silence of his apartment was too much to bear on his own.

He started talking to you more than ever before.

When the silence weighed heavy on him, he’d glance into the shadows, almost expecting you to appear. And, as if by some unspoken agreement, you’d arrive just in time.

Yet, you never came too close. You stayed at a distance, as if you were made of something too fragile for this world. Bucky never minded, though. He had learned early on that pressing you for answers, for explanations, only ended with your departure. So he stopped asking them. He started accepting your presence as a gift he wasn’t meant to understand.

You were simply…there, steady and unchanging, offering comfort and warmth in a way no one else could.

He’d tell you things he wouldn’t dare tell anyone else—confessions that clawed up from the darkest corners of his mind, memories from the days he wished he could erase. You would listen, without judgement, without a flicker of fear or revulsion. Your presence only ever brought you peace.

In those quiet, lonely moments, he came to rely on you, to look for you in the shadows. You were a silent companion in his darkest hours. And though he never stopped wondering who you truly were, he let himself believe, if only a little, that he had someone, that you were real enough to him.

—

One night, after a long silence had fallen between you, he confessed something.

“You know,” he said, his voice thick with sorrow and exhaustion, “I don’t… I don’t think you’re real.” He tried to smile, but it was faint. It was hollow. “I think to you’re just… my mind is playing tricks on me. I think I needed someone so badly that I made you up.”

He was laying himself bare. Raw. Vulnerable.

He was almost afraid to look at you, afraid that if he did, you would disappear, proving his confession true. Then, he forced himself to meet your eyes, searching for any sign of reaction.

You didn’t flinch, didn’t deny it.

You only looked back at him with that same soft understanding.

“You’re just…” he murmured, trailing off. “You’re the most beautiful person I could imagine, someone I must have conjured to… to keep me from losing my mind.” He laughed bitterly, rubbing a hand over his face, not quite meeting your gaze. “Because no one like you would actually be here. Would actually want to be with someone as broken as me.”

He waited, his heart beating harshly. Part of him hoping you’d break the illusion, that you’d tell him he was wrong, that you were real.

Faint sadness flickered in your eyes. “Suffering has never broken you before,” you said, “It will not break you now.”

You didn’t confirm his fears, but you didn’t deny them either.

That quiet, ambiguous acceptance soothed him more than any promise could have.

He let the questions go, even though they lingered in the back of his mind.

He came to understand that perhaps it didn’t matter if you were real or not. He only needed you.

—

It was the dead of night, and Bucky was trembling.

He had woken up in cold sweat, the remnants of his nightmare gripping him like icy chains. He sat up, pressing his hands to his face, trying to push away the memories that refused to fade, the fractured images of a past that haunted him even in sleep. He swallowed, his voice rough, almost a whisper, as he murmured into the dark.

“Where are you?” he rasped, his voice thick with desperation. “Please, come back.” His heart pounded, his words barely a breath as he called for you, “Come back to me.”

He let his head fall into his hands, feeling so fucking foolish.

He should've known.

He should’ve known that after all this time, he was still calling for a ghost, for a figment of his imagination, for someone he’d conjured out of pure, pathetic loneliness.

As his breathing slowed, he felt something shift in the quiet corners of his room. A familiar warmth settled over him, gentle and comforting. He raised his head, and there you were, standing just a few feet away.

For a long moment, he simply stared, disbelief and wonder filling his stare. You looked more solid than he’d ever seen you before, as if reality had woven itself around you.

Light no longer passed through you. Your footsteps made thudding sounds on the ground. You tripped over a couple of the steps, as if learning how to walk with legs for the first time.

You moved closer towards him.

Seeing him so shaken, so desperately calling for you, had drawn you out in a way that felt irreversible. His cry was a pull too strong to resist.

Gently, you reached out, your fingertips brushing his cheeks, tracing the faint stubble along his jaw, the warmth of his skin grounding you in this physical form.

It was wrong for an immortal entity as ancient as you to take human form— you felt weaker, and your grasp on the unknown faltered. You knew, when you inevitably had to return to your ethereal form, that you would be exhausted. That it would hurt.

But after nearly a century of watching over James Buchanan Barnes, you had to know what his skin felt like.

His breath hitched at your touch. Slowly, his hands rose, trembling, to cover yours, pressing your palms to his face as if he was afraid you might disappear.

He blinked, eyes wide, searching your face. “You’re… real,” he breathed, his voice barely a whisper, an astonished relief flooding his eyes. “I can feel you.”

You nodded, letting your hands cradle his face, your thumbs softly brushing over his cheekbones. For a while, you stayed like that, letting his mind settle on the reality of you.

“Who… who are you?” His voice was filled with awe. His gaze locked onto yours, desperate for answers.

You took a steady breath— and it felt off, like you had to learn it.

You had never needed to breathe before. But now, you needed it as much as you needed him.

You knew that him knowing what you were wouldn’t hurt anyone.

“I am the Spirit of Suffering,” you said quietly, your voice as soft as the night around you. “I ease the pain of those who suffer, showing myself to those who need me most. For eons, I’ve been drawn to pain, to sorrow. But… I’ve never been drawn to someone like you.”

His brow furrowed, confusion mingling with a sense of awe as he processed your words. He searched your face, as if trying to reconcile the warmth of your touch with the truth.

“You’ve been watching over me?” he murmured, struggling to fully grasp the revelation.

You nodded, the truth spinning between you like a fragile thread. “Yes,” you admitted, your voice gentle, almost a whisper. “Every time you were in pain, it was my job to be there. The natural forces would not let me stop what happened to you, James, but I could keep you company, share the weight of your sorrow.”

He closed his eyes, his hands still covering yours. His grip on you tightened, trying to anchor himself to this moment. “So all those times I thought I was imagining you…”

“You weren’t,” you said softly, your gaze unwavering.

He took a shaky breath.

You sat on the bed next to him, feeling the softness of bedsheets for the first time in your eternal existence.

“I’ve never met anyone like you, James.” Your hand drifted down to cover his heart, feeling its steady beat beneath your palm. “In all the lifetimes I’ve witnessed, through all the suffering I’ve felt, I’ve seen people become monsters, lose themselves to pain and suffering. But you… you never let it consume you. No matter how much they took from you, no matter how much you suffered, there’s still kindness in you.” You smiled, a flicker of admiration in your gaze. “You were the first person to show me that suffering doesn’t have to destroy.”

Bucky’s throat tightened. He reached up, his fingers brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear.

His touch was fleeting, as if he still couldn’t believe you were real. He searched your face, seeing the depth of who you truly were. He saw your boundless compassion, the centuries, maybe millenia, of understanding that lingered in your gaze.

You had been more than a dream, more than a figment of his imagination.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice filled with a sincere gratitude, “for helping.”

As you looked at him, you realised just how much he needed you. And perhaps just how much you needed him.

—

Every night that he called for you, you’d be there for him, sacrificing your eternal strength just for a moment.

Just before the dawn’s first light, you’d pull away from Bucky’s life and disappear, dissolving back into the unknown.

You always lingered as long as you could, your human heart aching at the thought of leaving him alone again. But still, you slipped away, returning to your role as the silent companion of suffering, never able to stay beyond a few hours.

But Bucky kept calling for you.

Sometimes he’d wake from a nightmare, his voice rough with sleep and fear, calling you like a prayer, like you were the only thing anchoring him to this world. Sometimes he’d simply whisper into the dark, reaching out with an open hand, searching for your touch.

And each time, you answered. Despite the strain it placed on you, the unnatural weight of becoming flesh and blood for him, you would come back. You took on human form again and again, letting him feel the warmth of your hands. You told yourself that you could bear it, that his comfort was worth any mortal pain that your immortal spirit had to carry.

One night, in a moment of weakness, as you sat together on the edge of his bed, he looked at you with an intensity that made you feel as if your duties had disappeared.

The silence stretched, and you could see what his eyes carried. The tenderness, the gratitude, the fierce need for you. He lifted a hand, gently brushing his fingers along your cheek. The softness of his touch reverberated through your flesh and blood. You were suddenly made aware that you had a beating heart as it was pounding against your fragile ribcage.

Before you could process the feeling, he leaned in and kissed you.

It was gentle, soft as a whisper, but it set something inside you alight, a sensation you’d never known before.

You had seen humanity’s love from a distance, had watched the joy and heartbreak it could bring, but this… this was something beyond mere understanding. His lips were warm and real against yours, the taste of him grounding you in this fleeting human form in a way that felt both exhilarating and terrifying.

For a moment, you were frozen, feeling his heartbeat under your fingertips, the rhythm steady, grounding. And then, almost instinctively, you kissed him back. You leaned into him, feeling the depth of his sorrow and his hope in that single, shared breath.

Every inch of you felt alive, pulled into his gravity, the intensity of this moment overwhelming every human sense you didn't think you’d ever experience.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “I’ve waited so long to feel this,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. “To feel you like this.”

You felt a swell of emotion like a lightning strike— something so unfamiliar and impossible to ignore. You were a spirit who had known only of pain and how to relieve it, who had wandered the world in search of suffering to ease, yet this—this was something else entirely. This was desire, love—all foreign feelings that made you want to stay, to linger in his arms a little longer.

But dawn was coming, as it always did. Despite the ache in your chest, you knew you had to go. The world was waiting; and others needed you, too.

With one last touch, your fingers brushing along his cheek, memorising the feeling of his skin.

You slipped away, dissolving back into the unseen, feeling his absence as if it were a physical wound.

—

It became a brutal cycle.

Every morning you would go, and every other night, when he called, you returned. Each time, the kiss lingered in your memory, the softness of his lips, the rush of your pulse, the racing of a heart that should not be yours to feel. It left you longing, yearning, pulling you back to him over and over, until every time you left felt like you were tearing yourself apart.

And though you slipped away at dawn, leaving Bucky alone with the shadows, you knew that a part of you stayed, lingering there beside him, just waiting for night to fall again so you could return to him.

One night, Bucky reached for you. His touch was gentle and filled with a hunger that was new to you.

Tonight, he had a human desire for you that you had only observed in passing. His fingers entwined with yours, rough and warm, pulling you closer with a care that sent a strange warmth rushing through you. You sensed a gravity between you, one that seemed to draw every part of your physical form into his orbit, a sensation you never could have understood in your ethereal form.

As he guided you towards his bed, his gaze stayed on yours, searching and vulnerable, as though asking for permission. You felt a flicker of understanding in his silence, a human fragility and need that made your heart—this temporary, fragile, human heart—beat a little faster.

You nodded.

When he leaned in to kiss you, the sensation was breathtaking, as it always was.

That night, he showed you the depths of human pleasure, the way mortal love could break open walls so high so intensely that the shockwave that came after felt endless. Every caress of his hands, every whisper against your skin, seared into you like a brand.

Bucky gave you something new, grounding you in sensations you didn’t know were possible. In his arms, your physical senses were overwhelmed by the beauty and ache of human desire.

With each touch, each shared breath, he showed you parts of himself he had never shown anyone in a long, long time.

And as he moved with you, every boundary between the known and unknown seemed to dissolve, leaving only the two of you, bound in a shared, silent understanding that felt more ethereal than anything you’ve ever encountered.

When it was over, he held you close, his fingers tracing soft, slow patterns across your skin.

“I love you,” he murmured, his voice filled with wonder— it was the truth. His eyes met yours, laying his heart bare for you to do whatever you pleased with it. To cherish or to break, he really didn’t care, as long as you were the one holding onto it. “I don’t know how it’s possible, but I do.”

In those words, you finally understood humanity’s deepest, truest suffering—the need to love and be loved.

For eons, you had only known suffering, solitude. The burden of easing pain without truly being seen, without knowing love in its purest form. But with Bucky, it was different.

“I love you too, James,” you whispered. It was a confession, as much a promise as it was a revelation. And you meant it. You felt a love that was boundless, stretching far beyond what this temporary human form of yours could contain.

Days passed, and each night, he would pull you close, his touch tender, his words gentle. His love was a constant that anchored you in this fragile, borrowed form. But each morning, as the first light crept over the horizon, you would pull yourself away, fading back into the shadows.

Every time you left, you saw the ache in his eyes, a silent plea that grew more desperate with each parting.

—

One night, after holding you in silence, you felt Bucky suffered more than he ever did before.

You felt the sorrow, and even you couldn't calm him down from this desperate longing that had fragmented his heart into a million pieces— it was knowledge that you couldn’t truly be his and that he couldn’t truly be yours that had caused this pain. It was knowing that, as long as you were immortal, you couldn’t possibly belong to a mortal man.

“Please stay,” he whispered, his hands shaking as they held you. “Don’t go. I can’t… I can’t keep saying goodbye. I don’t want to only see you in fragments of stolen time.” He squeezed you. His eyes were filled with a raw, desperate longing. “I want you here— with me. Always.”

You reached out, placing a hand on his cheek. You wanted to say yes, to let yourself stay, to finally surrender to this love and the peace it offered. But you knew better than anyone of your nature. You were bound to the suffering of others, woven into the fabric of pain that had defined you for a long, long time.

“I can’t,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, the words breaking as you forced them out. “I want to, more than anything. But I… I’m not meant to stay. There are others who need me.”

A flash of pain crossed his face, and he closed his eyes, trying to swallow the heartache that threatened to bury him. He nodded, though you could see struggle that lingered in the lines on his face.

“Just stay a little longer tonight,” he murmured, his voice tight, a bittersweet smile forming on his lips.

And so you held him a little longer, feeling the fragility of this human connection, the knowing that you would have to let him go. You stayed with him until the stars faded from the sky, until the dawn began to creep over the horizon. And as you finally pulled away, slipping back into the shadows, you felt a piece of yourself break, a piece that would always belong to him, no matter how far you wandered.

—

One day, as Bucky’s heart prepared to stop beating, you stood by him, devastated.

You were there as a phantom, feeling his soul slip through your fingers as he lay on the concrete after a mission gone wrong. He was unconscious, his life hanging by a thread as he fought to come back from the edge. In all the centuries of comforting humanity, you had never felt such fear, such desperation.

While you watched him, fragile and fading away, you felt something shatter deep within you.

His breath was shallow— his fate uncertain. He would only have minutes to live.

But you couldn’t lose him.

So you made a choice that you had once thought impossible.

With a heavy heart, you turned and sought out the one being who held the power to intervene: Rio Vidal, Death herself.

Death came to you quietly when you summoned her to the darkness neither of you occupied. She moved with an eternal calm, her presence as vast and ancient as the stars. She looked at you, her dark eyes filled with the weight of ages that rivalled your own. Her stare was neither evil nor kind.

You knew that she'd already understood why you called for her.

“Don’t take him,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Not now.” You were pathetic, desperation rising in frantically— a desperation that followed you into your ethereal form, an ache that you hadn’t known could exist in your immortal heart. “For the first time, I’ve found someone… someone I love. I can’t lose him.”

Rio regarded you quietly, her expression unreadable. She had seen countless souls come and go. She had met lovers, warriors, and spirits alike, each bargaining for one more breath, one more chance. But she had also never seen you — Suffering herself— here, pleading for a life. You, who had roamed the earth for centuries without attachment, a solitary being who moved through suffering like water, soothing but never bound.

To see you now, so deeply connected, intrigued her.

Perhaps, she gave you a chance because she once felt this way, too.

“What would you give?” she asked softly, sheathing back her blade.

The answer rose in you, going again your own soul’s warning.

“I’d give my immortality,” you replied without a second thought. “One day, you can take my soul, too. Just let me live beside him for as long as he has. Let me trade eternity for a single lifetime with him.”

Rio was silent for a long time, her gaze thoughtful, searching.

“Do you understand what you’re offering?” she asked, her voice a blend of curiosity and pity. “To become mortal is to surrender everything you have known—the ability to exist beyond pain and beyond time itself. You would feel suffering as they do, you would face the limitations of flesh as they do.”

"I’m sure.” you nodded with nothing but conviction, “I would rather face an end, rather give up everything, than live without him for a single moment."

Rio studied you one last time, her stare as vast as the void between stars. Then, slowly, she inclined her head, a flicker of respect in her eyes.

"When he is gone, I will come for you, too." Her voice softened just a little. "Cherish this life. It is not easily won."

When she vanished, you felt the world shift around you, felt your soul ground itself in ways it never had before. Your body solidified, your senses sharpened, and you felt, for the first time, the steady permanent rhythm of a heartbeat pulsing within your chest.

You were no longer the Spirit of Suffering, bound to pain and sorrow. You, now permanently, were flesh and blood– human in every sense.

And for the first time in forever, you felt real— mortal, permanently.

—

Bucky was recovering, weak but alive.

When you knocked on his door, he opened it, his eyes widening in surprise as he saw you standing there, no longer a fleeting vision that appeared in his room.

You walked all the way here, your barefoot aching from the harshness of the concrete.

You were solid, as real as he was, standing on his doorstep with tears in your eyes.

He had never seen you cry before. He wasn't even sure if you could.

"You're… you’re here," he whispered, reaching out as if to touch you, to be certain that you were truly there. His fingers brushed your cheek, feeling the warmth of your skin, and his hand lingered there, his thumb tracing along your cheekbone as if committing this moment to memory. “You feel different,” he murmured, awe in his voice.

“I’m here to stay,” you said, voice brimming with love you could barely contain, your own hand lifting to cover his.

He let out a shaky breath, and his eyes searched yours, filling with a warmth and disbelief so deep that it mirrored your own. He pulled you into his arms, holding you as though afraid you might vanish again.

But you didn’t.

You were here, bathed in sunlight, and real.

You melted into his embrace, feeling the thrumming of his veins against yours, knowing that, finally, your heart would beat alongside his for as long as time allowed.

-end

Read the sequel to this story: Symptom of Life

I would love to explore this further! Maybe Bucky helps you find a name, maybe even pulls some strings to give you a fake birth certificate and ID. Maybe he realises that time is fleeting and has a courthouse wedding with you ASAP.

Maybe Bucky introduces you to Sam as his wife, and he realises that he’s seen you before, when Riley got shot out of the sky.

Maybe Bucky introduces you to the Thunderbolts* as his wife, and they all would have seen you before, at some point in their life:

Yelena would have seen you when she stood over Nat’s memorial.

Alexei would have seen you when he got separated from his girls for the first time.

John would’ve seen you when he killed that flag smasher with Cap’s shield, grieving Lemar.

Ava would have seen you when she was a kid, phasing out in and out uncontrollably in extreme pain.

Antonia would’ve seen you when the bomb blew on her face.

Or maybe I could explore more of how it affects you. How you now have human guilt to live with, knowing there’s no one out there anymore easing human suffering. Now, you also have to deal with your own human suffering.

Maybe people keep recognising you, keep pointing you out as if they’ve seen a ghost because you once came to them in a time of need.

Maybe you keep your powers? Maybe I should explore how those powers would manifest in a human body?

Anyway, let me know if you’re interested in any of these ideas and I might write them!

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parkerluvsu · 2 months ago

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can u write something about art and reader having high sex 😛😛😛🙏🏻🙏🏻 like idk just like a chill night at the dorm at stanford or something where they smoke a couple blunts and grind on each other idk!!!!!!!!!!!

MOONLIGHT (art donaldson x fem! reader)

sometimes you felt like a bad influence on art.. he wouldn't let anything that wasn't on his pre-planned diet touch his lips before he met you. but from the first puff of your joint under the bleachers of the tennis court, he was hooked. not just on the woozy feeling he got when he took too long of a hit, but on the feeling of having you around him.

the more you two hung out, the more art associated the feeling of his head in the clouds, not with the large puffs of smoke drifting around his room, but you the feeling of you sitting next to him, your legs draped over his. art feels guilty, if he got caught, he'd absolutely get thrown out of the tennis program, and probably never be able to attend a good school again, but on the other hand.. your sweet giggles as you blow smoke into his face gave made him forget all the consequences if he got caught.

the problem with you (and it's not even really a problem to art.. he thinks you're perfect) is you like things casual. sure you've made out with art in a haze of smoke, maybe grinded a bit over his jeans in the back of his overly clean jeep, and he can't even count the times that you've texted him "you up?" at 2am, but he's never been your "boyfriend".

art knows it would be hard to have a serious conversation with you without the guise of just coming over to smoke, so he shoots you a text.

art: hey can i come over? need to relax :)

the buzz of your phone from the desk beside you steals your attention from your math homework, a welcome distraction. you text him back quickly, eager to have an excuse to smoke.

an eager knock on your door comes only minutes later, arts face a mixture of nerves and excitement, like a kid sneaking candy from their parents. art looks as cute as ever in his wrinkled stanford shirt and his checkered shorts, hair tussled from a night at practice. "cmon in artie" his cheeks blush at the nickname as he enters your dorm, making himself comfortable in the cozy chair in the corner. you pull out the box of paraphernalia from under your bed, flower stickers peeling off of the box from overuse. you tilt your head to the side, looking at arts body language, his constant shifting telling you he's trying to seem calm but he really isn't. "what do you wanna smoke?" you ask him, knowing what his answer will be before he even opens his mouth, "whatever you want".

that seems to be arts answer for anything, "whatever you want", sometimes you think if you walked off the edge of a cliff he'd do the same. art was one of those people who followed everything you did, the way you sat, the way you talked, and even your vocabulary, he would shift to be more similar to you. even when he smoked for the very first time, he watched you inhale so deep and hold it in before blowing a large cloud of smoke into the air, he tried to do the same.. but ended up greening out and throwing up in the trashcan next to the tennis courts. the truth is, art would do that all over again if it meant even one more second with you, and he knew it was clingy and definitely too dependent for the casual situation you were in.. but he can't help himself.

me: sure, come over anytime

art is a lightweight in every sense of the word, whenever Patrick would take him to a frat party to get totally wasted, all it took was one red solo cup full of beer to have art stumbling over his own feet. It was the same with weed, it only took one hit for art to start slurring his words, his body pretty much melting into any surface near him. currently, it's the cozy chair in the corner of your room, but you can see his eyes drifting towards the cozy blankets on you bed. "art, you know you can go sit on my bed right?" his eyes widen and he shuffles over, flopping down on the bed in such a way that would make sober-him flush with embarrassment. you giggle as he wraps himself in the blankets, his head lolling onto the pillow. art blearily watches you come sit on the bed too, leaning against the wall for support. the sight of him tangled up in your blankets reminds you of previous late nights spent together, causing a flutter in your stomach that you're a little ashamed of. art leans over to give you the joint back, your fingers brushing together softly. "y'know you look super pretty right now" art says, "n-not that you don't always look pretty but like.. right now especially" he revises his statement, he's always such a people pleaser. you laugh, taking a long hit from the joint before giving him a wide smile. "thanks artie, you're pretty too" you reply, knowing he likes being called pretty, even though he'd absolutely never say it, the way his ears go red gives him away every time.

as the night goes on, and your shared joint turns into a stub, you find yourself closer to art than you thought you were, your sides pressed up against each other as you lay on your backs, staring up at your ceiling. the boring white paint suddenly seeming very interesting until you felt movement beside you, art was tuning on his side and leaning his face on his hand. you blink, "what are you looking at?" glancing at arts eyes that were fixed on your face. "you" art says simply, causing you to shake your head and laugh. "i know that art.. but why?" you ask, pressing for an answer from him. "dunno.. just your face is nice" he says, his face dropping into your shoulder. arts breath was hot against your neck, making you almost want to pull away, but you'd never do that, enjoying the weight of him against you. arts breathing rate increases against your neck and you wonder why until you feel a pressure against your thigh. "art.." he hums in response, only focused on the small sharp movements of his hips. you know how quickly he shifts from being all innocent and sweet to taking what he needs.

you're such a sucker for art, especially when he's high and he can't hide his feelings like he usually does. you shift your leg to the side to help him, inciting an immediate response of his eyes fluttering shut against your shoulder, his eyelashes tickling you gently. the position that you maneuvered into allowed arts leg to slot between yours as well, letting you slowly rock your hips against his leg, the feeling of his bare skin only making you feel more pleasure. before you know it, art is pressing hot kisses into your neck and your arms are wrapped loosely around his neck. "mmmmmfuck" art groans against your neck, even though he's feeling less woozy than earlier, he's still sensitive, just the feeling of grinding against you having him teetering on the edge. suddenly, you feel his hips stutter and a dampness cover the front of his shorts. art holds his breath for a second before his whole body goes limp against you, his fingers not clenching the sheets anymore.

a comfortable silence falls between you, before art breaks it with his soft voice. "can we go again? 'm sorry i just.. i need you" he whines out, still not showing his face. you giggle softly and nod, lifting up your hips to pull off your pajama pants and panties, art doing the same with his shorts and boxers. "how do you want me?" you ask, sending a flutter of butterflies into arts stomach because of the sense of control you're giving him. art thinks for a second, "can you turn around..? please" he asks, a bit of hesitancy in his voice. you nod, turning to face the wall next to your bed, your back facing art. his gentle hands maneuver your legs into a position that's easy for him to slip into you. he does so slowly, more for your sake than his, he thinks if he pushed inside of you too fast he would surely cum prematurely (not like it hasn't happened before).

you feel art shiver against you, his hips pausing when he enters your fully, his balls resting snugly against your ass. art could truly stay like this forever, if he had the patience and resolve.. but he doesn't, his hips snap into yours quickly, the overstimulation getting to him. he wraps his arms around your stomach, holding you close to him, his head yet again smushed into the crook of your neck. every thrust he gives you feels like it's punching the air out of you, art isn't even pulling all the way out anymore, just humping his hips into you the best he can. even in his delicate headspace, art still wants to please you first, his fingers making their way down your stomach before rubbing messily at your clit, his fingers catching on your nub every few circles, causing you to tighten up around him. art is close, you can always tell by how his voice shifts from more coherent to just straight up blabbering, "mgh.. god.. 's so warm.. you're so warm.." "it feels s' good.. it's feels good to you too right?" "gotta be closer to you.. wan' be closer to you" but you snap to attention when he moans against you, "please be m' girlfriend please.. i wan' you to be mine.." you're sure art has no idea what he's saying until he repeats himself, almost sounding like he's about to cry. you nod quickly, "y-yeah artie okay.. ill be your girlfriend.." now you swear he actually sobs, his hips making one last deep thrust before you feel him fill you up, the sensation sending you over the edge right after him.

art stays inside of you for a minute, dating his breath before pulling out, grabbing a tissue and helping you clean up. when you open your eyes, arts looking up at you with his signature puppy dog eyes. "um.. did you mean what you said?" he asks quietly, his head bowing down quickly, as if he didn't want to see your reaction. you think back to your agreement, sure it was in the heat of the moment, but would it really be such a bad idea to say yes? you pause, and arts head droops even lower, expecting the worst. "art you know ive purposely been keeping this casual.. but i.. i trust you now artie, i do want this to be serious" you reach out for his hand, squeezing it gently. arts face lights up like a kid getting the one present they wanted for christmas as he quickly hugs you. "thank you.. thanks, you won't regret it i swear" you smile, pulling the blankets over the both of you, snuggling into arts chest as you admire the beautiful rays of moonlight streaming into your bedroom.

art is easily entranced by the quick movements of your fingers as you roll a joint, it sounds silly but he's always admired the fact that you didn't buy pre-rolls, preferring to be more independent. you lick the paper to get it to stick shut (and art is grateful you were too focused on that to see the way his eyes widened when you did) and root around your drawer for your lighter, a stupid pink one decorated with hello kitty that you got for your birthday. art couldn't help but find it endearing, the way you were so independent and "too cool" for a real relationship, but you still kept all the things that people gave to you, even if they weren't to your taste. the click of your lighter snapped art out of his observations, the light from the tiny flame illuminating your face in a way that made art want to take a picture, the fluttering flame casting an orange glow onto your skin. the strong smell of the joint caused art to become a little lightheaded even though he hasn’t even taken a hit yet, his fingers grabbing the joint from you after a couple failed tries that make you laugh, the soft giggles a soundtrack for the night.

#parkerluvsu #parker.talks #challengers x reader #art donaldson #challengers 2024 #challengers #art donaldson x reader #challengers smut #art donaldson smut

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ronjunnie · 8 months ago

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JENO FIC RECOMMENDATIONS

SERIES

arcane @neonacity

case oasis @neonc1tylights

ONESHOTS

my first and last (m) (37k) @leejenowrld

picture perfect image (35k) @a-cupof-jo

i suddenly realize my archnemesis is hot (during a battle to the death) (22.5k) @choerrypuffs

sunshine (21.3k) @endthedream

shadows in the snow (m) (20k) @jenonctcity

ready for love (19.5k) @jnnul

dream()scape @technologyculturedneo

tongue-tied (17.4k) @starlightkun

summer of love (15.2k) @lattaeyongs

kitchen frolics (14.8k) @radiorenjun

the perks of having a hot best friend (14.3k) @jaeyunverse

Stepping Into The Moonlight (m) (13.3k) @jenonctcity

wicked games (m) (12.8k) @iridesuhnce

nothing in return (12k) @cozyjae

fight club (m) (11.9k) @tyonfs

pupsick (11.8k) sequel (8.8k) @starlightkun

home (m) (11.6k) @byunbaekby

the roommate contract (11.3k) @jaeyunverse

hold fast (11.1k) @kiachiako

summer lovin' (9.8k) @softsichenghours

midnight moon (9k) @jaeminhours

it's yours (m) (6k) @neopuppy

the element of substance (5.2k) @choerrypuffs

lavender haze (3.4k) @springdaybreaks

summer heat and summer swims (m) (3.4k) @hyuckssunchip

for real love (3.1k) @jungnoir

searching for sun, water, and attention (2k) @flashbangstars

sleepy kisses @blu-joons

get smart (m) (1.8k) @glitchfiles

drunken guest and a tail (1.6k) @simpsiren

you wounds wrapped with my love (1.5k) @slytherinshua

rainfall @xrenjunniesx

all night long @writemekpop

TIMESTAMPS

1:34 @kkaebsongtypo

1:37 am @kkaebsongtypo

1:48 am @kkaebsongtypo

2:03 am @kkaebsongtypo

2:54 am @alicanta77

3:00 @radiorenjun

3:16 pm @gyeomsweetgyeom

3:38 am @raspberriesoda

6:44 pm @kkaebsongtypo

7:02 pm @neophele

7:17 am @kkaebsongtypo

7:21 am @ghostofhyuck

9:08 am @kkaebsongtypo

8:41 am @gyeomsweetgyeom

8:57 pm @kkaebsongtypo

10:27 pm @kkaebsongtypo

11:27 @doeilovr

11:38 pm (m) @hyucksong

12:23 @lqfiles

12:40 am @kkaebsongtypo

12:51 am @snapchattingnct

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kenobers · 3 months ago

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is this love? | jason todd x sionis!reader

but first free palestine !! You started hooking with Jason Todd, the second eldest Wayne child, so that both of you could royally piss off your father, Roman Sionis. Now that you've accomplished that, you're still hooking up. And spending the night. Frankly, you are quite sure what this is anymore. But you know you like it. tw: Post-sex setting, brief description of sexual activity, reader has a lot of anxiety and was maybe homeschooled as a child, mentions of poor father-daughter relationships, fem!afab!reader a/n: Surprise, I like Jason Todd too. This was inspired by this ask on gliverrwrites' blog! In hindsight, it might've been kinda weird of me, but i couldn't get the concept out of my head. thank you to gliverr and anon! please check out their blog!

There was no greater "Fuck You" you could give your father than the sigh of satisfaction that escaped your lips as your head hit the pillow.

However, Roman Sionis and all his misdeeds had been wiped from your mind in favor of the man panting above you.

You were certain that there was no work of art more beautiful than Jason Todd at this very moment. His green eyes flashed before fluttering shut, no doubt following suit with his head as it rolled back. The shock of white hair had been made curly by sweat and the comb of your fingers. His mouth hung open and uttered a string of praises for you - although the only coherent words you could make out were "good" and "beautiful". Still, they passed like poetry through his lips, which were puffy and delightfully red from contact with your own.

It was so polite of him to let you cum first so you could witness this masterpiece. Even if it was through your own post-Jason haze.

Jason's forehead came to rest on yours as his hips stuttered against yours and an all too familiar warmth coated your thigh. You took the opportunity to brush wet black and white strands of hair out of his handsome face. His eyes peered open again as he caught your hand in his own. For a moment, you expected him to smack it away, but instead he brought your palm to his lips and kissed it.

"My beautiful girl."

Even when he had melted the rest of your naked body into jelly, he still managed to turn your stomach into butterflies.

Now he pressed a kiss between your eyebrows.

"Gimme just one second, baby," he panted before rolling off of you. You sighed again as cool air hit your sticky skin, however, an anxious knot began to form in your stomach as your lover disappeared into the bathroom.

What if he left out the window? What if you never saw him again? What if this was just a one time thing to get back at your father for the countless number of things he'd done to Jason's family?

But it would be incredibly silly if he did all this just to leave you in his apartment, especially considering this was far from the first time you'd slept together. Besides, wasn't the should-be-enemies-with-benefits what you had wanted this whole time?

You turned on your side to watch him in the bathroom, subconsciously rubbing the slick between your thighs together. Jason swore as his toe collided with something. You giggled as you realized it was his Red Hood mask, the gleaming metal winking at you in the yellow light.

Jason glanced over his broad shoulder and grinned at the sound of your giggles. He brushed his sticky hair back, giving you a prime view of his sharp canine. You shivered thinking about the mark it had left on your neck earlier. He turned the faucet on and ran something under it, then turned back to you, flicking the bathroom light off.

He really was an imposing man, you noted. 6'2 and built like an ox. To you, he looked like a statue with the way the moonlight streaming though the window illuminated his bare hip and ribs, painting them a comforting shade of blue. If he hadn't just fucked you silly, you would've imagined how scary he must be to a criminal in a dark alley.

The bed dipped as your statue sat beside you. He gently rolled you back onto your back, then began rubbing your thighs down with a warm washcloth.

"You feeling alright, doll?"

He must've asked that a handful of times while he had your legs hooked over his shoulder. You couldn't recall a time when anyone else had checked in with you during or after sex.

You nodded, only to have your words replaced with a sharp hiss as the washcloth brushed over your still sensitive pussy. The administrations stopped abruptly.

"Sorry, baby," Jason apologized, although he couldn't hide the amusement on his face. "I'll be gentler next time."

You snorted, "don't go making threats now."

He chuckled, leaning down to kiss you. Heat rose to your face as you tasted yourself on his soft lips. You let out a whine when he parted and rose again.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm comin' back. Hold your horses, lady," he teased, waving his hand dismissively. You rolled your eyes playfully. Like he had any room to judge someone for their dramatics.

He wiped himself down with the washcloth before dropping it in his hamper, where your torn panties hung over the side. He'd promised to buy you a much more expensive pair to make up for it. He pulled on a fresh pair of boxes and tossed you a pair.

You sat up and just as you had wriggled them over your hips, Jason was ready with one of his t-shirts. You put your arms up and let him slid the worn fabric over your torso - not missing the way his eyes stopped to admire the way Black Canary's logo looked over your bare chest.

"You sure you're alright? You're so quiet," Jason asked, sliding in next to you. You laid back, resting your head against his chest as you breathed in the lingering scent of sex, leather and aftershave. His skin was soft beneath your finger tips, their smooth path only interrupted by a patch of hair or a scar.

You remembered the first time you'd hooked up with him, before you had accidentally caught him with the Red Hood mask. You assumed the autopsy scars were some sort of dark humor tattoo. You told yourself you couldn't catch feelings for a guy with a weird ass tattoo like that.

And now you were still in his bed. Wearing his shirt. And his underwear. Knowing his secret identity. With plans to get breakfast in the morning.

At what point had this gone beyond simply pissing off Roman Sionis? Both you and Jason had just wanted to get back at your father by fucking in his warehouses. But now you had your own space on his bathroom counter. You were staying the night after sex. You whined when he pulled away from you.

Above all else, he was so kind to you. But beneath the sarcasm and snark, he had been kind from the get-go. It was you that had acted like a rotten, spoiled brat. The more time you spent with him, the softer you got.

Jason squeezed your shoulder lightly, murmuring your name. You looked up at him dumbly. His brows were furrowed in concern as he ran the tip of his finger over your cheekbone.

"What's the matter, bub?"

You shook your head.

"'m just tired. And lost in thought, I guess."

"Oh?" He hummed, brushing your jawline. "Whatcha thinkin' about, pretty girl."

You pretended to think for a moment.

"Hmm, just about how tired I am. Ya really know how to wear a woman out, Todd."

"Well, if I recall correctly, you said-"

"I know what I said!" you cut him off with a mock defensiveness, pretending to smack his chest as he snickered. Once more, he covered your hand with his own large one, this time pressing it to his heart.

The two of you stayed like that for a moment, lost in each other's touch. You started to wonder if this is what love felt like; safe and warm and blissed out. You tried to push the thought out of your mind.

"Seriously though," Jason said, his voice low. "Did I go too far tonight? Are you actually okay?"

If you had been anyone else's daughter, you were certain that you would've started crying.

"I'm...I was just thinking..." you took a breath. In your defense, this kind of tender-love-and-care wasn't in your DNA. "I'm just...I'm lucky to have you, Jaybird."

"This isn't about to be a 'but comma' statement, is it?"

"A 'butt comma'?"

"Yeah, you know, 'you're great and all, but..."

You shot straight up, now hovering over him anxiously.

"Oh God, no!" You said, your eyes the size of saucers as you shook your head. Oh Lord, if he couldn't already tell you were emotionally unstable. You fell back on your heels, ringing your hands nervously. "Unless you want it to be..."

Now Jason sat up, taking both of your hands in his, running his thumbs over your knuckles.

"No, no, pretty girl. I don't want that."

There was no malice behind his green eyes. No mocking tweak in his slit eyebrow. No violence in his grip.

You sighed in relief and allowed Jason to lay you back down. He wrapped his thick arms around your waist and pulled you into him. You were thankful for the way he tucked your head into the crook of his neck, hiding your embarrassment at the emotional outburst.

Jason kissed the top of your head, "actually, I was going to ask if you wanted to come to the Manor with me on Sunday. Family dinner stuff."

You peered up at him, "Would I be, y'know, welcomed there?"

"Of course," he promised. "Look, if there's any group of fuckers that can empathize with daddy issues, it's these fuckers. Damian'll probably give you shit, but you could've been birthed by the Pope and he would give you shit. But he knows you're cool."

"And Mr. Wayne?"

Jason chuckled, sending a soft vibration through you as his dark chest hair tickled your cheek.

"Believe it or not, it was B's idea to invite you. I think he's curious."

"Probably want to vet me," you grumbled, half joking, half painfully serious.

He laughed again, "baby, if Bruce had reason to be suspicious of you, he would've launched and concluded an investigation by now. He knows you're not your dad. I know I talk my shit about him, but trust me, he gets it."

You were about to ask if Batman had been keeping tabs on you when Jason continued.

"Plus, you know," he shrugged. "He knows you make me happy."

Oh, your heart stopped for a second.

Oh, that wasn't a bad thing.

Jason wanted to take you to dinner with his family. Not because he was a Wayne and you were a Sionis and the situation was inherently funny (and bound to set your old man off). But because you made him happy.

And fuck it, he made you happy too.

That might be love, actually.

"Well, if you insist," you nestled closer to him. "Then it's a date."

#i wiped this up in like two hours and probably should've worked on it for longer #but ah well #anything for the people's princess (jason todd)#jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #jason todd x you #red hood x you #jason todd smut #jason todd fluff #jason todd #red hood #beautiful beautiful beautiful boy

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