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mistyorchid · 8 months ago

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Meet-Cute

Old Man!Logan x fem! reader

summary: Failed talking stages inspire you to meet someone irl. Riding an older man in the backseat of his limo makes you forget about the immature boys who ghosted you on Hinge. Ch. 2 Ch. 3 warnings: MDNI, no use of y/n, smut, age gap, reader is 21+, fingering, riding, size difference, praise kink, pet names (doll, baby, sweet/good girl, sweetheart), unprotected p in v, light slapping, oral (male!receiving), creampie, car sex (nobody's around tho), logan's slutty glasses. wc: 3k

Hinge. The app designed to be deleted. You smiled as you pushed the cart, daydreaming about chucking your phone into the nearest lake. The few matches that you received often ghosted you after a week, afraid of committing to a real date.

So here you were, aimlessly strolling through a grocery store. Desperately begging the universe for a real man.

You spent an embarrassingly long time curating the perfect outfit to attract a guy worth your time. Casual enough for a quick errand, but still chic. I want to be with someone who admires my confidence. They shouldn't reprimand me for expressing myself.

That's how the feminist part of your brain explained your attire. The other touch-starved half, however, wanted to wear the shortest skirt you owned just to feel men stare holes through it.

You turned into the bakery aisle and pretended to evaluate the nutritional contents of a massive chocolate cake. Maybe this could be plan B, if tonight's endeavor was hopeless.

The comforting hum of fluorescent lights softened the sterile environment around you. Memories of simpler times floated in your mind. Handmade school lunches. Gentle kisses placed on your knee after a bad fall. You closed your eyes, lulled by the promises of love you were granted as a child. Now an adult, you yearned for a partner that could nurture you in a romantic way.

Logan overheard a bag of produce spill onto the floor as he picked up a shopping basket. The cashier dropped it when he saw Logan's blood-stained dress shirt.

Mumbling a string of profanity, he decided to release some steam. "Show's over!" he snapped, flippantly tossing his right arm behind him.

Ignoring the shocked gasps of the other shoppers, Logan sulked further into the store in search of something to soothe his palate.

His doctor tentatively ordered him to "lay off the booze," a suggestion that left three deep puncture wounds in the drywall of his office. Alcohol numbed the emotional and physical pain that plagued him, but it also further delayed his healing powers.

Logan's skeleton was withering away, and all he wanted was a fucking sweet treat.

Your body braced for impact as your chest made contact with a shopper haphazardly turning into the aisle. After dropping the cake onto the pristine white tile, you closed your eyes again, salvaging the moment of peace that was stolen from you.

"Hey, watch where you're going, asshole." You reluctantly opened your eyes and were met with the solid torso of a man.

Slowly raking your gaze up his body, you raised your eyebrows at the sight of his bloody shirt before meeting his narrowed eyes.

Crows feet radiating from the corners. Prescription glasses. He appeared much older than you expected from your brief contact with his chest.

You silently cursed your luck. This meet-cute plan was steadily evolving into a meet-angry situation.

"Not smart to close your eyes in public," he huffed, staring pointedly at the fallen cake. It was hard not to notice your mini skirt. He hasn't seen a skirt that short since the 60s.

Although you had pulled away from him, the man's eyes lingered on your chest. The playful baby-doll top hugged your cleavage in all the right places. Your glossy lips donned a similar shade of pink. He quickly resumed eye contact, feeling like a dirty old man for imagining them wrapped around his cock.

She's too young, you sick fuck. Logan's internal monologue worked overtime to maintain a shred of decency.

Your face turned away from him at the impending embarrassment you were about to put yourself through. Smirking, you shyly retorted, "Not smart to stare at a girl's tits in public." You gently pushed up his glasses further onto the bridge of his nose.

Closing the gap between your chests, you tip-toed to reach his ear before whispering, "It's okay . . . I want you to."

The answer to Logan's suffering was sweeter than any slice of cake he could have indulged in. A pretty little thing was actually flirting with him, a cynical ex-soldier worn by the unforgiving rings of time.

Logan's hands found the back of your elbows and slowly pulled you closer to him. You gasped as you felt his belt buckle catch on the flimsy fabric of your top.

"Careful, doll," he grunted, leaning down to meet the side of your face. "I'm old enough to be your father."

You defiantly peered up at him through your lashes. "Yeah, and . . .?"

The man slowly distanced himself from you, gently tugging the hem of your top down to its original state.

Okay, definitely not the best response to seduce an older man. You chewed the inside of your cheek, stunned by your juvenile comeback.

"I'm sorry, kid. Forget I said anything," he muttered before turning into another aisle. He mentally kicked himself for letting the interaction go that far. Although his aching body and mind yearned for some relief, he wouldn't take advantage of some young girl.

He hurriedly stomped past the cashiers, swiping a few cigars from a distracted employee's station.

After the initial shock wore off, you quickly followed the older man to the parking lot. Totally not stalker-ish at all, right?

You wanted to take care of him. His reluctance to return your lust-sick gaze should have deterred you, but it only made you more desperate.

You watched as his hands dug into his pocket, pulling out a set of keys. The chipper click of the limo doors unlocking motivated you to get his attention.

"Hey! Can we talk?" You yelled, raising an outstretched palm to stop him from getting inside the car.

Logan froze at the sound of your voice. He contemplated being responsible, slamming his door and driving off without a second glance.

The gentle pressure of your hand wrapping around his wrist made him think extremely irresponsible thoughts.

Turning around to meet your gaze, the older man swiftly opened the passenger door. "Get in. Now," he growled.

Words betrayed you. All you responded with was a surprised squeak as he used your grip on his wrist to push you further into the vehicle.

His eyes widened as you briefly parted your thighs to get settled in the lush leather seat. The sinfully short hem of your skirt bunched up, revealing your underwear.

Logan whipped his head to the front of the limo, avoiding the sight of your body. Unfortunately, he couldn't avoid how you felt against his. You sat at an angle towards him, knees pressing against his thigh. His body tensed as you placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Why were you following me, huh?" he asked, finally meeting your eyes. "I've had a long fuckin' day and I need answers." He couldn't believe that a young woman like you would be interested in him.

"Yeah, you're old enough to be my father, maybe older-" you paused to move your left hand onto his thigh. "-but I'm done playing with boys." You shyly turned your head before continuing, "Need a real man."

Logan was done holding back. Now, it all made sense. Your lack of direction in the store, the low cut of your outfit that was way too sexy for a late night grocery run. We're both adults, he reasoned. She wants this.

He gingerly cradled your jaw with his large hand, turning your head towards his. "You sure about this, sweetheart?

You covered his hand with your own, bringing your lips to his in a spontaneous kiss. "I-I need to hear you," he stuttered.

"Shut up and fuck me, . . . " you sighed, pausing to ask for his name.

"Logan . . . call me Logan, doll." His left hand snaked around your waist, bunching the delicate material and exposing your breasts.

As you leaned into his palm, he fished the limo keys out of his pocket and clicked twice, locking the doors. He fondled the underside of your tits before rolling the sensitive nipples between his thumb and forefinger.

You were grateful for the tinted windows that shielded your embarrassing moans from the public.

"Already whining for me, hm? So fuckin' needy," he hummed, pushing up your top even further. You crossed your arms to undress, but Logan swatted them away, explaining, "It's cute. Wanna see your tits bounce for me, baby."

He gripped your ass with both hands and effortlessly swung you onto the broad expanse of his lap.

Your back arched as his rough palm cupped your pussy, thumb languidly tracing your sensitive bud through the cotton.

"But this . . . has to go," he drawled, tugging the elastic of your panties before letting it go with a faint snap.

It was too much. You were splayed over the lap of a stranger, hips wantonly rocking yourself over his prominent bulge and mewling as your sensitive clit caught on the rough fabric of his slacks.

He stilled your movements with his hands, lovingly kneading the flesh of your hips. "You okay with this?" he asked, searching your eyes for any sign of doubt. "Yeah, Logan . . . more than okay. Need you."

You loved that he was confident enough to take what he wanted but also gracious enough to check in, unlike the boys you were used to fucking around with.

His fingers hooked around the waistband of your skirt and panties, skillfully pushing your legs against your chest as he pulled them off. He decided against slicing them off with his claws, not wanting to hurt you. "Fuck. You're so pretty. My sweet, sweet girl . . ." he cooed. You whined as your aching cunt was finally exposed to Logan's hungry gaze and the chill night air. He groaned as you resumed desecrating his lap with your juices.

Your breath hitched as Logan traced two fingers along your bottom lip. You granted him access, playfully darting your tongue around his digits.

After his fingers were thoroughly soaked, he used your saliva to gently trace your hole, noticing the faint flutter of your walls.

"Need me to fill you up, hm? Poor baby's clenching around nothing. Let me fix that . . ." Logan's palm brushed against your clit as his fingers plunged into you, setting a steady pace.

You were incredibly wet, but he needed to prep you for his thick cock. He drooled, collecting a heavy wad of spit onto his tongue before letting it fall onto your pussy.

"Ah-ah!" You exclaimed, surprised by the contact. You bit your lip, cheeks flushing at the lewd feeling of his spit mixing with your wetness.

He used his other hand to slap repeatedly against your puffy folds, mesmerized by how vulnerable you were being for him.

"Yeah, you like that?" He whispered, curling his fingers as they met your cervix. You covered your mouth, desperately trying to maintain some modesty. Logan withdrew his left hand to pry away your arm and swallow your moans, sloppily slotting his lips into yours.

You gasped into his mouth as you felt your cunt spasm around his fingers, gushing all over his tight slacks.

"Oh, fuck! Logan . . . " you mewled, biting his lower lip while he continued to finger you through your orgasm.

Your head fell into the inviting crook of his neck, nuzzling his graying beard. "Atta girl, come for me," he cooed.

Logan peered down at you, noticing wet droplets dampening his beard. You were silently crying, tears cascading down your puffy cheeks before landing on his face.

At first, he was alarmed. "Hey, hey, shhhh," he purred. "What's the matter, doll?"

His cock twitched when he realized you were smiling against his neck.

"Nothing's wrong, Logan . . . you make me feel so good, that's all."

He planted a sweet kiss on your forehead. "Yeah? Want me to make you feel even better? Fill you up for real this time?"

You nodded dumbly, still basking in the haze of your release.

"Nuh-uh. Words." The simple command made you rut into his lap.

You shuddered while responding. "Wanna feel you inside me. Need your-" Logan bucked up into you. "-cock."

He slid his hands under your thighs, briefly pushing you forward so he could unbuckle his belt. Your small hands slinked toward his waist. "Let me do it," you pleaded, hastily sliding his belt through its loops and tossing it to the floor.

You pulled his cock out of his slacks, leaning down to press sweet little kisses to the head. Your thighs burned with the effort, but it was worth it to feel him momentarily lose control. Logan hissed sharply, "Good girl, fuck-" before guiding his thick cock into your heavenly mouth.

You licked a prominent vein that teased its way above his waistband. The taste of him was utterly intoxicating. You moaned onto his length, choking back tears as he suddenly thrust up into your eager throat.

The delicious weight of his cock on your tongue was short-lived. He cupped your face, forcing your mouth to slide past the tip with an obscene pop.

"Won't last long if you keep doing that, doll. Takes a lot less to get me riled up these days," he explained.

You nodded as you straightened yourself, using your knees to hover above his lap. He teasingly ran the flushed tip of his cock through your folds before sinking into your weeping pussy.

"Oh my god! fuck-" you cried, lowering your hips to embrace his full length. Your hands found stability on Logan's shoulders as you bounced on his cock.

Logan stared in awe at your tits. They were practically spilling out the sides of your cute top, jiggling with each movement of your hips.

As he admired your form, you drunk in the sight of his coarse salt and pepper beard. His wiry glasses barely held onto the slope of his strong nose due to your eager movements. You paid special attention to his crimson-stained shirt, wondering how he was enduring the wounds.

"You're hurt." You stated, pausing to slowly unbutton his dress shirt.

Logan's hands grabbed a handful of your ass and slammed you down onto his lap, forcing you to continue taking his cock.

"Never said you could stop," he huffed. "It'll take time, but I'm healing."

You gasped as your clit hitched on the bunched fabric of his slacks, frantically shrugging off his shirt in the process. A devastating moan ripped from Logan's throat as you peppered kisses on his wounds. The coppery taste of his blood was oddly soothing, reminding you that the man buried in your cunt was real and not just a figment of your lust-fueled imagination.

Logan loved how dazed you looked, your chest rising and falling with each shaky breath, your pupils dilated and glossy. His cock twitched every time your soft tits brushed against his face. You whined as the steady rhythm of your hips faltered, hinting at your imminent release.

"Lean forward, baby. Let your old man take care of you," he sighed, wrapping his broad arms around your waist. You allowed yourself to slump forward, arching your back and playfully wiggling your ass in the air.

You yelped as he slapped your ass with enough force to feel the sting radiate from his outstretched palm. "Such a fuckin' tease," he growled, filling you up in one thrust. He set a punishing pace that made you sob into his chest. The loud squelches of your release echoed throughout the limo, mirroring your high-pitched wines.

"Oh, my god! . . ." you mewled, savoring the feeling of his cock stretching your walls. Your breath hitched every time his hips met yours, balls slapping against the sensitive skin of your ass.

He fucked up into your cunt, relishing the fact that you'd probably never had a cock as big as his. Logan stared at where you were connected, hypnotized by the subtle drag of your folds along his rugged length.

"Don't know what I did to deserve a pretty girl like you." His teeth tugged on the delicate strap of your top, exposing your breasts. His mouth enveloped the bud, gently sucking and pulling as they hardened.

"Logan . . . can't take it anymore. I'm close." You clenched around him, earning another hard slap on your ass.

"You gonna come for me sweetheart, hm?" He somehow increased his pace, hips drilling into your sensitive cunt. "C'mon, come all over my cock. Such a sweet young thing, so eager to please . . . " he hummed into your ear.

"And just so we're clear, I am definitely older than your father." His filthy words made you arch even higher, stilling your hips mid-air and allowing Logan to fuck you through your release.

The sound of you faintly chanting his name as you came sent him over the edge. "You can take it," he encouraged as your pathetic whines intermingled with his unabashed groans. His hips drove home, bouncing you harshly against his tense thighs and spilling into you with a low growl.

You almost blacked out at the feeling of his cum spurting into your walls, reaching even further when Logan buried his cock to the hilt. You clenched around him, overstimulated and thoroughly fucked.

"That's it, just relax . . . You look so pretty milking my cock," he praised, brushing stray hair away from your face.

You managed to sit upright and shakily moved to lift yourself off his cock, but Logan quickly steadied your hips. He's still hard, you realized, fascinated by his renewed vigor.

He panted, obviously just as spent as you were.

"So, uh, tomorrow, the Italian place on fifth street, 8 PM?"

You narrowed your eyes, incredibly confused at his choice of words after experiencing the best sex you've ever had.

"Our first date," he clarified. He kissed your cheek and you blushed at the contrast between the innocent action and the fact that his hard cock was still buried in your cunt. "After all, I'm a real man, right? And real men plan dates." He plastered on a cocky grin, repeating your earlier statements.

"Okay, old man. It's a date." You smiled, kissing his mouth with passion.

an: Ah!!! I had so much fun writing this. Old Man Logan, when will it be my turn >:[

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sv3t1ana · 8 days ago

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SYNOPSIS ᯓ Gojo doesn't usually fuck his clients. This was supposed to be a normal massage. But with hands like that and a cock to match... "professional" was never on the table.

PAIRING ᯓ Masseur!Gojo x Fem!Reader

WARNINGS ᯓ smut MDNI, happy ending massage!, oral (f receiving), size kink?, PIV, spanking, biting/marking, dirty talk, possessiveness if you squint!

WORD COUNT ᯓ 5.3k

You’d driven past the place at least a hundred times.

It’s a stupidly sleek little building tucked perfectly between a Pilates studio and one of those overpriced juice bars. Like the kind with an obnoxiously chic and overly sensual neon sign that says TOUCH. White letters on smoked glass, all minimalist and judgy and expensive.

Every time you passed it you’d scoff.

“They probably charge three hundred fucking dollars just to rub your back and judge your pores.”

You’d even spat out an insult once like the building itself would crumble under the weight of your words, hitting the gas on your way home from work. Said it with the kind of righteous confidence that only comes from truly believing you’d never be that kind of girl. The kind who just… lets someone touch them like that. Oil-slicked and half-naked, moaning on some fake leather table while a stranger pretends it’s “therapeutic.”

Weird, isn’t it?

Definitely not for you.

And yet, here you are.

Saturday morning. Pillow hair, soul cracked like a boiled egg, lying in bed with your phone half on your face as you text your best friend in a fugue state,

you ever feel like your spine is just floating? help

You expected a “same.”

get a massage. i’m serious.

You snort. Riiight, a massage, huh?

You stare at the screen, eyes locked to the message like if you stared long enough it’d dial itself.

No amount of sarcasm or dignity can fix the way your shoulders feel like cement. Or the way you haven’t slept properly in weeks. Or the way your boss sent a “quick favor” email at precisely 11:48 PM last night, which you answered because your spine is already jelly and your will to live has already been transferred to a spreadsheet.

So… yeah.

Maybe you are that girl.

The bell attached to the door jingled as you step into the spa, and this is where you immediately felt out of place. The air smelled like eucalyptus and tears of the rich. The lighting was soft, flutey music passing through one ear and out the other, the woman at reception desk with the kind of smooth and poreless skin someone had when they bathed in rosewater.

You step up, feigning confidence like you hadn’t just Googled “what happens at a massage” just an hour ago.

“Hi, uh… I’d like to get a massage?”

She looked up from her computer with a smile too serene to be trusted. “Of course, what kind were you thinking? We offer Swedish, Thai, deep tissue, shiatsu, hot stone, aromatherapy-”

You nod slowly, brain buffering like YouTube trying to stream Paul vs. Tyson. Swedish? Do you get buttered up and rolled around like an IKEA meatball? You can’t ask that. You’d already committed the biggest crime by pretending you belonged here.

“Deep tissue,” you said, like you knew what the hell that meant.

She gave you a polite nod, tapping away on her keyboard. “Great choice. One of our more intense options. How long would you like the session? Sixty or ninety minutes?”

“Um… sixty’s good,” which is actually code for: I have no idea what I’m doing and I’m more scared of farting if you press too hard on my spine.

“Perfect,” she chirped. “The massage therapist will discuss pricing with you. You can take a seat, they’ll call you back shortly.”

You stepped aside, sitting on the impossibly soft couch in a sack of second-guessing. Of course there was a candle named something you can’t pronounce. And of course there’s a small framed sign on the coffee table reading: Relaxation is a journey, not a destination.

Just as you begin contemplating how to fake an emergency bolt, an intrusive thought crossing your mind to stand up and scream that you had a fucking bomb, a calm voice called your name.

You stood up, maybe way too quickly, meeting the eyes of a woman smiling at you with a clipboard in hand.

Thank god. A woman. The anxiety deflated from your shoulders. You didn’t really consider the possibility of a male masseuse until now, but the idea of some beefcake oiled up and kneading your thigh was not something you emotionally prepared for.

“This way,” she gestured for you to follow her down a hallway lined with softly glowing wall sconces and the sound of babbling water. You’d never felt so simultaneously underdressed and overscheduled.

She opened a door and motioned you inside. “You can undress to your comfort level and lie down under the towel, face down. I’ll let your massage therapist know you’re ready.”

“Towel?” you echo, glancing around. On the table sat a singular, small, pathetic white towel. It looked like something you’d pat a cat dry with, and you didn’t know if you expected a beach towel or a blanket.

Still, you nodded like a champ.

There you stood, alone after she exited and shut the door behind her. Unsure of how much was too much as you undressed. Were you supposed to keep your underwear on? Take it off? Would that be weird? Shit, what was the social etiquette here? It felt wrong to Google it, like the masseuse would walk in on you hunched over your phone naked like a caveman discovering the world wide web for the first time.

Eventually, you compromised by only keeping your underwear on and sliding under the towel, if you can even call it that. It barely covered your ass, and if you breathed wrong a cheek was gonna peek.

You lie face down, pressing your face into the weird little donut hole in the massage table. Every attempt at relaxation was a fail, your body as stiff as a mannequin.

The door creaked open, a voice drifted through the air all too low and smooth, way too sexy for this situation.

“Good evening,” he said.

Wait.

Waitwaitwaitwaitwaitwait.

You lift your head just a fraction, seeing a tall man stepping into the dimly lit room. White uniform shirt rolled to the elbows. Forearms like Greek sculpture. Messy white hair. A face so hot you swore you could hear angels filing HR complaints. His eyes were icy, meeting yours and curved with a smile.

“I’ll be your masseur tonight,” he said. “Name’s Satoru. Just let me know if anything feels uncomfortable.”

“Oh. Okay. Cool,” you say, voice cracking.

He chuckled softly, washing his hands in the corner, the sound of running water far too sensual. You press your face back into the donut, trying not to internally implode.

You asked for this, your brain whispered.

You chose deep tissue, whatever that meant.

You hear the flick of a small bottle opening. Something shifts behind you, the scent of cedarwood and vanilla blooming through the room like a secret. A soft, wet sound followed, and then-

Drip.

Oil hit the small of your back first. Warm, silky. You twitched without meaning to.

“Sorry,” his voice came playful and low, like he wasn’t sorry at all. “Didn’t mean to surprise you.”

You didn’t trust yourself to speak, only letting out a small squeak of laughter.

Then came his hands.

Large, warm, firm. Gentle as they pressed into your shoulders, thumbs digging slow, practiced circles into the knots near your spine. You can’t help the exhale escaping your lips, something between a sigh and a sound you’d only make in bed.

“This your first massage?” he asks, and damn him. Even his voice sounded like a smirk.

You coughed. “That obvious?”

“Just a bit,” he teased, hands now kneading into the ridge between your neck and shoulder. “You’re stiff. Tense.”

You laugh nervously. “It’s just work stuff. Desk job.”

“Hm,” he hummed like he already knew. Like he could read it in your body the moment his hands touched you. “I’ll start at your shoulders and work my way down. We’ll see if we can get you loosened up.”

You made another strangled sound of agreement in response, biting your lip.

Every stroke of his palm dragged warm oil over your skin, spreading heat along your back, down your spine. The pads of his thumbs pressed into the muscles beside your shoulder blades, firm but slow. It wasn’t just good, but shamefully so. Soothing, deep. Every time his thumbs pressed in, you felt your breath catch in your throat.

Focus, you told yourself. This is a professional, he does this all the time. And you’re not special, just some towel-clad client on a table meant for meat tenderizing.

But gods, his hands.

They were confident, skilled, moving in ways like they had the heaven’s permission to touch you. Maybe they did, each stroke leaving your skin burning in its wake. Your hips shifted slightly. Not on purpose. Well, maybe it was on purpose. You hated yourself for it.

He hadn’t said anything for a while, the room quiet aside from the ambient spa music and your stupid heartbeat echoing in your ears, your heart trying to crawl its way out from your ribcage. You focused on the feeling, the press of his digits into your shoulder. On the long drag of his hands gliding down, down, oil-slick and hot against your spine.

Shit, your brain was melting.

You felt his hands move again, slower now, gliding at your middle back. You couldn’t help but wonder if the towel slipped, didn’t dare look. You just stayed still, very still, praying for dignity while also very much wishing he’d go lower. His thumbs pushed into the small of your back, just on either side of your spine, and you exhaled, loudly.

You immediately regretted it. But he didn’t say anything. Just chuckled softly, barely a sound, and pressed deeper.

Gojo had given thousands of massages before. Hell, he’d worked on celebrities, models, athletes, all kinds of bodies sculpted and polished and worshiped. But this one? You? You weren’t some glammed-up goddess or an over-confident regular. You were shy, uncertain, nervous in the sweetest way, biting your lip like it’d save your soul.

And when he asked what was hurting, where it ached, you’d mentioned work like it explained everything.

He knew exactly what you needed.

His thumbs dragged slow over the curve of your back. You shifted slightly under him, just the tiniest movement, but not from pain. From heat. From something much, much lower. Gojo felt it, the tremor running through your muscles like a secret. The towel was still clinging to your hips, just barely, and he let his hands dip lower, enough to brush the top curve of your ass to see if you’d flinch.

And you didn’t.

Fuck.

He was breaking rules. His own rules. He didn’t do this. Never had. Not once. Not even with the flirty clients or the ones that offered more.

But then again, none of them were you.

Your skin was warm beneath his palms, your breath hitched in a rhythm that wasn’t just relaxation. He could hear it, feel it. And when his fingers barely slipped under the hem of that towel, just to knead the tight muscle at the base of your spine, he felt you tense.

Not with fear, but want.

He pressed deeper, just enough to test. And he almost groaned aloud when your hips lifted. As if it was an accident. But he knew better.

He loved the way you were sensitive for him, dragging his thumbs along the edge of the towel, fingertips brushing your perceptive skin that made his cock twitch.

He was throbbing against the zipper of his pants. He needed to stop.

But he wasn’t going to stop.

“First session’s free, by the way,” he murmured, just above your ear, his salacious tone a blessing to your ears. “House special.”

You made another soft sound and Gojo had to bite his cheek just to stop a deep groan threatening its way out from his lungs.

You thought you were in the clear when his hands left your back. For a moment, you considered breathing again. But then-

“Gonna move to your legs now,” he said, voice smooth and casual. “Starting from your feet.”

You couldn’t find it in you to protest. Your feet. The one part of your body that rejected human contact like a toddler would broccoli.

You tensed as he lifted your foot gentle, resting your ankle against a bolster. You took this opportunity to look. And he looked way too comfortable, crouched near your calves, rolling his sleeves up even more, his forearms, fuck, the veins, and warming more oil in his hands.

The first touch was light, gliding his fingers over your heel, your arch-

You flinched.

“Oh?” he laughed, glancing up. “Ticklish?”

You wanted to crawl inside the nearest candle holder and die.

“Maybe a little,” you mumbled, voice muffled.

“Noted,” he chuckled. “I’ll be gentle.”

And if Gojo Satoru wasn’t a liar before, he was now.

Because his thumbs rolled firm circles into your arches, sliding up the curve of your foot, down each toe like he fucking knew. You twitched again when he hit that spot near the ball of your foot.

He didn’t even pretend not to notice.

“Aw, you’re trying not to laugh.” His voice was warm. “Cute.”

You exhaled like a balloon deflating, face hot. “You’re evil.”

“Mmm,” he hummed, slowly dragging his palm up your sole to your ankle. “That’s one way to thank me.”

He didn’t linger much longer there, probably for your dignity which was already on life support, before he moved up, kneading your calf in strong, slow strokes. His hands wrapped around the muscle with confident pressure, and oh, it felt good.

All thoughts of embarrassment evaporating the moment his thumbs began sliding up your calf, massaging deep into the tissue. His touch slowed as he moved higher, now smoothing hot oil into the back of your knee.

Then he moved to your other leg. Same path. Foot, ankle, calf. All familiar but different. Like he was trying to memorize you. And this time his hands went slower, savoring the goosebumps prickling your skin as his hands moved higher, thumbs digging deeper. And when he reached the back of your thigh, right where the towel barely covered, you felt it.

The hesitation. The pause. The line of professionalism being toed.

And then crossed.

His hands never stopped moving, but his thumbs dragged slower, brushing up the back of your thigh and letting his touch linger along the soft skin there. His touch was light, too light to be considered a deep tissue massage.

“Still doing okay?” he asked, voice low.

You could only nod.

“Good,” he murmured. “You’re very responsive.”

Was this normal massage talk?

No, it couldn’t be. But you didn’t dare respond, didn’t want to stop him, even as your breath hitched and thighs threatened to instinctively press together.

Gojo’s hands stayed high on your thighs. One thumb circled the outside of your thigh.

“You’ve got tension here too,” he remarked, and this time, it wasn’t professional at all.

Your hips jolted.

“Sensitive?” he asked, almost a whisper.

You wanted to say something, maybe yes, maybe God, please don’t stop, but all that came out was a hum, shaky as his fingers gripped your thigh tighter.

“Don’t worry,” his voice silk-soft and soaked in pure heat. “I’ll take care of it.”

You didn’t even know he shifted until his voice came too close to your ear, just a low murmur.

“I’m gonna remove the towel now. That okay?”

You’re too far gone, just nodding.

“Need you to say it for me,” his voice is gentle.

“Yes,” you swallow, voice barely above a whisper.

He grips the towel, slow as sin, dragging it off your spine and letting it peel off you like he’s unwrapping something expensive. His fingers graze, not enough to claim but just enough to tease. You’re face-down, so you don’t see it. But he’s squinting, biting back a groan, cock already stirring and probably dripping.

He oils up again, slick and warm, spreading his palms across your ass with expert precision.

“Just breathe. This’ll help with tension in your glutes.”

Glutes, he says it like a medical term. You almost believe he’s just being good at his job, except his hands are kneading deeper, practically stroking the plushy fat of your ass.

His hips subtly press against the table, trying to relieve the throb without making a sound. His jaw is slack, eyes hooded, and he’s already sweating. He’s circling your ass with the heel of his palm, eyed glued to were your thighs part ever-so-slightly, revealing the slightest sliver of wet lace. His mouth waters.

His thumbs brush the hem of your panties, it’s innocent at first. But then he does it again, lingering.

You can almost feel the air shift.

Something about the way he touches you makes your skin buzz. He hasn’t said anything… too off yet, but the drag of his fingers along your thighs, the brush against the edge of your panties, you’re beginning to think it’s not exactly on the menu at most spas.

“Gonna take these off too. Helps me reach deeper tissue,” his finger hooks just teasingly into the hem at your hips.

You know it’s a lie. It has to be. But you nod.

And again, he waits.

“Say it, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” you exhale, heartbeat in your ears.

Then he hooks only his thumbs into your panties, slow, like it’s a favor. You lift your hips slightly so he can pull them down, and he takes his time. His thumbs caress you as he drags them down to your knees, ankles, then off completely.

And now you’re bare. Naked. Exposed under his hands and eyes, no doubt dripping from tension and need alone.

The only sound in the room is the soft roll of incense smoke, faint music, and the slick shhhhhkkk of oil between his palms to start again, skin to skin.

He shifts, thumbs dipping lower and palms kneading the tops of your thighs. It’s almost too much, you want to move, clench your legs shut, but you don’t. You stay soft, pliant, open.

And he watches. Every flutter of your muscles. Every twitch. The faintest glisten where your thighs part.

This was no longer routine.

So wet already. You poor thing probably didn’t even mean to be.

He watches your hips shift when he gets close, the way your toes twitch as his thumbs drag sinfully along your inner thighs. It’s like you’re desperate and embarrassed all at once. And yet, you obeyed him. And he loved every second of it.

You’re so pure, so sweet, so filthy for him. Not a single complaint. No hesitation.

Glutes soft and flushed from the heat of his palms. Inner thighs slicked with oil. Breathing shallow and shaky. And his favorite part, your slit tucked between trembling legs, glistening with more than just oil.

He shifts again, subtly dragging his cock against the edge of the massage table. Hard, throbbing, and unforgiving.

“You’re responding really well,” he murmurs, the heel of his palms pushing into your inner thighs enough to part you only so he can see more.

And you’re going insane.

His hands on your thighs, voice in your ear. Every pass of his palms leaving your nerves sparking, and it’s taking everything in you not to freely moan when his knuckles drag just too close.

When your legs twitch again, of course he notices. “Don’t worry. You’re doing great. Just let me take care of you.”

But then his sinful thumbs sweep higher. Still outside, not touching where you need him most. But close. So, so close. And you can’t help the gasp escaping you.

And that’s when he finally brushes his fingers along your folds, light, feather-soft, as if he’s checking something.

Your whole body jerks. His voice lowers a few octaves.

“You’re soaked.”

A beat of silence.

“Want me to keep going?”

Again, you nod.

“Words, sweetheart.

You swallow, face burning and contorting where it’s nestled in the headrest. “Yes… please.”

“Good girl,” his chuckle is low and so smug.

You’re so responsive for him, every time his fingers tease your slick little slit, your thighs tremble like they’re fighting not to squeeze shut.

You don’t even realize the slightest rock of your hips, silently begging for more like you’re chasing his fingers.

He palms your ass again, spreading you open as he traces a single digit up and down. Folds puffy and hot, dripping onto the table, clit twitching like it knows what’s coming.

“You said this was your first massage, right?” he says, dragging a single finger deeper between your folds. “But you’re begging for attention.”

Then his thumb gently presses against your clit, unmoving but giving you the pressure you oh so desperately needed.

“Think you might’ve been made for this.”

You can’t breathe, can’t think. All you know is his hands. The way they press into you, spreading your arousal and oil around as if it’s a divine ritual. The way his thumb circles your clit painstakingly slow, so patient.

You mewl, too far gone to be ashamed.

“Want the full package?” his question come velvet-smooth.

You blink, dazed. “…The what?”

His thumb pressed in just a little harder, your body tensing. “Y’know, the extra. Let me take care of everything.”

“Y-yeah…” your voice is barely audible, but it’s all he needs.

He smiles, the thick curl of anticipation mixing with the burning incense in the air, winding your spine as he murmurs your new nickname again:

“Good girl.”

It’s like this was always going to happen. Like he’s done this a hundred times before and you were just next in line, all dripping wet and none the wiser.

Then he’s palming you again, hands oiled with a fresh squirt as both hands slide over your skin. It’d be professional if it wasn’t for the way his thumbs spread you once again.

It’d be professional didn’t brush directly over your soaked folds, a low growl he lets out, low and restrained when he sees your cunt pulse for him.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, dragging two fingers through your slick.

Then he dips two fingers inside you, slow and filthy as he immediately curls them right into that soft spot between your ridges that has you gasping into the table padding.

“God, you’re tight. Gonna have to open you up first, yeah?”

It’s as if it’s still part of the massage.

He fucks you slow with his fingers, his free hand moving to move ‘round and ‘round against your clit with his thumb. And fuck, he’s too skilled. Every filthy, wet stroke of his fingers has you whimpering, any semblance of professionalism lost by the sound of your whispers.

“So responsive,” he mutters almost to himself. “You’ll do anything I ask, won’t you?”

Then-

Smack.

Your body jolts, a sharp sting across your ass, the crack echoing through the room.

“Mm,” he hums, smoothing the reddened spot of his handprint like he’s checking the quality of his own work. “Pretty thing makes such pretty sounds.”

Another smack. You gasp.

“Flip over for me.”

His tone is easy, casual like he’s asking you to flip a page in a magazine. Your legs move before you, body fully glistening with oil and anticipation.

His face looks almost desperate. Sweat at his temples, white lashes fluttering over hooded eyes at burn. His lips are parted, flushed, bitten like he's been holding back from devouring you whole.

He's no longer the calm masseur from before, but a man on the edge of losing it.

Every inch of him thrumming with want, you can see it in the way his jaw flexes, the slight tremble in his fingers at his sides. His gaze drops between your legs, staying there like he's starving.

He wants this, wants you just as badly. Maybe worse.

And he sees you. Laid out like an offering, tits soft and heaving, thighs glistening, cunt spread and twitching, begging for his attention.

He lets out a low, heavy breath. “Fuck. Look at you.”

Then his hands are tracing down your thighs, hooking under your knees just to bring them to your chest.

And he goes in, no teasing or warning, just his hands spreading you wide, full mouth-to-pussy action.

His tongue slides over your clit like he’s starving. Moaning into you like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. It’s filthy, loud, wet, feral.

He laps at you like he wants to crawl into your skin and live there. His lips lock around your clit, tongue flicking fast and relentless, fingers digging into you.

Your hips buck instinctively. Your hands fly to his hair, fingers clutching his silvery strands as your legs twitch, toes curl.

He loves it. The desperate little grind of your hips, the wrecked moan slipping from your throat, the way you push his face impossibly deeper.

So he doubles down, dragging his tongue lower and fucking it into your hole with lewd precision, then pulls back just to suck at your clit like it’ll grant him immortality.

“You taste like heaven,” he groans, lost in a daze himself. “Sweet little thing, gonna cum all over my mouth, huh? So fucking wet. Bet you’ve been thinking about this.”

He flattens his tongue, grinding it against your clit, and you cry out, entire body jerking, thighs clenching around his head. But he doesn’t stop, if anything only groans, grinding his hips into the table like he’s getting off just on your taste.

You’re soaked. Senseless. A carnal desire to soak his face in your arousal.

And when you gasp his name, fingers tugging at his locks, body trembling-

“That’s it,” he purrs. “Cum for me, baby.”

You shatter. Completely. Fully. Back arching from the table, breath punched from your lungs, cunt clenching so hard around nothing it’s fucking cruel. He just stays there, tongue flicking, dragging out every last pulse of your orgasm until your legs go numb.

Your thighs are trembling around him, your cunt a swollen, slick mess, still twitching with aftershocks. You’re still moaning, fucked-out and blissed as he presses kisses to your inner thigh.

Fuck. He thinks you look perfect like this. Made to be ruined for him.

And he’s done being patient.

So he stands, unzipping his pants. His cock springs free, red, leaking, painfully hard. And shit, he’s big. A slight upward curve, a thick vein running along his thick, long length.

“Up,” he says, voice coaxing like he’s asking you to breathe.

Your legs wobble as you push yourself off the table, only for his hands to grip your waist and bend you right back over it. Your bare chest pressed to the cushiony surface, cheek against the towel.

“There you go,” he drags the thick head of his throbbing cock through your folds, smearing your slick across your lower lips and on his tip until it could drip off. “Gotta get all that tension out, yeah? Let me work those knots a little deeper.”

You walked in here all shy and tense, even spending twenty minutes willing yourself to open your car door. New client, first massage, all stiff shoulders and tight posture. Said your job had you aching. Said you needed relief.

And the first time he saw you, big eyes, nervous smile, a little stutter from your lips when he first touched your shoulders.

He knew exactly what you needed.

“First massage,” he breathes, lining his tip to your entrance.

Then he pushed in. Deep.

You choke on a moan. He’s so thick, splitting you open inch by inch, your walls struggling and stretching to take him. His hands dig into your waist, still warm with oil, just holding you savoring the moment he finally sinks all the way in.

“Fuck,” he groans, head tipping back. “That’s it- just like that- you were made for this.”

He pulls back, only until just the tip lay past your entrance, before slamming back in. And you jerk, fingers scrambling for purchase on the table.

Each stroke rocks through your spine. Your tits drag against the table, mouth hanging open, drool smearing the table. Your mind’s a blur, just the sound of skin slapping, Gojo’s breathy moans, and the obscene, wet noise of him slamming into you over and over and over.

“Say thank you,” he almost growls, snapping his hips up so deep your toes curl. “Say it.”

“T-thank you,” you gasp, eyes rolling to the back of your skull.

Then, smack. A sharp slap to your ass, and you whine.

“For what?”

“F-fucking me- oh my god- for fucking me-”

“No,” he pants, rutting into you harder now, cock hitting that sweet spot so perfect it could make you squeal. “Say it right. Thank you for relieving my stress.”

“Thank you-” you cry out, broken and shaking. “Thank you for- mmh- relieving my stress.”

He leans over you, his hardened chest against your back, cock still pistoning in your soaked cunt. His mouth finds your neck, tongue dragging across your bare skin before he bites. Sucks. Marks you.

Another hickey. Then another.

You’re completely gone, every thrust having your eyes fluttering, your moans shameless, drool coating your lower face. Your walls flutter around him, squeezing his thick length more than you already were, clenching with every thrust, every filthy word.

His hips stutter, balls tightening as he pounds you into the table.

“So fucking tight,” he groans. “Gonna cum- fuck- gonna cum all over this pretty back.”

And he does. One last brutal thrust and he pulls out, cock twitching before spilling across your lower back in hot, thick ropes, painting your skin in streaks of white.

He watches it drip down your spine, chest heaving, cock still half-hard and still twitching from how hard you just milked him for all he’s worth.

“Goddamn,” he whispers, leaning down to admire his work. “You really were stressed, huh?”

Then he drags a hand up your spine, wiping his fingers through the mess he made, rubbing it into your skin like a filthy seal.

The air is thick with heat, sex, and you. His hand rubs sensual circles into your back.

“You good, sweetheart?” he brushes the hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear.

You nod, dazed, wrecked, legs still trembling. He leans in and presses a kiss to your lips. It’s soft, slow, tender in a way that almost startles you.

“First kiss,” he whispers against your lips.

Then he straightens, grabbing a warm towel from the side table. His hands are gentle as they wipe you down, cleaning you with a reverence that borders on obscene. He helps you stand straight, pressing another kiss to your temple, his big hands careful and supportive.

“So…” he starts, tapping his lip. “Same time next week?”

You can only stare, flushed and panting.

“No charge, obviously,” he adds, giving you a wink. “I’m invested in your health now.”

Of course you’re coming back. With a dick like that? With a mouth like that? You’d be stupid not to.

You shake your head, trying not to smile.

“Take your time, I’ll be outside.”

The door closes behind him with a soft click.

You sigh, dragging yourself over to the side table on shaky legs, slowly redressing like your soul wasn’t just rearranged. You grab your clothes, pulling your bra back on, then your shirt, then-

Your panties.

Your panties?

You check under the table. Beside it. In the towel pile.

Your brows shoot up, a slow, disbelieving laugh escapes your lips.

That smug thieving bastard.

He took them, slipping them into his pocket. You shake your head as you pull on your pants, cheeks still flushed, heart returning to a normal rate.

Oh yeah, you’re definitely coming back.

2K notes · View notes

luv-lock · 1 month ago

Text

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤALIEN GIRLㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Yandere Mark Grayson x Fem Qu Reader Part 4

☆⁠ HEADCANON : It's Been Two Years Since You Told Him You're Pregnant. And When He Start To Believe That Maybe You Were Wrong, He Become A Father...

☆⁠ NOTES : Qu is an alien species from the book All Tomorrows. You can learn more about her here. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

Mark had been convinced you weren’t actually pregnant.

Two years had passed. Two whole years.

Two long years of your strange habits, cravings, and obsessive nesting.

But… no baby.

At first, Mark had panicked. Then, after months of nothing changing, he thought, Maybe she was wrong? Maybe whatever weird biology she had messed up and she wasn’t actually pregnant.

He even asked his mom about it.

Debbie had given him a deadpan look. "You’re hoping it’s a mistake?"

Mark sighed. "I mean, yeah. It’s been two years. Nothing happened."

Debbie just shook her head. "Mark, honey. She’s an alien. You don’t know what’s normal for her."

Mark groaned. "I just—I don’t know if I’m ready for—"

But then, one morning, he woke up to— Something he never expected.

Mark walked into the bedroom that morning, rubbing the sleep from his eyes—

And froze.

Tiny babies. A lot of tiny babies.

Mark froze.

His brain shut down.

You were curled up in your nest, naked, looking like a goddamn angel, surrounded by— He blinked. What… the hell? There were tiny creatures all around you. At first, he thought they were insects or some weird alien parasite. But then one of them turned its tiny, shimmering face towards him— And Mark swore his heart stopped. They were—

Glowing, beautiful creatures.

Some were spinning in circles, some were chewing on your hair, and others were just clinging to your fingers like tiny, precious fairies.

Mark’s mouth opened. No sound came out.

You were smiling softly, cradling one of them in your hand. The little thing let out a soft, bubbling sound and nuzzled against your nose.

You laughed.

A sweet, soft sound—like bells ringing in the wind.

And Mark—

Fainted.

He woke up to tiny hands patting his face.

He blinked blearily, vision blurry.

Then, he saw it.

A tiny, palm-sized creature was sitting on his chest.

It had soft silky hair, jewel-like eyes, and a face that looked eerily like yours.

It stared at him, then made a tiny, frog-like croak.

Mark screamed.

The baby screamed back, jumped in surprise, flipping in the air like some kind of acrobat and landing on his face.

Mark flailed. "WHAT—WHAT THE HELL?!"

You tilted your head from where you were still lying in the nest, surrounded by tiny babies.

"You loud," you said, unbothered. "Babies sleep."

Mark sat up so fast the baby on his face tumbled into his lap. "I—what—what the fuck?!"

Mark’s brain short-circuited.

He looked around. The nest was covered in tiny, glowing babies—some were curled in your hair, chewing on it like kittens, others were nestled against your stomach, and a few were floating?

Mark stared.

Then, slowly, he looked down at the tiny baby in his lap.

It was looking up at him with big, glowing eyes.

It reached out—tiny, delicate hand brushing against his chest.

Then it leaned forward and kissed him.

Mark melted.

You were still holding one in your hand, gazing at it with a soft, angelic smile, your eyes full of warmth. The tiny baby made a bubbling, singing noise, almost like a frog’s call but… softer. Sweeter. Mark’s heart squeezed. This was… This was… actually… kind of beautiful? The baby bite your finger. And you laughed. It was the most pure, soft, happy laugh Mark had ever heard from you. Mark felt his head spin. His chest ached. His eyes burned. He stepped forward, swallowing thickly. "Babe… are these…?" You looked up at him, your glowing eyes soft and proud. "Our sons." Mark felt his heart explode. "Sons. I have sons. Holy shit. I have too many sons."

Then, as Mark took in the beautiful, fairytale-like scene before him— You opened your mouth. Wide. Way too wide. Like something out of a horror movie, teeth glistening. And one of the babies dangling above your mouth. Mark’s soul left his body. "HOLY SHIT—" He lunged forward, grabbing the baby out of your hands.

"OH MY FUCKING GOD!"

You blinked at him, confused. "Mark?" Mark clutched the baby to his chest, horrified. "WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU DOING?!" You tilted your head. "Eat." Mark screamed. "NO! BAD! DON’T EAT THE BABY!" You blinked, then giggled. "Not eat all. Only some." Mark felt like he was going to die. "OH MY GOD. YOU’RE A TERRIFYING MONSTER." You pouted. "Not monster. Mother. Must eat weak." Mark hugged the baby. "OVER MY DEAD BODY." You blinked at him. Then, after a pause, you smiled. "Mark strong." Mark huffed. "Damn right I am." You just laughed and snuggled into him. "Then no eat." Mark sighed in relief— And then froze. "Wait, so you’re saying—if I wasn’t strong, you’d eat them?!" You shrugged. "Maybe." Mark’s eye twitched.

The babies chirped curiously, tilting their tiny heads. Mark sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Jesus Christ. I need to call my mom."

Debbie had seen a lot in her life. But walking into her house to find one hundred tiny, fairy-like grandchildren crawling around her living room was definitely a first. "...Mark." Mark turned to her, exhausted. "Mom." Debbie looked around. The babies were absolutely adorable—singing softly, clinging to Mark, playing with each other’s hair. "...I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this." Mark sighed. "Yeah, well, I wasn’t expecting her to try to eat them." Debbie froze. "...She what?" Mark groaned, rubbing his face. "Apparently, her species eats their weaker children." Debbie stared. "And you stopped her?" "Of course, I stopped her!" Debbie hummed. "Huh." Mark narrowed his eyes. "Why do you sound… not surprised?" Debbie shrugged. "Honey, you dated an apex predator. What did you think was gonna happen?" Before Mark could respond, Nolan walked in. He took one look at the scene before him— And froze.

He just stood there, staring at you—looking like he wanted to drop dead. "...You gave birth to a hundred." You tilted your head. "Small number." Nolan inhaled deeply. "Small number." Mark shrugged. "At least they’re cute." Then, one of them climbed onto his head. And Nolan watched as Mark just let it happen.

His expression was unreadable. Slowly, one of the babies floated up to him, its tiny, glowing eyes staring at him curiously. Nolan glared. The baby chirped prettily. Nolan’s face twitched. The baby gently kissed his nose. Nolan let out a deep sigh and rubbed his temples. "Goddammit."

Nolan still hate you. But he had to admit— These things were… adorable. They were unnaturally well-behaved, polite, and clung to Mark like little ducklings. And worst of all? They liked him. Nolan would be sitting on the couch, arms crossed, trying to ignore them— When suddenly, a tiny one would crawl onto his lap, grab his mustache, and start playing with it. Nolan’s eye twitched. "...Mark. Get it off me." Mark smirked. "I think they like you." More babies swarmed him. They hugged his arms, kissed his face, and made little happy croaking sounds. Nolan just sat there. Defeated. "...I hate this." But he didn’t move.

The babies love Mark. They sleep on his chest, crawl all over him, and fight each other for his attention. And they were obsessed with him. Mark could not escape. He woke up one morning with ten of them sleeping on his chest. Another time, he found them cuddled in his hoodies, making little happy noises. Mark’s life was now just being followed by a pack of glowing, fairy-like children who worshiped him. And honestly? He loved it. Even if he caught them eating random things. Because these kids? They ate anything. One time, Mark caught one of them chewing on a doorknob. Another was licking the floor. And one almost ate his phone. Mark had never screamed so loud in his life. Debbie caught one doing the dishes. She nearly cried. They talk to you in your native language. Mark has no idea what’s being said.

It's terrifying.

It clicks, hisses, gurgles, and warbles.

It chirrs like an insect’s wings, croaks like a deep-sea creature, pulses like something breathing in the dark. It is wet, guttural, and skittering, yet somehow, in its horrific alien cadence, eerily beautiful. “Ɐ̷̢͙̤̖ɦ̶͙̳̝͚͖’̙̻̠̼̫͢z̢̲̦̗̗h̵̛̞h̵͍̘͉̠͙l̨̡̥̟̝̠͚l̠̦͉̜͜ͅ r̸̪̜̰͕ͅr̴̗’̳͚̦̲̲̞k͕̗͉̗͢a̶̛̗̞̩a̵̜̯͖̜̠a̵̙̦͉̗̦ͅ-̡̡͉̪͕̞̪̜c̡͚h̴̡͍̖̦̳ī̶͓͖̝͚̙ī̴̫̻͇ͅī̡̢̬͈̹,͇̜̞̩͎͎̕͜ ś͍͉͉s͏̦͕͍̻ͅa̶̮̠̳̲̹’̴͖͍͈͙͖v̦̬̺̰̻͍͠a̸̳h̞̦͈͈r̸̖͖̞h̖͙̯͜h̵͉̠̘͎̞̰ t͉̳͈͞c̴̳͍̜̟̟̻h̨̹̖̳̖͡ͅa̢̰͓͚͎’̡͎̹͡k̸̝͝a͓̞̗͡a͎̠ͅr̵̫̪u̶̘̜͚u̢͍͉̠̘.̸̪”

Sleep, little spawn, the dark waters hold you now... hush... hush... hush...

“T͕͘’͖͚͓͡k̦̘͖͍̀k��͉͍h͏��̼̙r̩̙̦̬r̵̨̟r͙͉͚͉̺͘ͅ s̜̻͎̞͜s̛̪̠̼̘̦’̵͏̻͍̯ͅk̸̼͙̞͍̩̯̕a̴̬̰̳͍̘͇͝a̛̬a̼̕̕’̡̦v̸̮͕̲̞̙̕v̵̛̠̜̲n̹̩̕n̨̩͙̝̲̬̳͠,̸̜͍̗͇ h̹͎̲͕͜h͉͝’̨̡͓̝͎̰z̖͙̠͝ͅr̷̞͉̤͚̘̗͞r̜̼͢r̸͙̼̟̕a̡̻̦̙̞͡a̛͙͉-̵̨̳͕̩c̡̡̲͈h̖̜̤͟ͅi̢̨̻̥̤i̵̛̗’̻̘̲̘͠v̷͎̯̘h͎͝u̞͝r̷͉̗̩̰r̴̙͎̞ͅ.̦̖̞͎́”

Do not tremble, do not weep, the deep will consume all things in time... hush...

“C̞̩̠̰͘h̞̻̪̀k̨̼̲̺̠k̠̀’̼̕ͅh̶̨̞h̵̘z̢̙̞̞z̷̲̩̰—͏̗̝v̡̻a̵̦͖̬à̺̗’͙̤̤͙̳͡r̶̜̲̱̬͢i̼̪͡’̷̡̯̹x̷̡̗h̷̩͜h̩͞a͏͙̪̼̝͝a̸̲̥!̡̢̬͇̪͖ K̨̩r̠̕i̦̩̕͢i̛̺͜’͜ͅͅt̷̮̼̩͙ź͖̥̤c̯̙̳̟̥̕h̸͜ v̶͔͢r͏̡̞̜̼’̵͏̰r̸̜͎̰r̼͡n̷̦̝̜̰n̛̬̦͖̜a̛͚̻̗̝?̨͏͎̰”

Oh, my little crawling thing—what is this mess you've made?

“H͠h̀͜z̷z͝h̸̗̬͖̼’̡̺̩̪͓k̷̺̦̠̩k̛̘h̸̝̯͕,̢͎̗̬ v͞á̻͕a͠’̸̳͚͇͙x̡̨̬̦r̸͕̟͙͜r̢̛̻̩̲h̕͟.͡.̶̯̜͓̼͉̹.̶̩͙̻ c̴̝͉h̢̨̝̗̤’̵̙̯̗t̡̢̻z̷͎̻̳h̸̗̖h͙̖̕̕h̷̪͓ v́r̴̻̖r̶̦̠̰a͠a̢̠̙a̳͜a̢̲̰̟ s̴͚ͅz̞̝̦̕͞à͙’̨͙͖̕l̨̙̰̖͡a̢.̶̦̦”

Shhh, my teeth... I will tell you what the tides never whisper...

“T̵̟̝̻’͍͡s̵̗̝̼h̢̯̗̰̰h̢͚͕̪k̷͖a͏̛̥̖a̛̜͎͍͕ v͎̬̗̖͢v͏̡̙̜̗r̵̬̘̻͡’̵̯͙̕h̨͎h̦̞̹̕u̷̝̲u̦͕̬͜u̷̠̰n̶̨̝̗̠ c̰̩̝̺͘h̸͏̝͙̼̩z͚͎͔̕z̛̙͕̯t̩͘͝’̛̹̹̰̘v̸̰̹̗͉͜v̡͏̹̹̲̬h͇̕̕a̵͖a͏͕,̷̨̠͙͉ m͏̹͚̖a̡͚̲̠͠h̡̛̗̗’̪̬̪̻̯͝t̴̬̻c̸͍̘̯͍̝̕h̸̦͡r̘̖̳͜ͅr̢͎͠h̷͍̤.̷̢͎”

Come, my dripping, writhing things... to my arms. They all croak back in unison everytime. Mark dies of cuteness. He's also kinda scared because he don't understand anything. They like to steal Nolan’s things. His gloves, cape, books. One tried to steal his boot. Nolan caught it dragging the boot across the floor.

"Mark. Control your gremlins." "Dad, they’re literally palm-sized babies." "They have no fear." The babies nest with you. They curl up in your hair, hold onto your fingers, and purr. Mark watches them sleep and feels his heart explode. He still can’t believe it. He’s a dad. And despite the sheer insanity of it all, Mark had to admit—

These kids were freaking adorable.

They clung to him like little monkeys, curling up on his chest when he napped.

They kissed him all the time, tiny soft lips pressing to his cheeks, nose, and forehead.

They loved everyone—especially his mom.

Debbie would be cooking, and they’d all be floating around, handing her ingredients.

"Thank you, sweetie," she cooed at one, patting his little head.

The baby made a soft, frog-like song, happy and proud.

Mark’s heart melted.

Even Nolan had given up fighting it.

Mark had caught him more than once with a tiny baby curled up in his palm, snoring.

"...They are cute," he admitted. Mark smirked. "See? Told you."

And Mark’s favorite thing?

You, curled up in the nest, singing them a lullaby in your strange, haunting language.

The babies would float around you, making soft chirping sounds, slowly drifting to sleep.

And Mark?

Mark would just sit there, watching, realizing how much he loved this insane, beautiful, monstrous woman.

And his strange, perfect, tiny children.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— NEXT ☆ Part 1. Part 2. Part 3.

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

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pseudowho · 7 months ago

Text

You could have walked to the café to meet Nanami Kento alone; you'd have preferred to, in truth, walking slowly in slow drizzle.

Instead, He walked you there, pushing through the tinkling door that He held for you, begrudgingly, as if you should be grateful. You could not look up to meet Kento's eye.

When you did look up to see Kento, stood waiting for your pre-mission meeting, He pulled your gaze back with a scowl, and a grab of your jaw.

Kento caught whispered berating; mumbled pleas.

"--just a work meeting...please--"

"--you remember to text me. You'll do well to remember you're mine."

You jolted from His pat-slap to your cheek, too sharp to be affectionate but too weak to turn heads. Still, humiliation festered on your face, putrefaction laid by His hand.

Kento remained unmoved, passively unthreatened by His filthy glance before He retreated from the shop. Something dark stirred in Kento's gut. The malice was not meant for you.

You sat at the table, wordless, your cold hands wrapping around a coffee which seemed to be, curiously, your exact order. Already here. Already waiting. Just for you.

Kento pulled his own chair out, sitting opposite you, one long tan-trousered leg crossing over the other. You looked down, your eyes cast in shadow. Kento looked to the insidious, gloomy drizzle outside, his sharp features cast sharper by the midday lamplight.

Eventually, achingly smooth, his voice called you home.

"What does 'mine' mean to you?"

You looked up at him, blinking. Your brain ticked.

"I don't...I don't know."

Kento was quiet again, leaning back in his armchair beneath the arching lamp, regarding the rain as though it watered his thoughts. He spoke again; you hung onto every word.

"When I was a boy, my grandfather left me a diamond."

The coffee shop buzz dimmed, and slowed, and muted. Kento captivated you so easily. The world fell away. Here he was. Already here. Already waiting. Just for you.

"It was...exquisite-- the diamond. The best and the brightest. A beauty amongst beauties." Kento took a deep breath in through his nose, feeling your cold little heart slow. "I didn't deserve it. It was...a privilege, to call it mine. A mantle that I bowed my head to bear."

Your fingers loosened around your coffee as Kento continued. His voice strained, aching for something.

"I could never be enough for the diamond, so I...I would build my life around it. Not in spite of it, but because of it. I hesitate to say I possessed it; it was no painting, or ivory box. Its beauty was far too timeless to be owned, for this diamond's beauty would outlive us all. If not in body, at least in memory."

The air felt light in your lungs, and you with it, as if you floated on helium, high and sweet. You yearned to reach for what was not yours. Your little voice spoke up, braver in Kento's ambient warmth.

"Tell me...tell me more."

Kento obliged. "On days when my diamond was dull, without its shine, I'd polish it more. I'm...gentle. I know it better than my own skin, and by the time I'm done, it sparkles."

Your eyes drifted closed to trap your sorrow. Your head bowed down, as if to be a diamond in daydream.

"On days when it shines-- and, god it does shine-- I can only step back and admire it, while it takes its time in the sun. They...deserve each others' beauty, the sun and she, and I would wither and rot if I kept them from each other. My diamond...my diamond deserves the world, and it deserves her."

Kento leaned forwards, now. His ambient warmth kindled higher until you burned as though he were the sun, and you yearned to blossom.

"I fear its loss; I am only, of course, a man, and I couldn't expect others not to covet such treasure, and so I keep it close. I would bring it to my bed, if only it would let me. I'd hold it in my sheets, if I did not fear I would sully it by my proximity alone."

Your lips parted so briefly, your objections snagging on your teeth to remain upon your tongue. Your heart weighed down with mercury and lead. Kento's voice could not be more than a whisper, and yet, with the steam-arm shrieks and the tamping chatter muted to insignificance, you could hear him.

"I would surround her with other beautiful things; not costly things, not necessarily, as if material goods were needed to enhance her. But rather, those things, and only those things that compliment her as she compliments them, be they wildflower or fairytale or fine wine."

Your coffee salted with the drop of a tear from your bowed face. Kento turned aside from your tears; not to disregard them, but to allow their trails to bloom as if creeping wisteria-- growth, in grief. A handkerchief slid across the table to you in one broad, calloused hand, and Kento sounded physically pained.

"Eventually, as I age, I recognise that all I was, am, and will be, can be traced back to such a diamond; not because I could not live without it-- that wouldn't be accurate. Rather, because, with the diamond removed from the equations which make the sum of me, the equations would unravel-- nothing would make sense, and if I ever tried to replace it, I would always come up short. I would never find the answer again. If I were to lose it...I could only surmise that I did not deserve it, like...like a prophecy fulfilled. It is not mine, and it will never be, if I seek to possess it."

As you fought the urge to gasp for air, Kento's voice grew bitter, snide. You caught the sharp edge of a blade; the darkness that reminded you that he could be a dangerous man.

"Men who use 'mine' for their partners are less than a stone's throw from boys who would use 'mine' for a toy car or a set of dominoes. As if...as if they are a thing to be played with, and jealously possessed, until they are discarded and forgotten."

Your coffees cooled in the chilly aftermath of Kento's monologue. Your purpose for meeting was forgotten. You were numb-footed as you stood, and followed Kento outside to the rain in the shelter of his great umbrella. He offered you an arm, and you took it, tucked close to his body.

It was curious, you thought, as Kento walked you to the train station. Arm in arm was less intimate in the eyes of society than hand in hand, but the hold was so much more intimate upon the body of the receiver.

Kento closed his fingers around yours, gently refusing, as you offered him back his handkerchief. He waited until you were beneath shelter, and did not turn to walk away until you did. Your heart pounded. Your body and mind were alive with sweet botanicals and promise. You turned on a pinhead, calling back up the subway steps.

"Kento! Did you...do you really have a...a diamond like that?"

A pause in wet footsteps. Fine needles of rain upon his umbrella. Kento called back.

"Sadly, no. It's only a dream. But if I did have that diamond...well. I would be proud to call her mine."

Your heart would surely burst. You couldn't breathe. Your cold little hand clasped the handrail on the stairs, and you sought to deny Kento's morbid prophecy.

"You could...you could steal it. A...a diamond. Your diamond."

A smile, and a hum.

"I could. Perhaps I shall. Perhaps...soon."

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sheeezu · 4 months ago

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Shifting proof, you're not wasting your time.

"My beloved, the distances between us have been erased, I am here, I am here."

(If anyone is able to guess which song lyric I translated here I will love you for all my existence)

If you're doubting shifting, then read this:

Let's dive into your mind. Most importantly, into your dreams.

Have you ever realised why you dream? Dreams are just for your subconscious mind to reherse your current reality, in practice all its doing is to ensure you don't fall out of your reality.

No matter how insane of a dream you're having, it has some resemblance with the life you are currently leading. Have you ever tried to figure out just how weird the whole concept of dreams are? For example, it's common knowledge to everyone, even antishifters, that lucid dreams are a thing. Meaning you can literally play around in your mind. When you sleep, do you realise the passage of time? Sometimes your sleep stretches on for long and you don't realise you've slept that much, sometimes, dream cover a lot within a short cycle of sleep. So what proof of time could you possibly present to yourself during your hours of slumbers, where is this clock that's supposed to dictate your life?

Sometimes you don't even dream, although unconscious processes are going on in your human brain, but where are you? In the void, you're floating around somewhere in the void, without any care of your reality for once, this is called your common consciousness, or just the void state.

Whenever you wake up from a deep sleep, you feel disoriented and confused, you hear conversations and imagine things which didn't happen, there is no literal proof that these happenings are just caused by general grogginess. This confusion is your consciousness readjusting to the reality you're in.

Let's discuss what all of this science and physics is. It's essentially just a method your consciousness put up in order for you to not fall out of reality, and to not have to face thanos out of nowhere, therefore logic exists.

We are from our roots just souls floating around in nothingness, we're souls capable of creation of anything by thoughts, will, and energy. We need a medium for suitable existence, for all of the people existing alongside us, what we have in common is that our consciousness has chose a similar mode of existence for us, which is by living as human beings on this livable spherical ball, where we accept the principles of luck.

Why does a system of being ridiculed by your environment and people around you and the formation of unwanted doubts exist whenever you claim something "impossible" by human terms, for example, if you assumed and started claiming the sun rising from the opposite direction as the truth, that's going to become your base since you are creating reality, therefore you will break reality and to prevent it you yourself once put these limitations, just like how you script your DRs.

But once you realise the fact that all along this organised way of existence was put up by you in order to excite your consciousness by going through these experiences, you'll realise shifting realities, manifesting, or just going back to floating as a soul in the void is a known principle for you and easy, and you don't have to struggle to gain it, you've been doing it all your existence, then you'll shift on command.

Reality is just like a dough, which you have been molding and adjusting it accordingly.

Shape that dough into your DR

It's you. It's always been you, you've been the main provider and controller, you've just temporarily gone to existing in the form of a human vessel, breaking free is nothing difficult.

Anyways, belief in this is all you need to shift, it's freaking easy even if it's just you going to your DR to get railed. "But doubts-!!" Shush. If doubts are able to stop a process for you, you could also utilise them in a way which benefit you, from this moment do a complete uno reverse card on your doubts, you used to doubts your manifestations, go ahead and start doubting your existence being anything but perfect.

"I don't think I can be a common human being weeping over mere earthly problems, all ill ever be is a master manifestor who could do whatever I want."

...

I finished this draft at 5:55.

Now that I think about it shifting using doubts could be pretty neat, but I still have another 2 methods bending from the poll, so that's on my pending list I guess.

This entire post was a rant from my side so if there is anything confusing or out of place, just ask. Ask away until your little heart is satisfied and then go shift because what are you doing here when you could just go study at hogwarts where the stairs try to put you in your grave.

...

#reality shifting #shiftblr #shifting #shifting antis dni #shifting blog #shifting motivation #shifters #shifting community #desired reality #shifting stories #shifting realities #shifting consciousness #law of assumption

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theliving-radio · 1 month ago

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I for real want a continuation of dragon baby sibling accident 😭😭 it’s so cute 💖💖💖 like how would Lilia react to seeing a baby dragon again and seeing Malleus just gush 100x more over the baby dragon prefect!! It’s just all so cute 🥹

A continuation from this: Baby Sibling turning into a Baby Dragon

“Lilia, hand me back my Baby Sibling!”

“No! Look how cute they are! And they are so docile too! You were a menace, even while still in your egg!”

Lilia was currently hanging upside down on the ceiling in the Diasomnia Dorm. Thankfully he was holding your baby dragon form up right.

“Father, I think it’s best to hand Malleus the Prefect.” Silver mentioned as he stared up at his adopted father, who was happily swaying you side to side while walking on the ceiling.

“Oh he’ll get them back in just a bit- Oh my Sevens! One of their scales are off colored on the back of their hind leg! Just like yours when you were a hatchling!”

“HAND THEM OVER!”

Other Diasomnia students who were in the lounge were able to watch their Dorm Leader huffing and puffing as he demanded to see the transformed Prefect.

At this point of time, they were all used to Malleus’s behavior towards his Baby Sibling. One of the strongest mages in Twisted Wonderland being a total loser for their adopted Baby Sibling?

Yeah, that’s their dorm leader.

You look at Lilia upside down face, he smiles at you when slowly blink at him and let out a happy chirp.

The bat fae lets out a high pitch squeal.

You’re so freaking cute!

“LILIA! I DEMAND TO HOLD MY BABY SIBLING!!”

“Watch your tone boy! I’m not giving them to you if you keep acting like a brat!”

Malleus huffs and begins to pout as he watches Lilia coo and play with you. You let out a small squeak and that’s when Malleus finally decided he had enough. Using magic, he lifted himself off the ground and floated up to the ceiling,

Lilia glances over at the younger fae and squints his eyes. “Really now, you’ve come to take them from me? Can’t this old fae just appreciate the newborn peacefully.”

“You’ve had their full attention for far too long-,”

“It’s been 15 minutes!”

“I will be taking my Baby Sibling back.”

Malleus reaches out to take you from Lilia, but before doing so, you squirm in the bat fae’s hand…

And jump out from his grasp, away from Malleus.

The whole dorm screams and scrambles to catch you before you’re able to hit the floor.

Your chubby, dragon body feels itself falling, and a small voice in your brain was screaming “WEEEEEEEE”.

Just then you began to start flapping your wings, decreasing the speed of your fall and go into more of a glide.

Students were running and shoving one another to try and reach you in hopes to catch you so you wouldn’t hit the dorms cold, stone floor. But you had a destination in mind:

The silver haired knight.

Silver wasn’t running around or shoving others to catch you, instead he stood perfectly still and raised his arms out, perfectly catching you.

You let out happy chirps and squeaks. “Again! Again!”

“No! Not again!” Malleus was able to understand you and floats back down to where Silver was cradling you in his arms.

Both students stare at each other, waiting for one to make the first move. Silver looked down at your tiny figure, and he couldn’t help but boop your nose. You try snapping your teeth at him which only caused him to chuckle.

“Silver…” Malleus was beginning to become impatient.

“Yeah I know. I’m not like my father.” Silver lifts you with both hands and passes you over to Malleus.

The Dragon Fae went back to smiling as he cradled you against his chest. “Hello my Baby Sibling.”

You stare up at the fae prince and let out a squeak.

Malleus had the urge to bang his head against the wall, you were so cute!

A small sneeze left your tiny mouth, the sound so small not many would hear it. The whole Diasomnia dorm was in awe on how adorable you were.

Lilia descends from the ceiling and looks around. “By the way, where is Sebek?”

“I sent him to stall Professor Crewel from making an antidote to turn the prefect back to normal.”

There was a long pause after that, and Lilia lets out a wheeze before bending over to laugh. Silver only shook his head in disapproval.

The poor half-fae was surely going to get in trouble with his professors…

#twisted wonderland #malleus draconia #malleus draconia x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst malleus #twst x reader #x reader #platonic relationships #big brother malleus #anon asks #answered #lilia vanrouge #silver vanrouge

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sunarryn · 23 days ago

Text

DP X Marvel #17

One week. One fucking week. That’s how long it took before the universe’s reality collapsed in on itself like a toddler knocking over a block tower made of cosmic rules, and Danny Fenton—sorry, High King Phantom of the Infinite Realms, Keeper of Balance, Ghost King of All Dimensions, Supreme Bureaucratic Overlord of Death and Souls, or whatever other bullshit title Clockwork slapped on him—was done. He was so done. With everything. With life. With afterlife. With bureaucracy. With math. Goddamn, he hated math.

He phased through the ceiling of what was left of the Avengers compound without so much as a knock because, frankly, he didn’t care anymore. People were dead. Everyone was dead. Half a fucking universe. And universes are fucking infinite. Literally. He’d been counting. Or trying to. But the math broke somewhere around “nine trillion decillion” and his brain short-circuited.

Inside, the Avengers were scattered around like bad leftovers. Steve was slouched in a chair like someone told him America lost the war. Thor was cradling a bottle like it was the last warmth in the world. Natasha looked like she hadn’t blinked in hours. Banner was trying to fix a coffee machine that had already given up on life. Tony—oh, Tony—Tony looked like he’d been held together with duct tape and sarcasm, and not the good kind.

“Yo,” Danny said, arms folded, crown floating behind him, cape swishing dramatically like it had beef with gravity. “Which one of you assholes thought wiping out half an entire goddamn universe was a great idea?”

They blinked. Steve slowly got to his feet. “Uh… who—?”

“No. Shut up. Don’t talk. I’m not in the mood. I haven’t slept in a week. Time doesn’t even exist in the Infinite Realms, and I somehow managed to be late to ten meetings that haven’t happened yet. Do you know what kind of eldritch administrative nightmare I’m dealing with? Do you?”

Tony blinked. “Not really, no.”

Danny whipped around to face him, pointing a glowing finger. “I don’t care, Stark. I don’t care that your kid sidekick is dead. I don’t care that half your team is sad. I don’t care that your billionaire ass is depressed and growing a sad beard like you’re auditioning for ‘Survivor: Superhero Edition’. I have literal oceans of paperwork made out of the screams of the damned piling up in my inbox because some purple California Raisin thought committing universal homicide was a vibe.”

“Hold on,” Natasha said, standing now, brows furrowed. “Who even are you?”

“I’m the janitor,” Danny deadpanned. “Of death. And you—you are all on my shit list.”

Steve opened his mouth.

“NO. I said no talking. Do you know how many souls half a universe is? Do you? BECAUSE I DON’T. THAT NUMBER DOESN’T EXIST. That’s not even math anymore, that’s heresy. There are species no one even knows about! I had to learn seven extinct galactic dialects in five minutes just to sign their death certificates!”

“Wait—wait,” Bruce said, cautiously stepping in like someone trying to defuse a bomb made of feelings. “You’re… the King of the Afterlife?”

“Infinite Realms,” Danny corrected. “Afterlife implies one dimension. I’ve got infinite. One of them is just an endless IKEA. You think you’re in hell? Try getting lost in that one for eternity.”

Tony blinked. “That explains the floating crown.”

“Oh, you noticed?” Danny snapped, sarcasm thick. “Yeah, the crown’s real subtle. You know what else I’m wearing? These.”

He held up his fingers. On them gleamed the actual Infinity Stones. Not the ones Thanos used. No, these were the OG versions—before the universe dumbed them down for mortal brains.

“I’m wearing multiversal cosmic artifacts as fucking accessories, Stark. I clapped death back into submission on my way here. I threatened Time itself with a lawsuit. I am so tired.”

Everyone was staring now. Thor slowly lowered his bottle.

“I have one question,” Thor said, eyes narrowing. “Can you bring them back?”

Danny didn’t respond immediately. He paced, muttering under his breath about soul processing queues and spectral overflow reports and ghost union strikes.

Then he turned, threw up his hands, and shouted, “Fine! Fine! But only because if I see one more Ectoplasmic Reconciliation Form I’m going to scream my own name and rip reality in half!”

Tony raised a cautious hand. “Just to clarify… you’re not doing this out of the goodness of your heart?”

Danny glared at him. “I am doing this because your collective idiocy has backed up the Infinite Realms so badly, I have ancient god-beasts getting angry Yelp reviews for not guiding souls fast enough.”

Bruce choked. “You get… Yelp reviews?”

“Do not ask. Do not google ‘Spiritual Bureaucracy Yelp.’ You’re not ready. It’s worse than you can even imagine.”

He clapped his hands. The power reverberated like a sonic boom made of lightning and bass drops. Light cracked through the floor, time folded, and space rewrote itself. In an instant, everything was back. People. Planets. Souls. Loved ones. Unsnapped. Safely. No one reappeared in traffic or mid-air. They were all fine.

Everyone stared.

Tony gasped. “…Peter?”

Somewhere in the compound, Peter Parker screamed, “MR. STARK I THINK I DIED?!”

Danny muttered, “Yeah, well, get in line, kid.”

Tony looked like he might cry. Steve looked like he might cry. Even Thor blinked back tears.

Danny didn’t give them a second to bask.

“Listen to me and listen hard, because I am only going to say this once. The next time you idiots let some glorified space grape get his hands on cosmic power and kill half the universe, I’m not bringing anyone back.”

Natasha stepped forward. “Wait—what—?”

“I said,” Danny growled, eyes glowing green and crown sparking violently, “the next time this happens, I am going to let the universe rot. I don’t care if it’s your kid, or your moms, or your emotional support dog. You will live with it. You will suffer. Because I’m not spending another week cleaning up your mess like the goddamn galactic janitor!”

Tony muttered, “Kinda thought you said you were the janitor.”

“I will kick your kneecaps off.”

Tony shut up.

Danny took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m going home. Do not call me again unless the universe is actually ending. And even then, it better be certified by at least three gods and signed in triplicate.”

He started floating upward, preparing to phase out, when Steve blurted, “Wait, thank you. Really.”

Danny paused mid-air, sighed, and turned around. “You’re welcome. I guess. But seriously. If another genocidal space maniac so much as coughs on the timeline, I’m filing a restraining order on this entire dimension. Bye.”

And with that, he vanished in a swirl of ectoplasmic smoke, leaving the Avengers staring at each other in the awkward silence that followed a divine ass-whooping.

Thor finally muttered, “I liked him.”

Tony sat down, blinked a few times, then said, “He just wore the Infinity Stones as rings. Like mood jewelry.”

Bruce nodded solemnly. “He’s not paid enough.”

“Was he even paid at all?” Steve asked.

And somewhere in the realms between life and death, Danny Phantom screamed into his pillow made of souls: “I AM NOT GETTING PAID FOR THIS BULLSHIT!!!”

#danny fenton #danny phantom #dp x marvel #danny phantom fanfiction #marvel #marvel mcu #mcu #mcu fandom #crossover #danny phantom fandom #mcu fanfiction #marvel fandom #marvel fanfic #infinite realms #ghost king danny #ghost king phantom #infinity stones #the infinity saga

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rottingghosty · 1 month ago

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Little Talks | DC X DP

part second part to the ghostling au !! this is just something to give you guys food while i write the fic

also usual errors will be made im only one person blah blah. hope you enjoy, as usual this is scheduled to post at 7am

☁️☁️☁️☁️

Danny lazily blinked at the person in front of him, his brain slowly rebooting itself as he released a small yawn. The person was green. A green person. Huh. Alien? He was exhausted, he spent so long aiding new systems and cradling stars that died and spread their dust around so they would be reborn again. He wanted to sleep but this person was in front of him and it’d be rude to ignore him. Pandora taught him better than that.

“Mrrp?” Danny felt his ears twitch, he wanted to feel mortified at the fact he made a sound like a cat in his own head but he really can’t be blamed because the moon he was around was really comfortable and he had no shame. He lazily tilted his head as the person’s shoulders seemed to loosen? A shake in his body. Weird.

Oh. He’s trying not to laugh at Danny’s response. Can Clockwork rewind so that didn’t happen. Of course CW ignored him like usual when it came to embarrassments like these.

“I do not mean any harm friend.”

The voice in his head echoed and it made Danny shiver in response, it was odd sharing a head space with someone else. He didn’t retaliate or cause any harm. His core could feel that this person was friendly, curious and respectful. He gives a head tilt in response.

Friend. Safe. Okay.

Danny gave another yawn, feeling his jaw open a tad wider than it should in normal human circumstances but who could care less when he has a Martian— an actual martian in front of him even if he’s too sleepy to actively be excited! He’s tired okay, it’s not everyday he gets to indulge on his obsession heavily on an everyday basis. He’d been so deprived that he’d gotten sick and it’s what made the others decide to give him the boot so he could enjoy his time before he got the crown.

“What is your name, little one?” Martian Manhunter softly asked in Danny’s head after the younger one winced from the volume earlier after he began to wake up.

“Danny.”

“Why are you out here?”

“Old man said I needed my enrichment.”

“One of my allies called you a baby ghost of the Infinite Realms, is this true?”

Danny released another cat like sound, this one more curious than the other when he had just barely woke up. Someone knew what he was? How curious, it wasn’t often Danny stumbled in dimensions that knew he was from the Infinite Realms… much less the fact that he’s even a ghostling.

“Mhm, ghostling is the proper term. We usually calculate age by how long we’ve been dead. In ghost terms I’m like three.”

Martian Manhunter seemed to pause, as if listening to something. Danny gave another yawn before he finally decided to change into a more normal size instead of the large form he had used to travel through the void easier. His form shifted in a bright light before he floated over to Martian Manhunter.

He quickly realized he was a lot smaller than he’d been and he supposes this is what CW meant when changing forms, he’d most likely reflect the age he’s in ghost terms. He doesn’t think he’d handle if Martian Manhunter treated him like a kid.

“When you said enrichment…?”

“Oh! Clocky said to play nice with my cousin? I think her name is Wonder Woman? Um he’s ah known as Chronos?”

616 notes · View notes

godmadeaterribleerror · 30 days ago

Text

Fly Back Here, And Keep Warm

Main Masterlist - Bucky Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, smut (sharing body heat, p in v, fingering, praise kink), angst, light fluff, humor, no use of y/n, enemies to lovers.

Summary: Bucky hates you. He doesn't talk to you, or look at you, or linger in your presence for too long. But he's still saving you from the river. From the cold.

And maybe, if you're not losing your mind, he doesn't really hate you at all.

Author's Note: Doing the body heat fic. Had a lot of fun with it. We're post-Endgame but no one died, cause I am the god of my own emotional smut. Enjoy!

Word Count: 9.1k

There’s smoke in the air. Stars and smoke and a harsh wind that turns it all into a shifting, glimmering haze of cold.

You’re so cold. Frozen into your bones, blood stilled in your body, eyes blurring, because maybe everything around you has been plunged into ice as well, and the smoke has fogged the usual clarity of the glass.

The ice they put in drinks is always clear, like crystal. Smooth, see-through and glossy, a chill that’s welcome in the heat of crowds.

This isn’t that ice.

This is the ice that had been below your feet, only minutes ago. Clouded and thick and cracking in strange, dangerous places. And now it’s spreading through the world, and everything is fogged, and god, if you die here—somewhere high in the mountains where your bones will be eaten, and your grave will wash down the river in the spring—it will really fucking suck.

“Shit, God, Christ-“ Someone is swearing above you. A low voice that you recognize, but can’t put a name to.

You can’t really put a name to anything right now. Not when it’s so goddamn cold.

“Do not die on me, you got it. That’s an order, keep your eyes open and don’t die.”

You can put a feeling to that voice. A hot, feverish, wrathful feeling. There’s no name for the feeling, either, but it’s sparking in your blood and acting as jumpstart to your brain. Just enough to take a ragged breath.

“Thank fuckin’ hell.” The voice mutters, and your hands fist in a warm cloth.

Your face quickly follows, when the cloth wraps itself around you, and starts to move your body. It’s awfully warm for just a cloth. In the dead of winter. Out in the wild.

Not a cloth. A person. Voices, you can remember now, usually belong to people.

“We’re getting you out of here.” The voice—person—mutters in your ear. “Just hold on.”

This cloth must belong to him. There’s a word for that, too, when a cloth is on a person, and it smells like them.

This cloth smells like him. Your burning voice. The cloth smells like smoke—but a summer smoke, where wood becomes sweet from all the flowers and chocolate of the clear night—and a dried fruit, as well as something strong and spicy.

Your burning voice is strong. He’s holding you his chest like you’re nothing, and never breaking stride as he wades through something that might be a swamp. He’s not even grunting. Just speaking to you and moving a little more, useless warmth over your body.

“I told you not to step on the river. I said it would break, and you didn’t listen cause you’re trying to test if I can have a fucking heart attack, little dove. Trying to die on me, when I ordered you not to.”

You know who your voice is.

And he’s not your anything.

But no one else in the world calls you little dove.

It’s enough fire to clean off the daze from your eyes, and when you blink up, there he is.

Bucky.

Floating above you, the smoke and mist of the mountains combining with the night sky to make it seem as if he’s found himself a halo.

He must have saved you, from the river. There’s a slight ache on your wrist—the numbness of the cold giving way to a rough, painful bruise—because that’s where he’d grabbed you to drag you out of the ice. The shirt smells like Bucky, and you’ve never been allowed close enough to feel his heat or smell his shirt, but now you can.

He’s invading your every dulled sense, and you can smell him, and it’s like a fucking drug.

You’re in pain. You’re so cold, and this might not even be real—you might already be dead—but you could swear that your ice-addled brain is starting to cling to the warmth and smell of Bucky Barnes the same way a patient clings to an opioid.

It won’t be good for you. If the world knows what’s good for you, they’ll take it away soon, because you can’t be trusted with it.

Bucky himself has certainly never trusted you with it.

You’re really not sure he did grab you. That you’re not still drowning in the river, and this is just some sort of reaper, wearing Bucky’s face, carrying you to hell.

Your hand is shaking, when you reach up to trace over his face. The stubble on his cheek feels what you always imagine. Soft and prickling and right against your fingertips.

Just to be safe, you still have to ask.

“Are you real?”

Sharp, blue eyes fall down to yours, burning right through your skin. “Course I’m real, I’m- Shit, we’re further than I thought. You need to keep talking.”

You hum, shaking your head and burrowing a little further into his chest.

Bucky never lets you this close. Usually he keeps you a safe pace away, as if you’ve been infected and he’s afraid you’ll rot him too. He always has, since you met, and you’ve always wanted to come closer, but that’s not your call to make.

You understand why he hates you. You can’t find it in yourself to hold it against him, or even to let it crush out your raging, white-hot wildfire for him that’s always burning where no one can see it.

And you try to be respectful. You really, really try to keep your distance, all the time, because Bucky shouldn’t have to organize and regulate his life to accommodate your existence.

But your willpower is weakened. Every part of you is weakened. And your voice is only a shivering rasp, so you’re a threat to nothing at all, and it would be unreasonable not to steal as much warmth as possible from Bucky, while you have him.

You love him in secret all the time.

This can just be a little fuel to turn the wildfire into a hurricane, and then you’ll go back to secret once more.

“You’re supposed to be talking, little dove-“

“‘M tired.” You mumble. “It’s cold, Bucky, I don’t wanna talk when it’s cold-“

“You talk all the time.” He grunts. “You were talking an hour ago-“

“Wasn’t cold an hour ago-“

“You still have to fucking talk.” He snaps, grip tightening around you.

You can feel his muscles flexing, hear the whir of his arm near your ear, almost in a perfect time with his heartbeat.

You can hear Bucky’s heartbeat, and it’s so fast, and you feel a little drunk.

It might be the cold.

It might still just be Bucky.

“Your heart is pounding.” You frown against his chest, fingers tracing over the spot where you think it is. “It just skipped a beat.”

Bucky grunts. “I’m running. That happens.”

“Don’t run then. I’m oka-“ You start hacking before the word is even out of your mouth, and Bucky might leave more bruises on your body, with how he seems to be trying to fuse you to his chest.

“Convincing.” He mutters your name, and you feel like you’re going to cry, but all your tears have frozen in your eyes. “Talk.”

“I don’t have anything to say-“

“That’s the biggest lie I’ve ever heard out of your mouth, dove. Try again.”

You pause, your brain still not fast enough to come up with something interesting, something Bucky will actually want to hear, something that will make him maybe listen more, or even look at you, when all of this is done.

“Talk-“

“Steve ate bug.”

There’s a second where the wind and Bucky’s heart are the only sounds in the world, and you don’t know if he cares about that. Steve’s his friend, and the bug thing was pretty funny, but you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve seen Bucky laugh, so maybe he doesn’t find it all that important or amusing to hear about at all. Maybe he’s already sick of your voice and he’s going to drop you into the snow-

“Keep talking.” He grunts, and you take a shuttering breath.

When this is done, you’ll apologize in a million ways where you’re silent. Bucky never listens to you talk, and he shouldn’t have to now, just because you’d decided to be an idiot and fall in the ice.

“It was a beetle.” You whisper into his chest. “A black one. And he thought it was a horsefly, so he freaked out, because you shouldn’t swallow a horsefly- Well, you shouldn’t swallow any bugs, but he was really worried about it being a horsefly, and I told him it was a beetle but he said beetles don’t buzz, and I said they can, and they can, Bucky. Beetles can buzz, anything that flies can buzz, but he was really freaking out, so he made me ask the beetle to come back up, and he still thought it was a fly, so I had to ask the fly to come back up, but it didn’t, cause it wasn’t a fly. Then I asked the beetle to come up, and it did, cause I was-“ You break out into a long yawn, and the air in your lungs is really starting to feel heavy. “’S a beetle. I was right.”

More silence. You can hear a birdsong in the trees, and maybe if you sing back, the eagles won’t pick your skin off your bones.

“Steve swallowed a horsefly in the 30s.” Bucky grunts, and you blink up at him with wide eyes. “Back when he was still a twig. It nearly killed him.”

“I know.” You mumble. “I asked him after, cause he was really freaked out, and he told me. He said not to tell anyone.” You pause. “Oops.”

“I don’t count, doll. I already knew.”

“Oh.” Your smile returns, and you can’t tell if you’re losing your mind from the cold or just happy Bucky called you doll. “Right.”

“You’re not done talking.”

You shake your head. “‘m tired-“

“I- Shit, I know you are,” Bucky says your name, and tonight might be the most he’s ever said it. This might be the most he’s ever spoken to you.

You hope it never, ever ends. You hope that for the rest of time Bucky’s voice saying your name sings to you in the spaces between silence, his heartbeat keeping rhythm like a drum.

“You still need to talk.” Bucky’s voice is almost a growl. You feel kind of dizzy. “Fucking hell, little dove, just keep talking, first time you’re shutting up and it’s-“

“‘M sorry.” You’re definitely going to try now. Bucky doesn’t deserve this. “I know I talk a lot, I’m just-“ Another yawn. It feels like an iron is pressing over your brow. “I’m so tired-“

“I know, doll, I know.” Bucky lets out a long breath that ghosts over your skin, and the shivers up your spine are warm. “Just keep- Say fucking anything-“

“Tony fell off the roof.” You hum, letting everything that comes to your head slip out, just to ease what sounds like something close to pain in Bucky’s voice.

You really must be losing your mind.

“He was doing experiments, and he fell off the roof, and then I got yelled at cause I didn’t catch him, but I was laughing, Bucky. It was funny, he yelped, and I didn’t mean to let him fall, but he still stole all my chocolate because he was angry, and that wasn’t nice, it was the expensive chocolate that Nat gave me-“

“From that place in Canada.” Bucky cuts you off with short words, and you nod a little stupidly. Everything is starting to blend and flow together, and there’s a numbness creeping up your spine you’re too tired to stop.

“Yeah, and she told me that you lost your favorite gloves on that mission, which sucks ass. But I-“ Another yawn. This one seems to be creeping into your eyes. “I can make you feel better, Buck, cause I’ve got a secret.”

Bucky grunts. “That right?”

You nod again. “I’ve got three secrets. ’S a lot of secrets.”

His chest vibrates slightly, and a smooth sound that’s better than anything sounds near your ear. “Three secrets is a lot of secrets. You want to share-“

“There’s someone who won’t listen to me.” You hum, playing with his shirt. “I know cause Nat said she got me the chocolate, but she’s a liar cause when I asked the box to open it said no, said I had to read the note first, and note said to give it to me, and it wasn’t in Nat’s handwriting. Then when I asked the box who got it, it said it wasn’t allowed to tell me. That it was a secret. Someone’s going around telling things not to listen to me, and that’s mean cause I’m not worth anything if people don’t listen. And then I asked Nat who gave it her, and she wouldn’t tell me either-“

You cut yourself off, and get a little colder as your words finally hit your own ears.

“I mean I asked, like, with my normal words. Nothing else.” You manage to look back up at Bucky, and he’s staring with a stone-like face out into the night. “I promise, Bucky, I didn’t ask, I don’t use it like that-“

“I know you don’t.” He mutters, his gaze flicking back down to yours, only for a second. “Your secret is that someone’s keeping a secret from you?”

“No, it’s-“ Yawn. This one is long, and the trees start to become a blur. “I’m keepin’ a secret that someone can resist me. Maybe they’re deaf. Can deaf people hear me? No, I mean- You know what I mean, Bucky-“

“I do. Second secret,” he says your name again. “Keep going.”

You nod, and you don’t even start this one before you’re yawning again, pulling your words together. “Sam has a girlfriend. He says she’s just a friend, but she’s a girl. And he’s fucking her, cause I walked in on them. Didn’t mean to. And I- Fuck,” you rock slightly in Bucky’s arms, trying to twist your body to look at him again. “I’m not supposed to tell you, Bucky. You can’t tell Sam I told you, cause then he’ll tell you my secret.”

Bucky frowns. “You just told me your secret-“

“’S Sam’s secret-“

“No, doll, the thing about your powers-“

“That’s a dumb secret. Mostly just stupid. This is my big secret.” You yawn again. You can’t really hear your own voice anymore. “You can’t know my big secret.”

“Well, now you have to tell me.”

You just shake your head, because anything else feels like it will drain you down to nothing.

Bucky grunts your name, and suddenly you’re not as steady in his arms. It’s like he’s trying to jostle something from you. “Shit- You gotta keep fucking talking, I told you-“

“Why?” Your voice feels high in your throat. Hopefully, to Bucky’s ears, it’s not a whine. “You hate it when I talk.”

“No, I don’t-“

“Yeah, you do, and I’m sorry, but I’m-“ This yawn moves into your heart, and everything feels so slow. “I’m tired, Bucky. I’m sorry I fucked up, just please let me sleep-“

“No.”

“But you can keep going without me. You’ll be free.” You sigh, and you didn’t die before, but this feels heavier than sleep now. “You hate me, you hate listening to me-“

“I do not hate you-“

“’S okay, I hate me too, but least you can leave. I-“ Yawn. All the way over your skull, and anything but feeling the cold sounds perfect now. “’m stuck here-“

“You’re being delirious.” Bucky grunts, and you shake your head.

You think you shake your head.

You can’t really think or feel anything beyond what’s falling out of your mouth, and the lingering, quickly dying warmth of Bucky.

Everything is so cold.

“Bucky?” You hope that was aloud. Based on the rumble of the last warm thing around you, it probably was. “I don’t wanna die here.”

“You- Fuck, you’re not gonna die, just keep goddamn talking-“

“Don’t let the birds eat me-“

“Nothing’s eating you-“

“And I’m sorry-“

“Stop apologizing and- Goddamnit, doll, you’re gotta be okay, just keep talking-“

You can’t keep talking. You can only let the last yawn sweep you away, and hope that—if it’s real—the last warmth of Bucky burns a little brighter in your body than hellfire.

———

Bucky didn’t know anyone at this party. Not in any way that mattered.

He knew Steve, but everyone knew Steve. Bucky wouldn’t be able to stand silently in a corner without being alone, because Steve had things to do. People to talk to. A show to put on that Bucky wasn’t ready to be a part of.

Sam could stand with him, in his corner.

Bucky really didn’t want his only option to be Sam.

He’d tried to avoid this. First week back from Wakanda, he couldn’t possibly be expected to immediately become best friends with a whole team of people who’d tried to kill him, more recently than anyone seemed to be willing to admit.

“Tony’s apologized for that, Buck.” Steve had sighed. “And you just have to go in and walk around. It needs to be a good faith thing, so that you’re trying-“

“I am trying.” Bucky’s arms had crossed over his chest, his whole body bracing for a fight he knew wouldn’t come. “And Stark can shove it up his ass if he thinks I’m not-“

“He knows you are. We all know you are, but congress-“

“Who cares about congress.” Sam had leaned around the doorway, a shit-eating grin on his face. “I think you should come to the party for fun, Buck.”

Steve had shot the bird-fuck a glare, and it was a lot more generous than he deserved.

“You’re not helping, Sam.”

“I’m not tryin’ to help, Cap, but I do think it’ll be good for him. He can’t coast off our charismatic coattails forever-“

Bucky had scowled. “I’m not coasting, Wilson, I’m fucking adjusting-“

“And this’ll be great for adjustment.” Sam had shrugged. “You ain’t the only one here who’s done things they ain’t proud of, Buck. You don’t have a monopoly on brooding, and it’ll be good to bond with some people who don’t have an overt connection to your past. Proven method to movin’ forward after service is building those new relationships.”

Sam had, annoyingly, been right. That was exactly what Bucky’s therapist had told him, only without throwing in a comment after about how the ladies might go crazy for Bucky’s hair.

“A lot of people like us popped up during the Blip,” Steve had told him in the elevator, watching Bucky fidget with the cuffs of his shirt.

It was too tight, and too loose, and felt like fire on his skin. He hadn’t earned nice things like a pressed shirt yet, but Stark would—apparently—get real damn pissed if Bucky showed up in anything less than proper cocktail attire.

“I don’t care who popped up-“

“You will.” Steve had shrugged. “You’ll find someone you like enough to at least talk to, Buck, I promise.”

In the elevator, Bucky had rolled his eyes and bit his tongue, because grumbling that he didn’t need people to talk to right now wasn’t going to do anything but prolong the conversation.

Now, Bucky was really getting sick of his friends being right.

He’d found his corner, while Steve and Sam did the rounds. Right on the edge of the room, where the noise of the party was a little quieter, and most people weren’t going to try and ask him dumb questions about Hydra. The spider kid had been tolerable, and managed to distract himself, but the guy who got big and small kept trying to make small talk, and Bucky didn’t remember how to do that yet. Too many people—two—had already tried to touch his arm. The talking raccoon had been looking for him all night, and hopefully he wouldn’t think to find Bucky here.

Slightly behind a curtain, near an unoccupied balcony.

A previously unoccupied balcony.

Someone was definitely out there now.

Bucky could hear her. She had a soft voice that seemed to almost flow over and through the night and crowd, like a siren song that told Bucky everything was really, truly fine.

She was talking to someone, though. And Bucky wasn’t sure he was even supposed to be listening to the conversation, but he couldn’t stop himself from leaning a little closer to the door, just to hear if there was a lull in the conversation. A chance for him to slip in, and be able to report back to Steve that he managed to do something besides brood all night.

That he, possibly, made a friend.

“I made pancakes yesterday morning.” She was saying. “They tasted horrible. I don’t know how to make pancakes. Natasha said she could help me, but I think I should try to do it myself. And it’s not because I’m trying to prove anything, it’s because I- They’ll trust me more, if I do things myself. I mean, I’m still a person, I think. I’m not sure. I feel like a person. I feel… Yeah, I feel like a person. And don’t tell Steve I’m worrying about this, because then he’ll tell me I should see a therapist, and I don’t need it.” She giggled, and it was the best sound Bucky had ever heard. Soft and light, almost shimmering, making his body relax further as he tried to follow the conversation.

This woman knew Steve. And Natasha.

Bucky could be a third person She knew. One she liked.

“You won’t be able to tell Steve anything,” She hummed, and Bucky leaned a little closer to the balcony door. “You can’t talk. But you’re a really good listener, even if you, um, don’t mean to be. Most people here don’t know me, and I can’t really go up and introduce myself without a prelude, because then people freak out. Tony told me I was allowed to talk, but I don’t- I make people uncomfortable. I mean, they’ll hear me later anyway. I thought about hiring someone else to play the piano, but apparently it won’t be as impressive. I think that’s stupid. We have all the money in the world, and it’s not like I’m not already impressive. If I had half the money Tony has, I’d hire someone to follow me around and play different songs based on what’s happening. Give myself a score. I think that would be funny.”

It would be funny. And if whoever She was talking to couldn’t talk, Bucky could. He could be a good listener, as well, if that was all She wanted. He could listen to here say anything for a million years and never, ever get sick of it.

“I just- I dunno, I don’t want to only be the songbird. And if I ask you too, you could tell me what I should do, but I’m really trying not to do that. I can figure this out myself.” There was a pause, and when She spoke again, her voice was softer. “I’m going to try to make pancakes again tomorrow. And if they’re bad, I’ll ask them to be good, and I’ll give them to Wanda as a thank you for the dress. It’s a nice dress, right? Shit- wait-“

She cut herself off with a clear of Her throat, and Bucky was a goner.

Because She started to sing, and he didn’t recognize the song, but he knew that they didn’t really matter. Every note was clear, like crystallized honey, there was something running under every word that was asking someone to speak. Not Bucky, but someone else, and suddenly Bucky really wanted to be the person She was wanting things from.

She wouldn’t have to ask.

Bucky would just do it. Whatever She needed.

He rounded the corner, because he had to see Her. See the woman who made him want to talk. Maybe it would spur him into actually speaking, or he’d see that whoever She was already speaking to was a nobody, and Bucky could be someone-

She wasn’t speaking to nobody. Or somebody.

She was the most beautiful woman Bucky had ever seen—every feature looking like it had been crafted out of clouds and flowers and water and the night sky—and She was leaning on the balcony, talking to a dove.

The dove was looking at Her. Listening to Her as she sang.

And Bucky was goddamn jealous. Of a bird.

She was looking at the bird.

Bucky wanted Her to look at him. Talk to him. Sing to him. He didn’t even know Her name, but he’d like to learn it, because it would probably be beautiful, and he’d have to practice saying it in the mirror to get it right on his tongue.

“Hey, Bucky, c’mon- Fuck!”

Sam stumbled back as Bucky’s human elbow slammed into his gut, and there was something close to guilt bubbling in Bucky’s stomach at the sight.

“What the shit, man-“

“You snuck up on me.” Bucky grunted, glancing back over his shoulder. The woman had stopped singing. Now She was just looking at the dove. “What do you want.”

Sam straightened up with a groan. “I got something for you see, man.”

“Pass.”

“You can’t pass, Bucky-“

“I just did.” He didn’t have time for this. The woman might be gone soon.

“C’mon, man, you’ll like it, I promise.” Sam jerked his head into the crowd. “You can leave this whole freakin’ party after, but Steve and I really think you’ll like it.”

Bucky glanced back to the balcony, and the woman had fucking vanished.

He had no clue where She’d gone. If She’d even been real at all. And asking Sam if there was a perfect goddess of a woman who spoke to doves anywhere around here would make him sound crazier than he already was.

So Bucky sighed, and followed Sam into the crowd.

He wasn’t really paying attention, at first. There was nothing to pay attention to. He was standing between Steve and Sam—like they were trying to herd him into place, ensure that he didn’t book if for the exits the moment the lights turned off—and Stark was up on stage, giving some speech about the unity of the Avengers, and victory against Thanos, and how they had a very special performance coming up to show off their best new addition to the team.

Bucky didn’t care. I could be the tree kid growing plants, or that fiery space-lady showing off, or the sorcerer doing all his glowing magic tricks. Bucky really didn’t damn care, they were all here because they were ‘special’ in stupid, pointless ways, and he wanted to shove Sam and Steve away so he could go work out if he was just losing his goddamn mind, or if that woman had been-

She was real.

She was gliding onto the stage with a bright, sweet smile, and everyone else in the room could see Her, so she was real.

And when it wasn’t muffled through the glass, Her voice was even more enchanting than it had been before.

Bucky didn’t know what song She was performing, but he didn’t know most songs anymore. He didn’t know how She was making the keys of the piano move on their own, but he knew from the balcony that She hadn’t wanted to. He didn’t know exactly what Her powers were, but he knew that everyone in the room was just as entranced by Her song as he was, and that the windows were opening on their own so that more and more doves could fly over their heads in a perfect dance, and the fireflies from the summer night could fill the room.

He knew that vines and flowers were growing up the balcony from the forest, all the way across the compound, and that there was nothing in his body but peace.

He knew that—risking a glance away from her for only a second—everyone else was at peace as well. Steve’s shoulders were relaxed. Sam was smiling in a gentle way that Bucky had never seen on his face. Even Nat, across the room, was slumping and looking almost dopey.

This woman was dangerous.

Bucky knew he didn’t care.

And he hadn’t been paying attention, and he’d missed Her name.

He needed to learn, at least, Her name.

When the song ended, he was ready to damn it and ask. Sam could make fun of him. Steve could raise his brows. But God, Bucky needed to know Her name-

“Follow me, Buck.” Steve started through the crowd, and Bucky blinked for a second before jogging after him.

“Slow the hell down, punk, you gotta give me a warning-“

“You caught up-“

“Yeah, but you still could’ve waited-“

“Nothing to wait for. I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”

Before Bucky could protest that he didn’t want to meet anyone, he just wanted to know Her, Steve was pushing through a curtain and the words died in his throat.

There She was.

Fidgeting with the skirt of Her dress as she sat on the floor and wiping Her nose, looking up from Her phone with a wide, pretty smile.

The smile wasn’t for Bucky. It was for Steve.

Bucky wanted to figure out how to make Her smile for him, then make that smile brighter than this one.

“Hi.” She said, and goddamnit just that word was the best thing Bucky had ever heard.

He needed to pull himself together. He couldn’t slip that he’d been creeping on Her earlier. That he knew She spent her time talking to birds, and it was the most adorable thing he’d ever thought someone could do. That She was looking like some sort of angel to him, and he was a damned man, but he wouldn’t mind finding a river to clean himself in, for Her.

Then Steve said Her name, and it was just as beautiful as he’d thought it would be.

She looked like Her name.

She looked like She could be Bucky’s whole world, if he was allowed to make her so.

“This is Bucky Barnes,” Steve said, and Bucky felt himself stand a little taller under Her attention. Like some dumb kid, puffing his chest out to impress a pretty girl in school.

She was the prettiest girl Bucky had ever seen. It was a fair reaction, and now She was smiling at him, so it was worth it.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.”

He damn liked his name when She said it. It almost short-circuited his brain—as if he was the cyborg Sam teased him about being, and his only weakness was Her—and all he could do was grunt in response and stare.

He needed to do better than that. But before he could find the words, any words, one’s that were even half worthy of her, Stark pushed off the stage with a clap of his hands and a grin, and She looked away.

“Hey, Cap, you seen the Disney Princess-“

“I’m on the floor, Tony.” She cut Stark off with a dry tone, and Bucky was in love. “Can I please go home now-“

“Give me one more hour,” Stark said Her name with a fake pout, offering his hand to help Her up. She ignored it.

Bucky was going to marry Her.

“Do I have to sing again-“

“Not unless you wanna ask someone to do something-“

“I don’t do that.” She mumbled, shooting Bucky a look he didn’t understand. “I told you, I don’t use it on people-“

“Yeah, I know, just-“

“Tony.” Steve’s words were firm, and She looked more relaxed.

Bucky wanted to be the person who made Her relax.

“Stop pushing her.”

“Yeah, Tony.” She stuck Her tongue out at Stark. “Stop pushing me.”

Stark raised his hands in surrender. “I’m not pushing anyone, and I’d know if you were using it on people, everyone gets that bloody nose thing, I’m just saying-“ Stark paused, narrowing his eyes at her. “Your nose is bleeding right now, kid.“

“The performance was hard.” She snapped. “I had to ask the piano, and the animals, and the planets, and all your stupid guests-“

“Ha! You said you weren’t using it on people-“

“You told me to! And I-“ She looked at Bucky again, Her words almost frantic. “I was just asking them to relax, I promise, I don’t ask people to do things for me-“

It clicked in Bucky’s head.

She was a mind-controller, or plant controller, or object controller, or something. That was the song. That was peace.

That should freak him out.

It wasn’t.

She was still arguing with Stark about the party, nobody’s nose was bleeding anymore, and She was still the best thing in the world.

But She looked afraid of him. She probably knew what he’d been, and was worried about what he’d do to Her.

She should never be afraid of him. She should be free and happy and flying around like all Her pretty doves. And Bucky would like for Her to land next to him every night, but as long as She was flying, he could just watch and listen until She asked him to sing back.

He’d just watch. She leaving to make last rounds with Stark, and still avoiding Bucky’s full gaze, and he could just watch.

Whatever She needed, to trust him as much as She trusted her doves.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.” She mumbled as She passed him, staring at the floor.

She couldn’t even look at him.

He couldn’t stop his response.

“Have a good night, little dove.”

———

“You need to wake up.” There’s a warm breath ghosting over your skin, a strong voice saying your name, but you’re still so cold. “Shit, you just need to open your eyes for me, c’mon, shit-“

A high whine leaves your throat—you think it’s yours, everything is still sort of numb so you can’t really tell—and the world around you goes still.

Not the world.

Just a body.

A big, warm body that feels kind of like the world, the same way that voice sounded like home.

“Goddamnit, dove, you’re so cold- hang on, I- I’m sorry about this, I swear I wasn’t planning it-“ The voice sighs, and that’s Bucky.

You don’t know why he’s sorry. He’s never done anything to you, and your love may be trapped in your body forever, but that’s not Bucky’s fault.

Your tongue is stuck to the roof of your mouth, though, so you can’t tell him that. You can only make a long sound of pain, and feel the warm body fold into you a little further.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Bucky grunts, and of course you are. He’s here. “I- Shit, I put my arm in the fire for an hour, and it’s cooled down now, but it should still be warm. When you wake up, I promise I’m gonna explain what’s happening, but you gotta wake up, doll. I- Fuck, I got secrets too. I got a lot of secrets, and I’ll tell you all of them if you just wake up.”

It would be nice to wake up. Bucky’s asking so nicely, but it’s still only a suggestion—no matter how much he makes it sound like an order—and he can’t make your body wake up.

But his voice is starting to stoke your small, always burning want for him, and you think if you listen a little longer, it could sweep through your whole body and get you to move once more. At least to open your eyes.

And Bucky’s never spoken to you this much.

So you’ll just listen.

“My secrets aren’t as interesting as yours.” He mutters, and you doubt that. Most things about Bucky are interesting. “I’ve been keepin’ a cat at my apartment, and Stark doesn’t know. You’d like her. She’d like you, too, but everyone likes you. That’s my second secret, I know you’re gonna say it’s not true, but I know everyone likes you. They’re planning a party for your birthday. Big party. I think it’s stupid, but not cause it’s for you. You deserve a party. I just don’t think you’ll like it. Big parties aren’t really your style, but when I tried to tell Nat that, she told me to shut up and grow some balls to talk to you before I talk about you.”

Bucky sighs, and your body seems to be lighting up one nerve at a time, because you shifting to be a little closer to the warmth all around you.

You think it’s Bucky’s body. It’s a good guess, given how all his word seems to be rolling through your chest. How he grunts at your movement, and his grip tightens around you.

“Can you- Shit-” he mutters your name, low caution in his voice. “Are you awake?”

You hum—it’s all your voice can manage—and Bucky really seems to be trying to press himself into you.

“Thank Christ, alright- I’m gonna keep talking, okay? Is it helping?”

You press your nose right into his chest in response, and it’s warm, and now you can feel his voice even deeper.

“Uh- I’m not a good talker, dove, so- How about this. I’m pissed you fell in the river. I told you not to ask it to be more solid. You were shivering and your voice was already kind of going, didn’t think we could avoid a nosebleed, and goddamnit, it seemed like a good idea, but then you just looked sad, and you fell in- And I don’t hate you. You said I hate you.”

There’s a long pause, and you can feel hands on your hips. They’re both warm hands, one of them bordering on burning, but you don’t really mind.

“And Sam and Nat both told me you thought that. That’s another secret, they figured me out a few months back. Both been telling me to do something about it, but I couldn’t. Didn’t wanna do that to you. But I- If I was in charge of the party, I’d get you some cake and watch whatever TV you want, then we could go to the planetarium, and I’d make you some pancakes.”

That sounds perfect. You wish you had the words to tell him that you’d like that far more than a party, but you don’t. Not yet. And you’re really not sure what’s happening overall.

“Here’s another secret. I got you that chocolate.”

You roll slightly at that, your body seeming to understand what that means more than your thoughts, and Bucky’s chuckle rolls through your body.

“Thought that would get you. You like knowing things. You like- You like everything, and I don’t get it. I don’t like things like that, but I try to- Just, give it everything I got. And I’m, uh- I’m kinda running out of secrets, so if you could wake up and start talking, that would be nice.”

Another pause. You’re not sure if it’s the warmth of Bucky’s body, or his voice, but you almost have all your body and head back. Almost.

“I’ll listen. Just say anything, please-“ Bucky’s voice is growing strained, and he cuts himself off with a long breath. “And you’re worth more than people listening. You are. But for the record, I listen more than anyone. I like listening to you. I really don’t hate you, doll. Promise. Just, god, please wake up.”

That’s a command you can follow, just at the right time, as the words I really don’t hate you flow through your blood, and you feel… better.

Not warm. But better.

“Those are good secrets.” You mumble, and Bucky doesn’t laugh.

He just holds you tighter, and lets out a slow breath.

And when you blink your eyes open, you realize why he’s so everywhere around you.

He’s naked.

You’re naked.

Fuck.

“Bucky,” your voice is a hoarse, and when you tip your head back to meet his gaze, he’s looking at you like he’s afraid you’ll start running away.

You couldn’t if you wanted to. Most of your body is still frozen.

“We’re naked.” You whisper, and he swallows.

“I know. You were- The fire wasn’t doing enough, and you were turning colors people shouldn’t be, so I-“ He sighs, but doesn’t look away. “I’m sorry.”

“’S okay.” You force your body not to wiggle closer, because every part of it that can move really just wants to touch him. “Did you- are your secrets-“

“I meant them.”

“Oh.” You drop your gaze to his chin. “I- You never come near me, though.”

Bucky shrugs. “You never come near me.”

“Fair.”

“Yeah.”

There’s a beat, and then—before you can stop yourself—the words are falling out of your mouth in a flood of you need to know. Your brain is still too slow to piece things together, so Bucky just saying whatever the hell he seems to be getting at would be really helpful, because you need to know.

“Why’d you buy me the chocolate?”

“Because I- Uh-“ Bucky clears his throat, his chin moving to rest on the top of your head. “You like chocolate.”

“Oh.”

“And I- Fuck, this is- I’m sorry, doll, I’m not good at this-“

“’S okay.” You curl your fingers on his chest, letting out a slow breath. “If you want to be friends, we can be. I, um, I love you, but friends is good. I like friends.”

Bucky tenses around you. You’re not sure what you said—everything flowing a little too quick and smooth around you—but it made Bucky tense, so you fucked up-

“You love me?”

Oh. You don’t remember saying that. “I- Fuck, Bucky, I’m sorry-“

“Do you?”

“Yeah, but I know you don’t want me like that, I mean, friends, maybe, but not that because I’m your worst nightmare, and you shouldn’t ever have to worry about losing control again. And I’m really sorry, cause I can’t stop my feelings, but that shouldn’t be your problem. And I do love you, I love you a lot, that was my big secret, and I should stop saying that but I can’t, I’m still really cold and I’m warmer now and thank you, for that, I mean, for not letting me die, but you really don’t owe me anything, Bucky-“

Your frantic words are cut off as Bucky tilts your head back with a tug of your hair, and kisses you.

He’s kissing you. Soft and slow, and his lips are little chapped but it’s nice. He tastes like salt and chocolate and that same warm smoke from before, and when he groans it rushes a whole new spark through your body, and he’s so warm-

“Needed to slow you down, little dove.” He mutters, nipping at your low lip. “Good that you’re talking again, but I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

You take a shaking breath, and when you lean back to apologize, Bucky’s grinning at you. All teeth and joy and adoration, that might be adoration in his gaze, and you don’t know what to do with it-

“Bucky-“

“And, just so we’re clear,” his nose bumps yours, and if you couldn’t feel him everywhere, you’d be certain you had died and somehow ended up in heaven. “That is not the type of control I’m worried about losing with you.”

You can feel the flush heat your face. You might move into bursting flames, if Bucky keeps looking at you, keeps running his hands up and down your back, the metal one is still so hot and it’s sending more, live-giving shivers up your spine-

“You’re still cold, doll?”

“Yeah, but-“

“Want me to warm you up?”

You blink at him, trying to read on his face if he’s serious, but all the right words to ask are still so far away.

He looks serious. That’s his serious face—Bucky mostly only has a serious face—and there’s a fire in his eyes that’s brighter than usual.

His eyes have always been bright. Blue the same way stars are blue. The same way fire is blue.

And it’s burning right into you.

So you just move. Leaning up to press your lips carefully to his, and letting out a soft, happy sound when Bucky kisses your right back.

It starts gentle. Your hands gripping at his shoulders and his tongue carefully exploring your mouth, as if you wouldn’t offer him the world and every single piece of you if you asked.

Then you tug at his hair, his cock twitches near your thigh, and there’s the heat. Building in your core and looking for relief, making you start to grind into the sheets, into Bucky’s torso, until you can feel his cock pressing to your abdomen and if you’re ever going to be warm again, you need him now-

“Hold on.”

Bucky’s grunt rolls through your body, and the second your arms wrap around his neck, he’s moving. Flipping you onto your back so your caged against the bed, devouring your squeak with a deeper, rougher kiss that’s just making you need him more. He’s playing with your tits and rolling his hips down above you, and you’re warm but you want to be on fire, and-

“Shit-“ You gasp as his hand drifts between your folds, his thumb finding your clit and start to rub slow, teasing circles all around it. “Bucky-“

He hums, sucking a small bruise into your neck, and his fingers start to rest right at your cunt, moving away every single you try to squirm into them.

“Fuck, please-“

“Tell me you want this.” He mutters, looking up at you with darkened, almost hopeful eyes. “I know I do, but you gotta say-“

You yank him back up in a borderline violent kiss, only pulling back to give him a full, toothy smile, and nod.

There’s something reverent, in Bucky’s gaze. You hope you can earn it staying there forever.

“I want you, Bucky.” You whisper. “I love you, and- God-“

That was all he needed. Bucky’s fingers push into you right as he dives back down into another hot, heavy kiss, and there’s too much pleasure building in your body to even really know what’s happening. Those two fingers in you pussy are pumping in and out at a brutal, perfect pace where he scissors that the exact right time, and crooks them right against the deepest, spongey and need part of your cunt, and you’re gasping his name and grinding down onto his hand, but Bucky’s not relenting. His kiss is only deepening as he takes every needy sound you throw at him as turns it into more, more, more-

“I’m gonna- fuck-“ You yank at his hair, and he groan into your mouth, and more- “Bucky, please, I’m-“

He pushes up, scanning over your open, sweaty features with a slight smirk, and seems to find whatever he’s looking for in half a second.

Bucky moves onto his knees above you, his metal hand pressing right over your clit and starting to rub-

“Cum, babydoll.”

There’s the fire. Relieving and washing through your whole body, burning you up from your core and making everything a new, better haze of Bucky.

He never looks away, as you shake below him, or clench around his fingers still buried in your cunt.

Then he smiles, lowing back down over you as he gently pulls out, leaving a small slap to your pussy that makes your let out a soft, whimpering moan.

“You like that?” He asks, brows raised, and you roll your eyes.

“Obviou- Fuck-“

He repeats the motion, you wiggle under him—unsure if you’re trying to move away or closer—and Bucky’s grin might be able to power your heart for the rest of your life.

“You’re so beautiful.”

You flush, and that’s worse than the teasing. You might cum again from nothing at all.

“Thanks.”

He hums, watching you carefully. “You like it when I tell you you’re gorgeous, little dove?”

You clench around nothing, your back arching slightly off the bed, and he sees it.

Fuck.

“Bucky-“

“How about if I tell you that you’re squeezing my fingers so good, I might cum before I even get my cock inside you pretty pussy?”

You moan, finding enough strength to reach up and whack his chest. “Shut up, I notice your hair-pulling thing-“

“Yeah,” Bucky shrugs, and whatever sheepishness had him muttering and struggling earlier seems to be gone now that he knows you love him. “But I can just do this,” your hands are suddenly pinned above your head, and Bucky scans over your body with an almost starved expression before looking back to you with a grin. “And my problems are solved, doll. You can’t escape me tellin’ you that you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, that you’re so sweet and kind and fuckin’ hot-“

You whine, grinding up into the air, and this is mean. You feel like you’re going to explode, and you can see how hard he is, but he’s just stroking himself between your bodies as you writhe beneath him, like the sight alone is enough to get him off.

“So pretty, babydoll, all wrecked for me-“

“I- Fuck me,” you try to vault your hips up into his, but you’re still a little weak from the cold, and it doesn’t nothing but make him laugh.

“I’m getting there,” Bucky drawls, and you’re going to fly out of your skin. “I just wanna take my time with my best girl, listen to all those pretty sounds you make, cause goddamnit, doll, you make some pretty sounds. Fell in love with your voice, before I even saw how gorgeous you are-“

Bucky cuts himself off with a frown, stilling above you, and you blink at him.

“What’s-“

“Forgot to tell you I love you.” He grunts, leaning down to press his brow to yours. “I do, little dove. Have forever. Just kind of got carried away-“

“I know,” you whisper, offering him another smile. “I love you too, and that’s amazing, but can you please-“

You grind against him once more, and his eyes widen.

“Shit, right- yeah.” Bucky pushes back up, keeping your hand above your head as he lines himself up at your entrance. “Deep breath, doll, gonna go slow, alright?”

You nod a little dumbly, because there’s nothing else to do. Slow is good. He’s big, and you’re still sensitive, and slow—for now—is all you think you can take.

Then Bucky slaps his cock over your clit, and you squeak, shooting him a glare.

“Need words-“

“Slow.” You drop your head back, already too cockdrunk to make a proper, full sentence. “’S good.”

He chuckles again, and you’d reach up to shove him, but he pushes in, and every other though is gone from your head.

Bucky drops his head to groan into your shoulder as he guides himself in further, and it’s not enough. You’re slowly being split open on his cock, and you’re fuller than you’ve ever been in your life, but it’s not enough.

When he’s pressed right on that deep, needy spot without friction, you snap.

“More.” You whisper, and Bucky look up at you with a furrowed brow.

“Are you-“

“I told you to fuck me, Barnes.” You roll your hips, and Bucky’s nostrils flare as he twitches inside you. “Fuck me.”

He glances down to where you’re joined, back up to your desperate face, and gives a rough nod.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You don’t think you’re ever going to go cold again. Not as Bucky fucks you into the mattress, pounding in and out of you with a brutal but careful pace, just enough to send you rocketing back up to the edge in a second, but not enough to push you over.

And he’s everywhere again. Burning you alive in the best way possible, and everywhere. Muttering more and more praise in your ear that makes you clench around his cock, then groaning down your throat and kissing you’re until you’re dizzy and drunk on him. On his taste, and free hand holding your hips still, and his dick slamming so deep into your that you can see heaven, and it’s all made of summer smoke and spice and Bucky-

“Gonna cum, babydoll.” He grunts against your lips, and you only nod, letting out another needy sound. “Where-“

“Inside.” You gasp, giving him your best, pleading eyes, and he groans.

“Shit, doll, you gotta be sure-“

“I’m sure, just, Bucky,” you arch off the mattress, throwing your head back into the pillow as he slams into that spot once more. “Please- Please-“

“Just- fuck- Hold on,” he moans your name, and that’s almost enough to set you off by itself.

But then you moan his name and his hips slam home inside of you, right at the same moment that he kisses you stupid into the mattress, and he pinches your clit one last time, and there it is.

You cum with a scream of his name, and there’s the stratosphere, and the sun, and everything warm and good is melting through your body and Bucky just keeps kissing you, reducing you to a moaning, oversensitive mess below him.

When he rolls you over, you stay caged in his arms, and his cock stays buried in your fluttering pussy, hot cum leaking down your thighs and onto him stomach.

Neither of you seem to mind, and this is just a little bit more of him you get to have, so you’ll stay like this as he allows.

Based on how the reverence on his face hasn’t faded—only seemed to bloom, growing into a hot, fervored ardor that could outburn the sun—he’ll let you stay here for a while.

“I love you,” you whisper, burying your face in his chest, and you can hear the grin in his voice as he responds.

“Love you too,” Bucky grunts your name, pressing a kiss to your brow, and if you do die, you’d like to do it here. “You warm now?”

“Yeah,” You smile, and hum against his skin. “I am.”

End Note: I get way too invested in writing the Bucky fics. Wish I had magic brain powers to write 50 things at once, so I could make all of these into big series. But alas, here we are.

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