bleedingredridinghood

[bleedingredridinghood]

[bleedingredridinghood]

"And I realize that no matter where I am, whether in a little room full of thought, or in this endless universe of stars and mountains, it’s all in my mind." — Jack Kerouac Sometimes the entire universe is no bigger than your thoughts. Everything—love, fear, dreams—starts inside you. Kerouac reminds us that reality begins within.🔥

[bleedingredridinghood]

shu katerina

[bleedingredridinghood]

You’re not depressed. You just need $250,000 in your bank account.

[bleedingredridinghood]

hold on something just happened

[bleedingredridinghood]

older boyfriend!gojo, who never planned to fall for you—you’re young, beautiful, full of hopes and dreams that aren’t coated in sorcery and blood. you’re a breath of fresh air, a bit of fun—until you fall asleep on his chest and it all comes crashing down on him that this is something that he wants.

older boyfriend!gojo who never leaves you alone after that. showing up outside after your college classes are done with a pretty gift bag with the price tag torn off and a charming smile on his face despite the many eyes on him.

“hi, gorgeous,” he says, “need a ride?”

older boyfriend!gojo who leaves little notes in your textbooks and backpack. ridiculous doodles of him with heart eyes and a message along the lines of, "if you were a fruit you'd be a fineapple” that make you melt or cringe.

older boyfriend!gojo who’s mysterious about his job. he texts you complaints about the workload with selfies of him with a massive pout and crudely drawn tears rolling down his cheeks and gifs of cute animals with captions of i miss you.

“i’m a teacher,” he says. “i work with troubled youth.”

he looks as if he’s about to burst into laughter, but he says it in a way that leaves no room for more questions, even though it’s strange a teacher like that goes on work trips so often. he likes the way your eyes beam up at him as if it’s something to be respected and admired. it fuels his ego.

older boyfriend!gojo who misuses gen z terms just because he can. he’s a millennial!

“that was cunt,” he says.

“but satoru,” your lips tug into a frown, “the kid fell off his bike…”

“cunty!”

[bleedingredridinghood]

satoru is terrible at keeping secrets.

especially when that secret is you finally, after two years of relentless, dramatic, embarrassingly persistent courting, agreeing to be his girlfriend.

he swore up and down he could handle it—“…sure, sure, lowkey, hush-hush, i got you, baby,” he said, practically bouncing in place like the golden retriever he is, his white hair a fluffy mess, bouncing with every nod, bright blue eyes sparkling behind his blindfold—because, yeah, okay, it made sense. things were complicated. it would be messy if people found out too soon.

but also? it was satoru.

it was the lovesick man who has been hopelessly, pathetically down bad for you since the moment he laid eyes on you, and turns out, yeah, he can’t hide shit.

he’s doing the most. failing the most.

he’s staring at you during work like you’re the moon, the stars, the air he breathes, and probably breakfast, lunch, and dinner, too. the kind of gaze that has hearts practically floating out of his head like a bad shoujo manga. his lips tug upward in a soft, lopsided grin every time you so much as sigh. and it doesn’t help that he smiles like an absolute idiot every time you speak—his fingers fiddling with his pen, twirling it with that restless energy, like he’s got nowhere else to look but you. sometimes he props his chin on his hand, elbow on the desk, feet swinging beneath his chair, eyes glimmering with obvious affection. sometimes he kicks his feet, like he’s writing your name in hearts all over his notes.

and when people tease him about it?

“uh…uh…she’s just…” he chokes, rubbing the back of his neck, his white hair falling into his flushed face. his sunglasses slide down his nose as he stammers, his fingers nervously drumming on the table. “she’s cool! yeah! a really… really… cool… coworker!”

uh huh.

people start noticing real fast. the way you bring two drinks into meetings, both his favorite. the way his jacket mysteriously ends up on your chair, like he’s perpetually cold even though he’s not. the way you two walk in separately but somehow always leave together. the way satoru is always hovering two inches behind you like he’s your personal security detail, or maybe just your lovesick guard dog, his long legs struggling to slow his stride to match yours. his glasses slips sometimes, revealing those ridiculously bright eyes trained on you and only you.

and when you whip your head slightly and whisper scoldings under your breath, lips barely moving—"“you’re gonna blow our cover, dumbass”—he just beams, a grin so wide his cheeks push up against his blindfold. his fingers twitch, aching to reach out and tuck a stray hair behind your ear. it’s the kind of smile that could knock the air out of your lungs if you weren’t already holding your breath trying not to combust. he tilts his head like he’s imagining sliding a ring on your finger already, the soft flush on his cheeks betraying how much he’s already too far gone.

it’s not just the staring. it’s the giddiness. the way he forgets to keep his distance when you’re around. the way his shoulders instantly straighten when you walk into the room, like his whole body is magnetized to you. the way his fingers tap against the desk like he can’t wait to talk to you again. the way he fumbles, dropping his pen or knocking over his water bottle, when someone catches him looking at you like you’re his entire universe. it’s the way he instantly brings you snacks he swore were “for everyone” but somehow always end up on your desk, the wrappers piling up as you pretend not to enjoy the attention.

it’s also the way you’re absolutely pissed when you realize he’s blowing the secret wide open. your jaw tightens, your foot taps the floor, your arms cross, and your glare sharpens to a laser beam. you’ve warned him. you’ve scolded him. you’ve threatened to dump him—half-joking, half-very-much-not—if he keeps being so obvious. you press your palm to your temple in frustration as you whisper, "you're killing me here, satoru."

and suddenly, he’s panicking. his hands flail, baby blues orbs widening . his voice cracks, desperate. his fingers clutch the air like he's trying to grab the right words before they scatter.

“no, no, no, babe… please don’t dump me. i’ll do better, i swear. i’ll look less. i’ll… i’ll stare at the wall instead. i’ll wear sunglasses indoors. i’ll look at the floor forever. i’ll… i’ll even switch departments. please, please don’t leave me. i won’t survive it. i’ll just crumble into dust. i’ll haunt you. but like… in a hot way.”

he's clutching his chest dramatically, leaning into the nearest table for support like he’s seconds from collapsing. his bottom lip juts out in a pitiful pout, and his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you but knows he can’t—not here, not now. his feet shuffle in place like he’s trying to root himself to the ground, but his whole body screams to be closer to you.

“you’re so bad at this,” you deadpan, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded, pretending you’re not melting inside because you’re emotionally constipated and you like to act like you’re not just as whipped. but your ears are pink. you know they are. you can feel the heat blooming across your skin. you shift your weight onto one leg, tapping your finger against your elbow in mock annoyance, but your foot has already inched closer to his.

“but you still love me right?” he pouts, voice softening, tilting his head as he leans closer like a puppy waiting for a treat. his hair flops forward over his blindfold, his grin tentative, hopeful, like he’s staking his entire existence on your next words. his toes point toward you, his shoulders curling in, like you’re his center of gravity.

“you’re lucky you’re cute,” you grumble, rolling your eyes, but you’re already reaching for his hand beneath the table, already letting him lace his fingers with yours, his thumb stroking soft circles into your skin like it’s instinct, like it’s home. he squeezes your hand like he never plans to let go.

he brightens instantly, a soundless laugh puffing from his chest, his white hair bouncing with the force of his excitement. his entire body relaxes, his feet kicking slightly under the table. “i’ll be better! i’ll be so sneaky, baby! like a ninja! you won’t even see me coming! i’ll be a ghost! you’ll be so proud of me!”

spoiler: he does not, in fact, get any sneakier.

he gets worse. because now he’s trying so hard to “be sneaky” that he ends up staring harder. he waves at you across the room with a smile that’s way too fond, his hand flopping in a lazy, unmistakable greeting that lingers just a second too long. he trips over his own feet when you so much as glance in his direction, scrambling to play it cool like his heart didn’t just somersault into his throat. he texts you from three desks away: “do you miss me?” like you’re not in the same building, like he hasn’t seen you in five minutes. he sends you selfies from the next room with captions like, “thinking of you” and “missing my girl.”

he's a terrible liar. but he’s the best boyfriend.

so you let him. you let him slip up. you let him look at you like you’re his whole world. you let him wear that stupid grin. you let him love you loudly, even when he’s supposed to be quiet about it. you let him text you unnecessarily, bring you snacks with your name written on the wrapper, and you let him keep leaving his jacket on your chair.

you’re just as hopeless, aren’t you?

[bleedingredridinghood]

Spending adult money correctly

[bleedingredridinghood]

The waking world never wanted me, anyway.

I'll sleep when the clock stops ticking, when my heart starts beating, when the first drop of his blood tastes as bitter as her brain.

Didn't I tell you?

My name is Perdition. You won't be pleased to meet me.

[bleedingredridinghood]

satoru absolutely baby talks you when you’re sick.

not in a mocking way. no. this is full-blown softie satoru, disgusting levels of wife guy activated, baby voice on max, coddling you like you’re the most precious, fragile little thing in the universe—and not because he thinks you’re weak, but because it’s the one time you let him get away with it without putting up your usual walls.

because you’re sick. hot forehead, flushed cheeks, big watery eyes that blink up at him like you’re seeing god—or worse, like you might actually cry if he leaves the room. like you need him. and honestly? that does something to him. wrecks him, even.

and you do need him. you’re fevered, shivering, curled up in bed in one of his oversized shirts, your hair a mess, nose stuffy, brain thoroughly fried. your fingers twitch like you want to reach for him but can’t be bothered to try, lips parted in a weak sigh as you breathe through your mouth. your usual bratty, mouthy, too-proud-for-help self? gone. obliterated. absolutely bulldozed by the flu. all that’s left is a miserable little lump of a wife who clings to his sleeve like a koala and mumbles, “’toru… i feel like a soggy towel…”

his whole body stills. there’s a twitch in his brow, like his heart has physically clenched. his lips part, just a little, before curling up in the softest grin. eyes soften behind pale lashes—just a hint of red at the corners from how tired he is too—but none of that matters. not when you’re looking up at him like that. the corner of his mouth tugs upward, not in amusement—but in something far gentler. reverent, even. and then god. he melts. instantly. his heart shatters into a million pieces and reforms just to explode again.

“awww, my poor widdle baby,” he coos, already pressing a kiss to your damp forehead. his breath is warm, his nose brushing yours. “does my soggy towel need her soup? wanna be spoon-fed by the hottest nurse in the world?”

you don’t even roll your eyes. you nod. actually nod. sluggish, dazed. and then flop into his arms like dead weight, forehead nudging his neck, skin hot against his collarbone. you let him hold you like you’re made of glass.

he almost cries. really. because you’re letting yourself be coddled. cuddled. taken care of. no sass. no biting remarks. just tiny, pitiful sniffles and pouty faces and your arms wrapping around his waist like he’s your anchor. like you don’t want him to go anywhere. like you can’t function without him.

and satoru eats that up like it’s a feast.

“you want juice, angel? how about some water? apple slices? forehead kisses every ten minutes? medicine with a kiss as a chaser?”

“mmm… apple. but peeled…” you whisper, voice small and hoarse, eyes half-lidded and glossy.

“of course, peeled! only the finest fruits for my fevered little dumpling,” he gasps, hand dramatically on his chest like he’s been knighted for a sacred quest. there’s a shine in his eyes—something starry, something stupidly in love.

he tucks you in like a burrito, tugs the blankets up to your chin, and then scoops you onto his lap because apparently that’s where you sleep best. his fingers comb through your hair, slow and tender, while your cheek rests limp against his shirt. he puts on your comfort show, even though you barely keep your eyes open long enough to register the sound.

he hums something soft—tuneless and low—while cradling you like a fevered woodland creature. his tone dips lower when he leans in again.

“do you still love me even if i’m gross and sweaty and my nose is red?” you mumble, lips wobbling, brows pinched like the thought genuinely upsets you.

his hand smooths along your cheek. “i love you way more,” he says instantly. “you’re my sweaty, sniffly soulmate. cutest germ gremlin i’ve ever seen.”

“you’re lying…”

“baby, i would kiss your snotty nose right now if you asked.”

there’s something almost reverent in the way he says it—like it’s a vow. and he means it. he’d do it without hesitation, wouldn’t even flinch. because if it’s you, there’s no such thing as gross. not when he’s this stupidly in love. not when every part of you, even at your messiest, makes him want to wrap you up in his arms and never let go.

you groan into his shirt, muffled and pitiful, and he grins like you just serenaded him.

“who’s the most handsome man in the world?” he asks out of nowhere, fingers curling behind your ear, brushing tenderly as if coaxing the answer out. his voice dips low, honey-sweet and just a little smug. not because he expects the answer—no, he needs it. his entire self-worth depends on your silly little validation right now.

“you are,” you mumble, cheeks squished slightly against his chest, nuzzling closer without shame.

his fingers twitch where they cradle your skull. his whole face lights up like a sunrise. pale lashes flutter, and his pupils dilate like he’s just been told he won a lifetime supply of you.

“louder.”

“toruuuuu… it’s you…”

the pleased little noise he makes is downright sinful. his lashes flutter shut as he closes his eyes in smug bliss, and he tilts his head back like he’s soaking in the warmth of your praise. if he had a tail, it would be wagging.

“that’s right,” he beams, practically preening, fingers now stroking under your chin. “say it again. for my health.”

“you’re the handsomest… in the whole world… even when your hair’s stupid…”

he gasps, clutching his chest with a hand like you just shot cupid’s arrow straight through it. “rude and true. i’ll take it.”

his heart is doing somersaults. he’s convinced there’s never been a more fulfilling moment in his life. not the promotions, not the accolades, not even the recognition. just this—this feverish little version of you, croaky and honest and too tired to pretend you’re not as in love with him as he is with you.

he whispers the dumbest, softest shit while holding you against his chest like you’re something sacred. calls you every pet name in the book and then invents new ones on the spot: baby, sweetheart, princess, dumpling, snugglebug, fever bean, coughy cake, angel face mcsweats-a-lot.

you blink up at him between fits of sleep, lips parted like you want to say something else—but all that comes out is a pathetic little whimper. his hand smooths over your spine again, touch featherlight.

“what was that, baby?” he whispers.

“love you…” you murmur, eyes falling shut.

his heart flips. flips, spirals, and lands in a fucking somersault.

he kisses your temple and you go quiet.

and when you finally pass out, nose smooshed into his collarbone, snoring faintly like the most adorable little gremlin, he exhales like it’s the best moment of his life. like the universe aligned just for this. like his purpose has been fulfilled. his hand never stops moving—stroking your spine, combing your hair, tracing shapes into your shoulder blade beneath the fabric of his shirt.

he lives for clingy, soft, unguarded sick-you. because even though he adores the bratty, sharp-tongued, little menace version of you that picks fights and flicks him on the forehead and makes him earn every kiss—this version? this sleepy, dependent little furnace wrapped in blankets and his love? she needs him.

and satoru loves being needed. loves being the one you reach for, even when you’re half-delirious. especially when you’re half-delirious.

he leans down again, voice barely audible now.

“rest up, baby,” he whispers, brushing your hair from your clammy forehead. “you’ll feel better soon. and then i’ll go back to being emotionally bullied by my beloved wife.”

[bleedingredridinghood]

satoru "i love my wife" gojo.

the man was practically a puppy nipping at your heels. when you were dating, he attempted to be less clingy at times because he didn't want to scare you off, but since you're stuck with him forever now, he has no issue clinging to you.

you both could be in public, and his arm would be around your waist the whole time. if you're looking at something, he'll hug you from behind and rest his chin on your head until you're done looking.

and also, ever since you both got married, know that you won't be addressed as anything but 'my wife' for a while.

there's no more sweet names like baby, honey, or love. it's always 'my wife', but emphasize the 'my'.

he will literally scream the 'my' part and just normally say 'wife' because he wants everyone to know that you're his.

"do you want your usual?" satoru would ask as you both walked into a cafe, and you would nod in response while he just gave you a smile. his hand was currently interlocked with yours, and with how tight he was holding it, you knew you wouldn't be able to let go any time soon. the barista looked at you both as she gifted you a smile, and she turned her attention to satoru. "what can i get you two?" "i'll have..." satoru hummed before pointing at a coffee on the screen. it couldn't even classify as coffee—it mostly looked like foam and whipped cream with a bunch of sprinkles and mochi on it. "that one." the barista nodded as she tapped on the screen in front of her, "is that all?" "also, can MY—" the cafe fell quiet with satoru's shout, and the barista just quietly laughed once you smacked his arm. yet, the man only grinned before contiuing. "can my wife have that one?" he pointed to the screen that had your usual order, and the woman nodded. "your total is twelve dollars and sixty-seven cents." "can you write 'gojo's wife' on her cup?" the barista nodded at satoru's question, and you just frowned. yet, you didn't mean the frown. more than anything, you wanted to jump into satoru's arms and laugh at his stupidity. a few minutes later, your orders came out, and on your cup read 'gojo's wife.' when you finished your drink, you cleaned out the cup and stored it in a box with all the little trinkets satoru has given you over the years.

that's also another thing about being married to satoru—he gives you random things, and you can never tell what he's going to give you next.

one day, he'll bring you your favorite flowers, and then the next day, he'll bring you a random rock he found on the ground.

the best part about that, though, is the face he makes when he gives you the trinket.

he'll have a bright grin on his face while holding out the object in both of his hands, and if his blindfold is off, his eyes are practically shining with excitement and curiosity as to how you'll react.

and trust me, he memorizes how you react. that's one of the things you love most about him. he pays attention.

if you get really happy over one gift, he'll start bringing things like that around more. if you only smile at him and thank him for the gift, expect to find those things in the trash later.

he wants all your trinkets and gifts to be things that make you insanely happy—not just meh.

though, he doesn't just pay attention to how you react over trinkets. he memorizes everything about you.

he can tell your mood from the tiniest things.

if your eye twitches even the slightest bit, he knows you're irritated and will get rid of whatever is bothering you. if the corners of your lips fall down for a split second, he knows you're upset and will try to make you laugh. if you narrow your eyes, he knows you're mad, and will try to calm you down.

the reason he does this is because he wants you to know that he does pay attention, for he never wants you to feel neglected.

another thing he does is that he will have a serious conversation with you on the oddest topics.

his tone will make people think that he's talking about the earths issues or whatnot, but in reality, he's just talking about how it's stupid some birds have wings but then they can't fly.

"what do you mean ostriches can't fly because they're too heavy? are you calling them fat?" satoru frowned at you from where he sat—slowly resting his head on the kitchen island while you rummaged through the fridge for dinner ideas. "yes, i am calling them fat. they're too heavy to fly." your answer only made satoru pout. "then why do they have wings at all!? it's like false advertising for birds—can you even call them birds at that point if they can't fly!?" "birds are defined by their wings, feathers, and beak." "okay, first of all, you're a nerd." satoru commented as you walked over to the kitchen island, and you leaned against it while staring at satoru. "and secondly, that's stupid. wings are supposed to help you fly. like, why do penguins have wings?" "they're flippers, toru." "SHUT UP! THEY LOOK LIKE WINGS!"

now, satoru does a lot of random things, but a favorite has to be when your phone camera is on.

no, not just on him, but you as well.

your selfies? most of them have him in it. it's either his hand is in a peace sign, his arm is wrapped around you, or he secretly leans his head in frame and sticks out his tongue.

your mirror photos? his arm is wrapped around your waist with his chin on your shoulder, or if he's shirtless, he will step behind you and flex.

you complain, but you always end up looking back at those photos with a smile.

now, when the camera is on him, he does take it seriously. many think he would be funny with it, but satoru knows he's handsome.

so, he has to make sure all of your photos of him are good-looking so when you look back at them—he knows you look back at them—you remember how amazing he is.

but if you asked him to be silly, he just has to do it.

not because he wants to, but because you want him to.

he'd do anything for you, which is why he's satoru 'i love my wife' gojo.

he would legally change his middle name to that if it proved to you that he is hopelessly in love with you.

a/n : someone's reblog text of one of my other writings inspired this.

comments & reblogs are appreciated !!

[bleedingredridinghood]

flirty co-star || satoru gojo x gn!reader, jjk drabbles, pure fluff, 418 words (◡̀_◡́)ᕤ

actor!gojo who is always spotted—in all the behind the scenes snippets—clinging to your every move. that man is all over you, hugging your waist like it's the most natural thing in the world. your smiling and waving to the camera, casually explaining what's happening in the scene, but then like clock work, he's suddenly behind you, giving you a good morning hug and kiss on the temple as he arrives on set, shining his cocky grin to the camera as he casually rests his arms around your shoulders.

actor!gojo who ignores his manager's scolding, shrugging as he continues his shameless clinging, remaining at your side at every red carpet, interview or season premiere. the fans are getting wild, reposting the same clip where he grows extremely protective of you in public outings, unapologetically shoving away some people who got a little too close to you for autographs, not caring about the potential backlash online, because if your safe, that's all that matters.

actor!gojo who mentions you in every single interview, honestly, the question has nothing to do with the show but your name is falling right out his mouth at the first given moment. it happens so much that it's widely known in the industry, all interviewers now ask a question pertaining to you to keep him engaged, which works wonders with the way he sits up straighter in his seat, now enthusiastically rambling about your little habits on set.

actor!gojo who starts getting pouty when you're taken away by the glam team for touch-ups, he's stubbornly following close behind, insisting on needing extra hairspray just to be at your side. you can only laugh when he's dramatically pulled back on set, watching him whine the whole way back, until you return a few minutes later with a smoothie in your hands, which he takes it upon himself to take a little sip from, not caring about an indirect kiss as he teasingly smiles at your surprised expression.

actor!gojo who finds himself frowning at some stupid shipping wars in the comment sections, noticing how some fans think you and another cast member look cute together—oh hell no—not on his watch. he's immediately on edge all day, but when you end up sleeping against his shoulder in the lounge area, he smirks to himself, pulling out his phone to snap a quick picture, and eventually posting it on his insta story, tagging you with a little heart next to it, hmph, that'll show them!

➤ navigation

[bleedingredridinghood]

sometimes gojo is actually just all talk.

sometimes, he'll spend the entire day teasing you about how mean he's going to be in bed that night. he has you drink a ton to stay hydrated, smothers you in affections to establish just how much he loves you, all because he has every intention of fucking you that night like he hates your guts.

he'll wash his eyes over your skin, take in the lack of bite marks and bruises, and lets his imagination run wild at how many different way he's going to wreck you come evening. maybe he'll tie you up, press a vibrator to your clit and fuck you through orgasm after orgasm until you're a crying, begging mess. or maybe he'll deny your orgasm altogether... edge you within an inch of your sanity just to ruin your sweet release. maybe he'll be really mean and make you watch him jerk himself off: no touching, or feeling, or cumming alongside him unless you're real sweet and wanna clean his cock up after.

and, in his defence, sometimes he does go through with these plans. he can be mean and cocky and a sadist at times and you do love him for it.

but sometimes, after building up for a long night of pain and pleasure, satoru gojo will get his pretty lover in bed just to change his mind. with every intention of fucking some tears out of you, he'll press his lips to yours and melt all too easily.

and before you know it, he's abandoning the ropes and restraints to instead hold your hand over his heart as he rocks his cock ever so slowly inside of you. eyes glazed over and the sweetest of praise dripping from his lips to your ears.

"i love you, you're so pretty, you feel so good. can't believe you're mine, baby, what'd i do to deserve you?"

and you, always swooned by satoru's sudden softness, let him pepper kisses all over your face as he makes love to you slow and deep. and you wipe his eyes when tears start to fall, because your man can sometimes be a sensitive one, who needs to lose himself in you before he can get back to the kinky shit.

not that you don't tease him for it. "thought you were gonna fuck me dumb?"

"can't. can't can't can't. i think i want to become a part of you, you know? so that we're always like this and i'm never apart from you. sound good?"

"sounds perfect."

[bleedingredridinghood]

satoru on your wedding night <3

it’s not even romantic at first.

it’s rushed. messy. your dress bunched at your hips, still zipped halfway up. his tie’s gone, but his shirt’s only unbuttoned to the middle– enough to show the way his chest heaves while he’s got you pressed into the hotel mattress like he’s starving.

his grip bruises your thigh as he hooks it over his arm. “you’re mine now,” he mutters, voice rough, cock already buried deep. “no backsies.”

you laugh– breathless, dazed– even as he drives into you again, a little harder this time. he fucks you like he’s making a point. like all the vows and toasts and champagne didn’t matter. this is what did. your fingers scrambling against his shoulder blades, your voice breaking when he hits that perfect angle, the wet sounds of you wrapped around him echoing louder than anything the band played at the reception.

but then it slows.

his forehead presses to yours, damp with sweat, and his palm spreads wide over your stomach, holding you still as he rolls his hips slow and deep. your breath catches. your nails drag down his back.

“you looked beautiful today,” he says, low. almost shy. “like– fucked me up a little.”

and when you tighten around him– moaning his name, clinging to him like gravity– he groans and kisses you hard, like he can’t stand not being closer. like even skin-to-skin isn’t close enough.

“say it,” he whispers.

“i’m yours,” you breathe, right against his lips.

and he makes you say it again. and again. until you can’t say anything at all.

[bleedingredridinghood]

non-lip kisses are my absolute favorite. absentmindedly kissing the back of someone’s palm as you hold hands. chaste forehead kisses and brushes against their cheek. silly boops on the nose. kissing fluttering eyelashes. neck kisses that barely touch skin but are no less passionate. kisses on collar bones or exposed tummies. sloppy kisses at the corners of someone’s mouth. kissing each and every fingertip with a delicate touch.

[bleedingredridinghood]

There’s a moment, just after you fall asleep — your breathing settles, your fingers unclench — and you shift a little closer to me like your body’s still reaching even without your mind behind it. And in that moment, I look at you and realize something terrifying and gorgeous: you trust me. Maybe not with your whole heart yet, maybe not with every part that’s been hurt — but enough. Enough to curl into me, when you’re vulnerable. Enough to let your skin touch mine in silence. And I lie there, still as stone, because I don’t want to ruin it. I don’t want to wake you. I just want to hold that moment like glass in my hands and pray I never drop it.

[bleedingredridinghood]

There are people we meet in life who miss being important to us by inches, days, or heartbeats. Another place or time or a different emotional frame of mind and we would willingly fall into their arms; gladly take up their challenges or invitation. But as it is, we encounter them when we are discontent or content and they are not. Whatever they are, we are not and vice versa. Two trains going in different directions that pass for a few powerful moments at full speed, blasting noise and wind but then they are gone. Whatever serious chemistry might have been possible if, isn’t.

Jonathan Carroll