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sixeyesonathiel · 2 months ago

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02 | kill switch

pairing — target!satoru x assasin!reader

synopsis : a professional assassin accepts a job to eliminate an ordinary high school teacher—only to find her target is gojo satoru, a man who eats gas station sushi with religious devotion and nearly dies walking to work. as days pass, she finds herself less concerned with completing the job and more preoccupied with why someone would want this disastrous man dead. or: when your target's worst enemy is himself and your professional detachment keeps slipping every time he almost gets hit by a bus.

tags — no curses au, crack treated seriously, dark humor, fluff for all the wrong reasons, assassin & target dynamic, self-destructive disaster man, implied nerdjo, satoru is a great teacher, moral ambiguity, reluctant caretaking, food aggression (affectionate), chaotic neighbors, near-death hijinks, emotional constipation, eventual smut, happy ending. art by @Leimiruu.

a/n : literally on my knees begging pls read chapter 1 first for maximum reading experience. there is like a HUGE plot twist at the end of the chapter that is already established her TvT

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monday resumes with the low hum of fluorescent lights and the clink of ceramic mugs in the faculty room, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee, chalk dust, and something that feels like quiet defeat. outside, the sky hangs gray and unmoved, the windows trembling slightly with each passing gust of wind.

it’s half-past noon when satoru gojo steps in, the door clicking softly behind him, muffling the corridor’s distant echoes. he’s carrying something oddly tender in his hands, a sight that instantly unravels the usual rhythm of the room.

not a wrinkled conbini bag. not the metallic hiss of a boss coffee can opened like a lifeline. but a bento box—neatly packed, wrapped in a faded cloth patterned with delicate cherry blossoms, their pink outlines worn by time and weather.

nanami glances up from his paper, pen halting mid-sentence. his expression doesn’t change, but his brows twitch in the faintest of furrows. utahime, tea halfway to her lips, lowers her cup with a small clink and a narrowing of her eyes.

they watch as satoru lowers himself into a seat, movements loose but not without tension, fingers still curled protectively around the bento like it might vanish if he lets go.

“that’s not expired gas station food,” nanami deadpans, voice clipped, tone edged with disbelief. “who are you, and what have you done with gojo?”

utahime leans in, head tilted slightly. “did you actually cook something, satoru?”

he blinks slowly at them, eyes unreadable behind reading glasses perched low on his nose, the lenses catching the fluorescent glare. he tilts his head just a fraction and lifts the lid.

a puff of steam escapes, curling lazily upward. the smell of soy-glazed meat, tamagoyaki, and freshly steamed rice spreads through the room, rich and nostalgic, like something remembered from a childhood he’s not sure he had. his stomach answers with a loud growl, breaking the moment with comic timing. nanami snorts softly, hiding it behind his knuckles.

“some woman just gave it to me on the street,” satoru mutters, poking at a carrot carved into a sakura petal, its edges too precise for a rushed job. “told me to eat it and walked away.”

utahime’s mouth falls open. “and you’re just… going to eat something a stranger gave you? without question?”

“guess so,” he says, already taking a bite.

the room quiets.

his chewing slows. his eyes narrow slightly, as if tasting something beyond the food—a memory, maybe, or a question. he swallows, blinking once.

“holy shit,” he breathes, still chewing. then another bite. and another.

his chopsticks move with a kind of hunger that isn’t just about food—it’s desperate, almost grateful. he eats like someone who forgot what care tastes like, who’s been living on sugar and spite for so long he didn’t notice the ache. the table trembles as he scrapes the last of the rice, his posture uncoiling. his shoulders dip, jaw softening, the invisible weight he’s been carrying melting with each bite.

nanami watches in silence, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wants to say something but decides not to.

“so you’re accepting mystery bentos now,” he finally says, dry as dust. “that’s… new.”

satoru hums, licking a smear of sauce from his thumb with a languid motion that’s somehow both careless and deliberate.

utahime leans toward nanami, whispering too loudly, “i haven’t seen him eat like that in months.”

he pretends not to hear her, but there’s something in the set of his mouth, a faint upturn, that betrays him. he doesn’t speak. he just lets it linger.

when the bell rings, satoru walks down the corridor with a step lighter than usual. it’s not a bounce—too subtle for that—but there’s an ease to it, like gravity’s loosened its grip. his hands are shoved in his pockets, fingers tapping absently against his thighs. a student passing by flinches when their eyes meet through his reading glasses, but satoru just offers a half-smile, dimple flashing, and keeps walking.

in the classroom, something shifts.

the students sense it immediately. heads turn. whispers ripple like wind over water. he’s here, really here—not just a body in the room, but alive in a way he hasn’t been in weeks. his white hair catches the gray light filtering through the windows, glowing like a halo, though the strands are as messy as ever, sticking out at odd angles like he tried to tame them and gave up halfway.

he begins the lesson with a smirk, marker squeaking against the board as he scratches out an equation. his reading glasses slip down his nose, and he pushes them up with a finger, the motion lazy but oddly endearing. halfway through explaining derivatives, he draws a lopsided circle, then pauses, squinting at it like it’s personally offended him.

a student giggles. “sensei, is that a heart?”

he tilts his head, glasses glinting. “huh,” he murmurs. “guess it is.”

he doesn’t erase it. instead, he draws another, this one even sloppier, and a third that’s barely a shape at all. the class snickers, and he leans back against the desk, arms crossed, smirking wider.

“hearts are just broken circles, anyway,” he says, tone airy but laced with something heavier, like a truth he didn’t mean to let slip. “kinda like how this equation breaks down into simpler parts. see?”

he taps the board, and the lesson flows on, his hands gesturing wildly, voice rising and falling with a rhythm that pulls the students in. they’re not just listening—they’re with him, laughing when he fumbles a marker, nodding when he explains a tricky concept with a metaphor about digimon evolving. a girl in the back raises her hand, hesitant, and he answers her question with such clarity that her shoulders relax, her smile small but real.

the rain starts mid-lesson, a soft patter against the windows that matches the scratch of pencils. satoru glances outside, his smirk softening into something quieter, like he’s remembering the woman with the umbrella, the one who stood over him in the park and didn’t say a word. his fingers tighten briefly around the marker, a flicker of something—confusion, maybe, or longing—crossing his face before he shakes it off.

“alright, you gremlins,” he says, clapping his hands. “pair up and solve the problems on page 47. don’t make me regret trusting you.”

the room hums with movement, and satoru weaves between desks, glasses fogging slightly from the warmth of so many bodies. he stops by a quiet student, a girl whose notebook is a mess of eraser marks. he kneels beside her, elbows on his knees, voice low and patient as he traces the problem with a finger, drawing invisible shapes in the air.

“you’re overthinking it,” he says, tapping her pencil. “break it down like one of those hearts. simple parts, yeah?”

she nods, murmuring, “thanks, sensei.”

he gives her a smile—not his usual smug grin, but something soft, almost shy. “just had a good lunch,” he says, then adds, more to himself, “weird, right?”

the bell rings, and the students spill out, their chatter echoing down the hall. satoru lingers, erasing the board with slow, deliberate strokes, the hearts disappearing last. he adjusts his glasses, the lenses catching a stray beam of light, and hums the digimon theme under his breath, off-key but unapologetic.

by sunset, the school is emptying, the halls a hollow echo of footsteps and muffled laughter. satoru returns to the faculty room, swinging his bag over one shoulder like a kid playing hooky. his hoodie’s stained with chalk dust, his hair a chaotic mess from running his hands through it during class.

“you seem… chipper,” nanami notes, not glancing up from his grading.

satoru yawns, arms stretching overhead until his hoodie rides up, exposing a sliver of skin above his waistband. “must be food poisoning. giving me euphoria or something.”

nanami snorts, a rare crack in his stoicism. “normal people don’t get this happy about food poisoning.”

“who said i was normal?” satoru tosses back, slipping out the door with a lazy salute.

outside, the rain has stopped, leaving the air heavy with the scent of wet asphalt and roasted chestnuts from a nearby stall. the city hums—car horns, footsteps, the rhythmic blink of crossing signals. satoru notices things tonight: the pink haze of sunset smearing across glass buildings, the way his sneakers squeak on the damp pavement, the faint warmth still lingering in his chest from that damn bento.

he looks both ways before crossing, a small victory for someone who’s been flirting with death all week. he hums the digimon theme, louder now, earning a side-eye from a salaryman hurrying past. satoru just grins, dimple flashing, and keeps walking.

he catches his reflection in a shop window—white hair a mess, glasses slightly crooked, the faintest upturn to his lips. he doesn’t look away, just tilts his head and murmurs, “not bad, gojo. not bad.”

outside his apartment, a moving truck idles, the driver smoking lazily by the curb. satoru doesn’t spare him a glance, too busy fumbling with his keys, pulling out a candy bar instead. he sighs, tries again, and finally gets the door open.

inside, the apartment greets him with stillness, the kind that presses against the skin. he slips off his shoes with a muted thud, tosses his jacket over the couch, and spots the bento box on the counter, empty but clean. he rinses it again, fingers lingering on the faded cherry blossoms, the cloth soft and worn under his touch. he sets it to dry beside the sink, movements careful, almost reverent.

tonight’s dinner is instant ramen, the steam curls around his face, fogging his glasses, and he doesn’t bother wiping them, just eats with a slurp that’s louder than necessary.

he settles on the couch, legs folded under him, digimon flickering across the screen. his eyes grow heavy halfway through the second episode, the theme song looping in his head like a lullaby. he thinks about the bento, the woman’s sharp voice—eat it—and the way her eyes burned with something he can’t name.

by the time sleep takes him—mouth slightly open, glasses slipping down his nose, breath even—the crease in his brow has faded. the warmth from earlier simmers in his chest, a quiet ember that refuses to go out.

he sleeps through the night.

satoru wakes before his alarm.

no sharp trill slices through dreams today; there’s nothing to cut. his lashes flutter open, slow and cautious, like he’s scared to break something fragile. the ceiling looms above his modest apartment, morning light sneaking through the blinds, painting soft stripes across his pale face and the silver mess of his hair. strands jut out, wild and defiant, like they’re staging a revolt while he sleeps. but today—no storm rages in his chest. no ghosts lurk behind his eyes. rested. the word tastes weird, like a candy he forgot he liked.

he groans, stretching until his joints crack, arms flopping back to the bed. a yawn bursts out, raw and boyish, bouncing off the walls. his bare feet slap cold tiles, each step dragging him from sleep’s quiet grip. in the kitchen, the bento box sits on the counter, empty and clean, its faded cherry blossom cloth folded neat as a secret. he stares too long, eyes narrowing like it might spill gossip. yesterday’s gift lingers—not just here, but in the soft twist of his stomach. his gut growls, pissed off. he tries toast. it burns instantly.

he sighs—sharp, dramatic—watching the edges curl like scorched lies. he chomps it anyway, grimacing at the bitter crunch, each bite a small act of defiance. his eyes flick to the bento box. it’s sacred now. stupid, maybe. but sacred.

return it? probably. if he sees you again.

he snatches his bag, yanks a hoodie over his wrinkled shirt, and swings the door open—then freezes. you’re there, mirroring him from your doorway, clutching a tote bag like it’s a shield.

the hallway goes still. a breeze slinks through an open window, ruffling his hoodie and tugging a strand of your hair loose. it falls across your face, and you don’t fix it.

“you!” satoru blurts, pointing like he’s in a bad drama, his sleeve slipping to reveal faint scars like faded stars. his reading glasses—teetering on his nose—slide down, but he’s too busy gawking. his blue eyes, wide and bright, lock onto you, sparkling with surprise and a pinch of glee.

you flinch, spine snapping straight, fingers digging into your bag until your knuckles go white. your eyes dart from his face to your door, then back, wide and betrayed, like the world just pulled a fast one. “what the—why are you here?” you snap, voice sharp but wobbling, a flush creeping up your neck as you scowl.

“i live here,” satoru says, stepping forward, hair swaying like silver seaweed in a current. he squints at your door, then at you, like you’re a riddle he didn’t ask for. “wait. you live here now? next door?”

your jaw clenches, arms crossing, bag swinging like a pendulum. “yeah, so?” you huff, all prickly defiance, but your eyes flicker—panic, guilt, something. you moved in to keep him alive, to stop whoever wants him dead, and now he’s here, grinning like he’s got no enemies, and it’s screwing with your head. you’re not soft. you’re not attached. you’re just… doing this.

“…guess we’re neighbors,” you mumble, softer, your name slipping out like an afterthought. it lands between you, small and real, like a coin tossed in the dark.

he blinks, then nudges his glasses up with a finger, lazy but precise. “right,” he says, fishing in his bag until he pulls out the bento box. he holds it out, both hands, like it’s a holy offering, his smile crooked and sheepish, dimple winking. “your food saved my life yesterday. or at least my tongue.”

you stare at the box, then at him, scowl deepening as your face burns. “you looked like you needed something real,” you mutter, snatching it. your fingers graze his, a quick jolt like static, and you jerk back, clutching the box to your chest like it’s evidence. “don’t make it weird, okay?”

he tilts his head, mischief flashing in his eyes. “you been watching me eat?”

“no!” you bark, too loud, eyes popping wide as the flush hits your cheeks like a tidal wave. “i just—i saw you at the convenience store, alright? you were chewing like it was a death sentence.”

a beat. silence hums, loud as a heartbeat.

then he laughs—bright, sudden, spilling out like a burst pipe. he tips his head back, the sound pinging off the walls, glasses slipping again. his eyes linger on you as the laugh fades, softening to a smile that’s too warm, too real. “well,” he says, backing away with big, goofy steps, hands in his pockets, “see you around, neighbor.”

you nod, lips twitching into a grimace you can’t quite call a smile. the moment stretches, thin and strange, then snaps as you both turn, heading opposite ways. your heart’s pounding, and you hiss under your breath, “idiot. why’s he gotta be so… alive?”

satoru nearly walks into traffic on his way to work. he’s replaying the hallway—your scowl, your flustered snap, that loose strand of hair—when a horn blares, yanking him back. he stumbles, arms flapping like a startled bird, glasses fogging from his own panicked breath. “shit,” he mutters, then chuckles, picturing your disapproving glare. it keeps him on the sidewalk. the green man blinks on, and he struts across, grinning like you’re watching.

in the classroom, his students clock the socks right away. one’s black, grim as a funeral. the other’s neon yellow, a cartoon frog peeling off like it’s done with life. “sensei,” a girl up front says, head tilted, “you good?”

“never better,” he shoots back, flashing a grin so bright it startles him. he adjusts his glasses, lenses catching the gray light from rain-streaked windows, and dives into the lesson. chalk squeaks on the board, his hands dancing, explaining integrals with a digimon metaphor that makes no sense but lands anyway. he draws lopsided stars next to equations, then a heart he doesn’t erase, smirking when a kid groans.

“stars are just hearts with extra points,” he says, winking. “like bonus lives. keep up.”

he drifts between desks, rain tapping the windows like a soft drum. the classroom hums, warm with bodies, his glasses fogging slightly. he kneels by a boy struggling with a problem, voice low, patient, tracing the equation in the air. “you’re close. don’t let it scare you. it’s just numbers playing hide-and-seek.” the kid nods, and satoru’s smile is soft, fleeting, like he’s caught himself off guard.

mid-lesson, he glances outside, rain blurring the courtyard into a gray smear. your face flashes—sharp voice, flushed cheeks, clutching that bento like it’s a bomb. his fingers snap the chalk, a tiny crack echoing. the class snickers, and he tosses the pieces with a theatrical sigh. “too strong for this chalk,” he says, winking, but his chest tightens, like he’s swallowed a question he can’t ask.

faculty meeting’s a snooze. principal yamamoto drones about the new nurse, voice flat as old soda. satoru doodles—spirals, clouds, a tiny umbrella with your initials scratched beside it. he freezes, pen hovering, then scribbles it out, heart ticking like a bomb. nanami jabs him when yamamoto tosses a question his way.

“what? sorry, i’m thinking about…” he almost says your name, catches it, grins. “lunch.”

utahime squints, suspicious. “you’re weirder than usual. and that’s a lot.”

“low blood sugar,” satoru declares, whipping out a crumpled chocolate bar like it’s a sword. he unwraps it with flair, foil crackling like a bad radio, and scarfs it in three messy bites, cocoa smearing his thumb. he licks it off, ignoring utahime’s grimace, the room smelling of cheap chocolate and damp coats.

evening finds him at your door, fist raised, heart thumping like a stubborn drum. the hallway’s quiet, but he catches a hum from your place—kettle, maybe, or soft footsteps. it’s warm, domestic, and it twists his gut. he hesitates, fingers twitching, then drops his hand.

“not tonight,” he mumbles, slinking back to his apartment, steps heavy, like he’s hauling his own doubts.

his kitchen’s a disaster—takeout boxes piled like a drunk architect’s dream. he stares, something shifting, and starts clearing, wiping the counter until it shines. he grabs a dusty cookbook, spine soft as old leather, and flips to miso soup. he squints at the ingredients, glasses slipping. “who keeps dashi on hand?” he grumbles, ordering ramen instead.

he slurps noodles with loud, obnoxious gusto, broth splashing his hoodie. he wipes it with a sleeve, chuckling, the silence humming—not empty, but waiting, like a held breath. he thinks of you—your scowl, that electric touch, the way you snapped like he’s a puzzle you didn’t ask for. he laughs, a soft puff, and grabs his phone, scrolling digimon clips until his eyes droop.

sleep isn’t kind.

a nightmare unravels—suguru’s laugh, sharp as glass, shoko’s voice twisting into static. blood on his hands, warm and slick. he bolts awake, gasping, sweat soaking his shirt, chest heaving like he’s outrun death. his glasses sit crooked on the nightstand, glinting in moonlight.

satoru remembers the hit. why he hired an assassin. the blood.

he feels sick for grinning today. he lies there, hollow, staring at shadows crawling the ceiling. night presses his chest, heavy as a tide.

how many days left?

why do i want more?

meanwhile, you pace your apartment, the bento box glaring from the counter like it’s got dirt on you. you moved in to protect him—some jerk put a hit on a guy who wears frog socks and burns toast, and you decided he’s worth saving. but now he’s next door, grinning like he’s untouchable, and it’s messing with you. you’re not soft. you’re not attached. you’re just… doing the job. yeah.

“stupid,” you hiss, shoving the box in a drawer like it’s a crime scene. your heart’s racing, and you hate it—hate his laugh in the hallway, hate how his glasses make him look… human. you grab a knife, chop vegetables with vicious precision, each slice a wall against your feelings. you’re not here to care. you’re here to keep him breathing.

sleep skips you. you’re too busy listening for his steps, wondering who wants him dead, and why you’re so hellbent on stopping them.

wednesday begins with a mess.

satoru tosses and turns all night, long limbs tangling with the sheets in a restless war against sleep. sweat beads on his temple, and half-formed mutters slip from his lips as nightmares bleed into half-waking haze. by the time he finally dozes off, the sky pales with dawn, the world outside exhaling into morning.

the alarm screeches, but it barely grazes him. only when sunlight slices through the blinds, cutting across his face like a blade, does he bolt upright with a panicked gasp. his eyes dart to the clock. late.

he lurches out of bed, white hair a chaotic halo, sticking out like he’s been zapped. his movements jerk, a frantic dance of urgency—papers flutter to the floor like dying leaves as he shoves them into his bag. mismatched socks—one black, one with a faded pikachu barely clinging to life—peek from beneath hastily tied sneakers. his shirt, one sleeve half-rolled, the other flapping loose, billows as he sprints through his apartment.

no time for breakfast. no time for teeth. no time for mirrors. he’s a hurricane of chaos, long legs eating up space in reckless strides.

but then he sees you.

you stand at the bus stop, the calm in his storm, arms folded so tightly your knuckles gleam white, fingers twitching like you’re strangling your own nerves.

your eyes flick up at his ragged footsteps, narrowing into a glare that’s half disdain, half something softer you don’t mean to let slip. your hair catches the breeze, a strand falling across your cheek, and you huff sharply, swatting it away with a scowl. your spine stiffens, but your eyebrow twitches, betraying a flicker of amusement you’d never admit.

he skids to a stop, sneakers squeaking on damp pavement. his chest heaves, heart pounding like a war drum. he tugs at his shirt, a futile attempt to look less like a walking disaster, and runs a hand through his hair, only making the static worse. his reading glasses, perched crookedly on his nose, glint in the gray light.

“morning, neighbor,” he mumbles, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. it wavers under your piercing stare, like he’s been caught stealing.

“didn’t think you’d be the type to sprint to a bus stop,” you mutter, voice dripping with mock indifference, hiding the fact you’ve seen him stumble through life for days. your gaze rakes him, unimpressed. “you look like you got dressed in a blender.”

he lets out a breathless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, glasses slipping further. “yeah, well, mornings and i aren’t on speaking terms.”

you scoff, arms tightening, turning away like he’s a problem you don’t have time for. “not my problem,” you say, but your fingers twitch again, betraying the lie.

the bus rolls up with a hiss, packed and humid, reeking of overbrewed coffee and cloying perfume. somehow, in the crush of commuters, you end up side by side, your shoulder brushing his with every lurch. satoru flinches each time, like your touch is a live wire, his glasses fogging slightly from his own unsteady breath.

“where you headed?” he asks, voice cracking, like the question sneaks out without permission.

“your school,” you say, flat and clipped, eyes fixed on the window.

he blinks, glasses catching the light. “wait, my school? why?��

you open your mouth, then—

a jaywalker darts across the road.

the driver curses. brakes scream. the bus lurches violently.

satoru pitches forward with a yelp, his head smacking the seat bar with a dull thunk. his glasses slide halfway off, dangling precariously, and his bag spills, papers scattering like confetti across the grimy floor.

“ow,” he groans, dazed, one hand clutching his forehead, the other fumbling for his glasses. his hair flops into his eyes, a silver mess, and he blinks up at the ceiling like it might apologize.

your head whips to the window, eyes narrowing to slits, pupils shrinking to pinpricks. the jaywalker’s already gone, swallowed by the city, but your glare tracks the empty street like you could hunt him down with sheer will.

your jaw clenches, lips pressing into a thin line, and the air around you crackles with a lethal edge, like you’ve already planned his demise in fifty different ways. a nearby commuter shifts away, clutching her purse.

satoru, still rubbing his head, catches your expression and freezes. “whoa,” he mutters, voice soft with awe. “did you just… glare that guy into next week?”

“i didn’t do anything,” you snap, voice sharp enough to cut glass. but then you grab his arm, yanking him back into his seat with a strength that makes his eyes widen, his breath hitching. your grip lingers a second too long, firm and unyielding, before you let go like he’s burned you.

he stares, mouth half-open, as you lean in, your hand reaching up—slow, deliberate—to sweep his bangs aside. your fingers hover over the forming bruise on his forehead, your brow furrowing just enough to betray your worry. your touch is light but practiced, like you’ve patched up worse wounds in darker times.

“sit still,” you mutter, voice rough, laced with irritation you don’t mean. your eyes flick over the bruise, then away, like looking too long might unravel something.

he obeys, too startled to move, his heart tripping over itself. the closeness hits him like a punch—your breath warm, your fingers cool, the faint scent of your shampoo cutting through the bus’s stale air. his hands hover uselessly, not sure where to land, and his glasses fog again, blurring you into a soft-edged dream. he swallows, throat bobbing, and thinks, she’s kinda cute when she’s mad. then panics, cheeks flushing, because what the hell, brain?

“you’re really bad at not dying,” you say, pulling back, your scowl deeper now, like his survival’s a personal offense.

he laughs, a nervous, flustered sound, pushing his glasses up with a shaky finger. “thanks for, uh… keeping my skull intact.”

“don’t make it a habit,” you shoot back, crossing your arms so tightly your knuckles whiten again, your lips pursing like you’re biting back something softer.

the bus groans to a stop, the moment shattering. satoru scrambles to gather his scattered papers, stuffing them into his bag with all the grace of a toddler. you step off first, not looking back, your posture rigid but your fingers twitching like you want to turn around.

“so… why my school?” he asks, jogging to catch up, his sneakers squeaking on the wet pavement. his hair flops with each step, and he adjusts his glasses, still crooked.

“not exactly visiting,” you say, voice cool, eyes fixed ahead. “i’m the new school nurse.”

he stops dead, nearly tripping over his own feet. “wait, what?” his voice cracks, eyes wide behind his lenses. “you were just my neighbor yesterday! now you’re—what, saving kids from paper cuts?”

“life happens,” you say, shrugging, but your tone’s sharp, like you’re daring him to question it.

he blinks, then a grin spreads across his face, slow and delighted, his dimple flashing. “so i’ll see you every day now?” his voice’s too eager, too bright, and he catches himself, flushing deeper, ears pink as he tries to backtrack. “i mean, that’s—uh—convenient. for the students. who need… band-aids and stuff.” he rubs his neck, glasses slipping again, his smile wobbling between flustered and thrilled.

you stare, unimpressed, your scowl deepening as you mutter, “i didn’t move here for you, idiot.” your voice’s sharp, but your cheeks flush faintly, and you turn away, steps quickening like you could outrun your own lie.

satoru trails after you to the principal’s office, heart thudding, his bag swinging wildly. he keeps stealing glances, catching the way your hair sways, the way your fingers twitch like you’re fighting the urge to look back. he’s rattled, grinning like a fool, and he doesn’t even care.

by lunch, he shows up at the nurse’s office, balancing two sandwiches in one hand, a nervous smile tugging at his lips. he leans against the doorframe, trying for casual but missing by a mile—his hair’s still a mess, his shirt untucked, and his glasses are smudged, one lens catching the light.

“brought you something,” he says, holding out a sandwich, his voice softer, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to be here. “they’re not expired. i checked. twice.”

you sigh, long and suffering, but take one, your fingers brushing his just enough to make him flinch again. “you’re gonna be a pain, aren’t you?” you mutter, scowling, but your eyes soften for a split second as you unwrap the sandwich, inspecting it like it’s a trap.

he plops into a chair, unwrapping his own sandwich with exaggerated care, like he’s defusing a bomb. “just being neighborly,” he says, grinning, then launches into a story about a student who tried to “solve” a math problem with a drawing of a dragon. his hands wave, glasses slipping, and his voice sparkles, filling the tiny office with warmth. you eat in silence, glancing at him more than you mean to, your scowl softening despite yourself.

mid-story, you reach out, almost without thinking, brushing a stray strand of his hair back. your fingers linger near his temple, tracing the bruise’s faint purple edge. your touch is light, deliberate, but your expression’s pure irritation, like his injury’s a personal insult.

satoru freezes, sandwich halfway to his mouth, eyes wide behind his smudged glasses. his breath hitches, and his heart does a clumsy flip, like it hasn’t gotten the memo to stay calm. the room feels smaller, the air thicker, and he swears he feels your pulse through your fingertips.

a beat. two.

the bell rings.

he jolts, nearly launching his sandwich, crumbs flying like tiny comets. “shit—i gotta—uh—class!” he stammers, scrambling to his feet, his bag catching on the chair and nearly toppling it.

he stumbles out, still clutching his sandwich, and walks straight into the doorframe with a loud thunk. “i’m fine!” he calls over his shoulder, voice cracking, before disappearing down the hall, his ears burning red.

the afternoon passes in a haze. he keeps touching the spot where your fingers lingered, a goofy grin creeping onto his face every time. his students notice, whispering among themselves.

“sensei, do you have a girlfriend?” a girl asks, grinning like she’s cracked a code.

satoru chokes on air, flailing for his chalk. “no! definitely not! absolutely not!” he sputters, glasses fogging as his face turns crimson. the class erupts into laughter, and he tries to laugh it off, but his hand strays to his temple again, brushing the bruise like it’s a talisman.

nanami passes by, pausing to give him a slow, pointed look. “just be careful, gojo,” he says, voice dry. “you’ve been… fragile lately.”

the word sticks, echoing in his head. fragile. he forces a laugh, tossing his hair back. “me? indestructible,” he says, but the grin doesn’t reach his eyes, and his chest feels tight, like he’s swallowed a stone.

when the final bell rings, he lingers, pretending to organize papers that are already a mess. the school empties, halls echoing with fading footsteps, and he drifts back to the nurse’s office, heart ticking like a countdown.

“taking the same bus home?” he asks, leaning in the doorway, trying for nonchalance but betrayed by the way his glasses slip again.

you nod, grabbing your bag, your scowl firmly in place. “don’t make it weird,” you mutter, brushing past him, your shoulder grazing his just enough to make his breath catch.

the walk to the bus stop is quiet, easy, the air heavy with the scent of rain-soaked asphalt and roasted chestnuts from a nearby stall. satoru’s sneakers squeak, his hair flops with each step, and he hums the digimon theme under his breath, off-key but unapologetic. on the bus, he leans closer, his shoulder brushing yours deliberately this time, a shy grin tugging at his lips.

“you mentioned knives earlier,” he says, voice light, like he’s testing the waters. “weird hobby for a nurse.”

“i like craftsmanship,” you say, eyes unreadable, voice sharp but steady, your fingers twitching like you want to grab something—maybe him, maybe your own nerves.

he chuckles, low and warm, his glasses fogging again. “you’re full of surprises,” he says, and the delight in his voice is unmistakable, like he’s found a puzzle he can’t wait to solve.

at the apartment building, we pause at our doors, the hallway dim and quiet. satoru’s bag swings at his side, his hair catching the faint light from a flickering bulb.

“thanks for, y’know, making sure my brain didn’t leak out my ears this morning,” he says, tilting his head, his smile soft but teasing, dimple flashing.

“be more careful,” you snap, but your hand twitches toward him, like you want to check his bruise again. you catch yourself, shoving your hands into your pockets, your scowl deepening as you turn away. “i’m not your babysitter.”

he laughs, bright and unfiltered, the sound bouncing in the empty hall. “where’s the fun in that?” he calls after you, slipping inside his apartment. the door clicks shut, and he leans against it, staring at the ceiling, his heart racing like a kid who’s just dodged a bullet.

the kitchen gleams from last night’s cleaning, a rare island of order in his chaotic world. the bento box is gone, but its warmth clings to his chest, a stubborn spark. he stands there, stomach growling, and eyes the counter like it’s a battlefield. instant ramen’s on the menu again—his sad, familiar crutch, the fuel of a guy who’d scarf gas station sushi and call it a meal. but something shifts tonight, a tiny crack in his routine.

he grabs a packet from the cupboard, plastic crinkling under his fingers, and sets water to boil. the pot hisses, steam curling up, fogging his glasses as he hovers over it like a nervous chef.

your face flashes in his mind—your scowl, your careful touch, the bento’s carved carrots and tamagoyaki that tasted like care. his hand pauses, hovering over the ramen, and he glances at the fridge. there’s a single egg, tucked in the back, a forgotten relic from some optimistic grocery trip.

he snatches it, cracking it against the counter with a dramatic flourish, like he’s auditioning for a cooking show. the shell splits clean, and he drops the yolk into the broth, watching it bloom like a tiny sunrise, white threads swirling in the heat.

“look at me, adulting,” he mutters, grinning, his voice light but tinged with something heavier. the egg’s not much—not your bento, not a meal you’d nod at—but it’s something. a nod to the warmth you shoved into his hands, the care you hid behind a scowl.

he stirs the pot, the egg weaving into the noodles, and the steam carries a richer scent—not just salt and starch, but something almost nourishing. his mind drifts to his usual diet: expired soda, burned toast, candy bars wolfed down in faculty meetings. a pang hits, sharp and unfamiliar, like he’s waking up to how he’s been daring death to catch him. this egg, small as it is, feels like a middle finger to that. a choice to stick around.

he eats on the couch, legs folded, digimon flickering across the screen. the ramen’s hot, the egg silky, and he slurps with obnoxious gusto, broth splashing onto his hoodie.

he wipes it with a sleeve, grinning like a kid who’s gotten away with something. his thoughts keep slipping—to your lethal glare, your electric touch, the way you muttered “sit still” like he’s a puzzle you don’t want but can’t ditch.

“i’m in so much trouble,” satoru says to the empty room, voice warm with delight, glasses slipping as he tips his head back. the bruise on his forehead pulses faintly, a reminder of your fingers, and he touches it, smiling like it’s a secret he’s thrilled to keep.

sleep wraps him gently tonight, a soft haze. dreams flicker—your face, sharp and soft, your scowl melting into something he can’t name. when he wakes, the bruise doesn’t ache as much, and the egg’s warmth lingers in his chest, a quiet promise of tomorrow’s chaos.

tag list : @raendarkfaerie @inoluvrr @miizuzu @lolightrealm @whytfisgojosohot

plz comment if u want to be added on the tl xx

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mrindpolitics · 2 years ago

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Sarkari Result: UPPSC Additional Private Secretary (APS) Recruitment 2023

Sarkari Result: UPPSC Additional Private Secretary (APS) Recruitment 2023 दोस्तों एक बार फिर आपके लिए खुशखबरी लेकर आया हूँ। जी हाँ, Sarkari Result: UPPSC Additional Private Secretary (APS) Recruitment 2023 आ चुकी है। जिसके बारे में पूरा डिटेल बताने वाला हूँ। तो अब मत कहना कि भर्ती नहीं निकल रही है। चलिए शुरू करते हैं – भर्ती के बारे में जानकारी (APS BHARTI 2023) UPPSC Additional Private…

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iydiamartinx · 2 months ago

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THIS MEANS WAR I

Dick Grayson x Reader x Jason Todd

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 3.6k synopsis: Gotham’s youngest neuroscience lecturer never planned to get tangled up with two of its most eligible bachelors. Both are determined to win her over—without revealing they know each other… or that they’re vigilantes. But when the Joker takes an interest in her, things get a whole lot more complicated. a/n: This story is inspired by the 2012 movie This Means War. I went back and forth on whether to write it with a named OC or in reader format—and ultimately decided to try something new and go with reader-insert. I usually write in third person with original characters, so this is a bit of a different style for me. As for who the reader ends up with… I haven’t made a final decision yet—maybe one of them, maybe both. Feel free to let me know who you’re rooting for! Hope you enjoy the chaos! warnings: None so far except for the fact that I don't know anything about neuroscience only what my research brings up, so I'm praying the shit I write makes sense

GOTHAM UNIVERSITY

The lecture hall smelled like old paper and burnt coffee. You stood at the front, spine straight despite the fatigue threading through your muscles. Behind you, the whiteboard was half-covered in scrawls of chemical structures and dopamine pathways, neatly drawn and precisely labeled. It was the kind of lecture that left half the room wide-eyed with curiosity… and the other half silently praying for mercy.

With a quiet click, you capped your marker and continued. “Neurotransmitter binding is not a one-size-fits-all process,” you said, voice steady as your gaze swept across rows of glazed eyes and frantic scribbles. “It’s dynamic. It’s reactive. It’s shaped by genetics, trauma, medication—even what you ate for breakfast.”

A hand shot up in the second row.

“So… like, can serotonin make you hallucinate?”

You blinked. “No. And if it does, someone’s given you something else—and you should go to the ER. Immediately.”

A ripple of laughter. A few groans.

Another hand rose—this one from a sharp-eyed girl near the back. “In Joker toxin exposure cases, have you ever seen synthetic mimicry of dopamine flood patterns?”

Now that was a question worth respecting.

You’d specialized in Joker toxin during your postgraduate years, had seen firsthand the neurological carnage it left behind. The clown was a madman no doubt—but a dangerously brilliant madman.

Your mouth tugged into a faint smirk. “Yes. And no. But that’s a topic for next week.”

The clock ticked toward the hour. You fielded three more questions—one insightful, two exhausting—before dismissing the class.

Backpacks zipped. Conversations stirred. As the last student filed out, you finally exhaled. Slowly. The silence was a relief.

Rolling your shoulders, you gathered your coat and bag, the weariness catching up to you in waves as you made your way toward the door—hungry, tired, and vaguely craving something that didn’t taste like caffeine or sugary energy drinks.

Gotham’s streets buzzed with their usual chaos—honking cabs, barking vendors, motorcycles weaving between traffic like they were flirting with death. You walked with familiar ease, the city noise fading beneath the throb behind your eyes and the pressure at the back of your skull.

Your hand drifted up to your bun. It had been tightly wound since six in the morning, and now it felt like a migraine on a countdown. Mercifully, you didn’t have to be in the lab today—no microscopes, no sterile gloves, no post-doc breathing down your neck. Just freedom. Glorious, unwashed, unbothered freedom.

So you didn’t hesitate. One by one, you tugged the pins from your hair, each metallic clink falling into your coat pocket like a tiny rebellion. The strands spilled down, wild and full of indents, but you didn’t care. You tipped your head back, rubbed at your aching scalp with slow, tender fingers, and sighed like you’d been holding your breath all day.

You looked like hell. You felt like hell. But you were done. No lectures. No lab reports. Your appearance be damned you just wanted to spend the rest of the day in comfort.

Your boots clicked along the sidewalk as you headed toward Café Nero, already imagining the warmth of a latte in your hands—despite your earlier claim about cutting back on caffeine. A lie, obviously. Caffeine was practically your lifeblood— and something carby in your mouth.

But the universe had other plans.

You turned the corner—and nearly collided headfirst with a ghost.

Jake.

Three years of your life bundled into one name, one face. One half-curved smile that looked exactly like it used to and somehow worse now that it was being directed at someone else.

Three years of your life compressed into one name. One face. One irritatingly familiar smirk. His arm was around a tall blonde, her smile radiant and far too trusting. He wore the same smug charm he always had as he said something that had her giggling.

He noticed you first.

“Hey!” he said, voice way too bright. “Y/N. Wow. You look…” his eyes flicked over your rumpled sweater, your wild hair, “…great. Still at the university? Tinkering away in your little lab?”

You straightened instinctively, spine snapping to attention like your body was trying to make up for the indignity of the moment. Of all the days to run into him.

“I am,” you replied, polite but clipped.

Three years together, and he still couldn’t grasp the importance of your work—or the lives it affected. Your research had been groundbreaking, and he’d always referred to it like you were tinkering with science fair projects.

The blonde leaned into his side with a warm smile. “You didn’t tell me your ex was brilliant and pretty.”

You wanted to hate her. Truly, you did. But unfortunately… she actually seemed sweet.

He laughed. “I forget sometimes.” Then turned back to you with that same infuriatingly casual smirk. “Oh—uh, Y/N, this is my fiancée, Hannah.”

The word hit like a slap.

Fiancée.

Only a year ago, you’d walked in on him and his yoga instructor, limbs tangled and guilt nowhere in sight. He’d thrown away three years with you like it was nothing—and now, not even twelve months later, he’d found someone new and locked her down with a ring so big it probably needed its own insurance policy.

You managed a smile. A real one, for her sake. Sort of. “It’s nice to meet you.” Your eyes dropped to the large, glittering ring on her hand.

“Wow,” you said with a tight smile. “That’s… that’s a big rock.” You let out an awkward laugh, trying muster the slightest bit of enthusiasm you definitely weren’t feeling on the inside. “You’re engaged. To be married.”

Jake grinned. “Yeah. Things just… clicked. It was like fate.” Then he reached out and stroked her cheek with the kind of performative tenderness that made your stomach churn.

God. How had you ever loved this man?

“Isn’t that right, baby?” he murmured.

Someone gag you with a spoon.

You stood there, frozen in place, as Jake pulled Hannah in for a kiss—deep as if he was trying to fit his entire tongue down her throat. Screw you, you thought. Screw you for rubbing her in my face.

You cleared your throat, the sound awkward and a little too loud. “Well, I should get going,” you began—except your mouth didn’t stop there.

Your brain screamed abort, but your tongue had other plans.

“I actually have to go meet my guy. Yeah, he’s a neuroscientist too. We, uh… met at work.” You nodded like that somehow made it more convincing. “Anyway…”

You cleared your throat again, silently begging yourself to shut up.

“It was… great seeing you. And congrats. On the ring. The upcoming wedding. Your whole… life. All of it.” You winced inwardly. “Well… Peace.”

And if that wasn’t humiliating enough, you topped it off by flashing a peace sign like some glitching robot before turning and briskly walking away.

The second you were out of sight, your smile collapsed. You pressed your lips together, debating whether to scream into the sky or crawl into the nearest sewer.

“Someone kill me right now,” you muttered under your breath.

CAFÉ NERO

You finally made it to the café, and with it, your mortification began to loosen its grip. The familiar scent of roasted beans and fresh pastries wrapped around you like a warm blanket, softening the sting of everything that had come before.

Inside, it was calm—the gentle hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of ceramic, the low murmur of scattered conversations. A peaceful hum that felt like the complete opposite of Jake and his nauseating tongue display.

You slipped into your usual seat at the counter, letting your bag slump to the floor, and leaned against the worn wood like it might hold you up a little longer.

“Ah! Doctora!” Juan greeted you with a bright smile from behind the bar.

He was a sweet kid—maybe nineteen—who’d moved to Gotham from Mexico about six months ago. His English was improving steadily, though every now and then he’d still stumble over a few words. You’d quietly helped where you could. While he knew your name, he aways insisted on calling you Doctora like it was your superhero title.

You snorted at the thought. You, a superhero? You couldn’t even save yourself from an awkward conversation with your ex.

“The usual?” he asked, already reaching for your cup.

“Si, please,” you nodded.

He glanced up with a curious smile. “Long day?”

You let out a soft groan, dropping your face into your hands. “You have no idea.”

The door chimed behind you, but you didn’t bother looking up. Not until you felt someone hovering a little too close to the seat beside you.

You prayed your luck wasn’t that shitty.

But of course, it was.

Jake’s familiar chuckle slid into your ears like nails on glass. You closed your eyes for half a second, steeling yourself, before slowly peeling your face from your hands.

“This is too funny,” he said with a grin. “What a coincidence.”

“Right! Absolutely hilarious,” you replied, forcing a smile that you hoped didn’t look as fake as it felt as you saw Jake and Hannah standing there.

“I’m assuming this is your boyfriend’s seat?” Jake asked, eyes glinting with amusement.

“Oh, ye—”

Before you could finish, Juan slid your drink across the counter, cheerful as ever.

“No, Doctora,” he said, accent warm, words slightly clipped at the edges. “Order for one. Always order for one. Seat is free.”

You nearly choked on air.

Hannah giggled while Jake said nothing. Just raised his eyebrows slightly, in that smug little way he used to do when he thought he’d won something.

God, you wanted the ground to swallow you whole.

You smiled tightly. “It is. I’m meeting him back at work. Just stopped in quick. Juan, I thought I said I needed this to-go?”

Juan frowned, brows pinching together. “Mmm… no, I don’ think so. You say you finish work. You always sit here, like always.”

“Not this time,” you said—too sharp, too fast.

Juan’s face fell a little. Guilt bloomed in your chest like a bruise, he didn’t deserve that. It was your own damn fault for digging the hole in you were now.

You sighed, softer this time. “Lo siento, Juan. Can you make it to-go, please?”

He nodded, already reaching for the paper cup and bag.

You turned back to Jake with a forced laugh. “Seat’s all yours.”

The second Juan handed you the new cup and pastry bag, you thanked him quietly, paid, and practically sprinted for the door—mortified, humiliated, and more than ready to go home and bury yourself under ten layers of shame.

MILO & ANTHONY’S APARTMENT

“Ugh! I wanted to die right then and there,” you groaned, collapsing dramatically onto Milo and Anthony’s couch, a glass of wine already halfway gone. Their apartment was across from yours, and you’d made a beeline for it the second you got home, desperate to drink your embarrassment into submission. “I fucking peaced them.”

Anthony winced. “Yeah, that’s… pretty bad.”

“That’s because you need to go out more,” Milo said, waving his wine glass like a pointer. “Meet someone. Rub him all over Jake’s face like a human flex—same way he’s doing with that girl, Hayley.”

“Hannah,” you corrected automatically. “And she seemed sweet.”

“She could be as sweet as cotton candy dipped in honey and I still wouldn’t give a shit,” Milo snapped. “I give a shit about you. And you cannot keep letting that asshole rent space in your head.”

You opened your mouth, but Milo steamrolled right over you.

“Fine if you’re not ready for anything serious, but girl—you need to go out and get some good dick. That pussy is drier than the Sahara.”

You choked on your wine. “Hey! I get some!”

Milo deadpanned you. “Your vibrator doesn’t count. Honestly, it should start charging you. Thing looks like it’s about to file for workers’ comp.”

You blinked. “Have you been going through my drawers again?!”

He shrugged without shame. “I was looking for your face cream.”

“And you thought I keep that in my underwear drawer?”

“Look, the point is,” he said, sitting forward, “you need to go out. Date. Even just a casual thing. I hate seeing you mope over that troll.”

“I’m not moping,” you muttered.

Anthony gave you a soft smile—too kind for this earth. “We’re just worried about you. And hey, for the record, we’re glad you moved here. You’re part of our chaos now.”

You exhaled, guilt and warmth stirring in your chest. “I know. It’s just… I can’t believe I was that blind. I nearly gave up everything for him. I even moved back to this shit-hole of a city—where clowns and penguins blow up buildings and guys in capes fight crime in full spandex.”

“Well, at least Gotham has a certain… charm,” Anthony offered.

“I mean, it’s great if your idea of charm is daily arson,” you deadpanned.

“We are happy you’re here,” Milo agreed, his voice softer for once. “But you’ve gotta stop beating yourself up. Even I thought he might’ve been your person—but he wasn’t. That’s on him. His loss, not yours. You’ve gotta move forward, babe.”

“I am dating,” you said weakly.

“No, you’re talking to people. You don’t even give them a real shot.” He raised his brows. “You can’t test chemistry without mixing the liquids.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s more complex than just ‘mixing liquids,’ Milo. There’s neural signaling, oxytocin regulation, attachment frameworks, behavioral conditioning… Timing alone can throw everything off. You can’t just drop two people into a room and expect chemistry. That’s not chemistry—it’s chaos.”

“Why not?” Milo shrugged. “People do it all the time. You’re overthinking it—as usual. But if it helps, just treat it like another one of your experiments.”

“It’s not that simple,” you argued. “My experiments have structure. Charts. Data. Equations. Control groups.”

“Exactly!” Milo clapped his hands. “Which is why you should try online dating. They have charts and shit.”

You let out a snort. “Please. In this city? Knowing my luck, I’d end up matched with a serial killer. Or worse—the Joker.”

Anthony tilted his head thoughtfully. “Does the Joker even online date?”

Milo groaned. “You’re both insane. There are plenty of semi-normal people on those apps. It’s how me and Anthony met.”

You gave him a flat look. “Exactly.”

You gave him a long, pointed look. “Point proven.”

“No.” Milo leaned in. “The point is you need to get back out there. Whether it’s for a wham-bam-thank-you-man kind of night, or you end up calling me crying because you just met the father of your future babies—I don’t care. You just can’t keep living in Jake’s memory. Not everyone is like him.”

You groaned, tipping back the rest of your wine in one go. “I know that.”

He raised an eyebrow, giving you a look.

“I do!” you insisted. “Look, can we table this for now? I just want to drown my feelings and make future-me regret the hangover I’m definitely earning tonight.”

GOTHAM ROOFTOPS

Boots hit the edge of a rooftop with a soft scrape of gravel. Jason Todd scanned the streets below, hands resting at his sides, jacket collar tugged up against the bite of the early spring cold. He moved with restless energy—agitated, impatient, ready for something to go wrong.

“This is a bust,” he muttered into the comms. “Three blocks, no action. Not even a wannabe thug with a pocket knife and poor life choices. I’m starting to think Gotham forgot how to be Gotham.”

There was a beat of silence before Dick’s voice came through, dry and amused.

“Or maybe you’re just scaring the criminals too much, Hood. Ever consider early retirement?”

Jason rolled his eyes behind the mask. “Only if you go first, Nightwing. I thought Blüdhaven was where all the action was—what’re you doing slumming it with us Gotham bottom-feeders?”

“It is,” Dick replied. “But every now and then I like to slum it with my baby brother. Make sure you’re not burning down half the city in my absence.”

Jason snorted. “You’re only older by what, five years and a moral superiority complex?”

Before Dick could answer, Barbara’s voice cut in over the channel, sharp and clear.

“Seems like you’re about to get your wish, Jason. I’ve got eyes on suspicious movement down at the docks—east side, Warehouse Eleven.” Barbara drawled through the comms.

Jason was already moving, boots hitting gravel as he took off across the rooftop. “Now we’re talking.”

Dick followed a step behind, vaulting over a low pipe with practiced ease. “Arms deal?”

“Most likely,” Barbara confirmed. “Thermal scans show at least four bodies. No confirmed ID yet, but one of them matches a known associate of Black Mask. “Be smart. And try not to level the building, Jason.”

“No promises,” he said, grin audible.

WAREHOUSE ELEVEN, EAST DOCKS

The docks were dead quiet when they arrived—too quiet. The kind of stillness that always meant something was waiting to go wrong. The air smelled like oil and sea rot, and the only sounds were the soft lapping of water and the occasional creak of aging chains swaying in the wind.

Jason crouched at the edge of a container stack, pistols holstered at his thighs, his gaze locked on the warehouse below. His breath clouded in the cool air.

“East lot’s clear,” he murmured into the comms. “Nothing but rats and roaches.”

Dick landed beside him in a soundless roll. “So, your usual crowd.”

Jason didn’t glance over. “That’s twice tonight. Keep it up and I’ll tell everyone you cried during that Pixar movie.”

“I was twelve. And it was Up, you heartless bastard.”

“Still counts.”

They moved in silence, slipping through a broken window high on the warehouse wall. Their boots hit the rafters without a whisper. Below them, four men circled a battered folding table strewn with crates, unmarked cases, and haphazard stacks of cash. A single overhead bulb flickered overhead, casting shifting shadows across the concrete floor.

Jason zoomed in with his HUD. “I know that one—left side. Carlo Mancini. Low-tier runner for Sionis. Looks like he’s about to piss himself.”

“Might mean he knows something,” Dick murmured.

They listened.

“I’m tellin’ you,” Mancini hissed, voice tight and shaky. “It’s gonna be big. Joker-level big.”

One of the others scoffed. “The hell you talkin’ about? Joker’s been off the grid for months.”

“Yeah, and now he’s back. Lookin’ for someone—some guy who used to run with him, then bailed. Word is, he took something. Something important.”

Jason’s fingers curled slowly around the grip of his pistol.

“It’s not his usual stuff either,” Mancini went on, voice dropping to a whisper. “Heard it’s from Scarecrow too. Some freak chemical—don’t kill you right away. Makes you laugh yourself insane. Till your heart gives out.”

A beat of silence.

“No cure for it, either.”

Jason exhaled. “Shit.”

Beside him, Dick’s jaw flexed. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Jason gave a tight nod. “If the Joker and Scarecrow teamed up and made something new—and someone stole it…”

Dick’s voice was grim. “Then Gotham just became a countdown clock. And we’re already late.”

Without another word, they moved.

Jason dropped from the rafters like a shadow cutting through fog, landing hard enough to make one of the thugs flinch. Dick followed a breath behind, graceful and quiet. By the time the first man reached for his weapon, Jason had already disarmed him with a sharp twist of his wrist and sent him sprawling with a solid elbow to the jaw.

Dick swept the legs out from under another, zip-tying his wrists with practiced ease. The other two barely had time to shout before they were taken down—one with a stun baton to the ribs, the other with a boot to the sternum.

Mancini tried to run.

Jason caught him by the collar, slammed him against a crate with just enough force to knock the air from his lungs. “Going somewhere?”

The runner gasped, eyes wide with panic. “I didn’t—look, I don’t know anything!”

“You know enough to be scared,” Jason growled, pressing his forearm into the man’s throat. “So start talking.”

“Okay—okay!” Mancini wheezed, both hands raised in surrender. “I just heard whispers, man. Word on the street is Joker and the ‘crow are lookin’ for someone—most likely one of his old runners. Said he took something. Chemical notes, maybe the whole damn formula. Whatever it is, it’s important. Real important. Joker’s tearing through people trying to get it back.”

Jason’s gaze darkened. “You know who this guy is?”

“No name,” Mancini coughed. “Just that he used to run logistics—backdoor stuff. Quiet type. Smart guy. Kept to himself. Real ghost.”

“Not smart enough if he got himself tangled up with the Joker and Scarecrow,” Dick muttered.

Jason’s hand tightened. For a moment, Dick thought he might snap.

“Jason,” he said, quiet. A reminder.

Jason let go.

Mancini dropped to his knees, coughing and trembling. Jason stepped back into the shadows, tapping his comm.

“You catch all that, Oracle?”

Barbara’s voice filtered in, sharp and efficient. “Every word. Red Robin and B are already digging. If this guy’s in Gotham, we’ll find him. But until then, you two are off the clock. Get some rest.”

Jason exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. Sure.”

Dick shot him a look. “Try to actually listen for once. Not everything has to be solved in one night.”

With that, he clapped Jason on the shoulder and nudged him toward the exit—just as the distant wail of GCPD sirens broke the silence, growing louder with every passing second. Cleanup crew was on its way.

Jason didn’t answer. His jaw was tight, his thoughts already miles ahead—backtracking whispers, dissecting clues, remembering the sound of laughter that still echoed in the corners of his nightmares.

It was rare for the Joker to get invested in anything. He thrived on chaos, not consistency. But if he was serious enough to go out of his way to hunt down some nobody, then whoever had the formula was sitting on a bomb.

Next Chapter →

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whitedarkmoonflower · 21 days ago

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Home

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Authors note: Yeah, I know – the trope’s older than time and cheesy as hell, but I’m too in love with a certain supersoldier to care 🥰

Warnings: smut, fluff, a bit of angst, mentions of blood, pain, bruises and wounds, implied domestic abuse in the past

Word Count: 9K

Summary: It’s been another rough day, one too many, and Bucky’s just looking to forget. No comfort, no connection, just something simple, physical. You weren’t supposed to care. He wasn’t supposed to want more. It wasn’t supposed to get complicated. But it did. It's what happens when neither of you know how to say what you feel.

Bucky stared at his reflection and muttered a curse.

Fresh bruise blooming high on his cheekbone, a split above his brow, still bleeding a little and that dull, familiar throb where metal met muscle at his shoulder. He looked like shit. Lately, everything ached more. Took longer to heal. Everything just... dragged.

He splashed cold water on his face and gripped the sink.

You’re getting too old for this shit, he thought and not for the first time. He’d never wanted to be anyone’s savior, never wanted to be a hero, that had always been Steve’s thing. Steve saved the world, Bucky just tried to stay upright.

So how the hell did he end up here again?

Steve. Steve was gone. And in the silence he had left behind, something flickered, something Bucky never said out loud. That quiet itch, that voice that whispered what if...

What if he could’ve had it too? The normal life with morning paper, school drop-offs, shitty traffic, an office job. Coming home.

Home.

Weird word. As much as it might seem it didn’t mean walls or clean sheets or expensive furniture. He had all that now, but it still didn’t feel like anything. Still didn’t feel like home.

His phone buzzed.

A message. She’s downstairs.

He let out a sharp breath, straightened, wiped his face. He hadn’t been drunk when he booked it, just unraveling like every time he did. This wasn’t about sex, not really, it was about forgetting. For a little while, at least.

He’d picked the agency for a reason – discreet, top-tier, no questions, no judgment. That’s why he always paid extra. Still, he braced himself.

Same old pattern: a glance at the arm, the polite step back, the smile that didn’t quite hide the unease or worse, the disgust.

He’d seen it all before. It’s why he stopped dating, why he didn’t even try anymore.

Who the hell wanted a hundred-year-old mess with more baggage than a freight train?

You were used to nerves, used to that thick tension just before the door opened.

Actually you didn’t take new clients anymore, not after that incident a few months back.Too much risk, too much cleanup when someone forgot the rules or worse, decided they didn’t apply.

But this one came recommended with double pay and half the demands.

Your boss swore up and down he was a regular, quiet, predictable, not a single complaint from the other girls. Wanted one thing, didn’t want it for long, no talking, no touching unless necessary, no eye contact if he could help it.

You told yourself that was fine, perfect, even. You weren’t here to fix anyone. You weren’t peeling back trauma or saving souls. You were a body, a balm and gone before the sheets even cooled.

Still, as your hand lifted to knock, something twisted in your gut.

The door clicked open before you touched it.

He stood there – tall, broad, bruised, wearing a scowl like armor, but the exhaustion in his eyes bled through.

He opened the door like he was expecting a fight, eyes scanning, shoulders tense. He glanced over you once, then stepped aside without a word, like letting you in was a task on a list he hated checking off.

You catched a quick glimpse of the spacious hotel suite: dim lights, curtains drawn tight. An untouched whiskey bottle, neatly folded cash on the table with a combat knife beside it.

You turned as the door shut behind you and the shadows shifted just enough to see him better.

His leather jacket was heavy, tactical, too much for a spring night, but it fit him – the weight of it, the coolness. Blood stained cuff. You furrowed a brow but didn’t ask. You never did.

You knew who he was, of course.

Congressman Barnes, you reminded yourself, alias James Buchanan Barnes, alias Bucky, former assassin, ex–Winter Soldier, newly minted Avenger – whatever that meant.

But he didn’t look like a superhero, he looked like a man one breath away from falling apart.

His face was a slow car crash with a fresh bruise blooming across his cheek, a split in his brow still faintly red, and dark circles deep under his eyes.

But it was the eyes that caught you, not just blue and deep. Soft, wrecked, as if sleep hadn’t come in days, and peace hadn’t come in years.

He looked wrecked, not just on the outside – bruises, blood, the usual – but deeper. He looked like someone who’d stopped believing the pain would ever end and just learned to carry it.

“Mr. Barnes?” you said gently. “Or do you prefer James?”

He hesitated. “Doesn’t matter.”

His voice was low, rough as if it hadn’t seen daylight in days.

You slipped off your coat and stepped further inside.

Why did he always get nervous when it came to this? He should have been used to it by now. He paid, they obeyed.

Bucky dragged a hand through his hair, jaw tight as he watched you scan the room, the dim light, the drawn curtains, the untouched whiskey, the knife he had forgotten to hide.

You didn’t blink, the heels, the coat, the way your gaze swept the place, it was all effortless as if none of this fazed you. Like he didn’t faze you.

You turned back to him, eyes pausing on the blood drying at the cuff of his jacket.

Yeah, he knew how he looked. Bruised, exhausted, a little too close to unhinged, still dragging half a mission behind him. You didn’t ask, didn’t even flinch.

“Rough night?” you said softly, not really a question, just acknowledgment.

He gave a small nod, almost grateful for it, for your calm, your lack of judgment, for your normalcy.

You stepped in closer, slow, deliberate, watching him.

“I read your preferences,” you said, gently, slipping off your heels. “You want control. Minimal talking, nothing soft.”

He flinched, just slightly, not enough for most to catch, but you did.

There was something in his eyes, in the way he held himself, tight as a drawn bow, chest rising just a touch too fast, trying to mask his nerves, that made you question it.

On paper, it sounded like dominance, detachment, but standing here, face to face, it didn’t read like control. It read like fear.

Fear of himself, of what he might feel, of what he might need.

But you didn’t push, you didn’t challenge the rules right away, you just softened your posture, eased your tone and stepped a little closer, slow enough to give him space to retreat if he needed it.

“You know,” you said, voice low and calm, “people ask for rough when they’re scared soft might undo them.”

His eyes snapped to yours, startled and a little wary.

“You think that’s me?” he asked with a sort of a bite in his voice, but it cracked at the edges.

You gave a small smile. “I don’t think anything yet. I’m just here, however you need me.”

You stepped in closer. “You know the rules?”

He nodded, stiff and tight. “I know.”

“My safe word is silver,” you said, voice even. “If I say it, everything stops.”

Another nod, quick, automatic, like a box he was checking off, but his jaw was tight, and that flicker in his eyes hadn’t left since you walked in.

“And yours?” you asked, stepping back slightly to give him room.

“I won’t need one,” he muttered.

You tilted your head, eyebrow lifting just a little. “That’s not how it works.”

“I can handle it.”

You paused, eyes flicking to the faint tremor in his left hand, the flesh one, not metal.

“Even soldiers bleed,” you said, gently.

That landed, his throat bobbed with a swallow he didn’t mean to show and after a beat, he murmured: “Winter.”

“Alright,” you said softly. “If I say silver, you stop. If you say winter, I stop.”

He gave a small, tense nod.

You could see how tightly wound he was, shoulders coiled, muscles locked, he wasn’t looking at you anymore, eyes gone distant, like he was already halfway out of the room, halfway numb.

You kept your voice easy. “And where would you like to have me?”

You glanced around the suite – the leather couch looked inviting, the bar counter could work too – but before you could suggest anything, he looked at you, surprised, as if no one had asked before.

He blinked, then nodded toward the bed, the only real softness in the room.

You nodded back, walked over to your bag, pulled out an unopened pack of condoms, a small bottle of lube and placed them on the nightstand.

You could feel him watching, tracking your every move.

Then you turned, crossed the room, stopped right in front of him and reached for the hem of your dress, slow and steady.

“Let’s begin.”

There was still no eye contact, but you swore you saw him exhale.

You pulled the dress over your head and let the fabric fall.

He watched, not hungrily, not with the usual detached interest of men who paid for the illusion of closeness, but rather as if he had no idea what to do with softness.

You stepped in, close enough to feel the heat coming off him. He didn’t move.

His chest rose a little too fast under his shirt, but his hands stayed at his sides, one flesh, one metal, both clenched like he didn’t trust them if they strayed.

“You can touch me,” you said, quiet.

Still, he didn’t, just stared at your collarbone like it was safer than your eyes.

It was. Your eyes were too steady for Bucky, they didn’t search for threat, didn’t calculate, didn’t judge, they just saw him and that scared him more than a loaded gun.

He’d been clear about what he wanted – brief, physical, detached. Everyone before you had stuck to the script, no softness, no lingering, no emotional weight, no invading into his space. Just friction, silence, then the door.

That’s what he thought he needed, what he thought he deserved.

But you didn’t follow the script, you looked him in the eyes, you didn’t rush or flinch, or retreat, you met his gaze head-on. No flicker of fear, no forced kindness, no wide-eyed recognition, or false, rehearsed sympathy, just calm, steady presence so close that he could smell the fresh mint in your breath.

It seemed you didn’t see the assassin or the walking weapon, not even congressman or the Avenger or Thunderbolt or whatever title was bestowed upon him again. You looked at him as if he wasn’t a ghost wearing a body, but just… a man. And he didn’t know what the hell to do with that.

All the anger, all the tension that had hardened in his body like concrete started to leak out, slow and silent, like you’d found the wound without naming it.

“Start where you want,” you told him. “However you need to.”

You reached out, slow. No touching, echoed in your mind, but you didn’t give a damn about it now. You’d been in this work long enough to know: it was never really about the spoken rules, it was always about what went unsaid.

You knew too well that look in his eyes – like he’d simply forgotten what it was to be touched without consequence, without hurting, without breaking, or maybe he’d never had it to begin with.

He wasn’t here for control or power, he was here to feel. Something. Anything. He just didn’t know how to ask, didn’t know how to let himself want it.

You gave him a soft smile and reached for his hand – the flesh one – lifting it gently until it rested on your waist. His breath caught, rough callused fingers brushed your skin. He wasn’t trembling, but he was close.

With your other hand, you touched his jaw, softly, almost asking, your thumb skimmed the edge of it. He didn’t pull away, just clenched tighter, the metal fist still locked at his side like it might betray him if he let it move.

You rose onto your toes, slow and careful, giving him every chance to back out.

He didn’t.

The second your mouth touched his, he went still, like you’d hit him, but then your breath brushed against his lips, and something cracked. He kissed you back like it hurt.

It wasn’t soft, wasn’t sweet, it was mouth and teeth, and desperation, raw, hungry. Like he was punishing himself with it, like he needed to forget or maybe remember, maybe both, like he was drowning, and your mouth was the only way he could breathe.

He backed you into the wall with force, his hands suddenly everywhere – pulling, gripping, yanking your underwear down in a few rough motions.

You didn’t resist, you let him take. There was no finesse in it, but there was also no cruelty, no deliberate roughness, just raw, unfiltered need.

He ripped off his jacket, flung it aside. You caught a glimpse of blood at the seam of his shirt.

His mouth crashed back onto yours, messy and demanding, but under all the chaos, something trembled. You kissed him back just as fierce, your fingers twisting in his hair, yanking, reminding him you were here, you were real. He moaned into your mouth.

His hands moved faster now, dragging you toward the bed with that same wild urgency. He spun you around and shoved you onto the mattress like he was trying to outrun his own thoughts. You landed face-first, caught yourself on your palms.

The sharp clink of his belt echoed behind you.

You turned quickly around and pushed up onto your elbows. No way were you just giving him your back, you wanted to see him.

He didn’t even bother taking off his shirt, pants shoved just far enough down to free his cock, already thick and hardening in his hand as he stroked it to readiness.

Then his eyes met yours – surprised. You shook your head and reached for him.

He climbed onto the bed, pressing you flat beneath him in a rush of heat and breath, the mattress dipped hard under his weight.

One hand gripped your hip, bruising, the other braced beside your head, breath ragged, body tense and hovering.

You slipped your hands under his shirt, tugging gently, and he stilled. You met his gaze, calm and steady and kept going.

After a long second, he finally let you. You pulled it over his head slowly, your fingers brushing down his shoulders, his arms – flesh and metal. He flinched when you touched the cool vibranium.

You didn’t stop, you trailed your hand over his chest, down his taut stomach. God, he was solid.

Your fingers found the edge of his pants, you looked up and for a second, what you saw wasn’t lust – it was grief, hunger, not just for your body, but for comfort, peace, for something he didn’t even know how to name.

You reached up for him again, your hand cupping his jaw, thumb brushing the stubble on his cheek. Gently, you guided him toward you and kissed him, slow and searching.

He groaned into your mouth – a wrecked, low sound – and you wrapped your legs around his waist, arching into him, your hands sliding over the hard lines of his back, not teasing, just caressing, grounding.

And he melted, not completely, not yet, but enough that you felt the tension begin to bleed from his muscles and you felt the shift – his grip loosening, not desperate anymore, just there.

He kissed you again like he didn’t know how, seemingly bracing for you to vanish if he let himself want it.

You leaned up, lips near his ear.

“I feel you and I’m not afraid of you,” you whispered, your breath warm on his skin.

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, more like a reflex he hadn’t used in years.

“That’s what everyone says,” he muttered. “Right before they figure out who I really am.”

You pressed your lips to the edge of his jaw.

“Then show me,” you whispered. “Show me who you really are. You know who I am. You know why I’m here. It’s easy. You don’t have to pretend, not with me.”

You started to tug his pants down, his breath hitched, but he didn’t stop you.

His flesh hand moved first, slow and unsure, tracing up your side like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you.

The other – metal – stayed frozen, fingers twitching just a little, like he didn’t trust it, like he didn’t trust himself.

So you reached down, took the cold, heavy hand in yours, and gently placed it on your thigh.

“Touch me,” you said, voice low. “All of you.”

His breath caught, you felt the hesitation ripple through him, the metal fingers were stiff, tentative, like he thought this might be the moment you flinched, pulled away, changed your mind, but you didn’t.

You kept your hand over his, guiding it slowly up the curve of your thigh, the cool glide of vibranium over warm skin. You pressed into his palm, letting him feel you, letting him know it was okay.

His throat bobbed with a hard swallow. “It doesn’t feel… natural.”

You smiled, lips brushing along his jaw, your fingers traced his metal forearm, slow and soft.

“It feels like you,” you whispered. “Strong. Steady. Careful.”

He shuddered.

You took his metal hand and pressed it to your stomach, let it rest there as your hips rolled gently beneath him. Then you found his other hand, guided it to the soft curve just beneath your breast.

“Touch me like I matter,” you said. “Not like you’re afraid I’ll break.”

And slowly, haltingly, he did.

You guided his hands as they moved over you, not with hunger this time, but with awe. You felt it in his breath, in the way his touch lingered, fingertips trailing across your ribs, the dip of your waist, mapping your skin like it was something almost sacred.

You kissed his shoulder, his collarbone, the scar beneath it, then lower, down his chest, your mouth slow, gentle, your tongue lingering on his skin, tasting him, teaching him the difference between surrender and trust.

Your hands followed your lips, gliding over firm muscle and warm skin. You caressed the planes of his abdomen with open palms, feeling the way he tensed under your touch, not from discomfort, but from the unfamiliarity of being handled with care.

He was solid, strong, perfectly built, but as your fingers traced a scar, skimmed the curve of his waist, and pressed a kiss to the hollow between his ribs, you didn’t think of strength, you thought of restraint, of loneliness.

“Like this,” you whispered, lips brushing his skin, sliding lower, palms skimming down his back, easing the tension from every knot and scar. “This is how it’s supposed to feel.”

Both his hands trembled now as they roamed over you, he lowered himself again, slower this time, his eyes locked on yours. And when he kissed you, it wasn’t desperate anymore, it was human.

Your hand wrapped around him, warm and steady. You took your time, stroking the thick length of his cock with slow, fluid movements. Your thumb slid over the head, gathered the slick precum, and spread it down his shaft in long, smooth strokes.

His breath caught, jaw slackened and a low groan escaped him, wrecked and involuntary, like your touch was almost too much.

You reached for the nightstand without looking, tore open the foil packet, as you held him in your palm, hot, heavy, pulsing, and he exhaled, shaky and uneven, one hand fisting the sheets.

The other hovered midair, like he didn’t know what to do with it, didn’t know if he was allowed to want this and have it, too.

You stroked him slowly, fingers gliding from base to tip before rolling the condom on, confident, unhurried, letting him feel everything. He moaned, low, broken, head tipping back as you guided him between your legs, letting him feel the heat of you, the slick glide of your folds against his cock.

You were more than ready. The lube stayed forgotten.

You angled your hips, guided him in, breath catching as the thick head pushed past your entrance with a deep, stretching burn.

He thrust into you hard. Deep.

A broken sound escaped both of you, your bodies slamming together with force that echoed through your bones. You rose to meet him, thighs tightening around his waist, pulling him in, your nails dragged lightly down his back.

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “I can take it. I can take you.”

He moved fast at first, frantic, unfiltered, all sharp hips and reckless rhythm, like he needed to burn something out – anger, guilt, need.

His grunts were rough, each thrust punctuated by the sharp slap of skin on skin.

And you took him, legs wrapped around him, hands roaming his back, feeling every tremble, every breath he tried to hold in.

You kissed his neck, soft presses of your lips against his hammering pulse, your hands never stopped, smoothing over his skin, grounding him, and slowly, it shifted.

His rhythm faltered, thrusts slowed, got deeper, less punishing, more present.

He was still panting, still shaking, but now he was listening, to your body, your breath, the way your hands guided him, the soft pull of your hips inviting him closer, deeper, not just into your body, but into the moment.

And even if you hadn’t expected it – pleasure bloomed low in your belly, coiling slow and hot.

You didn’t fight it. You didn’t want to.

Your breath hitched every time he hit that perfect angle, deep, just right, making your fingers dig into his back. And then it happened: a moan, raw and real, ripped from you like it had been buried too long.

His head snapped back, he stared down at you, stunned, eyes wide, mouth parted, like he couldn’t believe what he just heard.

You were trembling beneath him, clutching at his skin, and your pleasure was impossible to fake.

“I…” he choked out, voice cracking. “You’re…fuck…,” the words died, his hips faltered, rhythm falling apart and with a hoarse groan he came hard, his whole body shuddering, breath panting.

He collapsed against you, breathless, shaking, forehead pressed to your collarbone, his chest heaved with each ragged inhale, like he didn’t know how to come back down from wherever you’d just taken him.

You didn’t speak, didn’t move, you just held him, fingers threading through his damp hair, the other hand at the back of his neck, brushing the tight line of his spine, feeling the stutter of his heart.

It was way past the paid hours when you finally let go and sat up to dress.

He didn’t say anything, just watched from the bed as you pulled your clothes on. He sat up, the sheet slipping down his chest, and slowly stood, dragging on his boxers and jeans.

He picked up the folded cash you’d already seen waiting on the table, wordless, he stepped over and held it out.

You took it gently. He held on a moment too long.

His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out, so you leaned in and kissed his cheek.

A goodbye.

Then you turned, your heels clicked against the hotel floor as you walked to the door.

He just stood there.

Just another job, you told yourself as you stepped out and closed the door behind you. But somehow, it didn’t feel like one.

It was two weeks before you heard anything.

You hadn’t expected to.

Men like him, closed off, broken in ways they didn’t want to admit, rarely asked for seconds, especially not when you touched something they weren’t ready to admit.

The message came through the agency.

James Barnes. Requests the same companion as last time. Exclusive. No substitutions.

You stared at the screen longer than you wanted to admit, heart skipping for reasons that had nothing to do with professionalism.

You didn’t answer right away.

You’d crossed a line last time, held him too long, let yourself feel too much. It all had felt so painfully familiar, an almost long-forgotten image emerging in the back of your mind like a jagged shard of glass. He had reminded you of someone.

You saw her clearly, that young girl with wild hair and desperate eyes, broken and aching, thinking she didn’t deserve any other treatment, convinced it was all her own fault. You thought you had buried her long ago.

You shook your head as you read the message again. Feelings, attachment, empathy, hope – those were dangerous in this line of work, they made you soft, exposed.

You told yourself you were not taking him, you were not going back, then your boss called the next morning.

“He asked explicitly for you,” she said.

You hesitated, tried to say maybe it wasn’t a good idea, that maybe someone else…

“Look,” your boss cut in. “He’s paying triple. No special requests. Just wants a repeat. You’re one of the best. Handle it.”

You agreed before you could talk yourself out of it.

The hotel was the same, the suite too – dim lights, curtains drawn, untouched whiskey on the table and him.

“Mr. Barnes,” you tested, slipping off your coat.

“Bucky,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck, eyes flicking to the floor. “You can just… call me Bucky.”

He looked nervous, but not like last time, different.

“So,” you said, turning to face him, “you asked for the same setup. No talking. Rough. Detached. Right?”

He shifted, rubbing the back of his neck again, avoiding your eyes. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “I did.”

You waited.

He exhaled sharply, almost annoyed with himself. “It’s just… what I know how to ask for. Easier that way.”

You nodded, watching him fidget with the seam of his sleeve like he didn’t know what else to do with his hands.

“But is that what you want?” you asked, tilting your head. “Or just what you’re used to getting?”

Long pause, then a small, one-shoulder shrug. “I don’t know. I just… didn’t think I could ask for anything else.”

You stepped closer, close enough for him to feel your warmth. “You can,” you said quietly.

One more step, slow and deliberate, your hand lifted, no pressure, no rush, and when your fingers brushed his jaw, he didn’t pull away, he leaned in, eyes fluttering shut.

Your thumb stroked the edge of his cheek, rough stubble scratching your skin.

“When’s the last time someone touched you like this?” you asked softly. “Not just contact. But this.”

He was silent for a while, brow furrowed like he had to dig for the answer.

“Besides you?” he asked.

You nodded.

His eyes opened, barely, a small, bitter smile ghosted across his lips. “I don’t know,” he said. “Can’t remember.”

You didn’t let go, just held him there, your hand on his jaw like it belonged then you leaned in and kissed him – slowly, easy, no urgency, just warmth.

He kissed you back, hesitant and uncertain, like he was relearning how, his hand settled lightly on your waist, not quite holding. You covered it with your own, pressed it closer, his breath caught, and slowly, bit by bit, you felt him start to relax.

You pulled off your shirt, casual, unhurried. He watched you like he was seeing you for the first time.

You helped him undress too – shirt, jeans, layer by layer—fingers brushing over warm skin and old scars. You kissed his shoulder, let your lips travel down his chest, he shivered, but let you.

This time it was you to guide him to the bed. Both of you sank into the mattress and he crawled over you carefully, like he still thought he might break something.

You pulled him closer, legs parting easily around his hips, hands sliding up his back, settling between his shoulder blades.

His hands moved with a reverence that caught you off guard, fingers trailing slowly up your sides, along your ribs, like he was memorizing you by touch. He dipped his head, lips brushing your collarbone, then lower, kissing a soft path down to your breasts.

His mouth was gentle there, almost shy, as if he didn’t want to take too much.

His tongue circled your nipple, slow and careful, followed by a soft kiss, then again and again until your breath caught and your fingers tangled in his hair.

He glanced up, quick, uncertain, checking if he was doing it right. The hand at your waist gave him away, thumb brushing back and forth, soothing, trying, not just to please you, but to feel you.

When he pushed into you, it was deep and careful. He groaned, not just from the pleasure, but from the way you looked at him while it happened.

You stroked his hair back, kissed the corner of his mouth.

“I…,” he started, voice shaky, moving slowly like he didn’t want to mess it up.

“Schhhh,” you cut him off with a smile. “You’re doing fine.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, his hips moved in a lazy rhythm that made heat curl low in your belly.

You moaned softly into his mouth.

He froze – just for a second – like he couldn’t believe it, like he wasn’t sure you were really enjoying him, then he moved again, steadier now, bolder, still gentle, but with intention. He was there, present, wanting to feel you, stay with you, soak in the warmth and store it as if he didn’t know when he’d get it again.

“You okay?” you whispered against his neck.

He nodded into your shoulder, voice low and tight. “Yeah. I just… didn’t know it could feel like this.”

You smiled, kissed his jaw, fingers tracing lazy lines down his spine.

“Now you do.”

The next request came just two days later.

You didn’t even think, you accepted the moment you saw his name, before your brain could catch up and tell you not to.

It wasn’t until two weeks later, after pacing the same bright hotel stairs almost every other night, that it finally hit you.

You barely made it through your apartment door, keys dropped from trembling fingers onto the table. Your heart was pounding too hard and too fast, something between wanting to burst or break.

You kicked off your heels and leaned back against the door, trying to breathe.

You’d done this long enough to know the rules. Keep it clean, keep it clear, draw the lines and don’t cross them. You were good at it, good at making men feel seen without giving them anything real, a few hours of connection, good sex, a bit of warmth, sometimes softness, sometimes something else - anything they needed. You knew how to play the game, how to remain in control.

It always ended with the door closing behind you, but this time…

His eyes, his shaking hands, the way he held you after, like he didn’t know how to let go. You felt it. All of it.

The way he softened under your touch, the way he looked at you, like maybe, just maybe, you were something worth holding on to.

Shit.

You pressed your palms to your eyes, trying to push the feeling down, will it into something smaller, safer. It didn’t work.

The softness had rooted itself, the lines were gone, and you weren’t sure anymore where the job ended and you began.

You didn’t sleep that night.

The office was quiet, soft morning light slipping through half-open blinds.

Your boss didn’t even look up at first, fingers still tapping at the keyboard. It wasn’t until the door clicked shut behind you that she glanced up.

“I’m not taking him again,” you said, before even sitting down.

That got her attention, she leaned back, arms crossing, brows raised. “Okay... wanna tell me who him is?”

“James Barnes. Bucky.”

The name felt weird in your mouth, too personal, too real.

She leaned back further in her chair. “He do something?”

You shook your head. “No. That’s the problem.”

Silence.

You rubbed your forehead. “Look, I’ve been doing this a long time. I know how to keep it clean. I don’t cross lines. But with him…”

You hesitated, then made yourself say it.

“I let it get too close. He got too close.”

She narrowed her eyes, not harsh, just reading you. “So are you telling me, you caught feelings?”

You gave a humorless laugh. “I don’t even know what to call it, but I can’t pretend it’s nothing. I thought I could keep it professional, but I can’t. Not with him.”

She watched you a second longer, then gave a small, slow nod.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll handle it. I’ll take him off your list. If he tries to book again, I’ll let him know it’s not happening.”

You exhaled. Something in you unclenched, but something else twisted tighter. The weight of it settled fast – this is it, no more hotel rooms, no more late-night requests.

No more him.

Fuck.

How did you let this happen?

First three times there were just polite answers, saying that you were unavailable, but after his fourth attempt to book you again, the agency finally called Bucky back.

“She won’t be available,” the voice said flatly. “Not now. Not ever.”

He blinked. “What do you mean not ever?”

“She’s declined further bookings. With you, specifically.”

There was a long silence.

“We can offer others,” the voice continued. “Discreet. High quality. Same experience.”

“No,” he said immediately.

“Mr. Barnes…”

“No.” His voice cracked, then dropped lower. “I don’t want anyone else.”

They paused. “Understood.”

Click.

Bucky sat on the edge of the bed for hours, staring at nothing. The phone was still in his hand, screen long gone dark. His metal fingers flexed against the edge of the mattress, making the sheets crinkle like paper.

“Idiot,” he muttered. “Fucking idiot.”

What the hell had he expected?

Love ‘til the end of your days? From a prostitute?

The word made his stomach twist, not because of what you were, but because of how small it made everything feel.

But that was the truth. He paid. You came. You touched him like no one ever had and he let himself believe, just for one night, then another, that it meant something more, that maybe he wasn’t just a job, that maybe you saw him, not the Winter Soldier, not the weapon, not the broken thing trying to pass as human.

And now? Everything was over, like it always did.

His jaw clenched, a burn crawling up behind his eyes as his hand twisted into the sheets.

You knew better than this.

You’re not built for softness. You’re a machine with a man’s name stapled to it. Why would anyone want more than a few hours from you? A few paid hours.

He stood abruptly, pacing the room, then stopped, frozen mid-step and just stood there, numb and hollow, except for that one place inside him that ached like mad.

He thought of your hand on his jaw, the way you’d guided his metal hand to your thigh like it didn’t matter, the way you looked at him when he came in your arms.

None of it meant anything.

His eyes landed on the glass beside the whiskey bottle. The sharp crack of it shattering echoed in his ears, the shards scattered across the floor like broken thoughts. He flinched, staring at the mess like it hadn’t been his hand that hurled it at the wall.

He didn’t sleep, he just sat in the dark, back to the cold wall, bottle of whiskey in hand.

He didn’t want the burn.

He just wanted you.

But he drank anyway.

The med bay was a blur, too-bright lights, sharp voices, the sting of antiseptic. Bucky barely remembered how he got there, blood crusted on the side of his face, pain ripping through his flesh shoulder like fire.

Damn it. Two metal arms hadn’t exactly been on his bingo card, but he’d come close, too close.

Now he was laid out on a gurney, the sterile white sheets sticking to his skin, wires clipped to his chest, IV half-started in his arm. Overhead light buzzed.

A doctor’s voice cut through the haze: “You need stitches. And your shoulder! Christ, Barnes, it’s a mess.”

Bucky didn’t answer, just stared at the ceiling like it was pressing down on him. It was all his own fault, he had been distracted.

He didn’t want stitches, didn’t want rest, didn’t want someone checking his vitals every ten minutes and pretending that meant he was going to be okay.

Of course, the shoulder would heal. It always did.

What didn’t heal was the hole in his chest, it just grew bigger with every damn day.

The doctor moved in with a needle, and that’s when Bucky snapped upright, ripped the wires from his chest, not paying attention to the shriek of the monitors, and yanked the IV from his arm. Blood spattered across the floor.

“Jesus…Barnes!” someone shouted, reaching for him.

He shook off the hand like it burned. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not…”

“I said I’m fine.”

His voice was low, cracking underneath like glass under pressure.

He yanked his jacket on with a grunt.

The doctor stepped in front of him again. “You walk out like this, you could bleed out. You need treatment…”

“I need air,” Bucky muttered, brushing past him.

The door slammed open as he walked out, ignoring the calls behind him and the red smears he left on the floor.

It wasn’t the first time he’d stood here.

Truth was, he’d been coming every night since he figured out where you lived – an info pried out of a reluctant CIA contact who owed him a favour.

But that wasn’t the only thing he had done. He wasn’t proud of it, wouldn’t even admit it to anyone.

The young agent hadn’t asked questions, just lit up like it was an honor to be given a task by Bucky Barnes. The file he handed over before the last mission wasn’t long, but it had been enough to throw Bucky off his game. Almost got the whole thing compromised.

You had moved to New York five years ago. No close family listed, both parents deceased. A trail of medical records stretching back for years – bruised ribs, concussions, two broken wrists, one collarbone. All logged as accidents.

Slipped down the stairs.

Fell on ice.

Walked into a door.

You must’ve been real clumsy.

But Bucky knew better, knew what those reports meant, knew the patterns, the silence between the lines. Someone had hurt you. Repeatedly. And no one had stopped it.

Then the trail went dark, two years of nothing – no address, no job, no medical history, like you’d dropped off the face of the earth, and then suddenly, you reappeared in New York.

Clean slate, new name, job at an escort agency.

He dragged a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his jaw like he could grind the guilt out of his bones.

And he’d thought he was the only one with ghosts, the only one carrying pain he didn’t talk about.

But you... you'd crawled out of hell, too.

And he’d been so wrapped up in what he was feeling, he hadn’t seen it, hadn’t asked.

He’d let your presence become routine, a comfort he thought he could keep buying. He hadn’t asked how you were, hadn’t even tried.

He knew every line and curve of your body, but he didn’t know if you liked coffee, didn’t know what music you listened to or what kind of day you’d had before walking into that hotel room.

And now?

Now he stood outside your building like some damn ghost, night after night, too broken to leave, too ashamed to come closer.

Maybe you were asleep. Maybe you were awake, just too busy to notice him.

Maybe you saw everything and just didn’t care.

Still, he kept showing up, across the street, in the shadows, watching your second floor windows light up. Watching them go dark.

He didn’t even know what he was hoping for – a flicker of your shadow, the sound of your laugh through an open window, just proof you were still there, that you hadn’t vanished for good.

The last entry in the file had actually been the most unsettling.

Target terminated the job contract with the agency. Seen at the train station multiple times this week.

The train station. Were you leaving again? Running?

His chest tightened, breath caught, heart stuttering in his ribs.

Were you already gone? Was tonight too late?

The light in your window was still on, the curtain half-drawn.

And for the first time in weeks, Bucky moved off the curb, across the street, up the steps.

It was close to panic that carried him now – if he didn’t knock now, he might never get another chance.

He raised his hand to the buzzer, it hovered, hesitated, faltered, then, heart pounding, he pressed it.

And waited.

You weren’t expecting anyone.

That was the first thing that hit you when the buzzer rang, slicing through the quiet of your apartment. You froze on the couch, eyes flicking toward the door.

You hesitated, nobody buzzed this late unless it was an emergency or a mistake, or…

Crossing the room cautiously, you checked the security feed and your breath caught.

Bucky.

He looked like hell, blood dried on the side of his face, a split brow, and a strange stiffness in the way his flesh arm hung at his side. He wasn’t even looking at the camera, just standing there, head bowed slightly.

You should’ve walked away, pretended you weren’t home, let it ring. That would’ve been the smart move, the safe one.

You owed him nothing, he wasn’t supposed to be here, wasn’t even supposed to know where you lived.

But you just stood there, frozen in front of the screen, and stared at him, your hand hovering near the intercom.

Don’t do it, a voice whispered. Close the panel. Walk away. He’s not your responsibility.

Then he looked up, just for a second, right into the camera as if he knew you were there watching him. And that was it, you muttered a curse under your breath, called yourself a goddamn idiot, and hit the button. Then you opened the door and waited.

The hallway was empty, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. He took the stairs. Why the hell did he take the stairs and not the elevator? He emerged from the staircase and neared your door slowly.

You took him in – torn skin, blood dripping down his fingers and smeared across his temple, half-wiped like he’d tried to clean up and couldn’t finish.

“Jesus,” you breathed. “What happened to you?”

He didn’t answer right away, just stood there a second longer, then let out a rough exhale.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

It was such a cliché to say, sounding like something out of a moody, old romance movie, but he didn’t have anything better.

He hadn’t thought that far ahead. Honestly, he hadn’t even believed you’d open the door, let alone talk to him. He’d taken the stairs just to buy himself a little extra time, to get his head straight, but the second he tried, his thoughts scattered, flapping around his brain like panicked chickens.

You didn’t move.

“I know I shouldn’t be here,” he said. “But I couldn’t stay away. I tried. I swear I tried.”

There was something oddly sweet about the way he stared down at his boots like they were the most fascinating thing in the world and scratched the back of his head with his metal hand. Grown up man looking like a kid caught doing something he shouldn’t.

You let out a slow breath, then stepped aside.

“Come in,” you said. “You’re bleeding all over the hallway.”

He followed, quiet.

The kitchen light was soft, the air still warm with the faint scent of tea. Bucky hovered in the doorway, shoulders tight, eyes flicking over everything but you.

You nodded toward the chair by the table. “Sit.”

He did, lowering himself with a wince.

You grabbed the first-aid kit, a damp cloth, and a bottle of vodka from your secret stash.

Bucky gave the bottle a look.

“What?” you said, catching his glance. “You think I keep medical-grade disinfectant around just in case some supersoldier shows up bleeding on my doorstep?”

Bucky gave a half-shrug, the corner of his mouth twitching like he almost smiled. “Would’ve been convenient.”

You rolled your eyes and set the bottle down beside the kit. “You’re lucky I had vodka at all. I was saving it for a shitty day.”

He glanced down at himself, bloody and slouched in the middle of your kitchen. “Guess today qualifies.”

“Take that off,” you said, nodding toward his jacket.

He shrugged out of it with a wince. The T-shirt underneath had definitely seen better days, it was torn, soaked in blood and clinging to the wound at his shoulder.

You grabbed a pair of scissors, knelt beside him, and carefully cut the shirt away, then you soaked a cloth in vodka, wrung it out, and reached for his face.

He flinched.

“Hold still,” you murmured.

He hissed through his teeth when you pressed the cloth to the gash above his brow.

“I thought you were a supersoldier, or something,” you muttered under your breath.

“Doesn’t mean I enjoy vodka facials.”

You rolled your eyes but kept dabbing carefully.

“You showed up bleeding on my doorstep, you don’t get to complain about my methods.”

He leaned back slightly, eyes searching yours. “Yeah, but I get to be grateful for them.”

You blinked at that, caught off guard for a second, but you recovered quickly, giving his good shoulder a light nudge. “Just shut up and let me finish saving your life.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said with something very close to a smile on his lips.

You cleaned the blood from his temple, careful around the split in his skin. He kept shifting, eyes darting away, like being under your hands was harder than the pain itself.

“You’re not good at this,” you said softly.

“At what?”

“Letting someone take care of you.”

He let out a breath that sounded like a laugh, but wasn’t. “Don’t really get the chance.”

You didn’t say anything, just focused on the cut above his brow, patched it up, then moved to his shoulder. It wasn’t as bad as it looked, already starting to heal, but he still tensed every time your fingers brushed his skin and groaned when you pressed the vodka-soaked cloth to it.

You folded the gauze, pressed it gently to the wound, and taped it down with steady hands, or so you thought.

When you finally packed up the kit and snapped it shut, your eyes landed back on the vodka bottle. That’s when you noticed it, your hands were shaking like hell.

“You’ll live,” you muttered, grabbing the bottle and taking a long, burning sip, before holding it out to him without looking.

Bucky took it slowly, fingers brushing yours, he hesitated a second before tipping it back for a sharp swallow, then set it down with a quiet clink on the table.

Neither of you said anything for a moment.

The room was suddenly too quiet, you could hear the tick of the old clock on the wall and the soft hum of traffic through the window.

“In truth I didn’t think you would let me in,” he said finally, his voice rough from more than just the drink.

You leaned back against the table, arms crossed tight over your chest like you were trying to hold yourself together.

“I didn’t come here expecting anything,” he added. “I just… I needed to see you, make sure you were okay.”

You gave him a look. “You’re the one bleeding all over my furniture.”

That almost got a smile, almost, his lips twitched before falling back into a line.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”

Then slowly, he moved, reached out and gently took your hands in his. You froze, caught off guard.

He turned your wrists over with care, thumbs brushing the faint lines of your skin and without rushing, he lifted them to his mouth and kissed them, first the right, then the left.

You didn’t pull away.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“For what?” you asked, voice barely above a breath.

He held your gaze, searching for words that wouldn’t sound too small or too late.

“For letting you walk away,” he said finally. “For pretending I didn’t care. For caring too much and never saying a damn thing. For not asking about you, not once.”

You didn’t speak, just looked at him, your wrists still resting lightly in his palms and a lump forming in your throat.

“When you stopped seeing me, I told myself it didn’t mean anything,” he went on, voice rough. “Tried to believe it was just a job, just time I paid for.”

He paused.

“But it wasn’t, not to me. Every second with you felt like… like breathing again.”

“I didn’t come here to make things harder,” he continued. “I just... I needed you to know, even if you slam the door in my face after this – I had to say it.”

He swallowed hard, his grip loosened, just slightly, giving you space to pull away, to run, to reject him like he half-expected.

You didn’t move, your eyes filling before you could stop it.

You blinked fast, trying to hold it in, but the tears came anyway, quiet and unexpected.

“I didn’t leave because I didn’t care,” you said, voice catching on the words. “I left because I did, because I couldn’t go on like that anymore.”

You covered your mouth with one hand, shaking your head like the words were spilling too fast and you couldn’t stop them. “Because it didn’t feel like a job and I wasn’t ready for that. I wasn’t supposed to feel anything like that again.”

He stared at you, breath held, like even breathing too loud might break the moment.

“I spent years building walls, Bucky,” you said, voice unsteady. “Telling myself I’d never fall again. Never let anyone in, because the last time I did, it wrecked me and broke me in ways I’m still crawling out of.”

You let out a soft sob, almost a gasp, and he moved without hesitation, pulling you into his arms, warm and solid. You didn’t flinch, if anything, you melted into him.

“I wasn’t scared of you,” you whispered, voice raw. “I was scared of how much I wanted to stay. Of how badly I wanted this to be real and something more … more than just… just fucking for money.”

He exhaled, slow and shaky, resting his forehead gently against yours.

“I might be a damn idiot when it comes to feelings,” he murmured, “but I’m not here to break you, I swear. And I won’t hurt you. Ever.”

“I believe you,” you breathed, barely a whisper. “That’s what makes it so terrifying.”

You didn’t speak after that. There was nothing else to say, nothing that words could carry. You were not sure what this was, neither of you were, but it was something. Something unnamed, delicate and a little messy but nevertheless real and beautiful.

Bucky’s forehead stayed pressed to yours, his breath warm against your cheek and his hands cradled yours like they were the most fragile things he’d ever held.

Eventually, you pulled back.

“You should lie down,” you whispered, brushing your fingers over the bruised line of Bucky’s jaw. “The bleeding hasn’t stopped yet.”

He looked like he wanted to protest, but you didn’t give him the chance, you took his hand and led him to the bedroom, switching off lights along the way.

He sat at the edge of the bed like he wasn’t sure what to do next. You handed him a clean T-shirt, one of yours, oversized and soft, and he took it without a word.

He tried to pull it over his head on his own but winced halfway through, his shoulder clearly still aching. You stepped in, brushing his hands away gently. “Let me,” you murmured.

Carefully, you helped guide the shirt over his head, easing his arms through the sleeves. As the fabric settled over his chest, you bit back a smile. It looked oversized folded in your drawer, but on him, it clung just enough to stretch around his shoulders, riding up slightly over his abs.

He didn’t complain, just looked up at you and you shrugged, lips twitching. “I think it suits you.”

Bucky kicked off his boots, then shot you a sheepish look as he reached for his jeans. His fingers fumbled at the button, cheeks going pink like this was the first time he was undressing in front of you, which, considering everything, was kind of ridiculous.

He averted his eyes and turned slightly, like that would somehow make it less awkward, then shimmied out of the denim, keeping his boxers on, and slipped under the blanket like he was trying to outrun the embarrassment.

You didn’t laugh, didn’t tease, just watched him for a second, heart aching a little, for all the muscle and the myth, there was something so soft in the way he still got shy when it wasn’t just about sex, when it was something more, something new.

You slid into bed beside him, quiet, not touching, letting the moment breathe.

Then his hand found yours under the blanket, uncertain, careful, and your fingers curled around his without thinking.

You shifted closer and placed your cheek on his chest. His heart was racing.

A second later, his arms came around you, hesitant at first, then stronger, and when Bucky exhaled, it sounded like he hadn’t breathed easy in weeks.

You didn’t protest, just stayed like that, no words, no labels, just warmth, just this, whatever it was.

Bucky closed his eyes, breathing in the faint scent of your hair, it wasn’t his place, wasn’t even his bed, but somehow strangely it felt like… like home.

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ateezscupid · 5 months ago

Text

─── FEB FILTH FEST: Call Out My Name - DOM & SUB ♡

SUMMARY / You woke up needy, and Hongjoong helped.

warnings ✩ PORN LINK, SMUT, DOM/SUB dynamics, soft!dom hongjoong, fem!reader, sub!reader, vanilla sex, daddy kink, praise, not really ddlg (the lg part weirds me out) so it's kind of just dd, oral (f), unprotected sex

word count ✩ 1,95k

tags ✩@desirehorizon @tangerineastronaut @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna @starillusion13 @mingitheskzstan @bbdeongi @dawn-iscozy @xh01bri @mallielovssyou @clxssy1997 @soreberry

ATEEZ MASTERLIST / REQUEST / FEB FILTH FEST

NOTE !! None!

"Harder…" you mumble in your sleep, your fists clenched tightly under the blankets. The room is silent except for the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall. It's 8 AM, but the curtains are drawn, keeping the light at bay.

You whimper, your body jerking itself awake. You looked around and scoot closer to Hongjoong, feeling embarrassed for disturbing him. The digital clock beside the bed glows 8:03 AM, the red digits pulsing steadily like a silent alarm. The room is small, cluttered with the remnants of last night's study session: textbooks, empty cups of coffee, and crumpled papers litter the floor and desk. The air is stale, a testament to the lack of open windows and fresh air.

"Joong…" you shook him a bit. His eyes snapped open, and he sat up with a start, scanning the room with a wild gaze. Recognizing the safety of his own space, he relaxed slightly.

"You okay?" he whispered, his voice thick with sleep.

You shook your head, pushing the covers off of you and crawling on top of you. "No," you tugged at your shirt. "I need you…"

Hongjoong's eyes softened, and he reached out to pull you closer into his arms. "Yeah? How bad?" His question was gentle, his voice a soothing balm to your ringing head.

"Really bad," you tugged at your shirt. "P-Please. Just….u-use your mouth or something." You felt your cheeks flushing hot with embarrassment. You had never been this vulnerable with him before.

"Aw, is my baby needy?" he teased, trying to ease the tension, but the tremble in your voice didn't go unnoticed. He could feel the urgency in your touch. With a sigh, he rolled onto his back, giving you access to his bare chest. "Do whatever you need to feel better," he said, his eyes searching yours for reassurance that this was really what you wanted.

"N-No, I need-" you tear your shirt off. "I need this." The fabric was sticky with cold sweat and it was suffocating you.

"Yeah?" he runs his fingers up and down your waist. "Okay… lay down."

You nod and plop onto the other side of the bed, laying on your back, the cool air from the air conditioner a welcome relief on your bare skin. Hongjoong sits up, the sheets falling away from his chest as he hovers over you, spreading your legs.

He pulled your pajama shorts down to your thighs, exposing your most intimate parts to the coolness of the room. His warm breath tickled your skin as he leaned in, placing a gentle kiss on the inside of your left thigh. You felt a shiver run up your spine, the anticipation building like a crescendo in a symphony. The touch was light and feathery, his tongue tracing patterns that made you squirm with pleasure. He moved closer, his nose brushing against your core, and you could feel the heat from his breath.

"Joongie~," you mewl as his mouth finds the right spot, his tongue swirling and pressing down, sending waves of pleasure through your body. His eyes meet yours, filled with hunger and affection as he continues to explore your wetness with tender strokes. Your back arches off the bed, pushing your pelvis closer to his face, desperately seeking more.

"R-Right there, right there-" you run your fingers through his hair, guiding him as his mouth works its magic. Each flick of his tongue sends shockwaves of pleasure through your core, making it impossible to hold back the moans that spill from your lips. He hums in response, the vibrations adding another layer to the sensations.

You could feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge, your breaths coming out in ragged gasps. Hongjoong's tongue moved in a steady rhythm, lapping up your wetness as if he was afraid he might miss a single drop. His eyes never left yours, and you could see the determination in them to bring you to climax.

"R-Right TH--FUCK!" You cry out. "D-Don't stop!"

Hongjoong smirks, the vibration from his voice adding to the pleasure. He knows exactly what you need. He flattens his tongue and presses it firmly against your clit, the pressure and speed increasing as you get closer to the peak of pleasure. Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging gently as your body tenses. You're panting now, each breath shallower than the last.

"H-Hongjoong!" you moan, your eyes rolling back as the pleasure intensifies. Your legs quiver and tighten around his neck as you feel yourself approaching the brink of your climax. His tongue never falters, lapping at you with an urgency that matches the racing of your heart. You can feel your muscles tense up, the heat within you building like a volcano ready to erupt.

With a final, desperate push, you come apart in his mouth, your body spasming as the orgasm washes over you. The room fades away, leaving only the sensation of his tongue and the sound of your own cries of pleasure. He continues to lick and suck gently, riding out the waves with you until they subside, leaving you trembling and breathless on the bed.

When you open your eyes again, the room is a hazy blur of shadows and early morning light. Hongjoong wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a smug look on his face. "Feel better?" he asks, his voice low and smoky.

"Mhm…" you mumble, your voice a mix of satisfaction and exhaustion as your body relaxes into the mattress. You can feel your heart rate slowly returning to normal, the throb between your legs echoing the beat of your pulse.

Hongjoong pushed his boxers down a bit, just enough for his cock to come out. It was hard, standing tall and demanding attention. You could see the precum glistening at the tip, a testament to his own need. "Now, let me take care of this," he murmured, his eyes locked on yours as he positioned himself between your legs.

He gently pushed your legs further apart, and you felt the tip of his erection brush against your sensitive skin. Your breath hitched, the remnants of your orgasm still pulsing through your body as you anticipate his next move. With a firm grip on his shaft, he guided it to your entrance, pausing for a moment to appreciate the view. Your eyes locked onto his, filled with a mix of lust and love as he pushed inside you.

"You feel that?" he whispered, his voice a seductive purr as he began to rock his hips, his cock inching deeper into you. The sensation was exquisite, filling you up completely, stretching you around him. You nodded, unable to form coherent words, your eyes fluttering shut as he claimed you with a gentle but firm strokes.

"Spread your legs a little more for me, pretty girl," Hongjoong instructed, his voice a seductive whisper that sent shivers down your spine. You obeyed, opening yourself up to him completely, and he took full advantage of the invitation. With a gentle push, he sank deeper, his cock sliding in and out of you with a slick sound that filled the room.

His movements grew more deliberate, his hips rolling into yours in a slow, steady rhythm that had you squirming with pleasure. The friction was perfect, his length hitting all the right spots and sending sparks of pleasure through your body with every thrust. You could feel yourself clenching around him, trying to hold onto the feeling of fullness as he began to quicken his pace.

"Joong…" you moaned, your hips rising to meet his, eager for more. His eyes darkened with desire as he watched your reaction, his own need growing with every whimper and gasp you made. He leaned down to kiss you, his tongue delving into your mouth as his cock drove deeper into you. The kiss was as passionate as it was possessive, a silent declaration of his love and desire.

"God, you feel so fucking good," he groaned against your lips, his teeth grazing your bottom lip before he bit down gently, claiming it as his own. Your hands gripped the bedsheets, your nails digging into the fabric as you tried to hold on to the sensations threatening to overwhelm you.

His rhythm grew faster, his cock pistoning in and out of you with increasing urgency. Each thrust sent a shock of pleasure through your core, and your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper. You could feel the tension building again, your body begging for release.

"F-Faster," you whimper, your voice barely above a whisper. The words seemed to spur Hongjoong on, his hips snapping against yours with a newfound fervor. The slap of skin on skin filled the air, punctuating the quietude of the early morning. His eyes never left yours, the intensity of his gaze sending shivers down your spine.

"Oh my god," you shudder, nails digging into the pillow under your head. You pull it over your face and close your thighs, trying to muffle the sounds escaping you. His chuckle is muffled by your skin, sending vibrations through your core.

"It's okay, baby. I got you," he grabs your hips, not stopping his pace, his movements becoming more demanding. You can feel his muscles tensing, his breaths growing more ragged. The bed creaks under the weight of your passionate dance, the sound only adding to the intensity of the moment.

"Cmon, give it to me baby," he moans, your voice muffled by the pillow as your body arches off the bed. The pleasure is unbearable, a sweet agony that has you writhing under him. He's so deep inside you, filling you up in a way that nothing else ever could. Your toes curl, your nails dig into the mattress as he hits that spot inside you that makes you see stars.

"D-Daddy, I-I'm-"

"Let it out, baby," he growled, his own need clear in his voice. He grabbed your thighs, pushing them apart wider as he drove into you with a ferocity that sent you spiraling over the edge. Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave, your body trembling and shaking with the force of it. Your muffled screams filled the room, the pillow doing little to hide the raw passion of the moment.

As the intensity of your climax began to subside, you felt him tense above you, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His eyes searched yours, looking for permission, for the green light to let go of his own control. You nodded, your body still pulsing with pleasure.

"Good girl," he murmured before pulling the pillow from your face and capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss. His tongue invaded yours, mimicking the rhythm of his hips as he thrust into you one last time, his cock swelling and spilling his hot seed deep within your quivering walls. The feeling of him filling you up was almost too much to handle, but it only served to heighten the aftershocks of your orgasm.

When he finally pulled out, you felt empty and exposed, your body still sensitive from the intense pleasure. He leaned over to kiss your neck, his teeth grazing the tender flesh as his hand found your clit, sending a jolt through your system. "You're so beautiful when you come," he whispered, his voice hoarse with his own release.

"T-Thank you…" you managed to murmur, your voice still shaky from the intensity of your orgasm. Hongjoong pulled out of you gently, his cock leaving you with a feeling of emptiness that was almost painful. He collapsed beside you, his chest heaving with exertion, his body glistening with a sheen of sweat.

"Let's go clean you up."

#february filth fest #ateez #ateez hard hours #ateez smut #ateez fanfic #ateez fic #ateez x reader #hongjoong smut #hongjoong fluff #hongjoong ateez #hongjoong x reader #hongjoong hard thoughts #hongjoong hard hours #Spotify

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