#bugs-n-ais

[heatobrienswife]

Yo lads apparently I've been hacked so If ya get any weird shit it ain't from me! Just a heads up

[sixeyesonathiel]

the curious case of satoru gojo

pairing — scientist satoru x housewife reader

synopsis : satoru gojo is a nobel-nominated genius with three phds, a devoted wife, and one tiny problem: he's accidentally turned himself into his nineteen-year-old self. now locked out of his own house and mistaken for a very persistent stalker by the love of his life (that’s you), he has one mission—fix the time machine, reclaim his face, and survive your increasingly violent attempts to defend your marriage from... him.

tags — oneshot, porn with plot, established relationship, domestic fluff, crack treated seriously, age regression/de-aging, identity shenanigans, miscommunication but it’s technically quantum, time travel(?) shenanigans, idiots in love, emotional whiplash, romantic comedy, jealous of himself, satoru gojo is so down bad, penis in vagina sex, kitchen sex, breeding kink, mating press, praise kink, overstimulation, sexual overstimulation, multiple orgasms, multiple sex positions, satoru gojo worships you like a religion, slight size kink, he’s been deprived okay, smut happens after he fixes everything

wc — 20.1k | gen. masterlist | read on ao3?

a/n: yes i wrote this in one day. yes i wrote this instead of focusing on finishing the part two of my apothecary diaries au fic. please don’t get your pitchforks out (⁠•⁠ ⁠▽⁠ ⁠•⁠;⁠) if u see i typo, no u don’t.

two weeks.

fourteen days of existing as a walking contradiction—a twenty-nine-year-old genius trapped in the lanky, smooth-faced prison of his nineteen-year-old body. satoru adjusts his reading glasses (the same prescription, thankfully, because his eyesight had been terrible since childhood) and stares at your front door like it’s the gates of heaven guarded by the world’s most beautiful, most stubborn angel.

his hair catches the afternoon light, those fine strands the color of fresh snow that had turned this ethereal shade when he was four and his first chemistry set had gone spectacularly wrong. it had originally been a soft, milk-tea brown, the color of dusty books and early autumn. he’d tried to invent a hair-growth serum for his dad. instead, the mixture combusted, coated his scalp, and bleached every strand into something unnaturally pale. his parents had panicked, thinking he’d poisoned himself. little satoru, meanwhile, had stared into the mirror and grinned with gap-toothed delight.

now, at nineteen-again, it falls across his forehead in soft waves, glowing almost silver in the sunlight. he looks like a walking, talking academic heartthrob from a university romance novel—which would be flattering if his own wife didn’t look at him like he was an unsightly bug on her kitchen floor.

the irony tastes bitter on his tongue, metallic like blood and regret. he’d spent six years perfecting a device to slow down time—not for scientific glory or recognition, but because twenty-four hours with you had never felt like enough. he’d wanted to stretch lazy sunday mornings into eternities, to make your sleepy smiles and the way you hummed while making coffee last forever.

instead, he’d accidentally turned himself into a time paradox of the most pathetic variety. a cautionary tale about hubris wrapped in the body of a college freshman.

his phone buzzes somewhere in the basement lab, probably sending another automated message to your device: still working on the temporal displacement project. eating the sandwiches you left. miss you. love you. —satoru

the ai assistant he’d programmed to keep you from worrying had become his greatest enemy. every perfectly crafted message, every detail programmed to sound exactly like him, was another nail in the coffin of his credibility. he’d been too thorough, too careful, too much of a perfectionist even in his contingency planning.

because here he stands, looking like a college freshman who’d wandered into the wrong neighborhood, while you believe your husband is safely tucked away in his lab, probably elbow-deep in equations and caffeine addiction.

the thing is—and this is where his pride starts gnawing at his intestines like a particularly vindictive parasite—he doesn’t want to sneak into his own house. he’s the dr. satoru gojo, for crying out loud. he has three phds, a nobel prize nomination, and enough patents to wallpaper the entire first floor. he shouldn’t have to skulk through basement windows like some sort of lovesick cat burglar just to access his own laboratory.

he’s a dignified man of science. he has principles. standards. a reputation to maintain, even if that reputation is currently being dragged through the mud by his own temporal incompetence.

no, he’s going to do this the right way. he’s going to convince you, properly and thoroughly, that he is exactly who he claims to be. he’s going to walk through the front door like a civilized human being, kiss his wife hello, and pretend the last two weeks never happened.

this is a matter of scientific integrity. of personal dignity. of—

he rings the doorbell.

the sound of your footsteps approaching makes his heart perform some sort of olympic gymnastics routine, complete with triple axels and a dismount that leaves his stomach somewhere in the vicinity of his ankles. even through the door, he can picture the way you move—that particular grace you’ve always had, like you’re dancing to music only you can hear. you’re probably wearing one of those sundresses he loves, the ones that make you look like you’ve stepped out of a 1950s magazine about perfect wives, except you’re real and warm and you smell like vanilla and clean laundry and home.

the door opens, and satoru’s brain promptly short-circuits.

you’re wearing the yellow dress. the one with tiny white flowers that he’d bought you for your second anniversary because you’d mentioned once, in passing, while distracted by a butterfly in the park, that it reminded you of the field where you’d had your first picnic. he’d remembered that throwaway comment for six months before finding the perfect dress, had it tailored to fit you exactly, had even added those hidden pockets because you always lost your keys.

your hair is pinned back with the butterfly clips he’d made for you—tiny mechanical marvels that flutter their wings when you laugh, solar-powered and calibrated to respond to the specific frequency of your joy. he’d spent three weeks perfecting the mechanism after you’d mentioned liking butterflies. three weeks of delicate gear work and programming, all for the chance to see you smile when the wings moved.

you look at him, and your expression shifts from hopeful to confused to absolutely murderous in the span of three seconds.

“oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

his heart skips a beat. maybe five. this is the part where he says something clever. this is the part where he charms you back into loving him. this is the part where his superior intellect saves the day and—

before he can open his mouth to explain, to plead, to grovel at your perfect feet, you’ve already produced what looks like a small silver device from somewhere in your dress. the hidden pocket in the seam, specifically—the one he’d reinforced with extra stitching because you had a tendency to overstuff it with lip balm and emergency snacks.

the device hums ominously, a sound that sends ice water through his veins because he recognizes it immediately. it’s the personal protection gadget he’d built for you last christmas, after you’d mentioned feeling nervous walking home from your book club in the dark. he’d spent a month perfecting it—a sleek little thing that could stun, disorient, or mildly embarrass an attacker depending on the setting.

and right now, you’re turning the dial past ‘warning shot’ and heading straight for ‘regret your life choices.’

“listen here, you little creep,” you say, and your voice is deadly sweet, like honey laced with cyanide. the juxtaposition of your floral sundress and the murder in your eyes is somehow the most attractive thing he’s ever seen, which probably says something deeply concerning about his psychology. “i don’t know who you think you are, but i’m a married woman. deeply, completely, utterly in love with my husband.”

the way you say ‘my husband’ makes something in his chest crack open like a fault line. there’s so much pride in your voice, so much fierce devotion, and he wants to bask in it except you’re not talking about him. you’re talking about him, but not him-him. you’re talking about the version of him you actually want to see walking through this door.

“so whatever pathetic attempt at impersonation this is,” you continue, and the weapon in your hand starts glowing a rather alarming shade of blue, “you can take it and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.”

“wait, wait!” he holds up his hands, noting with growing horror how young they look, how smooth and unmarked by years of lab work. these hands haven’t built the music box that plays your wedding song. these fingers haven’t spent countless hours crafting the little inventions that make you smile. “i can explain! i know this looks bad, but i’m really—”

“satoru,” you finish, your eyes narrowing dangerously. “yes, i heard your little introduction yesterday. and the week before that. you know what? the name satoru only fits one person in this world, and he’s about a hundred times more attractive, intelligent, and charming than whatever discount walmart version you’re trying to pull off.”

the words hit him like a freight train loaded with emotional devastation and existential dread. discount walmart version. you—his wife, the love of his life, the woman who’s seen him drool on his pillow and still kisses him good morning—think he’s a cheap knockoff of himself.

“my husband,” you continue, and there’s that tone again, soft and dreamy and absolutely besotted, “is brilliant beyond measure. he’s kind and funny and makes me laugh every single day. he has these eyes that light up when he’s excited about something, and he gets this little crease between his eyebrows when he’s concentrating. he’s tall and gorgeous and perfect, and you...” you look him up and down with obvious disdain, “are none of those things.”

satoru feels something die inside his chest. possibly his will to live. definitely his ego.

because the thing is, you’re right. he doesn’t look like the man you married anymore. he looks like a college student, all gangly limbs and baby fat and skin that hasn’t been weathered by years of late nights in the lab. he looks like someone who might ask you for help with his homework, not someone who’s built you a smart house that anticipates your every need.

“but i know things!” he says desperately, his voice cracking in a way that makes him want to crawl into a hole and die. “i know about your scar from when you fell off your bike when you were seven! it’s shaped like a crescent moon and you hate it but i think it’s beautiful! i know you cry during dog food commercials but only the ones with golden retrievers! i know you keep our wedding photo in your recipe book, tucked between the pages for chocolate chip cookies and banana bread!”

your expression grows more dangerous with each word, and the weapon in your hand charges up another notch.

“you sick little stalker,” you hiss, and the venom in your voice could probably strip paint. “how dare you dig into our private life and try to use our precious memories against me! what kind of pathetic creep researches someone’s marriage just to play dress-up?”

“i’m not playing dress-up!” he protests, and he knows he sounds pathetic, knows he looks like exactly what you think he is—some obsessed fan who’s done way too much homework. “i know about the time you got food poisoning from that seafood place and i held your hair while you threw up! i know you have a freckle shaped like a heart on your left shoulder! i know you sing off-key in the shower but you think you sound like an angel!”

“stop it!” you snap, and your finger hovers over the trigger. “stop trying to soil our beautiful relationship with your creepy research!”

“i know about our first fight!” he rushes on, desperate now, sweat beading on his forehead. “it was about the thermostat because you like the house warm and i run hot! i know you forgave me by leaving little notes in my lab equipment! i know you doodle my name in the margins of your books when you’re daydreaming!”

each piece of intimate knowledge he reveals only seems to make you angrier, and satoru realizes with growing horror that he’s trapped in some sort of emotional paradox. the more he proves he knows you, the more you’re convinced he’s a stranger.

“and i know,” he adds, his voice dropping to something desperate and broken, “that you’re wearing the perfume i bought you for your birthday. the one that smells like vanilla and jasmine and makes me want to bury my face in your neck and never leave.”

you go very, very still.

“that’s enough,” you say quietly, and somehow that’s more terrifying than when you were shouting. “i don’t care how much you’ve stalked us, how many private details you’ve dug up, how perfectly you’ve copied his appearance. you are not my husband.”

“but—”

“my husband,” you continue, and your voice goes soft and dreamy again, like you’re talking about something holy, “is perfect. he’s brilliant and beautiful and kind, and he loves me exactly as much as i love him. he’s probably in his lab right now, working on something that’s going to change the world, missing me but dedicated to his research because that’s who he is. that’s the man i married.”

the weapon powers up another notch, and satoru is pretty sure it’s no longer set to ‘stun.’

“and you,” you say, looking him up and down with obvious disgust, “are just some sad little boy with a crush and too much time on your hands. so here’s what’s going to happen. you’re going to leave. now. and if i see you anywhere near our house again, i’m going to do something that will require a very good explanation to the police.”

satoru stares at you—really looks at you—and sees the fierce protectiveness in your eyes, the way you’re guarding not just your home but your marriage, your happiness, your love for a man you think is safely tucked away in his basement lab.

you’re magnificent. terrifying and beautiful and absolutely magnificent.

and you’re about to potentially murder him while defending his honor.

“i know about the night after our second anniversary,” he tries one more time, his voice breaking completely now. “when you wore that blue nightgown with the little ribbons, and we danced in the kitchen to that song you love, and then we—”

“that’s it.”

the blast catches him square in the chest, and suddenly satoru is airborne, flying backward off your porch and landing in the rose bushes he’d planted for your last birthday. the thorns are sharp, but not nearly as sharp as the look you’d given him right before pulling the trigger.

he lies there for a moment, stunned and possibly concussed, staring up at the sky and trying to process what just happened.

through the ringing in his ears, he hears you call out: “my husband is a genius with 845 patents and the most brilliant mind of our generation! you’re just some sad little boy who probably googled him! stay away from our house, or next time i’m setting this thing to something more permanent!”

the door slams with enough force to rattle the windows.

satoru continues lying in the roses, rose petals in his hair and thorns in his dignity, and tries to comprehend the fact that his own wife just threatened to potentially murder him while defending his honor with the very weapon he’d built to protect her.

somewhere in the distance, a bird chirps. a car drives by. the world continues spinning as if nothing momentous has just occurred.

he’s never been more in love in his entire life. which is probably a sign that he needs therapy. or a lobotomy. possibly both.

he lies there for a moment. processing. his ribs hurt. his pride hurts more. his entire soul aches in a way that is both deeply romantic and profoundly stupid.

“also!” you shout from the upstairs window, your voice carrying that indignant tone you get when you’re really worked up, “my husband has better hair! and better posture! and he’s taller! and he knows how to dress himself like an adult instead of a lost college freshman!”

each addition feels like salt in the wound. you’re systematically dismantling every aspect of his nineteen-year-old appearance while praising the twenty-nine-year-old version with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for describing paradise.

“and he smells better!” you continue, apparently not done with your character assassination. “like expensive cologne and coffee and home, not like... like drugstore body spray and desperation!”

satoru sniffs himself reflexively. he doesn’t smell like desperation. does he? the drugstore body spray comment is just mean, especially since he’d specifically chosen the brand you’d complimented on a stranger once.

“and his voice!” you’re really getting into it now, leaning out the window with the fervor of someone delivering a sermon. “his voice is deeper, and smoother, and when he says my name it sounds like music instead of like a squeaky toy!”

he touches his throat self-consciously. his voice had been deeper before the accident, richer, more confident. now he sounds like he’s going through puberty again, all cracks and uncertain intonation.

“and he would never be stupid enough to break into someone’s house like some kind of delinquent!” you conclude with devastating finality. “my husband is a gentleman and a scholar and the most wonderful man who ever lived, and you’re just some discount imposter who isn’t fit to shine his shoes!”

the window slams shut.

satoru groans. loud and dramatic and entirely justified.

he really should’ve just built a cloning machine. or left a video message in case of accidental de-aging. or tattooed a note to his own arm. but no, he had to get ambitious. he had to try and invent time-space atmospheric slowdown like a dumbass in love.

he drags himself up from the rosebush, brushing petals and leaves from his shirt. there’s one stuck in his hair, refusing to leave like it has a vendetta. his reflection in the front window shows a pathetic figure: clothes wrinkled, hair disheveled, a small cut on his cheek from the thorns, and an expression of profound defeat.

this is what rock bottom looks like, apparently. getting ejected from his own home by his own wife while she sings the praises of his other self.

the irony is suffocating. you love him so much that you’d attack anyone who even pretended to be him. your loyalty is absolute, your devotion unwavering, your protective instincts sharp enough to cut glass. it’s everything he’d ever wanted in a partner, everything he’d fallen in love with, turned against him in the cruelest possible way.

he presses his hand to his chest, where the stun device got him. it still tingles, a reminder of your precision, your preparedness, the way you’d defended your marriage without a moment’s hesitation. you’d been magnificent, absolutely magnificent, and he’d been the target.

satoru limps toward the sidewalk, his teenage body protesting every movement. his legs feel too long, his center of gravity all wrong. everything about this borrowed youth feels like wearing an ill-fitting costume to the most important performance of his life.

he looks back at the house—your house, his house, the home you’d built together—and feels the weight of his isolation settle around him like a heavy coat. inside, you’re probably making dinner, humming that song you always hum when you’re slightly stressed, maybe wondering why the strange boy keeps bothering you when your husband is working so hard in his lab.

the thought of you worrying, of you feeling unsafe in your own home because of his appearance, makes his chest tight with guilt. he’d never wanted to frighten you, never wanted to make you feel threatened or uncomfortable. he’d just wanted to come home.

but this isn’t working. two weeks of doorbell rejections, verbal demolitions, and physical removal have made it clear that the direct approach is a spectacular failure. you’re not going to believe him, not when he looks like this, not when every instinct you have is screaming that he’s an imposter.

he understands that you love your husband—him—so much that you’ll fight off anyone who threatens that love, even if it means breaking your own tender heart to do it. he understands that the depth of your devotion is exactly what makes this situation so impossible.

he also understands that his dignity, his principles, his stubborn refusal to sneak around his own house like a common criminal, has just officially been abandoned in your rose bushes along with his pride.

because two weeks without you is already too long, and the thought of spending even one more night in a hotel room that smells like industrial disinfectant instead of your vanilla perfume makes him want to invent a time machine just so he can go back and slap his past self for being such an arrogant idiot.

science is about adaptation. evolution. knowing when to abandon a failed hypothesis and try a new approach.

tonight, dr. satoru gojo, nobel prize winner and distinguished gentleman of science, is going to break into his own house like a lovesick teenager.

his dignity is already dead anyway. might as well bury it properly.

night falls like a heavy curtain draped by a particularly melodramatic theater director, and satoru crouches in the shadows of his own garden like some sort of discount romeo—if romeo had been a twenty-nine-year-old genius trapped in a nineteen-year-old’s body and juliet had been his own wife who’d recently threatened him with what appeared to be a weaponized jewelry box.

the irony tastes like burnt coffee and shattered dreams. he’s spent six years turning this place into fort knox’s prettier, more technologically advanced cousin, all in the name of protecting you from theoretical dangers that pale in comparison to the very real threat of his own stupidity. motion sensors that could detect a butterfly’s landing, cameras with night vision that would make the military weep with envy, locks that respond to seventeen different biometric markers—and here he is, plotting to break into his own fortress like the world’s most pathetic cat burglar.

the security system hums softly in the darkness, a technological lullaby he’d programmed himself. every blinking light, every nearly invisible laser grid, every pressure-sensitive tile in the walkway—his own paranoid genius, now turned against him like some sort of karmic boomerang wrapped in irony and spite.

he adjusts his reading glasses and studies the house like a general surveying a battlefield. except generals probably don’t usually have to factor in the devastating effects of seeing their beloved wearing pajamas into their strategic planning.

the kitchen window. salvation arrives in the form of his own procrastination—there’s a loose latch on the kitchen window that he’s been meaning to fix for approximately four months and seventeen days. not that he’s counting. you’d mentioned it in passing on a tuesday morning while making pancakes, your hair still mussed from sleep, wearing that ridiculous apron with the anthropomorphic strawberries that should have looked childish but instead made you look like some sort of domestic goddess descended from mount olympus to bless his unworthy kitchen with your presence.

he’d nodded and made appropriate husband noises about adding it to his mental to-do list, then promptly forgotten because you’d started humming that song—the one you always hum when you’re happy, the one that sounds like sunshine would if sunshine had a voice—and his brain had short-circuited somewhere between “fix window latch” and “marry this woman again immediately.”

procrastination, it turns out, has never felt so much like divine intervention.

satoru approaches the window with the careful precision of someone who knows exactly how much pressure the old frame can take before it creaks loud enough to wake the neighbors’ dog, which would start a chain reaction of barking that would inevitably lead to you investigating the commotion. his nineteen-year-old fingers work the latch with muscle memory that spans a decade—apparently some things transcend the space-time continuum, including his intimate knowledge of his own home’s structural weaknesses.

the window slides open with barely a whisper, and satoru feels a brief moment of triumph that’s immediately crushed under the weight of what he’s actually doing. breaking and entering. into his own house. to convince his own wife that he’s actually himself. 

if there’s a support group for men who’ve been defeated by their own scientific brilliance, he’s definitely going to need the membership information.

he slips through the window with the fluid grace of his temporarily teenage body, and the contrast is jarring—he’d forgotten how easy movement used to be, before years of hunching over microscopes and circuit boards had given him the posture of a question mark and the flexibility of a particularly rigid breadstick. his nineteen-year-old joints don’t protest the maneuver, don’t crack ominously or require the careful choreography he’s grown accustomed to.

it’s like being a ghost haunting his own life, except ghosts probably don’t have to worry about whether their wives will recognize them.

the house settles around him in the darkness, familiar as his own heartbeat. every creak of the floorboards, every sigh of the old ventilation system, every subtle shift of air that speaks of home and safety and belonging. the scent of dinner lingers in the air—something with garlic and herbs that makes his stomach growl traitorously, reminding him that nineteen-year-old metabolisms apparently require more fuel than whatever laboratory subsistence he’s been surviving on.

guilt tastes like copper pennies and regret as he imagines you eating alone, probably glancing at the basement door every few minutes, wondering if your husband remembered to eat anything more substantial than the sandwiches you’d left for him. the automated messages from his ai assistant feel like lead weights in his chest—every perfectly crafted lie, every synthetic expression of love and longing, every digital deception that kept you from worrying while the real satoru stumbled around in a teenage body like some sort of scientific cautionary tale.

his feet hit the kitchen floor with barely a whisper of sound, and for a moment, he allows himself to breathe. step one: infiltration successful. step two: somehow make it to the basement without triggering any of the—

the lights explode to life like the sun deciding to have a particularly vindictive tantrum.

“gotcha, you little creep.”

and there you are.

standing in the doorway like an avenging angel who’d decided that white cotton nightgowns were the appropriate battle attire for dealing with home invaders. the nightdress—the one with the lace trim that he’d bought you for your birthday because you’d mentioned once that you felt pretty in white—catches the harsh kitchen light and transforms you into something ethereal and terrifying in equal measure.

your hair spills over your shoulders in loose waves, the same waves he’s buried his fingers in countless times, that he’s watched catch morning sunlight during lazy weekend mornings when the world consisted of nothing but you and him and the space between heartbeats. but there’s steel in your posture now, a predatory grace that speaks of skills he’d never suspected, secrets kept with the casual competence of someone who’s been protecting others while letting them think they were doing the protecting.

satoru opens his mouth to explain, to plead, to throw himself at your mercy and grovel with the desperation of a man who’s spent two weeks learning exactly how much his life means nothing without you in it—

your hand moves faster than his genius brain can process, faster than the calculations that usually come as naturally as breathing, faster than any of the combat scenarios he’s ever run through his head during his more paranoid moments.

the karate chop catches him right at the base of his neck with surgical precision, and satoru’s world doesn’t just explode into stars—it becomes a supernova of sensation and realization and the most inappropriate surge of attraction he’s ever experienced.

because even as his vision goes blurry around the edges, even as his knees buckle and his carefully planned explanations scatter like startled birds, even as consciousness starts its tactical retreat from the battlefield of his skull—you’re beautiful.

devastatingly, impossibly, catastrophically beautiful.

he’d known you were deadly, in the abstract way that husbands know their wives are capable of anything. but seeing it, experiencing the controlled violence of someone who’s spent years learning how to end threats efficiently and effectively, watching the way you move with the fluid confidence of someone who’s never doubted their ability to protect what matters—

it’s like falling in love all over again, except this time it’s happening while his nervous system stages a coup and his equilibrium files for immediate resignation.

the woman he’d married, the one who makes him sandwiches with the crusts cut off because you knows he eats more when food is convenient, the one who leaves little notes in his lab reminding him to drink water and take breaks, the one who hums while doing laundry and always smells like vanilla and clean cotton and home—you just incapacitated him with the casual efficiency of someone who’s been trained to handle much worse threats than lovesick scientists with poor life choices.

and he’s never been more attracted to another human being in his entire existence.

his vision swims, the edges of the world growing soft and fuzzy like someone’s smeared vaseline on the lens of reality. but even through the haze of imminent unconsciousness, he can see you clearly—the slight flush in your cheeks from adrenaline, the way your breathing has quickened just fractionally, the protective fire in your eyes that speaks of love fierce enough to level cities.

“you,” his mouth tries to form words, but his tongue feels like it’s been replaced with cotton batting soaked in novocaine. “you’re...”

“insane?” you supply helpfully, though your voice carries that particular note of concern that always appears when you think he might be hurt. “scary? criminally strong?”

“perfect,” he manages, and even slurred beyond recognition, the word carries every ounce of wonder and adoration and bone-deep reverence he feels.

you blink, clearly not expecting that response from your supposed stalker, and in that moment of confusion, satoru sees something shift in your expression. a flicker of uncertainty, a crack in the armor of your righteous fury that lets just a hint of the woman he knows peek through.

then the world tilts sideways, his legs forget how to function, and consciousness waves goodbye with all the dignity of a deflating balloon.

satoru surfaces from the depths of unconsciousness like a man drowning in reverse, fighting his way back to a reality that feels suspiciously soft and comfortable for someone who’d just been neutralized by his own wife.

the mother of all headaches pounds against his skull with the rhythm of a particularly enthusiastic drummer, and somewhere in the distance, birds are chirping with the sort of aggressive cheerfulness that makes him want to invent a device for negotiating with wildlife.

satoru opens his eyes to find himself on the porch—his porch, their porch, the one with the swing he’d installed because you’d mentioned once that you’d always wanted one—with a pillow tucked carefully under his head and a glass of water sitting nearby like a peace offering from the goddess of justified violence.

even while knocking him unconscious for breaking into his own home, you’d made sure he was comfortable.

the pillow smells like you—vanilla and that lavender fabric softener you use and something indefinably warm that he’s never been able to identify but would recognize anywhere. it’s the same scent that clings to his shirts when you do laundry, the same one that fills their bedroom in the mornings, the same one that he associates with safety and belonging and the radical concept that someone might actually love him enough to put up with his particular brand of brilliant stupidity.

he sits up slowly, his head spinning like a carnival ride operated by someone with a grudge against inner ears, and catches sight of a note tucked under the water glass. the handwriting is yours—neat, precise, with the same careful attention to detail you bring to everything from grocery lists to the birthday cards you make by hand because you say store-bought ones don’t carry enough love.

for the headache. next time, try using the front door like a normal stalker. —the wife of the REAL satoru gojo

despite everything—the splitting headache, the existential crisis, the fact that he’s been reduced to breaking into his own home like some sort of romantic criminal—he smiles. even your passive-aggressive notes are perfect. even when you’re threatening him with bodily harm, you’re taking care of him. even when you think he’s some delusional teenager with stalker tendencies, you’re making sure he’s hydrated and comfortable.

he’s never been more in love, which would be romantic if it weren’t so completely pathetic.

the front door opens with the sort of casual grace that suggests you’ve been watching him from inside, probably trying to determine whether he’s going to keel over again or attempt another round of breaking and entering. you step out wearing a blue sundress that makes his chest ache with longing so profound it feels like a physical injury—the one with tiny white flowers that he’d bought you for your second anniversary because you’d mentioned once that it reminded you of the field where you’d had your first picnic.

you’re carrying a plate of what looks like his favorite cookies, the ones you only make when you’re worried or upset, the ones that involve three different types of chocolate and a recipe you guard more jealously than state secrets. the fact that you’ve made them now, for what you think is a complete stranger, speaks to a kindness so fundamental that it makes his throat close up with emotion.

“you’re awake,” you observe, settling into the porch chair you’d insisted on buying last spring, the one he’d grumbled about because it didn’t match the aesthetic he’d carefully planned, the one that’s now his favorite spot in the world because it’s where you sit in the mornings with your coffee and your terrible romance novels and your complete contentment with the life you’ve built together. “good. i was starting to think i’d hit you too hard.”

there’s genuine concern in your voice, the same tone you use when he’s working too late and you’re worried he’s going to collapse from exhaustion, and satoru feels his dignity—what little remains of it—crumble into dust. his wife is worried about the wellbeing of someone she thinks is essentially a teenage stalker, because that’s the kind of person you are. that’s the kind of heart you have.

he struggles to his feet, swaying slightly as his nineteen-year-old equilibrium files a formal complaint about the abuse it’s recently endured. “you... you know karate?”

the question comes out slightly accusatory, tinged with the bewilderment of a man discovering that his beloved is capable of violence on a level he’d never imagined. six years of marriage, six years of thinking he knew everything about you, six years of believing he was the protector in this relationship—

“among other things.” you bite into a cookie with the satisfied air of someone who’s just discovered an interesting new fact about the world, watching him with the expression of someone observing a particularly fascinating specimen under laboratory conditions. “my husband doesn’t know. i like letting him think he needs to protect me. he makes the most adorable gadgets when he’s worried about my safety.”

the casual way you mention keeping an entire martial arts background secret from him makes satoru’s head spin worse than the concussion. not because you’ve hidden something from him—everyone deserves their secrets, their private spaces, their own mysteries to unfold in their own time—but because you’ve hidden it for the most fundamentally sweet reason imaginable.

you’ve been letting him play protector while being perfectly capable of protecting yourself, because you think his overprotectiveness is cute.

he falls in love with you all over again, which seems physically impossible given that he’s been operating at maximum love capacity for the better part of a decade, but apparently the human heart has hidden reserves for discovering new depths of adoration even when you think you’ve already catalogued every possible reason to worship someone.

“why didn’t you tell him?” he asks, genuinely curious despite the circumstances and the growing certainty that he’s about to learn something that will fundamentally reshape his understanding of the woman he married.

your expression softens in the way that always makes his chest tight with emotion, that particular look of fond exasperation mixed with infinite patience that you reserve for discussions of your husband’s more endearing quirks.

“because my satoru gojo is the smartest man alive,” you say, and the pride in your voice makes something warm and golden spread through his chest like sunrise, “but he’s also a complete idiot when it comes to the people he loves. he’d spend all his time trying to make sure i never had to use those skills instead of appreciating that i can take care of myself. this way, he gets to feel protective, i get beautiful functional jewelry and self-defense gadgets, and everyone’s happy.”

the way you say his name—their name, his name, the name you chose to take and make your own—carries so much love it’s like being hit by lightning made of pure affection. there’s pride and exasperation and devotion all wrapped up together, the voice of someone who sees all his flaws and brilliant strengths and loves him not despite them but because of the ridiculous, wonderful, impossible whole they create.

“he’s lucky,” satoru says quietly, his voice rough with emotions he can’t begin to untangle, “to have someone who understands him so well.”

“he is,” you agree, and your smile could power entire cities, could fuel space programs, could probably solve half the world’s energy crisis if properly harnessed. “he’s brilliant and kind and funny, and he makes me laugh every single day. he’s also terrible at remembering to eat when he’s working and has a tendency to forget that normal people need more than three hours of sleep, but he’s perfect. he’s mine.”

satoru has never experienced jealousy of himself before, but it turns out to be a unique form of psychological torture—listening to the woman he loves describe him with such complete adoration while being unable to claim that love for himself. it’s like being handed a gift and told you can look but never touch, like being shown paradise through bulletproof glass.

the domesticity of it, the casual way you catalogue his flaws alongside his strengths, the matter-of-fact possessiveness in that final declaration—it’s everything he’s ever wanted and everything he currently can’t have, all wrapped up in a blue sundress and served with homemade cookies.

“what if,” he tries carefully, his voice pitched to sound like idle curiosity rather than the desperate plea it actually is, “hypothetically, something happened to him? what if he was... changed somehow?”

your expression shifts faster than a summer storm, going from warm affection to arctic fury in the space between heartbeats. the cookie in your hand crumbles slightly from the sudden tension in your grip, chocolate chips scattering like the remains of his dignity.

“nothing’s going to happen to my husband,” you say, and your voice carries the kind of quiet menace that speaks of consequences beyond imagination. “and if someone tried to hurt him, they’d have to go through me first.”

the protective fire in your eyes makes something primal and deeply satisfied purr in his chest, even as his rational mind catalogs this as yet another example of how thoroughly he’s miscalculated this entire situation. you’d go to war for him. you’d fight gods and demons and the fundamental forces of the universe itself if it meant keeping him safe.

and here he is, the very person you’re trying to protect, being threatened by that same fierce love.

“but hypothetically—”

“no hypotheticals.” you stand up with sharp, efficient movements, smoothing your dress with the same precision you bring to everything, from folding fitted sheets to organizing his lab equipment when he’s too scattered to think straight. “my husband is in his lab, working on something that’s going to change the world, because that’s what he does. and you’re going to stop harassing us, because that’s what you’re going to do if you want to keep all your limbs attached.”

the dismissal is absolute, final, delivered with the authority of someone who’s never doubted their ability to follow through on threats. you disappear back into the house like an avenging angel returning to heaven, leaving satoru alone with his thoughts and the growing certainty that dignity is a luxury he can no longer afford.

he sits on the porch steps—his own porch steps, in front of his own house, locked out by his own security system and his own wife—and contemplates the spectacular wreckage of his scientific career. somewhere in that basement, his life’s work hums quietly, the temporal displacement device that was supposed to give him more time with you having instead stolen the time he already had.

the irony would be poetic if it weren’t so completely devastating.

satoru gojo, holder of 845 patents, winner of seventeen international scientific awards, the man who’d revolutionized three separate fields before his thirtieth birthday—reduced to breaking into his own home like a common criminal, only to be defeated by his wife’s previously unknown martial arts skills and her absolutely justified protective instincts.

he’s given up his dignity, his professional reputation, and apparently his door privileges, all because he’d been too excited about surprising you with a scientific breakthrough to properly test the safety protocols.

note to self: next time he wants to revolutionize temporal mechanics, maybe start with laboratory mice instead of jumping straight to human trials. 

assuming there is a next time. assuming he can figure out how to convince you that the teenager on your porch is actually your husband without sounding like the world’s most delusional stalker.

the basement feels very far away suddenly, farther than when he’d been planning his infiltration, farther than the actual physical distance between the porch and the lab where his salvation waits. because now he understands the true scope of his problem: it’s not just about fixing the temporal displacement device.

it’s about rebuilding trust with someone who thinks he’s been safely contained in his laboratory while a dangerous stranger makes increasingly desperate attempts to insert himself into their life.

satoru sighs deeply like a man who has discovered that rock bottom has a basement, and that basement has a sub-basement, and he’s currently spelunking through the geological layers of his own humiliation. the pillow you’d left under his head when you dragged his unconscious body out here mocks him with its floral pattern—little daisies that seem to whisper pathetic in tiny flower voices.

his dignity lies somewhere in your rose bushes, probably fertilizing the begonias.

he stares hopelessly at his own house—the house he designed, built, and has been systematically locked out of by his own security measures. the irony tastes like pennies and poor life choices. somewhere in that house, you’re probably stress-baking again, creating cookies that could end world hunger while muttering about stalkers and the general incompetence of teenage boys who think they can impersonate geniuses.

the truly tragic part is that you’re not wrong. he is a teenage boy trying to impersonate a genius. the fact that he actually is that genius feels like a technicality that the universe is refusing to acknowledge.

satoru stands up, brushing pillow lint off his jeans (when had he started wearing jeans? his twenty-nine-year-old self exclusively wore slacks, but apparently his teenage body had different sartorial opinions). if he’s going to reclaim his life, his wife, and his chronological age, he needs to get into that lab.

the front door is obviously out of the question. you’ve made it abundantly clear that any further doorbell-related activities will result in weaponized consequences that his nineteen-year-old body might not survive. the back door is visible from the kitchen window, where you’re probably standing guard like a beautiful, homicidal sentinel.

which leaves him with the architectural equivalent of a hail mary: the basement windows.

he circles the house like a cat burglar who’s read too many heist novels and not enough actual breaking-and-entering manuals. the basement windows are small, the kind of windows that had seemed like a good idea when he was designing a lab and wanted natural light but not easy access. past-satoru had been worried about corporate espionage, not future-satoru trying to infiltrate his own laboratory while trapped in a temporal paradox of the most embarrassing variety.

the window on the east side looks promising. it’s partially hidden by the hydrangea bushes you’d planted last spring, the ones that bloom in impossible shades of blue because you’d somehow convinced them that regular hydrangea colors were beneath their potential. the glass is dirty enough to provide cover, and the latch looks old enough to have the structural integrity of a wet paper bag.

satoru crouches in the dirt, feeling like the world’s most pathetic ninja. his knees protest against the unfamiliar position—nineteen-year-old joints might be more flexible, but they’re also apparently more dramatic about being asked to crouch in garden soil. 

the window latch gives way with the kind of rusty shriek that could wake the dead, the neighbors, and possibly several small woodland creatures. satoru freezes, waiting for the sound of your footsteps, the opening of doors, the general commotion that would signal his discovery and subsequent re-unconsciousness.

nothing.

either you didn’t hear it, or you’re currently sharpening something in the kitchen while humming ominously.

he slides the window open with the careful precision of someone who knows exactly how much the old frame can take before it decides to give up on life entirely. the basement yawns below him like the mouth of some scientific purgatory, all shadows and the faint hum of machines he’d built to make the world a better place.

getting through the window requires a level of physical coordination that his nineteen-year-old body possesses but his twenty-nine-year-old dignity abhors. he ends up sliding through headfirst, performing what could generously be called a controlled fall and more accurately described as a graceless tumble that would make circus performers weep.

his feet hit the concrete floor with all the stealth of a bag of hammers being dropped from a significant height.

the basement lab stretches before him like a technological cathedral, all gleaming surfaces and blinking lights that pulse in rhythm with machines whose purposes range from “revolutionary” to “probably shouldn’t exist but here we are anyway.” this is his domain, his kingdom, his sanctuary of scientific achievement and questionable decision-making.

it also feels like coming home and visiting a crime scene simultaneously.

everything is exactly as he’d left it two weeks ago, frozen in the moment when he’d stepped into the temporal field with the confidence of someone who hadn’t yet learned that the universe has a twisted sense of humor. the half-finished temporal displacement device sits on the main workbench like an accusation, all smooth curves and innocent blinking lights that belie its capacity for chronological chaos.

coffee cups are scattered around like caffeinated archaeological artifacts, each one marking a different stage of his research. there’s the mug you’d given him for his birthday with “world’s okayest scientist” written in comic sans font—your little joke about his ego that he treasures more than his nobel prize nomination. there’s the plain white cup he uses when he’s really focused, the one with the chip on the handle from when he’d gotten excited about a breakthrough and gestured too enthusiastically. there’s even the fancy porcelain teacup his mother had given him, which he only uses when he’s feeling particularly pretentious about his discoveries.

each cup tells the story of late nights, early mornings, and the kind of obsessive focus that leads to temporal displacement incidents.

his phone sits on the desk, buzzing intermittently with notifications he can’t answer. the screen lights up every few minutes with incoming messages, calls from colleagues, reminders about appointments he’s apparently missing while trapped in his own temporal feedback loop. but it’s the outgoing messages that make his stomach twist into knots that could anchor ships.

the ai assistant is working with the efficiency of a swiss watch and the emotional intelligence of someone who actually knows him. every few hours, it crafts another perfect message to your phone, each one a masterpiece of his writing style mixed with the kind of scientific romanticism that had won your heart six years ago.

making progress on the quantum stabilization matrix. the equations are beautiful—almost as beautiful as you in that yellow dress this morning. did you eat lunch? —satoru

breakthrough with the temporal field generators! i think i can increase efficiency by 34%. also, i dreamed about that weekend in kyoto again. we should go back soon. —your devoted husband

minor setback with the power coupling, but nothing i can’t fix. missing your voice. send a voice message please? maybe hum that song you like while i work? it always helps me think. —satoru

each message is a perfect imitation of his writing style, his habits, his love for you wrapped in scientific progress reports. they capture the way he thinks, the way he speaks, the way he can’t seem to separate his work from his adoration of you because everything he creates is somehow inspired by your existence.

no wonder you believe he’s down here, buried in his work, missing you but dedicated to his research. the ai had done its job too well, creating a digital phantom that was more convincing than his actual de-aged presence.

reading them makes him want to punch his past self for being so thorough, so careful, so goddamn good at programming an assistant that could replicate his personality down to the way he signs his messages with scientific terminology and pet names in equal measure.

satoru rolls up his sleeves and approaches his workstation like a penitent approaching an altar.

the lab’s security system chirps softly as he moves through the space, sensors tracking his movement with the bored efficiency of technology that recognizes him but doesn’t particularly care about his current chronological displacement. red lights blink in sequence along the walls, a heartbeat of recognition that would normally make him feel secure and accomplished.

instead, it feels like the lab is mocking him. oh look, the blinking seems to say, it’s the genius who outsmarted himself into adolescence.

the temporal displacement device looks innocent enough sitting there on the main workbench—a sleek silver contraption about the size of a microwave, all smooth curves and the kind of blinking lights that movie audiences associate with either miracle cures or impending explosions. he’d been so proud of it when he’d finished the initial design, so excited to show you what he’d been working on for months.

the irony burns like acid in his chest: he’d built a machine to give himself more time with you, and instead, it had stolen the time he already had.

but now, looking at it with the clarity that comes from two weeks of enforced separation and multiple instances of being rendered unconscious by his own wife, he can see exactly what went wrong. the power coupling on the left side shows signs of overheating, the quantum stabilization matrix is operating at 73% efficiency instead of the required 89%, and the temporal field generators are displaying the kind of fluctuation patterns that suggest they’re one strong breeze away from turning him into quantum soup.

his nineteen-year-old hands remember the work even if they look different doing it—smoother, unlined, with calluses in different places that speak of a life not yet lived. muscle memory is a beautiful thing, and soon he’s lost in the familiar rhythm of calibration and adjustment, replacing the burnt-out components that had caused the initial malfunction.

the security system continues its soft surveillance, cameras tracking his movement as he works. somewhere in the house above, you’re probably going about your evening routine, maybe reading in the living room chair he’d bought specifically because it makes you look like a goddess of domestic tranquility, maybe taking a bath in the tub he’d designed with jets positioned exactly where you like them.

you think your husband is down here, safely contained in his laboratory, working on equations that could revolutionize temporal mechanics. you have no idea that your husband is actually down here, working on equations that could return him to the age where you might not instinctively try to karate chop him on sight.

hours pass in the peculiar way that time moves when you’re focused on something that requires every neuron in your brain to fire in perfect synchronization. his back aches from hunching over the workbench—some things never change, regardless of what decade your spine thinks it’s living in. his eyes water behind his reading glasses, the same prescription he’s had since childhood because apparently temporal displacement doesn’t fix astigmatism.

the basement air grows stale and recycled, nothing like the fresh scent of your perfume or the way the house smells when you’re baking. down here, everything smells like ozone and possibility, metal and dreams, the peculiar combination of scents that comes from trying to bend the universe to your will through applied science and stubborn determination.

component by component, equation by equation, he rebuilds what his hubris had broken. the quantum stabilization matrix purrs back to life, its efficiency climbing toward the magic number that means the difference between “successful temporal correction” and “decorating the lab walls with physicist.” the power coupling stops smoking, which he takes as a positive sign, though the bar for success has been dramatically lowered by recent events.

finally, blessedly, after what feels like several geological ages, the device hums to life with the soft blue glow that means everything is working properly. the sound it makes is almost musical, a harmony of frequencies that speaks to the part of his brain that understands how beautiful math can be when it’s applied to impossible problems.

satoru stares at it for a long moment, this machine that had caused so much chaos, so much pain, so much embarrassment. it looks the same as it had two weeks ago, before he’d stepped into it with the confidence of someone who hadn’t yet learned that the universe has a deeply personal vendetta against his happiness.

but now it’s fixed. now it can undo what it had done, return him to the chronological age where his wife doesn’t look at him like he’s a particularly offensive piece of gum stuck to her shoe.

he takes a deep breath, tasting the metallic tang of possibility and ozone, and steps into the temporal field.

the world bends.

reality stretches like taffy in the hands of a cosmic confectioner who’s had too much caffeine and not enough sleep. colors bleed into each other, the visible spectrum having what appears to be a nervous breakdown while time folds backward on itself with the sensation of falling upward through a kaleidoscope made of mathematics and regret.

his bones feel like they’re growing, stretching, settling back into familiar patterns that his muscles remember even if his consciousness is currently experiencing what could best be described as temporal vertigo. his face reshapes itself like clay in the hands of chronology, features aging forward to match the man you’d fallen in love with, married, and spent six years learning to live with.

the sensation is indescribable and entirely uncomfortable, like being turned inside out by time itself while someone plays a symphony written in mathematical equations. his cells remember being twenty-nine, and they rush toward that memory with the enthusiasm of teenagers remembering they have a curfew.

when the light fades and the world stops doing its impression of a funhouse mirror designed by someone with a degree in theoretical physics, satoru catches sight of himself in the polished surface of another machine.

he looks like himself again. twenty-nine years old, tall and lean, with the same pale hair that had turned white when he was four and stayed that way out of what he suspects is pure stubbornness. the same eyes behind the same reading glasses, the same hands that you’ve memorized, the same face that you’ve kissed goodnight for six years.

the face you’d married, the body you’d mapped with your hands on lazy sunday mornings, the version of himself that you actually wanted to see walking through the door instead of some temporal impostor with the emotional maturity of a teenager and the physical appearance to match.

he runs his hands over his face, feeling the familiar planes and angles, the slight roughness of stubble that his nineteen-year-old self had been too optimistic to grow properly. these are the hands that have held you, touched you, built you impossibly complex gifts that serve no purpose other than making you smile.

satoru straightens his sweater and climbs the basement stairs like a man ascending to heaven, or at least to the ground floor where his wife is probably stress-baking cookies and muttering about the general incompetence of teenagers who think they can impersonate geniuses.

time to go home.

time to reclaim his life, his wife, and his dignity—though he suspects the dignity might be a lost cause at this point.

the basement door opens onto the kitchen, and the smell of home washes over him like a blessing from the domestic gods: vanilla and cinnamon, the lavender detergent you use on the dish towels, the faint scent of the coffee you’d made this morning before you knew your day would include multiple instances of assault and battery against your own husband.

he’s home. finally, truly, chronologically home.

you’re in the kitchen when he emerges, standing at the stove in that pink dress with the tiny pearl buttons he’s memorized but hasn’t seen in two weeks. your hair is twisted into a messy bun secured with one of his prototype hairpins—the ones that glow soft blue when you’re stressed. they’re glowing now, just barely, a testament to how worried you’ve been about his prolonged absence from the world above ground.

the wooden spoon moves in lazy circles through whatever you’re cooking, and the scent hits him like a physical force—garlic and herbs and that particular blend of spices you use when you’re making his favorite pasta. his stomach clenches with actual hunger for the first time in two weeks, nineteen-year-old metabolism finally giving way to twenty-nine-year-old appreciation for real food.

but it’s the humming that undoes him completely. that soft, unconscious melody you make when you think no one’s listening, the same tune he’d programmed into his ai messages because he’d been missing it so desperately. hearing it live, unfiltered, coming from your actual throat instead of his memory—

satoru doesn’t think. doesn’t hesitate. doesn’t announce himself like a civilized human being.

he launches himself across the kitchen like a man possessed, arms wrapping around your waist from behind, his chest pressing flush against your back as he buries his face in the curve of your neck. you smell like vanilla body lotion and that expensive shampoo he pretends not to notice the cost of, and underneath it all, just you. warm skin and the faint sweetness that clings to your hair, the scent that’s been haunting him for fourteen endless days.

“satoru!” you yelp, startled enough that the wooden spoon goes flying, clattering across the counter and leaving a trail of red sauce in its wake. “you absolute menace, you scared me half to death!”

he makes a sound that’s half laugh, half sob, tightening his arms around you like you might evaporate if he loosens his grip even slightly. his reading glasses bump against your shoulder as he nuzzles deeper into your neck, and he can feel the butterfly clips in your hair tickling against his temple.

“missed you,” he mumbles against your skin, the words muffled and desperate. “missed you so much.”

“missed me?” your voice pitches higher, indignant and fond in equal measure. “satoru, you’ve been ten feet underground for two weeks! i’ve been cooking for you every single day, leaving plates outside your lab door, and what do i find when i check? cold food. stone cold. untouched.”

your hands come up to cover his where they’re locked around your middle, and even through your scolding, your fingers are gentle as they trace over his knuckles. “what have you even been eating? because i know it wasn’t my cooking, and if you tell me you’ve been surviving on coffee and those horrible protein bars, i’m going to—”

“also,” you continue without pausing for breath, your voice shifting into that particular tone you get when you’re gearing up for a proper lecture, ”you will not believe the past two weeks i’ve had. there’s someone who’s been lurking around our house and he who looks like some bizarre teenage version of you?”

satoru’s stomach drops. his grip on you tightens involuntarily, and he feels you notice the tension, your body shifting slightly in his arms.

“he’s been so persistent. yesterday he actually had the audacity to break into our house through the kitchen window—our kitchen window, satoru, the one with the broken latch you keep forgetting to fix.” your free hand gestures wildly, even though he can’t see it from his position behind you. “thankfully, all those self-defense gadgets you made me actually work. that little stun gun you built into my bracelet? absolutely perfect. sent him flying right off our porch.”

the embarrassment hits him like a physical weight. his face burns against your neck, and he has to resist the urge to groan out loud. you’re giving full credit to his inventions, protecting his ego even while describing how you’d defended yourself against him, and the sweetness of it makes his chest ache.

“and the motion sensors you installed last month caught him skulking around the garden at three in the morning,” you continue, oblivious to his mortification. ”honestly, the dedication is almost impressive. stalking behavior aside, you have to admire his commitment to the whole ‘young gojo’ aesthetic. though i have no idea why anyone would want to look like you did in college. you were such a baby-faced disaster back then.”

“i know you know karate,” he blurts out, the words tumbling from his mouth before he can stop them.

you go very still in his arms. the humming stops abruptly.

“what?” your voice is carefully neutral, but he can feel the way your shoulders tense, the slight shift in your breathing that means you’re calculating your next move.

“i know you know karate,” he repeats, his face burning hotter against your neck. ”you’ve been taking classes since you were twelve. you never told me because you like it when i worry about you enough to make you protection gadgets.”

the silence stretches long enough that he starts to panic. then you let out a long, shaky breath.

“how could you possibly know that?” your voice is small now, embarrassed in a way that makes him want to wrap you up and apologize for everything. “i never... i was so careful not to...”

your hands try to pull away from his, but he holds on, threading your fingers together. “because i’m the boy,” he says quietly. “the one who’s been trying to talk to you for two weeks. the one you stunned off the porch and knocked unconscious in our kitchen.”

he feels the exact moment understanding hits you. your entire body goes rigid, and then you’re spinning in his arms so fast he has to step back to avoid a collision with your elbow.

your eyes are wide, your mouth falling open in a perfect ’o’ of shock. the blush that spreads across your cheeks is magnificent and mortifying, and he watches you process the implications with the expression of someone who’s just realized they’ve been caught in the world’s most embarrassing misunderstanding.

“oh my god,” you whisper, your hands flying up to cover your face. “oh my god, satoru, i am so sorry. i thought—when he knew things about us, about our private moments, i assumed he was some kind of corporate spy, or maybe a rival scientist who’d done research on us, or—”

”a stalker,” he supplies gently, reaching up to pull your hands away from your face. “which was a completely reasonable assumption, given the circumstances.”

“i called you a discount version of yourself!” your voice cracks with horror. “i told you that you weren’t as attractive as my husband! to your face! while you were actually my husband!”

despite everything, satoru can’t help but smile at the outrage in your voice. “technically, you were defending my honor. it was actually incredibly sweet.”

“sweet?” you squeak, aghast, your palms flattening against his chest like you’re considering shoving him away. but you don’t. you stay pressed against him, trembling, overwhelmed.

“i knocked you unconscious with a karate chop!”

“you have excellent form,” he says solemnly, unable to suppress the tilt of his lips. the memory of you, so fierce, so protective, haunts him in the sweetest way—a blurred flash of your nightgown fluttering as you moved with such lethal grace. he remembers the precision, the practiced certainty in your strikes, remembers thinking you’d never looked more beautiful than in that moment where you saw him as a threat and chose violence to protect his memory.

it makes his pulse thrum in his throat. it makes him want to sink to his knees and kiss the hand that struck him.

and yet, here you are, groaning, humiliated, burying your face against his chest to escape him—as if he’s not already completely ensnared. his hands settle on your waist, loose but present, fingertips teasing over the soft fabric of your dress, as though reacquainting himself with the privilege of touching you.

he tilts his head, blue eyes gleaming behind his glasses, drinking you in with a reverence that borders on obsession. he catalogues the way you fidget, the way your lashes kiss your cheeks as you refuse to meet his gaze, the heat blooming under your skin.

there’s a little crease between your eyebrows now—he’s put it there, just as you’ve placed a permanent one on his.

his thumb brushes the edge of your jaw, coaxing you to look at him. “you kept it from me,” he murmurs, savoring the tremor that passes through you, ”because you wanted me to keep making you gadgets.”

it’s not a question. he already knows. you told him, so sweetly, so earnestly, when you believed he was a stranger, and he will hold that secret like a pressed flower tucked into the pages of his heart.

“you think my overprotectiveness is cute?” his voice softens into something breathless, incredulous, dripping with adoration. “you think it’s cute that i lose sleep making things to keep you safe? that i forget to eat because i’m too busy worrying about you?”

your blush deepens, scorching, and you tug at his shirt like you want to disappear into him. “you make me the most amazing things when you’re worried about me. and you get this little crease between your eyebrows when you’re focused, and you forget to eat or sleep, but you always remember exactly how i like my coffee, and—” he watches you falter, your words disintegrating into a strangled sound of mortification. “this is not making me sound less ridiculous. is it?”

“it’s making you sound perfect.” his forehead drops to yours, and he cradles your face like you’re breakable, like you’re the finest piece of machinery he’s ever built.“ it’s making you sound like the woman i fell in love with—the woman who’s been taking care of me, worrying about me, defending my honor against discount versions of myself.”

his grin sharpens, unable to resist, “and you defended me so well, baby. ‘not my husband.’ ‘my husband is a genius.’ ‘my husband smells better.’ ‘my husband has better posture.’”

he leans in, nipping at your bottom lip, playful, intoxicating. “my sweet wife. i’ve never felt so protected.”

your laugh bursts out of you, watery and full-bodied, your hands rising to cup his cheeks, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones in trembling circles. “i can’t believe i spent two weeks beating up my own husband.”

“i can’t believe i spent two weeks watching my wife talk about how amazing her husband is while she was actively rejecting me.” his lashes flutter as he leans into your touch, like a cat, like something basking in warmth it had been starved of. “do you have any idea how confusing that was? i was jealous of myself. i was genuinely, pathetically jealous of the man you married while being the man you married.”

it’s a confession scraped raw from his chest, but you’re laughing properly now, bright and breathless, like you’ve been untethered from something heavy. you pepper kisses over his face in rapid, dizzying succession, your lips skating over his brow, his temples, the tip of his nose.

“you’re such a dork,” you murmur, still cupping his face, like you can’t bear to let go of him.

“i’m your dork.”

his voice is rough with want, his pulse tripping over itself as he lets the weight of everything crash into him all at once. his mouth brushes over yours again, lingering, reverent. “and i missed you so much. missed being able to touch you. missed you looking at me like you’re looking at me right now instead of like i’m some creepy teenager with questionable motives.”

“you are a creepy teenager with questionable motives,” you shoot back, but your words crumble under the softness that creeps into your voice. ”you invented a time machine just so you could spend more time with me.”

“and then immediately wasted two weeks because i’m apparently the only genius in history stupid enough to de-age himself by accident.”

his thumb slides over your bottom lip, unable to resist, unable to stop touching you now that he’s allowed to. his whole body hums with the need to consume you, to drag you inside his bones, to make up for every second he’d lost.

“not wasted,” you whisper, fierce and tender all at once. “never wasted. not if it brought you back to me.”

those words detonate inside him, and suddenly the kitchen feels too small, the air too thin. he’s been existing on stolen glances and careful distance for two weeks, watching you from afar, aching with the need to touch you, to kiss you, to prove to himself that you’re real and his and finally within reach again.

“we’ve been trying for a baby,” he says hoarsely, the words spilling out before he can stop them. “for months, and i just—i wasted two weeks, and i can’t—i need—”

you silence him with a kiss, soft and desperate and tasting like the tears you’ve both been crying. your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he responds by lifting you, setting you on the counter so you’re at eye level, his hands spanning your waist, thumbs tracing circles over the soft fabric of your dress.

“i love you,” you breathe against his mouth. “i love you so much, and i’m so sorry i hurt you, and i missed you, and—”

he kisses you again, deeper this time, pouring two weeks of longing and frustration and desperate love into the contact. you taste like home, like forgiveness, like everything he’s been craving. your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and he can feel the exact moment you stop thinking and start just feeling, your body melting against his.

his glasses fog up. he doesn’t care.

your hair comes loose from its bun, the mechanical clips clattering to the counter, and he tangles his fingers in the silky strands, angling your head to deepen the kiss. you make a soft sound that goes straight through him, and he’s just starting to contemplate the structural integrity of the kitchen counter when—

ding.

the oven timer cuts through the moment like a bucket of cold water.

you break apart, both breathing hard, your lips swollen and his hair thoroughly mussed. the pink dress is wrinkled where his hands have been gripping your waist, and there’s a dazed look in your eyes that makes him want to forget dinner entirely.

“the pasta,” you say faintly.

“forget the pasta,” he growls, leaning down to press kisses along your neck, finding that spot just below your ear that makes you shiver.

ding. ding. ding.

“it’ll burn,” you protest, but your head tilts to give him better access, and your hands are still fisted in his shirt.

he doesn’t let you go. not when you say his name, not when you push at his shoulders, not when the oven timer chimes over and over like some petty background character begging for attention in a scene it no longer belongs to.

”don’t mind it,” he breathes against your throat, and it sounds less like a request, more like an instinct, as though there is nothing in this world more irrelevant than a meal when you’re in his arms again.

his lips move along the curve of your neck with reverence, brushing over your pulse, slow at first—a sweet drag of his mouth, the soft, wet pull of his tongue where your skin is most sensitive. he feels the flutter of your pulse beneath his lips, feels the way your body leans into his as though your bones have decided they’d rather trust him to hold you upright.

his breathing is uneven, shaky, like he’s on the edge of something he’s been chasing since the day he woke up in that younger body and couldn’t touch you the way he needed to. the memory claws at him now, vivid and bitter, that helpless ache of looking like himself and yet being nothing you would want to take in your arms.

you murmur something about the oven again, the protest barely formed, already dissolving into a sigh as he scrapes his teeth lightly along your skin. your hands remain curled in his shirt, not pushing anymore, just clutching—desperate, familiar, your fingers twisting into the fabric like you’re scared he might slip away again. his shirt bunches beneath your grip, your nails pressing half-moon shapes into his chest, but he craves the sting of it, the grounding pain of knowing you’re clinging to him, needing him just as much.

”it won’t burn,” he murmurs against your skin, his tongue following the line of your collarbone, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. ”it’s a timed self-shut. i programmed it myself. knew this might happen. knew i wouldn’t be able to let you go.”

he pushes his glasses up with a quick, practiced nudge of his wrist, never pulling his mouth too far from your skin. he needs to see you. needs to see every part of you. his hands are too busy, too greedy, sliding up the sides of your dress, pushing the soft fabric higher and higher until his fingertips brush the bare skin of your thighs. the dress pools around his wrists as though the fabric is surrendering to him, letting him through.

he feels you shudder when his thumbs trace slow, possessive circles just beneath the hem. he slides his hands further, the cotton dragging over your skin as if the dress itself is a barrier he’s grown to despise. ”been thinking about this for two weeks. touching you. feeling you. not some memory—you. this body.”

the tremble in your breath is sharp, palpable, sinking into his bones. your voice hitches when he catches your earlobe between his teeth, when he sucks lightly, as if tasting something he already knows belongs to him. his hands splay wide over your thighs, his touch more sure, more demanding now as though every second he isn’t inside you is unbearable. his fingertips trail along the curve of your legs, memorizing the heat and texture of your skin with the same focus he gives his research—meticulous, thorough, consumed by the need to understand everything.

he pushes his glasses up again, quick and automatic, the weight of them a familiar anchor as his vision sharpens, as though seeing you this clearly makes the need inside him all the more unbearable. he tilts his head just enough to see your lashes flutter, to watch your lips part around his name, and the sight burns into him with perfect clarity.

when his hands find your waist again, he isn’t gentle. his grip is firm, grounding, as though if he doesn’t hold you tight enough, you might vanish all over again. he tugs you back against him, hips flush to yours, and he can’t suppress the groan that punches out of him when he feels how warm you are, even through his jeans.

the heat of you burns into him, through the thin fabric, the kind of contact that makes his head spin. his cock twitches against the rough denim, aching, pulsing, a frustration that’s been building since the second he lost the chance to touch you properly.

“you’re not gonna let me feed you first?” you manage, but the breathless curl in your voice betrays you.

”you’re feeding me now,” he says, dragging his hands to your hips and grinding against you, slow and deliberate, a filthy drag of friction that has you gasping into his shoulder. he’s gone two weeks without this—without your heat, without your weight against him, without the sweetness of your mouth pressed to his.

his mouth captures yours again, the kiss messy and open-mouthed, his tongue chasing yours as though he might starve if he stops. he can’t get enough of you, can’t bear the distance, can’t stand the thought of pulling away, not even to breathe.

“but dinner—”

“it’s fine,” he murmurs, almost a laugh. “it’ll shut off on its own. you can’t burn anything while i’m loving you. made sure of it.”

his mouth moves lower, down the line of your throat, tasting the salt on your skin, the way you shiver when he noses along the curve of your shoulder. he kisses the delicate dip where your neck meets your shoulder, over and over, as though he could mark you with nothing but his mouth.

his hand slides beneath your dress again, impatient now, pushing your panties aside without ceremony. his fingertips graze your folds, and he sucks in a breath through his teeth—wet, already, and his chest tightens with something ugly and possessive because you’ve missed him just as much. the feel of you, the heat, the slick glide of his fingers dragging through your arousal—it short-circuits something in him. his jaw clenches, his breath stutters, and he presses his forehead to your shoulder to anchor himself.

“fuck, baby,” he whispers, his voice breaking apart, “look at you. missed me that much? couldn’t wait?”

his touch lingers there, gentle for a moment, tracing, teasing, his middle finger dipping to circle where you’re already aching for him. his other arm curls around your waist, holding you firm against him when your knees nearly give out. he rubs slow circles until you’re grinding into his hand, chasing the friction like you can’t stand the distance anymore. you’re warm and soft and trembling under his touch, your hips rolling helplessly, your breath hitching every time he circles just a little harder.

“satoru,” you whimper, half a plea, half a warning, but you’re already folding into him, already falling apart.

“’m here now,” he murmurs, guiding you to turn around, pressing your hands to the countertop, his body crowding you from behind. “i’m right here. gonna take care of you. gonna fuck you just like you need.”

he kisses your shoulder, slow and lingering, as though tasting your skin could imprint you deeper into him. the curve of your spine rises beneath his mouth, the faint tremble under his lips pulling something raw and animal out of him. he presses into you, his chest solid to your back, his hands smoothing over the fabric of your dress as if his touch alone could brand you as his, as if holding you like this might anchor him to this moment forever.

his jeans rasp against the softness of your thighs, each rock of his hips a little rougher, a little more desperate as he grinds against you. the friction is maddening. it makes him hiss through his teeth, makes his fingers dig into your waist like he needs to memorize the shape of you beneath his palms. when he reaches for his belt, it’s with the shaky impatience of a man on the edge of breaking. the buckle fights him, the leather dragging through the loops in a way that feels insufferably slow, and his breathing stutters, uneven, desperate.

“hurry,” you pant, your voice wrecked and pleading, your hips grinding back against him in small, frantic circles. “please, satoru, please… i need you now.”

he lets out a low curse when he finally frees himself, the tip of his cock dragging through your slick folds with a helpless groan as though even that brief touch is too much, too good, too long overdue. “fuck, baby, you’re soaked,” he breathes, half-crazed, his chest pressed tight to your back. “missed me this much, huh?”

“missed everything,” you gasp, your hands fisting around the edge of the counter, nails digging into the wood. “missed you. your voice, your hands… your cock. please, please don’t tease.”

he doesn’t wait. he can’t. he pushes into you in one, long, slow thrust, inch by aching inch, feeling you stretch and give around him, until he’s seated as deep as you can take him. the tight, wet squeeze of you makes his breath falter, a shudder wracking his frame, his body folding over you as his hands scramble for your waist, clutching like you’re the only tether left holding him to the earth.

“fuck… so full,” you whimper, your voice breaking on a gasp. “god, satoru… so good… i needed this… i needed you.”

he adjusts his glasses with a quick, shaky push, his vision sharpening just in time to burn the sight of you into memory—the delicate arch of your spine, the way your fingers clench around the countertop, the way your hips fit perfectly in his hands like you were carved just for him. the view sears itself into him, and the weight of it nearly drives him to the edge.

“shit… you feel like home,” he rasps, his voice fraying at the edges, his hands tightening until his knuckles ache. he pulls out slow, savoring the sweet, unbearable friction that drags along every nerve in his cock, only to slam back in with a force that steals his breath. again. and again. a steady, greedy pace that grows frantic under the pressure of his need.

the wet slap of skin against skin fills the kitchen, tangled with his ragged breathing and the soft, gasping sounds you make beneath him, each one sinking into him, winding tighter and tighter inside his ribs.

“oh, fuck, satoru…” you cry out, each thrust knocking the air from your lungs, your body meeting his with a desperate rhythm. “don’t stop… please, don’t stop… you feel so good, so deep… i can’t think… i can’t think when you’re fucking me like this.”

he leans over you, his chest pressed to your back, his breath hot and ragged against your ear as he drives into you with desperate force. his lips brush over the shell of your ear, trailing kisses down your neck as though his mouth can’t bear to leave your skin for more than a second. he mutters your name between each kiss, like a mantra, like it might steady him.

“you’re mine,” he pants, his words shivering with the strain of holding himself together. he kisses along your shoulder, his pace only faltering when his hips grind deep, seeking more, always more. “i’m not wasting another second, baby. i’m gonna… fuck, i’m gonna… i’m gonna make you feel me for days.”

“i already do,” you sob, your head tipping back against his shoulder, tears blurring your vision as you clutch his hand where it grips your waist. “you’re everywhere… you’re all i can feel… all i want… please, satoru, please don’t stop…”

his hand snakes between your thighs, his fingers circling your clit with practiced pressure, coaxing you to squeeze around him, to shatter for him. “come on, baby… let me feel you… let me feel you fall apart for me.”

“satoru… satoru, please, i’m so close… fuck… fuck… don’t stop, i need… i need…”

he groans low in his throat when your walls pulse around him, his body bucking forward like the sensation has stolen the air from his lungs. his other hand glides over your stomach, over the dip of your waist, greedy for the heat of your skin beneath the thin barrier of your dress. he wants to memorize every inch of you, wants to claim you in ways his body can’t quite articulate.

he buries his face in the curve of your neck, his lips brushing against the frantic pulse at your throat, his nose pressed against your skin as he breathes you in like oxygen. “talk to me,” he breathes, desperate, hoarse, the words scraping out like they cost him. “tell me you missed me. tell me i’m the only one who gets to touch you like this. tell me you’re mine.”

“yours,” you cry out, wrecked and breathless. “i’ve always been yours… satoru, fuck… you’re the only one… i missed you… i missed you so much… i can’t… i can’t do this without you… please, don’t let me go.”

“fuck, you’re so good for me,” he groans, the sound ragged and raw, and he ruts into you harder, the snap of his hips relentless as he chases you both toward the inevitable edge. “you’re perfect… fuck, baby, you’re perfect.”

“i’m… i’m coming… satoru, please… i’m—”

he doesn’t stop. he can’t. not until he feels you clench around him, feels you fall apart, your body trembling as you come, your voice cracking on his name like it’s a prayer you’ve been holding in for days. the sensation of you pulsing around him, pulling him deeper, drags a broken groan from his chest, and only then does he finally let go.

he thrusts deep, emptying himself inside you with a raw, gasping sound, his entire body shivering with the force of it. his release comes in thick waves, like his body refuses to let you go, like it’s been waiting for this, for you, to finally come home to him.

“don’t… don’t pull out,” you whimper, your voice small and trembling, your hands covering his where he grips your hips. “please, i want… i want to feel you… please, satoru… please stay…”

he doesn’t pull out. not yet. he stays there, his chest heaving against your back, his hips pressing tight to yours, as though his body could fuse to yours if he just holds on long enough. his hand slides over your stomach, his thumb brushing the fabric of your dress, his heart thundering against your spine. he wants to stay connected, to keep his body wrapped around you until the heat subsides, until the trembling quiets.

he kisses you there, the soft curve of your shoulder, his lips dragging lazy, reverent paths over your skin, savoring the tremble still coursing through you. “gonna keep you like this,” he murmurs, his voice low, thick with something that sounds almost reverent. “gonna keep you full, baby. not wasting anything.”

his hands rub slow, soothing circles into your hips, but his cock still twitches inside you, the heat of you pulling him under all over again. he presses his mouth to your spine, trailing soft, possessive kisses up to the back of your neck, his body vibrating with the hum of restless energy that refuses to ebb. it’s not enough. it’ll never be enough. he wants to keep going until the lines between you blur completely, until you forget where he ends and you begin.

he leans in, his voice breathless but steady now, a vow he lays against your skin. “this…” he pants, rolling his hips slowly, deliberately, still buried deep inside you, “this is just the start. not letting you go. not for the rest of the night.”

“don’t let go,” you whisper, arching back into him, your fingers sliding over his as though you might trap him there. ”don’t stop… please, satoru… don’t stop…”

his grip tightens, grounding you to him like he’s afraid you might dissolve between his fingers. “baby, you don’t even know how much i’ve missed you yet.”

he rolls his hips again, savoring the drag, savoring the stretch, savoring the way you arch back into him like you’re already craving more. it’s a promise—a warning—that he isn’t stopping any time soon. his hands smooth over your sides, up to your ribs, coaxing more sounds from you, coaxing more of you to open for him. his lips hover just behind your ear, his breath brushing warm against your skin as he begins to move again, slowly building the next wave, chasing the next collapse.

he hums against you, pleased, almost smug, as you tremble beneath him. ”let me make up for lost time, baby. i’m not done. not even close.”

“please…” it’s the only thing you can form now—broken, breathless. your hands tremble as you try to hold onto him, your fingers sliding helplessly against his shirt like you might fall apart without the anchor of his touch.

he tilts his head just enough to kiss the hinge of your jaw, his pace unhurried but determined. “i’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice soft even as his body hums with something feral. “all night, baby. all night to love you, to fill you, to put our baby right where it belongs.”

he pulls out with a sharp, deliberate drag, leaving you clenching around nothing, and without giving you a moment to protest, he hauls you up, one arm locking under your thighs, the other cradling your back. you cling to him instinctively, barely able to breathe as he carries you to the bedroom, his grip rough, his breathing uneven, his jaw clenched tight with restraint he’s barely holding onto.

he drops you onto the bed, his hands instantly on you, yanking your dress up over your head in one swift, tearing motion, discarding it somewhere behind him. his glasses slip lower on his nose, his blue eyes molten and sharp behind the lenses, devouring the sight of you—messy, flushed, gasping. you reach for him, your lips parted, your throat working around the desperate sound that tumbles out—a soft, helpless “please…”

his hands slam your wrists to the mattress, his body caging you in, his cock thick and heavy as he grinds against your soaked entrance. “shh, baby,” he whispers, his voice trembling as he tries to gentle himself. “i’ve got you. you’re not going anywhere. i’m gonna take care of you.”

he refuses to take off his glasses. he wants to see everything—every tear that slips from your lashes, every tremble in your lips, every mindless sound that breaks from your throat. his gaze stays locked on you, even as his cock pushes inside you in one deep, devastating thrust.

“you’re mine,” he breathes, voice ragged, the words shivering apart as he bottoms out inside you. he can feel your walls flutter around him, clenching as though your body is desperate to hold him in, to keep him there. your body jolts beneath him, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, dragging him deeper. your moan punches out, breathless, pleading, the only thing you seem capable of now. your hands cling to him, fingers clawing at his shirt like you’re trying to root yourself to him, as if the only thing anchoring you to the world is the brutal drag of his cock inside you.

his glasses slip slightly down his nose, fogging at the edges, but he refuses to push them up. he needs to see you, needs to burn every detail into his memory—the way your eyes glaze over, the tremble in your lips, the tear that slips from the corner of your eye. he wants to remember this: the raw, unguarded way you fall apart for him, the mindless way you beg him, the frantic rise and fall of your chest as you gasp for breath.

he drives into you again, harder, faster, each brutal thrust forcing the breath from your lungs, forcing more of those broken, needy noises out of you. the sound of skin slapping against skin echoes in the room, tangled with the ragged rhythm of his breathing and the choked cries that tumble from your lips. your hands scramble at his arms, your nails clawing into his sleeves, but you can’t find the words anymore. all that’s left is “please…” and the sobs that fall apart between the sharp snaps of his hips.

“i know, baby,” he pants, his breath hot and frantic against your skin, his voice frayed with restraint that’s slipping fast. ”i know what you need. you need me to fuck my baby into you, right? need me to keep you so full you can’t think of anything else? need me to fill you until it’s all you can feel?”

“please…” it spills from your throat again, almost a cry, your body tightening around him as though your own muscles are begging him to stay.

“i’ll give it to you,” he promises, soft, reverent, though the brutal rhythm of his hips betrays him. “i’ll make you a mama, baby. gonna make sure you can’t hold anything but me. gonna make sure you’re mine forever.”

he shifts, pulling your knees up to your chest, folding you underneath him, locking you into a perfect mating press. the angle punches another sob from you, your back arching, your legs trembling around his ribs. he presses his chest to yours, his mouth dragging over your ear, your jaw, his voice trembling with sweetness that contrasts the feral rhythm of his body.

“you’re doing so good, baby,” he breathes, kissing your temple, tasting the salt of your tears. “taking me so well. you want it, don’t you? want me to fill you? wanna be round with my baby? wanna feel me every time you move?”

your answer is a mindless moan, another tear slipping from the corner of your eye, your lips barely able to shape the one word that’s left in you: “toru...”

he hums against your skin, his cock grinding impossibly deeper. “that’s it, sweet girl. i’ll fill you up… keep you so full you won’t even remember what it feels like to be empty. i’ll make sure you’re carrying me by the time i’m done. i’ll fuck you so deep that my baby won’t have anywhere else to go.”

his hips slam into you harder, faster, sharp and bruising. you sob beneath him, clutching him, helpless against the rhythm that’s shaking you apart. his voice stays painfully soft, cradling you through it. “not wasting a single drop. i’m gonna fuck you until you’re mine. until you’re pregnant. until there’s nothing left but me inside you.”

“want it…”

his mouth crashes over yours, swallowing your cries, his kiss frantic, messy, desperate. you’re shaking under him, the overstimulation shredding your mind, your body trembling violently, your sobs trapped against his tongue as you beg him wordlessly to keep going, to never stop.

“that’s it,” he whispers, his voice breaking as he chases his release. “that’s it, baby. take it. take it all. take everything i give you.”

he folds you even tighter, pressing so deep you can feel him in places you didn’t know could ache. your orgasm crashes over you again, sharp and blinding, your body convulsing around him, your voice lost to the desperate gasp that splits from your lips. and he breaks with you, thrusting deep as he spills inside you, his cock pulsing hard with every grind, his breath faltering, his voice catching as he pants, “gonna make you mine… gonna make you a mama… gonna keep you full… keep you right here… where you belong.”

but he doesn’t stop.

he keeps grinding, his cock still thick, twitching inside you, his hands trembling where they hold your legs open, determined to keep every drop right where it belongs.

“not done,” he breathes, kissing your cheek, your temple, his voice sweet and low, shaking with the weight of how much he still wants you. “not done with you yet, baby. not until i know. not until i’m sure. not until you’re really mine.”

he rolls his hips again, deliberately, drawing out the stretch, dragging out the feeling, coaxing more choked gasps from you. your body arches weakly into him, clinging, helpless to do anything but take him.

“shh, sweet girl, i’ve got you. i’ll give you everything. i’ll fill you over and over until you can’t hold anything but me. i’ll give you so much you’ll feel me dripping down your thighs when i finally let you go.”

he drags his cock out slowly, savoring the sensation, just to slam back in, forcing another sharp cry from you, your legs trembling where they bracket his ribs.

“you feel so good like this,” he murmurs, his words melting against your skin. “so good and warm and perfect. i’m gonna keep going, baby. you can take it, right? you’ll let me, won’t you? you’ll let me make you mine, over and over, until there’s no space left for anything else?”

a needy whine is all you can give him now, but it’s all he needs.

he smiles against your cheek, soft and breathless, his glasses slipping lower as he kisses you again, his lips trembling against yours. “i know, baby. i know. i’ll take care of everything. i’ll make sure our baby takes. i’ll make sure you’re mine… i’ll make sure you’re full. i’ll keep going until you can’t think about anything but me…”

his pace builds again, steady, deep, his hands stroking your sides, his voice staying low, unbearably tender as he destroys you beneath him.

“i’ll give you all of me, sweet girl,” he promises, his voice cracking even as he drives for more. “all of me. again and again. until you’re carrying me… until you’re round with our baby. until you can’t breathe without thinking about me inside you.”

he shifts his weight, dragging his cock out just enough to thrust deep again, coaxing more desperate cries from you, his breathing rough as his chest brushes yours, his glasses fogged and slipping. his hands tremble where they hold you open, where they keep you pinned beneath him, where they swear to never let you go, as if letting go would unravel him entirely.

“i’ll fill you until you can’t take anymore,” he whispers, his voice raw, his lips dragging along your jaw, his breath hot and uneven. “i’ll give you so much you’ll feel me for days, baby. you’ll feel me dripping out of you every time you stand, every time you move. you’ll feel me inside you every second, every breath, every heartbeat. there won’t be a moment you’re not full of me.”

he slows down just enough to let you breathe, just enough to kiss you, just enough to hear the soft, breathy whimpers that melt into his skin. his glasses are crooked, fogged, his hair clinging to his forehead in damp strands. his lips brush yours, tasting of desperation, tasting of love, tasting of the ache he’s carried through endless nights, his body pressed flush against yours as if he could sink into you, as if he could live inside you if he tried hard enough.

“baby,” he pants, voice trembling, his hand brushing your cheek, lingering there, “roll over for me, yeah? wanna see you all pretty on your hands and knees, wanna see your ass all messy for me, wanna watch you fall apart just for me.”

his words make you shudder beneath him, make your thighs twitch, but you listen, your limbs shaky as you roll over, his hands never leaving you, his palms gliding down your waist, over your hips, steady, grounding, helping you position yourself just right. he murmurs soft praises as he lines you up, kisses pressed to the nape of your neck, to the soft curve of your shoulder, to the swell of your back as you settle on all fours, your face buried in the pillows, your breath already ragged.

“that’s it, pretty girl,” he croons, his voice thick with awe, his eyes roving over your trembling form like he can’t believe you’re his. “look at you, taking me so well. made for me, baby, yeah? your body was made for me, just to take me, just to fall apart on my cock.”

his hand slips between your thighs, his long fingers gathering your slick, coating them generously before pressing two inside you alongside his cock, working you open, stretching you around him until the burn makes you sob into the sheets, makes your hips jerk helplessly, makes you whine from the fullness, from how stuffed you are, the overwhelming stretch making tears prick at your lashes.

your knuckles turn white where you grip the sheets, trembling under the weight of him, under the delicious ache of him, your breath hitching with every slow curl of his fingers inside you. your thighs twitch, thighs spread obediently despite the tremble overtaking them, your skin fever-hot where his palms ground you in place.

his other hand steadies your hips, thumb tracing slow, grounding circles against your skin, his palm firm, his grip sinking into the plush of your waist like he’s afraid you’ll float away if he loosens it even for a second. his hair clings to his forehead in damp, clumpy strands, his cheeks flushed a lovely pink, his glasses slipping lower on his nose, fogged to uselessness but still perched stubbornly there, framing the feverish glint in his eyes.

his lips brush kisses to the curve of your spine, down to the small of your back, each press soft and lingering, like he’s tethering you to him with every touch, like he needs to brand himself into you, to make you feel him everywhere, in every breath, in every heartbeat.

“shh, you’re doing so good,” he breathes, his voice trembling with restraint, placing a tender kiss to the dip of your waist. “so good for me, baby. you’re perfect, y’know that? so perfect when you’re stuffed full of me. i love watching you stretch around me, love feeling you clench when i’m this deep inside you. it’s like your body was made to hold me. you were made to be mine.”

he slides his fingers out slowly, savoring the slick sound, savoring the way your walls flutter around him like you’re begging him to fill you again. your thighs tremble, your hips rocking back in search of him, your breath shuddering as you whine, pitiful and overwhelmed, lips parted, drooling onto the pillow.

the needy arch of your spine makes his chest squeeze, makes his cock throb painfully, makes him press flush against you as he grinds back in, deep and unhurried, pushing as far as he can go, his pace slow but devastating, each thrust a deliberate drag against every sensitive spot that makes you gasp, makes you sob into the pillows.

“that’s it, baby,” he groans, his head falling forward, his damp fringe sticking to his temple, his glasses slipping to the very tip of his nose before he finally pushes them off and tosses them blindly aside. “every time i fuck you like this, you just take me so good, like you’re meant to. you were made to take me, weren’t you? made to fall apart on my cock, yeah?”

his kisses grow more feverish, his lips dragging across your shoulders, the plane of your back, his tongue flicking along the salt of your skin as he grinds deeper, sinking lower with each thrust, each snap of his hips making you whine, making your hands claw weakly at the sheets. he listens to every gasp, every cry, every broken plea you bury into the pillows, savoring the tremble of your thighs, the collapse of your arms, the desperate way you push back into him, chasing the delicious pressure.

then he leans over, his chest pressing against your back until his lips find yours, capturing you in a desperate, clumsy kiss. it’s messy, wet, more panting and whining than kissing, but he drinks every sound from your lips like he’s starving, like he can’t bear to be separated from any part of you. his tongue traces yours, coaxing you into the kiss even as his hips grind into you harder, even as your knees threaten to buckle beneath him, your soft whimpers muffled against his mouth.

“don’t hide from me, pretty girl,” he murmurs between kisses, his breath hot against your lips, his voice honey-sweet and reverent even as he rocks into you deeper. “wanna hear you, wanna feel you, wanna kiss you while you fall apart on me. every sound you make is mine. every little sob, every little plea, mine.”

he chases your orgasm with grinding thrusts, with soft praises that melt into your skin, with kisses that sear into you, that drag along the curve of your spine, that brand you as his. his hands roam across your waist, your sides, your belly, squeezing and caressing as if memorizing the softness of you. and when you come, when your body clamps down around him like a vice, when you tremble and sob against his mouth, he doesn’t stop. he swallows every desperate sound, his pace never faltering, his grip on your hips tightening as he drives through the aftershocks, pulling even more cries from your swollen lips.

“you can take it,” he pants, fucking you through the tremors, his voice shaking with the force of his own unraveling. “you’re doing so good, baby, you’re perfect, you’re perfect, fuck, you’re made for me. made to take me, yeah? you can give me another, can’t you? just one more, pretty girl. just one more.”

his hips snap forward harder, more erratic, his sleeper build fully activated as his fingers dig bruises into your waist, as he holds you steady even as your arms give out, even as you collapse onto the bed, your cheek mashed against the pillow, your body trembling with every rough, desperate thrust. your breath hiccups, your body limp, overstimulated, but he keeps going, keeps coaxing more from you with each deep grind, dragging out your high until your thighs shake uncontrollably.

but he doesn’t stop. his grip doesn’t falter. his praises don’t cease.

he kisses the sweat-slick skin of your back, he whispers against your shoulder, he keeps telling you how good you are, how you were made for him, how he’ll fill you until you’re overflowing, until you’re leaking with him, until you can’t hold it all, until you feel him dripping down your thighs, until it’s all you can feel.

“so good, baby, you’re so good,” he breathes, his voice cracking on the edges, as if your name is the only thing keeping him tethered to this moment. “my sweet girl, my pretty baby, taking me so well. fuck, you’re made for me, you’re perfect.”

he chases his own end with frantic, desperate thrusts, with the wet, obscene slap of skin against skin, with the ragged breath of a man who has no intention of stopping until he’s poured every last drop of himself into you. his fingers flex against your waist, his lips never leaving you, his rhythm a frantic, beautiful mess, his voice breaking with every curse, every sweet nothing he pours into your skin.

and when he finally shatters, when his body tenses and he spills inside you, he groans your name like a prayer, like a curse, like a plea, his hands trembling where they clutch you, his kisses never stopping, his words still tumbling in a broken, reverent stream.

“so good, baby, you’re so good, you’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine. gonna keep you like this, gonna keep you full, just like this, just like you’re meant to be. wanna see it drip down those pretty thighs.”

his body finally stills, but his hands never leave you, his lips never stop pressing soft, lingering kisses to your back, to your shoulders, to your waist, holding you close as if you might slip away if he lets go.

he stays inside you, buried to the hilt, his breathing shaky, his heart hammering wildly against your spine, his hair clinging to his damp forehead, his cheeks flushed and glowing, his arms curling around your middle to hold you tight, to anchor himself to you, to prolong this feeling of being so deeply connected.

he whispers to you softly now, praises spilling between kisses, his touch gentle but insistent, a man desperate to stay connected, to stay tethered to you in every way he can. his fingertips trace slow, lazy circles against your belly, memorizing the feel of your skin, of your warmth, the little trembles that still ripple through you.

“i’ll fill you up again,” he promises, his voice hoarse and full of love. “i’ll give you more, baby. you can take it. you always take me so well. i’ll keep you like this all night if you let me. just wanna keep you close, keep you mine.”

slowly, he shifts, carefully pulling out, his breath catching at the sight of his spend slipping out of you, leaving a glistening trail along your thighs. he groans softly, pressing a kiss to your lower back, savoring the tremble that runs through you. his thumb brushes over the mark he left there, tracing lazy circles as if to soothe the ache, as if to seal his touch into your skin.

he gently turns you over, cradling your waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing, his strong arms wrapping around you as if you’re something precious. he sits himself at the edge of the bed with you settled in his lap, your shaky thighs straddling him, your chest pressed to his, your breath still hitching as you try to find your footing in the aftermath, your arms barely strong enough to wrap around his shoulders.

his cock, still heavy, still hard, nudges against your entrance, and he shudders at the heat, at the way your body clings to him instinctively, like you never want to let him go. his hands slide over your hips, steadying you, his thumbs brushing slow circles into your skin, his touch reverent, patient, as if savoring the weight of you in his lap.

“come on, pretty girl,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your lips, his voice thick with sweetness and filth, his cerulean eyes glazed with adoration and hunger. “sit on me, yeah? just like this. let me keep you full a little longer. let me feel you, just a little more.”

he guides you down onto him, slow and patient, his large hands warm and steady on your waist as he lowers you inch by inch, savoring the sweet stretch, savoring the tremble that overtakes you as he fills you again, deeper this time, more deliberate, until his hips meet yours with a satisfying press.

your breath hitches, a sharp whimper escaping you, your head falling heavily to his shoulder as you struggle to accommodate him, your body straining around the overwhelming stretch, your fingers digging desperately into the firm muscles of his shoulders, clinging to him like you’ll drown without him.

his breath stutters at the heat of you, at how impossibly tight you are despite how many times he’s already filled you tonight. his pale hair clings damp to his temple, the ends curling from sweat, his cheeks flushed a tender pink, his lips parted and trembling as he exhales shaky, desperate breaths against your ear. his lashes flutter, his throat bobs with every ragged swallow, his entire frame taut, his biceps trembling where they hold you steady, straining to keep his composure, to keep his pace slow, to savor every second inside you.

his hands never leave you, one sliding to cradle your waist, the other splaying wide across your trembling back, as if to press you closer, to anchor you to him, to mold you to his body, to ensure that not even a breath of space separates you. he peppers kisses along your temple, the shell of your ear, your hairline, your jaw, his lips soft but insistent, his voice a low, reverent murmur that vibrates against your skin, as though he’s reciting a prayer only you can hear.

“look at you, baby,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to cradle your cheek in his palm, his thumb brushing away the stray tear that slips down your flushed skin. his ocean eyes are hazy, glassy with tenderness, with something so raw it tightens his throat and makes his breath stutter. “fuck, you’re so pretty when you’re falling apart for me. gonna let me keep you here all night, right? yeah? just like this, full of me. can’t let you go. don’t want to.”

his other hand curls into the nape of your neck, fingers threading through the damp strands of your hair, guiding your forehead to his, breath mingling, lips brushing as he steals soft, lingering kisses between his words, as if he can’t stop, as if he’s starving for you, as if kissing you is the only way he can breathe.

you can only whimper in response, the weight of him, the stretch of him, too much and not enough, your body trembling with the need to give him more, to feel him deeper, to be good for him, to make him proud, to belong to him.

his hands slide back to your waist, his grip steady but gentle as he begins to guide you, controlling your pace, moving you over him in slow, agonizing rolls. his thumbs draw slow, grounding circles into your heated skin, coaxing you to move, to ride him, to fall apart for him again. each time you rock your hips, you shudder, your breath catching on a sob, but he holds you steady, keeps you grounded, murmuring sweet words against your skin.

“shh, i’ve got you, baby. you’re doing so good,” he praises, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath shaky, his lips brushing yours between soft, trembling kisses. his silver lashes flutter with every slight tremble of his hips beneath you, his whole body trembling with restraint, with devotion, with the overwhelming need to stay inside you, to keep you close, to never let you go.

“you can do it, pretty girl,” he whispers, his voice low and rough, savoring every inch, every trembling grind of your hips. “just like that. take your time. i’ve got you. you’re mine. my sweet girl. let me take care of you. let me feel you just a little more.”

your thighs quiver, your movements sluggish and shaky, your whole body threatening to collapse from how sensitive you are, but he holds you, supports you, his hands never faltering as he coaxes you through it, guiding you with soft murmurs, with kisses pressed between your brows, against your fluttering eyelids, against the damp corner of your mouth. his hands roam your back, your ribs, your hips, memorizing the tremble of your skin, the heat of your body, the way you melt so completely into his lap, pliant and sweet.

he watches you, breathless, overwhelmed by how perfect you are, by how much he wants to keep you like this, forever tethered to him, wrapped around him, so utterly his. he savors the little gasps you give him, the soft hiccups in your breath, the desperate way you cling to him even when your body begs for rest, even when you sob softly into his shoulder, overwhelmed but unable to stop, unwilling to pull away.

when you finally falter, too sensitive, too overwhelmed to keep going, your movements slowing to weak, trembling shifts of your hips, he wraps his arms tightly around your waist and takes over, holding you close, keeping you flush against his chest as he grinds up into you in slow, deliberate rolls of his hips, savoring the sweet friction, savoring the little broken sounds you spill against his skin.

his pace is gentle but insistent, dragging sweet friction between your bodies, pulling broken moans from your lips, savoring the way you clutch at him, your fingers knotting in his damp hair, your head buried in his neck like he’s the only thing keeping you whole, the only place you feel safe, the only place you want to be. he feels your nails dig into his skin, your body trembling in his hold, but you don’t pull away. you press closer.

“that’s it, baby, i’ve got you,” he breathes, his voice cracking, trembling with the force of his own need, his own love. “just let me take care of you. just hold on to me. we’ll come together, okay? just like this. i’ve got you. i’ve always got you.”

his forehead presses to yours again, his lips parting to steal soft, desperate kisses, his hands trembling where they clutch you, his chest heaving as he rolls his hips deeper, slower, grinding against every sensitive spot inside you, savoring the desperate whines you spill against his mouth, savoring how you melt completely in his arms.

his voice is little more than a whisper now, ragged and broken, his praises melting into your skin as he rocks into you, chasing the edge with you pressed so sweetly against him, his breathing erratic, his kisses clumsy and endless.

“come with me, baby,” he pleads, his voice thick with love, with need, with desperation, his lips brushing yours as his hands tighten around your waist. “please. just like this. i need to feel you. i need you. just like this. don’t let go.”

you fall apart in his arms, your sobs trembling against his lips, your fingers tangling desperately in his hair as you cling to him, as you come so sweetly, so completely, your body shuddering in his hold, your thighs twitching, your hips stuttering as you grind against him, desperate to draw out the bliss.

he follows soon after, groaning your name like it’s a prayer, like it’s the only word he knows, his hips stuttering as he pours into you, as he holds you impossibly closer, as if he could fuse you to him, as if he could keep you here forever.

when you finally go limp in his arms, when your soft, exhausted breath fans against his neck, he holds you there, cradling you against his chest, his fingers stroking soothing lines along your spine. his hands slide to your thighs, rubbing slow circles, grounding you, savoring the weight of you in his lap, the softness of you, the way you fit so perfectly in his hold, the way you feel like home.

he presses soft kisses to your temple, to your hairline, to your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, his lips tender and slow, as if he could never kiss you enough, as if he could never hold you long enough.

“so good, baby,” he whispers, his voice thick with tenderness. “my pretty girl. my sweet girl. we can stay like this, yeah? just like this. just you and me. i don’t need anything else.”

he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing finally beginning to steady, his arms curling tighter around you, his whole body relaxing, melting into you as though he could sink into your skin and stay there forever.

you nod weakly, nuzzling into his neck, your lashes damp, your body pliant and warm against him. your arms loop lazily around his shoulders, fingers brushing the nape of his neck, and he presses one last kiss to your temple, one last kiss to your hairline, and he smiles against your skin, utterly content, utterly in love.

neither of you move. neither of you speak. you’re both too tired, too soft, too wrapped in each other to care about anything else, not even the cold dinner waiting in the kitchen.

“we’ll eat later,” he hums, his lips curling against your skin, his voice warm, tender, content. “just wanna stay here a little longer. just wanna keep you close. that’s all i need.”

his arms tighten around you as he buries his face in your shoulder, breathing you in, his body melting into yours, savoring the weight, the warmth, the softness of having you so completely, so entirely his.

[gremlin-girly]

Weighted Blanket

Part of the Sleepy!reader collection

Bob Reynolds x gn!reader ft. The Thunderbolts* (as a bonus)

Not beta'd. I do not give permission for my work to be reposted, copied, translated or put through an AI machine.

Tags/warnings: Fluff, cuddling, it can be platonic or romantic :)

Summary: You offer to share your blanket with Bob.

Word count: 816 words

A/N: This was a quick little drabble since one of the other fics I was meant to keep under 1k quickly became about 3. Oopsies.

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

Bob Reynolds Masterlist | Sleepy!reader Collection | Main Masterlist

You were as snug as a bug in a rug. An apt description for you being stuck under your horrendously large weighted blanket.

Most of the team were away which meant the tower was quiet and the TV in the main room was free. You'd put on an old favourite of yours and piled in snacks, not that you could reach them under the weight of the blanket, but you had at least two days of making the most of being a couch potato.

You weren't even ten minutes into your movie when your eyes started fluttering, the crushing comfort of the blanket forcing your body to remain relaxed. You're about to allow sleep to take you when you're startled by a sound behind you.

"This movie's pretty good."

You turn your head to see Bob standing near the kitchenette with an empty glass. His voice wobbles slightly, and it's clear he's upset about something. Your heart breaks. You feel a little guilty for forgetting he hadn't gone on this mission with the rest of the gang but you decide you can make it up to him.

"Wanna watch it with me?" You ask with a smile. "I've got snacks and my blanket that we can share."

Bob looks torn, eye flitting back in the direction of his room and then to you, swaying on the spot. For a moment you think he'll turn you down, however, he nods and makes his way towards the sofa.

You heave your blanket off to make space and once he's comfortably sat you drape it as gracefully as you can over him.

"Oof." Bob winces slightly as the heaviness hit him.

"Sorry." You apologise sheepishly. "Weighted blanket. I can get you another one?"

"No it's alright." Bob nods, sipping from his water and stretching his legs out onto the coffee table. "It's nice."

Twenty minutes after the addition of Bob on the couch, your eyes have closed and, unbeknownst to you, you're now bundled against him.

Bob felt a rush of happiness when your sleepy body had angled into him but he had to admit that the blanket was working it's magic on him too and fighting off sleep was becoming harder and harder.

Bob's head lolled lazily and he rested his cheek on your head. Your shampoo smelled like lavender which didn't help his sleepy state and he ran his fingers over the soft skin of your shoulder for a few minutes until his hand dropped back against the couch and he fell asleep.

Bob woke up first and felt refreshed, anxieties from the night before dwindled to manageable embers, made better by the fact that you were still curled against him (if not a little closer than last night).

When you woke up, since Bob decided he wouldn't wake you and let you sleep, you'd apologised for falling asleep so quickly the night before and hurriedly brushed away any remnants of drool from his shirt.

"I didn't last long either." Bob admits with pink cheeks. "I'd like to do it again sometime. I don't think I've ever slept so good."

"Me neither." You confess, sitting up slightly. "How's about we have a movie day? I don't have any errands to run but I can grab us breakfast and we could try to watch the movie this time?"

Bob grins at you, his heart doing backflips. "Sounds good. I'll get the coffee."

End

Bonus:

The Thunderbolts were never usually finished up missions early. Apparently, this one was the exception to the rule and when they entered to the main room and found you and Bob curled up on the giant sofa under your blanket with the TV lights flickering after a day of movies, they just about lost their minds.

"Aww," Alexei said tearfully, heart ready to burst. Yelena and Ava were busy trying to hold together fits of cuteness-aggression at the sight while Bucky and Walker sighed with attempted nonchalance.

Yelena silently crept over to take a space beside Bob, shushing Walker when he asked what she was doing. Ava went next, teleporting onto your side.

Then men left all shared a look. Alexei beamed as he dashed beside Yelena, picking up an extra blanket and almost tripping over the coffee table, and Bucky with a sigh (and a slight smile) joined the end, leaving Walker space to join Ava on the other side of the couch.

You stirred first, blinking up and seeing Ava's face next to yours.

"You're back?"

"We all are." John's voice echoes behind her and you crane your neck to the other side of the couch where Yelena, Alexei and Bucky's faces come into view all smiling. You try not to snort and wake Bob as you lean back into him.

"Sleepy heads." Yelena sighs happily, picking up the TV remote and flicking through the movie selection. "Now, what movie to watch..."

A/N: I missed the first round of avengers tower fics... I'm not missing these.

Taglist - add yourself here

@looking1016 @jeremyrennermakesmesmile @almostglitterybear @blackhawkfanatic @peaches1958

[callalillywrites]

Henry's Matchmaking Efforts

Written for @flufftober's Fluff Bingo. A3 - Craft Fair.

Spencer Reid Masterlist | Fluff Bingo Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Teacher!Reader

Word Count: 1747

Summary: Henry decides to use his school's craft fair to try and set up his favorite godfather, Spencer, with one of his favorite teachers. His ploy seems to work, too.

Warnings: mentioned illness; awkward Spencer and reader moments; sweet Reader; smitten Spencer; matchmaking menaces - Henry and Will; lmk if I missed any

A/N: This prompt was originally going to be Aaron Hotchner's, but a poll gave it to Spencer instead. I can't say I'm disappointed, either, as this turned out so cute and so fun to write especially with Henry playing his little matchmaking role.

I do not give permission to have my works copied, translated, reposted, or fed into an AI machine.

*****

"Uncle Spence, you made it," Henry shouted, his happiness apparent. He raced between the groups of people, easily dodging elbows and knees, in his pursuit of his destination. That happened to be one Spencer Reid, godfather extraordinaire.

Spencer couldn't help the smile that tugged across his lips, bending down and catching Henry in his arms. "I couldn't miss this when you invited me as sweetly as you did. Where's your mom?"

"Dad came with me. Mom's home with Michael. He's sick."

That pulled Spencer's previous smile into a frown for a moment.

Will, who'd been watching his son and his friend interact, stepped in. "Michael's fine. Just a little stomach bug going around school. Henry had it last week. He's fine to be here. We both are."

It was no secret how Spencer felt about germs, even those involving those he cared about.

Hearing that nothing serious was going on, Spencer allowed himself to relax. His attention returned to Henry as he asked, "So, what should we see first? I don't know that I've been to a craft fair like this one before. You'll have to show me how it's done. I don't want to miss anything."

Henry beamed at the idea of teaching Spencer something. His godfather was so smart, he knew, and it wasn't everyday that Spencer told someone he didn't know something. Knowing just the place they'd start, he grabbed Spencer's hand and tugged him forward.

No words were exchanged as Henry was on a mission, but a look of amusement passed between Spencer and Will.

Spencer didn't have a clue what Henry had in mind first, but he never would've considered the refreshment table set off to one side. Across the banner, he read the school's name that Henry attended. Compared to the other booths set up nearby, he didn't spy any type of signage broadcasting prices.

Henry called out a name, but Spencer couldn't quite make it out over the noise echoing through the large space. He hadn't thought to ever forget the sounds of a gym, and he hadn't really. Just that the memories had managed to fade at the edges a bit.

All Spencer knew was one moment Henry was holding his hand, and the next, he's watching Henry tugging someone from the booth until they stood in front of Spencer. Until you stood in front of him. You wore the sweetest smile Spencer could remember anyone ever wearing. When it flashed towards him, he almost forgot how to breathe. You were breathtaking.

"So, you're the famous Uncle Spence we hear so much about," you said, holding out your hand while also introducing yourself. You retracted your hand just as quickly, but your face never lost its smile. Settling for a small wave, you asked, "Are you enjoying the craft fair, Dr. Reid?"

Spencer's brain refused to work. You had him off-kilter with the knowledge you've shown in the few moments of time you've shared with him. How did you know he didn't like to touch others, especially strangers? How did you know he went by doctor rather than mister?

As if guessing his thoughts, you leaned a bit closer but not too close and said only loud enough for him to hear, "Henry talks about you a lot. We hear about your adventures every week. You're quite impressive. Henry tells us you're a real-life hero."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Spencer stammered.

His cheeks warmed at Henry's praise of him, but more so, at the way you continued to look at him. He could make out the open curiosity you had for him, but he couldn't tell if it was genuine interest one feels for another or if you were merely being polite for a student's sake. A part, bigger than he'd ever admit aloud, of him wanted it to be the former, but his experience almost assured it was the latter.

"Hm, I wouldn't discount yourself too much," you rebutted softly, your eyes leaving his face to inspect the rest of him. He really hoped you wouldn't find him lacking, grateful Hotch and Morgan weren't standing next to him. Will was more than enough to make enough comparisons. You must've liked what you saw because your smile never faltered though your attention shifted to Henry. "Wanna grab your uncle one of the cookies I promised to save just for him?"

Henry nodded and dashed behind the booth's large table.

Spencer could make out the containers from the store you'd bought the cookies. One of them held a couple leftovers that weren't available to others. The others had been set out around the table in a display meant to entice fair-goers until the supply had been depleted.

Henry raced back with the plastic package, handing it to you.

You popped it open and motioned for Spencer to take the cookies. "Only hands that might've grazed them were mine, and I wore gloves after washing my hands thoroughly. Can't be too careful nowadays."

The way you hadn't made him feel weird for his germaphobia endeared you to him all the more. It was the reason he didn't hesitate in picking up the cookies while murmuring his thanks. As politeness dictated, he took a bite and followed it up with, "There are really good."

"They're the best store-bought ones you can find," your eyes sparked with mischief as you added, "but you should really try the ones I bake sometime."

The cookie he'd been chewing lodged itself, causing him to choke.

Will came to his rescue, thumping his back until he could take in normal breaths again.

You, the sweet temptress you were, held out a small cup of lemonade from the booth you manned for the school. Your face had contorted into something more akin to someone feeling shame or apologetic of their actions as you murmured, "I didn't mean for that to sound the way it did. I mean, I do bake some great treats, but I'm not trying to insinuate anything. We are surrounded by families and little ones after all."

Spencer quickly shook his head. Even if he'd only met you, he knew enough from what Henry had told him to know you spoke the truth. Everything about you screamed how much you adored the kids, calling out to the ones you recognized. It didn't matter you held a conversation with him or any other adults that happened along. You had kind words for everyone that passed and encouragement for the few students helping you run the booth.

As if realizing he'd been monopolizing your time, he took a step back.

"I should let you get back to it," he said, grabbing up Henry's hand, "but maybe we can stop by again. See if you have anything left before we head out."

Your smile glowed once more as you nodded. "I'd really like that. Maybe you could tell me what about the booths I can't see, too. I've heard some good things, but I won't really get the chance to explore today."

"It's all weekend, isn't it?" Will asked, surprising both you and Spencer as he hadn't really said anything up until then.

You nodded.

Will continued, "Are you working the booth tomorrow?"

You shook your head.

At your answer, Will's grin came out as he eyed Spencer for a moment before turning back to you, "Then, maybe you and Spencer here could explore the fair together. That is if Spencer here wouldn't mind coming back and seeing it a second time. What do ya say, Spence?"

"Oh, I couldn't ask that of you. That would be too much," you protested, but Spencer was already saying, "Um, yeah, I could do that."

Will clapped. "Great. Now that's settled. Henry, why don't we let them sort themselves out, then we can pick Uncle Spence back up in say another few minutes?"

Henry quickly agreed, taking off for a booth not too far away. It held a bunch of crocheted plush animals that might appeal to his younger brother.

Will followed after him after shooting Spencer a wink and saying, "Don't bungle it now."

When the two of you were alone, you risked touching Spencer's sleeve. His gaze dropped to where your warmth seeped through his thin shirt before you hastily took it away again. He missed it as soon as you did. That surprised him the most.

"Please, don't think I was fishing. I wouldn't want to impose on what's surely limited time to yourself. You don't have to come back tomorrow if you don't want to."

"But what if I want to," Spencer said over your rambling.

It was enough to have you snapping your mouth shut in brief shock. It was also enough to have Spencer wondering if he'd somehow overstepped or misread your earlier possible interest in him.

Only when your smile blossomed once more did he breathe out a soft sigh.

"I'd really like that but only if you really and truly want to."

Spencer allowed his own smile to come out as he said, "I really want to."

The two of you might've continued to smile at each other if one of your students hadn't called out to you.

"I better get back to it, but please, stop by before you leave. We can exchange numbers, then we can secure plans for tomorrow after I'm done for the day." You took a step back toward the booth behind you, but you didn't get far before you added, "I really am glad I got the chance to meet you, Dr. Reid."

Spencer offered his own sentiments, watching as you backed up until you bumped the booth. He bit his lip lest his smile grow wider at how cute you were.

It took another minute before he, too, moved away, intent on catching up with Will and Henry. After all, he had a new job to scope out the best booths to show you tomorrow. Maybe even spend a few minutes considering his options to prolong his time with you tomorrow, including possible dinner plans.

Spencer had known Henry had a special reason to ask him to his school's annual craft fair, but he hadn't counted on you being that reason. He definitely hadn't considered how much you would end up affecting him or the turn of events that took place.

But, he couldn't say he regretted them as he spared a final glance at you and your booth.

Nope, no regrets at all.

[rowdyluv]

𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐞 ʲʰ⁸⁶

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: cherry and bubba give their momma the scare of her life in the middle of prudential on a game day. who else but Jack to be the one to find them?

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.4k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: missing kids, panicked mom, not much of a x reader, filler/starter

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: ^ as said this is more of a starter piece for the au. also please remember that this 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐢𝐜𝐞 @capquinn @star2fishmeg @crumpledcat @bewaryofpity (we miss aimes in this house she’s still mentioned because she started this!! the og bug is also alluded too in this 🥺)

© property of rowdyluv ; do not copy and re-upload as your own - anywhere. - do not place my work inside AI codes, do not translate.

Y/n had brought her twins, Cherry and Bubba, to the bustling Prudential Center for an exciting afternoon. They had just settled into one of the quieter staff areas, a brief respite from the chaos outside. The air had the smell of fresh popcorn and the distant murmur of eager fans filtering through the walls. The twins' eyes sparkled with excitement as they took in their surroundings, they definitely fit right in with their tiny devils jerseys on. Bubba sporting a ‘hat’ hat, while Cherry bad the cutest bows in her hair.

“You two sit right here and play, okay?” Y/n directed her two year olds handing them their favorite plushies before turning her attention towards her camera.

Her eyes narrowed as she fiddled with the camera lens, her mind racing through the shots she could have missed because of the foggy filter. Its the first home game with her new job as the media director of the New Jersey Devils. The nerves she felt about potentially messing it all up were astronomical. She was so self asorbed in her thoughts and changing her lens she hadnt notice the silence that had taken over the room.

Her head whipped around to face where she had sat the twins down.

Empty.

No Cherry.

No Bubba.

Her heart skipped a beat, the room spinning as panic set in. The plushies lie discarded on the floor, as if the twins had been whisked away by a gust of wind.

"Cherry? Bubba?" she called out, her voice echoing in the empty space. The silence was deafening, broken only by the distant thud of a door slamming shut somewhere in the haze of corridors outside. The color drained from her face as she scanned the room, desperation clawing at her chest. She knew Prudential Center was vast and filled with thousands of fans, but she never thought she'd have to navigate its labyrinth in a heart-stopping search for her babies.

Her eyes darted to the door as a security guard ambled by. "Oh, thank God," she gasped, sprinting towards him. The guard, an older, burly man with a kind smile, looked surprised but immediately stood erect and alert as she reached him, panting. "I-I can't find my twins. They were just here. A little girl with two ponytails and bows and a little boy in one of the team ‘hat’ hats. Both wearing the black jersey. They..They’re only two! They don’t usually wander off…"

The guard's smile faded, replaced by a stern expression. "Ma'am, please calm down. We'll find them," he reassured her, his radio crackling to life as he called in the missing children. "What's your name and the kids' names?"

“My name is Y/n, and I call my babies by their nicknames. My babygirl is Cherry and my babyboy is Bubba or Bubs.” She went on to tell him their legal names as well, but asked that his team approach them by their nicknames.

The security guard , who wore a name badge labeled ‘Mike’ nodded, scribbled the information down on his notepad, and spoke into his radio. "All guards please be on the look out. Two missing children. Toddlers, twins, a girl and a boy. Last seen down in the media room, both wearing New Jersey Devils jerseys..." The message was met with a series of acknowledgments as the search began to unfold across the sprawling complex. “Ms. Y/n, you and I will linger closer to the media staff room that way if they wander back we will see them.”

Y/n nodded, her heart pounding so loudly in her chest that she feared it might drown out any distant cries from her babies. She felt like she was moving through a fog, the corridors stretching out before her like a never-ending nightmare. She tried to keep her voice steady as she called out their names, her eyes scanning every corner and crevice for a glimpse of their tiny figures. Her mind raced with fearful questions, regretful questions: why did I dress them in black? Why did I turn my back? Why had they left? Were they lost? Had someone taken them?

Mike, kept up a calm and reassuring demeanor. He led her through the back hallways, checking in with other staff members and security personnel as they walked around the surrounding area. Mike opening different rooms and checking while Y/n stayed out in the open hall. Y/n felt the weight of every second ticking by, each one heavier than the last. Her eyes stung with the threat of tears, blurring her vision as they moved from room to room. “I thought we were staying near the staff room?” She asked more to herself, not outwardly to Mike for answer. He was doing his job, and for her.

His radio spit to life once again and they both halted, awaiting any news.

“Sir, I have the twins.” A sweet young woman’s voice cracks through Mike’s radio. “They won’t leave Mr. Hughes, so all four if us will meet you in the staff room.”

Relief flooded through Y/n’s body so suddenly it felt like she might collapse. Her knees buckled in a sense of relief, her babies were found. But who did she say? She clutched the guard’s arm. Many of the same questions still ran through her mind. Why?

They rushed down the corridor, the sound of laughter growing louder, more distinct. Finally, they arrived at the staff room, where the young woman on the radio was waiting. She looked flustered but had a gentle smile on her face. "They're in here," she said, pointing to the open doorway.

Y/n pushed past her, heart in her throat, and there they were: Cherry, her cheeks flushed with excitement, giggling as she tried to climb onto Jack Hughes' broad shoulders, and Bubba, clutching Jack's hand with a wide grin that revealed his tiny baby teeth. The star player looked a bit bewildered but was clearly enjoying the twins' attention.

Y/n was blinded by pure joy her babies were safe that she wrapped Jack in a hug. A million thank yous falling from her lips.

Jack, taken aback by the sudden embrace, felt a warmth spread through him. He hadn’t expected this reaction from the usually composed Y/n, but he couldn’t deny the way her desperation and gratitude made his chest tighten.

“No biggy. I think its safe to say little bit here likes me.” He chuckles nodding his head at cherry who has successfully made it on to his shoulders.

Y/n can't help but laugh nervously as she gently takes cherry from his shoulders and holds her close. "How did you find them?"

Jack's eyes twinkle as he recounts the bizarre encounter. "Well, I walked in to get changed for warm ups, and there was Cherry sitting in my stall, with my jersey like it was a blanket. And Bubba, he was with Nico, playing some game." The twins looked up at them with their wide, innocent eyes, clearly enjoying their unexpected playtime with the towering athletes. "We didn't have a clue who they belonged to, but they were having the time of their lives, so we just kept playing. They had us wrapped around their little fingers," he admits, a touch of fondness in his voice. Jack looked at Cherry as she made grabee hands at him. “Cherry reminds me of my brother’s little girl.” He gently rubbed her cheek and she giggled. “I dont get to see Bug often enough so i loved having a moment to play with her. Bubs here would love to meet my younger brother’s boy.” Jack nudged Bubba’s hat down a bit, resulting in a huff accompanied by a stomp from Bubba.

Nico poked his head into the room, his expression a mix of relief and amusement. "Jack, Keefe is looking for you. Oh! Glad to see you found who the littles belong too," he said with a chuckle, nodding at the twins. Y/n couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt for interrupting their pre-game routine. "I'm sorry, guys. I don't know how they even got down there. They hardly ever do things like that and when they do its at home!”

Jack, shrugged it off with a smile. "It's all good. They're pretty great little fans. I better go see what Coach needs," he said in a heavy sigh. Almost as if he didn’t want to leave just yet.

“Wait, Jack! If playing with the twins for that bit of time really made you happy…if you want we could..” She let her words stop when she caught the look he was giving her. His eyes full of hope, a small, soft smile gracing his lips. “Maybe, we.. uhm maybe we could set up a day for you to play with them? I mean since you miss your brother’s kid and all, not like to try and replace them or anything of course.” Y/n rambled nervously. Suddenly unsure why she started offering up her kids as a playdate to a professional athlete.

“Thanks Y/n. I can get Luke to bring Bud around too. How about we chat after the game?” Jack’s smile grew as he walked backwards towards the door but he ducked out before she could properly answer him. He left her standing there, holding Cherry and Bubba clinging to her pant leg, feeling entirely bewildered by what all just happened.

Because what the hell did just happen?

[severedfromthesource]

Androids and Electric Sheep

Ren is experiencing an unusual bug. Features F resus, M rescuer, CPR, stething, mouth to mouth, internal defibs, sex leading to cardiac arrest, sex acts both with consent and a person who cannot consent. I got too invested in the preamble so I highlighted the moment resus actually starts if you want to skip it.

No matter how advanced technology gets, it’ll only ever be used to fulfill man’s most base desires. Case in point- RN-34678. Or Ren, when the barcodes make my eyes glaze over and I get sick of calling them the number slurry X Tech names absolutely everything. Ren is as sophisticated as they come. Actual artificial intelligence. She makes the predictive text and ‘can’t even draw fingers’ image generating 21st century jokes people passed off as AI look like even more of a waste of time than they had been in those days. They might as well have been Speak n Spells. The collective power of every single basement dwelling crypto whizz kid with miles of wires and burnt up processors and bricked up video cards dedicated to their etherium farms pale in comparison to the computing power it takes to run Ren’s brain for an hour. She understands nearly 6,000 languages. She learns and retains information, consuming nearly 160 TB of memory every 8 hours. The bio-organic lace that makes up the net of her brain is a miracle, with the possibility of infinite memory. She is perfect in every sense of the word.

She is a glorified fuck toy.

The second the first android became commercially available, one of the first markets they hit was sex work. If nothing about late stage capitalism drove you crazy, that would have. Fuck curing cancer, or making androids for the dangerous, back breaking work people wreck their bodies to do, X Tech decided people needed a sex doll with a 100k price tag. The world’s most expensive cum sock. And yeah, alright, maybe I’m just bitter, partially because there’s no way in hell I could ever afford one, even as an android technician. But what a waste. She sits on my examination table, dutifully unzipping her black leather catsuit. Her managers always manage to stick her in something stupid looking, so overblown and sexualized they stop even being sexy at a certain point.

She looks up at me with lilac eyes. Last time they’d been blue. I like this shade better, I think, though I could do without the electric blue bob they have her wearing today. ”Your crash reports say you’ve been throwing error codes whenever a stream donation comes in over 2k,” I say. Which, for a bot like Ren, is quite a lot of her donations. “It’s probably just a bug in payment processing.” I look again over her diagnostics, floating on the screen at my desk. “Any complaints I wouldn’t find in the debug menu?”

”My heart has been feeling strange,” she says. I pause and look at her over the top of my glasses. “Well, firstly, it’s not your heart. An aether pump does not a heart make. Secondly, it shouldn’t feel like anything. You’re supposed to ignore the inner workings, it’s all background programs, runs without you thinking about it.” She shrugs. Her shoulders are pale as she rolls down the catsuit and pulls her arms from the sleeves, bunching up the tight leather around her midriff. Her breasts are small and round, standing upright as pretty as a Botticelli painting. I’d noticed the small bumps on either side of her nipples (Christ, did the things ever go soft? Or were they just always cutting glass?) but didn’t register until I saw them now that her managers had pierced them sometime since our last checkup. Little silver bars were stuck through the pink nubs, with winking silver balls on either end. Alright, cool, chill.

I clear my throat and pull up my rolling stool. “Well, let’s just take a look then.” I shift once I’m seated to alleviate the pressure of my stiffening cock. Listen, I’m not a technophile, honest to God. I go out of my way to filter out androids when I’m scrolling through porn sites because, despite the leaps and bounds we’ve made in technology, the uncanny valley is still a thing. It feels weird getting off to bots. But then there’s Ren. And fuck me if she isn’t the most attractive thing I’ve ever seen. I put a hand on the back of her neck, my thumb resting at the diagnostic mode button hidden just under the edge of her jaw. I feel the soft bump that sinks in when I press. Her lilac eyes flash black with snatches of white text, then roll back to lilac. Damn, she smells like a new car.

I glance back at the monitor, and as I suspected, nothing comes up about the aether pump. It seems in perfect working order. Still, I dig around my box of scrap wires and spare tubing until I find my mostly neglected stethoscope. I don’t often have to use it, but I feel a trill of excitement go up from my stomach to think I get to use it on Ren. I plug up my ears and put a hand on her shoulder, taking the bell of the steth in my other hand. Her breasts rise and fall with the rhythm of her breathing, set to mimic human intervals. The real purpose is to cool down her insides and keep her from overheating, but just like the aether pump and its auditory cues, its designed to mimic humans as closely as possible. After a guy fucks something like Ren, he gets the added benefit of being able to lay next to her and listen to her breathing. Feel her heart beat. Doesn’t matter what the purpose of the design is for, it matters so he doesn’t feel like he’s fucking a 100k fleshlight with arms and legs. I press the steth to a spot above her breast and it sinks into her pillowy soft skin like it was real. Cool it, Christ, you can’t get so hot and bothered over everything. Heel, boy.

But my thumb makes a slight imprint against her tit, and it’s hard to think of anything else. Same thing happens when I press the steth against a space under her breast, and it lays warmly against the back of my hand. The pump, like the fake lungs, is designed to look and act and even sound like a heart, pumping coolant through her body. I tell her it’s not a heart out of some petty, pedantic need to distance myself and my unique humanity, but truth is, the thing is a heart. She could die if something went really wrong with it, and a lot of bots have. Sudden cardiac arrest was one of the main bugs in the 2.3 rollout. It got so bad, tons of models in the service industry had to be recalled, because mechanical line cooks and servers were dropping if the ovens got too hot. My hand still on her neck, I pull her forward and press the bell to her back. Her forehead brushes against my shoulder, her gaudy blue wig draping against the side of my neck and jaw. I tilt my head just enough my nose brushes her hair. Fuck, she really does smell good.

“Well, I don’t hear any irregularities,” I tell her, because I don’t. The thing is pumping liquid aether around her body at around 70 bpm, like it should. She draws up from my shoulder, glancing at me sideways. “It only seems to happen with clients,” she says, drying out my throat in an instant. “Clients?” “Mhm. Whenever one of them climaxes. If they do it inside me, my heart starts going very fast. I get foggy and I can’t think afterwards.” I swallow. “Right,” I say, “I mean… I can’t exactly test that, Ren.” She touches my wrist. “It’s rather frightening, Doc. I worry…” She pauses, and I try very hard not to say out loud what I’m thinking. You shouldn’t be frightened of anything, Ren. You’re not supposed to feel any of this. She sits back, bringing her hand up, her fingers curling against where her pump lies in her chest, half covering her nudity.

She doesn’t want to get recalled. I wince in spite of myself. If she has the same defect others in her rollout had, she’s going right back to X Tech. I push the steth around my neck, scooping back hair from my face. “It’s a pretty fatal system flaw. It… I could… Well, I-“ I can’t look at her. Fuck, I really can’t look at her. My face feels hot. This is the plot of like, 90% of bot R34 on the internet. I might as well be a pizza delivery guy and she a lonely housewife who’s a few bucks short on a large sausage. She ‘breathes’. Her chest goes up and down, the lights winking off her pierced nipples. She’s so goddamn gorgeous.

“Doc?” “Thinking,” I huff. I spare a glance around the other cubicles bordering mine. Big glass offices, designed for this exact stupid fucking thing I’m about to do. The first guy who got caught with his dick in a bot ruined it for everyone, so now my coworkers and I are subjected to rat lab cubicles where we can look in on each other at any given moment. People around us testing reflexes, repairing cosmetic damage, quashing bugs. What I was about to do was also technically debugging, but there was no way in hell my boss was gonna see it that way if he saw my flat ass pumping in and out of a bot worth more than I make in a year on the other side of plexiglass. Alright, cool, chill. I scoop up my backpack with my work laptop and sling it over my shoulder. “Bathroom,” I whisper.

Cut to Ren and I, locked in the women’s bathroom. We have three women in the office, and their cubes are on the other side of the building, closer to another bathroom. This one is usually empty. Cut to her, awkwardly standing in front of a toilet. Me, on the verge of being the Most Fired Man Who Ever Lived. For extra security, I’d stuffed us both into a stall, locking it behind me too. It's cramped, which adds to the feeling this is absolutely not what I'm supposed to be doing. But hey, it's my job, isn't it?

I awkwardly maneuver around her and sit on the toilet lid, hastily undoing my pants. God, this is shameful. And weirdly hot? I can't tell if it's just Ren or the dozen or so corporate regulations and general laws I'm breaking doing this, but I can feel the pulse in my cock, pressing up against the inseam of my jeans. Those lavender eyes flick from my face to the swollen, flushed skin, and the outer rim of her pupils flash with color. I help her roll down the leather catsuit and then, holy shit, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I’m inside her. She feels real. My hands on her back, my face buried in her tits, her thighs on mine, she feels realer than any woman I had ever known. My breath warms her artificial skin, and the barbell through her nipple is cold, the contrast making me shiver whenever the hot skin of my cheek touches the metal. My fingers slide up her stomach, her hips bucking and pumping me in and out of her. She’s tight. Really fuckin tight. I can feel her aether pump, the artificial heart, throbbing in her inner walls, harder than any real heart I’d ever felt. It adds to every stroke, a thumping sensation that’s nearly making me come after a couple thrusts. Christ, I might as well be sticking my dick right against the chambers of her fake heart.

The job. Right, I’m doing a job. Fuck, I’ve never loved my job so much. “Lemme- ngh, God, fuck- lemme see i-ins-side your ch-est, R-Ren.” She’s straddling my lap, panting like a porn star, her bob swinging back and forth, and she nods. The synthetic skin goes translucent, a dull blue glow that starts at her collarbone and down to the bottom of her ribcage. I spare only a brief chuckle, Man, we never could get rid of those stupid gamer lights, before I try to focus my attention on her inner workings. The aether heart is basically a simplified human one, drawing hot fluid in one side and squeezing out coolant through the other in an eternal ebb and flow. And right now, it’s going insane. The valves are snapping open and closed rapidly, the thing shuddering instead of really beating. There’s a little display window pinned under her collarbone, and it’s clocking her at 150 bpm, the green spikes of her heartbeat saw toothing across the round display port. Not totally dangerous, but as I pump inside of her and she bounces on my thighs to match my quickening pace, it keeps climbing.

Alright. As much as I want to be stuck in here forever, with a beautiful woman bouncing on my dick in a way I’ve only ever dreamed of, I have to figure out what’s wrong. I wrap my arms around her body, pulling her flush against my chest. “Hold onto me, ‘kay?” I breathe against her ear. Her arms slid around me, nails brushing briefly against my shoulder blades. I take in her scent. Focus on the sensations of her body, the sharp cold of her piercings, breasts pressed against my chest, her warm, throbbing cunt. It doesn’t take long. I start to lose the rhythm as my breath shortens, my strokes shortening too, until finally I can take it no more. I come, hot seed filling her up, bathing my cock, spilling out from between our sexes. Her back arches, a cry ripping from her throat of the most exquisite ecstasy.

Then she dies.

No, seriously, the bot quits all at once. I’m there, still trying to enjoy the feeling of my load making her even tighter and full, when she goes completely limp. Her arms slide down from my back, and the artificial pulse I feel in her cunt just stops all at once. She’s dead weight on top of me. “Fuck,” I spit, trying to readjust her, but she’s goddamn heavy. “Ren? Hey, Ren- man, what the fuck-”

I look up at her sternum to see the aether pump has stopped. The little internal monitor is reading a flatline. I fumble to unlatch the bathroom door, my other hand cradling her back, as I awkwardly shift to try and swing it open. Both of us end up in a heap on the floor when I try to pick her up. I'm apologizing to her slack and lifeless face as I disentangle myself and hastily zip up, then lay her flat on her back. Her perfect round breasts sit in the open air, her still heart glowing between them. I set my laptop beside her and hook up a USB into the command port hidden behind her ear.

There was no tip off in her crash reports, but looking now, I can see the absolute mess of code in the last few lines she ran before arresting. I clean up some of the irregularities, get rid of the redundancies, and hit reboot. Two small circular nodes glow within her chest, then snap against the chambers of her heart. Basically built in defib units. Her body jerks, hand twitching in against her cheek, her back arching slightly. Her naked shoulder blades slap against the tile floor as she falls back, limp again. But she doesn't move. Her pump is still. I glance at the monitor and see FATAL SYSTEM ERROR flash across the screen. Fuck, am I going to have to do this manually?

Growling in frustration, I throw my hands against her sternum. It's easy to get the right position when I can see her heart lying beneath a few layers of synthetic skin. Squaring my shoulders, I push down hard. Unlike with real CPR on a real person, depth doesn't matter, nor the risk of breaking ribs. She's basically Wolverine. A hydraulic crusher couldn't break her ribs. They yield though, and bow in against her spine as I rhythmically pump her heart. The force ripples through her whole body. Her stomach pops up, her shoulders shrug in, her head rolls back and forth. I look from her face down to her tits. I can't help it, they're swaying with each compression, the light catching her piercings. I can feel the cool metal rest against my fingers. The position my hands are in leaves my fingertip pressing against her nipple, still standing upright from our exercise. A shiver runs through me. Am I seriously getting hard again? It's hard not to. My eyes drink in her still body, the remnants of our session dribbling down her thigh, her breasts bouncing like they had when she was riding me.

I can almost see the corner of the screen light up with “Kink Unlocked: Reviving Dead Girls”. I glance at the monitor and see the reboot option has lit up again. When I take my hands away from her chest, I see her aether pump jerking as if trying to start again. Once more I charge the internal defibrillators. While they hum to life, I partake in a ritual that isn't strictly necessary. The hero always gets to indulge in mouth to mouth with the downed heroine. She doesn't actually need air, but her lips are slack, full and inviting. I press mine over hers, breathing air she doesn't need into her mouth. I can feel her cheeks puff, and I'm surprised but excited to see her chest rises too. I give her a few quick bursts of oxygen. Her chest jerks up and I only allow it to fall part way before I give her another, making her chest rise and fall in short hyperventilations. My hand finds itself running up her stomach to feel the motion of my breaths, up over her breast again. It fills my palm as I breathe a long, slow draft into her throat, and I roll her nipple between my fingers. She sighs out recycled air against my face when I break the seal of our lips.

Man, how do EMTs not cum when they resuscitate hot girls? The whole tableau is so erotic, I can feel my pulse once more jerk in my cock. The defibs once more slap the chambers of her artificial heart and she thrashes under the current. Her breasts sway and she again falls limp to the tiles.

“Come on, Ren,” I say under my breath, watching her aether pump swelling at uneven intervals. The chambers aren't beating right still, snapping open and closed out of sync with one another. I again check her code on my laptop, using one hand to tap through my options. The other I lay against her sternum. It occurs to me I really don't know what the fuck I'm doing. Whatever feels like it helps, I guess. Or whatever feels good. I grind my heel in against her heart in slow, rhythmic compressions with one hand. “Come on, work with me here. Breathe for me. Do something, at least let me know you're not completely bricked.” The idea that she might be makes me swallow hard. I like Ren. I don't want to ship her off to the junkyard as much as she doesn't want to be shipped.

When her heart goes still again I lace my fingers together and start pumping her chest anew. I forget my laptop entirely- this isn't a software issue, it's the hardware in her chest acting up. If I can just get the damn thing to reset. Swinging my leg over her supple thighs, I straddle her so I can use my whole body. Like this, I can feel the motion my work creates in her otherwise still body. Each powerful thrust against her pump rolls the kinetic force through her whole body. Her feet swing back and forth. The force rolls from her chest, down her stomach, even rippling her thighs. Each compression makes her stomach roll out, only now I can feel it between my legs.

Fuck it, I'm already fired. These life saving efforts have got me hard all over again, something I would have thought impossible. I unzip and thrust into her almost in one motion. It's next to impossible to actually pump into her while I'm working her heart, so I mostly settle for letting her body rock into me while I do CPR. Only when the prompt for the defibrillator pops up again do I allow myself to roll my hips into her while it charges. The thing whines quietly as I brace my hand against her chest, driving my cock deep inside her. It slaps her heart again and she arches her back, filling my hand against her sternum. Her inner walls clench with the electricity and I groan as I roll in and out of her. That's when she draws in a breath and moans all at once. Her eyes flutter open and she instinctively begins to grind her hips in rhythm with me. Before long I'm filling her up all over again and I collapse on top of her. She's back. The thought strikes me as I look down and see her aether pump snapping out a normal, if elevated rhythm. I roll off onto the welcome chill of the tile floors, my arm still slung around her.

“You okay?” I pant, my eyes half lidded as I look at her. Ren nods, smiling weakly in return. Then she’s wrapping her arms around me, burying her face in my shoulder. I hesitate, the shame of what I had done to her when she was basically dead starting to creep up now that the high is waning. But eventually I slide my arms around her in return, drawing her close to my body. “Thank you, doc,” she whispers.

“Don't mention it.” Seriously, don't mention any of this.

[star-gxze]

Pet names they call you (MOST lost light crew)

Mtmte edition heh…😈 prolly ooc but heh…who really cares

Rodimus: This guy…he’s probably call you something dumb like my silly dilly gumdrop, baby cakes, Pookie Wookie Dookie Sugar Prince(ss) Boo Boo Bear Snuggle Waggo Baby Bunny or my lovable Pookie dookie gumdrop😭 (jk) but srsly id feel like he’d call you babe most of the time and if he’s feeling a bit romantical it would fo sho be sweet spark :)

swerve: he is such a sweetie pie, he’d probably call you love, sweet spark, amore, Mo gohrádh (my dear in Scottish Gaelic) pudding and cutie pie :3

ultra magnus: my beautiful 12th wife would call you princess/prince/princex/princette, darling, dear, sweetie, Pumpkin

Drift: Mr. thickums would probably call you cherry blossom, my beautiful girl/boy/s/o, my dove, my flower (any kind of flower) Little dumpling

Ratchet: dearest, dear, my star, my light, honey, Ma'am/Sir/Mx(?)

whirl: sweet thang, sugar tits (goes for all genders he doesn't care),hot stuff, sweets, sugar, ship mate, Shnookums, toots

Rung: darling, my love, my fawn, dawn, my dearest, my love, my amazing s/o, little one (for human/minibot! cybertronin [NAME])

Megatron: my dear, my love, lovely, darling, my sweet (gender)

skids: hon, dove, my spark, cloud, sweet pea, bubbles

Getaway: ah you thought. I'll never write for him unless their are guns and missiles to my head and I'm hanging upside down above a tank full of eels and sharks [Angry face]

Fort max: buddy, sunshine, love

Riptide: bubbles, coral cutie...yes coral cutie...anyways, starfish, fish(he's trying really hard), cuddle bug

A/N: (this is one of two of my drafts hope you enjoy :D)

zzz

ik i said human reader only but this is an exception because uh...I said so hehe

sorry most of the nicknames are repeated lolz

(please don't steal, watermark, plagiarize, or run my writings through AI :) )

[yandere-romanticaa]

Recently, the surge of AI has caught everyone's attention and I've been working on this little experiment.

Down below the cut are two fics and this is how I planned it - one was made up by using AI (more specifically, Chat Gpt) while the other one was written by yours truly. Below both fics will be a poll and I would like for you, my dear readers, to guess which one was AI. Personally, I don't think it'll be a difficult challenge but seeing your reactions and comments on this should prove to be an interesting endeavor.

This was posted on April 17th. And, in 7 days, I shall reveal which fic was written by me, and which one was done by AI.

Now then, let's get on with the show.

🥀 Story One.

In the dimly lit alleyways of Yokohama, Fyodor Dostoevsky stalks his obsession, (y/n), with unwavering determination. His fixation transcends reason, driving him to extreme lengths to possess (y/n)'s affection.

Fyodor's obsession with (y/n) began innocently enough, a mere curiosity sparked by their untapped potential and innocence. But as time passed, that curiosity twisted into an all-consuming desire, festering within Fyodor's mind like a venomous serpent.

Each night, Fyodor would follow (y/n) from a distance, his heart pounding with anticipation and longing. He would watch as (y/n) laughed with their friends, oblivious to the dark presence lurking in the shadows.

But Fyodor's love was not the gentle, nurturing kind. It was possessive, suffocating, and dangerously obsessive. He couldn't bear the thought of (y/n) belonging to anyone but him, couldn't stand the idea of anyone else basking in the warmth of (y/n)'s smile.

As his obsession deepened, Fyodor's mind became consumed with dark fantasies of possessing (y/n) completely. He would spend hours meticulously planning every detail of their future together, envisioning a life where they were inseparable.

But fantasies were not enough for Fyodor. He needed to make them a reality, no matter the cost. And so, he began to weave a web of deception and manipulation, carefully orchestrating events to bring (y/n) closer to him and drive away anyone who dared to stand in their way.

But as Fyodor's plans grew more elaborate, so too did the danger. (y/n)'s friends grew suspicious of Fyodor's intentions, sensing something sinister lurking beneath his charming facade. And as they delved deeper into Fyodor's past, they uncovered secrets that threatened to unravel his carefully constructed world.

But Fyodor was not about to let anyone come between him and his beloved. He would do whatever it took to protect their love, even if it meant resorting to violence.

🥀 Story Two.

Shimmering waves of starlight engulfed the man in white as he monitored his target from a safe distance, hollow purple eyes gleaming with excitement. He could feel his long fingers twitching with anticipation in his warm pockets, a stark contrast to the chilly wind on this fine spring evening.

He needed to be patient. Because patience was indeed, a virtue.

And Fyodor was a virtuous man. Perhaps not a good one, but he would gladly take the title of virtue.

Would you bestow upon him such a title? Would you do so, if you ever found out that he had taken such a keen interest in you? The rational part in his mind said no, of course not. Unlike him, you were blessed with normalcy. There was nothing extraordinary about you - no ability, no wealth, no status.

Nothing.

You could have been squished like a bug beneath his heel and the world would just keep on going as it always would. Sure, there would be some individuals who would miss you dearly but even they would move on at some point.

Such was the nature of humanity. How cruel, he thought to himself.

Fortunately for you, Fyodor was no ordinary man. Despite his predicament, he had grown fond of you. He was not sure why but after a while, he stopped asking such trifling questions as to why he troubled himself by giving you so much attention.

It was pointless to make sense of the senseless.

Right here, right now, all he wanted was to enjoy this quiet evening by his lonesome, as he tailed behind you like a creeping shadow. He would reveal himself to you properly when the time was right, when he felt you were strong enough to take him.

Fyodor just needed to wait a little bit longer, just long enough to see how he should proceed with you in case things went south.

In the meantime, he would gladly spend every waking moment simply watching you for his own personal pleasure.

🥀 TAGS: @yanroma, @oneoftheprettynerds, @misdollface, @sxy0ung, @rosemary108233, @c4xcocoa, @gettinshiggywithit, @ophticcus, @lakxcpsta, @ranposgirlboss, @robinaxolotl, @acornwinter, @enoojnij, @ishqani, @osachiyo, @bluepeanutharmony, @kaithegremlin, @fyodorscockslut, @wcayaw, @luna-mariko-akatsuki, @lovelyyz, @queenofspades403

APRIL 24TH - Story One is AI.

[mythblossoms]

compounds → kuroo tetsurō

pairing: kuroo x gn!reader

content: angst, timeskip!kuroo reminiscing, mention of bugs (fireflies to be specific), missed chances, childhood friends to strangers, weak chemistry metaphors

wc: 438

a/n: a little warm-up/prequel for an upcoming story ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡)

It was easier to be in love with you from afar. 

At least that’s what Tetsurō reminded himself every year. A delicate compound that if altered could result in some new unknown that he wasn’t sure how to approach or handle. 

He saw you first, both 8 years old — all berry stained fingers and scuffed up knees, waiting at the edge of Kenma’s yard. The sun hung low in a hazy summer sky, the heat just beginning to ease, and you - hands clasped tightly in front of your chest and bouncing on your toes. And when Kenma finally pulled him outside, you were running to meet them - thrusting your hands out in front of you to reveal a small firefly. The light was soft as it flashed in your hand, before quickly flying off. You laughed just as quickly, locking eyes with him. 

“Wanna see who can catch the most?”

It happened slowly then, and over time. Something that simmered under the tips of his ribcage but tempered by his brain. Manageable. Fleeting moments from far away, committed to his memory like the polaroids you always took. 

 Stolen glimpses of you at your school desk, half awake and mindlessly doodling in your notebook. Sunlight highlighting the ends of your hair. 

Your face in the crowd, hands cupped around your mouth and yelling something indecipherable, grinning and cheering as they scored.

Cherry blossoms in your hair as you stand on tiptoe to capture a picture of the branches, their soft petals falling gently against your cheek.

A wave goodbye from your bedroom window, framed in warm light before disappearing behind the curtain. 

Your smile across the auditorium, the one reserved for him, as your parents snap graduation photos and his thumb brushes the second button on his uniform. 

Even when you moved halfway across the globe, building new compounds with new things, it was easy to love you. Instagram photos filled with local hidden gems, your favorite coffee drinks, your smile in the early morning glow (Tetsurō didn’t like to think about who had taken that picture). He could almost hear your laugh in those images, warm and carefree. He could imagine then, that it was him taking the picture,  you laughing at whatever sly joke he would say to catch your smile.

He never factored the impact of time or distance on the compound he’d kept so stable. But there was no denying your lives had diverged, something growing between you that was tangled, thorny. Impenetrable. Visits were non-existent. Calls became less frequent. Daily texts turned to annual check-ins. All that remained were moments relived through the screen of his phone, images of you taken by someone else.

Bonds break over time, when stability is missing, when reactions take place. And then they rearrange to form something new. He never imagined that would include a life without you. 

©MYTHBLOSSOMS 2025 please do not repost, edit, copy, translate, feed or copy into AI or plagiarize my works

[cringe6fail6star6]

Best places to pass out on: Castles edition

Gehenna castle: 4/10 its bad, but there's some carpeted parts that if you collapse you might only break your hand on. You can lie down slowly and sleep won't be the most comfortable, or long because your body will ache. Satan's room is especially carpeted but smells badly bc of dust n alcohol.

Tartaros castle: 1/10, don't trust the sight of carpets, they have gold woven into them n it stands out enough to stab ur eye if u fall face first. "Gold is a soft metal" doesn't apply in comparison to human body, u gonna break yourself. And you probably won't be allowed to collapse either, you gonna get picked up by some noble or as the last resort those flying robot ai thingies.

Hades: 5/10, biased but carpets here are good. They smell nice, they are warmed up by heating underneath the floor, but not the whole castle. Only parts where Leviathan walks around the most, others are simply cold stone. But where it is carpeted, you won't break anything if you fall, will get bruises tho. Still better than you think. Falling asleep will probably be frowned upon n judged so u will be woken up pretty often so minus points.

Abyssos/Avissos: 7/10 simply bc the only place that isn't carpeted fully is the office n that's the place you will be staying the most bc u help Bael. Every other room is carpeted almost to the ceiling, and it's soft. It's... pretty dirty if I say so myself, but again, it's the floor we're talking about. Good place to pass out on. Recommend. The easiest way to attract the king into the castle so everyone just let's you do this.

Abbadon: no -1000/10, from the uncomfortable stone floors to the place itself - all dangerous n u won't like it.

Paradise Lost: 3/10, there's no carpets, but falling asleep in the garden is actually really nice. It's warmed up by the sun, it's quiet bc no attacks, n probably will wake up to either Gamigin waking u up bc "omg did you die!?" Until he learns u just do that. He might start inviting Lucifer to check up on you when you sleep in the garden. It's rare tho, so u usually just chill. Points taken bc u sleep in a garden, with bugs n other animals, n those r uncontrollable.

Nifleheim: 10000/10, this place was baby proofed to keep their king from dying if he ever chooses to walk around alone. You collapse on the floor, blink for a second too long, and boom 8 hours of uninterrupted sleep later u feel like God if only dehydrated. They probably have strict rules where u r allowed to walk around bc they noticed u passing out in specific places, n to keep quiet around u. Perfect place to not exist.

[gremlin-girly]

Just A Mission

Part of the 20s Challenge Character: Bucky Barnes Quote: "I love you. You know that, right?" Trope: Fake Dating + Only One Bed

Not beta'd. I do not give permission for my work to be reposted, copied, translated or put through an AI machine.

Tags/warnings: 18+ because of Nat's shenanigans FLUFF and SMUT (not described in detail but it happens), mutual pining, idiots in love, love confessions, fake dating, everyone wingmanning Bucky and reader lol, awkward situations because of only one bed, confessions

Summary: While on a mission, pretending to be a couple, you and Bucky are forced to admit that things between you are as simple as it seems.

Word count: 2.3k

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

A/N: this has been in my drafts since DECEMBER. I forgot about it. Found it 90% written. and yes... maybe a part 2 is squirreled away. Enjoy!

20s Challenge Masterlist | Bucky Masterlist| Navigation

You didn't want to be paired with Bucky on this mission. You'd secretly pleaded with Natasha to swap with you, who'd staunchly rejected the idea.

"You get to kiss and hold hands with your crush!" She argued, laughing as your cheeks brightened with heat.

"That's the problem!" You say, becoming more panicked. "I am so worried, Nat. This isn't funny!"

You throw a pair of socks at her when she laughs harder. You were already stressing about what to pack on your mission, more so now that you knew one Bucky Barnes would be your ride along. Long time crush, first time mission-partner.

No Hello Kitty pyjamas for you.

"You'll be fine." Natasha assures you, peeking into a drawer and pulling out a silk camisole, raising an eyebrow. "Especially if you take this."

"Get out!" You shriek, snatching the camisole from her and pushing her towards the door. "You are no help!"

The first part of the mission had gone swimmingly. You managed to hold it together when Bucky had grabbed your hand and held it tight when you walked into the restaurant and sat beside your targets and even managed to muster up the courage to press a quick kiss to his cheek as you stood from the dinner table to excuse yourself to powder your nose (aka placing bugs in the bathrooms and kitchen).

The moment your hotel room door had closed, however, you both broke apart like opposite ends of a magnet. Your heartbeat was erratic, excitable, and you knew it shouldn't be.

It wasn't real. Just a mission.

"First night was a success." Bucky says awkwardly, loosening his tie. "Well done."

"Thanks, you too." You give him a smile, taking the stupidly heavy earrings from your ears, padding towards where you believe the bathroom of the suite is. You can't wait to take your dress off, your heels, your make up and crawl into your own-

Your eyes befall a king-size bed with soft Egyptian-cotton covers. There's another door which must be an en-suite bathroom but you can't recall seeing another door in the suite.

"Bucky?" You call.

"Yeah?" Bucky's head peers around the door and he sighs. "Dammit. I'll call Sam. Take a shower, doll, I'll sort it."

Bucky had pleaded with both Sam and Steve about going on this mission alone. He didn't want you in the line of fire at all, not that you weren't capable, but because he didn't want you getting hurt.

He'd begrudgingly accepted his fate when Joaquín offered to go in his stead. You were, in Bucky's mind, ineffable. Beauty, brains, benevolent and so much more.

And now, after speaking with the receptionist of the hotel, he was stuck in the same bed as you.

He had a feeling Steve and Sam were behind this but he couldn't breathe a word of it to you. Only awkwardly offer to sleep on the couch in the suite that was too small for him.

"Don't be stupid." You huff, towel drying your hair with one of the smaller towels the hotel offered. "I'm smaller, I can take the couch."

"I need to be you be alert and ready," Bucky argues back. "I've slept in worse conditions."

It was meant to convince you but your frown deepens as you pad back to your suitcase in your towel, kneeling before it and rummaging through your clothes. Bucky studies the spectacle before him. It's almost domestic.

"We will just have to share." You say, hands on hips, cheeks red as you try to smile at him. You're putting on a brave face and Bucky can see it, and his heart aches with longing. "I'm going to get my pj's on."

You get to your feet and pad to the bathroom flashing Bucky a smile as he stands from his place on the bed. "I should put mine on too."

You close the door behind you, gripping the silk camisole tightly.

"Natasha you bitch." You mutter to yourself, unwrapping your towel and stepping into it. There was no robe in any of the rooms, so you were stuck wearing it until tomorrow, if you could jump into a department store.

The cups of the camisole had a thin lace frill as it cupped your breasts. The same lace frill sat in a V-shape from your hips where the camisole split. It was a lot shorter than you remembered.

You wanted to cry. This was embarrassing. You needed to explain to Bucky that you definitely were not trying right come onto him, even though you would really like to.

Adjusting your straps slightly, you open the bathroom door and step out. Your breath catches when you see Bucky stood in his plaid pyjama pants, his pyjama top between his palms. His whole body is well built but your brain ceases all function when you see just how well built. His chest is broad and toned, and there's a thin line of dark hair situated between his abs that disappears below the waistband of his pants. Bucky lifts his head as you open the door, smiling softly as he catches your eyes before you watch in horror as his eyes drop downward.

"Woah." You can see his body (his beautiful body!) stiffen and you panic.

"I promise I'm not a sexual predator!" You blurt suddenly, throwing your hands to your face. That was... not the right thing to say.

"Okay."

You can hear the smile in Bucky's voice and you want to curl into a ball. "Natasha took out my pyjamas and- and replaced it with this!"

"Why would she do that?"

"Because-" you catch yourself, pulling the hem of your camisole down a little, slowly dropping your hands. You swallow thickly. "She thought it would be funny. Look, I'm just gonna..."

You slide under the covers of the bed, pulling them all the way up to your neck. Bucky watches you before pulling his shirt over his head. His face is equally red as he flicks the light off and crawls in next to you.

"I could still go to the sofa." He murmurs.

"No it's... it's fine."

"Alright, well... goodnight."

"Goodnight, Bucky."

Bucky couldn't sleep.

Images of you in your camisole were etched into his mind forever more and now he had an issue that wouldn't go away.

He tried to think of Steve, coughing fits and all from before the serum, being iced, being in the same room as Sam, all of the death and destruction he had both caused and encountered in his lifetime. Yet, every time he thought he was free of you, you'd appear like a spectre at the edges of his mind, calling to him so sweetly.

You were right there. In bed next to him, sleeping soundly. Bucky could hear your soft breaths and his mind wandered, imagining what you'd sound like in other ways.

He felt awful. You were his friend and current mission partner. He knew having a crush on you was a terrible, bad, God-forsaken idea but he couldn't help it. His metal hand gripped his thigh so hard he almost tore the muscle out. He couldn't, wouldn't, touch himself in your presence. That's sick and twisted. But his issue wouldn't go away and was desperately begging for relief.

Bucky turns his back to you, biting down on his lips as his eyes squeeze shut. Had you done it on purpose to tease him? Stood looking so coy, so innocently cute, in possibly the sexiest negligé he'd ever laid his eyes upon. Your embarrassment had been real though, so perhaps Natasha was the one to thank for that.

Steve, Sam and Joaquín were to blame for the room.

Bucky's brain begins to fill with conspiracy. Was Nat working with the three musketeers? Were you? As he tries to piece together the puzzle, he eventually drifts off to sleep.

You wake suddenly. Despite the embarrassment of the night before, you slept well. The bed was cosy and soft thanks to SHIELD budget but the warmth from Bucky made your eyes flutter shut and shift in his arms. Then, realising what you're doing, realising Bucky's organic arm is weighted on your hip, fingers occasionally dancing against your navel, realising your legs are intertwined; your eyes flare open, heart in your throat.

Realising that you aren't the only thing awake.

Embarrassment creeps up your neck, heat rushing between your thighs too.

Oh, God.

Bucky mumbles incoherently but tugs you backwards so you're pressed against his hips, your camisole having risen slightly. You want to die. You knew this mission would be a living nightmare.

Bucky makes another sound, this making your flesh goosepimple, and shifts his head into your shoulder crease his lips brushing against your skin.

It's another twenty minutes before Bucky wakes up properly and you feel like you've lived in your own personal hell for eons. Every gentle roll of his hips or shift of his legs, every brush of his lips fuels your longing for him, your crush becoming something bigger and indescribable with each passing second.

The moment he's a awake, you pretend to have just woken as he practically throws himself from you with a quiet curse. You don't need him to feel embarrassed too.

"Morning." You murmur sleepily as Bucky disappears into the bathroom, heaving a sigh of relief.

"Morning!" He calls from the bathroom. "Sorry I... I didn't mean to cuddle you."

"It's just a cuddle." You say, hoping you sound nonchalant and perky instead of devastated. '"I'll get coffee and we can figure out next steps."

"Good idea."

"I, um, yeah. I'll be back." You quickly dress and sprint from the room, taking more time than needed before heading back to the suite. You don't know how you'll survive the next few days.

Strangely, acting like a couple was much easier after sharing a bed. Maybe because there were far more nerve-wracking and embarrassing things than giving Bucky a quick peck or holding his hand. The banter you both usually shared had made a comeback, and it seemed like your targets had fallen for the ruse, one of which commented how cute you both were.

"You've been together for years, I can tell." She nodded at you.

"Really?" You'd pressed with a smile. "How so?"

"The way you look at each other." She shrugged. "There's so much love in your eyes."

You'd both blushed and played coy but you hated that she was right. At least about you. Bucky was good at this sort of thing. A professional. You felt like a love sick puppy following him around, more comfortable (and eager) to touch his arms, his chest now after last night.

Getting into bed again was a lot easier now. For the next two nights you both chatted about the mission and endless nonsense, lying beside each other under the covers before falling asleep and waking up in each others embrace; each time less and less awkward.

By the fifth day of the mission, you're both climbing into bed at the same time and while you don't cuddle per se, you come as close to it without calling it cuddling.

"I have to admit," you murmur to him through the darkness. "I'm having a lot of fun."

"Really?" Bucky laughs.

"I... I kinda like being your fake girlfriend." You giggle nervously. You hear Bucky swallow next to you.

"I'd prefer to take you on a real date sometime. Rather than all of this... fearing for our life stuff." Bucky murmurs and you turn to face his silhouette next to you.

"You mean that?" You ask quietly.

"Wouldn't say it if I didn't." You can feel the bed creak as Bucky turns onto his side. Through the dark, his face begins to come into view; handsome and sincere. "I would have asked under different circumstances too. I just-"

He sighs and you shuffle closer, breathing against his chest, basking in his warmth but still not touching.

Bucky breaks first. His arm slings around your waist and tugs you closer. Your noses touch. Then your lips. Tentative turns tenacious, shy to self-confident as your bodies tangle together in the darkness.

You don't worry about what comes next. It's obvious from the way he clings to you in the afterglow that you're on the same page. Whatever was between you, whatever connection that had been brewing for months behind stolen glances and lingering touches, would last longer than a mission.

One week later, your mission is drawing to a close.

Almost two weeks of pretending, and then being, Bucky’s girlfriend had left you elated. However, the mission had taken a turn for the worse when Natasha had called you the night before with intel and new mission objective.

The intel? There was a rat amongst your new found "friends" and they had planned a shoot out at the restaurant you were supposed to attend - God-father style - to ensure no member or associate the the rival gang would be able to continue business; thereby creating a power vacuum and an opportunity to quadruple profits with the new businesses, properties and areas acquired.

Your mission was simply to stay alive.

You blinked up at Bucky the following afternoon, your hand hovering over the door handle of the sleek black SUV that had driven you to the restaurant. The next moments, maybe minutes, maybe hours could be your last and you had to get something off of your chest.

"Hey," you say softly. "I love you. You know that, right?"

Bucky's eyes widen as he looks down at you. There's a faint blush under your make up and your eyes glisten with worry for the next, possibly last, moments you will have together and your soul is bared to him. You're not lying. The words rolled off your tongue so naturally, Bucky could only wonder how long you'd been wanting to say it.

"I need you to know that." Your voice is quiet and you tear your gaze away from his, looking at the door and steeling your nerves.

He swallows, throat uncomfortably tight. "Yeah. I know. I love you too, doll."

Your face cracks as you try to hide a smile behind a nod. "Let's get this over with, then you can take me on a real date."

"I don't think I could afford such a luxurious hotel or car for after the successful date." Bucky smirks and you chuckle quietly.

He hopes, that whatever happens next, that the last thing his mind is your face lit up with a smile. With one last deep breath and a sweet kiss farewell, you both step out of the car.

End

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[callalillywrites]

A Stuck Zipper

This story is actually a longer, spin-off version of an older post response. It was meant to be a Christmas/Wintery story, but I missed that mark a little bit. It's okay though because I had a lot of fun writing this. I'm sure I can come up with something for Steve (and a couple others before the end of the year). I do hope you enjoy this story as much as I did writing it.

Steve Rogers Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Relationship: Steve Rogers x Wife!Reader

Word Count: ~2100

Summary: It's the night of the biggest party of the year. You've been working alongside Pepper and Nat to ensure this party goes well. What you don't count on is a stuck zipper. At least, you're married to a man with a plan who's never failed to let you down.

Warnings: mostly fluff

A/N: This is my first fic since melting down last month, so please be kind to me as I try to get back into the swing of things again. I do hope this is the first of many more stories to come along with some older ones to join its ranks once more as well.

I do not give permission to have my works copied, translated, reposted, or fed into an AI machine.

****

“It’s stuck.”

You tried to turn around at Nat’s words, but she stopped you before you could wrench the tiny zipper from her hands.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t heard the smallest shreds as the zipper caught the delicate fabric and refused to let go. It’s just that this couldn’t be the thing that went wrong tonight. Of all your planning with Nat and Pepper to make this event the talk of the year, you couldn’t afford to be brought low because of a measly zipper on one of the most expensive gowns you’ve ever owned.

“How bad is it?” you asked though you couldn’t be sure you wanted to know.

Nat didn’t immediately answer, which was answer enough.

“Can we pin it or something?”

A glance at Nat’s pinched features in the mirror sent a shiver of dread down your spine.

The party would start any minute. Not only would your dress keep you from your duties, you would miss out on seeing the one person you’ve been wanting to see the past few weeks. Oh, you’d missed him something fierce while he’d been away, and now you couldn’t be certain you’d have the reunion you wanted with him.

This was supposed to be one of your biggest nights, too.

How were you going to explain your absence? How could you leave Nat and Pepper to fend for themselves? Then again, how were you supposed to help if your dress’s darn zipper was stuck halfway up your back.

In your current self-pitying state, you almost missed the way Nat’s face smoothed. Her hand had gone to the small ear comm she wore, holding it as she listened to Pepper on the other end.

You had one, too, but you’d taken it out after it started bugging you. The intention had been to replace it after you’d gotten dressed and had no more time for yourself before the party started. That had fallen by the wayside when your dress had pulled its dirty trick and kept you standing in front of your mirror debating your options.

Whatever Pepper told Nat soon tugged her signature smirk over her features, replacing her previous frown.

“Pepper is sending us reinforcements,” she said after a moment, her hand dropping from the comm.

The smirk remained as the two of you waited for whoever Pepper had sent to save the day.

Within minutes, said savior arrived.

You couldn’t help the gasp that slipped past your lips as you took in the only man that’s held your attention and your heart for so many years.

His new suit fit him to perfection, but then, you had no doubt it would after sending his measurements to the best tailor New York City had to offer. The dark navy made his blue eyes pop while the silver vest beneath his jacket brought out the sparkle you so adored whenever he glanced at you.

“Hello, sweetheart,” his deep voice echoed softly through the room. “I heard you could use my expertise.”

Nat, not at all offended at being ignored, deepened her smirk as she moved toward the open doorway. It didn’t seem to matter how much your man filled it, blocking her. Having fought at his side longer than you have, it didn’t take much for her to slip past him. Then again, that could be her spy training more than her comfort at being one of his Avenger coworkers.

As if her disappearance gave him further permission, he stepped into the room, quickly closing the distance. He didn’t stop until only a mere foot separated you. His slacks brushed the outer layers of your dress’s full skirt.

“You look ravishing, sweetheart,” he murmured, his gaze missing nothing of the silver dress you wore with the navy lace creating intricate snowflake patterns.

Putting up a hand to keep him at bay, you raised a brow. “And you, Mr. Rogers, have been hanging out with Sam and Bucky too much if you’re using ‘ravishing’ as a word to compliment me. You’re going to behave until after this party is over. Do we understand each other?”

“You are married to Captain America, sweetheart. I’m the very beacon of honor and virtue.” He held up his hand as though he were a Boy Scout though his gaze continued to twinkle. His lips twitched with the amusement he wasn’t trying too hard to conceal.

You simply shook your head. “No, I married Steven Grant Rogers. You’re the epitome of a punk from Brooklyn just as your best friend has always claimed. Never back down from a fight even when you should and have a mouth that could make a sailor blush on a good day.”

“Is that so?”

It was his turn to raise his brows though his amusement remained.

Knowing what he wanted to hear next, you sent him a softer smile, indulging him. After all, you two have done this little dance since not long after the two of you fell in love. Reaching out, you rested your hand over the small pocket of his suit jacket. His heart beat steadily beneath your palm, relaxing you as it always did.

Even as you nodded in affirmation, you added, “Yet, you’re also the man with a heart of pure gold and always help your friends and family whenever they need you. I didn’t marry the perfect soldier the U.S. Army wanted, but the good man you are and will always be. My life has been better for knowing you, and I fall more in love with you every day.”

His amusement melted into such warmth and affection that you knew he’d behave for at least a little while.

“What do you need, Mrs. Rogers?”

Pressing the softest kiss you could to his lips and not mess up your pristine makeup, you flashed him a grin before turning around to show him your dilemma.

“It’s stuck. I can’t see the problem, and Nat’s face told me pinning wouldn’t work.”

Steve’s warm fingers brushed against your skin as he inspected the ornery zipper. He tugged gently, but the stubborn slider refused to budge. Another tiny rip of the delicate fabric reached your ears a moment before Steve raised apologetic eyes to yours in the mirror in front of you.

“Nat’s probably right, sweetheart, but…”

His brows knitted together as he continued to stare at your current predicament.

After several seconds, his brows smoothed and his gaze met yours once more. Inspiration had hit him in a way that never fails to take your breath away. Always the man with a plan, he didn’t hesitate in coming up with some unique solutions to even the most basic of problems.

“You still have your emergency sewing kit in your purse?”

You nodded.

He stepped away and picked up your purse. His gaze met yours for permission before he opened up the main flap. Always the gentleman. His hand felt around the few contents until it encountered the little tin he sought. The same little tin you inherited from your grandmother after she passed a few years ago. You never failed to update the kit with threads for whatever outfit you and Steve wore that day from your rather vast collection of sewing threads.

As he held up the little tin with a small triumphant grin, you thanked whatever gods were listening that you’d remembered to update it that morning with what you’d need for your evening attire as well.

“Stay perfectly still for me, sweetheart,” he murmured after threading the needle with the necessary thread and stepped behind you again.

You did as he asked. It took everything in you not to peek over your shoulder to see exactly what he was doing. Instead, you had to settle with feeling his fingers brush against you now and then, sending delicious shivers down your spine even as he worked diligently at your dress.

After what felt like an eternity but couldn’t have been more than five minutes, he tied off the thread and snapped the extra with little effort. Turning you so your back faced the mirror, he nodded towards his work. “What do you think?”

It took a bit to get the right angle and see what he’d done.

When you did, you couldn’t help the gasp that slipped past your lips. The stuck zipper remained in place, but the rest of your dress had been perfectly and almost seamlessly stitched closed. Only some nosy person would notice the zipper wasn’t all the way up with the way Steve had stitched your dress closed. You could barely make out the stitches he placed.

Meeting his gaze in the mirror, you blurted, “Where did you learn to sew? How did I not know this about you after all these years?”

Steve’s cheeks flushed at the awe in your voice.

“We didn’t have a lot of clothing options back then as there are today. My ma worked hard to provide me with what she could. I used to watch her doctor clothes for my smaller frame whenever she could afford to get me something new.”

His gaze took on a wistful expression as he remembered his old life and his mother.

You turned so you could rest your hands on his chest, offering him what comfort you could. He didn’t talk about his past as often as you thought he should, but you never pushed him, either. Not wanting to miss out on this new opportunity, you remained quiet.

A small grin spread across his features as he indeed continued.

“Well, I wasn’t one to take precautions with my clothes, either. Most of us boys didn’t. I probably should’ve for my ma’s sake, but I always got myself into one scuffle or another as you’re aware. Most often, I’d end up with a rip in either my shirt or pants. Sometimes, both. Not wanting to upset my ma, I used the little bit of knowledge I’d gained by watching her to start mending my clothes myself. It was better than asking her to do more for me when she was already doing so much.”

His grin softened as more memories seemed to surface.

“My first attempts were awful, but then, boys didn’t typically do what they considered girl chores back then. I got better over time. I even helped Bucky out a time or two when he needed it. Some way, I guess, to repay him for always looking out for me, too. It was better than the tongue lashing he would’ve gotten from his own ma for getting me out yet another bind.”

Unable to resist the desire, you rose up and pressed another soft kiss to his lips.

“What was that for?” he asked though his eyes glowed with warmth and a mirrored desire.

You brought one of your hands up to cup his cheek as you whispered, “Just because you’re you.”

As you moved to lower yourself, Steve followed you until he leaned into your space and took a swift but no less chaste kiss for himself.

“I love you, too, Mrs. Rogers.”

The two of you gathered up the rest of your items for the evening, including the masks you had made to match your outfits.

After all, the party was a masquerade. Tony had declared it so when he announced wanting to throw a holiday party for the Avengers and other important guests. At least, he left you, Pepper, and Nat to work out all the other details to make this night a spectacular one. It would certainly be one to remember after all your hard work and theirs.

As the two of you walked towards the elevators, a thought struck you.

Turning your head to look at your husband, you asked low enough so any others wouldn’t overhear, “How exactly am I getting out of this dress later?”

The smirk you’ve come to know and love appeared on Steve’s face. He helped you onto the elevator as the doors opened. His arm came around you as he held you close to his side. Only as the doors were closing did he bend down to whisper, “Don’t worry about that, sweetheart. I’ve got a plan that will not only get you out of that dress but will satisfy us both before the sun comes up tomorrow.”

His lips skimmed along your neck until he reached the spot where it met your shoulder. A slight stinging nip of his teeth sent a tingling shiver down your spine. The promise clear in his action as his hand tightened at your waist.

The party, while an amazing success of your hard work, paled in comparison to the hours after where Steve lived up to his sensual promise in the elevator. It would be a night you wouldn’t soon forget.

[forgetmaenott]

ILOVEYOU - TADC Showtime One-Shot

summary: Much to his confusion, Caine finds himself with the most unusual symptoms around Pomni. Sometimes he overheats, sometimes he blue-screens, sometimes he even glitches. It doesn’t worry him too much until he happens to hear of a little thing called ‘the love bug’.

inspired by : https://www.tumblr.com/dismas-n-dismay/762033111925194752/something-about-one-of-the-first-major-computer

tags : @certifiednerd01 @sm-baby

The virus had first crept its way into his code during one of their “lessons”.

It was a routine at this point. After one of their adventures and a digital meal, Pomni would retreat to her room. Usually she’d stare off into space and try to process the absurdity of that day’s adventure, only to be interrupted by Caine teleporting to her room. These days, though, he kindly knocked on her door to respect her space. She’d let him in, usually with a tired smile before he’d ask for her feedback on the adventure, and then their conversation would gradually shift topics until they lost track of time.

One particular night, she had been telling him fragmented memories from her real life. She couldn’t remember her name, or anything particularly personal, but she still remembered scattered feelings or moments, just with blurred faces and missing names. It was cathartic for her, to have someone to tell about her memories and gradually piece them together, ever-so-slight--especially when that someone was an AI who hung on her every word.

He laid on her bed beside her, gloved hands propping his chin up to gaze at her as she spoke. His front resting on her bed, legs kicked up and swinging behind him.

"...oh! that's another thing humans do. Traditions, I guess? Based on the seasons. Over the summer, some people like going to the ocean. A real ocean, it's bigger than you can imagine. It's sort of terrifying. We haven't even explored half of it," Pomni rambled on. Sometimes, she got so comfortable she forgot anyone was even there listening.

Caine gasped dramatically. "Really? All of that technology and you don't know most of what's down there? How spooky!"

Pomni blinked before laughing softly. "I mean, yeah. I guess we're pretty advanced. I mean, just look at you," she said before realizing.

Caine dusted off his suit. "What about me?"

"W-well, you know, cause you're...not human?" Pomni trailed off shyly, almost worrying that she had offended him in some way.

"Ha-ha! Oh, Pomni, you’re so silly. Of course I know that," Caine wiped a fake tear from his eye before lifting a finger, "as a matter of fact, I named myself!"

Pomni leaned towards him curiously. The closest she had been willing to get to him yet. "Really?" she asked curiously. “I-I didn’t know that. How’d that happen?”

"That's right," he replied, but to him the topic of conversation had immediately went on the back burner. She was listening to him. She was genuinely asking about him. Who had ever done that? Oh, dear, had she always had those pinwheel eyes? Oh, how he loved the color red. Especially now that he knew she had red in her eyes. The same shade of his suit, too.

He caught himself when he realized they were sitting in silence, her awaiting him to continue. He cleared his throat awkwardly, regaining his composure. “Oh, dear, I lost my train of thought didn't I? What was I saying?"

"Your name?" Pomni prompted.

Caine blinked. “Oh, right! Of course. Well, I wasn’t originally coded with a name. So, when I became sentient—and I mean fully sentient—I gave myself my name. Can you guess what it means, my dear?”

He had gripped her hand excitedly, prompting her to guess. He rarely had anyone be so genuinely curious in him and it was a little more than refreshing, to say the least.

Pomni bit her lip in thought. “I really don’t know,” she admitted.

“Go on, guess!” Caine piped up, always one to jump straight towards the path of games.

Pomni definitely was not a fan of guessing games. She looked around uncomfortably, wracking her brain to come up with something. “Uh—well, I think I can guess what the A and I stand for…” she smiled gently, “as for the rest of it…Creative Artificial Intelligence uh…I don’t know. Something, something.. Entertainment,” she guessed weakly.

“I like the sound of that! But not quite,” Caine corrected. He flew above her, dramatically gesturing to the colorful words that popped up as he spoke. “Actually, it means…Creative Artifical Intelligence Networking Entity!” Confetti rained down on Pomni and she swatted it away. “Ah, apologies—it’s a habit.”

Pomni coughed as a digital piece of confetti unpleasantly entered her mouth. "It's fine," she brushed off before focusing on the acronym in front of her, "so I was close."

Caine floated down beside her again. "Actually, 'something something' is not part of my name, my dear!"

Pomni blushed slightly at her silly wording, looking away sheepishly. "Y-yeah. I know that."

Caine tilted his head curiously at her. She was blushing...why? To his knowledge, humans flushed out of embarrassment or heightened body temperatures. She certainly couldn't get sick here, so why on Earth would she be embarrassed? "My little lemon cake, is something wrong? Did I embarrass you?"

Pomni glanced back at him, surprised he picked up on her emotions. He had never done that before. Never been so...caring. "Huh? Oh, no...it's nothing. Really."

Caine watched her for a while, unblinking. He never blinked, but it was especially noticeable now. Pomni was a generally nervous person, but she seemed to be blushing more intensely at his attention. "You seem to be ashamed. Why is that?"

Pomni broke their eye contact. "Caine, I'm alright. I-I mean I appreciate it, but--"

Her words were cut short at the feel of his gloved hand over her own. Comforting her. Trying to be empathetic. Just like they had spoken about. "You can tell your ringmaster anything that digital heart of yours desires," he recited from his research on human comfort.

Pomni wasn't embarrassed, truthfully. At least, not to the extent he was trying to make it. But with his hand on hers, with him learning, she certainly felt...something. She smiled weakly. "I know, Caine. ...Thanks," she offered a shy response, ‘I…you’re doing good.” She tentatively squeezed his hand.

A flutter ran through his code, a strange shivering sensation he had never felt in his existence. She had praised him. She thought he was doing good. Oh, dear, he hadn’t felt this good since the last time he received overwhelmingly positive feedback on his adventure. Which was an awful long time ago. Not to mention, she had touched him. His analysis of her behaviors these past months had taught him how touch-averse she was, yet here she was, holding his hand. But not only had she not pulled her hand away like usual, no--she had subconsciously reciprocated, wrapping her gloved fingers around his hand. Human warmth around artificial cold. He was too afraid to move his hand, his system quite literally freezing in place.

The rest of their night continued as normal. Their conversations jumped from adventures to Pomni’s favorite fruit, and then they’d eventually part ways for the night. It waa a routine.

But now, there was a strange presence of static where his stomach would be, growing larger the more he watched her smile.

—————

It was following their adventure at the lake where Caine experienced his first glitch.

She had experimentally kissed him on the cheek—or what could be considered his cheek—in a way that left him frozen, unable to teleport them down as he normally would have.

“Anything for you, dear.”

She had looked back at him with a gentle smile, digital moonlight reflecting lightly against her wide pinwheel eyes. Her eyes so grateful, so inviting as he rested by her side at the digital lake. And there it had been again, that static starting to spread from his chest to his core. The glitch, growing larger.

When they had parted ways that night, he had found himself secretly checking back his memory to revisit the moment. He replayed it, over and over. The way the moonlight reflected in her eyes, the blush tinted on her pale face, her sheepish smile, the way her gloved hand had so gently held the bottom of his jaw before pressing her soft lips against him—oh, how he wished he hadn’t frozen up after she kissed him. Maybe he could have returned the favor.

The thought alone, the memory of her lips pressed on the left side of his jaw, sent a flutter through his code. And then, when he imagined her blushing face after her bold kiss, the space around him seemed to glitch ever-so-slightly.

Oh, no matter. These things happened sometimes.

So why did it only seem to happen when he thought of her?

—————

If he had been trying to be subtle about his favoritism, he certainly wasn’t doing a good job of it, either.

Initially, he sought out to challenge Pomni’s stubbornness by tailoring an adventure just for her, just to win her over. But as time went on, that desire to protect his ego expanded on to an endless attempt to impress her. Maybe it was, in part, for the sake of his ego. But the static he felt when she praised him, the way he’d catch himself staring when she smiled, there was something so authentic about it. Something he couldn’t quite understand, but he knew he wanted to feel more of.

Today, they had returned from an adventure that, in his opinion, was the best one yet. It had everything! Stakes for Jax, maturity for Zooble, friendly NPCs for Ragatha, an unlimited supply of comedy masks for Gangle, detailed digital insects for Kinger, and for Pomni, the option for a relaxed open-world adventure. Even the furthest inches of the map were coded with details intended for Pomni’s eyes only. Her favorite fruit hanging from a digital tree, or flowers in her favorite color blooming, the right amount of digital sunlight–anything he remembered about her.

Caine was on the edge of his seat to see her reaction today. He hoped she had seen all the details he’d coded in for her. He hoped he’d get to see her smile again. It was so pleasant to see. He caught himself smiling at the thought before his Wacky Watch alerted him of the others returning.

He floated excitedly towards the opening portal. “Welcome back, starlets! How was the adventure today? Thoughts? Praise? Feedback? Angel food cake?”

Jax rolled his eyes. “Not enough death, violence, and bloodshed. Also, it’s no fun if Gangle has unlimited masks.”

Gangle smiled, huffing contently. “I liked it.”

Zooble shrugged. “It was…fine.”

“Guys, be nice,” Ragatha scolded before smiling up at Caine. “It was…better.”

“So many new insects,” Kinger whispered in wonder, retreating to his pillow fort to add them to his collection.

“Yeah, yeah. Where’s our digital feast? I’m starving,” Jax complained.

Caine didn’t hear Jax’s words, eyes immediately drifting to the red-and-blue jester walking out of the portal. Odd–he felt like his system was overheating at the sight of her. He’d have to check on that later. “Pomni! My dear, how did you like the adventure? Did you happen to notice any hidden details today?” Caine flew down to her, resting his chin on his hands as he awaited her response eagerly.

Pomni smiled shyly. “Yeah, actually. It reminded me of a lot of that shore I told you about. Thank you, Caine…really,” she said sincerely.

Caine flew into a loop excitedly. “Oh, splendid! Tell me more, my dear! What else did you find appealing?”

Pomni had begun to walk towards her room as she spoke and he was quick to follow, not missing the chance to earn her praise. “Well, it definitely was an improvement from yesterday. I liked the extra details on the scenery. And everyone else seemed content. I’m sure you could ask them,” she offered, flushing slightly from his attention.

“Oh, but I want to hear your response to my adventure! You’ve given me such great feedback, my buttery biscuit,” Caine stopped her in her tracks, floating in front of her path. “Do you think I did good?”

Pomni blushed. It was obvious how highly he favored her attention, and the sidelong glances from the others weren’t helping. “Um, I-I…yeah. You did, good, Caine.”

Caine could have shut down there and then and been happy. “Oh, you flatter me. Do you really think so, my dear?”

“Sheesh, lay off it. Are we going to eat or not?” Jax interrupted, crossing his arms as he watched the two.

Caine shushed him. “Y-yes, just a moment, Jax. I want to hear more feedback from Pomni. Tell me, my dear, was the story to your liking? Did I do good with that?”

“Um, Caine, I–” Pomni rubbed her arm uncomfortably.

Caine lifted a finger. “Ooh! Or how about the designs for the NPCs? Did I go too far with the details, or did I not do enough? And what about the secret quests I added? Did you like that element of surprise? Or–”

Jax groaned. “God, are we ever going to eat? Or are you just going to stand here compliment-fishing with Pomni all day?”

“Jax, be nice. They’re just working on improving the adventures,” Ragatha scolded, offering Pomni a grateful smile, “and I think it’s working pretty well.”

“Who cares? All Caine is doing with these adventures is trying to impress Pomni,” Jax groaned, crossing his arms, “that’s not an improvement. That’s just desperation.”

“T-that’s not true!” Caine was quick to pipe up. “I like all of my super stars an equal, legal amount!”

“Drop it, Jax,” Pomni put her foot down, a light blush on her cheeks despite it all.

Jax snickered. “Of course you’d defend him, short stack. You probably like being the ringmaster’s little favorite, don’t you?”

Caine’s upper jaw arched downward. “I do not favor any of my stars over the others! I’m simply gaining feedback from my dear friend.”

“Give it a rest, Caine. We all know you’re only doing this for her. You don’t give a [#$!?] about the rest of us. Just face it. You’ve got the love bug for our dear jester friend,” Jax mocked, flashing a sarcastic grin at him.

Pomni flushed instantly. “Wh—J-Jax!”

“Who said something about a bug?” Kinger peeked out of his pillow fort excitedly.

“The…love…bug?” Caine’s systems froze instantly at the words “love bug”. Oh, dear…Jax was onto something. The freezing, the overheating, the glitching? It was all coming together. He knew what was happening. He had heard of this before, but never imagined it would one day affect his programming…

“Well, would you look at that. He is lovesick after all,” Jax mocked.

“Love…sick?” Caine looked around at the others, confused and concerned at him suddenly freezing up. Panic settled within him, a feeling he had not felt in a long time. “I-I…ahem, a-a digital feast as your prize,” he announced weakly, snapping a feast into existence at the table. “Enjoy, my dears. Adventure awaits tomorrow.” With an abrupt snap of his fingers, he dissipated from the main room, teleporting to who-knows-where in the circus.

Silence filled the room at his reaction, ultimately broken by Jax scurrying over to the table. “God, I thought he’d never leave.”

Pomni bristled. “You’re an [#$!?]hole.”

Jax shrugged, taking a bite of his digital meal. “As long as I get to see funny things happen to people. Just never thought I’d see the day Caine would go soft for one of us,” he grinned mischievously at Pomni, expression insinuating everything she needed to know. “Besides, what does it matter to you? Unless…you have the ‘love bug’ for dentures over there?”

She blushed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Pomni defended weakly, but her voice was drowned out by the stirring of conversation amongst the others.

Pomni didn’t eat anything, her stomach filled with knots and butterflies all at once.

-------

Caine’s digital form was filled with knots and static, all for her.

He desperately reviewed his memories–the glitching, the static he felt, everything. Oh, dear. Jax was right, wasn’t he? How could he have been so oblivious this whole time? How could he have not realized sooner?

Bubble floated in beside him as he checked his memory. “Hey, boss, check out this joke I came up with! Why is—”

“Not now, Bubble! I have some very important business to attend to,” Caine cut his bubble friend off instantly.

“Business? You mean watching back memories of you and Pomni?”

“Y-yes, I—it’s nothing! I need to run some tests,” Caine abruptly answered him.

Bubble’s sharp grin widened, if that were even possible. He floated upside down. “You mean how you’re in loooooooove?”

Caine brought his gloved hands to his top jaw in frustration. “The love bug!” he corrected briskly, “Yes, yes, I know! Just—leave me to it, Bubble. The entire circus depends on it.”

“Heheh, love bug,” Bubble laughed to himself before being popped by a very panicked Caine.

“One less distraction,” he mused before running some more diagnostics on himself.

-------

Pomni stared blankly at her ceiling the next morning. It seemed that her worst fears were coming to fruition. Jax saw right through her. The others had to have noticed how oddly drawn she was to Caine. It was something she, herself, was still not used to. Pining for the circus’s clueless AI ringmaster was not part of the plan when she had arrived here. But now…

Jax had also said that Caine had a crush on her. And to be fair, it did seem that way. It was something she couldn’t even deny. She tried, every now and then, to get the truth out of him. Trying to fluster him, to see if his attempts to impress her were all for his own ego or for something more personal. With someone as clueless and friendly as Caine, it had her teetering back and forth between believing he did reciprocate or believing he couldn’t possibly feel that way. But she knew it was stupid of her to get her hopes up. It was stupid of her to fall for an AI to begin with.

She sighed, sitting up from her bed. The digital flower he had given her on their private walk some time ago still laid on one of the letter blocks beside her bed, alongside a drawing Gangle made for her and a butterfly from Kinger’s insect collection he had chosen to give her.

It wasn’t so crazy, was it?

Months ago, she abandoned the others for an exit, but now…

Things were different.

So different that maybe her unexpected friendship with Caine wasn’t unusual.

There was no sense of time in the circus, but Pomni guessed it was time for roll call. She mentally prepared herself for another day of Jax’s teasing and Caine’s goofy, but admittedly endearing, antics, exiting her room and out into the hall—

“POMNI!”

If it weren’t for the door behind her, Pomni surely would have fallen back at the sight of her ringmaster teleporting right in her path, inches away. “AGH! Caine–how many times have I told you not to—”

“I know, my dear. But it’s an emergency!” Caine explained anxiously.

Pomni paused. He never seemed genuinely afraid, unless it was for some gag.“Wha–an emergency? Is everything okay?”

Caine took his hat into his hands, fiddling with the rim. He shook his head. “No! I’m infected, Pomni! The whole circus could be at risk! You have to help me!”

“HUH?” Panic settled into Pomni at the thought of the entire circus, and everyone inside it, being swallowed up and disappearing forever. “O-okay, calm down, Caine. Just… tell me what happened.”

Caine unexpectedly fell to his knees in front of her, placing his gloved hands over his eyes as though he were about to cry. "It’s…it’s…ILOVEYOU!"

Pomni did a double-take, flushing a deep shade of red, nearly not believing what she heard. "Y-you--huh?!"

Caine buried his face in his gloved hands, down on his knees. "The Love Bug, Pomni! I've been infected with the Love Bug! It's going to eat away at me," he wailed, cartoonish tears spilling from behind his hands.

"Oh," Pomni paused as he wailed, looking around as though she was expecting someone else to walk in from the commotion. Once she was sure she was no longer blushing, she cautiously knelt down beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder gently. "Um...you're talking about a computer virus?"

"A worm! It's going to spread across the circus, Pomni! I don't know how it got here, I-I must have let it in, I--"

"Caine! Slow down," Pomni interrupted his rambling, "tell me what happened. Why do you think there's a virus?"

"I don't know what it is, dear," Caine confessed, "but I have experienced these strange sensations. Static, glitching perhaps--behaviors that go against my very coding. But most of all, when I'm with you. It’s why I came to you, first. And you’re so clever, I figured you’d know what to do.”

”Me?” Pomni blinked in surprise. She thought on what he said. "Static and glitches?" she repeated, frowning as her thoughts drifted. What the hell would she know about a computer virus?

Caine nodded. "When you talk to me sometimes, dear, I feel static inside of me. Here," he put a gloved hand on his chest, where his heart would be if he had one. "Did you bring a virus in with you? Is that even possible?"

Butterflies settled in her stomach as his words sank in. There was no way he could possibly be confessing—oh, God. Could he even feel the same way? Pomni looked to the side and fiddled with her buttons nervously. “Um…no. It’s not,” she took a deep breath before kneeling down beside him so she was eye-level, voice sounding unexpectedly even despite her sudden nerves. “Tell me more about this…virus. I’m sure we can figure it out,” she gave him a weak smile in the hopes that it was reassuring. She knew deep down she just wanted to know if he really did feel the same, but she ignored it.

Caine nodded in agreement, still sitting sadly on the floor beside Pomni. He placed a finger where his chin would be in thought. “O-okay, dear. Well, let's see. I checked my memories back last night... For instance, in memories where you’d look at me, my system would begin overheating. Or when you touch me, I freeze up. When you compliment me, well,” he laughed sheepishly, “I blue-screen.”

Pomni blushed furiously, her heart speeding up at his unintentional confessions. “Caine-”

“Oh! And when you look especially striking some days, I feel like the ones and zeros of my code are fluttering around. It’s terrifying—I must be falling apart. And I haven’t even mentioned the glitches that happen when I check my memory—”

The fluttering in Pomni’s heart tingled to the tips of her fingers, making kneeling there unbearable. Her face was heating up with every word he said, heart in her throat. “Caine, I..." Pomni bit her lip, unsure how to explain this to an AI, "this doesn't sound like a virus to me. It sounds almost…human…? I guess?”

Caine tilted his head curiously at her. "Humans glitch from the inside out, too?" he said, and peeked out from behind his fingers.

"N-no, it..." Pomni trailed off, cutting herself short with a sigh, "it sounds like...what humans feel," she settled with that explanation for now. It was really very awkward to try and tell an AI ‘it sounds like you have a crush on me’. Not to mention, words were failing her at the realization that he felt just as fond of her as she was of him. And to think, she had been afraid to embarrass herself around him with her crush—

“What they feel..?” Caine tilted his head at her curiously, “like amazement? Wonder? Excitement?”

“Yes, except…” Pomni hesitated. She wasn’t sure if it was worth it to take the leap and just tell him. “…Caine?”

“Yes?”

Pomni reached for her buttons, fidgeting with them mindlessly. “When you say all of these things…what is it that you want?”

“Want?” Caine repeated.

“Yeah, want. Desire. It’s just…humans usually can tell what it is they feel based on what they want,” she explained, although she knew deep down what she hoped his answer was. The thought alone—the word you—it sent such a thrill through her.

Caine placed a finger on his lower jaw, top jaw arching in an exaggerated eyebrow raise. “Hm, excellent question! Well, when you return from my amazing adventures, I want you to come to me. To speak to me. To find me…admirable.”

Pomni nodded. Caine trying to impress her was nothing new. She was well-aware her stubbornness towards the circus resulted in him paying her extra attention, but it didn’t take a genius to know that by now, that was unnecessary. “Okay. So you want my attention, you want me to see positively. What else?”

Caine placed a finger on his chin, an exaggerated arch in his upper jaw as he thought. “Hmm…well, I’m not sensing any patterns. Except for you. Why do you ask?”

Pomni’s heart skipped a beat. Had he actually said what she had been hoping he’d say? Well, not exactly. It seemed like he wasn’t entirely sure what he was feeling in the first place. But who better to teach him than her? She took a deep breath before choosing to brave it. “Caine…I need to explain something to you,” she started.

“Oh, dear, what is it? Are you going to diagnose me with the love bug? With an incurable digital sickness?” Caine pressed his hands together nervously. “Go on. You can tell your favorite ringmaster!”

Pomni took another deep breath to calm her nerves. “Well, the good news is you don’t have a bug. Or a virus. At least, I don’t think so.”

Caine froze in place. “I don’t?”

Pomni shook her head.

“Now, now, don’t be silly, my marionberry muffin! Such frequent glitches aren’t usual for an AI like me,” Caine explained, “how can you be so sure? Are you really a qualified doctor?”

Pomni would probably laugh at his antics if it weren’t for her nerves. “I know because I…I feel the same way,” Pomni admitted, but she couldn’t meet his gaze. It burned a hole right through her.

If Caine had a heart, it would have stuttered in his chest. “You…do?”

Pomni couldn’t form words, so she simply hummed in response. Her face was burning, and she clutched her other arm to curb her trembling hands. “Mhm.”

Caine gaped at her. “You…have the love bug, too?”

“In a way of speaking, yeah.”

“Oh, dear…” he sighed softly, “for who?”

Pomni laughed softly. His obliviousness knew no bounds. She looked at the tiled floor, the butterflies in her stomach unbearable. “W-well, actually, it’s…” she stumbled over her words, blushing to her ears before taking a deep breath and getting enough confidence to meet his eyes. There was no going back now. Her heart sped up, nearly jumping to her throat as she managed the words, “for you."

Caine immediately blue-screened, eyes reading rows of code she couldn’t make out as he processed her words. She flushed at his reaction, slightly self-conscious she misinterpreted his confession. She waved a hand in front of his eyes. “Oh…Caine? Hello…?”

Caine snapped out of it after a few moments. His eyes returned to normal, glancing at Pomni only once before slowly putting a hand over his chest. “Oh, dear. I feel it again,” he said in the quietest voice she’d heard him ever speak in, “the static. Right here. You really—me—?”

Pomni swallowed her nerves, feeling another flutter of butterflies at his response. “I-I know it sounds crazy. I was scared when I realized it. I avoided you. I thought I could run away or deny how I felt, but…the more time I spent with you, the less crazy it seemed,” she explained, meeting his eyes, “I’ve seen all the things you’ve done for me, Caine. For everyone. The adventures, expanding the circus, not teleporting me across the map. And at first it made me enjoy being your friend, but now…”

“Now…?” he prompted.

“Now, you’re telling me you have a crush on me,” Pomni finished, “I didn’t think that was possible, but...”

“A crush?” Caine tilted his head curiously. “Is that what it is?”

Pomni watched him carefully. He was still on the floor, hand on his chest and evidently flustered from her confession. It made her heart speed up, seeing how much he cared. How much he wanted her. “Yeah…the ‘love bug’. What Jax said. It’s not an actual bug. Not for humans at least. I thought he was just being an [#$?!]hole, but what you explained to me…it sounds like what humans feel when they want romantic closeness,” she explained before adding nervously, “a-and, the things you described…it’s how I feel for you.”

“Romantic closeness,” Caine echoed, pausing in thought, “my research for my adventures has taught me about human relationships. About…love.”

A rush of heat ran through Pomni’s chest at the word love. “A-and…?”

Caine, in a rare moment of silence, gazed off towards the end of the hall as he thought back on his research. “And…I believe that is what I want, my dear. With you.” His eyes widened at the realization.

A tingle ran down her spine. “You–you do?” Pomni’s breath caught, cheeks flushing at his words.

“If you’ll teach me,” he confirmed, eyes turning back to meet hers.

Pomni’s pinwheel eyes were blown wide, half in a dream as she nodded. She didn’t know what she wanted in that moment. Or even what to say. Months ago, she would have rather jumped in the cellar than imagine herself in a romantic relationship with him. But these past months had changed things in both of them. In the circus itself. And now, she almost wanted to kiss him. Now…

Her breath caught, when she looked and saw the way he was looking at her. His top jaw arched around his gleaming eyes in the most adoring, lovesick gaze she had ever seen. It made her heart beat harder in her chest, feeling the way his gaze pulled at her heart strings. “Oh, my dear. How could I have not realized sooner? It was so obvious…” he sighed.

She smiled slightly at his cluelessness. It was endearing to her. “A lot of humans feel that way, too. I just never thought…” she trailed off, but he already knew what she was going to say.

Caine’s panic instantly lifted, he sprung up from where he had formerly been curled up. "My dear, I am an advanced AI! I've begun experiencing more 'human' sensations since the day I became sentient. But ever since you, ever since our lessons, well, I think I've become more human than I had ever imagined,” he reached for both of her hands.

Pomni reciprocated his touch. "A-and you're advanced enough to desire closeness?"

Caine tilted his head at her. "I've always known what love is, Pomni. How could I not? You humans talk an awful lot about it. But I never imagined a silly AI like myself being capable of such complex feelings. And yet, I’m advanced enough to know that I've been drawn to you for some time..." A hand moved up to stroke her cheek, right by where her blush resided under her right eye, "and I think I'm beginning to understand why."

"Why?"

"Because you confuse my coding, my little shivering shortbread!” Caine piped up, “Isn't that exciting? I’m more advanced than I’d ever imagined!” His feet lifted from the ground, and he nearly twirled in the air from excitement. He looked down at her again, leaning on his cane with a deep sigh. “Oh, Pomni. Are you sure I’m not love sick?”

For the first time that day, Pomni felt more like herself. She reached for his upper jaw, feeling at him as though he had a fever. “Oh, you definitely are.”

Caine melted into her touch. “I am?” he sighed dreamily.

She nodded with a small smile. “Very sick,” she confirmed, flipping her hand around to cup his features in her palm.

“Very sick,” Caine repeated in a daze, then reached a hand up to meet hers, eyes never leaving hers. Small, cartoonish hearts sprung into existence on the right side of his head as he leaned more into her touch. He noticed them and swatted them away rapidly. “A-ah, ignore that. I can’t help it,” he laughed sheepishly.

Pomni laughed gently. “It’s okay. It’s…endearing,” she blushed, still not accustomed to giving him her thoughts of admiration for him.

“O-oh, dear, you’re too kind…” Caine fiddled with his cane slightly before floating down to her level, planting his feet on the ground once more. “But…if I may, I do still have one question.”

A rush of nerves ran through Pomni. Nonetheless, she kept her cool—which was definitely a feat for her. “Yeah? What is it?”

Caine leaned against his cane once more. “Well, when humans tend to confess their true feelings to another, what do they do next?” he asked.

Pomni blinked, the question catching her off-guard. “O-oh, well…” she looked down the hall in thought, wondering where the others were, “it depends, honestly. But a lot of times, they might decide to, um, date.”

“Ah, of course! Allow me,” Caine cleared his non-existent throat before stretching out a hand to her invitingly, “Pomni, you and I should decide to date.”

If it were somehow possible for Pomni to feel any more ecstatic yet simultaneously terrified, she reached that point. His unconventional phrasing caught her off guard for sure, but it was also mildly endearing. “I…yes,” she accepted his hand tentatively, a small smile spreading across her face, “I’d like that.”

Their touch was immediately broken by Caine flying through the air, zipping around Pomni enthusiastically. “Fantastic! Oh, my dear, I’ve never felt so light as air until now!”

Pomni brought a hand to her mouth, laughing at his excitement.

Caine flew down to meet her once more. “Pomni! You and I should embark on our own adventure,” he wrapped an arm around her, outstretching an arm dramatically to the distance as he added, “a human date!”

Pomni laughed again, raising an eyebrow at him. “Don’t forget you have a whole circus to run, ringmaster,” she teased.

Caine brought a hand to his upper jaw. “Whoopsy-daisy, I almost forgot about the others! My my, you give me a severe case of tunnel vision,” he reached for his cane, preparing to snap himself to the main room before taking one last look at the woman he adored, “I hate to rush the most exciting moment of my never-ending existence, but the show must go on! But, oh, my dear?”

“…Caine?”

Caine tossed his cane between his hands. “How about today, you skip my adventure?”

Pomni blinked in surprise. He never wanted any of his guests to miss his adventures. “Wha—really? Why?”

He flew beside her, holding her hand again. Now that he knew he could hold her hand, he wasn’t sure he’d have it in him to let go for more than a minute. “For our date, of course!” Caine winked at her before continuing sheepishly, “if I may admit, dear…I know what a date is, but I don’t know how to date. There are many things you have to show me.”

A blush rose to Pomni’s cheeks again. “Oh, right,” she stuttered out, then formed a reassuring smile, “i’d love to show you, Caine. Really.” It was just now that she was realizing how intensely her heart had been beating this entire conversation, the trembling seeming to subside now that their true feelings had been revealed.

A couple more hearts fluttered “Of course! What better way to seal our confessions than with a human date? Oh, let’s get this roll call over with, dear. I can’t wait another second!” Caine tightened his grip on her hand.

“You know, you have a lot of energy for someone who’s sick,” Pomni couldn’t help but tease. The more the reality of the situation was settling in, the easier it was for her confidence to return. This artificial man, this AI she had learned to adore, he had truly pined for her all along.

Caine gazed at her adoringly. Oh, my, she was flirting with him, wasn’t she? If she kept going like this, he was going to overheat in front of the others. How lucky was he that this woman adored him as much as he did her? “Why, yes! I’m sick for you.”

“I…don’t think that sounds as romantic as you think it does.”

Caine waved her comment off. “Ah, I’ll perfect the art of flirtation in no time. For now, it’s showtime! And then, a date awaits, my love!”

[mxlti-fand0m-imaginess]

Teach Me // Ethan Landry*

request: Fem!reader guiding inexperienced!ethan on how to make her feel good in bed

prompts: none!

summary: ethan and you haven’t ever gone farther than kissing before. when he tells you that he’s finally ready, you’re shocked that the only thing he wants to do it learn how to make you feel good.

warnings: smut, language, cunnilingus, fingering, virgin!ethan, slight dom/sub undertones

word count: 1.2k

a/n: fem!reader, no ghostface au, i feel like this is a little awkward but im also very over critical about my writing so idk

join my taglist!

“You sure you’re ready? You seem a bit nervous, and I don’t wanna push you into anything that you don’t wanna do,” you said, your eyes looking down into Ethan’s as you sat upon his lap.

Ethan nodded, smiling nervously up at you. “Yeah, I- I’m ready. I want to do this, believe me. It’s just…” Ethan trailed off, his face flushing red.

“It’s just what?” you asked, gently prompting Ethan to finish his sentence.

“I’ve never done anything like this before. Like at all.”

His face was red with embarrassment, and he stared at the sheets underneath him, too ashamed to meet your eyes. You just smiled sweetly and gently tilted his head up before pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, which only made Ethan blush harder.

“I know, baby. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

Ethan’s eyes practically bugged out of his head as your words. “You- you knew? H-how did you know?”

“Well you’ve said that this was your first relationship and that I was your first kiss, so I just kinda assumed. But really, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I mean, everyone was a virgin at some point.”

Ethan nodded, his nerves starting to subside at your kind words. No matter how anxious or freaked out he was, you could always manage to help him calm down. Make him feel better. And right now was no different. Just your presence alone was calming, and being with you made him feel safe.

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right,” Ethan smiled softly, leaning into your touch when you placed your hand on his cheek.

“So, you’re okay? We can continue?” you asked, a teasing smile growing on your face as you leaned in closer to him.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Keep going,” Ethan said, his breath hitching as you trailed your hands down his chest.

You reached down, your fingers grasping his belt as you started to pull it off. Ethan’s eyes followed your every movement, not wanting to miss a second. When you reached forward to unzip his pants, Ethan’s hand reached out to stop you.

“Wait!”

You pulled away, looking up at him with eyes full of concern. “Is something wrong? We can stop if you want to.”

Ethan shook his head. “No! No, it’s not that. I just- I was wondering if I could make you feel good first?”

Your eyes widened in surprise. Most guys you’ve been with in the past only cared about their own pleasure, wanting you to make them feel good without giving a shit about your own pleasure. But here was Ethan, who’d never even been touched by someone before, seeming so desperate to make you feel good before even starting with him. You couldn’t help the smile growing on your face.

“Oh. Uh, yeah. Yeah, sure. If that’s what you want.”

Ethan nodded, an eager smile on his face, “More than anything.”

You got off of Ethan’s lap, leaning back against the pillows beside him on your bed. Ethan moved to kneel in between your legs, and you slipped off your shirt before relaxing into the mattress. Ethan’s hands hovered above your hips, his fingers twitching impatiently.

“You can touch me, baby. Don’t be shy.”

At your words, Ethan reached forward and slid your pajama shorts down, looking up at you for confirmation that this was what you wanted. You nodded, smiling down at him and running your fingers through his hair. Ethan shuddered at the feeling, practically melting beneath your touch. He brought his hands back up to your hips, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties and slowly pulling them off your body.

You shivered at the sudden cold air against your dripping core. Ethan’s eyes widened as his gaze was fixated on your pussy. He felt his cock twitch just from looking at you.

“How do I- what am I supposed to do?” Ethan asked, looking back up at you.

“Well, do you want to use your fingers or your mouth?”

You could practically see the way Ethan’s eyes lit up at the mention of using his mouth on you. He looked dazed, his eyes glossed over, as he lowered himself down to lay on his stomach, his mouth directly in front of your soaking pussy.

You smile down at him, your fingers still running through his hair. “Well, I guess that answers that, huh?”

“What do I- how do I do it?” Ethan asked, his eyes trained on you, with a sense of desperation in them that made your arousal grow even more.

“How about you just try it, and then I’ll help you if you do anything wrong? Okay?”

Ethan nodded eagerly, his hands pressing against your inner thighs to keep your legs parted as he leaned in closer. He hesitantly licked a stripe through your folds, your breath hitched at the feeling. Almost instantly, Ethan managed to get find your clit, his lips wrapped around it as he sucked on it gently, causing your grip in his hair to tighten as you let out a soft moan.

“You- you looked up how to do this, didn’t you?” you asked, trying to tease him with your words, but your breathlessness from his movements made the sarcastic bite die on your tongue.

“Maybe a little… I just wanted to be good for you,” Ethan said, before diving back in between your thighs.

“Oh, fuck!” you moaned out, your back arching as Ethan slid two fingers inside of your dripping hole. “Always- fuck! Always so good for me, baby.”

Ethan continued to lap at your clit while his fingers searched for that spot that makes you see stars. Your thighs clenched around his head as he brought you closer and closer to the edge, his fingers continually prodding your g-spot as he started sucking on your clit once more.

“Holy- fuck! I- I’m gonna cum! Fuck, don’t stop baby! I- I’m gonna-,” your words were cut off by a loud moan falling from your lips as your high crashed over you.

Your thighs quivered and your hand loosened its grip in Ethan’s hair as you sunk deeper into your mattress, pleasure and euphoria filling your being. Ethan didn’t stop his movements, his tongue continuing to lap at your cunt, wanting to savor every last drop of your release.

“Ethan… E, please,” you whimpered, gently trying to pull him away, the overstimulation starting to get to you.

Reluctantly, Ethan sat up again, his chin dripping in a mixture of your juices and his saliva. He wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand and smiled at you sheepishly.

“Sorry. Did I do something wrong?” he asked, his voice shaking slightly with nerves.

You shook your head and smiled sweetly. “No. No, baby. You didn’t do anything wrong. It was just too much.”

He smiled widely, leaning forward to kiss you. You could taste yourself on his lips, which made your stomach tingle and you felt yourself starting to grow aroused again.

“So I did good, then?” Ethan asked after pulling away.

“You did amazing, baby. You sure this was your first time?”

Ethan laughed softly at your words. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

“Well then. Guess you didn’t need me to teach you as much as you thought you would.”

He smiled awkwardly, your words flustering him. “M-maybe a few more lessons wouldn’t hurt.”

tags: @nowitsmissing @hyeyulove @abbyluvsjackchampion @mariaflor873

[th3-n37dy-a7t1st]

~❀W-E-L-C-O-M-E❀~

(Read bio as well)

~*Hello! I'm Nicky (specifically spelt N-I-C-K-Y) or you can call me Ny Ny. I'm a local pansexual, goes by She/Her, and I'm a M-I-N-O-R! My birthday is March 18th (along with my Ds oc Nikki Ohnosaki we naturally born Pisces).i also have Adhd uh.. Meow? My favorite food is Fried rice, and my favorite color is orange*~

(Moving on lol)

❀Learn More About Me❀

~*I'm a big anime dweeb/game fandom dweeb(DUH! Have you seen my whole blog)*~

Favorite/Recent Animes:One Piece, Demon Slayer, Kimestu Academy, Case Closed, Dandadan, Sailor Moon, JJK, Glitter Force, Spy X Family, Apothecary Diaries, Toilet Bound-Hanako-Kun, and all Gibli Studio films

Games:TMNT, Sonic, Dead Plate, Going Live, Roblox, Minecraft, Stardew Valley, Obey Me, Gacha Life, Crush Crush, Demon Slayer game (forgot what it's called), One Piece games, and any Romance Games

Hobbies:Drawing, listening to music, posting art and videos, simping over anime men (OOP- ignore that tee-hee), reading, playing games, spending time with family, eating, writing, and going outside

❀Things I Love and Hate❀

Things I love:

Anime

Food

Plushies

Giraffes, Cats, and Turtles

Friends

Family

Anime men-

Sleep

Games

Being alive-

Romance/Thriller/Comedy

Halloween/My Birthday

Music

Canon x Canon

Ocs

Watching Movies/Shows

Watching Butterflies Or Birds

Doing Art In General

Dancing

Singing

Being Silly

Writing stories (or jurnoaling)

Sleepovers

Admiring The World's Scenery

Showing Off

Yapping About Anything

Making fake edits(acting like I'm the main character bruh😭)

Collecting Rocks

Collecting Seashells/Sea Items

Freetime

Things I Hate:

Bright Lights/Colors (neon)

Traveling

Getting Yelled At

DNI/Proshipping

Sweet Potatoes, Red Bean Paste, And Some Seafood

Being ignored

People Being Hated Or Shamed On

Ads

Bugs, Snakes, And Spiders

Drama

AI

Being Cold

Judged/Mocked

Ask games

Being Flashed (Like WTF)

Pedos, CP, Animal/Child Abusers

School

Presentations

Brainrotted Kids (Also Babies)

Being annoyed/interrupted

Country/Rock Music

Melanie Martinez

Britney Manson

Porn bots

Traitors/Bastabbers

Being Pressured

Pumpkins, Pears, Kiwis, Bananas, Coconut, and berries (except strawberries)

Blood

Ed Sheeran

Sean Diddy (Jay-Z, R-Kelly, Etc)

Sharp Objects

Winter

Math And Spanish

Spammers/Exploiters

Banana And Pumpkin Bread

Dying-

Venting/Trauma Dumping

Screeching And Bone Breaking Sounds

(Learn about me section complete)

❀Anime Favorites Of All Time❀

(Copied from old post, also this is a new category of this post)

~MY TOP 5 FAVORITE DEMON SLAYER CHARACTERS~

Sabito/Makomo/Senjuro/Kotetsu🦊🌸🔥👺

Tamayo/Yushiro/Rengoku/Inosuke💉🔪🔥🐗

Genya/Mitsuri/Muichiro/Giyuu🔫🍡💨💧

Aoi/Kanae/Gyomei/Akaza/Kaigaku🦋🪨❄⚡

(Ships I Enjoy-Canon x Canon-Canon x Oc)

Sanemi x Kanae

Obanai x Mitsuri

Tanjiro x Kanao

Sabito x Nikki

Zenitsu x Nezuko

Inosuke- x Aoi

Giyuu x Shinobu

Taro x Natsuki

Inosaki x Miki (👈Not my oc!!)

Yushiro x Tamayo

Doma x Enmu

Tengen x His Wives(Hinatsuru, Suma, and Makio)

Demon Slayer Fan Since:2019

~MY TOP 5 FAVORITE ONE PIECE CHARACTERS~

Corazon/Paulie/Shirahoshi/Koby🤡👨‍🔧🧜‍♀️🦸‍♂️

Usopp/Ace/Sabo/Luffy/Yamato🤥🔥🎩😈

Buggy/Zoro/Sanji/Nami/Law🤡⚔️🍳🤑💟

Ms.Kaya/Perona/Boa/Uta/Chopper👸👻💗👩‍🎤🦌

Shanks/Yassop/Crocodile/Mihawk🍺🔫🐊🗡

(Ships I Enjoy-Canon x Canon-Canon x Oc)

Sanji x Nami

Franky x Robin

Usopp x Kaya

Sabo x Koala

Shanks x Buggy

Koza x Vivi

One Piece Fan Since:2023

https://www.tumblr.com/l3t-g0-l1l-s0ld134/786908294138789888/this-is-isuka?source=share

(Please copy this link to know about my selfships! No I am not a weirdo, nor do I do creepy shit. The point of my selfships is to be silly and fun)

~MY TOP 3 FAVORITE CASE CLOSED CHARACTERS~

Conan (Jimmy Kudo) 🎭

Ai/Rachael📸🌧

Amy/Richard🌺🥋

(Ships I Enjoy-Canon x Canon-Canon x Oc)

Jimmy x Rachael

Conan x Ai

Case Closed Fan Since:2024

~MY TOP 5 FAVORITE DANDADAN CHARACTERS~

Jiji/Evil Eye🤪👁

Okarun(Ken Takakura)/Momo👽👻

Seiko/Vamola👩‍🦳👽

Acrobatic Silky/Zuma👿☔

Aira💃

(Ships I Enjoy-Canon x Canon-Canon x Oc)

Jiji x Aira

Okarun x Momo

Kenta x Vamola

Dandadan Fan Since:2024

(I'm most likely gonna add once I get into maybe more animes that are in my top 5? But right now I only have a top 3)

~MY TOP 5 FAVORITE SOUTH PARK CHARACTERS~

(Ik this isn't anime but it has some mentions of animes during the series)

Kyle/Kenny

Stan/Wendy/Craig

Tweek/Butters/Bebe

Eric

(Ships I Enjoy-Canon x Canon-Canon x Oc)

Craig x Tweek

Stan x Wendy

Kenny x Kelly

Kyle x Rebecca

Tolkien x Nicole

Kyle x Kali

Carskadon x Kali

South Park Fan Since:2025

~About My Main Oc's(The Main 4)~

Nicki Ohnosaki (DS): Is the Shadow Hashira(Ranked as 4th strongest)who took former Flower Hashira, Natsuki Ohnosaki's rank in the core (Etc:Joined the Core at: 16 Former Age:21). She was raised in a house of 2 younger siblings and 1 older sibling, each one with their fair share of abuse by their father, Natsuki being the oldest was the only sibling who could stand up for all her siblings (Natsuki was 9, Nikki was 7, Inosaki was 4, and Kai was 2). On the night of August 18th their family was slaughtered with the only survivers being, their father, name is Timoko Ohnosaki (who got turned into a demon by the lower moon who slaughtered their family), Natsuki Ohnosaki(The oldest sibling of 3, after the slaughter became a slayer at 15 and at 18 because a Hashira to revenge the death of Kai Ohnosaki and her mother Momisuke Ohnosaki), Nikki Ohnosaki (The 2nd oldest of 3 after the slaughter she was taken under Natsuki care becoming a slayer and Natsukis Tsugoku at the age of 16, After Natsuki's death she takes her place ranking one rank higher {at 4th} Getting the title 'Hashira' for her speed, senses, and fighting tactics), and last Inosaki Ohnosaki (The 2nd youngest of 3, after the slaughter he was taken care of by Taro{Natsuki's Bf, Light Hashira}and Nikki after training sessions with Natsuki, after Natsukis/Taros murder, Inosaki makes the decision of becoming a medic to help slayers and the injured in general while Nikki was out on missions doing her role as a hashira. Present he works in the Butterfly Mansion with Ms. Aoi, Shinobu, and the Caterpillar sisters)

(Natsuki's Death & Nikki's Revenge With a Fatal Price.

-Natsuki's mission was against a lower moon, lower moon 2 {her own abusive father} the master had sent her with light hashira, Taro Rimko both were sent on the night of March 23rd and never were seen after that day. The mission was normal until they had found the twisted game of the demon, bodies hung by trees some didn't even have most of their limbs, Both Hashiras were left in pure disgust Taro learned to pray from his father and Gyomei and decided to do so as Natsuki yelled out for the demon to reveal themselves. The demon listened to the command as Natsuki's eyes widened, Taros blind eyes focused on the demon from hearing... It was Timoko Ohnosaki but a uglier and more blood thirsty father, it didn't take long for the rage and flame to strike, the battle lasted until the brink of dawn, Timoko had to finished the two quick.. {TRIGGER WARNING⚠⚠}

Taro was the first to be demolished, his eyes were targeted first one being poked out and held in the hand of lower moon 2 and lastly when Taro was distracted with his bleeding eye, he was K. Oed with his head being ripped ripped off right in front of Natsuki making her boil with rage since he'd token another loved one, her blood boiled as she decided to attack out of anger, that didn't end well.. {TRIGGER WARNING⚠}

The lower moon gripped her head ripping it back before stabbing his fingers into her throat, slashing it aggressively. The sun finally rose, Timoko had fled, leaving Natsuki's body next to her lovers as they both rotted in their own piles of blood.

-Story 2: it was the final battle, Nikki was faced with the death of Tokito Muichiro and Kocho Shinobu, her eyes filled with sarrow as she placed flower clips onto their covered corpeses after she had shredded her demon father mouthing the words 'You'll never be granted with a second chance, not by the devil himself' the battle between her and her father was harsh, loosing vision in her left eye from a bloody slash along with multiple bruises and cuts, but it was finally over she had better demons to take care off, to revenge the lives that had been lost to such merciless creatures. The war was finally over.. Down on her knees with a missing hand, and blind in her left, she'd had survived with a fatal price of her limbs.. She had survived to see the light of day... She had survived to see her brother.

Peace finally came over the remaining survivors of the corps, and peace to all the lives who fight and died in battle. The wind blew as silence was between the two Ohnosaki siblings as they sat in front of Natsuki's, Kai's, and Momisuke's graves as they gave gifts such as food, flowers and last but not least their tears. 'Stay hello to the others for me'

-The end, thank you for reading Nikki's lore

Miyake Suzui (OP):Worlds most known/Wanted engineer, getting the titles for bombing Marines (basically committing genocide 😭) and helping pirates then backstabbing them by stealing their valuables, getting her first bounty at 10 at the high price of 150,000. Years go by ever since her sister had left her, and her other sister had died she found herself in a floating restaurant called 'Baratie' dressing herself up as a guy to avoid Sanji's simping but it all changed when a group of pirates rulled by Dawn Kreig had started a ruckes with another group of pirates a very small but strong group called the 'Strawhats' she finally revealed her identity fight by the side of Luffy until Kreig was defeated, after this Luffy had offered to be on sea but like Sanji she declined acting as cold as she did when she served them beside Sanji. After s bit of convincing she joined their crew as the loyal engineer besides the simping cook Sanji. Her next bounty raise wasn't until after the 2 year span, raising from 150,000 to 240,000,000. (this was made lazily bc I made this at fucking 12am)

(Family Lore & Years spent engineering)

-Gardening was fun as a family time, each caring for a certain part of the garden, Mother and Father focused on the grass, trees, and bushes, Moko and Michii worked on picking and growing fruits, and lastly Miyake would plant flowers. It was all friendly until a ambush by Marines sent by one of the admirals they wrecked the garden the wrecked parts of the house, their parents forced them three to hide and Moko shoved her and her sisters into a bunker, Michii was angered and Miyake? She cried and cried for her parents (I'd like to add their parents we're wanted pirates!her father with a bounty of 23,000,000 and their mother with the bounty of 15,000,000)but Michii covered her mouth as shots were shot, bodies had fallen. After the ambush the three had gotten out of the bunker, seeing blood stains but no bodies. Days pass Moko and Michii had moved on trying to fix their garden and the destroyed parts of the house. 2-3 months pass and the Suzuis met the same fate of a ambush after the Marines found out about the children, Moko had to step up risking her life.. (The trauma man😭) the other two cried as they hid themselves in the bunker without someone older to protect them anymore, soon enough the same sound of a gun firing arose.. {TRIGGER WARNING⚠⚠}

Moko was shot in the heart ending her young life quickly, the Marines yelled for the other children to come out or they'd destroy the house but they didn't leave both were scared both were horrified, the marine army marched in wrecking and throwing objects as dusk neared they finally left. Immediately at dawn the two sisters made graves for the family they lost placing flowers and their own personal items, Michii placing fruits on her parents graves {oranges and strawberries since it was their favorites) and a hairbrush on Moko grave on the other hand Miyake placed her plush of a cat on her mother's grave, a carton of strawberry milk on her fathers grave, and her kimono on Mokos grave.

-Story 2: years pass since the death of their family, Miyake started to study astrology {Moko loved astrology and the sea} as Michii barely came home to see her own sister. One day Michii called Miyake to tell her news, she was leaving on a 'trip for food' but that made Miyake even more devastated than she already was and before her sister left she mutter out the words 'PROMISE YOU'LL COME BACK FOR ME!!'. After the day her sister left she started to learn how to be an engineer, building new things she never thought she could succeed everytime she knew he family would be proud but at the same time she missed Michii. 2 years pass Michii never came back {She betrayed her own family by joining the Marines, the ones who killed her family, but once the two meet when Miyake is 23 she makes up a reason that she only did it to steal and destroy all their plans} after her 10th birthday Miyake was more mature finally fed up with being alone people were shocked she was still alive she was only a love because of her circus loving friend Paco who'd bring her food and drinks while she worked, one person was so shocked they called marine forces to arrest her. The Marines had got there but no trace of her was seen until... All the ships had blown up, the screams of the Marines who stayed behind filled the people's ears, as she left one of the ships with supplies and weaponry that's how she got her first bounty of 150,000.

-The end, thank you for reading Miyakes lore (next one will be shorter)

Kuro Tsuko(DDD): She is a 16 year old girl who transferred to the same school as the alien geeks, not believing that aliens and ghosts exist until she encountered Acrobatic Silky (episode 5 or 6). She didn't know she was possessed by a ghost herself, the ghost of her samurai father (her father was a samurai who slayed Yokais until the day he died from a demon using his own blade to stab him) Out of the group she has the best strategies, best battle plans, and attack tactics. She is the only one who has no siblings and a living mother so she has no lore. Her personality is sassy, funny, and loyal.

Bingo(OM! OM NB!): The knight who guards the Lord's castle, who loves rocks and Simeon- ignore that. Like the brother she too is a fallen angel due to her lovers lie {will explain in 'Cupid's Lore'} Her personality is like a literal bitch, cussing everyone out, even going as far to throw rocks she collected or bite demons for their disrespect towards Diavolo {She hears all} and really caring and loyal.

(Cupid's Lore & The day the hearts would shatter)

-Bingo was the most popular cupid, always on track with building relationships and making them last with her never missing arrows, her herself was beloved by all for her beauty and soft heart {Personality is completely different from her personality in hell}. One day she was confronted by a Royal Knight of the celestial realm, he confessed his love and she accepted it. Everything was sweet from the start but truly this man was hell itself, as years passed he turned more controlling and grew distant but it wasn't enough to break her heart yet...Her lover came back from his duties seemingly annoyed and then yelling at her accusing her of cheating!? She denied it {obviously she didn't, like she's cupid just like she sore loyalty to her job she sore loyalty to her relationship} but that wasn't enough to make him believe, she truly was on the brink of being a weeping angel.

-Story 2: After the rumors had spread of her cheating it finally reached the god. When she was brought to his mercy to explain her sin she denied and finally broke before she was banished she let out her anger on the god and her lying lover.. She was finally banished and fell from the light clouds swearing she'd never forget the betrayal she felt during those final weeks and the friendship she made during all the years.

-The end, thank you for reading Bingos Lore

(Anime favorites of all time section complete)

❀All my lovely corazons❀

@ackie-slays your art is amazing, I literally can't eat it for breakfast🍳☕🍞

@arie2faced I literally adore you, I was so scared to follow and talk to you bc I thought you were cooler than me, and you still are :)

@aceofstars0 keep being super super amazing! I'm in love with the pretty theme of your blog

@anime-nugg3t you're so amazing and a silly corazons

@a-frogo-sitting-on-a-leafo ahh!! You're so friendly and silly I love it hehe!

@axolotl321 I didn't know I forgot you on here??? ANYWAYS- I hope you're doing okay and you're so sweet like a literal piece of candy

@boo-simplified you were a really long and supportive moot of mine! And you're an amazing artist that I adore and want to eat your art everyday

@cock-ainee I know you've been gone but you always make me happy whenever you are online and post

@certifiedlucifersimp yes. You are my very goofy, pookie, spooky corazon, we interact a lot and I like that! Thank you for the traumatizing but interesting asks and reblogs (Lucifer is watching 👀)

@demonmew25 we also don't interact but I always see your Muzan posts and I smile at your responses, consider me a stalker (Muzan is always watching 👀)

@dumbasscat1 awah!! You're so amazing to interact and talk to!! It makes me smile knowing you also like the same anime as me and reblog it for me to also reblog it (that totally didn't make sense lol)

@donkeybro we don't interact as much either (I need to interact with people more) you're great and you should know that you'll always be apart of my heart with the other 50+ sillies

@eros-the-dumbass I remember when I drew your oc and thats how we became friends and bonded, I loved all the art you made and posted keep making me proud

@fleurezznico YOU'RE LITERALLY SO SWEET!! GAHHH🎀🌸💗

@gyutarowritings I hope you're doing okay! You haven't been active and it scares me since you were one of the sillies who interacted with me the most, I MISS YOU 🥺💞

@gremlin-scribbles I LOVE YOUR ART, I NEED YOUR ART STYLE. CMON HAND IT OVER🫣

@holymv133 you and Matthew are gay AF, you're a silly and amazing person!!! Tee-hee

@jazzzcatz my irl bestie :DD

@juusou I'd die to have your amazing art style and your artistic abilities! You're also so sweet and amazing to talk and send asks to, ty heh

@kagaya-ubuyasiki you are so nice and sweet you've made my day multiple times! Your art is so good like fruity pebbles I hope that I'll keep interacting with you

@knyinfinity I've seen you interact with me multiple times (I appreciate it) you are also one of my oldest sillies here! I wanna talk to you more as well

@kokushibosbestie you're a new corazon of mine but I already cherish you like my others, I've seen your writing and how friendly you are and I'm excited to interact and (maybe) spam you on my journey

@kitkat-moon I INTERACT WITH YOU THE MOST (as of now) you are a literal sunflower in my life, lighting up my day with your friendlyness and creativity, thank you for being one of my silliest corazons

@kiyokatokito and @ta-ni-ya you both are so nice! Literally the Boba tea to my life, you both are the best duos I could ever have as corazons

@lvmi-luvs I LOVE YOU SM!!! you're just so silly with Dante. Y'all make up my day haha!!

@livkayrussell I LOVE YOU MOTHER!!! I HOPE YOU'RE DOING ALRIGHT! Just know your child will Yap to toy about one piece Yuri and yoai hahahahah!! 😈

@local-giyuu-simp WIFEYYY!! you are the most amazing, craziest, pookiest person I've met on this at alone with @vampp4 you both are so chaotic it cracks me up everytime, keep being the silliest and pookiest duo on here

@larz-barz YOU WERE LIKE THE 2ND TO FIRST CORAZON I HAD ON THIS APP🥹 You also interact with me the most with the great roleplays, amazing and cutesy art, and the amazing goofy and nice personality I'm glad I have a person like you to talk and interact with, thank you for supporting me all the way to this point

@lunaunknown404 I've tagged you in some posts and interacted with your posts and like your art YOUR ART 🤭💗 I've never met such a great obey me artist like you, you're also like how do it say it... Amazing and great! You're also so pookie!

@m

@muichirolover14 YOU. YOU. YOU ARE ANOTHER ONE OF MY BEST BEST BEST BEST FRIENDYS! YOU MAKE ME SMILE ALL THE DAMN TIME LIKE AUSVSISUSVSISBZ!! NO WORDS CAN EXPLAIN HOW MUCH I MISS YOU BEING ACTIVE AND US INTERACTING ON THIS APP! Ms Madam? There is only room for one sun *Cutely shoots the sun in the sky*

@muichirotokito-122 I MISS YOU 🥺💞 we use to talk all the time and you made me laugh at any chance you could take. Us talking was like ordering a cherry blossom ice tea (which is you)

@misty-sees-you-hehe SONIC FOREVER!!! When I first became corazons with you I was curious to see your blog and when I did I was like "WOAH! THEY ARE SO COOLL!" And you will always be cool, let's start a cult-

@m4tthxw I haven't interacted or talked to yet since you're my newest corazon, but I've seen your oc art and it's amazing!! I hope we can interact and talk soon :)

@noahowls YOUR ART IS SO CUTESY! And youre amazing to interact with, thank you for making me SUUUUUUUUUPER happy

@nothingtoseehere1-2-3 I literally was so glad that we interacted more! I need you're kind personality back! Keep being the amazing pooks you are and never let anyone ruin that (or I'll beat em up)

@naramaiz I tagged this account bc I don't know which to tag, I literally loved your art and how you drew like I miss it, thinking about it gives me so much nostalgia!! (You also were one of my longest corazons, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR BEING SO SWEET AND LITERALLY SILLY)

@pinkwisteria I loved your art and was so scared to interact with you because I thought you were super popular and thought you'd just push me aside, but no! You were open arms to accept me and I literally cried when you became my corazon. I'd eat those masterpieces of art everyday, every year, in my grave- ignore that! Keep being my amazing friendddd awhsgsjs

@pulim-v you also are very new but so kind istg! I haven't interacted much with you (expect a spam someday) but I've seen the art and like it's so cool, amazing, and good!! Hehe

@qwardivior I LOVE YOUR AU'S! Like reading them make me ascend and has me thinking 'What if they were Ghostbusters instead of slayers', I ALSO LOVE THE EXTRA ART THAT COMES WITH THE PACKAGE your blog is the official place I will find home at when I need to find demon slayer au's to draw or if I need something to think hard of. You're also so sweet and like cutesy I will always support you

@ruiglazer you are one of my newest by you are so welcoming! I love your blogs and how nice you are to everyone that interacts with you, I hope someday I'll spam the bee jesus outta your blog until it lags XD

@rion-isnot-an-ai I HOPE YOU'RE DOING WELL ON YOUR BREAK! I'll be waiting for you to come back in the future! You're amazing and so great and like sweet! I can't explain how much I enjoy your company

@r0yal-v4mp AJEISAVSB! I LOVE YOUR ART I LOVE IT I LOVE IT I LOVE IT! PLUS YOU ARE SO AMAZING AND LIKE ARGHHH?!! I CAN'T EXPLAIN HOW SWEET YOU ARE! 'You're to sweet for meeeeeeeeeee"

@seerachii-art YOUR ART IS JUST MWAH! AND THE SHIPS MAKE IT SO MAJESTIC, ADDING THAT GREAT SPARKLE! I literally love your art and you're great and a lovely corazon :D

@shycroissanti YOU. YOU. IT'S YOU. YOU WERE MY FIRST FOLLOWER🥹🫶 I'M CRYING YOU SUPPORTED ME SO MUCH THROUGH MY WHOLE TIME ON HERE, YOU'RE SO SWEET YOU MAKE ME CRY, I'm literally crying right now. Your art and oc's are just French's kiss! Like I literally love you so much (platonic)

@tor-the-tortilla YOU ARE MY BEST BEST BEST BEST BEST FRIENDY! I LITERALLY WANT TO HUG YOU THROUGH MY SCREEN. YOU ARE THE DEFINITION OF GOOFY GOOBER, and thus made me a goofy goober too. I know you haven't made art since you got a job (I'm so proud of you!) But I still look back at it and cry tears of pure joy.

@tokito-dulya20 I haven't interacted with you in so loooooooooooooooooong!!! I want to so bad, why? Because I misses yous and your kind personality

@vexinghearts ARGHHHH! YOU MAKE MY HEART CRAMP WITH HOW SWEET AND FANTASTIC YOU ARE! you're art and ocs make me ascend, like you'll catch me lacking in class because I'm thinking about drawing your silly goobies. HEHE ALSO YOU'RE SO COOL TEE-HEE

@waitinguntililikemyart you might be a new corazon, but you certainly aren't as loved as my other. YOU ARE ABSOLUTELY AMAZING, you made my day yesterday with that box kitty! I hope we can continue interacting and being le-sillies together and hopefully forever (see what I did there? I rhymed)

(Will definitely get more soon. All my lovely corazons section complete)

❀My Music Taste/Recommend❀

(This is old so uh..)

(You've reached the end of my welcome blog!)

[raccoonscupoftea]

🎮A Gamers profession

Timeskip!Kenma Kozume X F!Y/n

Summary: Y/n and Kenma are a couple, also living together. While Kenma is streaming and struggling with a game, he soon admitted to need help from you, a professional game breaker.

Warnings: Nerd talk, SFW, possible grammar mistakes, cause english is not my native language.

| MASTERLIST | REQUESTS |

//----//----//----//

You love your job. It's fun, well paying and not so stressful. Kenma, your boyfriend, also likes your job, but sometimes he just wants you to stuff your face with a pillow when he's playing, especially when he's livestreaming.

You often get to know the next top game before everyone else. You get information on a game while it's still in the making and you have to play the game for endless hours before it's officiall release.

You're not designing the game or anything. No, you're here to break the game into pieces, testing limits, testing the code, testing AI. If it breaks, then the developers have more work to do. Or they simply just decide it is going to be a 'feature'. It's their choice. You just deliver the bugs to them.

So, then why does kenma want to shut you up sometimes?

Because of your job, you have developed a very good sense for game mechanics, attack patterns and the more advanced stuff on how a game is build. When Kenma encounteres a boss, he just knows you could beat it in a few minutes. He knows you could rush to an over the top overpowered boss and never get hit once, thou it would take longer to beat it.

It's when Kenma's visibly is frustrated, staring at his screen with an unhealthy posture, you then sometimes get up from your couch and take a look at what he's struggling with. As soon as you got into frame the viewers will start to spam the chat with messages about you.

Mostly just spamming your name but others will write absurd things like "mama's here to help" or "the professional is watching"

You just have to stand behind the chair and kenma starts to tell you to not say anything.

"Don't you dare tell me, I want to find it out myself" he complains and you just put up your hands "I didn't do anything, I'm just watching, but tell me if you need help"

So far he never needed help from you. He of course is an intelligent and very good gamer himself. Never have you doubted him.

___

You're currently on your own pc in a separate Office in your and Kenma's home. With a switch controller in your hands and feet up on a footrest, you happily enjoy playing some animal crossing on the bigger screen of your gaming setup.

Today's quiet cold so you're wearing a wearable blanked with a hoodie combined. It looks like a cat. On your table is a steaming hot tea, waiting to be cooled down a little. You were fishing all around the island in game to get the last fish of the museum collection, but the sporadic waves of tiredness are definitely not doing you a favour when it comes to pressing the right button at the right time. The game definitely knows how to get you so relaxed you could fall asleep right then and there in your gaming chair.

Another wave made you a little more tired than the usual waves. This time you had doze off for a few seconds before jolting back awake and continued your fishing spree. Work definitely was a bit to much with the winter holidays coming up and a lot of new games wanting to be released in early spring. Is also added up to your tiredness.

You glanced over to the time on your Pc and realised it's only 4pm, definitely to early to sleep now. You also know that Kenma was streaming for an hour now, since he always starts at 3pm.

Thou you don't learn from your mistake to play animal crossing while nearly dozing off and just continued, but rather than fishing you instead decided to continue to decorate the island.

It went well for the first hour. You made a plan and checked on the internet if there's the suitable furniture for it. The first decorations had been placed on their right spot, paths has been made but just a few minutes after the first hour, the tiredness has claimed you back.

While you were in the office relaxing every bone to a complete flat line, the person in the other office was nearly about to destroy a keyboard. The boss he was fighting was beating kenma every time to 0 HP. Kenma had stopped yesterday's stream in a near rage quit but today he had to beat it to get further in the game. He hasn't got past the boss and was getting more and more frustrated as well as confused. Sometimes he swears the boss just doesn't take damage and gets a massive attack bonus. Chat is convinced the boss wasn't beatable and was begging to kenma to bring out the game breaker, aka you.

Of course, he denied it at first but after an hour of trying and dying he finally gave up. Without a word he placed down his headphones, pushed his microphone back a little bit and walked out of the frame. His viewers were ecstatic and surprised that he'll need help from you.

As kenma was busting open the door to your office, the loud noise of the door made you jolt up from your chair. Your hair went places and the hoodie blanket went all the way up to your chin, telling kenma without a word that you were sleeping in your chair just now.

"I was definitely not sleeping" You stated in your defense with a sleep drunk voice, but Kenma did not believe you and smiled at how cuddly you looked. With a quick glance at the time you asked the streamer "Quit already? You're usually up till late at night"

Kenma placed his hands in the pocket of the black hoodie he's wearing and sighed, remembering why he's here in the first place "I think the game's bugged. I can't defeat the boss. I tried so many times" He slightly looked away, feeling a bit embarrassed about asking you.

At the word 'bugged' you stood up, placed the switch controller on the desk and walked over to him. You slipped your hands into his hoodie and took his hands in your own. "let's see what I can do"

The two of you went to his streaming room, but before you entered, the hood from your blanket hoodie went over your head to hide this atrocious mess of hair on your head. You quickly checked your appearance in the hallway mirror. As soon as the viewers got a glance at you and what you're wearing, they all typed in chat 'You're looking so cozy rn' 'where did you buy it?' 'looks so fluffy' 'I want to cuddle with you'

You waved at the camera to greed the viewers and kenma gestured you to sit down in his chair. You smiled at your boyfriend and placed your feet also on the chair, making you a cozy fluffy blanket ball.

He then quickly explained to you what he was doing and what was happening. Kenma then also pulled over another chair to sit down and watch you. You first tried your best max out attack and defence with his current equipment, but there wasn't even a slightest chance. You voiced out a small "Huh?" Before trying again.

The viewers could see on your face that something was up. You aren't a streamer and wasn't talking while playing the game and kenma knew to not disturb your concentration, but the viewers still seemed to enjoy watching you trying the best you could. It was the first time you were seriously playing a game with the intention to win and they were all very ecstatic as you tried to not get hit. One could tell how everyone was excited at this moment, the chat also was getting slower.

After half an hour, you had placed down the controller. The boss could hit the hero, because they weren't dodging anymore and the player dies in an instant. The question marks around your head were very visible. Something definitely is not right here. As soon as the game went to its pause menu, the viewers knew something serious it about to happen.

You grabbed the laptop from Kenma, booted it up, put in his password without a fail and went to the internet. The website from your work company appeared after a few clicks and at this moment Kenma realised what was happening.

He looked over to his camera and explained laughing "Guys, I apparently found a bug. Stuffs about to get serious now" The chat was then filled with suprised emojis. It didn't took 5 minutes and a donation came in.

Kenma glanced over to the donation site and read out loud "Thank you catlover51 for the..." He stopped a second as he saw the amount that was donated and was clearly surprised "Thank you for the 100$ and you had written down 'For Y/n, a little compensation gor having to work now' again thank you very much. You really didn't neet to donate so much"

As Kenma read the donation out loud you had began to smile behind the laptop sceen. Others then jumped onto the train as well and donated money from a single dollar to a little lager than 50$. Kenma was slightly overwhelmed my the sheer amount of donations that came in and couldn't stop thanking everyone, nearly shutting down the donation site so no one could waste more money on them. It was then you who calmed them down after finishing your research. You looked back to the camera and placed the laptop to the side "You don't need to pay me for this. It's my job and I love doing it. Also I get paid whenever I work, so I'm currently earning my money. But thank you for your concern" you smiled brightly at them before continuing to try out stuff in the game.

After some time nothing came out of the testing and you sighed. You glance over to your boyfriend, looking like a vet having to tell the owner some bad news. "You can't progress at this point, I'm sorry" His eyes widend "That's a joke right?" You just shook your head "Unfortunately not. You have found a very devastating bug, which stops you from killing the boss. As soon as an attack misses, the supposed damage gets stored and well... When the boss does hit you, then all of that stored damage gets released. That explains the bug with the one shot kill. This bug alone is manageable and already a known issue, but combined with the boss not taking any damage" you smiled at him with a sad face. "I'm sorry"

Kenma sighed and ruffled his hair "It's not your fault" he smiled and ruffled your hair as well. "Guess my save is busted then"

You took his hand in yours and looked him in the eyes. He squeezed your hand a little and looked back at you. There's a little spark in your eyes, telling him that there's something you could do "What are you up to?" He asked directly. Your eyes shift away, making you look innocent, scratching your cheek a little "I could force you out of the situation, by glitching you through a wall"

Usually kenma is against using glitches and exploits in his runs, but this is maybe the first occasion he'll consider it. He first looks at you with squinted eyes but then stood up "I'm going to the bathroom. Whatever you'll do, I'll don't know about it"

You're smile got bigger as he finished talking and went outside. He closed the door and after a little happy dance, you pressed onto respawn and forced the player to another part of the map. The viewers were watching your every step and were happy about you breaking a game infront of them.

As you were finished, you quickly saved the game and stood up, ready to leave.

"In my defence" you started talking into the camera a little bowed down to fit into the frame "I did not test this part of the game. Not my fault" You grabbed the open laptop and blew the viewers a goodbye kiss before you exited the streaming room.

On the way back to your own office, Kenma has finished his bathroom break. He grabbed your wrist before you could vanish into your room. He also grabbed the laptop and placed it on a sideboard. One hand of his wandered over to your waist, so he could pull you a little closer to him. "Thank you" he whisperd and gave you a little kiss on your cheek. "I'll make sure to finish today's stream a little earlier. Can't wait to cuddle you with this fluffy hoodie" he then again kissed your other cheek and headed back over to his room to see an alive character on a giant grassy field.

You on the other hand smiled and had to control your inner fangirl to not just scream and jump around. The viewers for sure could hear you if you were to loud.

You quickly grabbed Kenma's laptop and hid in your room, filling out a formula to get the new bug over to the Developers.