#file under: things you don't care about

[octaviaabadassblakee]

Kinda wanna post a 🔥 booty pic, kinda don't wanna scare off my new folllwers already🥴😅

[sixeyesonathiel]

told the nerd to film it and he exported inside me instead!

pairing — tech nerd!gojo x fem reader

synopsis : you crushed on him for months, watched him dodge every advance like you were malware. so you dressed up a little, played a little dumber—and now he’s got you spread out in pixels and moaning in surround sound. worst part? you kinda want him to do it again.

tags/cw — masturbation, degradation, praise kink, dacryphilia, marking, overstimulation, explicit language, filming, voyeurism, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, squirting, rough sex, dirty talk, power dynamics, obsession, lingerie, virgin weeb satoru, questionable but effective way of seducing ur crush. 13k wc, 18+ only, minors DNI.

a/n : plz don't nitpick about how a fashion vlog shouldn't be like that bc that's the point. toru doesn't know the difference because all he watches is 2d girls

the compressor’s peaking again.

satoru squints at the waveform, drags the threshold down two decibels, then listens back to the same three-second clip of voiceover for the tenth time. it’s a podcast intro, some wannabe influencer droning about mindfulness. he doesn’t care. he’s just here to make it sound less like it was recorded in a bathroom.

“sounds like shit,” he mutters, even though it’s clean. crisp. perfectly balanced.

it doesn’t feel right. nothing ever does. he tweaks the bitrate, checks the export codec, wonders if he should build a custom ffmpeg preset. maybe write a quick script to batch clean all future files—something to shave off a few milliseconds of his life. his fingers hover over the keyboard, itching for efficiency, for control.

ping.

discord overlay glows in the corner of his ultrawide monitor, a neon-green intrusion on his meticulously organized desktop. he freezes. the notification pulses like a heartbeat.

you.

he stares at it, lets it sit there like it’s radioactive. doesn’t even remember keeping you added. your username—something stupid with a heart emoji—feels like a splinter under his skin. he should’ve purged his contacts months ago, but here you are, slipping through the cracks of his digital fortress.

hey. remember when u edited our project? can u help me trim some vids pls…

his jaw tightens. of course you’d ask now, at 2 a.m., when he’s neck-deep in audio plugins and caffeine. his fingers hover over the keyboard, poised to dismiss you.

“no,” he types, then erases it.

“what kind of vids,” he tries, but deletes that too. too eager. too curious.

after a solid twenty-five seconds of overthinking, he finally sends:

i guess. send what you have.

he leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. his room is a cave of glowing screens and scattered energy drink cans, the hum of his overclocked pc the only sound besides his own shallow breathing. he shouldn’t care. you’re just another art student, another distraction. but his pulse betrays him, thudding a little too hard in his throat.

flashback.exe

he hated group projects. despised them. a bunch of useless art students in overpriced streetwear, trying to make films with no understanding of pacing or continuity.

they’d fumble with premiere pro like it was rocket science, leaving him to clean up their shaky cuts and mismatched audio tracks. he always ended up doing 90% of the work, and he preferred it that way. control was his god, and he worshipped it.

but you were different.

not better. just... a different kind of stupid.

you showed up late to the editing suite, glitter pens spilling out of your bag, heart stickers plastered on your water bottle like a middle schooler’s diary. you called the lav mic a “weird nipple thing” and giggled when he glared at you. once, you spilled your lip gloss on the soundboard, leaving a sticky pink smear he had to scrub off with isopropyl alcohol. another time, you asked if uploading to drive made your data heavier, and he almost threw you out.

but.

you let him do whatever he wanted.

you didn’t hover or micromanage. you just sat there, cross-legged on a swivel chair, watching him cut scenes like it was magic. you leaned over his shoulder, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your breath, your wide eyes reflecting the glow of the timeline.

“whoa... you made it feel like a real movie,” you whispered, like he’d just parted the red sea.

you smelled like something artificial. strawberries, maybe, or some overpriced body mist from a mall kiosk. your hair was always tied with a ribbon—pink, blue, sometimes yellow, always obnoxiously bright.

he didn’t care.

he told himself he didn’t.

but he remembered. every fucking detail.

the zip file lands in his downloads with an obnoxious ka-chunk, snapping him out of the memory. he doesn’t rush. just opens it like it’s any other favor, like his heart isn’t clawing at his ribcage. the folder name stares back at him: “pls help <3”

typical.

he clicks it open, expecting shaky iphone clips of cafes and shopping hauls. maybe some cringe tiktok dance you think is cute. he’s ready to hate it, to scoff at your lack of framing or shitty lighting.

but then—

you appear on screen.

not just appear. you perform.

you’re biting your lip, laughing into the lens like it’s your lover. wearing something stupidly short—a skirt that barely qualifies as fabric, hugging your thighs like it’s painted on. you spin around in front of your mirror, the camera catching every angle, every curve, like you’re being filmed for someone else. someone who’d appreciate it.

you pose. cock your head. giggle. the sound is loud, breathy, smiling when you speak. “do you think this is too short?” you ask, tugging the hem of your skirt, your fingers lingering just a second too long.

he blinks.

backs the video up three seconds.

watches again.

your laugh echoes through his headphones, a little distorted, a little too close. he pretends he’s checking the audio, tells himself it’s for sync, that he’s just doing his job. but his eyes are glued to the screen, to the way your skirt rides up as you twirl, to the flash of skin that makes his breath catch.

he watches again.

his mouth is dry, his tongue heavy against his teeth. your skirt flips up higher this time, and you gasp—like you’re surprised, like you didn’t mean to show that much. but you don’t stop filming. don’t cover up. just... laugh, a sound that curls around his spine and sinks into his gut.

he doesn’t even realize his hand is moving until it’s there, slipping under the waistband of his sweatpants. his fingers brush against himself, and he hisses, the contact sharp and sudden. he’s already half-hard, his body betraying him before his brain can catch up. the room feels too warm, the hum of his pc too loud, but he doesn’t care. he can’t care.

he rewinds the clip again, pauses on the frame where you’re mid-spin, your skirt flared just enough to show the curve of your ass. his hand wraps around his cock, slow at first, tentative, like he’s testing how far he’ll let himself go. the texture of his own skin is rough, familiar, but it’s not enough. not when it’s you on the screen, laughing like you know he’s watching, like you’re daring him to lose control.

he strokes himself, a tight, deliberate rhythm, his thumb brushing over the tip where he’s already leaking. the sensation jolts him, makes his hips twitch in the chair.

he imagines it’s your hand, your fingers—small, soft, probably clumsy, but eager. he pictures you kneeling between his legs, looking up at him with those wide eyes, your lips parted like they are in the video, glossy and pink and begging to be kissed. or more.

the video plays on. you’re bending over now, adjusting your hair in the mirror, your skirt riding up to expose the thin strip of your underwear. he groans, low and guttural, his hand moving faster.

the sound of your voice—teasing, playful—fills his headphones, and he closes his eyes for a moment, letting it wash over him. “do you think this is too short?” you say again, and he wants to answer, wants to growl that it’s perfect, that you’re perfect, that he’d rip it off you if he could.

his grip tightens, his strokes growing erratic. he’s not gentle with himself—never is. it’s all pressure and friction, chasing the edge as fast as he can.

his free hand fumbles with the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back to the moment you gasp, to the split-second flash of your thighs. he loops it, the clip stuttering in time with his breathing, with the slick sound of his hand working himself over. his cock throbs, hot and heavy, and he imagines it’s you—your warmth, your wetness, the way you’d probably whimper if he touched you like this.

he’s close. too close.

his vision blurs at the edges, his pulse hammering in his ears. he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be jerking off to your stupid video like some desperate creep, but the shame only makes it worse, makes it sharper.

he pictures you catching him, walking in right now, seeing him with his pants down and his hand on his dick. would you laugh? would you blush? would you get on your knees and—

he comes with a choked gasp, his hips bucking up into his hand. it’s messy, spilling over his fingers, onto the hem of his shirt. his chest heaves, his head tilting back against the chair as the aftershocks ripple through him. your laugh loops in his headphones, oblivious to the wreck he’s become.

it’s filthy. it’s desperate.

ten minutes later, he’s cleaned himself up, his hands steady again as he trims the file like a good little editor. he cuts out the shaky parts, stabilizes the footage, adjusts the audio so your voice doesn’t clip. it’s clinical now, professional, like he didn’t just fall apart to the sight of you. he names it something sterile: “vlog_cut_1.mov.”

he exports it twice. once normally, for you. once... not. the second version is raw, unedited, every twirl and giggle preserved in crisp 4k. it gets copied to a different folder, buried in a directory labeled “shader_study_2022.” he tells himself it’s in case you need a re-edit. a backup. that’s all.

when you text back:

thank u!! lol i owe uuu :3

he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. his heart’s still racing, a faint tremor in his fingers.

he types “anytime :)” and erases it. sends:

np.

what he doesn’t say: he rewatched the part where you bend over six times. he had his dick in his hand by the second loop. he renamed the close-up to “test_render_asscloseup.mov” and hid it behind three layers of subfolders.

he doesn’t even like tiktok girls.

he’s into 2d, girls with big swords and bigger tits, drawn in sharp lines and impossible proportions. he once bought a dakimakura because the shipping came with a free pin, and it’s still shoved in his closet, one corner stained from a late-night mistake. real girls are messy, unpredictable, too much work. but now?

he’s thinking about the way your laugh dipped when you turned around, the way it caught in your throat like you were nervous. the way you looked into the lens like you knew someone was watching.

someone like him.

next day, you walk in like a fucking weapon.

pink fuzzy shrug, low-rise jeans that sit dangerously low on your hips, a sliver of stomach peeking out like it’s 2004. your hair’s up in a ribbon—pink, of course, swaying as you move. you’re all glitter and confidence, a walking distraction in a lecture hall full of tired students and flickering projectors.

he scoffs under his breath. “tacky.”

but his heart’s pounding, a traitor in his chest. his fingers twitch against the edge of his laptop, betraying the calm he’s trying to project. you slide into the seat two rows ahead and twist around, grinning like a cat, like you know something he doesn’t.

your eyes catch his for a split second, bright and teasing, and he forces himself to look away.

he opens his laptop, types random garbage into a terminal window—some half-baked python script he doesn’t even care about. he runs a fake compile just to feel busy, to drown out the way his blood is rushing too fast.

you lean over to whisper to the girl next to you, your laugh spilling out, loud and careless. your hair tosses, and he swears he catches the scent of your perfume drifting past in invisible waves. saccharine, overwhelming, like strawberries dipped in sugar syrup.

his brain short-circuits. he snaps his headphones on, the cord tangling in his haste. not to listen to music. not to block you out.

to replay your giggle.

he’d isolated the audio last night, cleaned it up with a high-pass filter, boosted the mids to make it crystal clear. exported it as a high-quality .wav, tucked it into a folder labeled “audio_ref.” he tells himself it’s for study, just good reference for future projects. but he loops it now, the sound of your laugh layered over faint lo-fi static he added for texture. it’s you, distilled into a three-second clip, filling his skull.

he closes his eyes and pretends you’re saying his name. satoru, you giggle, breathy and soft, like you’re leaning over his shoulder again, watching him work. satoru, you made it feel so real.

the lecture drones on, but he’s not listening. he’s lost in the rhythm of your voice, the way it dips and rises, the way it makes his skin feel too tight. he shifts in his seat, adjusts his hoodie, tries to ignore the heat pooling in his gut. he’s not supposed to want this. not supposed to want you.

but he does.

the thing about addiction is that it never announces itself.

no dramatic thunderclap. no internal monologue screaming, ah yes, now i am a pervert. it’s quiet. insidious. it sinks in like static, crackling at the edges of satoru’s brain until he’s not sure where his old self ends and this new, wretched version begins.

it’s not like he’s not already a pervert who gets off from pixels. this simply wasn’t his brand of perversion.

that night, he stayed up longer than he should’ve. stared at code for so long his ide crashed, the screen flickering to black as if it knew he was wasting his time. not that he got anything done. 

he just kept switching tabs—your final cut in vlc, some useless bash script in vscode he pretended to care about, then back to your video, the timeline frozen on that twirl, that gasp. his fingers shook when he closed the laptop, but sleep never came.

and now it’s the next day. mid-afternoon. the sun is doing that thing where it turns his apartment into a blinding box of heat and regret. his ac hums like an old man, wheezing against the sticky air. he’s sprawled in his chair, one leg slung over the armrest, staring at the ceiling fan like it might tell him how to stop.

ping.

another discord notification. he doesn’t even flinch this time. your username glows, and the filename attached makes his stomach do a weird little roll: “try-on2_raw.mov”. his eyes linger on the heart emoji you’ve tacked onto the message, like it’s a personal invitation.

hiii! ty for the last edit, ur a lifesaver <3 can u check and trim this one too? i’m trying smth new but idk if it works… lmk what u think pls!!

he clicks download. no hesitation. doesn’t even pretend to care anymore.

the file loads into his editing software like second nature, the premiere pro interface blooming across his screen. muscle memory. routine.

he’s done this a hundred times—except never like this, never with his pulse hammering in his throat and his mouth already dry.

the video starts the same way as the last—handheld, messy lighting, your voice trailing in from offscreen as you fiddle with the camera angle. no mic, of course not. just raw cam audio, unpolished, real, every breath and rustle amplified. he leans closer, like proximity to the screen will make it less dangerous.

“okay—wait, hold on,” you mutter, slightly out of breath. there’s a plastic rustle, fabric scraping skin, the light jingle of a zipper. he catches the sound of your nails tapping the digicam accidentally, a faint clack-clack that makes him picture your fingers, probably painted some ridiculous color, fumbling in that endearing way you do. 

“ugh… come on…” your voice drops, a frustrated huff, low and throaty. “mm—sorry! this one’s hard to pull up.”

then—zipper slides. metal on fabric, slow and deliberate, like it’s teasing him on purpose. you let out a sigh, long, slow, just a little too satisfied, like you’re savoring the release of pressure. the sound coils in his gut, tight and hot.

he freezes.

his mouse stays hovering over the playhead, the cursor trembling slightly. blood is already rushing south, his sweatpants tightening in a way he can’t ignore. his breath catches, shallow and sharp, and the worst part?

you giggle.

“probably got the wrong size,” you say, tugging the dress up higher. the hem catches on your thighs, rising indecently, the fabric clinging to your skin like it’s reluctant to let go. “don’t tell anyone i didn’t try it on in-store first.”

he swallows nothing. jaw tight. the room suddenly feels suffocating, the ac’s hum drowned out by the thud of his own pulse. your lip catches between your teeth, a flash of white against pink gloss, and the camera catches that too, lingers on it like it knows what it’s doing.

you glance at the lens, eyes half-lidded, like you’re waiting for approval, like you’re asking him directly—do you like this?

satoru’s fingers twitch.

one hand stays on the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back three seconds to hear that sigh again. the other hand moves before he can stop it, slipping under his waistband, brushing against the heat of his skin. he’s already hard, achingly so, the kind of hard that makes his head swim.

he wraps his fingers around himself, slow at first, testing, like he’s not sure he’s really doing this again. but the sound of your voice—breathy, teasing—loops in his headphones, and he’s gone.

he strokes himself, deliberate and tight, his grip almost punishing. the video plays on, and you’re stepping into frame now, the dress half-zipped, hugging your curves in a way that makes his throat burn. your thighs shift as you adjust the hem, and he imagines them under his hands, soft and warm, parting just for him.

his thumb swipes over the tip of his cock, slick with precum, and he groans, low and broken, the sound swallowed by the hum of his pc. he pictures your fingers instead, clumsy but eager, your nails grazing his skin as you try to keep up with his rhythm.

he’d guide you, show you how he likes it—fast, rough, no mercy.

you sigh again, and he speeds up, his hand moving in time with the rise and fall of your voice. “this one’s kinda tight,” you murmur, tugging at the neckline, and the fabric stretches, exposing the swell of your chest.

he wants to rip it off, wants to hear you gasp for real, not for the camera but for him. his strokes grow erratic, desperate, the slick sound of his hand filling the room, obscene and unstoppable.

he scrubs the timeline back again, pauses on the frame where your dress slips, where your underwear peeks out—a thin, lacy thing that makes his vision blur. he imagines pulling it aside, imagines the heat of you, the way you’d whimper if he pressed himself inside.

he’s close, too close, his hips twitching up into his hand. the video loops your giggle, that satisfied sigh, and he’s drowning in it, in you.

he pictures you catching him like this, walking into his apartment right now, seeing him with his pants down and his cock in his hand, flushed and leaking. would you laugh? would you blush? would you drop to your knees and let him finish on your lips, glossy and perfect and—

he comes with a muted groan, his head tipping back, eyes screwed shut as his release spills over his fingers, hot and messy. his breath shakes, a ragged exhale that leaves him hollow. the aftershocks pulse through him, and he slumps in his chair, the video still playing, your voice oblivious to the wreckage you’ve caused.

he pauses the frame. your mouth is mid-word, forming the shape of “oops,” lips parted just enough to make his chest ache. he wipes his hand on a paper towel from his desk, crumpled and stained from earlier sins. doesn’t look at himself. doesn’t think.

exports the file without touching a thing. names it “final_edit.mov.” then saves another copy, the raw footage, every sigh and rustle preserved. he names it “jesusfuckingchrist.mp4” and buries it in a folder labeled “misc_ref.”

he tries to normalize it.

“it’s just grading,” he mutters the next time he opens the project, the lie sour on his tongue. “just adjusting white balance.” but the playback bar hasn’t moved from your thighs. he doesn’t touch the colors. not really.

he zooms in under the excuse of checking “grain smoothing,” but it’s just your lip, caught between your teeth, your breath clipped at the edges like you’re holding back.

he tells himself he’s just learning.

every artist has their muse, right? except now he edits to your audio. he used to play podcasts, background noise to keep his brain from spiraling.

now? your breathing is layered into the timeline, a track he’s labeled “vox_ref.” he loops your laugh in reverse, lets it pan from left to right like it’s some surround sound experience.

“this is practice,” he whispers, dragging eq curves around nonsense, boosting the highs until your voice is sharp and intimate. “i’m experimenting with filters.”

right. filters. filters until your voice sounds like it’s right by his ear, like you’re whispering in bed, your breath warm against his skin. he plays a clip of you saying “do you like this one?” over and over, the words detached from context.

he doesn’t even care what you’re referring to anymore. he’s got that part memorized, the way your voice dips, soft and unsure, like you’re asking him to love you.

the next class is worse.

you walk past him in that fuzzy pink shrug thing, one sleeve slipping off your shoulder, and it’s like a bomb goes off in his chest. the fabric clings to you, soft and teasing, and he wants to grab it, pull it down, see how much skin you’ll let him have.

you lean down to plug your charger in, your jeans riding low—too low, the kind of low that makes him wonder how they’re even allowed on campus. he catches a glimpse of your underwear, a flash of lace, and his brain whites out.

he glares at his laptop, scoffs under his breath. “that outfit’s�� desperate.” the word feels like a blade, sharp and mean, but it’s all he’s got to keep you at a distance.

your head tilts, innocent, eyes wide like you’re genuinely curious. “you think so?” you say it like you mean it, like you don’t already know the answer, like you haven’t watched your own footage and seen what he’s seen.

he shrugs, keeps scowling, doesn’t look at you. his fingers grip the edge of his laptop too hard, knuckles white. behind the screen, he’s got a paused frame of you licking lip gloss off your thumb, minimized in the corner. it’s been open since he got here.

his file structure is disintegrating. he used to name things with logic—timestamps, project codes, version numbers. now his desktop looks like a manifesto, a digital shrine to his unraveling. “vlog_tryon_final.mov.” “edit_3alt.mp4.” “fuckmeagain_laughcut.mov.” there’s a folder called “NOT work (unless)” that he doesn’t even open anymore, too afraid of what he’ll find.

he tries to draw a line, but it’s blurry. always blurry. he doesn’t know where the edit ends and obsession begins. when he dreams, he dreams about zippers—except they’re not zipzers. they’re your legs, parting slow and deliberate, your breath hitching as he pulls you closer.

a new text lights up his screen:

 hey! idk if the last one looks good… should i redo it? it felt kinda awkward lol sorry T_T

you sound insecure, unsure, your words dripping with that self-conscious charm that makes his chest hurt. he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard, his mind spiraling.

you don’t know, do you? you don’t know what you’re doing to him, how your voice alone is enough to make him hard again.

he types:

looks clean. don’t worry about it.

satoru watches the word clean sit there like a fucking lie. his dick twitches, traitor that it is.

he hates himself.

but he opens the raw file again. scrubs through, frame by frame, until he finds that timestamp—where you moan, soft and accidental, like you didn’t mean to let it slip. he watches it, his headphones sealing him in with the sound of you. he exports that single second, names it “moan_finalgodhelpme.mp4,” and tucks it away like a secret he’ll never confess.

the timeline sits open, your frozen frame staring back at him. he doesn’t close it. doesn’t want to.

it starts with static in his skull.

not the loud, electric kind that chokes you up or begs to be noticed. it’s quiet. a whir, like an old fan that never shuts off, humming behind his thoughts. when satoru drags his mouse across the screen and sees your name still on the folder, it buzzes—faint, familiar, a sickness with your scent.

he changes the name from “NOT work (unless)” to “ARCHIVE_21,” moves it to a different directory, pretends it’s work, or dead, or both. but the static doesn’t stop. it clings, sticky and warm, like your laugh looping in his headphones.

it doesn’t help.

not when he dreams in highlighter gloss and those half-bitten whines you make when stretching, your body arching just so. not when he wakes up rutting into damp sheets, mouthing your name like a damn prayer, his hips jerking against nothing. the shame burns, but it’s not enough to make him stop.

satoru’s trying.

really.

he takes up freelance gigs, edits wedding footage for some guy he hasn’t spoken to since second year. overlays cheesy filters, mutes the groom’s ugly laugh, syncs the vows to some overused acoustic track. it’s clean. respectable. sterile enough to make him itch, like he’s wearing someone else’s skin. but the folder’s still there, buried in his drive like it knows he’ll come back.

2:03 a.m.

his inbox pings, a sharp sound that cuts through the drone of his pc fans. your name lights up the screen, and his chest tightens before he even reads the message.

hiii satoru!! sorry for the late send, been sooo busy <3 can u take a look at this haul vid? i tried smth spicy but idk if it’s too much… lmk what u think pretty pls!!

march haul (raw).mp4

he knows he shouldn’t. there’s no logical reason, no business context, just the weight of your words—spicy, pretty pls—sinking into his gut. but his hands move on their own, clicking download, the progress bar filling like a fuse burning down.

click.

of course he does.

the video starts soft, your bedroom light diffused to a golden haze, casting shadows that dance across rumpled sheets. it looks like you’ve been tossing in them all day, the fabric creased and inviting.

you’re in lace—barely. something soft pink and flimsy, a slip of fabric that clings to your curves like it’s begging to be torn off.

your thigh’s out, one leg bent just enough to draw his eye, and the camera’s angled low, too low, like you meant to frame it this way.

“god, i hope this one fits…” your voice is breathy, a little strained, like you’re fighting the fabric. you adjust a strap, your fingers lingering on the lace, and your lip catches between your teeth, glossy and pink, a casual gesture that’s anything but. his breath stutters, a sharp inhale that burns his throat.

“oops, sorry—too much cleavage?” you laugh, not to yourself but at him.

he knows it.

his cock knows it, twitching against the seam of his sweatpants. the screen shakes as you set the camera on something unsteady—a stack of books, maybe—and it rocks just as you turn around, hips swaying, your ass hugged by that tiny thong, the lace cutting into your skin like a claim. you glance back over your shoulder, smirk poised like a dagger, eyes glinting in the soft light.

“i bet you’d pause right here, wouldn’t you?”

he does.

the video cuts mid-breath, and he doesn’t hear the silence. he’s frozen, hand halfway down, brain wiped clean. the frame lingers on your ass, the curve of it framed by lace, and his mouth is dry, his pulse hammering so loud it drowns out the static.

ping.

march haul (real).mp4

oops. wrong send lol. this is the real one!

his screen is still painted with the freeze-frame of your ass. his dick’s straining so hard it aches, a dull throb that makes him shift in his chair. he doesn’t respond, doesn’t move for a full minute, just stares at the message, the word oops taunting him. then—

he saves both files. drags them into “ARCHIVE_21” with a trembling cursor, his fingers clumsy on the trackpad. he opens the raw one again, slower this time, one hand on his lap, the other fisting his sheets until the fabric creaks.

you’re back on screen, adjusting the strap again, your laugh curling through his headphones like smoke. his hand slips under his waistband, and he’s already leaking, the tip slick and sensitive as he grips himself.

he strokes slow, deliberate, savoring the friction, but his mind’s elsewhere—on the hentai he’s spent years jerking off to, the doujins with dog-eared pages and cum-stained corners.

he pictures you like those girls, bent over and begging, your lace thong pushed to the side as he fucks you from behind, your moans louder, needier, than anything you’ve let slip on camera.

he imagines pinning you to those rumpled sheets, your thighs trembling under his hands, your ass bouncing with every thrust. no teasing giggles, no coy glances—just you, fucked out and whimpering, his name on your lips as he buries himself deep, so deep you can’t think.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound obscene in the quiet of his room. he scrubs the timeline back, pauses on the moment you turn, your smirk sharp and knowing.

he wants to wipe it off, wants to fuck you until you’re too wrecked to smile, until you’re clawing at the sheets and sobbing his name. he imagines your cunt, tight and wet, gripping him as he pounds into you, the lace of your thong rubbing raw against his skin.

it’s not enough to watch you anymore, not enough to stroke himself to your voice—he wants to ruin you, wants to feel you break under him, wants to make you his in a way those 2d girls never could.

he cums with a low, breathy whisper of your name, his hips jerking up into his hand. it’s intense, almost painful, spilling over his fingers and onto the hem of his shirt.

his chest heaves, his vision blurring as he slumps back, the video still playing, your laugh oblivious to the mess he’s become. he opens it again, doesn’t touch himself this time—just watches, memorizes, eyes glassy and mouth parted.

at one point, he swears he moans with you, a soft sound that slips out unbidden, his body betraying him even when he’s spent. when he edits the “real” file, he’s a machine. no stutters, no slips, just sharp keystrokes and surgical cuts, trimming shaky frames and boosting your voice until it’s crisp.

the guilt claws at him, a dull ache in his chest, but it only makes the next orgasm worse—and better. he exports it, names it “haul_march_final.mov,” and saves the raw file to a new subfolder: “stills_ref.” he doesn’t name the second copy. doesn’t need to. it’s just for him.

he plays it cool in class. “wow. another fit straight outta your grandma’s closet,” he scoffs as you pass, voice dripping with mockery, lips curling into something lazy and mean.

but his gaze flickers—just once, low and quick, like he’s checking for danger. and there it is. a flash of soft pink lace against the curve of your thigh as you shift your bag higher up your shoulder. just a sliver. deliberate.

he knows that lace. knows it from the raw footage, from the way it hugged your skin under golden light. his smirk falters for half a second, a crack in his armor.

you turn your head, slow as syrup, and smile at him over your shoulder. it’s airy, innocent, ditzy enough to play dumb, poisonous enough to feel like a threat. “mm? that bad, huh?” your voice is light, but your eyes linger a moment too long, sharp and knowing, like you’re peeling him open.

you take your seat two rows away, crossing one leg over the other with careful grace. your skirt rides up, just enough to show the edge of that lace again, and your fingers toy absentmindedly with the hem, brushing the fabric like it’s a game.

he doesn’t blink.

he knows what’s under that skirt, knows the way that lace bites into your skin when you move just like that. he’s seen it in soft lighting, tangled with shadows and sighs. he knows, and you know, and neither of you say a word.

he can’t breathe.

his hand trembles as he grips his pen, scrawling nonsense on the corner of his notes—random numbers, jagged lines, anything to keep his fingers busy.

someone’s asking a question about identity and performance, something about how we present ourselves versus how we wish to be perceived, and satoru’s already halfway to standing.

“sorry. washroom.” his voice cracks halfway through the lie, too sharp, too rushed.

satoru stumbles into the men’s room like he’s escaping a crime scene, the door clicking shut behind him. palm flat against cold tile, forehead pressed to the inside of his wrist, he tries to breathe, tries to think of anything else—code, deadlines, the wedding edit he’s behind on.

but it’s you.

always you. your smile, your laugh, the lace peeking out like a taunt.

he’s already hard, already leaking, the front of his jeans tight and unforgiving. he fumbles with the button, shoves them down just enough, and grips himself, his hand shaking as he strokes.

he closes his eyes and sees you—not the you in class, not the you playing dumb, but the you from his fantasies, the you he’s built from hentai panels and late-night desperation. he imagines you on your knees, lace thong pulled down, your cunt glistening as he fucks you against the bathroom sink.

no giggles, no teasing—just raw, desperate need, your moans echoing off the tiles as he slams into you, his hands bruising your hips, your body arching to take him deeper.

he wants you messy, wants you marked, wants to fill you until you’re dripping, until you’re his in a way that’s permanent.

he strokes faster, his breath hitching, his teeth sinking into his knuckles to muffle the groan clawing up his throat. he cums hard, too fast, his knees buckling as it spills over his hand, hot and shameful. he shakes, gasping, his forehead slick against the tile, and thinks of lace. thinks of lip gloss. thinks of your voice saying “oops” like it’s a sin.

it doesn’t take long for his desktop to become an altar.

the background’s still you, a freeze-frame from the first video, your lip gloss shimmering and fingers caught mid-twist in your hair. he tells himself it’s temporary, just a visual reference.

it’s been three weeks.

folders on folders: “hauls > favs > zoom_ins > stills > pantyshots.” “audio_samples > moan_loop > breath_only.wav.” “color tests > gloss_ref > lips.png.”

some nights, he replays a single frame just to watch your mouth form the word “fuck,” slows it down, isolates the syllables, pretends you’re saying his name instead.

the worst part?

you’re still pretending nothing’s changed. still calling them “favors,” still sending content like it’s work, like it’s nothing.

but your outfits are shorter, your giggles stick to the air longer, your eyes linger like you’re testing something. and when you purr, “you’re sooo good at this, satoru,” with that saccharine lilt, your voice curling around his name like a caress, he bites the inside of his cheek just to keep quiet. fists the sheets at night and prays.

he moans your name in the dark, face hot with shame, and hates how much he wants you to hear it.

satoru’s become sleep-deprived, dark smudges nesting beneath his eyes like fingerprints left behind by guilt or obsession or both. he wears his glasses more lately, less out of need and more as a buffer between him and the world—between him and you.

the lenses catch the glow of his new triple-monitor setup, a sleek beast he told himself was for coding, for editing, for multitasking. not for keeping your videos looping on the side monitor while he pretends to work on the main one. not for that at all.

your folder’s pinned in quick access, a permanent fixture in his file explorer. he keeps it open in the background at all times, a digital pulse that hums alongside his pc fans. second nature now, like breathing or wanting. not unlike a shrine.

in class, he pretends to take notes, his stylus scratching nonsense on his tablet. he’s not. he’s watching a gif on his phone, hidden under the desk—a loop of your tongue dragging slow across lip gloss, eyes soft with focus like you’re painting yourself pretty just for him. the gif’s only three seconds, but he’s memorized every frame, every flicker of your lashes. his thumb swipes to replay it, again, again, until his vision blurs.

ctrl+shift+eject brain.exe.

three days pass, and you haven’t messaged. he checks your chat thread more than he breathes—opens, closes, re-opens, scrolling through your old texts like they’ll reveal something new. every flicker of hope is a false start, a phantom ping that makes his chest lurch. he’s pathetic, he knows it, but knowing doesn’t stop the itch.

then:

ping.

april haul (suits).mov

hii satoru!! new haul vid for u to check <3 tried some swimsuits this time, hope it’s not too boring to trim hehe. lmk what u think!!”

he nearly drops his phone, his thumb smudging the screen as he fumbles to download. his new setup hums to life, the main monitor flashing with code he hasn’t touched in hours, the side monitor already open to your folder.

he drags the file into premiere, the timeline blooming across the screen, but his eyes are on the raw video, already playing on the right monitor, your voice spilling through his headphones like honey.

the video’s different this time. the camera’s lower, like it’s been left on a desk or shelf, pointing slightly upward to frame you from your knees to just above your head. your bed makes a cozy blur in the background, sheets tangled like an invitation.

you’re in a bikini top that isn’t trying very hard to stay on, thin strings knotted loosely at your neck and back, the fabric barely containing you. “mmm. does this scream summer, or slut?” you giggle, feigned innocence like frosting over heat, your voice curling around the words like you know exactly what they’ll do to him.

you play with the strings at your chest, tugging, adjusting, your fingers brushing the swell of your breasts. then, softer, breathier, to the lens: “baby, help me pick…”

baby.

it breaks him all over again, a crack that runs straight through his chest. his cock twitches, already hard, straining against his boxers.

everything after that gets softer, lazier, dangerous in how intimate it feels. there’s no performative energy now—just casual, candid seduction, your movements slow, like you’re not hurrying for anyone. like you know exactly who’s watching and how long he’ll linger.

when you shrug a dress off your shoulders, you sigh, the sound catching in your throat. when you twist to adjust a strap, you hum, low and absentminded. and when you struggle with a clasp at your back, your fingers fumbling, you moan—soft, unintentional, a sound that slips out like it surprised even you.

satoru’s thumb slams the spacebar, pausing the video, rewinding three seconds to hear it again. he watches the way your lips part, the way your brows twitch, the way your body shifts like you’re chasing the sensation.

he’s already leaking, his boxers damp as he shoves them down, his hand wrapping around himself. the side monitor loops the raw footage, your moan playing over and over, while the main monitor holds the paused frame of your parted lips. he strokes slow at first, his grip tight, his thumb swiping over the tip where he’s slick and sensitive.

his mind slips to the doujins he’s hoarded, the hentai he’s spent years chasing—the girls with flushed cheeks and desperate eyes, fucked raw and begging for more. but now it’s you, not some inked fantasy, and it’s so much filthier.

he imagines you sprawled across your bed, that bikini top ripped off, your thighs spread wide as he fucks you deep, relentless, your cunt clenching around him as you sob his name. no teasing, no giggles—just you, wrecked and dripping, your nails clawing his back as he takes you again and again, each thrust harder, messier, until you’re nothing but his.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound loud in his room, mixing with your looped moan. he wants you pinned beneath him, wants to feel you squirm, wants to fuck you until the bed creaks and your voice breaks, until you’re begging like those hentai girls, your glossed lips trembling as you say his name—satoru, please, more.

he imagines filling you, his cum leaking down your thighs, your body marked by him in ways he can’t unsee. it’s not enough to watch, not enough to stroke—he wants to own you, wants to make you his in every way those 2d fantasies taught him to crave.

he cums hard, forehead pressed to his desk, a low groan tearing from his throat as it spills over his hand, his keyboard, the edge of his new setup. his breath is ragged, like he’s run a marathon, his glasses fogging slightly as he gasps.

the side monitor still plays, your voice oblivious, your moan looping like a hymn. he doesn’t stop the video, just slumps back, spent and shaking, and watches again, his hand twitching like it’s not done.

it doesn’t take long for his room to reek of sweat and sin.

he edits shirtless now, sometimes in boxers, always hard, always leaking. every file’s renamed with trembling hands: “wifey_take7.mov.” “wifey_raw.mp4.”

he syncs your sighs to his lo-fi playlist, turns it into a lullaby, falls asleep to the sound of your breath. sometimes he slows your voice just to hear “baby” dragged out into velvet, makes gifs of your hands skimming your hips, kisses the screen when he’s drunk enough to forget shame.

you, on the other hand, don’t break character.

in class, you chew your pen and lean forward, the arch of your spine exact, your cleavage subtle—barely a tease, just enough to make his throat tighten. he looks away with a clenched jaw, adjusts himself under the desk, twice, his jeans unforgiving.

you whisper to a friend and giggle, and he lipreads, thinks he sees the words “can’t wait,” but maybe he’s hallucinating, maybe not. it doesn’t matter.

he starts responding to the clips aloud.

“fuck yes, that one.” “spin again, baby.” sometimes he mumbles your name like a prayer, sometimes he chokes it into his pillow. every orgasm has your name carved into it, a brand he can’t erase.

one night, he opens a file to edit, drags it into premiere, but he doesn’t touch it. just watches, headphones in, barely breathing. not a content creator now, not a student, not even a man—just a creature of need, and you his ritual, his muse, his goddess.

the screen shows you adjusting the straps of a silky babydoll, the lighting warm, your thighs bare, half-tucked under you as you sit prettily at the edge of your bed.

“okay, so this one’s… like, totally giving ‘come to bed’ energy, right?” you giggle, voice light, teeth sinking into your glossed lip as you bounce once, soft and natural, the fabric barely covering your chest.

satoru groans low in his throat, not even trying to hide it. “it’s giving bend over,” he mutters, lips twitching, his side monitor looping the raw footage, his main screen frozen on your smile. “fuck, look at you…”

you reach behind you, struggle with the clasp, wiggle your shoulders like you’re teasing whoever’s behind the camera. “oof. that’s tight… should i size up?” a breathy laugh follows, your sigh melting into it.

he licks his lips, your audio crystal-clear in his headphones. you’re right there, talking to him. “nah, baby,” he croons, eyes fixed on the curve of your spine as you turn. “tight’s perfect. keeps the goods in place.”

you blow a kiss at the lens. “hope you’re not bored yet,” you say with a wink. “i saved the cutest for last…”

you bend off-frame, your ass peeking just above the edge of the bed, round and inviting in cotton panties with lace trim, and when you rise again, your hands hold something sheer and tiny. “tadaaa,” you whisper, eyes glinting with mischief. “this one’s for my favorite viewer.”

00:05:46—satoru slams the shortcut, timestamp saved. a second later, he screenshots, then again, then again, frame by frame, until he finds the exact one where your lip’s caught between your teeth and your ass is still halfway in the air.

“fucking perfect,” he mutters, breath uneven. he pulls the image up on his main screen, zooms in, sharpens it, runs it through noise reduction. the side monitor loops the raw video, your voice sweet and teasing, while the right monitor plays a gif of your earlier moan, your lips parted in that soft, accidental sound.

his hand’s already moving, shoving his boxers down, his cock springing free, hard and leaking like it’s been waiting for this. 

he grips himself, rough and urgent, no pretense of patience. the new setup’s perfect—your video on the side, his code on the main screen like he’s working, but it’s all you, every pixel, every sound.

he strokes in time with your giggle, his eyes flicking between the gif of your moan and the screenshot of your ass, his mind spiraling into the filthiest corners of his hentai-soaked brain.

he imagines you on that bed, face down, ass up, the babydoll hiked to your waist as he fucks you so hard the headboard cracks. he wants you screaming, wants your cunt pulsing around him, wants to pull your hair and make you look at him as he fills you, over and over, until you’re a mess, until you’re his completely.

his strokes are frantic, his breath hitching, his hips bucking into his hand. he pictures you tied to the bed, like that one doujin he read last month, your wrists bound with those same bikini strings, your thighs trembling as he fucks you through one orgasm into the next.

he wants to cum inside you, wants to watch it drip out, wants to push it back in with his fingers and make you lick them clean. it’s not enough to jerk off anymore, not enough to dream—he wants to break you, wants to make you real, wants to fuck you until you’re as addicted to him as he is to you.

he cums with a choked growl, his head tipping back, glasses slipping down his nose as it spills over his hand, his desk, the sticky mess splattering his keyboard.

he’s shaking, gasping, his chest heaving as the side monitor loops your voice, your “baby” purring like a mantra. his wrist’s sticky, his room a haze of sweat and shame, but he doesn’t care. he’s not even really here.

you’re everywhere now—three monitors, three altars, your image burned into his retinas. he’d worship on his knees if you asked.

the next day, another file:

april haul (closeups).mp4

sorry! idk if this one’s helpful but i liked the shots hehe

he doesn’t unzip his pants. doesn’t need to. he’s already throbbing from the inside out, his body reacting to your name alone. he clicks, watches, kneels, and whispers your name like a benediction, the static in his skull louder than ever.

it starts with a ping.

innocuous. a single pixel shift on the main monitor mid-code, just as satoru’s debugging a script for a deadline he already missed. his side monitor hums with your last video, paused on that frame where your lip’s caught between your teeth, and the third monitor’s open to a half-finished render he hasn’t touched in days. he glances lazily at the notification, expecting another reminder from suguru to shower or eat—

but no. it’s you.

hey… do u do filming too?

his fingers freeze. heart jams, a dull thud in his chest. the cursor blinks, waiting, mocking. he doesn’t think. doesn’t breathe. his glasses slip down his nose, and he doesn’t fix them. the words burn into his retinas, and his cock twitches before he can process why.

yeah. totally. what kind of shoot?

he sends it, his thumb trembling over the enter key. no reply. not for five whole minutes. the wait is a crucifixion, each second stretching into eternity. he keeps opening and closing the chat, rereading your words like they might shift into something dirtier, something more.

his triple-monitor setup glows, your frozen frame on the side monitor staring at him, lips parted, eyes glinting. he’s already leaking in his pants, a damp spot spreading against his thigh.

then:

just a casual thing. home setup. come over?

he reads it twice. three times. his breath catches, sharp and shallow, like he’s been punched. come over. your dorm. your space. he’s hard, achingly so, his boxers tight and unforgiving. he doesn’t reply, just slams his laptop shut, grabs his camera bag, and stumbles out the door.

he shows up twenty minutes later, barely remembered to wear deodorant, definitely forgot his dignity. his high-end sony alpha mirrorless—loaded with a lens that costs more than most people’s rent—bounces against his chest as he knocks. his palms are slick, his glasses fogging slightly from the heat of his own nerves.

you open the door with a giggle, wrapped in a pastel pink robe that might as well be air. it clings to the curve of your waist, parts at the thigh, revealing soft skin that makes his throat burn. your hair’s still damp, sticking to your collarbones, and the scent of vanilla lotion hits him like a drug. “thanks for coming! i’m kinda nervous…”

he wants to bark out same, but his jaw locks. he swallows instead, the motion too loud in his ears. “no problem.” his voice is gravel, like he’s choking on his own want. he steps inside, and your dorm swallows him whole—warm, cutesy, a pastel fever dream of plush throw pillows, fairy lights, and a pink velvet couch that looks too soft, too inviting.

he’s already imagining you bent over it, your robe hiked up, your moans echoing off the walls. it smells like you sprayed your strawberry perfume over every surface, dizzying, suffocating. his glasses fog again.

he sets up the tripod with shaking hands, the sony’s weight grounding him just enough to keep from falling apart. you bounce around the living room, humming, fluffing pillows on the couch, fixing your gloss in a heart-shaped mirror propped against a shelf.

“does this lighting make me look washed out?” you ask, stepping back, tilting your head. then you bend to adjust a lamp, and your robe parts just enough to reveal the gentle curve of your ass, bare except for a sliver of lace.

he sees. pretends he didn’t. fumbles the lens cap, twice, the plastic clattering to the floor. his face burns, but he keeps his eyes on the camera, adjusting settings he doesn’t need to touch.

you brush past him again and again, your bare arm glancing his, silk whispering across his knuckles when you pass. he smells shampoo in the air, thick and sweet, and it’s you, all you, sinking into his lungs. “you nervous?” you tease, voice light, a giggle curling at the edges.

he scoffs, wiping his palm against his jeans, the denim rough against his slick skin. “pfft. nah. i’ve filmed worse.” a lie, bold and brittle, his voice too tight to sell it.

“worse than me?” you pout, stepping closer, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your breath. “ouch.”

“i didn’t say that.” his voice cracks, a hairline fracture. he’s too aware of you, of the way your robe slips an inch, of the way your eyes glint like you’re playing with him.

you tilt your head, wide-eyed, all fake innocence. “sooo… you have filmed pretty girls before?”

he falters, breath stuttering in his chest. he’s a virgin, hasn’t touched a girl in years, hasn’t wanted to—not when hentai’s been enough, when doujins have been his only lovers. but you’re real, and you’re here, and you’re breaking him.

“no one like you,” he says, unfiltered, raw, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

your lips curl, slow and sweet, a smile that says i know. “hm. figured.”

you disappear into your bedroom for a few minutes, the door clicking shut. he pretends to adjust the white balance, tweaking settings on the sony that are already perfect, but really he’s staring at the door like it owes him salvation.

his cock’s throbbing, a dull ache that won’t quit, and he shifts, trying to ease the pressure. the living room feels too small, the pink couch too soft, the fairy lights too intimate. he’s imagining you sprawled across that couch, your robe gone, your thighs spread, his camera capturing every gasp.

the door opens. you emerge. lingerie set, pale and sheer, a mini skirt that barely qualifies, lip gloss freshly reapplied. you look like a doll, saccharine and sinful, every curve a taunt. “can you help me zip this?” you turn, bare back exposed, the zipper halfway up, your spine a perfect line that begs to be touched.

he steps forward, too close, his exhale brushing your shoulder. his fingers graze your skin—soft, warm, real—and you shiver, a small, deliberate tremor. he pulls the zipper up with trembling hands, the metal catching once, his breathing uneven. the distance between you shatters into nothing, the air thick with static.

“you’re doing this on purpose,” he rasps, low in your ear, his voice rough with want.

“doing what?” you whisper, fake innocence thick as honey, your head tilting just enough to catch his eye.

you look back at him, lashes fluttering, lips parted, glossy and pink. he breaks.

“fuck.”

he grabs you, his hands rough on your hips, your mouths crashing together—teeth, tongue, gasps. your lip gloss smears against his cheek, sweet and sticky, and he groans into the kiss, devouring you.

you moan into his mouth, legs wrapping around his hips as he lifts you onto the counter, the edge biting into your thighs. you’re silk and heat and sin beneath his hands, and he’s forgotten everything else—his camera, his code, his shame. only you exist now.

you feel his hard-on through his jeans, pressed against your thighs, and he’s panting, his breath stuttering against your skin as he kisses down your jaw, your neck, the ridge of your spine. his mouth is everywhere, like he’s starved, like he’s trying to memorize you with his tongue.

his glasses slip down, and he grins against your collarbone. “need to get a better look,” he mutters, a flimsy excuse to lean closer, until the fog of his breath warms your skin. he bites your collarbone, hard, groaning when he leaves a mark. “wanna see that in playback.”

he drops to his knees without hesitation, a virgin’s worship, reverence born from years of hentai and nothing else. his fingers dig into your thighs, spreading them wide, and he groans like he’s just found salvation. he runs his tongue along the inner part first, slow and teasing, so close to the lace of your panties but not touching what you want.

you try to close your legs, but he forces them open, his grip bruising, his mouth finding the wet spot through the fabric. “fuck, you’re soaked,” he growls, voice muffled, his tongue dragging heavy and slow, the lace rough against your clit. “been wet for me this whole time, huh? fuckin’ tease.”

you whimper, hips bucking, and he moans into you, the vibration making you gasp. he licks through the panties, relentless, his glasses slipping halfway down his nose but he doesn’t care.

“you taste better than i dreamed,” he says, his voice hoarse, hentai dialogue spilling out like it’s natural. he sucks at the fabric, tongue pressing harder, and you’re trembling, your hands fisting his hair as you grind against his face. he’s messy, desperate, his moans louder than yours, like he’s the one about to cum. you do, hard, a cry tearing from your throat as you shudder against his mouth, and he doesn’t stop, lapping at the soaked lace like it’s his last meal.

he presses his cheek to your thigh, sticky and glistening, looking up at you with glassy eyes. “first one’s mine,” he says, grinding his hips into the floor, his jeans tight with his own need. you don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it. he spreads you open with his fingers, peeling the panties aside, watching your hole twitch with a hunger that makes his mouth water.

“look at that,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice dripping with awe. “fuckin’ perfect.” he slides two fingers in, slow at first, then deeper, curling them just right, like he’s memorized every doujin panel that showed him how. “shit—i’ve seen this in hentai but it’s better. fuck, it’s real.”

his fingers pump, slick and steady, and you’re moaning, head thrown back, the counter digging into your hips. he adds a third, stretching you, his free hand jerking himself through his jeans, matching the pace of his fingers inside you. “so tight, baby. you’re gonna feel so good around my cock.”

he spits on your pussy, a quick, filthy gesture, his eyes locked on yours as it drips down. “they never show that part right in hentai. had to test it myself.” you moan, loud and broken, and he moans louder, his fingers slipping out with a wet squelch. he licks them clean, slow, eyes fluttering shut like he’s savoring you. “fuck—want it all.”

he stands, trembling, his jeans tented painfully. “can i?” his voice is small, almost pleading, a crack in his bravado. you nod, and he fumbles with his belt, shoving his jeans down just enough. he lines himself up, his cock thick and leaking, the tip brushing your entrance. “you’re so warm—holy shit—you’re squeezing me—fuck—”

he slides in, slow at first, gasping as you take him, your cunt tight and slick around him. he’s a virgin, but he knows this, knows the rhythm from years of jerking off to scenes just like this. he freezes, trying not to cum, his glasses fogging as he pants. you clench down, deliberate, and he slaps your thigh, a quick, sharp sting that earns him a whine.

“don’t—fuck, don’t do that yet.”

he pulls out, just to slam back in, harder, the counter creaking under you. his rhythm’s sloppy, desperate, but he finds it, each thrust deeper, rougher. “look at you,” he growls, his voice pure filth, hentai dialogue spilling free. “taking my cock like a good little slut. you love this, don’t you? fuckin’ made for me.” he licks the tears running down your cheek, his tongue hot and greedy. “crying already? baby, i’m not even close to done.”

you moan his name, and he loses it, his thrusts turning frantic, messy, like he’s trying to ruin you. “film it. show me what you see,” you gasp, and he fumbles for his phone, almost dropping it with how hard he’s shaking.

the camera app opens in a blur of fingers, then steadies, the lens catching you spread wide beneath him, thighs trembling, pussy stuffed full of his cock. he holds it there, watching the way you flutter around him, his breath ragged. “watch this later and see how ruined you look, baby,” he pants, voice hoarse, wild.

he leans in, still recording, whispering filth against your ear. “that’s right. take it. cry for me. i want you loud.” his other hand drags the mic closer, the sony’s external recorder capturing every slick thrust, every broken sob, every wet squelch, loud and obscene.

he fucks you harder, the counter shaking, your tits bouncing with each thrust. “gonna fuck you on every piece of furniture in here,” he growls, his voice low, unhinged. “that couch? gonna bend you over it. that table? gonna spread you wide. your bed? gonna fill you till you’re screaming.”

you clench around him, and he groans, his hips stuttering. “fuck, you like that? you want me to wreck you everywhere, don’t you?” you nod, gasping, and he slaps your thigh again, harder, leaving a red mark. “say it, baby. tell me you want it.”

“i want it,” you whimper, voice breaking, and he grins, feral, his thrusts turning punishing. you cum again, a shuddering mess, your cry echoing in the mic as your cunt pulses around him, slick dripping down your thighs. he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, his cock throbbing as he fucks you through it.

“gonna fill you up,” he pants, his voice cracking, hentai fantasies spilling out. “gonna cum so deep you’ll feel me for days. you want that, don’t you? want my cum dripping out of you?”

you nod, moaning, and he loses it, slamming into you one last time as he cums, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. it’s hot, messy, spilling inside you, and he keeps thrusting, shallow and desperate, like he’s trying to push it deeper.

satoru doesn’t stop.

in fact, he lifts you, his arms wrapping under your thighs like you’re weightless, his cock still buried inside you, slick and pulsing. your head lolls against his shoulder, your breath hot against his neck, and he groans, low and guttural, as he carries you toward your bedroom.

the air shifts as he crosses the threshold, your perfume hitting him harder here—floral and sugary, the same scent that clings to your pillow, your wrist, your everything. it’s thicker in this room, curling around him like a trap, and he kicks the door shut behind him, the click loud in the quiet.

he pushes you toward the vanity, your back meeting the cool glass of the mirror with a soft thud. he bends you over it, slow and deliberate, his hands guiding your hips until your cheek presses against the surface, your breath fogging the reflection.

“look at you,” he groans, angling his phone to capture the scene—your flushed face, your glossed lips parted, your eyes half-lidded in the mirror as you whine in embarassment.

“pretty little thing, still trying to act innocent.” his voice is rough, edged with hunger, and he shifts his hips, thrusting shallowly, keeping you pinned, reaching for your lip gloss.

you mumble something, a weak protest or plea, but he shuts it up with a swipe of your lip gloss across your mouth, his hand trembling as he paints your lips pink, the applicator slick and messy.

“perfect,” he says, pulling back just enough to admire the shine, the way it catches the light. then he pushes in again, deeper, and you both moan, the sound mingling in the air, caught by the sony’s mic still recording from the tripod in the corner.

he kisses you messily—gloss smearing, lips hungry, teeth clashing as he grinds his hips, slow and torturous, never breaking the rhythm. the camera stays on, the phone propped against a perfume bottle, capturing every gasp, every shudder.

“taste so fuckin’ good,” he mutters against your mouth, his tongue chasing the sticky sweetness. “gonna kiss you till you’re dripping everywhere.”

satoru lays you on the bed next, gentle but urgent, his hands shaking as he props his phone against a stack of books on your nightstand, the camera app open, framing you perfectly—your body sprawled across the pastel sheets, thighs parted, lingerie barely clinging to your skin, the sheer fabric of your top stretched tight over your chest, the mini skirt hiked up to expose the lace of your panties.

he climbs over you, his glasses slipping down his nose, and pushes your legs up, hooking them over his shoulders, the angle forcing you open, vulnerable.

“fuck, you feel like heaven,” he says, voice cracking, almost reverent, as he slides back inside you, slow and deep, the heat of you pulling a groan from his throat. “i’m never gonna stop, baby.”

each thrust is deliberate, his hips rolling to hit that spot that makes you arch, your nails raking down his arms, leaving red trails he’ll stare at later.

he kisses you through it, his mouth sloppy and desperate, swallowing your moans like they’re his lifeline. the bed creaks under you, the fairy lights casting a soft glow over your tear-streaked face, and he’s lost in it, in the way you clench around him, so tight it’s like you’re made for him.

“so fuckin’ perfect,” he pants, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and uneven. “taking my cock like you were born for it.”

he tugs at the straps of your lingerie top, pulling it down until your tits spill free, the sheer fabric catching under them, and he groans, his mouth latching onto a nipple, sucking hard until you whimper, your hips bucking against him.

but it doesn’t last—he needs more, needs to see you break in ways he’s only imagined in the dark of his room, his hand on his cock and your videos on loop.

he pulls out, his dick slick and throbbing, and grabs your hips, flipping you with a low grunt. he drags you up by the waist, positioning you on your knees, your ass high, your face pressed into the sheets, the skirt still bunched around your hips. his hand slides up your spine, pushing your chest down, arching you just right, and he yanks the lace panties to the side, not bothering to take them off.

“this is what you get for teasing me all these days,” he growls, his voice unhinged, as he lines himself up and thrusts in, hard and deep, the slap of skin sharp in the quiet room.

you whimper, muffled against the pillow, and he fucks harder, each thrust rocking you forward, the bedframe rattling, your moans spilling free despite the fabric. his phone’s still recording, propped precariously, catching every angle—your arched back, your trembling thighs, the way his cock disappears into you with every brutal snap of his hips.

“look at that pussy,” he says, his free hand gripping your ass, spreading you open for the camera. “so greedy, swallowing me whole. you love this, don’t you?” he tugs your hair, pulling your head back, forcing your cries to echo. “louder, baby. let the whole fuckin’ dorm hear you.”

he slows, just to torment you, his hips grinding deep, making you squirm, your overstimulated body shaking under him. you’re teary, sobs catching in your throat, but he doesn’t care—he wants you loud, wants you broken. he leans down, his chest pressed to your back, and bites your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.

“cry for me,” he whispers, his voice rough, his hand slipping around to pinch your nipple, twisting until you gasp. “wanna hear you fall apart.” he pulls out, leaving you empty, and you whine, a desperate, keening sound that makes him smirk.

“patience, princess,” he mocks, slapping your ass lightly, the sting making you clench around nothing.

satoru guides you up, turning you to face him, and pushes you back onto the bed, climbing over you. “wanna see you ride me,” he says, lying back against the headboard, his hands gripping your hips as you straddle him. he tugs the skirt off completely, tossing it aside, leaving you in just the stretched-out lingerie top and soaked panties.

“bounce,” he growls, his eyes locked on where you sink down onto him, slow and deliberate, your cunt stretching around him as you take him inch by inch. “show the camera how you fuck me.”

his phone’s angled to catch it all—your tits bouncing, still half-caught in the sheer fabric, your thighs trembling, the way you gasp every time you drop down, taking him to the hilt.

you move, your hips rolling, your hands braced on his chest, and he’s sweating, his glasses slipping, his breath ragged. he doesn’t let you slow, his hands lifting you, slamming you back down, making you take him deeper. “that’s it,” he says, voice hoarse, his fingers digging into your ass, leaving bruises. “fuck yourself on my cock. show me how bad you need it.”

you’re sobbing now, tears streaming down your cheeks, but you keep going, your moans loud and broken, your body shaking from the overstimulation. he reaches up, ripping the lingerie top off completely, the fabric tearing with a sharp sound, and gropes your tits, squeezing hard, his thumbs brushing your nipples until you shudder.

“these are mine now,” he says, his voice pure filth. “gonna mark ‘em up so you can’t hide.”

he’s close, too close, but he’s not done.

he pushes you off, gentle but firm, and stands, pulling you with him toward the full-length mirror by your closet. he spins you, pressing your chest to the glass, your hands splaying against it, your tear-streaked reflection staring back.

he kicks your legs apart, his cock nudging your entrance, and slides in, slow and deep, his breath hot against your ear. “look at you,” he says, his lips brushing your neck, his hands caging you against the mirror. “look at my cock ruining your pussy.”

he thrusts, slow at first, watching your reflection—your tears, your drool, your gloss-smeared lips, the way your body shakes with every snap of his hips. “you wanted a nerd? this nerd’s gonna fuckin’ break you.”

he fucks you harder, the mirror rattling, your moans bouncing off the walls, loud enough to wake the neighbors. “so fuckin’ pretty,” he pants, one hand slipping to your clit, rubbing messy, relentless circles. “gonna cum all over my cock, aren’t you? gonna make a mess for me?”

you nod, sobbing, your body trembling, and he slaps your ass, the sting sharp, making you clench around him. “say it, baby. tell me you’re mine.”

“i’m yours,” you gasp, voice breaking, tears streaming, and he cums with a raw groan, spilling inside you, hot and thick, his hips stuttering as he rides it out.

he doesn’t pull out, doesn’t stop, his cock still hard, still twitching as he fucks his cum deeper, the slick sound obscene. “not done,” he mutters, his glasses fogged, his voice wrecked. “gonna make you cum again.”

he keeps going, relentless, his thrusts slower but deeper, each one pushing his cum back inside, making you shake. his fingers on your clit are merciless, circling fast, and you’re oversensitive, your body convulsing, your moans turning to desperate cries. “satoru—fuck—too much—” you sob.

he only slaps your thigh, sharp and stinging, and leans in, his lips grazing your ear. “too much? nah, princess, you can take it. wanna feel you squirt for me.”

he angles his hips, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, and you’re gone, your body locking up as you cum, a gush of wet heat soaking his cock, dripping down your thighs, pooling on the floor. he groans, loud and broken, his hips jerking as he cums again, another hot rush filling you, spilling out around him.

“fuck—look at that mess,” he pants, his hand smearing the slick between your legs, rubbing it into your skin. “all for me.”

but he’s not done. he pulls you back to the bed, laying you on your side, one leg hooked over his arm as he slides back in, his cock still hard, slick with your cum and his. “one more,” he begs, his voice cracking, his glasses crooked. “gimme one more, baby. need to feel you again.”

he thrusts slow, deep, his hand slipping between your legs to tease your oversensitive clit, and you’re crying, tears streaming, your body shaking from the intensity. he bites your neck, leaving marks, and whispers, “love it when you cry for me. so fuckin’ loud, just how i like it.”

he shifts, rolling you onto your stomach, keeping you pinned as he fucks you into the mattress, his hand pressing your face into the sheets. “gonna cum all over you,” he growls, his thrusts turning sloppy, desperate. “gonna fill you up till you’re leaking me for days.”

you cum again, a shuddering, broken mess, your sobs muffled against the pillow, your body convulsing as you squirt again, weaker but still enough to soak the sheets. he cums with you, a third time, his groan hoarse, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you, the mess dripping out, pooling under you.

“fuck—baby—” he gasps, his voice wrecked, his body shaking as he collapses against you, his glasses falling off completely, clattering to the floor.

“mine now,” he whispers, hoarse and ruined, his forehead pressed to your back, his breath hot and uneven. “you’re mine now.”

you nod, too spent to speak, your body limp, your reflection in the mirror a blur of tears and gloss and him, the phone still recording every ragged breath, every whispered “fuck” as he pulls you closer, not letting go.

but then silence swells, heavy and slow, filling the room like a fog. the air’s thick with the aftermath—sweat, cum, and the lingering sweetness of your perfume, still clinging to the sheets, to him.

satoru’s hands tremble where they hold you, one slipping down to fumble with his phone, stopping the recording with a clumsy tap, the other pressing flat against your stomach, grounding him, grounding you. your breaths are too loud, ragged and uneven, syncing in the quiet like a metronome.

he leans away slightly, just enough to grab a towel from the edge of your bed, awkward in the afterglow like he just realized he desecrated a temple. his glasses are gone, lost somewhere in the mess of sheets, and his hair’s a disaster, sticking to his forehead, damp with sweat.

“shit,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper, too quiet for the boy who was growling filth ten minutes ago. “did i—i mean. that wasn’t too much, right?” there’s a crack in his tone, a flicker of panic, like he’s replaying every thrust, every slap, every sobbed moan he pulled from you.

you don’t answer at first, too dazed, too wrung out, your body still humming from the overstimulation, your thighs sticky and trembling.

your silence makes him spiral.

“fuck, i knew it. i pushed too hard. i got carried away—i was recording—fuck—i didn’t even ask—” his words tumble out, frantic, his hand raking through his hair as he sits up, eyes wide, searching your face for any sign of regret.

you turn to face him, slow and sore, your cheek pillowed against your arm, the motion making your body ache in the best way. your eyes are still wet, lashes clumped with tears, lips kiss-bruised and sticky with half-worn gloss, swollen from his teeth. you stare at him—this boy, this dork, with his mussed-up hair and the panicked look of someone who just lived out a lifelong fantasy and now doesn’t know what to do with it.

“i’m okay,” you say, your voice shredded, raw from screaming his name. “jesus, i’m so okay.”

he exhales, a shaky rush of air, like he’s been holding it in for hours. he collapses back against you, burying his face in your neck, his lips brushing the bite mark he left earlier. “fuck, you scared me,” he mumbles, his voice muffled, warm against your skin. then, quieter, almost unhinged: “we just speedran my entire hentai folder.”

you laugh, a weak, breathy sound that bubbles up despite the ache in your ribs. “i know.”

“i didn’t even know i could,” he says, his voice small, like he’s confessing a sin. “i haven’t even done that in vr.”

you snort, the sound catching in your throat. “nerd.”

he groans, but it’s not annoyed—it’s mortified, the kind of sound that comes from knowing he’s exposed himself completely. “i’m never gonna recover from this. i glossed you like a fuckin’ bratz doll. i glossed you.” his hand gestures vaguely at your lips, still shiny and smeared, and you laugh again, the sound softer now, your body too tired for anything more.

you roll over fully, tugging him down into the blankets with you, the pastel sheets tangling around your legs. he follows like a kicked puppy, his head resting on your chest, his breath warm against your skin. you can feel his heart still racing, his body still trembling from the high.

“i just,” you mumble, your voice barely audible, “wanted you to notice me. back during the group project, you never looked at me. just your laptop. even when i wore that stupid short skirt.”

he goes silent, his fingers pausing where they’re tracing lazy circles on your hip. then, in a voice so small it barely carries: “…you wore that for me?”

you nod, your cheek brushing his hair.

he lets out the tiniest, most violated gasp, like you’ve just rewritten his entire reality. “i thought you were just one of those girls who always looked hot. like, default setting.” his voice cracks on the last word, and you can’t help the teasing smile that tugs at your lips.

“no,” you say, your tone playful despite the exhaustion. “i was trying to seduce the dumbass with the mecha desktop background.”

he muffles a sob into your chest, half-laugh, half-groan, his arms tightening around you. “i love mecha…” he says, like it’s the most tragic thing in the world, and you hum, stroking his hair, your fingers catching in the sweaty strands.

“i know.”

a long pause settles over you, the kind that feels like it could stretch forever. the fairy lights twinkle softly, casting shadows across the room, and your perfume lingers, mixing with the musk of sex. his breathing slows, but he doesn’t let go, his body still pressed to yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

then he lifts his head, his eyes serious, stripped of the wild edge they had before. “can i… hold you properly? not like—y’know—breeding press. like, real holding.” his cheeks flush, like he’s embarrassed to admit he wants something soft after all that.

“you already folded me in half like a love letter,” you whisper, but you shift into his arms anyway, letting him pull you close. he wraps around you, tight, needy, his hands trembling like he’s still processing you’re real, not just pixels on a screen. his hold is desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you, every curve, every soft inch, in case this never happens again.

“don’t make fun of me,” he says, his voice muffled against your shoulder. “i think my crush on you just speedran into obsession.” there’s a rawness to it, a confession that feels too big for the quiet, but it lands soft, like he’s finally letting it out.

“you’re the one who begged for one more while crying into my shoulder,” you tease, your voice barely above a whisper, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

“stop,” he groans, burying his face deeper, his arms tightening like he could squeeze the embarrassment out of himself. “i’m gonna die.”

you press a kiss to his forehead, slow and deliberate, your lips lingering on his sweaty skin. “you’re not gonna die,” you say, your tone soft but firm. “you’re gonna eat me out on friday and wear your glasses while you do it.”

he whimpers, a pathetic, needy sound, his hips twitching involuntarily against your thigh. “say less,” he mumbles, his voice wrecked, but there’s a spark in it, like you’ve just lit something in him again. you giggle, wrapping your leg around his waist, pulling him closer, your skin sticking to his in the humid air.

and in the quiet, as you’re both drifting off—sore, sticky, still catching your breath—he says it again. not ruined this time, not even possessive. just low. certain. like he’s already planning his next sin.

“mine.”

you don’t answer. just smile into the pillow, heart pounding. because maybe you are. and maybe you’ll let him prove it again.

especially once he finds out what cosplay you ordered last week.

friday’s going to be filthy.

[mncxbe]

# . ݁₊ ⊹When you transferred to Shiratorizawa during your second year you didn't expect to have a full blown crash out in the first week. As a new student, there were many things you needed to take care of— bringing documents back and forth from the secretary's office to the medic to the PE teacher. Just as you were entering the gym to drop off the last papers, the file tucked between your chest and the cup of iced coffee in your hand, scrolling on your phone, a volley ball came crashing against you. You froze, looking down at the coffee spilled over uniform and documents before looking up to see a guy jogging towards you. "Sorry, miss–" he began but you quickly cut him off, throwing your hands up in the air.

"Dude what's wrong with you? Can't you aim?" you huffed angrily, cringing at the feeling of the wet shirt clinging to your skin. "I was literally on the side of the court didn't you see me there?"

And so you went off at the massive guy in front of the whole volleyball team until you eventually stormed out of the gym, your face flushed from anger. Unbeknownst to you, Wakatoshi Ushijima was hooked. Staring aimlessly at your shrinking figure, anxiously grasping the volley ball in his hands, Ushijima tried to make sense of the strange flutter in his chest. And from that day on he followed you around like a puppy, his sharp gaze finding you in the cafeteria during every break. Despite his friends' taunts and comments about how whipped he was for the new mean girl in school he always came to sit by your side, bringing you a little treat— a soda, milk bread or whatever cake the cafeteria was selling that day. You thought it odd at first but figured he wanted to make up for the unfortunate accident on the day you met so you let him stay.

And Ushijima stays, silently at first, looking over your frame with that stoic expression of his, his eyes following your manicured nails tapping relentlessly at your phone. "Do you have something to say or what?" you snap after a few days of this behaviour, looking him over and Ushijima feels dizzy from how pretty you look with your brows pinched together and that angry little pout on your face. "I was wondering if you don't like the fruit cake. You haven't touched it."

You roll your eyes, pushing the cake towards him. "I don't eat kiwi, it's gross." Ushijima nods, staring blankly at the tart as he rubs his hands together. "They don't have anything else today." he begins and before you can spit another biting comment he speaks up again. "Maybe we could grab something else after class? If you want."

The captain's words make you pause for a second, his earnest look softening your anger. You finally notice how nervous he seems, fidgeting under the small table in the cafeteria while waiting for an answer. Then it occurs to you that maybe you are too bitchy to him— after all, why hold a grudge against some guy who you just met? One who was handsome, polite and bought you sweets too. So instead of throwing another scathing remark at him you nod. "Alright. But only if there's no tart."

Ushijima visibly relaxes at your approval, a small, hopeful smile tugging at his lips. "Yea, no tart. Got it."

Yea, his friends were right. He was totally whipped.

[somnoir]

Down Bad in Distress

Bruce Wayne is kidnapped... A lot. And it's always so weird that only Batman is allowed to save him. That this dumb, charming, but kidnap-able Billionaire doesn't have a bodyguard.

Now, Bruce can simply go "Oh, we've got Batman. No need to worry for that!" But people are fussy nowadays. He underestimates just bow much Gotham loves their disaster of a prince with a golden heart. Even his company employees are begging him to hire a bodyguard. (This is from the many files being sent to his office, obvious recommendations on competent bodyguards)

Cut to the new bodyguard for hire—who was recommended by Alfred of all people (something about him being the disciple of a good old friend of his). The man was large. Fucking huge. Taller than Jason, if one would like to admit (Jason is his 6'4" baby and this fucking fridge if a man looked 6'6").

But he was all soft and warm. Like a golden retriever the size of a bear.

Anyways, Danny was a rather kind man. When he wasn't following Bruce around and playing bodyguard, he was indulging the kids. Entertaining them with the most obscure things and stories from his childhood. Better yet, Danny would be the kids' bodyguard rather than Bruce's whenever they went out.

It was a miracle when they realized that Damian wasn't reacting badly to the man. Very strange since Damian would think it'd be shameful for someone to protect him during the day. But then again, Bruce once saw Danny effortlessly pick up Damian so his son could coax a cat out of a tree. That was most likely the kicker.

Anyways, Danny looked and felt soft.

It wasn't easy for him to settle into the man's ever present presence, but it's been almost four months since Danny's been hired and Bruce doesn't even flinch when the man brightly greets him from the bottom of the stairs.

"Good morning, mr. Wayne!" Danny would say, all teeth and bright eyes in his suit.

"Bruce," he'd correct immediately.

And then Danny would pause, laugh, and— "Good morning, Bruce."

Then his kids would follow and Danny would affectionately greet them all, ask where they plan to go and if they needed Danny to follow.

His bodyguard was like sunshine and warmth incarnate.

But if course, Danny was a bodyguard.

There were instances where Bruce would have to take a second to remind himself that this man that would look down at socialites like he's ready to crush their hands is the same one who once gave him puppy-dog eyes to back up Damian when his son asked to keep the kittens.

That the same man who grabbed someone by the scruff of their collar like they were weightless was the same one who talked about poetry and literature with Jason.

That the man who once hauled Bruce off the ground and walked right out the gala when the smoke alarms blared is the same one who would gently coax Tim off the coach and into a proper bed.

But right now, that's not his concern. No. Bruce is more concerned about the fact that he's gotten kidnapped again.

Everyone was most likely alerted. They were. He could hear Red Robin, Blackbat and Spoiler talking over the comms, checking in on Red Hood and Robin in case things went off.

"B, don't move. These guys are more prepared than the usual ones." Tim's voice filters into the comms, evidently annoyed. "I've got Oracle checking if there are any bombs in the place."

Bruce stayed silent, watching the masked men and women walk around, guns in hand and crates surrounding them. He had been knocked out during a party. The last thing he saw was Danny's eyes—god, it frightened him a bit. How those pretty blues suddenly turned green like Jason's.

Then he was here. Most likely with a concussion.

"B?"

"I'm okay... Be careful..." He murmurs under his breath, hearing his children sigh in relief.

"Good. We've got Red Ho—What the fuck is that?" Barbara immediately cut herself off, her voice strained and pitched with surprise.

"Oracle?"

"Spoiler—Do you have a view on that?" Oracle frantically asked. "Shit—the cameras just went down. Guys?"

"is that—" Stephanie chokes out, "Is that Danny?"

Bruce froze. Danny?

Jason always knew that Danny was kinda off. The first time he met the man, it wasn't his size that Jason immediately noticed. It was how his eyes flashed green when they met his. At first, he felt threatened, ready to attack whatever the fuck thought it was a good idea to infiltrate his family.

But then... Then Danny smiled at him. Offered his hand with a kind greeting. Jason took that hand and... And felt calm. Like the buzz in his head melted away, like the Lazarus was cleansed.

And Danny most likely knew. Because the man was smiling in satisfaction, like he was pleased that Jason suddenly didn't feel starved and angry and hurt.

"I don't know what happened to you kid, but whatever the hell did, it wasn't good for you. Hopefully you'll get better now." Danny whispered softly and then withdrew his hand, tucking it behind his back.

Jason doesn't know what the fuck Danny was but the man was worth keeping around.

Admittedly, he turned to Danny a lot nowadays. Jason can't call Bruce all the time. No. His relationship with Bruce still isn't good enough to warrant Jason to call him constantly.

But Danny? Again, Jason doesn't know what the hell this guy is but whenever Jason was in trouble, he dialed Danny's phone immediately. And he came... Every, single, fucking time. No questions asked, just pick Jason up and patch him up like nothing.

Danny was a good guy. Like sunshine, like golden retrievers. All teeth with some fangs.

And that same guy just snapped a man's neck with his bare hands.

"Hood... Are you seeing this?" Robin asked beside him, equally stunned as they watched their usually kind and sweet bodyguard effortlessly tear through the group of men with his bare hands. There was already blood around. Everywhere, maybe. Some already on Danny.

"He's on a fucking warpath." Jason murmurs. Every bit of admiration he had for Danny just multiplied by a thousand when he watched him grab a gun right out of a guy's hand and slam it into their head. Fucking amazing.

If Bruce doesn't square up and ask this guy on a date, Jason would have to start planning to parent trap them.

Fucking shit, he needed this guy as a dad.

The doors don’t just open—they explode off their hinges, a violent crack echoing through the warehouse. Guns swing up, barrels glinting under harsh light, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the figure in the doorway.

Bruce’s pulse slams against his ribs.

And then Danny walks in, dragging a half-conscious man by the leg, leaving a smeared trail of blood in his wake. He doesn’t even look winded.

Blood stains his usually pristine uniform—smeared across his face, streaked over the white of his shirt, soaking into his knuckles. His tie is gone. His collar is open, a few buttons undone, exposing a sliver of skin beneath the mess. There’s blood on his face, drying in streaks, and his knuckles—his knuckles are raw, dripping, alive. He looks… disheveled. Lethal. Gorgeous.

"HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! THAT'S DANNY!" Spoiler screeched, "HE'S BODYING THOSE FUCKERS! RED! RED, ARE YOU FUCKING SEEING THIS?!"

"SOMEONE RECORD THIS! SHIT! SOMEONE RECORD THIS!" Red Robin replied, equally loud and frantic as if trying desperately to find the old camera he used to stalk Bruce many years ago.

He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t hesitate.

Danny launches the man he was dragging, sending him crashing into the nearest gunman with a sickening thud. Before anyone can react, he moves—crossing the room in impossibly fluid strides, twisting a wrist until a gun clatters to the floor, elbowing another man so hard in the ribs that something audibly cracks. A shot goes off, a wild, panicked attempt—Danny doesn’t even flinch. He snatches the arm holding the gun and bends it the wrong way. The scream is immediate.

Bruce’s breath catches.

Another man rushes Danny with a knife—big mistake. Danny catches his wrist mid-swing, wrenches it to the side with bone-snapping efficiency, then drives the same blade into another attacker’s thigh. The man howls, but Danny is already moving, slamming someone’s face into the nearest table hard enough to leave a smear of red on the wood.

They never stood a chance.

Two minutes. Two damn minutes, and the entire room is a battlefield of unconscious, broken bodies.

And Bruce cannot focus.

Bruce barely registers Jason swearing at him through the comms, telling him to get it together. He can’t.

And then Danny turns to him.

His face is splattered with blood, his chest rising and falling steadily as he steps forward. His hands, bruised and raw, reach out, and Bruce swallows hard.

Danny kneels, gaze flicking to Bruce’s bound wrists, and his touch—gentle, so gentle—works at the ropes with precise care. The knots had been tight, biting into his skin enough to bruise, to draw blood. Danny’s jaw clenches at the sight.

Bruce should say something. Should thank him. Should not be thinking about how unfairly attractive he looks like this—wild, wrecked, utterly devoted.

But he can’t help it.

He’s so gone.

"Mr. Wayne."

On instruct, Bruce corrects him. "Bruce."

And Danny pauses.

The chaos settles—not in the room, where bodies lay crumpled, groaning, and barely conscious—but in him. Just for a second. Just long enough for Bruce to see it.

Blue flickers into green. A warning. A promise.

Bruce doesn’t look away. Can’t. Even as Danny tilts his head, something unhinged curling at the edges of his smile. His chest rises and falls, slow, deliberate, the blood on his face catching the dim light. His knuckles, split and raw, flex at his sides before he exhales a laugh—low, sharp, guttural.

Almost a growl.

And Bruce—God help him—feels something thrill in his spine.

Then Danny takes his wrists. Carefully. Reverently. Those same hands that had snapped bones and silenced screams mere moments ago now hold Bruce’s bruised, bloodied skin like it’s something precious.

Then—cold.

Not warm. Not comforting. Cold lips, pressing soft against each wound, his touch featherlight against the raw skin. Bruce shudders.

Danny pulls back just enough for Bruce to see his lips—stained red with his blood. And he grins, sharp fangs more prominent than ever, his eyes molten with something Bruce can’t name.

"Bruce…"

Danny says it like a prayer. Like a promise. Like a goddamn claim.

Exasperated. Excited. Fond. And something else entirely.

"Try not to get kidnapped again, Bruce… Or I might just end up blowing up Gotham to get you back.

Bruce’s breath stutters.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Bruce is so utterly gone.

(Someone laughs in the background, shadows curling at their feet. Lady Gotham is pleased.)

Part 2 | Masterpost

[wonryllis]

INTERRUPTING THEM WITH A KISS ✶ 𝒽𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗇 & 𝒷𝖺𝖼𝗄

﹙ ⌕ ﹚ 𝓅𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗌 ㅤ𝑜𝑓. enhypen melting into you like it's a habit. contains fem!r, fluff, lots of kissing, pg 15. wc 1657, approximately 0.24k each. check out the d𝒾rectory? stat requested.

──────𝑎𝑙𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑙𝑦, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

𝗟𝗘𝗘 𝗛𝗘𝗘𝗦𝗘𝗨𝗡𝗚

lee heeseung swears he's never found anyone or as a matter of fact, anything as annoying as you. you're like a roach up his ass, the bane of his existence. yet when he looks at your cherry stained lips as you crash into him outside the club— he can't deny: that the idea of them against his own doesn't seem half as bad. probably the alcohol, heeseung convinces himself.

"if you don't get off and at least a hundred feet away from me right now, i swea—" and your lips crash into his. intentionally, to get under his skin? accidentally, because of the shots? who cares! heeseung can literally feel the breath leave his lungs as you move your lips against his.

but you pull away before he can do anything,"shut up jer—" and it irks him for some god forbid reason, alcohol again? oh fuck the alcohol! imma kiss that attitude outta her. not even a fraction of second passes before heeseung is grabbing your jaw and pulling you back into a kiss.

you want to breathe? forget it. lee heeseung is not having it anymore. a chance to put you in your place, he's not letting it slip through his fingers. he does not want to.

"you shut up." the tendencies of an enemy with his deepest desires unknown to him; kissable lips on an enemy is the most sinful and irresistible thing ever. probably why you annoyed him.

𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗞 𝗝𝗢𝗡𝗚𝗦𝗘𝗢𝗡𝗚

jay's thighs feel warm against your own as you sit still on his lap, his legs shaking subtly while he rambles about some clothes. the tiny smear of vanilla ice cream near the corner of his lower lip, bothering you more and more with the seconds ticking by.

"and then i had to get the pants exchang—" you don't even realize it yourself when you lean in to capture his lips and lick at the sweetness. his own words dying down as he stares down at your face, completely dumbstruck. come on, that's your girlfriend idiot! kiss back! it's probably the twelfth time you both have kissed since you got together three months ago; it's not like he's keeping track of the kisses but... yeah you make him too nervous so, he is.

"b-baby..?" your hands cup his cheeks and he shuts down again. ears burning hot, and lips parted to let you do what you want. if there's one thing jay can't help, it's letting you have your way. whenever, wherever.

it takes him approximately ten seconds to overcome that nervousness and respond to the kiss. mouth closing in on your chocolate flavored lips in a soft and gentle smooch. after smooch. after smooch. the tendencies of a new boyfriend still reeling in; having the girlfriend of your dreams is not something you can get used to just like that.

𝗦𝗜𝗠 𝗝𝗔𝗘𝗬𝗨𝗡

jake has been hanging out and around you for months now. it should have gotten easier by this time, he thinks. but no, every look, every conversation, every subtle touch feels like it burns hotter than the last time. are these the side effects of a crush? of getting closer to them? or of behaving normally after accidentally pecking? jake checks all the boxes.

"yeah so it's supposed to go like this. did you get i—" jake looks up from the project files on the desk, his voice and his life dropping down to his ass at the touch of your lips on his. what the hell is happening? are you actually? is he dreaming? jake cannot decide on what he should think. kiss back obviously! what's more to think?!

the kiss is short and sweet, and it doesn't satisfy him. hand immediately grabbing your throat to keep you from pulling away as he begins responding to the kiss. lips engulfing yours in a deeper and longer one, like it's the nth time you are kissing. like he's so used to it, like he's addicted?

“what— what was that?” jake pants out, somehow managing to pull away. his demeanor shifting drastically from the one that had just possessed him. the tendencies of a crush finally getting a taste; once you get hooked, there's no going back. not after a kiss uncalled for like that.

𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗞 𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗚𝗛𝗢𝗢𝗡

he has slept once with you, just once sunghoon reminds himself— grounds himself; for he feels way too obsessed with the thought of you for having only had you once in that way. is it normal? probably not. will he do something about it? probably not.

so he acts like normal, tries to. his hands in his pockets as he walks with you to his car, head hanging low even though his eyes keep stealing glances at you while he tells you about his upcoming tournaments. stopping to open the passenger seat door for you, still speaking of his fears of lack of perfectionism.

"there's still parts i need to work extra o—" but instead of getting right in, you get onto your tiptoes and pull him by his collar into a kiss. if a body can function with a disjointed heart, sunghoon swears it's him.

his heart skipping beats in a row and all of a sudden feeling like it's stopped entirely. yet his hands and lips move without a second thought, without waiting for even a millisecond. grabbing you by the back of your neck and kissing you right back, nibbles and suckles and tongue and everything.

"you'll do well, don't worry too much," the tendencies of a one night stand turned friend; it's probably not the best idea to become buddies with someone you slept with, especially if you want more.

𝗞𝗜𝗠 𝗦𝗘𝗢𝗡𝗪𝗢𝗢

the hallways are crowded as always, loud and bustling, drowning out your and sunoo’s laughs and giggles. talking about anything and everything while you wait for another friend.

sunoo's known you for a few years now, not a lot but enough to know when something's up. “he didn't check it properly and then.. hey? are you oka—” and he notices it on your face a fraction of a moment before you pull him into an abrupt kiss— mid conversation.

frozen, nervous and confused. yet all he thinks is actually how uncannily decent it feels, almost encroaching a feeling way too good. “i’m so sorry sun. i told my ex we are dating and he looked our way when he passed by and i panicked—” sunoo shushes you all too quickly, regretting not having kissed back properly.

“i get it, we can pretend. i don't mind it,” he doesn't know what comes over him as he proposes the idea, but he definitely expects to get into situations like these. why? he has no clue. he just wants it.

“everything you need to do to convince him, i’m all in,” his gaze trails over your lips, leaning closer unintentionally. another kiss right in the middle of the hallway. the tendencies of a friend offering to help in a non friendly way; fake dating a friend you feel like you could possibly develop feelings for is like digging your own grave.

𝗬𝗔𝗡𝗚 𝗝𝗨𝗡𝗚𝗪𝗢𝗡

four months, seventeen days, twelve hours and probably thirty-six minutes. jungwon’s counting with all he has. this relationship, or whatever is going on between you two; beyond friends and bordering lovers, is bugging him down to his core. it's eating away at him.

“you just called me your friend,” leaning against the elevator wall, hands in his pockets, jungwon tries to behave— be as nonchalant as he can. jealousy? what's that? look me in the eyes and tell me i'm just a friend look.. no he isn't looking at you like that. snap out of it yang jungwon!

“you really think i’m just a friend? after all that we have don—” two steps closer, bodies pressed, eyes locked and your kiss that shuts him up. oh to hell with being normal with you. your hands slide around the back of his neck and his words die down against your lips like kissing you is his second nature.

“boyfriend? you want that label?” the mumbles against his lips, the sound of your soft breaths and the taste of your lipbalm, it's like jungwon is high.

“again.” catching your lower lip between his in a languid nibble. he can't help but keep wanting to kiss you, the ding of the elevator drowned out behind all his thoughts of you. the tendancies of a situationship with obvious feelings; being friendzoned by your girlfriend-to-be gets you jealous, he'll admit it now.

𝗡𝗜𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗠𝗨𝗥𝗔 𝗥𝗜𝗞𝗜

friends. friends. friends. riki chants internally, again and again. and again. poopy diaper, runny nose, screeching tantrums— he thinks everything unpleasant about you, everything he possibly can. childhood friends ripping each other's hair out, neighbours annoying each other across the bedroom windows, classmates snitching out on each other's crushes. everything that's just friends.

nothing more. never— impossible. riki soothes himself, his mind and heart still jumbling all around after your question earlier, ‘what if we kissed?’ disgusting! right? he's not sure if he's answering or questioning his sanity.

and though the conversation is stirred clear of the topic, both of you nestled on your bedroom floor talking about club applications; his eyes staring right at you, seeming as unfazed as ever, his psychological state is nowhere near willing to calm down.

“what do you think about the drama clu—” your lips don't last even a second on his, before he is pushing you away, like he's allergic to kisses.

“w-what are you doing!” riki exclaims, fingers rubbing over his mouth,”i told you earlier,” and then slowly reaching forward to brush them against yours as he leans back in, involuntarily he insists. “i know but this is, so weird.. i’m not supposed to like it,” soft mumbles and lips grazing. the tendencies of a lifelong friend crossing an improbable line. locking lips with your childhood friend just for a ‘what if’ is the worst plan ever, or maybe not so much.

taglist 。open! @kangseulgithegreat @s00buwu @lilyuwon @pockyyasii @nctislifue @ashtxrie @miniature-tragedy @jayujus @brachives @thoughtsmeander2tumblingblindly @eeunoia @nxzz-skz @shawnyle @potato0579 @enhastolemyheart @ro-diaries @aaa-sia @enhabooks @criminalyun @oddracha @seochangbinnnnnnnnnnn @jayjw16enxp

[wuntrum]

can you speak on your severance s2 opinions? i promise this isnt in bad faith or anything, im just anon bc im shy lol, im genuinely curious

i'm gonna put this under a read more because it's gonna be long but...yeah [scratches head] if YOU the person reading this looooved this season and see nothing you didn't like about it, thats awesome and i'm happy for you. i also liked things in this season, and also its normal to be able to critique things you like, love and light <3 its literally just television

generally, yeah, i found myself disappointed with it. i think the writing this season, both the dialogue and then the actual character/world writing, fell flat and/or seemed like it was completely incongruous with the characters and world that we had seen in season 1. i think something i really appreciated about season 1 is that yes, mark was our main character and the lens we got introduced to both the inside and outside world, but both felt so much BIGGER than just him.

season 2, the entire plot and world and characters bend and contort to make mark like, the center of the universe lol. it's kind of ridiculous, the extent to which the world revolves around him now. it makes the world feel SOOO small. parts of my favorite worldbuilding aspects are seeing how the outside world feels about severance--i think the part where we see how working as a severed employee makes it almost impossible to work anywhere else is great! and in concept i like seeing other towns that have been devastated by lumon's industrialization, though i don't love the execution that we got. so like...everything lumon does is about mark? ALL of it? i know we don't know exactly how long lumon has been operating but like...they've been working on this stuff for longer than two years, lol. like, how many files have dylan completed? irving? petey? that girlie who wrote the lexington letter? is all of their work literally meaningless? like i get that there were people before gemma who failed the tests and they died, sure, but what about when mark started working there? what about the files that irving started and didn't finish, why don't they care about those? ohhhh right, because that's not the one that mark's working on. i get that it'd be a big deal if they got it to work fully once, but surely they'd want to make it work AGAIN, right??? like a science experiment?? i just wish we got like, A nod to other people on the testing floor, because i think the implication is that all of them are working on files connected to…different people, but maybe they're all just different versions of gemma?

honestly all of the innie stuff this season just felt so…idk, aimless? it feels like parts of the building only exist when the writers want them to, and just generally are not interested in exploring anything outside of the romantic aspects for all of these characters. like sure, after the season 1 finale, their asses are not gonna wanna work (EXCEPT FOR WHEN THEY DO? TO MOVE THE PLOT ALONG?), but where's the camaraderie? what about all those other people in O&D, they literally export things to the testing floor, maybe they know about gemma? fundamentally i think the thing that's the most frustrating about innie mark is that they keep telling us that he doesn't care about gemma. which, sure, outie gemma, he doesn't have that same connection with as helly, whatever. but also, he DOES care about her, he literally knows that that's ms casey and that lumon was just going to do what they always do when they fire people????? like s1 mark cared soooo much about his coworkers, ALL OF THEM, even the ones that weren't there anymore—seeing petey and then ms casey get removed was like, a HUGE deal and vital to his growth as a character!!!! and the way that they constructed this whole season basically to remove everyone that isn't mark and helly by the end. lol. i'm honestly shocked that they didn't make a new version of the desk that was just two chairs, like dylan was just excluded from the finale except for when they needed him to come in and hold the door against mr. milchick. again. lol

i don't inherently have a problem with exploring the romantic stuff, i think that could have been done well, but i just don't think it was. and that's primarily because, i think the writing this season for helly was ass! they took away her agency and subjugated her to be just the love interest for mark! especially with the finale, i just feel like the helly i know would've been like mark, what are you doing??? go?!? like she wants to take down lumon, THAT's what will take down lumon! like whatever, mark made the choice that he did, but helly playing along with it makes no fucking senseee. like they want us to think that it's the same ol helly we know and love, they give us crumbs of her anger, like when she's rallying the marching band people or whatever, but again, only when it's plot convenient. WHY WOULD SHE NOT ATTACK JAME? he's like 90???? and helly doesn't like this man???? she has nothing to lose???? fucking THROW something at him helly!!!! the helly that tried to chop her fingers off and hang herself and gave that speech in the s1 finale is not in the room with us. and i don't mean this in a way where i think it's helena again, it's not. they've just completely fumbled her character because they want mark and helly to be together at all costs. and honestly, i think it's so reductive to make this show just about ships, but textually it feels like that's what they want us to do, and i think that's sad. again, it makes the show feel so SMALL, when the world within it used to feel so BIG and like we would want to learn more about it. i care about mark and helly--before they kissed!! i think it was rewarding to see the ways they challenged each other and grew as people!! them as a romantic thing could work but they haven't put in the work to MAKE it work. and, it feels like of redundant even to say, but i do think it's fucking ridiculous to write a story where we get kissing and fucking for allllll the straight characters and then the one gay couple doesn't even get a kiss before separating them completely and writing irving out of the show, basically. like what are we in, hayes code era television?

but yeah, the information they chose to reveal vs what they didn't was also frustrating. i honestly wish they revealed less! there's so much TELLING this season. it feels like they think we're stupid (which, i can't speak for the entire population watching the show, maybe some people literally do need mark to look at the camera and explain everything, idk). like there's sooo much clever storytelling in the first season that just, completely gets snuffed out from overexplaining. i understand in the finale that oMark needs to tell iMark about why he did all of this but like, WE as the audience already know??? we don't need to see this?? and cobel confirming stuff i feel like we already knew about how the numbers work and like, i just don't knowwww. like you can just show me it, i was picking up on it. like we know about the four tempers, you show it to us all the time, cobel having to look dead in the camera and explain it just made me feel like there was a better way we could've done this. i do think some stuff benefits from a "hard" confirmation. like i'm glad they confirmed the helena thing, BECAUSE it backs up and supports all of the lovely and subtle things they had already shown to prove that it WAS helena! like i've known since the first episode LOL, so they do KNOW how to do subtle storytelling. and i think the gemma episode was great, i loved seeing her as a character and thought it gave her so much depth. but again, i think allll of the explaining they do this season not only snuffs out the fun of speculating on the viewing end, but from a writing perspective it just kind of writes them into a corner. i think they're focused too much on making these elaborate set pieces and events take place without thinking of how they fit together, not only on like a writing/episodic level but just the world of lumon at large.

i think a great way they showed story in the first season is through the paintings, and through irving and burt bonding over the paintings! like it not only establishes the lore of kier and then we get to learn more about them as characters through their reactions to the paintings. the paintings this season, honestly, were weak, they were so heavy handed. love and light to whoever painted them, but they were nottt doing the job for me.

(this is a small thing, but like…the intake questionnaire asks them to "name a US state or territory," so they KNOW that delaware is a state. so why would they think the equator is a building? again its just like. a cutesy moment for mark and helly to banter but they could've done it in a way that isn't contradictory to like, our understanding of what information crosses over the sever and what does not).

i keep thinking about the ORTBO, and it just seems fucking CRAZY to me that they aren't freaking out about SEEING THE SKY? BREATHING FRESH AIR? FEELING FIRE? SLEEPING?? WASN'T THE WHOLE THING THAT THEY COULDN'T FALL ASLEEP???? i guess my impression of how the chip works is that the technology doesn't know how to handle when they enter a subconscious/asleeep state, so the innie and outie memories begin to bleed together, hence why dozing would be a bad thing on the job. but again, they clearly had this idea of how they wanted irving to reveal that it's helena in the waterfall, and yes, i did enjoy the spectacle of the episode, but its another example of how they'll build these moments and only focus on what they want to see. like there's so much interesting stuff that they could explore and just choose not to, because (usually) it doesn't involve mark, or mark and helly.

also, i'm just gonna say it, i feel like the writing for the women this season all was kinda bad! it's, again, a byproduct of the world revolving around mark now. reghabi is brought into the story when mark needs her, and cast aside when he doesn't want her anymore. devon has been completely reduced to mark's lackey, like i guess ricken and the baby are fucking fine or whatever??? because she only exists when mark is around, and her only job is caring about mark (which obviously yes, they're siblings, of course they care—but s1 devon had a life outside of mark as well). cobel is only brought back into the story to explain to mark how cold harbor works. i said this before but honestly i like the concept of her little solo episode, though the execution wasn't great, because at least she was doing something on her own (except for when she needs that guy to help her. heaven forbid a woman does something of her own accord without a man to help). and again, helly is completely flanderized to be mark's love interest. i think there's a way to have mark and helly be together and them be their own people, but for the length of the season they did not have the proper time to unpack all the shit from the ORTBO episode so everyone just…conveniently gets over it very quickly, like in the span of a day. like i do think it's a jump to go from "i don't trust you, are you even you?" to missionary under plastic tarps that quickly, i'm sorry. and i think even gemma suffers from this fate as well. i think with hers it makes more sense, like she fucking loves her husband, but i wish she was given opportunities to like…want things for herself, too. like she hasn't been outside in two years! i bet she misses her job, her students, her family, devon, ricken, like anyone outside of mark? but she has to be the tragic love interest that can't be with mark but can't run away from mark, either. she's reduced to set dressing for mark and helly by the end.

they constructed this season i think, with the hopes and knowledge that they'll likely get a season 3. which yes, we know now that it's been confirmed and approved or whatever, but they didn't know that when making season 2, and it feels like no one got a full character arc. it's all start and no follow through. we've had the same "mr. milchick experiences racism in the workplace" moment like what, five, six times, and yet we haven't even started to see him DO something about it yet? like sure he told mr. drummond to eat shit, but then to play along with the minstrel show cold harbor shit, they just didn't care about giving that plot line any action so it'll just get brushed along to season 3. (and while there's intentional commentary about race in the show, it also feels like there's unintentional consequences to their writing choices that upholds the whiteness. like, natalie is just forgotten about, reghabi is dropped as soon as mark doesn't want to play with her anymore, ms. huang barely gets to do anything before being written off and sent away, and yes, i do think having gemma suffer as mark and helly skip away is part of it. it leaves a bad taste in my mouth, sorry!). i think dylan is maybe the closest we get to an interesting arc, and i enjoy the inclusion of his wife, but even he's reduced to JUST this story, only getting to talk to mark or helly when the writers need him to, i guess. and the stuff with burt and fields is so nothing, like it feels like it should be going somewhere but they're just leaving it open for season 3 (i guess??? even though it seems like irving isn't going to be in it at all, so why would we be following burt and fields??? and also don't even get me started on how the outie irving stuff is just NOT EXPLORED AT ALL. like whatever sure who the hell cares, sorry for wanting to see that go somewhere or whatever).

it's too early for full reintegration to happen so, we'll just finish that in season 3. (then why introduce it so early in season 2? ohhh right, we need cliffhangers to end every episode on). it almost feels like they don't have faith that people will keep watching without introducing these dramatic moments, but it's all just gasps of breath, there's no actual momentum. like, i've already watched the first season, you don't need to bait me with the prospect of seeing meaningful progression and then take it away from me when the next episode starts. the structure of how episodes speak to each other is that they…don't? like obviously i don't need every episode to pick up on the exact moment the last left off, but the timeline of this season is just soooo strange. the first two episodes are in the same span of time, and then there's gemma and cobel's episodes back to back…it genuinely just feels like they didn't consider the season as a whole which, considering how much money and time it took to make it happen, makes no sense.

and to continue on the timeline aspect, it feels so confusing as to how much time has really passed. it feels like the wanted the structure of the first season, but the pacing mechanic of the first season (working up to the end of the quarter to get to the waffle party) makes the pacing of the second feel even worse. like a.) mark's completed like 3 files a quarter (if we assume he's worked there for 8 quarters, i.e. two years), so making THIS file the super special final one truncates the possible time by at least a third.but then also, b.) he's been at like 95% complete since like, episode 5..? again, i just think it should've been considered more during the planning stages. and it kind of boggles my mind that the creative team views the marching band in this finale to be analogous to the waffle party in s1 when, it's way closer to the music dance experience? (they said this in the like behind the scenes for the finale ep). and in that regard, it really does kind of feel like a retread that doesn't work as well because, again, it's all about mark! especially after the shit with the kier statue, why would mr. milchick play along with the song and dance, like it just feels like they wanted to use tramell tillman's dance experience again, and they wanted to use the colored lights again. he could've just stood by the door to make sure mark and helly stayed there, which was obviously the goal of having all those people there. and yeah, i get the work is mysterious and important or whatever, but the implication that they have ALL OF THESE PEOPLE whos sole job is to be a marching band makes no fucking sense, i'm sorry. i find it hard to play along with the worldbuilding, again it makes lumon seem like its run by like dr. doofenshmirtz or something, it's so cartoony. like are they a global and successful company, or are they incompetent and leave gaping holes for their employees to undo everything? this is THE MOST IMPORTANT DAY IN LUMON HISTORY and they couldn't…shut the door to MDR like they had before? the goat sacrifice room is directly outside the exports hall door? the music dance experience works so well as a catharsis moment because everyone has their own shit going on, and we get to see the guy who hasn't really disobeyed yet (dylan) finally snap, and we see the others come and support him as a TEAM. it's just spectacle for us, the viewer. and especially the thing where they make the panels with mark's face on it—HE CAN'T SEE IT???? i don't need fan service winking moments like that, i dunno, that just annoyed me lol.

anyway, i feel like i have more to say probably but i gotta go do things so, i'm gonna leave it here. in conclusion, i'm missing my friends from s1 MDR sooo so bad, i feel like i haven't seen them this season at all. i did like parts of this season, but overall it was not what i was hoping it would be. (i don't even really KNOW what i wanted it to be, and of course it doesn't matter what i "want," but i feel like what i "want" lined up with what they wanted to do explore with season 1 so…maybe that's where the dissonance is coming from). and whereas at the end of s1, where i left it being like "where are they going to go from here?? (as in, theres so many possibilities", this season finale has left me asking "…where are we gonna go from here?" because i'm left like, inherently incurious about the people we have left and the choices they've made. and, i feel like THEY (as in the executive team making it) must feel this way too, because apparently they've completely scrapped the writers room from this season and added on two new showrunners. good luck to whoever that executive story editor is LOL

[brodorokihousuke]

remake of the first aa comic I ever drew, in 2015 or 2016 or something...

I do have to wonder, is Apollo or any of the other WAA members ever recruited for stuff like this? I mean, they're probably useful for things other than courtroom shenanigans...

original under the cut.

For some baffling reason, the dimensions of this file is fucking... 1,000 x 2,346. if you don't know, that is goddamn massive... especially for something of, ah... this quality.

idk why I didn't use klavier initially (hello nondescript man). I think I only cared about DD at this point ig

I do think it's funny that I can still see some of the quirks of my style in this, despite it's... ah... rather rough nature.

[chrattho1]

employee!matt takes a week off and shows up with a beard

“our schedule for this month is still in the works, i’ll get back to you guys once i’m done finalising a few more things—” your eyes rake around the conference room, a room that is usually full of your employees and matt.

but since this past week matt hasn’t been around, he took the week off to visit his family in boston. when he came up to you with the request you almost denied it because you thought he was bluffing. his family lives in boston? matt never fails to shock you with small details about his life that you don’t ask for but wouldn’t mind to know.

“and after that, there are a few designs that we’ve got to clear for the launch—” your words get caught in your throat when the door to the room swings open and matt walks in with hurry.

at first glance you didn't recognize him, didn't recognize matt. you had to do a double take, stopping in your tracks as you paced in front of the long ass conference room table.

"matt?" your voice betraying you and letting that out naturally. your eyes squinting in his direction, amused.

"uh.. sorry my car kinda broke down, it was a whole thing and I came home late last night so I woke up late—" matt rambled on but you payed no attention to his words, your mind occupied by his mouth, more specifically his jaw.

he could grow a full beard like that? like i said he never fails to shock you.

his eyes flutter and his words come to a halt when he realizes that you weren't paying any minds to his excuses. his mouth hangs open looking at you with a dumbfounded expression. he doesn't even know what he is doing to you looking like that, standing there looking like a clueless puppy. with a beard.

"are you mad?" he asks softly, the room stands still as the interaction takes place, some people going onto their phones and some looking through their files.

you simply shake your head, wanting nothing but to dismiss everyone and have matt take you right there on the boardroom table.

matt takes a seat silently and fixes his suit before turning his attention to you again.

"I don't think we have anything else to cover for now. kate, get back to me with those reports before five, 'kay?" you spoke looking directly at her and turning around right before she could respond, almost trying to speed up this meeting.

you watched people get out of the room with their laptops and files, some loud sighs and exaggerated breaths were let out but you could care less when matt was right there, picking his briefcase up to make his way out with the others.

"matt." you call out, watching his eyes snap up at you.

people pass by matt and exit the room, leaving just the two of you. it had been a week since you'd seen him and him looking like that didn't help at all.

"yeah?" he tilted his head.

once the last person to get out closed the door behind them and you heard a click, your legs started moving to where matt was stood, you swayed your hips intently, your acrylic nail dragging along the table.

"how was your..trip?" you stood right in front of him, taking in his earthy cologne.

"oh.. it was great, I spent time with my parents and my dog trevor, got to see my brothers after a long time too which was fun I guess.." matt trailed off when he noticed how your eyes were fixated on his jaw.

"like it?" he asked under his breath, wishing you'd say yes because he did grow it out for you. and also because shaving in the office would be a task for him.

your hand reached up to cup his face gently, your thumb stroking his jaw. your eyes looking over his lips and at the small mustache above it.

matt's breathing growing heavier with each passing moment, his heart pacing and cheeks growing red. he loves to have your attention on him this way.

"can i..." he subconsciously leaned down, stating what he wants to do.

“mhm” a small smile tugs onto your lips and you nod before feeling his lips press onto yours. matt’s breath hitched and his body reacted almost immediately. his hands flying to yours hips and pulling you flush against him. your chests pressed and lips moving in favour of each other.

your hand stays on his jaw, pulling on it to feel his stubble graze your skin. your lip liner already smeared across his mouth.

the kiss gets sloppy, matt’s mouth open and sucking yours. his hands trailing behind your hips giving your ass and the back of your thighs a little squeeze, directing you to get up on the table. the beard reflecting in his personality. and you liked it.

he helps you pull yourself up on the table, not breaking the kiss or the contact in anyway.his hands pulling on your hips making you wrap your legs around him. your hands find their way in his hair, fingers tangling and pulling him closer. sloppy sounds filling the huge and empty room.

your body shuffles on the table making a pen fall off it, instinctively both your mouths pull off, eyes darting over to where the pen rolls on the ground. matt turns to you, his mouth hung trying to catch a breath and his lips swollen with your lip combo imprinted on it.

"your office in 10? please? m’missed you.." matt mumbles letting out a whimper, his fingers tugging and toying with the edge of your skirt, eyes big and desperate.

you nod letting out a soft chuckle, bringing your thumb up to wipe the lipstick off his mouth feeling the small and fuzzy hair around it.

read more about them here :)

˗ˏˋ a/n ˎˊ˗ missed writing for employee!matt :( dilf!chris tn too i think idk..again this is not proofread . english is not my first language !

🏷️ @espressqe @ginswife @sturnsburna @carolina454 @hope2244 @hotgirlbl0gger @violetstxrniolo777 @riggysworld @verycoolmiyah @fadedstvrn @purpledreamertyphoon @mattsplaything @whore4chris @chris-halleluja @annsx03 @mattsdemi @chrislittleslut @poolover123 @luvvnai @chrissturniolossidehoe @pompomprrin @harmonysturniolo @sofia-is-a-sturniolo-triplet-fan @soph-loren @ccsturns @lovesturni0l0s @chriss-slutt @wysmols @sturniolosluttt @mattsdillion @alyssa-sturn @bilssturns @sturnobessed @mxnsonn @izzylovesmatt @sturniolosymphony @chrissturnioloswife88 @sxphiee3 @purpledreamertyphoon @whoreforchrissturnniolo @slutformatt17 @realuvrrr @sweetxcheeryx @sturnl0ve @estellesdoll @glitterybtch @courta13 @mattsbitchh @slvtf0rchr1s @trevorsgodmother

[kxsagi]

Hiiii!!! I was wondering if you could write Rin, Sae, Isagi and others with an S/O who gets annoyed easily? Like not full blown anger but like dirty looks a lot to whatever’s making them angry?

-P.S. I hope you’re doing wonderful! Pls remember to eat drink and sleep. I love your works

“𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐞𝐧”

a/n: why is reader kinda reminding me of sae

also thank you so much! i am doing well and i hope you are too! i don't ever neglect self-care so don't you either, queen. love you!

ft. itoshi rin, itoshi sae, isagi yoichi, kaiser michael, mikage reo, shidou ryusei, karasu tabito

itoshi rin

he noticed it on the second date when you glared at the waiter for forgetting your drink and then sweetly said, “it’s okay, take your time,” with the fakest smile known to mankind. 

rin just blinked and thought: oh. you’re terrifying. i like that. 

he secretly loves it when you give him those little death glares, like when he asks, “do you really need five types of hot sauce?” 

you’ll slowly turn to him, furrow your brows like you're staring into his soul, and rin will immediately hold his hands up like, “i said nothing. you’re right. continue.” 

gets a little smirk every time you look like you're about to blow a fuse over something stupid like people standing too close in line. 

you mutter “are you serious right now” under your breath at least ten times a day and rin lives for it. 

surprisingly good at calming you down in his deadpan way – just throws an arm around you and whispers, “don’t commit murder in public. you look too good to go to jail.” 

itoshi sae

oh he thinks you’re hilarious. 

loves pushing your buttons just to watch the annoyed face you make. he’ll tap his fork against the table repeatedly and be like, “oh? does this bother you?” 

you glare at him over your drink like you're about to file for divorce and he just chuckles. 

whenever you're annoyed at someone else, he just stands behind you looking proud like, “yes, that’s my girl. destroy them with passive aggression.” 

the type to hold your hand and lean down all amused: “princesa, relax. you’re gonna burn holes in them if you keep staring like that.” 

sometimes purposely says something just slightly incorrect to watch you spiral into irritation, like calling your favorite show the wrong name. 

you hit him with a side-eye and he just laughs and kisses your temple like, “calm down, miss attitude.” 

isagi yoichi

tries so hard not to laugh when you’re annoyed because he knows if he does, you’ll aim your laser glare at him. 

you’re both walking and someone bumps into you and doesn’t say sorry, cue you muttering “rude” under your breath and giving them the look. 

isagi looks away like he's pretending not to know you. 

but lowkey loves how expressive you are. he always knows when something’s off because you’ll start doing that little sigh-grimace combo. 

if you're annoyed at him, he gets nervous. starts doing damage control like, “do you want me to fix it? i’ll fix it. i’ll buy you food. please stop looking at me like that.” 

calls you “grumpy cutie” under his breath sometimes and hopes you don’t hear. 

you definitely do. you just glare harder. 

kaiser michael

he thinks it’s adorable. 

you give the most intense side-eyes and he always goes, “aww, someone’s mad again. it’s so cute when you get feisty.” 

you: squints at him like a disappointed teacher. 

him: smirking harder. 

he finds it hot when you're irritated at other people, especially in public – you’re all soft and sweet until someone cuts in line or talks loudly on speaker. 

he’s in the background like, “get ‘em, baby.” 

when you glare at him, he dramatically clutches his chest and goes, “ow! you wound me! your gaze is like daggers, meine liebe.” 

makes it worse on purpose just to see how annoyed he can get you before you throw a pillow at him. 

mikage reo

he buys you things when you get annoyed. 

like, you glare at a sales assistant for being rude and reo immediately drags you out like, “you deserve better. pick a new store. actually, buy the whole store.” 

thinks your dirty looks are iconic. sometimes he tries to copy them in the mirror and ends up laughing at himself. 

he loves watching you get annoyed at something dumb like a commercial or your phone lagging, and he’ll coo, “do you need help, baby? or should i just sit here and admire how scary you look right now?” 

he keeps a “mood diary” of your expressions, especially the annoyed ones. “day 18: she glared at the barista for spelling her name wrong again. breathtaking.” 

shidou ryusei

oh he lives for it. 

you glare, and he grins. you scoff, and he cackles. you say “you’re annoying.” and he says “so are you, baby.” 

literally follows you around asking annoying questions just to get the face out of you. 

“what’s that face? what’s that face mean? are you mad? are you mad mad?” 

you groan, “shidou, i swear–” 

“swear what? you gonna kiss me? you look like you wanna kiss me.” 

if anyone else annoys you, he immediately threatens violence in your honor. 

your glares = green light for him to go feral. 

“she’s angry, huh? who did it? point me at ‘em.” 

karasu tabito

first time he saw your “i’m not mad, just deeply judging you” face, he physically flinched and went “okay damn… what did i do?” 

now? he’s addicted to it. actively tries to catch you in annoyed mode because it’s his favorite version of you. 

you sigh and glare at your phone? “what happened, baby? you arguing with twitter again?” 

you glare at the microwave for taking too long? “you look like you're gonna beat that thing up. should i get popcorn?” 

if someone talks too loud near you in public and you do the slow head turn with that look, karasu’s right next to you whispering, “you want me to throw hands or…?” 

when you’re annoyed at him, he defends himself by gaslighting in the most unserious way: “me? bothering you? i would never. i'm a joy to be around. a blessing.” 

you don’t even say anything, just cross your arms and tilt your head, and he immediately goes, “okay okay fine, i’ll stop breathing too loud.” 

he is your #1 hype man and bodyguard rolled into one whenever someone else makes you mad. you give them a look, and he gives them a worse one. 

“that guy looked at you funny.” 

“karasu, i looked at him funny.” 

“yeah and he didn’t immediately apologize, so i’m about to fight him anyway.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[bunny-jpeg]

tangled in me

lando norris

tags: smut/pwp, mafia/mob au, secretary!reader, mob boss!lando, workplace relationships, office sex, fingering, semi-clothed sex, dirty talk

you were losing focus. it was hard to properly focus on what your boss was saying. you could see the maps and the calculator on the desk. you could see everything, it was just that nothing was sinking in.

"we were thinking about putting this here. how does that sound? think we could make it work?" lando asked as his finger dragged across a section of the city.

he sounded so casual, so professional. as if you weren't falling apart over his desk, two fingers, knuckle deep, inside of you.

you took the job because the pay was well. you were desperate after you came to monaco to care for your ailing mother. you didn't understand why she couldn't have moved somewhere cheaper. but you weren't in a position to ask questions, and the opportunity for a well paying job was a relief on your back.

but it felt like you were tumbling. it was a secretary job for a company that worked primarily in the hotel industry. nothing too exciting. except until you found files and read emails, and overheard phone calls. then you realized that it was all a front. yes, the hotels made money. but lando norris was not an owner of a company. he was a mob boss, and you should have known from the tattoos and the scarring across what skin you had seen on him.

it also didn't help that you worked late on friday nights, not because your job was tough. but because you worked the night shift letting lando norris fuck you in his office. or in one of his expensive cars, or in one of his hotels. you were tangled up in him. maybe that was why when you found out about the company's secret, he didn't kill you.

an expensive watch, a pay raise and a few trips on his boat seemed to smooth that over. now at least he could be more open with you. have your face squished against the map of the city, his fingers pumping in and out of you.

your pencil skirt hiked up, nearly ripped and your panties around your ankles. panties he bought for you, told you it was part of the new uniform (you never had a uniform to begin with). he leaned over you, you could feel the hard-on in his slacks up against your behind. your wetness got the front of the expensive pants soaked.

"i have to go away soon." he said lowly, "a friend needs a little help. sadly, i can't bring you with me. shame. i bet oscar would have loved to see you." he chuckled as he worked his fingers quicker, "ever been to austrialia, baby? a long flight for you." he kissed your cheek roughly, "next time i'll bring you. you still need to use your vacation days."

you whimpered, things seemed to haze together. everything felt like it was running on high alert but nothing was piercing your mind. your heart rate was quick, your core was soaked. you were near drooling all over the paper work.

"careful, baby." he cooed, "don't wanna make a mess of my work. because if i make you print out another one. i'm going to fuck you over the printer, and then the photocopier. and then i'll give you rug burn down to your ankles when i fuck you on the floor soon after." your pussy clenched around his digits and he licked his lips.

"sir."

"fuck, always sound so sweet under me." he pulled his fingers out of you and licked them slowly, "taste just as sweet too." he was painfully erect in his slacks. he loved fingering you, but he needed a little release too.

he undid his belt and eyed your slick cunt. a think of beauty. and got his cock out. you were trembling so beautifully, it only aroused him further. he pressed up against you and sank his cock into you easily. you were ready for him, almost slipped out due to how wet you were. he leaned over you, pressed you further into the papers.

"sir." you gasped.

he held onto the desk under you and worked his hips against your ass. his cock fit perfectly. you were a virgin when you met, now you were perfectly accustomed to him. he fit well in you, months of training and working your perfect little pussy all paid off.

he felt bad that he was leaving you behind for so long, but he believed that you'd be so good for him. take care of his office, maybe he'll bring you home a present or two. or take you on vacation and have you not worry about work while he fucked you up against every surface on his yacht.

"perfect." he said.

he moved against you, his pace pushed you up and down his desk. he owned the office, the land on the map, the desk, you. he was worried that he'd have to dispose of you when you found out his little secret. but, when your bottom lip wobbled and you had tears in those beautiful eyes of yours. he couldn't hurt you, but he could train you. make sure you didn't tell the wrong people what he and his associates were up to.

he held onto the desk a little tighter, he worked himself against you. you sounded beautiful. even if you did scream there was no one around tonight. he wasn't going to hurt you that way, but as his thrusts grew more momentum. you'd be screaming a different way.

"look at you, baby. come into my office in those little pencil skirts and the panties i bought you. smelling like that nice body wash you know i like. maybe i should promote you." he said hotly in your ear, "keep you under my desk, between my legs. no more paper work or chasing me down for meetings. just, my fat cock in your mouth."

you shuddered, heat bloomed in your face as he continued to fuck you. it felt so dirty. he could get rid of you and no one would know, but instead he had you splayed out on his desk, his cock inside of you with heavy strokes. he laid his claim, even if he was more of a lover than an employee. you reached for some kind of leverage against the desk as he worked himself inside of you.

"sir."

"mmm, baby. just take it. i know you can. i promise we'll go away somewhere when i come back. i know, i know. dangerous world out there with me gone. but i trust you, baby." his strokes got heavier, he could almost feel the pleasure coursing through you. his tone was heavy, tinged with lust, "nothing hurts my little secretary. next time, i'll bring you. you'll sit in my lap if you have to."

you didn't know if you wanted to be part of his mob world. but, you didn't have much choice in the end. he had you ensnared, you were wrapped up in him. you should have ran ages ago. gone somewhere, talked to someone! but once you saw the budget for that month and saw how much the local police were getting.

even if you ran to them, they'd simply bring you back to lando. and with him in places like austrialia, no corner of the world was safe. you only found yourself accepting him, adoring him. being everything he needed compacted into a single person.

and deep down you knew you loved it. you whined against the desk, you felt the pleasure sear across your body. there was something to intense about it. it felt like playing with fire and you wanted to feel the burn. your thoughts were hazy, no use making major decisions while your boss was balls deep inside of you. one of the most dangerous men you ever met.

you felt yourself grow weak to the allure to orgasm, it crept up on you like a wash of warmth. you closed your eyes and let the feeling consume you. this was heaven, and you were in it with the devil. you held on tightly to the desk and came around his cock. you whimpered and it felt amazing.

lando only continued to fuck you, worked your sweet body up against his desk. against all his hard work. he liked that you took him so well, that it was like you two were pieces meant to be together. as he continued to fuck you through your climax he felt his own near as well.

"you feel perfect, mmm. love it all." he said, "going to miss it when i'm gone. but i'll always come back." he chuckled lowly in your ear, "that pussy just draws me in. can't keep me away forever." he continued his heavy thrusts and it was met with the sweetest moans from his angel of a secretary.

you did take care of all his needs.

with a few more heavy strokes of his hips. he finished inside of you, he didn't bother pulling out. he knew what you spent your health insurance on. while he figured that would be a problem in the future (that little white pill every day), tonight he didn't care. it was just permission for him to finish inside of you.

"fuck, sir." you whimpered.

"that's a good girl." he said, his voice like honey in your head. he then pulled out and rested back into his office chair. his limp cock slick with your wetness and his cum. you looked over your shoulder at him, your expression was blissed out and there was a little drool on the corner of your mouth.

he crooked a finger at you and had a lazy smile, "come clean me up. then i'm taking you home and we're calling the rest of the week off. now c'mon, be a good little employee and do your job."

and even in your blissed out state with your panties around your ankles, you happily did as your boss told you to. <3

a/n: *insert big thumbs up here*

[dilf-docs]

Snow At The Beach, I. Day One: Arrival

harry castillo x younger fem!reader

summary: you knew doing things without thinking was bad. so now, of course, your impromptu trip to iceland gets ruined by a man who claims you have ruined his.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap (late 20s/late 40s), (eventual) smut, s2l, forced proximity, one bed, tons of angst, MATERIALISTS SPOILERS +more specific to be added per chapter!

word count: 3,266 words

side note: i feel like a man who fathers too many kids who he can't take care of lmao very fitting since it's father's day in my country!! i do have a present loving dad so i'm afraid my dilfism has been earned by other worse reasons. fun fact, it's also my 21st bday! yey (づ๑•ᴗ•๑)づ🎂 shot out too to the daddiest non-dad out there, pedro pascal!!!! (i know some of these things like hotel mishaps don't make sense since it's supposed to be a luxury place but idc do it for the plot!)

part: prev | masterlist | next

He feels stupid. Sitting at the airport with luggage for a week and a ticket to Iceland that felt more like a reckless choice every passing hour and less like the romantic getaway he envisioned. Surrounded by families, friends, couples and people by themselves who certainly don't look as miserable as he does. Lonely. His gaze lingers on the lovers, as some sort of punishment. He thinks of his brother and his recent marriage and the girl who got away. Lucy. He still doesn't know how to feel about it, but he definitely isn't feeling sunshine and rainbows.

Just stupid.

Harry Castillo, billionaire, deceived by the promise of love, taken away from him by a broke waiter of all people.

He boards the plane with rage, holding his handbag so tightly, the stewardess posted at first class asks him if he's okay. He nods, but he knows he's far from it. Spends all the five hours checking his email and pending files, yet he also knows he cares about it as much as he cares about his brother's Things To Do In Iceland list. Hiking, whale watching, romantic waterfalls and the promise of a wet enchanted kiss. Those were things to do for couples. Harry is fucking alone.

Sitting next to him is a man who snores. Too loud. His eye ticks. Who sleeps on a fucking five hour flight? Alright, Harry is irritable at the moment; he thinks he's right about this though.

The plane lands in between the views of white-coated mountains and green grass. Some people clap. Harry hates people who clap when a plane lands.

Who would've thought a real romantic and composed businessman could be this full of hate?

It's Lucy's fault.

Now, Harry's moved to the stage where he blames everyone else. Not shared guilt, just her fault. Entirely hers. For her icy blue eyes, like the lakes behind his window. As well as cold. For fawning at his apartment but not at his kisses. For acknowledging he was great. Because even then, she chose not to stay.

As the car drives to his chosen hotel, the Torfhùs retreat, he thinks about her again. Lucy and him. Blames her for not opening up. But, he didn't either. Slept facing the other side after their first night together, hiding scars under expensive bed sheets. On his knees and on his heart. Hard to love, wanting to. Embarrassed to feel all at once and even more to admit it out loud.

This time, as the car parks outside and he asks the driver for a few minutes to get out and accept he's on this trip completely by himself, Harry's at the stage where he takes all the blame. For expecting. For wanting. For forcing himself on her, because she did say she wasn't what he needed. But they did work out. Maybe he didn't try too hard. That he should've been honest about the surgery, despite it being eight years ago. Maybe he tried too hard.

Either way, Harry has lost.

He sighs one last time and gets down the car. His bags are already inside the lodge.

He's about to get inside the lobby when a figure walks past him, touching the handle before him.

"Sorry. You go first" to the unknown person, then reaches his hand, because despite the quiet anger and heartbreak, Harry Castillo's still a gentleman. Then holds the door open for them.

"Thank you" voice impossibly soft. To be confused with meek, but it sounds rather resigned.

They go inside, and that's when Harry notices it's a woman.

He notices other things, always an observer. Her walk, composed. She's pretending, he thinks. Her hair, held tight by a ponytail and the way it swings with each step she takes. But it's her floral perfume that catches his attention the most. He hates cheap perfume. Still, Harry can deduce it's not expensive yet not cheap smelling either. Just... natural. As in effortless. He decides he's okay with that.

"Hello" he follows behind closely as if they came together, unable to resist a weird pull. "I made a reservation last week. Room 10"

Direct to the point. Harry hates people who talk too much. Who bullshit and lie. Which is funny, given his... Nevermind. Embarrassing.

Harry would like this, if it wasn't for the fact that number 10 is his exact same room.

You are not an spontaneous person.

Not boring either, just nothing that makes you stand out in a crowd. Another young adult with a career, a cat, and a boyfriend.

You jog every morning and pay your taxes on time. You do groceries on Sundays and cleaning on Mondays. Your circle of friends is small and you hang out every two weeks at brunch. You take the same route to work, having memorized it by now. You have goals, dreams, ambitions and a clear mind.

Keeping a straight head won you a job that allowed you to buy an apartment in lower Manhattan. Home.

You remember the first thing you bought: a small forget me not that died three weeks later. An omen of the heartbreak to come.

What died was the most important thing one should nurture.

Love.

It was a slow death, too quiet to even notice. Subtle. Late office nights, arriving at a house cold and silent. The darkness that awaits the ones who aren't being waited for. Silk sheets replacing cheap ones but gone the warmth of two bodies who searched each other even when the weather wasn't cold.

You can't remember the last time he held you close like someone worth to keep. The last time you went on dates, first because of time and then nothing at all. Just not doing it. Like you didn't eat together anymore. Or that he kept forgetting your favorite things, things he held before close to his heart, as sacred as a prayer or a secret language only you could understand.

The language written in vows. The one when you swear your heart to only one person for the rest of your life.

Then it came down with a scream. Even later nights, but the previously occupied bed was now empty. It filled in the morning, but your heart stayed empty. In the tense air lingered the things unsaid and a perfume that wasn't yours.

You threw things, bit back like a wounded dog. And he returned the pain, doubled it.

"I'm seeing someone else"

You felt the shame and anger reside in your veins. Deceived. Almost a decade with him but she had taken the last dying months, and somehow, even if she had less, in the end, she won. The other woman. The one who was this prettier newer shiny toy that had taken your spot.

"I love her"

Words you thought would always be only yours. The promise of a husband to a wife.

So, in spite, childishly maybe, you took the saved money you had in your bank account and booked a flight to the farthest place you could come up with.

That's why you're sitting at Keflavík airport alone.

Iceland.

Booked a one-week stay in one of Iceland's most expensive hotels. Torfhùs retreat: cozy cabins in Selfoss, dressed in modern luxury.

"You could've used that money for a good lawyer" your bestfriend Danna chastised. "I know one. Her office is in upper Manhattan. She's a nepo baby, but trust me, she's great. Amazing"

But you needed to get away.

For just a moment, five thousand kilometers away, you could pretend everything was fine and your life hadn't turned upside down in a matter of weeks.

That your cat meowed in anguish, asking for his absence, present in his empty side of the bed and lack of clothes in the closet.

That seeing your pictures replaced with hers didn't bring you to tears.

That there wasn't a permanent ache in your heart.

Among the waterfalls, mountains and green grass, you could show the world you weren't crying in bed for what was already over.

No, twenty-seven year old Y/n, soon to be a divorcee, could have fun among one of the greatest sadness a person could experience.

"So, Iceland?" Danna asks, finally after you had sent a picture of the airport bar you were sitting at. Well, camping at. Trying to gather some courage to face a divorce and that getaway you always imagined, but by yourself.

"Yeah, mother fucking Iceland"

You had never traveled alone before. Took a long gulp of your Brennivín and prayed for courage.

Upon arrival, you lowered your expectations and hoped just for a good trip. When a man walked before you, almost colliding into you, but realized and held the door, a gesture so small yet one you hadn't experienced in so long, it made flush rush to your cheeks.

"Sorry. You go first" and his voice is so deep and raspy, every hair in your body raises to its command. It wraps you. Soothing. Like velvet.

"Thank you" you manage to say, and even if you sound tired, you try to express the warm feeling of gratitude.

You don't think he notices your voice crack, or how each step you take is labored. That you haven't been okay for a long time and that his gesture has had an effect on you, bigger than you'd like to admit.

As you walk to the front desk, you notice the man walking close to you, his perfume and faint smell of cigarettes wafting through the air.

"Hello" you pull out your printed reservation (yes, printed. You were just that prepared). "I made a reservation last week. Room 10"

You hear the door guy stop. The man from the desk hands you the key. A throat clears up behind your back.

"No, that can't be" and a little nervous yet entitled laugh.

You turn around. "Sorry, where you talking to me?"

The man nods, smile condescending.

"I think you're mistaken, miss"

"Y/n" you cut a bit harshly, the small chivalry long forgotten.

You're tired, sad and angry. You just want to go lay down and sleep your sorrow away.

"Y/n" he repeats, and you shouldn't enjoy how much it sounds on his gravely voice. Not when he's treating you like this. How was this the same man who held the door for you?

"Yes?"

"I said I think you're mistaken"

"I don't understand" you blink, slowly.

The man behind the counter starts to look distressed. "Allir, róið ykkur niður" (everyone, calm down)

"Room 10... That's my room"

You laugh and dangle the key in front of his face.

"No, it's mine"

The man looks at you like you're a naive kid.

"Here" he pulls out his own reservation paper. Printed as well. You ex-husband used to say it was a waste of paper. You'd like to prove him wrong and make this a silly Look, we're the same! moment, except this man is far from your friend. "Now you believe me?"

Room 10.

"Ég held að það hafi orðið mistök" (i think there's been a mistake)

You start to loose your patience. "Listen, mister-"

"Harry" with the same icy tone you'd used.

"Harry" you repeat, hating how smoothly it slides across your tongue. Almost as if you were born to say it. "I made this reservation last week"

The smug grin he sports irks you. "I did it a month ago"

"Kannski var það tölvan. Eða nýjasti gaurinn" the man says. He's started to sweat by now. (maybe it was the computer. or the newest guy)

You tap your feet against the floor, both impatient and annoyed. "So?"

The man smiles, enjoying this.

"By that logic, the room's mine" he replies cooly, pleased.

The color drains from your face. What are you supposed to do? You don't know the country or the language, not to mention the obscene amount of money you've wasted.

"And what am I supposed to do?" you ask, helpless.

"Book somewhere else" he drops, carelessly.

"Do you think money grows from trees!?" you raise your voice, losing your temper. Maybe it's the accumulated stress, because you never shouted at anyone. At least, not since you last argued with your ex-husband.

He doesn't answer to that.

"If you expect me to search for another place right now" you find your voice again, lower yet still sharp, "you're dumber than you look"

He scoffs. "You're dumb if you think you can book a place a week before your trip"

You laugh dryly. "Says the guy who's telling me to book a hotel right now"

He chuckles, a bit less meaner. "Fair"

"You're forgetting something, though"

Harry raises an eyebrow. "Yes?"

You grin, victoriously. "I got the key"

"I still have more rights to it" he says with a bit of a whine.

"What about manners? Women go first!"

"And your own? Don't be a child and accept I booked it first so I deserve it"

"You're ruining my trip!" you protest, spiteful.

Harry is as angry and irritable as you.

"So are you!"

The man behind the lobby, an elder man with ashes for hair who introduces himself as Axel the housekeeper, stands in between.

"Wait!"

You both turn at the man who had remained behind the safety of his desk, both nervous and distressed.

"You speak English?" Harry asks.

"Little" he replies, more embarrassed about the situation than his language knowledge.

"Thank God" you sigh, a little too relieved. "Please, help us"

"I try, just stop shouting. Guests don't like"

Your face feels hot and Harry's ears turn red at the tip. For some reason, seeing the once intimidating man who could easily own a room blush out of embarrasment is kind of adorable.

Ugh. You so need to get laid. Get yourself a viking, Danna had said.

"Sorry. We got nervous. A bit altered" you utter.

"I apologize as well" but he isn't looking at you. "We just want to understand why we both have the same room"

"I told her. Bad idea" he sighs, shaking his head. "Wife cares of this. She sick. New guy came. He ruined it" Axel points to the computer. "I not good with this. Nor english. Wife is"

You can't help but smile at the hint of hidden adoration the explanation carries. "She sounds like a great woman"

"A true keeper" Harry agrees. He can't help but be a romantic, despite it all.

(Despite never falling in love. Not knowing how to love. What it is to be loved)

You look at the him, stunned for agreeing with you or maybe at the way there's yearning laced within his words. Your eyes briefly dart to his finger without a ring, wondering. He catches your view when you raise it, which makes you turn away, embarrased.

"The best" Alex agrees with both of you. "Anna is the love of my life"

Something about growing old and counting wrinkles on the face of a lover. The tale of years passed but love standing across time. All that's left is the ache of the person you imagined spending the rest of your life with, slipping through your fingers until he wasn't yours. Like he never was.

"Hey, I have solution" he takes out another key from the drawer and hands it to Harry. "Here"

Harry takes it, examines it and then looks back at Axel, confused.

"It's for Room 10"

"Yes" like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

He blinks, slowly. "I'm not getting it"

Axel smiles, as if the answer is easy.

"Yes. You two share room"

It takes a few seconds for both of you to react.

"What?!" you shout in unison.

"That doesn't make any sense" Harry says.

"Yeah" you concede. "There's no way I'm sharing a room with him"

Harry scoffs, crossing his arms.

"What makes you think I would share a room with you?"

"Is the solution I have" Axel shrugs. "I apologize but it's only one"

You sigh, sitting on a chair while rubbing your temples. Your head and feet hurt. Your eyes are heavy and you feel like crying.

"I can't believe it... this is why I plan things on advance"

Harry rolls his eyes. "Maybe you learned your lesson"

"Oh, definitely" you roll your eyes as well, standing up in front of him, tone daring. "Never book a luxury hotel full of snotty and arrogant people like you"

"Yeah, and I'd choose better than a hotel who allows anyone"

"Actually, we have policies-"

You both interrupt Axel with a hard "Shut up!"

He backs away, raising his hands in defeat. You finally react then.

"Look" you say, taking a deep breath and clapping your palms together for any semblance of peace. "Shouting won't take us anywhere"

He pinches the bridge of his nose, tired. "Alright. What do you suggest then?"

You take out your phone, asking Axel for the Wi-Fi. Once you get signal, you do a quick search for hotels in Selfoss. All of them are as expensive if not more than this one. Why even bother? Not like you had any money left.

"The closest hotel is almost three miles away. And it's small" you comment, looking at the picture. "I'm pretty sure it's all booked"

You give him a little look. The disarming look, as Danna would joke. The look that won you free drinks and your ex-husband to look your way the very first time.

"No" he picks up, immediately. It seems Harry might be the only man inmune to it.

"It's the only way" you speak, stern. "Don't think I'm happy about it"

"Good" Harry seconds, acidic. "Neither am I, just to be clear"

"Just to be clear" you replied, annoyed. Probably at the fact it feels like a subtle rejection. Not like you care, anyway.

Harry looks at his bags on the floor and you look at your own. The clock reads nine, and after such an emotional rollercoaster, you feel the need for a good bath and a comfy bed. After a few moments of silence, Harry speaks, defeated.

"Are we really doing this?"

"Unless you want me to drive twenty miles to the biggest hotel in Selfoss. And pay for it"

I could, he thinks, but chooses to remain silent. "I'm not cruel"

Your lips curve up slightly. "I'm sure if good ol' Axel wasn't here, you would've wrestled me for this key to death"

Harry rolls his eyes, but a faint smile adorns his face.

"You're lucky I skipped Taekwondo classes"

"Taekwondo?" you chuckle, in disbelief. "I'd never imagine so. You look like a... finance guy"

"Can't a guy be both?" voice lighter, almost playful.

You giggle. "A millionaire fighting? Only if you're Batman"

He sends a wink your way, disarming you. "Maybe I am"

There is something about the man standing before you. Something that makes it impossible to hate him, even as annoyed as you are. Something that draws you to him. Impossible to ignore. A pull that bent knees and hearts.

Axel's raspy voice cuts the moment. "When room is empty, I'll give you new key"

"I like the sound of that" you agree. Then, you hold your hand up. "Temporary roomates?"

Harry chuckles at your antics, but accepts your hand nonetheless. His palm is so big, it practically swallows yours. It's firm and warm, the security of his dominant handshake engulfing you. You haven't realized you've held for longer than necessary until Axel intervenes about showing you your room.

"Temporary roomates it is"

Yet some things are meant to be forever, and you had a feeling Harry hadn't just crashed your vacation plan but your life.

cr: divider @kodaswrld / gif @a7estrellas / dts: @thecamiladiazuniverse @kaliispunk @manuymesut @QueenoftheAmazons

[fuctacles]

prev

The concert goes great, even if they stay in the sidelines. Wayne doesn't want to get trampled by the crowd and despite urging Steve to go have fun without him, he insists he can hear the music just fine. At some point, he nudges Wayne's shoulder while shimmying with the music and the man joins his awkward wiggling with a roll of his eyes. 

There's an after party in the nearest bar, concert goers filing out of one venue to another in an unspoken agreement, and Steve only needs to send Wayne one raised eyebrow for them to join. 

"We can sleep in the car, you know?" Steve yells to close to his ear when Wayne orders a black coffee. 

The man shakes his head. 

"Maybe you can! My old bones might not survive it!" 

Steve frowns, but he insists it's okay. He invited him expecting to be the designated driver, and Steve should let loose with a drink or two. 

Talking is hard, over the loud music and chatter surrounding them, but they discuss the concert itself and other bands that might be cool to see live. After Steve slams the second empty glass down on the counter, he gently grabs Wayne's elbow. 

"Wanna dance?" he asks loudly over the music.

Wayne takes a cursory look around, feeling responsible for Steve's safety. The establishment is either a progressive one or people are too drunk to care, because he sees a few same-sex pairs on the dancefloor. So he nods and lets Steve pull him into a dance. 

He expects friendly bopping in each other's orbit, but as the song changes, Steve's hands find his shoulders. Wayne instinctively reaches out, palms hovering around his hips with hesitance. As the younger man tries to bridge the gap between them, he has to grab him to stop him, but it only seems to spur Steve on. His hips buck as the grip tightens, making Wayne curse under his breath.

"Jesus Christ, kid. Stop."

Steve deflates, the coils of his muscles relaxing with defeat.

"Sorry."

Wayne shakes his head. 

"Let's get out of here."

They are sharing a bottle of water, leaned against Wayne's truck, when Steve says it again.

"Sorry, I thought..."

"I told Eddie I wouldn't."

Steve frowns. 

"What?"

 Wayne struggles to light up his cigarette, so Steve reaches out to shield the flame for him. 

"Thanks," he says around the filter, and takes a drag. "Told Eddie I won't sleep with any of his friends." He doesn't look at Steve, choosing to wait for his reaction instead. 

"That's a bold assumption, old man."

It's an embarrassing thing, to reject and be rejected, so of course he jokes, they could both use the laugh. So Wayne looks down at him.

"Right, I would reach my death bed before I could peel off those jeans," he shoots back, and Steve grins, some of the cockiness and confidence back.

"You've noticed," he preens. 

"Hard not to," Wayne murmurs around his cigarette. When Steve reaches out, he shares it without a thought.. 

"So, you do this often?" he asks, puffing out smoke.

Wayne snorts, and Steve sends him a confused look.

"Sorry, Eddie asked the same thing. No, I don't make a habit of hanging out with young men. Boys."

Steve is quiet for a moment, before piping up. 

"So I'm special."

Wayne rolls his eyes. 

"I can see why you're friends with Eddie. Yes, Steve, you are. You have this stray dog thing  going on that makes me want to give you shelter and food. Kind of like Eddie, actually."

Steve makes a face. 

"Don't compare me to Eddie after I wanted to get in your pants."

The man smiles crookedly, not unlike his nephew.

"Would be easier than yours."

"Well..." As his eyes trail down, Wayne snaps his fingers in his face.

"Don't even think about it, kid."

carry on

my usuals bc this is an actual thing rn appaently, lmk if you dont want to be here: @blasvemous @wheneverfeasible @phantomcat94

[sadmusicprincess]

paperwork - nishimura riki ────୨ৎ────

┃your boss calls you to his office for a meeting.

꒰ tw ꒱ : p in v (unprotected), doggy style, degrading if u squint, cursing, fingering, choking kinda

enjoy !! wc : 2,448

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ────

your boss had called you to his office for the paper work you had spend almost two days filling out for him. you knock on the door waiting for him to say you can come in. for some reason, your heart was pounding. your boss wasn't mean or anything, he just had always had been stern, wanting things to be perfect.

"come in" your boss said, "sir, you asked to see me? if its about the paperwork-" he cuts you off quickly, the tension in the air being thick.

"its not about the paperwork." he said standing directly infront of you. "you know, you're really naive, always trying to rush on your work. do you really even value your position here ?" he says maintaining eye contact. you look up at him dumbfounded "of course sir, have I done something wrong? I've really been trying to stay on top of my work" you say almost with your eyes watering.

"I see the way you look at me" he says sitting infront of you at the edge of his desk. he puts his fingers on your chin and lifts up so you're looking at him, "do you desire me?" he says, his eyes watching your lips intensively.

"yes" you say with your lip quivering, ni-ki leans down and kisses you. his hands reach your hips and he picks you up, shoving off all the paperwork you filed. you reach out your arm, alerting him about it. "I don't care about that, you're my focus right now." he says as he pulls down your skirt.

ni-ki slips his fingers past your underwear, not even bothering to take them off and starts to prep you first. you moan out loudly, arching your back off his desk. "look at you, already coming undone on my fingers. fuck" he says sucking in his breath as you finish on his fingers.

ni-ki lifts you up, bending your over his desk. he undresses himself and thrusts slowly, stretching you out inch by inch. you moan loud which causes him to lean up and wrap his arm around your neck with his hand covering your mouth.

"so loud f'me, look at you. letting your boss do this to you" he mutters in your ear with a loud groan coming after. you continue to moan under him. as you both get to your finish he leans down and says "where do you want it". he moves his hand so you can talk, "inside, please ni-ki." you pant out. ni-ki lets his arms slam on the desk, encaging you in his grasp as he groans as he finishes.

he helps you get dressed, "can I actually take you out? on like a real date" he says before you turn to leave his office.

"I'd love to sir" you say giving him a small smile.

[midnightshindig]

hii, could you do wife!fem!reader x cecil stedman headcanons? it can be sfw and nsfw if you want. maybe housewife reader? i dont care if it isn´t that way.

i hope you can work with this, pls stay hydrated and sorry for my bad english.

Cecil x Housewife!Reader

You're all good, I am so hydrated and your English is perfectly fine lol

This is an sfw fic with a fem reader who used she/her, thank youuuu

hcs under the cut!

You'd been married LONG before Cecil became head of the GDA

College sweethearts and all that

You were maybe the only normal thing in his life anymore, the only true remnant of his normal past.

Cecil is a WIFE MAN

Proudly wears his wedding band and has a nice photo of you in his office

Of course your name and marital status to him is scrubbed from the internet and government files

but to those in the GDA or the GotG, you're just Y/n Stedman, Mrs. Stedman if you will, Cecil's super cute super sweet wife

You send Cecil to work with food for his coworkers

You KEEP that office fridge stocked

Company parties are the best, you're just such a good cook omg

Everyone gets you stuff for your birthday bc they just adore you

In private, Cecil is a very sweet man

Kissing your knuckles, swaying with you in the living room, all that.

He comes home to you doing the dishes and walks right up behind you, his hands wrapping around your stomach and his chin on your shoulder

"Hey Y/n, how was your day?"

"Better now," you twist your head back to give his cheek a kiss "How was yours?"

He gives a soft smile before leaning into you a little more "Better now."

You probably have a pet of some kind, since any children you do or do not have are well in college by now

A little one, a cat or small dog

Cecil is enthused about the idea of getting you a dog

"It'll keep you safe while I'm gone"

it would be a romantic notion if you weren't under constant protection

but shhhhhh here look at this cute puppy what do you want to name him?

Cecil looooves coming home to seeing you reading a book on the couch

or tending to your flower garden out in the yard

or cooking dinner or painting or playing games with the dog and everything you do while he's gone

Sometimes Cecil comes home to you entertaining guests- usually friends from college or neighborhood women

Still, the two of you are a cute couple and your friends are so amused by him

"Y/n, your husband is such a card!" and things to that effect

Cecil has to teleport a lot for his job, so don't be surprised when he comes home with chocolates from Sweden or cheese or something or some small trinket

He likes giving you shiny things.

Consider him a bit of a magpie, if you will

does that police husband thing where he gives you contraband unable to be returned to villains

"hi honey, I'm home! I brought you a confiscated amulet!"

"Did you get it checked for curses or supernatural things this time? I don't need another trip to the barber-"

"yes, dear, I had them check it."

You come out from the bathroom, adjusting your earring and examining it "Oh it's beautiful!!"

"I thought you would like it, here I'll put it on you-"

And then he takes you to dinner and you're so beautiful and charming

he is a wife guy for sure.

[yandere-daydreams]

tw - implied non/con, unhealthy relationships, forced codependence, and unbalanced power dynamics.

Wriothesley knows you don't belong with him.

He has since the day you arrived, all shrunken posture and wrung-out hands and doe eyes blown out so wide, he could've sworn it took you days just to blink. You're far from the first inmate to ever be unprepared for live in the fortress, but even the most petty of criminals usually have a hardened edge, a callous over their more obvious vulnerabilities. You're not a criminal, though - not really, not when you're surrounded by people with blood on their hands, and even your rougher corners are still velvet soft. It's almost impressive, honestly. If he didn't know better, if he thought there was any way it could possibly benefit you, he might think you've left yourself so exposed on purpose.

He knows he's not supposed to play favorites, but he can't help himself. You wouldn't last a day in his fortress if he didn't pull some strings, show some preference, get you a comfortably isolated position filing papers and making tea in his office, where he can keep you at a distance from the more blood-thirsty inmates. It'd be dangerous to let you bunk with someone who might be able to pick out that underlying shake in your voice, who might realize just how easily you'd crack under any amount of pressure, so he tells his guards to look the other way and gets you moved into one the fortress' few private quarters - your new room down the hall from his, just so he can make sure you're not being harassed outside of working hours. The standard-issue inmate coveralls don't exactly suit you, either, so he has a more fitting wardrobe commissioned; all delicate and silken, no harsh burlaps or coarse leathers. You protest, at first, claim you feel conflicted about accepting gifts from your superior, but you come around quickly. After Wriothesley confiscates your prior closet during a routine inspection, especially.

He does make you work for your privileges, of course, even if he can't say you've really earned as much as he does for you. Those fat, adorable tears drip down your cheeks as you struggle to take him down your fluttering throat, as your own drool and his arousal renders the ivory satin of your top transparent. You cry when you're pulled into his lap, too, sobbing into his coat as he rocks you gently on his cock, careful not to bruise your fragile skin and risk shattering one of the few delicate things he can afford to keep to himself, and you carry on for hours after he's had his fill, after you've fallen asleep still leaned against his chest - whimpering and sniffling, nursing your wounds without ever thinking to thank him for not drawing so much as a drop of blood. In his weakest moments, he pictures you somewhere else, somewhere kinder; wrapped in fleece in front of the hearth of a countryside cottage, or dressed in finery on a balcony of Palais Mermonia, where your softness wouldn't have to be so strictly preserved. You'd be happier on the surface. Fuck, if it's possible, you might even be softer on the surface, as tender as he tries to keep you while you're both trapped a thousand leagues underneath it.

You'd be softer, but you wouldn't be with him.

And he's willing to sacrifice just a little of your softness, if it means being the only one who gets to enjoy it.

[gf2bellamy]

early seasons spence has me in a chokehold so i kinda have a request for you idk if it makes sense but yeah anyway (please dont tell me its obvious im a yapper ill cry)

ANYWHO

secret relationship au im imagining, earlyseasons!spencer x genderneutral/fem!bau!user (doesnt bother me but im trying to be considerate, im a girl but it really doesnt matter)

basically im thinking like the reader gets kidnapped on a case and spence is FREAKING OUT like lack of sleep, pacing constantly and being really set on finding the unsub freaking out.. and when he finally finds the reader in their state hes like that mix of relieved and absolutely appalled at the readers condition (im imagining all beaten and bloody and stuff idk how graphic you wanna make it). hes all ditsy when hes untying their binds and carrying them out of the place since hes so scared for them. the rest of the thing is kinda hotch calmly telling the reader how freaked out spence was and then im thinking like them comforting spencer afterwards and saying all the ‘its not your fault’ and ‘im okay now’ and its so fluffy it rots all our teeth (but i guess it would also be angst) IDK IF IT MAKES ANY SENSE IMSORRY

anyway remember to drink water and take care of yourself

call me some random emoji cause ill probably be here a bunch

- 🐚

captured — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: reader having bruises, reader being tied up, mention of having a terrible headache, a/n: thank you so so much for your request and your request makes perfect sense don't worry !! i loved the idea and i'm looking forward to your next requests 🐚 <3<3<3 i hope i did your request justice !!!

Spencer didn’t know where you were. No one did. That thought pounded through his skull, looping endlessly as he drank what had to be his fifth coffee of the day. He hadn’t slept and the caffeine barely registered.

The coffee tasted like bitter and lifeless. Not that it mattered. All it was doing was keeping him on his feet long enough to find you.

He should have seen this coming. He should have known the unsub would target you. You fit the profile perfectly. And yet, when it mattered most, Spencer had let his guard down.

And now you were gone. Missing. Maybe worse.

The thought sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through him. His guilt was unbearable.

But it wasn’t just guilt, wasn’t just worry for a teammate. This was about you.

The person he had been secretly slipping away with after hours and the person whose hand he had held under the table when no one was looking.

He should have stopped you. You should have never been the one to go on that stakeout alone, even if it was routine. Even if you’d assured him you’d be fine. The memory of your casual smile as you walked out the door stabbed at him like a knife.

“It’s just for a few hours, Spence,” you’d said with a soft lilt in your voice.

He’d smiled back, pretending to believe you, but his stomach had tightened even then. He should have insisted on going with you.

It was a small mistake, one that was tearing him apart.

He hadn’t even realized he’d been gripping the edge of the desk until his knuckles turned white. He forced himself to let go, staring blankly at the case file in front of him. It was no use. He’d already memorized every detail, every piece of evidence. Nothing had led them to you yet.

Spencer rubbed his eyes, exhaustion clawing at him. His entire body screamed for rest, but the idea of closing his eyes, even for a moment, felt impossible.

Everyone on the team was worried about you, how could they not be? But they were also worried about Spencer. And they had every reason to be.

They thought his reaction was because the two of you were close, because he was the type to carry the weight of every case like a personal failure. But it was clearly more than that.

Spencer stared at the evidence board in front of him, the faces of the victims haunting him as he tried to force his brain into profiling mode. But every time he looked at their photos, all he could see was you.

His chest tightened painfully, and he dug his fingers into the desk again.He needed to focus.

“Reid.”Hotch’s voice broke through his frantic thoughts.

Spencer’s head snapped toward the doorway where Hotch stood, his expression unreadable as always. “We’ve got a lead,” he said, stepping inside. “Where?” Spencer asked.

“An abandoned warehouse on 14th and Grant,” Hotch replied evenly, though the concern in his eyes was clear.

Spencer turned back to the board, his mind racing as he analyzed the new information. Within seconds, he made the connection. The location fit the unsub’s pattern, his profile. It was possible.

Spencer shot to his feet without another word, practically bolting out the door. The rest of the team exchanged quick glances before following him.

He didn’t care if he looked reckless. He didn’t care if they saw how desperate he was. He had wasted enough time already.

Derek barely had time to react before Spencer climbed into the passenger seat, his breathing uneven.

Derek glanced at him, concern flickering across his face as he started the engine. “Reid—”

“Just drive,” Spencer snapped. Derek didn’t argue. He knew better.

The SUV tore through the streets, Derek driving faster than protocol allowed. But he didn’t care. He knew Spencer would bite his head off if he slowed down, and frankly, he couldn’t blame him.

Spencer’s knee bounced restlessly as his eyes darted to the GPS screen, counting down the seconds until they arrived.

The second the car came to a stop in front of the warehouse, Spencer threw open the door and bolted.

“Reid, wait!” Derek’s voice rang out behind him, but it was no use.

Spencer didn’t slow down. His pulse roared in his ears as he burst into the building, gun raised, breath ragged. His rational mind screamed at him to slow down, to wait for backup, to clear the scene carefully.

The air smelled of rust , maybe even blood. His stomach turned at the thought.

His grip on his gun tightened as he moved swiftly, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Room after room, door after door. Empty.

Panic coiled in his chest, squeezing tighter with each dead end. His mind flashed with worst-case scenarios. He shoved them down. He couldn’t think like that.

Then, he reached the last door.

Spencer barely took a breath before forcing it open, gun at the ready.His stomach dropped.There you were.

His voice cracked as he called out your name, his heart pounding in his chest. He rushed toward you, his gun immediately lowering as he took in your state.

His stomach twisted at the sight of you, unconscious, slumped forward, your wrists bound to the arms of the chair. He could see the bruises and cuts on your face. For a brief, gut-wrenching moment, Spencer feared the worst.

He knelt beside you, his hands trembling as they moved to your neck. His fingers pressed gently against your pulse point, but for what felt like an eternity, there was nothing.

But then , there it was. A faint beat beneath his fingertips.

Relief crashed over him, and for the first time in what felt like hours, Spencer’s lungs finally let him take a full breath. He leaned forward, forehead nearly touching yours as he whispered shakily, “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

His hands moved to your face, cupping it gently as he tilted your head up to get a better look at you.

When your face came into full view, his breath hitched.

Bruises marred your cheekbone and temple, a thin line of dried blood trailing down from your hairline. Spencer’s heart clenched so tightly he thought it might break. He bit his lip, trying to keep it together, trying to maintain some semblance of control.

One single tear slipped down his cheek as he softly brushed a stray strand of hair from your face.

“Morgan!” Spencer’s voice cracked as he yelled.

Seconds later, Derek burst into the room, gun in hand, his face hard and alert. “Reid, I just cleared the—” But the moment his eyes landed on you, his words died in his throat.

Derek cursed under his breath, his gaze shifting between you and Spencer, before asking about your condition, his concern obvious as he rushed to Spencer’s side, holstering his gun.

“Alive,” Spencer barely managed to choke out the word, his voice trembling. “Pulse is steady, but we need to get out of here.”

Morgan nodded, his jaw tightening as he quickly pulled out his knife to cut through the ropes binding your wrists.

Spencer’s hands were already on you, one cradling the back of your head, the other resting gently on your arm. His thumb stroked soothing circles on your skin.

The motion was familiar, a small gesture he used to comfort you when you were restless after nightmares. He hoped it would work now, that somehow, it would bring you back to him.

Morgan worked quickly, slicing through the restraints. As soon as your wrists were free, Spencer carefully pulled you into his arms, holding you close against him.

His breath hitched as he whispered your name, lips near your ear. “It’s me. You’re safe now. You're okay.”

Derek’s voice broke through his daze, placing a hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “Let’s move.”

Spencer nodded. As he moved, one arm tightening protectively around you. As they made their way outside, the sunlight hit Spencer’s face, but he barely noticed.

All he could focus on was you, the bruises and cuts that were on your skin, the way your body felt too light in his arms. His heart clenched at the thought of how much pain you must have endured, how much suffering had been put upon you, all because of the job.

He had promised you that he would protect you, that he would keep you safe. And now, he felt like he had failed you.

Two hours later, after one heated argument with the paramedics, Spencer had insisted on riding in the ambulance with you. He had refused to let you be alone, not for a second.

Now, you were lying in a sterile hospital bed, an IV drip hooked up to you. You were alive and recovering.

Spencer was slumped in an uncomfortable plastic chair. His body contorted in a way that he knew he would regret later, but he didn’t care. His legs were stretched out, but his back was hunched, his neck bent at an awkward angle.

You slowly opened your eyes, blinking as the bright overhead lights made everything blur.

The pain hit you almost immediately, making its way through your head and down your body. You winced, biting your lip to hold back the whimper that threatened to escape.

The pain was intense, but it was nothing compared to everything that had happened.

The fear, the physical pain, the overwhelming sense of helplessness, it all crashed down on you.

But you slowly became aware that you were no longer in that dark, cold room, bound and at the mercy of the unsub. You were safe now.

And with that realization came relief. You weren’t dead. You hadn’t been forgotten or abandoned. The unsub hadn’t fulfilled his plan.

Tears welled up in your eyes, and before you could stop them, they began to fall. You lifted your hand to your face, wiping them away quickly, but more kept coming. You couldn’t stop them.

Your eyes scanned the room, and that’s when you saw him.

Spencer.

He was there, slumped in the chair beside your bed. His exhaustion was unmistakable. His hair was messier than usual, not gelled back.

You sat there quietly observing the boy you had come to love so much.

Suddenly, the door to the room opened, and you turned your head to see Hotch step in. His expression softened when his eyes met yours, and you could see the relief in his gaze.

“Hi, Hotch,” you mumbled weakly, offering a small, tired smile.

Hotch stepped further into the room, taking in your condition. "How are you doing?" His voice was softer than usual as he slowly closed the door behind him.

"My head is killing me," you replied, your voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. Your hand instinctively went to your temple, massaging it gently, but it did little to alleviate the pain.

Hotch nodded understandingly. He glanced at Spencer briefly, noting the way he hadn’t moved a muscle. You couldn’t help but wonder if he knew more than he was letting on.

It wouldn’t surprise you; Hotch was perceptive in ways no one else was, and your relationship with Spencer hadn’t exactly been subtle all the time.

He cleared his throat before speaking again. "We got him," Hotch said. "The unsub... he's in custody."

You closed your eyes for a moment, letting out a shaky breath. The news felt like a balm to your soul.

You’d been terrified that the danger hadn’t truly passed, that the man who had done this to you would still be out there, free to hurt others. But now, you could finally breathe.

He was behind bars, where he belonged.

"Thank you," you whispered, your body finally relaxing a little.

Hotch’s gaze softened, though his face remained stoic as always. “He was worried sick,” Hotch said, nodding toward Spencer. “He didn’t sleep. He was looking for you the entire time.”

Your heart fluttered in your chest as you shifted your gaze from Hotch back to Spencer.

You could see the toll the search had taken on him. You fought the urge to reach for him, to run your fingers through his hair and wake him up just so you could see his face, to remind yourself that he was real, that he was here.

The face that had been your lifeline during the long days of captivity. It was that face, the one you’d thought of in the darkest moments, that had kept you sane.

Hotch seemed to notice the way your gaze lingered on Spencer. And by that, he confirmed your suspicion, that he knew about you and Specer.

Spencer stirred slightly in his sleep, making a soft sound as he shifted. His body tensed before relaxing, the quiet movements of someone who was waking from exhaustion.

Hotch glanced down at Spencer, then back at you.He gave your arm a gentle squeeze, one that was light enough to not cause you any pain, and you looked at him.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Hotch said quietly. He gave you a small nod before stepping back.“Thanks, Hotch,” you mumbled, your voice filled with genuine gratitude.

The door clicked softly behind him.As if on cue, Spencer slowly opened his eyes, blinking a few times.His eyes immediately locked onto yours.

“You’re awake,” he whispered, his voice barely above a breath, as if he didn’t quite believe it himself. His eyes searched your face, his expression tightening as he took in every little detail.

"Hi," you mumbled back, trying to offer him a small, weak smile. The effort was exhausting, but you didn’t want him to see just how badly you were hurting.

As you shifted to sit up a bit, the sharp pain in your head and limbs made itself known, and you couldn’t stop the soft groan that slipped from your lips.

Without a second thought, Spencer stood up from his seat, stepping closer to your bed, but he didn’t reach for you immediately.

"How are you feeling?" he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper, cracking slightly.

His breath caught in his throat as his gaze flickered from the fresh marks on your body to your face, and for a split second, it seemed like he couldn’t look at you without some part of him breaking.

"I’ll be fine," you said, your voice strained as you did your best to sound convincing, but the words didn’t do much to reassure him.

You could see it in the way he flinched, his hand immediately running through his hair, trying to distract himself from how visibly shaken he was by the sight of you in pain.

Spencer Reid, who always had an answer for everything, who always had control, was falling apart. He leaned forward slightly, as if wanting to touch you but unsure if he should.

“Spence,” you whispered, your voice quiet. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

But Spencer’s gaze remained on you, his body tense, and his hands flexed, still not knowing where to go. His lips parted again, as though to say something, but it came out only as a soft breath.

His fingers hovered near your arm but didn’t touch.

It was like he was afraid of hurting you more. You could see the guilt gnawing at him. It was written all over his face.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said, his voice barely audible. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve—" His words faltered, and he cut himself off.

"Spence," you said slowly, your voice soft. You reached out and grabbed his hand, your fingers curling around his gently.

His grip tightened around your hand, but it felt shaky. The words suddenly spilled out.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve known. I should’ve known you could be in danger and I—” His voice cracked, and the rest of the sentence died in his throat. His breath hitched, and it was clear he was trying to hold back tears.

But they came anyway, pooling in his eyes, spilling over and leaving tracks down his pale face.

Your heart clenched at the sight of him. This was the man who had stayed by your side, refused to leave even when his mind told him he couldn’t handle it anymore. The man who, despite everything, was still so gentle with you, so protective, and yet, here he was, blaming himself for things beyond his control.

"Spencer, stop," you said softly, your voice full of concern for him “Please, stop.”

His eyes remained downcast, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "I should have known," he repeated, barely loud enough for you to catch.

His voice trembled, breaking on the words. "I should’ve been more careful. I should’ve made sure you were safe. You're hurt... you're in the hospital because of me."

Your heart broke all over again.

"No, no," you whispered urgently, doing your best to push through the lingering pain in your head as you squeezed his hand tighter.

"Spence, it wasn’t your fault. Don't ever think that," you said firmly, your voice filled with all the care and strength you had left.

"Listen to me," you continued, the words coming from the depths of your soul. "You did everything you could. You were there. You found me. You're the reason I'm alive, Spencer. If anyone should be sorry, it’s the man who did this to me, not you." Your words were soft.

Spencer’s breath hitched again, his face contorting.

You took a slow, steady breath, forcing yourself to speak through the exhaustion. "You’re not the reason I’m here, Spence," you said, your voice full of the truth you wished he could feel deep inside himself. "You’re the reason I’m going to be okay. You always are."

Your words seemed to reach him, just enough to keep him from falling apart completely.

"Promise me something," you said, your voice soft but unwavering. "Promise me you’ll stop blaming yourself. It’s not on you. It never was."

He nodded slowly, his hand tightening around yours in return.

“I promise,” he whispered, though it felt like he was still trying to convince himself more than anyone else.

"Come here," you said softly.

Without a second thought, Spencer leaned forward, his body folding into yours as he gently buried his face in the crook of your neck, his arms sliding around you.

He tried his best not to press too hard, too recklessly, worried about hurting you. His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer as though he couldn’t bear to let go.

When he finally pulled back, there was a small smile on his face that wasn’t there before.

You smiled gently, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from his face, your fingers lingering on his skin.

"I’m okay," you whispered, your voice tender, just for him. "I’m really okay, Spence."

He leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, lingering for just a second longer than usual, before pulling back with a contented sigh. "I’m so glad you’re okay." he murmured.

You squeezed his hand tightly, smiling at him.

He pulled the chair closer to your bed, never letting go of your hand. He was still physically exhausted, emotionally drained, but he didn’t care.

All that mattered was that you were here.